by Sara Donati
Standing at the grave in which they had put him to rest, Nathaniel wondered where his grief had hidden itself. He envied his father, and Falling-Day, and the very rattles that Bitter-Words raised over his head, for their ability to send a voice into the heavens. He could not; his words had been taken from him. He could not even find them for Elizabeth, who stood beside him quietly, her gray eyes like bruises in her pale face.
One by one, men came forth to speak over Chingachgook. White and red, they had fought and hunted beside him; they wore their years as openly and proudly as their battle scars. In Mahican and Kahnyen’kehàka and Onandaga and English, they offered their memories. The old warriors wished Chingachgook a good journey, and counted his days in words as clear and hard as wampum beads. Axel spoke, too, and the judge, a roaring mumble of regret and self-pity that made the faith keeper stare and the Kahnyen’kehàka look away in shame for him.
Elizabeth swayed, and Nathaniel put an arm around her. She would ever surprise him, this wife of his. Her eyes moved over him, searching his face as her hands had explored his wounds, lightly, knowingly. He had wondered if she could bear these many hours of leave-taking; he had forgotten the depths of her strength. One day it would be his turn to walk this path, and then she would stand here with their children beside her, and she would find the words to tell the story of his days. She would outlive them all to tell the tale. He would see to it.
By sunset it was over, and the Kahnyen’kehàka started to slip away in small groups over the ridge of the mountain. Once, Many-Doves told Elizabeth, there would have been days of storytelling and prayers, but no more. The Hode’noshaunee who survived in this part of the world had learned to live in the shadows. The villagers went, too, the judge last of all, lingering until Curiosity took him aside and spoke plain words. Elizabeth watched him go from her window, debating and rejecting definitions of charity and duty in her head, her arms wound tightly around herself.
It was good to be alone again. Elizabeth took her place at the long table in Hawkeye’s cabin with real relief. Hannah was to her left and Nathaniel to her right; Falling-Day sat across from her, with Many-Doves and Runs-from-Bears. Hawkeye was at one end of the table; at the other end, Chingachgook’s place was empty.
They ate of fresh venison and beans and squash, and Elizabeth remembered suddenly the first meal she had had at this table, in the dead of winter. They had feasted on the turkey Hawkeye had won from Billy Kirby, and Nathaniel had shown her his plans for the schoolhouse. She had wondered then if she could ever be a part of such a family, if there might be room for her here. Now she could not imagine living without these people.
She put her hand on Nathaniel’s leg, lightly, and he covered it with his own.
At the head of the table, Hawkeye was watching them, his face drawn.
“Nathaniel,” he said, pushing his plate aside. “You and Bears and me need to have a talk and then I’ll be on my way.”
Beside Elizabeth, Hannah tensed suddenly.
“Where are you going, Grandfather?” She spoke Kahnyen’kehàka, a sign of her distraction.
“Over the hills and far away,” he said with a kindly smile. “I’ll bring you back a treasure or two.”
The women sat silently, with eyes fixed on Hawkeye. They knew it would come to this, Elizabeth thought. From the beginning, they knew. All day they have been preparing for more than one leave-taking.
But she could not be silent, not for Hannah’s sake, not for her own.
“Is this really necessary?”
“Aye, lass, I fear so.” Hawkeye looked down at his hands where they rested on either side of his plate. “Otherwise they’ll be by, looking for me. And I won’t spend another night in their gaol.”
“But they have what they want, if they drive you away.” Beside her, Nathaniel shifted, but he did not try to quiet her.
“Not quite. You’re still here, all of you. You’ll just have to carry on without me.” He glanced at Hannah’s stricken face. “For the time being.”
Abruptly the child rose and walked over to her grandmother. “Make him stay with us,” she said in a whisper.
Falling-Day put a hand on Hannah’s shoulder, and closed her eyes briefly. “Your grandfather goes to look for your uncle Otter,” she said, in an even tone. “When he finds him, we will all be together again. You must wish him a successful journey.”
Hannah looked hard into her grandmother’s eyes, and then toward Many-Doves. Many-Doves nodded firmly, and in response the child’s shoulders slumped.
Elizabeth turned to Nathaniel, and saw two things: that this new loss was inevitable, and that the weight of it was almost more than he could bear.
She put Hannah to bed and read to her by the lamp; a luxury for both of them. In the pool of light, the little girl’s skin seemed as smoothly polished and glowing as amber. Pausing between pages, Elizabeth found it hard to look away from her face. Such a pretty child, with a willful beauty that mesmerized and frightened all at once. Elizabeth forced her attention back to the story. Tonight, though, Hannah could not be distracted with tales of the Arabian Nights.
“Will you and my father go away, too?” she interrupted.
Elizabeth closed the book. We are not going anywhere, she wanted to say. But she knew that to sacrifice the truth in the name of comfort would be a mistake with this child. She said, “There are some things I can’t be sure of, but I do know that we could not be a family without you. If we must go in the end, then we will all go together.”
From the small window under the eaves, she saw that the sky was crowded with stars. Somewhere in the night Hawkeye was moving north on foot by their light alone.
“The winter is coming,” Hannah said. “He will be cold, and lonely.”
Elizabeth wondered if she would ever grow used to having her thoughts read so easily. “I expect that your grandfather will spend some time trapping with Robbie,” she said, although she only could hope that this was true.
“If I were a boy, I could go with him to look for Otter.”
She thought she had shed her share of tears for the day, and now Elizabeth found that she was wrong. And how senseless it was to cry for little girls just because they could not go to the places that little boys went so freely.
She said, “When I was eight, I stole some of my cousin Merriweather’s clothes. I thought I could dress as a boy, and run away to do as I pleased.”
“Did it work?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “They did not fit. You know,” she said thoughtfully. “I have never told anyone else about that little adventure of mine.”
Hannah smiled. It was a small gift, but perhaps enough to sleep on. Elizabeth kissed her cheek and then she picked up the lantern to make her way down from the sleeping loft.
Nathaniel and Runs-from-Bears were waiting in the shadows of the cold hearth, slumped in chairs. Bears was deeply asleep, his head turned hard to one side, but Nathaniel’s eyes followed her as she moved toward him.
“You’re as tired as he is.”
“True,” Nathaniel agreed, squinting up at her with one eye closed. “But I ain’t quite so drunk.”
He had not slept for two days; the slightly slurred quality to his words might have been nothing more than exhaustion. But the smell on him said something else. Elizabeth stepped back.
“You’ve been drinking?” she asked, incredulous.
“Aye,” Nathaniel said. “That I have.” Bears stirred slightly, as if he might have something to add.
Torn between unease and compassion, Elizabeth pushed out her breath audibly. “We’ll have to get Bears home somehow.”
“They wouldn’t let him in. Or if they did, he’d regret it. Falling-Day won’t tolerate any man when he’s been drinking.”
It was true that Elizabeth had never seen any liquor at Lake in the Clouds, but neither had she seen wheaten bread, or sugar, or coffee. It had not occurred to her that the absence of hard drink was significant.
“Never mind, Bo
ots. We’ll sleep in the barn,” Nathaniel said, rising awkwardly.
“You’ll sleep in your bed,” Elizabeth said shortly. “But I fear Bears must stay where he is. He’ll have a sore neck in the morning.”
“That will be the least of it.” He paused. “You ain’t mad at me?”
She turned away from him to spread the hearth blanket over Bears. With her back to him, she said: “It is a strange way to remember your grandfather or to say goodbye to your father, and I do not see the sense of it, Nathaniel. But I also see no sense in adding insult to injury. Go to bed.”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Come with me.”
“I will sleep with Hannah tonight.”
With a jerk, he turned her toward him. “No.” And seeing her face, he dropped his hand and his head, but not before she saw how his eyes glistened in the lamplight.
“No,” he said, just as firmly. “Don’t leave me alone.”
Silently, Elizabeth nodded. She picked up the lantern and went ahead of him to their room.
· · ·
He slept uneasily, tossing and muttering in Kahnyen’kehàka. Skimming on the surface of sleep, Elizabeth started awake more than once. There was enough light from the night sky to show her his face, deeply shadowed and outlined with worry. She wanted to touch him, to smooth the lines from his face, but she feared waking him. With a sigh, she turned away to curl on her side.
Behind her Nathaniel stilled suddenly, and she knew he was awake. He pressed his length against her back, his breath warm and harsh at her ear. He smelled of whisky and the council fire. His hands were on her hips, and then he was with her, in a smooth gliding motion. Even as she arched back against him with a soft sound of surprise, he stilled and his grip loosened, and he fell away into a true sleep.
She lay in his arms, half dreaming of Oakmere, of aunt Merriweather at the tea table with her married daughters around her. There had been much talk of husbands at these teas when the men were absent: inexcusable habits, vagaries and moods, strange affinities, male needs—unspecified, incomprehensible needs—that must be seen to. Beyond these necessities, the hearts of men had never seemed to interest her aunt, as if satisfying their stomachs and other bodily demands were sufficient evil unto the day. As if men had no hearts to speak of.
Elizabeth felt Nathaniel’s heart beating against her back; her hair was wet with his tears.
Aunt Merriweather. With a care not to wake him again, Elizabeth unwound herself from Nathaniel’s embrace. She found a candle and slipped into the main room to light it from the banked embers in the hearth. Bears was gone, the blanket folded haphazardly over the arm of the chair. She hoped he had found a more comfortable bed.
She stood considering the pile of goods, still unpacked, that had come with them from Albany. After a moment’s rumbling, she found it wedged between the packet of new quills and the bill of sale for the schoolhouse: her aunt Merriweather’s letter, the green wax seal still intact. Elizabeth sat down in the chair and smoothed her hands over the gentle curve of her stomach, considering the square of paper on her knees. Beyond the muffled rush of the waterfall, the world was silent, and the seal cracked open like a shot.
Elizabeth unfolded the closely written sheets and leaned into the candlelight until the elegant black script steadied enough to let itself be read. Thus Elizabeth learned that while she had been moving north through the bush in the hope of finding Nathaniel alive, aunt Merriweather had been nursing her husband through a sudden and final illness; that she had buried him on a rainy summer morning on the very day Elizabeth’s letter had arrived with the shocking news of her marriage to a backwoodsman; and that Augusta Merriweather, widowed mother of four grown children, had nothing more pressing to do with her time than to travel to the Colonies and see what could be salvaged of her beloved niece’s future and prospects. She had booked passage with a Captain Wentworth and expected to arrive in mid-September.
Traveling with her would be two servants, her eldest daughter, Amanda, and Amanda’s husband, Sir William Spencer, Viscount Durbeyfield.
They were too busy the next day, all of them, to take note of Elizabeth’s new preoccupation. The harvest was close at hand, and the trapping season, and there were now two men where a few months before there had been four to do the work. Elizabeth was glad to have Nathaniel so occupied, because she was not yet ready to share her latest news.
The other women spent the day in the cornfield, but Elizabeth kept Hannah by her. She was pleased to have the child’s help and her easy company. They sorted through the purchases from Albany, setting aside the schoolroom supplies and gifts from provisions which needed to be divided between the two cabins. Hannah was delighted with each discovery, and her low spirits gradually rose while she dashed between cabins with her arms full of good things.
In the meantime, Elizabeth spent some time putting together a basket of supplies, from cloth and buttons to a cone of sugar and a small sack of wheaten flour.
“Who is that for?” Hannah wanted to know.
“Martha Southern and her children.”
“Oh.” She had found a pair of spectacles and she put them on, where they promptly slid to the tip of her nose. “And these? Ian McGarrity?”
“Yes. If his parents will allow it.” Elizabeth did not want to think of Jed McGarrity right now, and so she sorted through the small store of ribbons she had brought with her from Albany. She pulled out a dark blue and a green, and wound them into a neat package, which she added to the basket.
“Do you think Martha will take those things from us?”
Elizabeth stood with a sigh. “I’m not sure,” she said. “But I must try.”
It was Jemima who came to the cabin door. Her homespun dress had been dyed a hasty and uneven black, and it matched the frown on her face.
“Good afternoon, Jemima,” Elizabeth said softly. “May I see your mother?”
“Of course, Miz Elizabeth. Please do come in.” Martha pulled the door out of her daughter’s hand, ignoring the look the little girl sent her way. “And Hannah. It’s so kind of you to call. Please do come in.”
Hannah headed immediately for the baby in his cradle near the hearth, but Jemima intercepted her, placing her small, solid body between the other girl and her goal.
“Daughter,” Martha chided softly. “Go fetch Adam out of the garden. Go on now.”
Jemima hung back, staring at her feet. “What are they doing here?”
“We’ve come to pay our respects,” Elizabeth answered, although the question had not been directed at her.
Jemima left, banging the door behind her. The child wore her anger and misery so clearly and unapologetically that some of Elizabeth’s dislike gave way without a struggle.
“She’s taken her pa’s passing real hard,” Martha explained.
“Yes, of course she has. I am very sorry for your loss. Especially sorry,” Elizabeth added.
Martha nodded. Her fingers rubbed the thin fabric of her skirt, and for a moment she could not meet Elizabeth’s eye.
“We put our faith in the Lord. He had strong feelings, my Moses, and they moved him too far at times.”
Elizabeth made a small noise of encouragement, for she did not know how to respond to this.
Martha looked up. “You’ve had a loss of your own,” she said. “And I’m sorry for Moses’ part in it. I hope you all are taking comfort from each other.”
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said. “We are.” Then she leaned forward. “Martha, I have come to see if I can be of any help. If it is not too early to speak to you of this.”
The basket sat between them on the floor; Martha’s gaze moved over it, and there was a flicker there: relief, and pleasure, too.
“Those things are for you, and I hope they will be of use. But I had something else in mind, as well.” Elizabeth met Martha’s surprised look, and with simple words, laid out her thoughts. By the time she had finished, Martha was looking doubtful rather than surprised.
“I
don’t like charity,” she said. “Moses wouldn’t want me to accept charity.”
Hannah had scooped the baby onto her lap as soon as Jemima was out of the cabin, but now he began to fuss. Distracted, Martha took him from Hannah and began to jostle him on her knee.
“It is skilled work,” Elizabeth said softly. “I cannot sew, and I have need of many things for myself, and for Hannah—and for the new child, as well. I would not call that charity.”
“Can I work here?” Martha asked. “I wouldn’t want to be taking these children up the mountain every day.”
“Of course,” Elizabeth said. “I will bring you what you need.”
The frown line between Martha’s eyes slowly disappeared. “I can only sew half days, until the corn is in. Two dollars for a day’s work is all I’ll take.”
“But I inquired in Albany,” Elizabeth pointed out. “Experienced seamstresses ask for two and a half, and that seems fair.”
Martha jostled the boy on her lap, and produced her first smile of the day. “Paradise ain’t Albany, and you’ll get plainer work from me,” she said. “But we can make the difference up in trade, if you’d be so kind. I’d still like my girl to come to your school.”
The door opened and Jemima appeared, dragging her younger brother behind her. Elizabeth stifled a deep sigh of resignation, and extended her hand toward Martha Southern.
At dinner, Nathaniel almost laughed out loud to hear it told: Jemima Southern back in Elizabeth’s classroom, for good this time. It was only her sharpest look that stopped him; that, and perhaps the fact that his head still pained him. At the moment she could not sympathize one bit.
They were eating on their own this evening. Elizabeth had managed a stew, with Hannah’s assistance, and corn bread, which she now crumbled into her bowl with some irritation.
