Fire Along the Sky (58 page)

Nathaniel went to her, quietly, and touched skin, pale and soft and chill in the night air.

“I've been waiting for you.” She was whispering, not because she needed to, but to draw him closer. He bent his head to her.

“Come,” she said. “Come to bed.”

“As soon as I wash.” He put his hands out like one of their boys, being inspected before he was allowed to sit down to supper.

Elizabeth didn't even look. She put her hands on his, lightly, her thumbs stroking the tattoos that circled his wrists.

“Never mind washing,” she said. “Come to bed, I have to talk to you.”

All day long, on his way home, Nathaniel had been thinking of this moment, of the questions she would ask and the answers he must give her. What he wanted to do—the urge was strong in him—was to lie. It was not something he did often or lightly, keeping the truth from Elizabeth. And now she had things to say to him. She had waited up all night. He clasped her hands hard, harder than he meant to, and she drew in her breath.

He said, “Is there bad news from Canada?”

“No,” she said firmly. She shook her head so that her hair tumbled over her shoulders, black and silver. “No word from Canada, no bad news of Daniel. Come, come now, let me talk to you.”

He stripped down while she climbed into bed and under the covers. When he joined her she put her hands on his cheeks and studied his face. Her breath was milky sweet and soft on his skin.

“I guess you missed me,” he said, turning his head to kiss her palm.

“I did. I always do. Nathaniel.”

“Hmmmm?”

She told him then in the way she had always shared this kind of news: took his hand and put it low on her belly, held it cupped there as if by touch alone he must understand what they had created, the two of them. Forehead to forehead they lay just like that, quietly, breathing each other in and out.

“Are you unhappy?” It wasn't the first question that came to mind, but it was the most important one.

“No,” she said. “Never that.”

“Scared.”

“To the quick.”

“Aye,” he said. “It scares me too, but mostly it makes me happy, Elizabeth. You and me, we'll manage this. We've managed everything else.”

“Yes,” she said, and drew a deep breath. By the time she had let it out, she was asleep.

He should have followed her into sleep, weary as any man who had walked hard for a day. But his body hummed with movement still, and his mind with answers to the questions she hadn't thought to ask.

In the morning she would remember. Sitting across from him at the table, she would ask while she ladled porridge. Lily would want to know, but she would wait for her mother to ask the question:
What of Nicholas Wilde?

He could put it out, plain and simple: he had tracked the man west and north, and at the end of the first day had found his horse, or the little that was left of it after the scavengers had finished. On the second day the trail had veered due north and he had followed it until he found what remained of the man.

He could tell them all of the truth, or part of it, or none at all.

What happened to Nicholas Wilde.

Nathaniel could say:
Jemima happened to him
. Or:
I lost his trail; I gave up
. Or:
he stumbled across a bear, over a cliff, into quicksand.

He might say:
I buried him proper and marked the grave,
and that was true. But it would not satisfy Elizabeth, whose curiosity was endless, or Lily. Wilde had been her first love, after all, and a girl like Lily—he paused and corrected himself—a woman like Lily would hold on to that, for the rest of her life. No matter how Nicholas Wilde had disappointed her.

The fact was, he had to keep the truth from them; but there was another, harder truth that went right along with it: Nathaniel wanted nothing more in the world than to tell Elizabeth the whole of it, to pour out the words and free himself of the pictures they built in his head. But he could not, would not, unburden himself like that. Not tomorrow, or the day after, or when she was safely delivered of this new child, or on his deathbed. It was his burden to bear, as the child was hers.

Chapter 34

Dearest Hannah and Jennet,

For your latest letter, arrived just yesterday, we thank you. Any report is preferable to the work of the imagination. Of course we are glad to know that Daniel is able to leave his bed for short periods of time. We trust that your next letter will bring more such news. I enclose a short letter for him.

I expect that this letter will not reach you until well into the month of May and the beginning of warmer weather. We are sending a bundle of clothing I hope will suit you both, along with some fine-milled soap that cousin Ethan sent.

You both know me well enough to realize that if I dwell on trivialities there must be some matter of importance to share that makes me anxious. Let me give you our news, in the manner of a journalist; that is to say, without embellishment.

First, I am expecting a child, sometime in November. Your surprise can be no greater than was my own, but I trust you will take as much joy in this news as we do. I am easily tired but Many-Doves and Curiosity are well satisfied with my health.

Second, Nathaniel and I have decided, after long deliberation and discussion, that we will live in the village until this child is come. We have already taken up residence at my father's house. It is a drafty place and the hearth smokes when the wind comes from the west, but Nathaniel and Simon have undertaken repairs and improvements and I believe we shall be very comfortable here. Certainly it is convenient to be so close to the work at the new schoolhouse, and a great comfort to be only a short walk from Curiosity. Her Lucy is come to cook and look after the house, and Callie and Martha are here most days too, all of them carrying out Curiosity's injunction—with surprising tenacity—that I am not to take up anything heavier than a quill.

Lily, too, has been excessively considerate and kind, and much more even tempered, but whether my condition or Simon Ballentyne deserve the credit for that transformation is unclear to me. Or perhaps it is simply the move into the village, as Lily is very pleased to be closer to the old meetinghouse. When she has finished with her share of the housework she goes there, every day, to draw and paint.

Third, and this is a circumstance that will be clear to you already, as your aunt brings you this letter: Many-Doves has decided to remove to Canada until her son and my own are free and on their way home. Annie is gone with her. All this has put Gabriel in a very poor mood indeed. The solitary comfort in all this is the fact that there will be no corn to weed this summer.

And now. How I hate the need to write down the details of the tragedy in the village.

Jemima Wilde is run away and her husband disappeared into the bush. Nathaniel tracked him for two days and then came home none the wiser. Before he went away Nicholas brought Curiosity an apple sapling and a letter writ in his own hand and witnessed by Mr. McGarrity, giving her care of his Callie until he comes home.

I do not think we will ever see him again. Such a terrible waste, it hardly bears contemplation.

As far as Jemima is concerned, I confess that I had not realized the depth of her anger, nor how far it would drive her. By the time she had finished with Nicholas, he lost his daughter, his unborn child, his livelihood, the orchards he worked with such dedication and passion, his reputation, and his self-respect.

Because this beast, at which thou criest out,
Suffers not any one to pass her way,
But so doth harass him, that she destroys him;
And has a nature so malign and ruthless,
That never doth she glut her greedy will,
And after food is hungrier than before.

The orchard and farm have been sold to a Mr. Stiles, originally of Maine, who is a part-time farmer but a full-time missionary, and came to us determined that our souls must be saved. If he were simply a dull man, I could wait for him to tire of the recalcitrant Yorker temperament, but every day I see new evidence of a devious and supple mind. Because he has no meetinghouse he has taken to preaching in the middle of the village, where it is difficult to avoid him. If there were not other things of greater importance to occupy me, he would be a worthy opponent.

This letter is already two and one-half sheets, close-written, and Gabriel asks for a little space, thus I leave you, Your loving E.M.B.

Dear Sister and Cousin. Annie is gone to Canada to help rescue our Daniel and Blue-Jay and here am I, feeding bad-tempered hens. There may be no corn to weed this year but there is cabbage and pompkin and beans in the kitchen garden and when they sprout weeds who will be sent to pull them? Lily paints and draws and makes eyes at Simon, who teases her and calls her Grumpy when he thinks no one will hear him, and she frowns at him and smiles, all at once, though I should get my ears boxed if I called her such a name. If that's what love is about, then it's a silly business, say I, and one I want no part of.

All in all things are in a sorry state here and I hope you come home soon and bring Daniel and Blue-Jay and Annie too. And if there are more stories like the runaway porkers for Jennet to send, it would be a comfort to me in my misery.

Your brother and cousin, Gabriel Bonner

Chapter 35

Of the many adjustments that moving into the village required of them, the one that was hardest for Elizabeth was something that not even Nathaniel, with all his reservations, had thought to warn her about.

Not many rumors were robust enough to survive the hard walk up Hidden Wolf. At Lake in the Clouds they had been sheltered from the gossip and quarrels that circled the village like a fever passed hand to hand.

But now they had moved into the house where Judge Middleton had held court. The villagers, many of whom had come to Paradise as his tenants, were in the habit of bringing the judge all their disagreements. His word was final in matters as diverse as property boundaries, the digging of wells, naming dogs, and marital squabbles.

His death had left a great gap in the village, one that was filled inadequately and reluctantly by Jed McGarrity. Jed had never wanted to be constable and was always looking for a replacement. Elizabeth had done him a great favor, unawares, by presenting herself as another ready source of wisdom.

“Ben Cameron was here today,” she told Nathaniel on their third evening. They were having a supper of milk and bread and berries in the kitchen, which seemed empty after a day of visitors.

“Let me guess,” Nathaniel said. “The fence.”

“Indeed. He wanted to talk to you, but settled in the end for telling me the whole story. As if I had never heard it before.”

“And you said?”

“I gave him tea and gingerbread and told him he'd need to consult a lawyer. He went away with a full stomach, but unsatisfied.”

“I hope you've got more gingerbread,” Nathaniel said. “Tomorrow Ignaz Hindle will be here to tell his side of the story.” He worked his shoulders to loosen the muscles. “Who else was here?”

“Anna, complaining about Mr. Stiles. Missy Parker, complaining about Anna and making not quite veiled remarks about Lily and Simon. Mr. Stiles, wanting to read the Bible to me. Horace Greber, asking me to write to Mariah and ask her to come back home. Half my students, it seemed to me, at one point or another. It was looking a bit like a meetinghouse until Gabriel chased them all away.”

Nathaniel laughed out loud at that. “That's my boy.”

“I think I shall have to post visiting hours,” Elizabeth said, a little ashamed of the whining tone in her voice. “Or perhaps just station Gabriel at the door with a musket.”

“That would suit him,” Nathaniel said. And: “Where is he?”

Elizabeth poured more milk into her tea. “Curiosity is giving him his supper. I even sent Lucy to help Daisy set out her seedlings, I was that eager for some quiet.”

“Missing the mountain,” Nathaniel said.

Elizabeth nodded. “More than I imagined.”

“We can move back.”

Curiosity had brought one of her cats as a welcoming gift, a huge tabby with tufted ears who had promptly given birth to ten kittens in a basket of Elizabeth's good linen. For a long moment she watched as the mother tended her newborns, one eye on the spot where Nathaniel's hunters sprawled senseless in front of the hearth. Then she shook her head. “It's for Curiosity's peace of mind as much as my own, Nathaniel.”

He nodded at that, resigned. “And where's Lily?”

“I suppose she's walking with Simon.”

Nathaniel grunted into his cup. “That's one word for it.”

Elizabeth gave him a severe look. “Nathaniel Bonner,” she said. “If you are unhappy with this state of affairs, then I suggest you talk to your daughter and her young man. Perhaps you will have more success than I.”

Her short temper wasn't a surprise—Nathaniel recalled the early months of her other pregnancies too well to expect anything else—but he knew from hard experience that it would do no good to try to mollify her when she was sick to her stomach. The evenings were the worst. Other women were uneasy in the morning and got it over with; Elizabeth carried it with her all day and into the twilight. Now she was pale, her upper lip beaded with sweat. Soon she would bring everything up that was on her stomach—which wasn't much, by the look of the plate in front of her—and then fall into an exhausted sleep.

Nathaniel wiped berry juice from his chin. “No need to bite my head off. I ain't criticizing.”

“No, but you aren't helping either.”

“Maybe so. But I have given the whole business some considerable thought.” He leaned across the table to put a hand on her wrist. “I got an idea that may settle your worries without stepping too hard on the girl's pride.”

“Does it involve bloodshed?”

He laughed at that. “No more than it did when you and me were getting around to tying the knot.”

A horrified look crossed her face. “Nathaniel, you won't encourage them to elope. You wouldn't.”

“Hell, no,” Nathaniel said. “What I got in mind has to do with giving Lily the chance to change her mind, if that's what she needs to do.”

“Well, come along then,” she said, tapping the table with a finger. “Spit it out.”

“It's got to do with your aunt Merriweather,” Nathaniel said.

Her mouth had begun to soften into a smile when the dogs righted themselves suddenly, the fur bristling down their spines—a signal louder than any knock.

Elizabeth's hands flew up and then settled like restless birds.

He said, “Easy, Boots. I'll send them away, whoever it is.”

But then he hadn't been expecting to open the door to Almanzo Freeman, given up for dead long ago and now returned to the land of the living.

It was more than ten years since they had last seen Manny, and to Nathaniel it looked as though he had spent every day of it in battle. He had gone away a young man and come back a soldier, of a particular kind. It was in the way he stood, his hand curled around the barrel of his rifle; it was in the set of his shoulders, the expression that gave away nothing: not pain or joy or hope.

As a boy he had resembled his father, but Manny had grown into a copy of Galileo Freeman: compactly built but broad in the shoulder, hard muscled, with the gleam of steel in his eye. His skin glowed deep brown in the evening light from the open door, and Nathaniel saw that there were lines of raised tattoos on his forehead and neck and at his wrists.

English came hard to him, all his sentences laced with Kahnyen'kehàka rhythms, softened sounds, long pauses.

To Elizabeth, who understood what it was to worry for a son, none of that was of importance.

“You haven't been to see your mother,” she said for the third time. She was sitting at her place at the table, too angry to get up and greet Manny properly.

Nathaniel stood behind her, his hand on her shoulder.

“Give the man some room to breathe, Boots.” He squeezed lightly. “It ain't exactly easy.”

It was the wrong thing to say, he felt that from the way her muscles tensed beneath his hand. But Manny saw that too, and jumped in before Elizabeth could take the opportunity.

“I don't suppose I got anything easy coming to me,” he said in his deep, quiet voice. “I don't even know why I stopped here, except I saw the smoke coming from the chimney and I thought maybe there'd be some familiar faces.”

Elizabeth's expression softened, and she closed her eyes. When she opened them they were damp with tears.

“I'll go with you.”

Nathaniel said, “We'll all go.”

In Curiosity's kitchen garden they stopped, all three of them, in shadows that smelled of new turned earth. In the dark Elizabeth's face floated like a heart carved from bone. She gripped Nathaniel's arm so hard that he felt the bruises rising under the skin.

“Go ahead,” he said to Manny. “We'll be in directly.”

Then he walked her over to the deeper shadows and held her head while she was sick, each spasm rocking her like a fist to the gut. He spoke calm words, nothing that made any sense, nothing that she would remember later; it was the sound that mattered, she had told him once. Something to hold on to.

When she had finished he held her, trembling, against his chest and stroked her hair. Her breaths came deep, with a hiccup at the end like a child who has cried itself into exhaustion. What he wanted to do, just now, was to pick her up and carry her home, but already he could feel her gathering her strength.

“I must go in to Curiosity,” she said. “She will need me.”

Nathaniel pressed his mouth to the top of her head. “I'd say Manny is the one needing help. I wouldn't want to be in his shoes just now.”

That got him a weak smile. Elizabeth said, “I shall have to write to Hannah, now. It can't be put off any longer. She will need to hear what Manny has to tell, after all.”

They thought of that, each of them. The things Manny hadn't told them he would tell—must tell her. They each imagined Hannah with that letter in her hands, reading. Her husband's name on the page, followed by a line of words like crows on a fence, like footprints. She would have to follow them wherever they might lead.

“Maybe she'll be glad,” Nathaniel said. “It might be a relief, to know something for sure after all this time. You wrote just that in the last letter, if I recall right. ‘Any report is preferable to the work of the imagination.'”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said softly. “I said that, and it is true, I think. But I do not like to be the one making the report.”

“You won't be,” Nathaniel said. “Whatever happened, it's for Manny to tell the story.”

Within just a few days it became clear that Manny had few details he was willing to share with anyone at all, even his mother. To those who deserved an explanation—his sister, his brother-in-law and nieces and nephew, the Bonners—he said the same things: he was sorry to have worried them, he was glad to be home.

“He don't even ask many questions, not even about his boy,” Curiosity told Lily when Manny had been back three days. Lily had stopped by on her way to the village to say hello, though she couldn't keep from blushing at such a transparent half-truth.

But Curiosity was too distracted to tease her about Simon; her only son showed no interest in news of his only child, and for all her wisdom of the world, that was one thing she had trouble digesting.

Mostly to herself Curiosity said, “No doubt he was counting on Hannah being here. Got things to say to her before he can move on.”

At times like this Lily tried to think like her mother, who had the knack of saying just the right thing, or of knowing when silence would serve better than any words. Then she said what came to mind, before she could stop herself.

“He knows Hannah will be back,” Lily said. “But I think it will be a while before he understands that the others are really gone. He spends a lot of time at the graves.”

Lily knew this because both the graveyards—the one for the slaves and the other one—were between the meetinghouse where she did her work and the woods that went down to the lake. Now that she kept the door and shutters open for light and air she saw everyone who came and went on that path. There were people who visited their dead every day. Anna McGarrity spent a few minutes in the early morning talking to her father as if he were lying abed, too lazy to get up; Callie and Martha tended the little flower bed they had planted at Dolly's feet.

Manny went by the meetinghouse windows every day and stayed in the graveyard for long hours. Just yesterday Lily had followed him, out of equal parts curiosity and worry, and found that he did nothing more than stand and study the crosses that marked the graves. Galileo Freeman, Polly Freeman, Margaret. Father, sister, niece, all out of his reach, unable to hear his apologies and explanations.

It was the loss of his father that seemed to settle on Manny hardest. Like a man caught in an unexpected hailstorm; he must take what the heavens served him.

She said, “He has an awful lot of grieving to catch up on.”

Somehow that turned out to be the right thing to say. Curiosity's expression cleared, her distraction giving way to thoughtfulness and, then, resignation. She took Lily by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

“You got a lot of your mama in you, Lily. I know you don't like to hear such a thing, no girl your age do. But you got the best of her.”

“But I don't mind,” Lily said, embarrassed and pleased. “Just lately I've been wishing I could be more like her. More rational.”

That made Curiosity really laugh, a deep, heartfelt laugh, and she wrapped her arms around Lily and rocked her.

“Feel a little crazy, don't it? Sometimes I wonder what the good Lord thinking arranging things the way he do. Falling in love ain't no better than losing your mind, seem like.”

Lily nodded, too embarrassed to respond.

“Let me tell you something I told my girls when they fell. There ain't no shame in it, what you feeling. And the truth is, it don't last, child. No fire could burn that hot and bright without letting up. The whole world would burn down. So you be thankful for it while you got it. What comes after has got its own charms.”

“How long will that take?” Lily asked.

Curiosity hummed a little, thoughtfully. “For some the burning part don't last no time at all. For most I suppose it take a year or so before they slow down a bit. And then there's folks like your daddy and ma—”

“Oh, no,” Lily said, pulling away. “I don't want to hear this.”

“—who never do lose that feeling, not entirely. Not many women your mama's age got to worry about increasing, after all. Look at you blushing, child. You make me laugh.”

“Jokes this early in the morning?” Simon said at the door. He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and a deep beard shadowed his cheeks.

Lily opened her mouth to say something and then shut it again, shook her head and turned away.

“I have work to do,” she said. “Goodbye.”

“Wait!” Simon called after her. “I'll walk down to the village with you.”

Lily fluttered her fingers at him without turning around. “You haven't had your breakfast. Goodbye.”

Curiosity's laughter stayed with her all the way down the garden path.

A difficult morning was made worse by Mr. Stiles, who was waiting, Bible tucked under his arm, at the door of the meetinghouse. Lily was still fascinated by his person, the contrast of his dusty black clothing and white hair and pinkish eyes, the way the blood moved beneath skin the color of January ice. Those things intrigued her, but not enough to make her want to listen to the man preach. That she would hear no matter what her feelings when he took up his spot just outside the trading post and launched into his daily sermon.