"Well, it wouldn't be for lack of trying," he said calmly. He paused. "Is it that you don't like the idea of a child, or you don't believe I can give you one?"

Her head jerked up at this, and she found a look she did not recognize on his face, a vulnerability that he had never shown her before.

"I like the idea very much," she said, answering only one of his questions. She watched him struggle with what he was feeling, the way the muscles in his throat worked as he swallowed.

"It would interfere with your teaching," he said finally, and he raised one finger to push a strand of hair away from her face.

"But only for a while," she said. "There is no reason, given the way we shall live, that I should have to give up teaching completely." This proposal which she put to him with such thoughtfulness was one which had woken her in the night; she had watched him sleep and worked through how best to present it. She knew that the fine perspiration on her brow and the tremble in her hands did not escape him. But she held his gaze until he nodded, slowly.

"If that's what you want."

Elizabeth sensed his hesitation, and her spirits fell. He did not want her to teach once she had children to look after; aunt Merriweather had been right.

"You would prefer not to share me," she said, and then added hastily: "With other people's children."

"Elizabeth," Nathaniel said, crouching and pulling her down to sit next to him. "I won't ask you to give up your school, no matter what comes, and I won't resent the time you put into it. There's womenfolk enough to look after affairs at Lake in the Clouds, including children that come our way. But it's no good, pretending that there's nothing else on your mind. We have to talk this through or it will fester. Ask me what you want to know."

Elizabeth looked out over the lake. A loon was diving, disappearing in a smooth arc to drop into the belly of the lake and come up and repeat the process over and over again.

"I don't know where to start."

"Hannah is my child," Nathaniel said after a long pause.

"I know that," Elizabeth said softly. "But Richard—”

“He knows nothing of me," Nathaniel said, and for the first time there was an edge of anger in his voice. "Except what he imagines and wants to be true.

"And what Sarah told him," Elizabeth added and she regretted it, for he stiffened beside her.

"And what Sarah told him," he acknowledged. "But what she told him and what he heard ain't necessarily the same things. You know that from personal experience with the man."

Elizabeth glanced at him. This had not occurred to her, but the truth of it was obvious.

"Did he make up the whole thing?" she said, remembering even as she did Curiosity's troubled face when she spoke of Sarah and Richard.

"No," said Nathaniel, the muscle in his cheek working. "I can't claim that, either. He tried to take Sarah from me, and he came close to getting her."

"Why? Why would she turn to Richard?" This question hung in the air for a very long time, until Elizabeth turned to Nathaniel and saw the stony look on his face, the unresolved anger and the hurt.

"I don't know," he said. "She didn't explain herself to me." It was the first thing he had ever said to her which was untruthful, and they both were aware of this.

She couldn't keep the disappointment from her face.

"Give me some time," Nathaniel said.

You've had time, she wanted to say. But she watched him striding out into the depths and then swimming strongly, his legs and arms cutting the water like blades.

She forced herself to look, not at him, but at the lake. At this setting, more beautiful and peaceful than anything she had ever experienced. She watched the slow glide of a turtle shell through a stand of bulrushes, hearing the gentle gurgle and hiss of the moving waters. Across the lake the heron was still stalking, joined now by an osprey which circled and then dove, and dove again. The woods were filled with birds, and the sounds of their calls. She squinted into the shadows and saw a pair of eyes reflecting back at her; a doe heavy with fawn, wondering whether it was safe to come to the lake to drink.

Nathaniel swam for what seemed like a long time and then he came back to her, streaming water. The sun reflected off him in a million colors.

"I'm sorry," she said stiffly when he came to kneel in front of her. "It's none of my business."

"It is," he said." It is your business."

"I wouldn't let you tell me."

"I should have made you listen."

She lifted her chin; looked him straight in the eye. Elizabeth fought hard with the impulse to smooth things over, to make him feel better. "Yes," she said finally, with a nod. "You should have. Although it would not have made any difference to me, in the end."

Rivulets of water ran down his body and over the rock, fading in the sun almost as they watched. Elizabeth saw the pulse in Nathaniel's throat. His eyes were narrowed in the glare of the sun, his face impassive.

"I haven't talked to anybody about this since my mother. She said I should put it behind me for Hannah's sake."

She started to ask another question, but he held up a palm to stop her. "Listen," he said. "Listen and I'll tell you. Although I doubt you'll be glad of it."

He settled in front of her, straight—backed and cross—legged with his breech clout covering him, the long muscles in his thighs tensed. His hair hung damp over his heavily muscled shoulders. He was completely at ease in his near nakedness, and hers; Elizabeth blinked hard and looked away, concentrated on the mountains layered in shades of green and blue as far as she could see. When she had gathered her thoughts, she looked back at him. This was Nathaniel in front of her, her husband. With a story to tell her that she needed to hear, in spite of what it did to him, the pain it caused him. She fixed her eyes on his and held his gaze.