Jemima asked better questions. She wanted to know about Callie, where she was living since the flood and how was it that the Bonners took it upon themselves to hide her own stepdaughter from her; could he explain that? Because it didn’t seem right. And there was a rumor in the village that Daniel and Martha had gone off together. Did they have anything to do with that?

“Our Daniel is a man grown,” Da said finally. “We don’t keep him on a leash.”

“I have a right to know where my daughters are,” Jemima said again, her voice a little strained now.

“Of course you do,” Da said. “You’ve always had that right. When you walked off and left them with nothing and no way to fend for themselves, for example. Surely you must remember the day you abandoned those girls you’re wanting to see so bad. Or have I got that wrong?”

“Don’t answer that,” Mr. Focht said.

Birdie would have liked to see her ma’s face. She wanted some idea of how she was taking all this.

“We’ll go, then,” Jemima said stiffly. There was a long pause and she said, “The rumor is that Daniel and Martha have gone to Johnstown to be married. If that’s so—”

“Spare us your threats,” Ma said.

“On the contrary,” Jemima said. “I would be delighted.”

Chapter XL

“Tell it to me again,” Curiosity said.

They were sitting at Curiosity’s kitchen table over teacups. Elizabeth was weary to the bone but this conversation couldn’t wait, and so here she was.

“She is willing to go to court to force her hand,” Elizabeth said.

Curiosity let out a noisy breath. “I think she should go right ahead. She can stand there in front of God and man and explain herself. I for one would like to hear it.”

Elizabeth finished the last of her milky tea, and then spent a moment studying the dregs on the bottom of her cup. She said, “Curiosity, we haven’t talked about your story.”

She felt the older woman tensing ever so slightly.

“It must have been very difficult for you, I realize that. And I am thankful. Otherwise I would never have known the truth about myself.”

Curiosity’s head snapped toward her. “That story wan’t about you. That story was about me, and what a foolish, vainglorious thing I did. I caused your mama harm and your daddy too, and I am truly sorry for it.”

Elizabeth said, “You shouldn’t have withheld the letters, that’s true. But I think the outcome would have been the same.”

“Well,” Curiosity said. “You free to believe what you like. She was your mama, after all.”

She was irritated and ill at ease, and so Elizabeth put two opened letters on the table between them. Yellowed paper, darker along the edges where the pages had been folded for so many years. All the years of Elizabeth’s life.

“No,” Curiosity said. “Sixty years I been looking at those letters and I don’t care to look no more.”

“Nevertheless,” Elizabeth said. “I am leaving them here with you. If you can bring yourself to read them, you may find a way to come to peace with the past.”

The old woman looked up at her and her eyes were wet.

“You think so.” Not so much a question as a challenge.

“I do,” Elizabeth said. “Read them, and decide for yourself.”

“If you want me to know what’s in those letters, then you have got to read them to me. Read them aloud so’s I can hear her voice.”

Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, and then she picked up the first of the letters.

Dear Gabriel,

I write to thee to thank thee for so many things, it is hard to know where to begin. The gifts of fellowship and love thou gave me were then and will always be precious to me. When I was cast down, when I was in danger of never finding my way out of the shadows, it was thee who came to my aid. And I have found my way. Here in England I have a place in my good-sister’s fine home, and work to keep me busy, and Augusta’s friendship.

But the primary source of my joy is our daughter, Elizabeth. If I had thy talent I should draw her likeness, so that thou couldst see what a beautiful, healthy child she is. Already at eight weeks she is so curious about the world, and so dear to me. The Lord has blessed me with a daughter to raise, and I am thankful.

We two are welcome at Oakmere, and this is where we will make our permanent home. It is my intention to never return to the New-York frontier.

It is best this way, Gabriel. In thy heart thou must know that in the end, we should both chafe at the other’s needs and grow resentful, and that I could not bear. I regret nothing. I am only sorry that I will never be able to tell thy daughter about thee and that she will never know the pleasure of thy fellowship.

And so I wish thee well and happy in thy travels, my love. May our Lord’s light shine upon thee.

Maddie

Dear Maddie,

It is a year since I returned to Paradise to hear from good friend Curiosity that thou wert gone away to England, there to stay. At first I could not credit this report and I promised that I would come back every season to see if thou might have left word for me.

Now it seems I must accept that thou art gone away from this place, from thy husband and from me. I know thee, Maddie. I know thee in thy bones, and I know thou would not do such a thing lightly.

Thou hast removed thyself from temptation’s way, and still I wonder, if one day thou should see me at thy door, so many miles from here, how wouldst thou greet me? As a friend, or something less? I confess I cannot bear the thought that thou might turn away from me.