Daniel stood. “O’Brien, you’ve got money hid away in every nook and cranny, most of it skimmed off the tax coffers. Or did your treasure chest get swept away in the flood?”

O’Brien ignored him. He had Martha in his sights and wouldn’t give up so easy.

“You come home on the very day of the flood, ain’t that right? Trouble follows you around, girl. No wonder they chased you out of the city.”

Martha’s back straightened slowly. There was a look on her face that Daniel hadn’t seen from her before: a quiet but forceful anger.

Baldy was saying, “I’ll tell you, I thought you’d have the sense to stay away, after what your ma did. If they find you one morning with your throat slit, it won’t be a surprise.”

Daniel’s hand moved to the knife sheath of its own accord, and O’Brien took a step backward. “I didn’t say Jemima murdered anybody, did I? But she had her ways, yes she did.”

Martha put a hand on Daniel’s arm. “Don’t,” she said. “He may be a blowhard without an honest bone in his body, but he is right about Jemima.”

O’Brien’s mouth fell open to show his teeth, discolored and broken.

“And of course, you knew my mother better than most, didn’t you? You knew Jemima very well.”

There was a moment in which the only sound was the fire in the hearth and the hitch of O’Brien’s breathing. Daniel felt almost as surprised as O’Brien must.

Martha stood there, straight of back, head held high. There was a dignity to her that O’Brien could never touch, and even he seemed to know it. The old man backed away, clutching his hat and muttering under his breath. Then the door closed behind him and the air seemed to go out of Martha. She closed her eyes.

And so Daniel had leave to look at her. Really look at her. The hair that fell around her in a river of color, the sharp line of her jaw and cheek. Strongly marked eyebrows, like wings. Faint lines on her forehead at—how old was she? Nineteen? Twenty? She was pale, but there were shadows around her eyes, like smudges of faint blue ash. She was long of limb, and lithe, and the idea struck him just that easily that he could fall in love with Martha Kirby. That he was well on his way already, and didn’t know how to stop, or even if he wanted to.

Chapter XX

The spring and summer in Paradise were anything but peaceful, most especially not at the Uphill House, nor the Downhill. Both of them were bursting at the seams with children and thus every day brought a selection of catastrophes small and large. Elizabeth was never happier. She had looked forward all winter to having Luke and Jennet come to stay.

Once or twice Luke had raised the possibility of building a house in Paradise—usually after a rainy day with all nine of the grandchildren together under one roof. It would be a sensible thing to do, he contended, as they spent a good half of their year here—but Elizabeth always found a way to dissuade him. Nathaniel liked having the little people nearby as much as Elizabeth did, and took her side. Jennet kept quiet during these conversations, but she was ready to jump in if things seemed to be swinging Luke’s way. She had no intention of taking on the running of another household.

And now Lily was come home, and Daniel had begun to spend less time alone.

The twins were her own, her firstborn. When Elizabeth first saw Lily standing on the dock with Simon beside her, everything in her had clenched very tight and then, finally, let go. Later she told Nathaniel it felt as if she had been roused from a deep sleep.

She loved every one of the children, but Lily had always been, would always be, the child of her heart. Through the winter Elizabeth had wondered what was bringing them home just at this time; if one of them was ill, or if there were problems between them. Or maybe, she told Nathaniel, it could be that they were homesick. All through the fall and winter she had asked questions that had no answers. Nathaniel listened in his own patient way, maybe because she was putting words to things he felt himself, but couldn’t express.

All those long days and nights of waiting, and then the week in Manhattan and the difficult journey home, in all that time Lily had not spoken of her condition to anyone. She had saved that news for Curiosity and Hannah. In some ways this was perfectly logical; Elizabeth herself had never talked about a baby on the way until the news announced itself to the world.

Elizabeth told herself that Lily simply hadn’t wanted to get her mother’s hopes up. But it did sting that she was not the first to be told. She must admit that at least to herself. She was more like her twin than she would ever admit: Lily would suffer in silence, even should it dearly cost those who loved her best.

The hours Elizabeth spent with Lily were the most important of the day. They talked, it seemed to Elizabeth, without pause, about everything but the child Lily carried, and the ones she had lost. They discussed each of Curiosity’s family members, and the possibility of sending her grandson Markus to a music conservatory in Paris or London. They never seemed to tire of talking about Birdie. They talked about Ethan and Blue-Jay and his new wife, and most of all about Daniel. When they were silent Elizabeth could almost see the words hanging in the air between them, but Lily did not speak them, and she must wait.

Finally Elizabeth took her frustration to Curiosity.

“I was wondering when it would wear you down,” Curiosity said by way of greeting. “Don’t look so surprised, Elizabeth. You never could hide anything you was feeling.”

But for the longest time they sat silently. The questions that she had come to ask were stuck in her throat, though they roamed around her mind freely enough.