fear.
9
M artha Kirby had a hard time working out for herself exactly when she had last visited Paradise. She believed it must have been two years ago, just after New Year.
In the middle of winter Paradise was a peaceful place. Even the most constant sounds of water rushing downhill, of the river and the lake were hushed by the cold, slowed down and then stopped. That last visit the ferocious cold had surprised her, how absolute it was. At the time they had teased her, asking if she had forgot everything about home while she was away, and whether she needed somebody to show her around.
She had stayed with the Bonners for that visit too, because Nathaniel Bonner was one of her guardians. Nathaniel and his sons had been out on a week-long hunt, and so they were a household of women: Elizabeth and Birdie and the two LeBlanc girls who came every day to cook and clean. Curiosity and Hannah came by almost every day, always with Hannah’s children in tow. There were visitors enough, and still there had been little to do but help with the household chores, read and write letters, and pay visits.
The only person she cared to call on was Callie Wilde. Callie was not a blood relation but she was a stepsister, and the only family Martha would claim. The hardest part about going to Manhattan had been leaving Callie behind. She had asked about taking her stepsister with them to Manhattan, but Callie herself had no interest in that proposition.
Even at that young age her friend’s only interest was the orchard her father had started, and the pursuit of the perfect apple.
The storm picked up its rhythm when they were less than a half mile out of Paradise, and Martha realized that some would take it as a sign: a turn for the worse in the fortunes of the village. Most likely some would hold even this against her, and truth be told, she couldn’t be sure they were wrong.
Lily hunkered down under the oiled tarp and told herself yet again that it would not do to scream at the heavens. So close to home after so long, and the oxen had slowed to a painful crawl, their heavy hooves sending up sprays of mud and water with every jolt forward.
The irony of it was not lost on her. She had left Italy with doubts; then one day she had come up on deck at first light and there was the shoreline, Long Island stretching as far as she could see. Everything in her had clutched in joy and fear; she was sure, at that moment, that they had been right to come home.
And it was at that very point that things began to go wrong with the journey. Broken axels, lamed horses, lost trunks, misplaced letters of credit. They had finally boarded the steamboat that would take them up the Hudson in a fraction of the time it had once taken to sail the same route, but even that had not gone to plan. She had given up counting the delays after the third time they were required to disembark because of trouble with the boilers.
People were burned to bits every year when steamboats caught fire, she reminded herself each time she made her way onto the shore. Better to arrive home like this than not at all.
Once they finally reached Albany the men had been keen to have a look at how the great canal was coming along. Even Simon, who understood how much she wanted to get home, even Simon couldn’t hide his fascination with the idea of double-stair-step locks. Only the promise of more bad weather put an end to the discussion.
“Better to wait until it’s done,” Simon had said—to console himself alone. Lily would go to see it with him, but for his sake rather than her own. She would draw the locks and the boats and the mules who trod the towpath, but it was Simon who looked forward to the outing. And they had not even reached Paradise yet.
“Next year you’ll be able to travel from Manhattan to Albany to Lake Erie without a single portage,” Luke added. “It’s a great advance for commerce.”
No doubt it was, but at that moment Lily wouldn’t care if the whole
9
M artha Kirby had a hard time working out for herself exactly when she had last visited Paradise. She believed it must have been two years ago, just after New Year.
In the middle of winter Paradise was a peaceful place. Even the most constant sounds of water rushing downhill, of the river and the lake were hushed by the cold, slowed down and then stopped. That last visit the ferocious cold had surprised her, how absolute it was. At the time they had teased her, asking if she had forgot everything about home while she was away, and whether she needed somebody to show her around.
She had stayed with the Bonners for that visit too, because Nathaniel Bonner was one of her guardians. Nathaniel and his sons had been out on a week-long hunt, and so they were a household of women: Elizabeth and Birdie and the two LeBlanc girls who came every day to cook and clean. Curiosity and Hannah came by almost every day, always with Hannah’s children in tow. There were visitors enough, and still there had been little to do but help with the household chores, read and write letters, and pay visits.
The only person she cared to call on was Callie Wilde. Callie was not a blood relation but she was a stepsister, and the only family Martha would claim. The hardest part about going to Manhattan had been leaving Callie behind. She had asked about taking her stepsister with them to Manhattan, but Callie herself had no interest in that proposition.
Even at that young age her friend’s only interest was the orchard her father had started, and the pursuit of the perfect apple.
The storm picked up its rhythm when they were less than a half mile out of Paradise, and Martha realized that some would take it as a sign: a turn for the worse in the fortunes of the village. Most likely some would hold even this against her, and truth be told, she couldn’t be sure they were wrong.
Lily hunkered down under the oiled tarp and told herself yet again that it would not do to scream at the heavens. So close to home after so long, and the oxen had slowed to a painful crawl, their heavy hooves sending up sprays of mud and water with every jolt forward.
The irony of it was not lost on her. She had left Italy with doubts; then one day she had come up on deck at first light and there was the shoreline, Long Island stretching as far as she could see. Everything in her had clutched in joy and fear; she was sure, at that moment, that they had been right to come home.
And it was at that very point that things began to go wrong with the journey. Broken axels, lamed horses, lost trunks, misplaced letters of credit. They had finally boarded the steamboat that would take them up the Hudson in a fraction of the time it had once taken to sail the same route, but even that had not gone to plan. She had given up counting the delays after the third time they were required to disembark because of trouble with the boilers.
People were burned to bits every year when steamboats caught fire, she reminded herself each time she made her way onto the shore. Better to arrive home like this than not at all.
Once they finally reached Albany the men had been keen to have a look at how the great canal was coming along. Even Simon, who understood how much she wanted to get home, even Simon couldn’t hide his fascination with the idea of double-stair-step locks. Only the promise of more bad weather put an end to the discussion.
“Better to wait until it’s done,” Simon had said—to console himself alone. Lily would go to see it with him, but for his sake rather than her own. She would draw the locks and the boats and the mules who trod the towpath, but it was Simon who looked forward to the outing. And they had not even reached Paradise yet.
“Next year you’ll be able to travel from Manhattan to Albany to Lake Erie without a single portage,” Luke added. “It’s a great advance for commerce.”
No doubt it was, but at that moment Lily wouldn’t care if the whole
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