Fire Along the Sky
Page 186
On the way home for dinner Simon had his own news to share: Anna McGarrity had promised them a rooster and three hens as a wedding present, and he had come to an agreement with the Cunninghams: Simon would build them a new shed in return for his second-best milch cow.
“Your friends are doing their level best to keep us here,” he said finally. “Though I can't understand why.”
She poked him then, hard, in the ribs, and he yelped and jumped out of her reach.
“You ungrateful wretch,” he said in a conversational tone. “And here was I, planning to put in your new stove tomorrow.”
“How peculiar, that the idea of a new stove should give me gooseflesh,” Lily said. “Who would have thought I'd take to housekeeping?”
He came closer and nudged her with his hip. “If that's all it takes to give you goose bumps, girl—”
“Stop,” she said, swerving away. “Not ten minutes ago we agreed that we can't be late for dinner again. My mother's patience is not endless. Keep your hands to yourself, and tell me about the schoolhouse.”
She saw straightaway that it was the wrong subject to raise. It made Simon think of less pleasant things, and now that he had turned his mind in that direction she would have the devil's own time turning it back again.
“He was at it again today,” Simon said.
Lily needn't ask for details. The Reverend Stiles continued to preach every day in the very middle of the village, sometimes for more than an hour, and, it seemed to Lily, always on the same topic. Since she had stopped working at the meetinghouse in the mornings while she was busy at the cabin, she had only heard about these sermons.
“If it does not bother me, Simon . . .” she began, and then her voice trailed away at the look he shot her.
They walked in silence for a while through grass ripe for haying, alive with grasshoppers and small darting animals desperate to find new cover.
Finally Lily said, “I have lived all my life in this village. People here know me, Simon. He can say what he likes, they won't believe him.”
“He's calling you a whore.” Simon's voice went hoarse and broke.
At that Lily must pause. “By name? He called me a whore by name?”
“All but,” Simon muttered. “It's aye clear who he's talking about.”
“Promise me something,” Lily said suddenly, stopping to turn to him and put her hands on his upper arms. “Promise me you won't let Stiles get the best of you. Don't raise a hand to him, Simon. Promise me.”
His mouth was set hard, and lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, as if he were looking at something that did not please him. This was one of the times when Lily saw how much like her father Simon Ballentyne really was: he would not be led, not even by her, when what she wanted went against his best judgment.
“I could promise you the moon and stars if you ask me, Lily Bonner, and what would that mean? What's in my power to give, that you'll have.”
For the rest of the walk they said nothing at all. Now and then Lily sent him a sidelong glance and saw how lost he was in his thoughts. Just before they reached home, he turned to her.
He said, “The very least I must do is discuss it with your father.”
“Get on with it then,” Lily said. “He's standing at the door there waiting for you.”
Nathaniel saw straight off that Simon had things to talk about, but he knew that Elizabeth would not allow such a discussion at her dinner table.
He had been watching his wife closely for the last weeks and had finally convinced himself that Curiosity was right: she was healthier than any woman her age carrying for the seventh time had any right to be. So he settled in for the stormy months, battened down and rode out her moods.
Now they ate cold chicken and new beans and lettuce from the kitchen garden while they spoke of the things she approved, and nothing else. She asked some questions about Lily's morning and what there was left to do at the old MacGregor cabin.
“We've got to stop calling it that,” Lily said.
“What would you call it, then?” Simon asked her, one brow arching, which meant he was in a teasing mood and would wind her up if given half a chance.
Elizabeth put a stop to that, though a little reluctantly. She said, “In the village they call it the Ballentyne place.”
“Already?” Lily asked.
“You sound displeased, daughter,” Nathaniel observed. “Did you want it to be known by your name?”
“Well, no,” Lily said. “I suppose not.”
“It takes some getting used to, I suppose,” Nathaniel said. “Giving up one name for another.”
Simon was watching Lily closely, not with worry or displeasure, but as he might watch a deer he was tracking to learn more about her habits. Elizabeth saw this with some satisfaction. She had the idea that he was the kind of man who knew better than to try to herd Lily where she wasn't yet ready to go.
Then talk turned to the schoolhouse, which was pretty much done; Nathaniel had to give Ballentyne credit for good work done fast and clean. There was some back-and-forth about the fieldstone for the chimneys and going to Johnstown for the window glass. For all her early misgivings, Elizabeth was pleased with the new building, and to Nathaniel's satisfaction, she had even regained some of her old spark when she talked about the next school year, and the hiring of a teacher.
The Wednesday post had brought three more application letters in response to the advertisement she had sent to the Albany and Manhattan papers.
“Your friends are doing their level best to keep us here,” he said finally. “Though I can't understand why.”
She poked him then, hard, in the ribs, and he yelped and jumped out of her reach.
“You ungrateful wretch,” he said in a conversational tone. “And here was I, planning to put in your new stove tomorrow.”
“How peculiar, that the idea of a new stove should give me gooseflesh,” Lily said. “Who would have thought I'd take to housekeeping?”
He came closer and nudged her with his hip. “If that's all it takes to give you goose bumps, girl—”
“Stop,” she said, swerving away. “Not ten minutes ago we agreed that we can't be late for dinner again. My mother's patience is not endless. Keep your hands to yourself, and tell me about the schoolhouse.”
She saw straightaway that it was the wrong subject to raise. It made Simon think of less pleasant things, and now that he had turned his mind in that direction she would have the devil's own time turning it back again.
“He was at it again today,” Simon said.
Lily needn't ask for details. The Reverend Stiles continued to preach every day in the very middle of the village, sometimes for more than an hour, and, it seemed to Lily, always on the same topic. Since she had stopped working at the meetinghouse in the mornings while she was busy at the cabin, she had only heard about these sermons.
“If it does not bother me, Simon . . .” she began, and then her voice trailed away at the look he shot her.
They walked in silence for a while through grass ripe for haying, alive with grasshoppers and small darting animals desperate to find new cover.
Finally Lily said, “I have lived all my life in this village. People here know me, Simon. He can say what he likes, they won't believe him.”
“He's calling you a whore.” Simon's voice went hoarse and broke.
At that Lily must pause. “By name? He called me a whore by name?”
“All but,” Simon muttered. “It's aye clear who he's talking about.”
“Promise me something,” Lily said suddenly, stopping to turn to him and put her hands on his upper arms. “Promise me you won't let Stiles get the best of you. Don't raise a hand to him, Simon. Promise me.”
His mouth was set hard, and lines appeared at the corners of his eyes, as if he were looking at something that did not please him. This was one of the times when Lily saw how much like her father Simon Ballentyne really was: he would not be led, not even by her, when what she wanted went against his best judgment.
“I could promise you the moon and stars if you ask me, Lily Bonner, and what would that mean? What's in my power to give, that you'll have.”
For the rest of the walk they said nothing at all. Now and then Lily sent him a sidelong glance and saw how lost he was in his thoughts. Just before they reached home, he turned to her.
He said, “The very least I must do is discuss it with your father.”
“Get on with it then,” Lily said. “He's standing at the door there waiting for you.”
Nathaniel saw straight off that Simon had things to talk about, but he knew that Elizabeth would not allow such a discussion at her dinner table.
He had been watching his wife closely for the last weeks and had finally convinced himself that Curiosity was right: she was healthier than any woman her age carrying for the seventh time had any right to be. So he settled in for the stormy months, battened down and rode out her moods.
Now they ate cold chicken and new beans and lettuce from the kitchen garden while they spoke of the things she approved, and nothing else. She asked some questions about Lily's morning and what there was left to do at the old MacGregor cabin.
“We've got to stop calling it that,” Lily said.
“What would you call it, then?” Simon asked her, one brow arching, which meant he was in a teasing mood and would wind her up if given half a chance.
Elizabeth put a stop to that, though a little reluctantly. She said, “In the village they call it the Ballentyne place.”
“Already?” Lily asked.
“You sound displeased, daughter,” Nathaniel observed. “Did you want it to be known by your name?”
“Well, no,” Lily said. “I suppose not.”
“It takes some getting used to, I suppose,” Nathaniel said. “Giving up one name for another.”
Simon was watching Lily closely, not with worry or displeasure, but as he might watch a deer he was tracking to learn more about her habits. Elizabeth saw this with some satisfaction. She had the idea that he was the kind of man who knew better than to try to herd Lily where she wasn't yet ready to go.
Then talk turned to the schoolhouse, which was pretty much done; Nathaniel had to give Ballentyne credit for good work done fast and clean. There was some back-and-forth about the fieldstone for the chimneys and going to Johnstown for the window glass. For all her early misgivings, Elizabeth was pleased with the new building, and to Nathaniel's satisfaction, she had even regained some of her old spark when she talked about the next school year, and the hiring of a teacher.
The Wednesday post had brought three more application letters in response to the advertisement she had sent to the Albany and Manhattan papers.
