it’s not too difficult. It’s just that you have to be specially trained to teach someone to read.”
Her focus returned to her feet. The toe of the boot that had been tapping now began to dig into the dirt. “You think I’m too stupid to learn.”
Caleb held back a sigh. Whatever he said would probably be wrong. “I think you’re very intelligent.”
At that she looked at him.
“I’m the one who’s probably too stupid to teach you. It’s like planting. Did you think it would be so easy to teach an ignorant seaman to plant a garden?”
She considered, then shook her head. “But I did, didn’t I?”
Poor example, he said to himself. To her he said, “Yes, you did, and you did a fine job. Except for neglecting to warn me about those cutworms.” He let out a breath at seeing her reluctant smile, a smile that transformed her from dour farmer to fresh-faced lass.
Against his will, knowing it would probably end badly, he said with a sigh, “If you’re willing to risk it with me, I shall try to teach you. Only, I don’t guarantee anything. You must promise me that if I can’t teach you, it doesn’t mean you can’t learn, just that I’m not a very good teacher. Is that agreed?”
She nodded.
“I only have a few books and they wouldn’t be suitable—technical things on sailing.”
“That’s all right,” she interrupted. “I have a book.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It was my ma’s.”
He wondered what kind of woman her mother had been. He’d heard about her father from the villagers, but he hadn’t heard much about the maternal influence in her life. Whatever it had been had made an impact, judging by the reverent tone of voice she used when she mentioned her mother’s book.
“Good enough,” he agreed. “It’s settled.” He held out his hand.
After a second’s hesitation, she brought forth her own hand. He felt the long, slim fingers wrap around the edge of his palm, and he remembered once again their soft touch upon her pet.
“Bring the book this afternoon and we’ll start with our first lesson.”
Geneva took the cloth off the rough-hewn chest and lifted the lid. The pungent smell of cedar brought back a sharp reminder of her mother. Geneva had knelt at her feet whenever her ma had opened the chest. Geneva’s pa had made the chest for his bride, and in it she’d kept the few items of her former life. Over the years, her mother had added the quilts she’d made. Geneva lifted those out first, remembering her mother’s hands as she’d sat in her rocker and sewed the squares together. Bits of pale yellow and lavender and moss green formed a pattern of flowers against a white muslin background.
Next came a couple of woolen sweaters her ma had knitted for herself and her husband. Geneva often wore them in winter now. There at the bottom of the chest lay her mother’s few personal possessions—some old dresses, the cloth worn thin from so many washings. Geneva had never been able to bring herself to cut them up for rags.
Geneva’s hand smoothed the brown wool skirt of her mother’s best dress, the dress she’d been married in. She and Pa had married in November. The sisters at the convent had made the dress for her. That was the last thing they’d given her before sending her back out into the world. They’d received her as a little girl, from her Indian father who’d just lost his white wife.
Geneva set the dress aside. Below it was a thick roll of fabric, which her mother had purchased for a new dress. She remembered her excitement as a little girl that last spring before her mother had become bedridden, as her mother told her she’d bought enough fabric to make a dress for the two of them for summer. She’d told Geneva they’d be like twins instead of mother and daughter. The fabric had remained in one piece and would probably stay that way until it began to crumble at the folds with decay.
Geneva pushed aside the fabric and uncovered the object she’d come to get. A soft, brown, suede-bound volume with gilt letters. Geneva opened the book upon her crossed legs. Neatly printed letters in black upon white. She could recognize most of the letters, but could make nothing of the groupings. She’d tried and tried over the years.
What had made her think that this time it would be any different? What had possessed her to ask the captain to teach her to read? She could feel the heat suffusing her face as she thought once again of her request. The captain had acted so cordial. He’d seemed practically like his old self, the man she remembered on the wharf, so genuinely interested in doing something for her. But to spill out her most shameful secret? What had possessed her?
Having already spent the day agonizing over her behavior that morning, Geneva gave herself a shake and replaced everything in the chest, except the book. She stood and straightened her shoulders. She’d already washed her hands and face and combed her hair and changed her shirt. There was nothing left but to face the situation head-on. She gripped the book and marched to the door.
The afternoon sun was still high in the sky, causing the ocean at the end of the Point to shimmer in a thousand brilliant lights. Geneva could list a dozen things she should be doing instead of whiling away the afternoon poring over a book.
Jake started to follow her. “No, boy. You’d best stay home,” she told him, giving her yard a look of longing. How much she’d give to take her foolish words back and spend the afternoon on her soil, with the things she knew. “Your mistress has got to have all her wits about her this afternoon.”
Jake was no longer listening to her words. He turned his head away from her and began to bark. Geneva followed his gaze.
She stifled a sigh of annoyance at seeing her neighbor, Mrs. Stillman, bearing down her way, carrying a bundle wrapped in a dishcloth.
“Geneva!” Mrs. Stillman’s shrill voice reached her from the road.
Geneva sighed again and walked to meet the woman.
“Good afternoon.” Mrs. Stillman’s voice was breathless from her hike down the road.
“Afternoon.” Geneva remembered too late that she was still holding her mother’s book. She didn’t know whether to rest it on the stone wall in back of her, or just hang on to it, hoping it would go unnoticed. She decided the less movement she made with it, the better.
“You haven’t been by to collect any milk.” The farmer’s wife readjusted one of the pins in her abundant gray roll of hair. “I brought you some fresh butter. Sarah just churned it this morning.”
Sarah was Mrs. Stillman’s oldest daughter and Geneva’s age. Geneva had detested her since the two had walked to school together and Sarah had whispered things to her sisters, pointing and giggling at Geneva the whole way.
“Thank you,” Geneva mumbled, reaching out to take the proffered butter, laying the book on the stone wall in the process.
Mrs. Stillman smoothed her starched apron. “Is everything all right with you? You haven’t been by the farm.”
“Right as rain. Been busy with the garden is all.”
Mrs. Stillman nodded.
Geneva
