at her. “You say it like a native. Did your mother teach you her native tongue?”
Geneva shook her head. “No. I heard her say a word now and then, but I didn’t understand it. Pa made her speak English whenever he was around.” She looked beyond him toward the sea. “I remember she’d call me chérie. And she gave me a long, funny-sounding name.”
“Your name is not Geneva?”
She shook her head. “Geneviève.” She pronounced it just the way she used to hear her mother say it, with the airy g sound and the last syllables all running together like a softly expelled breath. “Trouble was, Pa couldn’t say it right, and ended up deciding it should be plain old ‘Geneva,’ but Ma always said it the French way. Geneviève,” she repeated. She turned to see the captain looking at her in wonder. She felt the heat steal into her face. “What’s wrong with that?”
“You say your name exactly as a Frenchwoman would. Your accent is impeccable.”
Her chagrin turned into pleasure. But she just shrugged. “That’s about all I can say.”
The captain closed the book, resting his hand atop it. She remembered his hands, large and capable-looking, from the first time he’d touched her, back on the wharf. They were not so much the gentleman’s hands as they had appeared then, but still appealing, probably more so now that they were toughened by the soil.
“It’s a Bible, you know.”
She pulled her gaze away from his hands. “What? Oh.” She focused on her mother’s book again. “I should have figured. She was always reading it. Especially once she was bedridden.”
“Was she ill very long?”
“Just a year.”
“I’m sorry. How old were you when you lost her?”
Geneva shrugged. “Eight, nine, near as I can reckon.”
“You don’t remember exactly how old you were then?”
“Not exactly. Pa didn’t believe in celebrating things like birthdays.” She gave a bitter laugh. “If I could read, I’d know exactly how old I was. Ma wrote it all down here.” Geneva reached for the Bible, and Captain Caleb pushed it toward her. She opened it to one of the front pages where she knew her mother’s handwriting appeared. She flattened the pages and turned the book back toward the captain, beginning to feel the excitement of uncovering a long-held secret. He leaned over it, seeming as eager as she felt.
“Geneviève Samantha Patterson. Née 5 Mai, 1850.” He looked at her triumphantly.
“You speak French,” she said.
“Just what I learned in school.” He smiled at her. “You, Miss Patterson, were born on May fifth. You just turned twenty-three last month.”
She nodded slowly. “I knew it said five, but I wasn’t sure of the rest.”
“Now that we’ve solved that mystery, we still have the problem of how we’re going to find you something to read. Did you never have any schooling at all?”
“Just a couple of years. Then Ma got sick, and Pa took me out of school to tend to her.”
“You must have been rather young for such a burden.”
“She was no burden. I was glad to do it.” Geneva looked down at the painted wooden table. “Wish I coulda’ done more.”
The captain’s hand covered hers. For an instant she felt an overwhelming desire to turn her hand over and receive his comfort, but she held back. Life had taught her not to rely on anyone or anything.
So she pulled her hand away and clasped it rigidly on the tabletop with her other hand. “When’s this lesson going to begin?”
Captain Caleb withdrew his hand with a chuckle and sat back. He lifted a stone paperweight from the center of the table and removed a sheet of white paper from a small stack. “Let’s see what you remember from your school days.”
Chapter Four
Caleb looked at Geneva’s departing back as she climbed up the slope to her house. He didn’t know which of them felt the more exhausted, pupil or teacher. He tried to look on the bright side. At least she had mastered the alphabet back in school and could form the letters fairly well. She recognized several one-syllable words, though anything more complicated was beyond her. He felt sorry for her, seeing her struggle.
He felt almost as helpless, not sure how to approach teaching her. He tried to remember how he’d been taught in school. School! Like Geneva, he’d only had a couple of years of formal schooling before being yanked out and shipped off to sea. But at least his father had provided a tutor on those journeys. A man who was quick to rap an eight-year-old boy on the knuckles at the slightest sign of fidgeting. And who was fonder of sitting in the captain’s quarters over a glass of brandy than of overseeing a boy’s lessons.
He smiled, understanding the frustration Geneva tried to control but which was so evident each time she missed a word or copied his example incorrectly. It was going to be an uphill struggle—but worth it.
He could feel something stirring in him at the effort to help someone. She was obviously bright, but had suffered nothing but disadvantages since her youth. From the little she’d told him, he could form a vivid picture of the rest. A little girl struggling to nurse a dying woman, left at the mercy of a hard, unfeeling woodsman. No wonder she’d rejected Caleb’s offer of sympathy so emphatically. She probably didn’t know how to accept anyone’s helping hand.
After the lesson and once Geneva had disappeared over the ridge, Caleb watched a buggy come down the road. It held a lone woman, Maud Bradford. He felt mixed emotions at seeing another acquaintance from Boston.
He’d forgotten she summered at Haven’s End. She was an old friend of his mother’s. Part of him yearned for news from Boston, yearned to see a friendly face. But just as strongly, he wished to put everything from Boston behind him. He didn’t want to be reminded of all he’d left behind, to question his decision to leave. Still, he’d survived Nate’s visit. Surely, this would be easy in comparison.
The horse clip-clopped to his gate, and Caleb took his time walking toward it.
Mrs. Bradford waited patiently for him, her face wreathed in a smile as he approached. Despite her gray hair, her face was unlined and held a serene quality that Caleb found hard to resist.
“Hello, Caleb.”
He nodded to her and proceeded to open the gate. When the buggy pulled up at the house, Caleb helped Mrs. Bradford down from her seat.
She looked him up and down. “You’re looking well, Caleb. I must confess I wasn’t quite sure what to expect.”
It was impossible to feel any resentment toward this elegant lady who was his mother’s age, and whom he’d known since he was in short skirts. She’d always spoken her mind, but in such a simple, gentle way that it was impossible to take offense.
“And I must confess,” he told her, “I’d forgotten you summered here in Haven’s End.”
She
