“In Paul's letter to—”

“Mr. Stiles,” Elizabeth said curtly, and he frowned at her interruption.

“You are here to tell me that girls need no schooling at all, and that it does the lesser races only harm to be taught above their stations. In any case, you are quite sure that white children should not be taught in the same classroom with black children or Indians. Now if I have anticipated your concerns, I'll bid you good day.”

All the color had drained out of his face while she spoke. His skin was like window glass, a book for the study of blood flow. He could not keep his temper to himself, and in this odd fact Elizabeth found some kinship with him. She had never learned the trick of making her face go blank, of hiding what she was feeling.

“You mock me.” His voice trembled slightly, and he blinked repeatedly.

“No, sir. I just have no interest in listening to your thoughts on education, on the mixing of races, or on the place of women. I know everything you are going to say. Permit me to spare you and myself the time and effort. I will teach my school as I see fit, and I will take no direction from you, sir. When I hire a new teacher, as I plan to do this summer, I will make sure that that person is of a like mind with me, and willing to suffer your disapprobation. And one more thing, before I take my leave from you and go home to my dinner. You are a Calvinist, Mr. Stiles, and as such you will find yourself very much alone here on the frontier.”

His mouth, which had been hanging open, snapped shut like a turtle's. Elizabeth watched that happen again while she got up from her spot on the porch and brushed her skirts into order.

“I see I have my work cut out for me,” he said. “The devil has put down roots here.” He clutched his Bible to his chest and rocked it like an infant.

Elizabeth didn't like the way he was looking at her, as if her complexion were as transparent as his own; as if he could see through skin and bone to the thoughts in her head. Uncharitable, most of them, bordering on the irrational.

“I've been called far worse in my time, sir, and with less effect.”

She had turned and started up the path when he found his voice.

To her retreating back he called, “There's something else I know, Mrs. Bonner, something you may not realize just yet.”

Against her better judgment, Elizabeth turned.

Mr. Stiles studied her for another moment, and to Elizabeth it looked as if his nostrils, fine curved and overlarge, were twitching.

He said, “Pardon me for such a personal observation, madam, but you are with child. Two months, or so. A daughter.”

Elizabeth could count on one hand the number of times she had swooned in her life, but she knew herself to be dangerously close to that just now. There was a buzzing in her head, anger hot and bright, but stronger still, fear. She closed her eyes and opened them again, and saw that Mr. Stiles was watching her closely, with great interest. As a boy might study a bug caught under a piece of glass.

He touched his nose with one finger. “It's a gift, or a curse, depending on your point of view.”

Very softly Elizabeth said, “You're saying you can smell whether or not a woman is with child?”

“I smell many things,” said Mr. Stiles. He turned his head south, toward the village, a full two miles straight downhill. “Someone is making lye soap,” he said. “A plough is breaking ground. A fawn dropped this morning, about a quarter mile that way.” He pointed with his chin, and then sniffed again, the nostrils trembling. “The smelt are running.”

His gaze shifted back to her. “I can smell a quickening child. I smell disease in the bone, in the blood. There's a woman in the village, I don't know her name, she has a growth in her breast, no bigger than a beechnut, but growing.” He touched a spot on his own chest as if the disease were his own. “Most of all I smell sin. It stinks like lye, Mrs. Bonner. I was put on this earth to rout it out.”

Elizabeth's heart was thundering hard, but she forced herself to breathe in and out evenly, once, twice, three times. The expression she presented to Mr. Stiles was distant, superior, disapproving; Aunt Merriweather, dealing with a dinner guest who could not hold his wine, a vaporous woman, her nephew's latest gambling debt.

“How very inconvenient for you, sir. And if you pardon me, I wish you good day.”

He made no move to stop her; he didn't call out after her with more predictions or Bible verses. Elizabeth walked steadily and without pausing until she came to the strawberry fields, and then she stopped, and sat down.

When the idea of another child had presented itself a few weeks ago, she had rejected it out of hand. Her courses were not as regular as they had once been, after all: she was forty-nine years old this month. If things went on as she thought they would, she would most likely be a grandmother sometime in the next winter.

And she was with child. With the warm sun on her back, Elizabeth bowed forward to press her forehead to her raised knees, bit her lip until she drew blood and had forced her mind to clear.

A rabbit crouched in the grass a few feet away, twitching, its soft gray-brown pelt trembling. She had lined the cradle her children slept in as babies with rabbit skins.

“I can't,” she whispered, and the rabbit blinked at her, another frightened creature, sympathetic and powerless. “I can't, but I must.”

The evidence was all there, if only she looked at it calmly. Her weariness, the soreness in her breasts, the lack of appetite. Nausea in the evenings, like a knotted fist in the belly, a little more yesterday than the day before; more to come.