Luke's calm expression faltered, and a muscle in his cheek twitched. “I judge a man on the way he lives his own life, not on his family.”

“And how does Simon live his life?”

Luke cleared his throat. “He's clever and hardworking and trustworthy. In business matters I trust him completely, and he has never given me cause to do otherwise.”

“I congratulate you on your rational philosophy,” Lily said, pointedly picking up her book. “I think I will take it for my own.”

“You are your mother's daughter,” Luke said gruffly.

“I will take that as a compliment.”

His mouth twitched. “It was meant as one.” He turned back to his books, and Lily to hers.

Chapter 9

Dearest Daughter Lily,

The calendar tells me that it is not so very long since you left us, and so we were especially surprised and delighted to receive a second packet from Montreal just yesterday. Twenty-five drawings—your little brother counted them straightaway—and in addition to such riches, letters and gifts for all of us. There was much celebration here during the unpacking. Had you been able to see the look on Annie's face when your letter was put into her hands, you would understand how much joy your thoughtfulness brought to us all. Even your aunt Many-Doves had tears in her eyes.

Each of your drawings is studied at great length and discussed, for we find so much to wonder about. You father was surprised to see that Luke chose to give you Giselle's old bedchamber for your own. It is a beautiful room, of course, and you must be very comfortable there. And still your father is not satisfied; he says that he must write to your brother and require that the secret stairway that leads out into the gardens be bricked up so as not to tempt you into running about the city at night. You see that neither his fatherly concern nor his rather odd sense of humor are improved or made milder by the long distance between us.

Gabriel took one look at the likeness of Monsieur Picot—if I have understood correctly, the gentleman who tutors you in the painting of landscapes—and gave him the nickname Catfish for his bristling mustache and puffy mouth. He was admonished for such discourtesy but I fear it was all for naught, as your father laughed out loud in agreement.

Between your drawings and notes and Luke's very informative letter we have come to understand that you are flourishing; the neighborhood is delighted with you, your teachers praise you for your powers of concentration, excellent sense of proportion and line, and for your hard work, and Iona looks after you as if you were her own granddaughter. That you are making so much of this opportunity does not surprise us, but your father and I are nonetheless pleased and gratified. You make us all very proud.

Your aunt Many-Doves asks me to report to you that the harvest is done and she is well pleased. The three sisters are here in abundance: the rafters groan under their happy burden of corn and squash and beans. We have ten full bushels of apples this year. The last of the geese have passed over and the first snow fell yesterday, no more than a dusting, but in the morning there was a half-inch of ice on the water bucket.

The winter is come; Jennet holds up her head and sniffs the sky and tells us so, and we have learned that when it comes to predicting the weather her sense of smell is without peer. All the signs point to a hard winter, but I fear she does not rightly understand what that means in the endless forests; she looks forward to it now, but by December I fear she will long for Scotland's milder weather.

Right now your cousin sits across from me scribbling furiously on her own letter to your brother, in response to the one she received from him. She has folded the silk shawl he sent around her shoulders and there is bright color in her cheeks. His letter first made her scowl and then laugh out loud. I trust her response will provide him with the same joy.

Jennet has made herself indispensable to all of us. We have had more visitors from the village in the last few weeks than we had all year, people coming with messages that could wait or to ask questions that require no answer, and who only stay for any length of time if Jennet is about. They come to hear her stories or simply to talk to her, as a man who has been chilled to the bone will be drawn to a well-laid fire. She is our own Scheherazade, and I think of her as your counterpart: she tells the tales that you would draw if you were here with us at dusk, gathered around the hearth, each of us busy with some work but all listening attentively.

By day Jennet is always occupied with whatever work presents itself, most usually as Hannah's assistant when she goes to see patients in the village. Hannah tells me that Jennet is a quick learner and an excellent assistant, not only for her powers of distracting the sick but also because she understands what is required of her with few words and has an excellent memory.

In truth it is fortunate that Jennet is willing and able to assist Hannah. Your uncle Todd's health continues to decline and Curiosity is more and more consumed with his care. He is often in considerable pain and very short of temper but even he seems to gentle when Hannah and Jennet come to sit with him. Hannah has brought him paints and paper, in the hope he will take up his old hobby of painting landscapes, while Jennet lays out her tarot cards for him. Uncle Todd scoffs and grumbles and tries not to smile in delight at her more outlandish predictions: he will travel to India and be crowned a prince, or a messenger with green eyes and a broken front tooth is on his way to bring news of a long-lost friend.

Because Hannah and Jennet have taken on responsibility for the sick in the village, cousin Ethan is free to pursue his own studies. He now takes my place as teacher four days of the week, a task which pleases him well and, I must admit, has provided me considerable relief. I had thought to use the extra time to see to household chores but your aunt Many-Doves will not hear of it, and neither will your father: I am to write as much as I like. Yesterday I sent off three essays to Mr. Howe of the New-York Spectator. In his last letter he reported to me that the writings of E. M. Bonner have been well received by the readership and he looks forward to more submissions.