Elizabeth unfolded the closely written sheets and leaned into the candlelight until the elegant black script steadied enough to let itself be read. Thus Elizabeth learned that while she had been moving north through the bush in the hope of finding Nathaniel alive, aunt Merriweather had been nursing her husband through a sudden and final illness; that she had buried him on a rainy summer morning on the very day Elizabeth's letter had arrived with the shocking news of her marriage to a backwoodsman; and that Augusta Merriweather, widowed mother of four grown children, had nothing more pressing to do with her time than to travel to the Colonies and see what could be salvaged of her beloved niece's future and prospects. She had booked passage with a Captain Wentworth and expected to arrive in mid—September.

Traveling with her would be two servants, her eldest daughter, Amanda, and Amanda's husband, Sir William Spencer, Viscount Durbeyfield.

* * *

They were too busy the next day, all of them, to take note of Elizabeth's new preoccupation. The harvest was close at hand, and the trapping season, and there were now two men where a few months before there had been four to do the work. Elizabeth was glad to have Nathaniel so occupied, because she was not yet ready to share her latest news.

The other women spent the day in the cornfield, but Elizabeth kept Hannah by her. She was pleased to have the child's help and her easy company. They sorted through the purchases from Albany, setting aside the schoolroom supplies and gifts from provisions which needed to be divided between the two cabins. Hannah was delighted with each discovery, and her low spirits gradually rose while she dashed between cabins with her arms full of good things.

In the meantime, Elizabeth spent some time putting together a basket of supplies, from cloth and buttons to a cone of sugar and a small sack of wheaten flour.

"Who is that for?" Hannah wanted to know.

"Martha Southern and her children."

"Oh." She had found a pair of spectacles and she put them on, where they promptly slid to the tip of her nose. "And these? Ian McGarrity?"

"Yes. If his parents will allow it." Elizabeth did not want to think of Jed McGarrity right now, and so she sorted through the small store of ribbons she had brought with her from Albany. She pulled out a dark blue and a green, and wound them into a neat package, which she added to the basket.

"Do you think Martha will take those things from us?"

Elizabeth stood with a sigh. "I'm not sure," she said. "But I must try."

* * *

It was Jemima who came to the cabin door. Her homespun dress had been dyed a hasty and uneven black, and it matched the frown on her face.

"Good afternoon, Jemima," Elizabeth said softly. "May I see your mother?"

"Of course, Miz Elizabeth. Please do come in." Martha pulled the door out of her daughter's hand, ignoring the look the little girl sent her way. "And Hannah. It's so kind of you to call. Please do come in."

Hannah headed immediately for the baby in his cradle near the hearth, but Jemima intercepted her, placing her small, solid body between the other girl and her goal.

"Daughter," Martha chided softly. "Go fetch Adam out of the garden. Go on now."

Jemima hung back, staring at her feet. "What are they doing here?"

"We've come to pay our respects," Elizabeth answered, although the question had not been directed at her.

Jemima left, banging the door behind her. The child wore her anger and misery so clearly and unapologetically that some of Elizabeth's dislike gave way without a struggle.

"She's taken her pa's passing real hard," Martha explained.

"Yes, of course she has. I am very sorry for your loss. Especially sorry," Elizabeth added.

Martha nodded. Her fingers rubbed the thin fabric of her skirt, and for a moment she could not meet Elizabeth's eye.

"We put our faith in the Lord. He had strong feelings, my Moses, and they moved him too far at times.

Elizabeth made a small noise of encouragement, for she did not know how to respond to this.

Martha looked up. "You've had a loss of your own," she said. "And I'm sorry for Moses' part in it. I hope you all are taking comfort from each other."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said. "We are." Then she leaned forward. "Martha, I have come to see if I can be of any help. If it is not too early to speak to you of this."

The basket sat between them on the floor; Martha's gaze moved over it, and there was a flicker there: relief, and pleasure, too.

"Those things are for you, and I hope they will be of use. But I had something else in mind, as well." Elizabeth met Martha's surprised look, and with simple words, laid out her thoughts. By the time she had finished, Martha was looking doubtful rather than surprised.

"I don't like charity," she said. "Moses wouldn't want me to accept charity."

Hannah had scooped the baby onto her lap as soon as Jemima was out of the cabin, but now he began to fuss. Distracted, Martha took him from Hannah and began to jostle him on her knee.

"It is skilled work," Elizabeth said softly. "I cannot sew, and I have need of many things for myself, and for Hannah—and for the new child, as well. I would not call that charity."

"Can I work here?" Martha asked. "I wouldn't want to be taking these children up the mountain every day."

"Of course," Elizabeth said. "I will bring you what you need."