Elizabeth acknowledged to herself once again that she had not properly anticipated the challenges of teaching. Liam was nothing like his brother Billy. He had not blinked an eye on the first morning when Elizabeth had asked him to take a seat next to Many-Doves , who could give him the attention he needed. What he lacked in imagination and intelligence he made up for with jittery goodwill and a dogged determination.

A horn tablet slid under her nose, bringing Elizabeth up out of her thoughts.

"Please, miz," said a small voice. "Ain't I finished yet?"

Elizabeth directed her attention to the single line of print wandering up and down—hill. She took a deep breath and gave Jemima Southern a regretful smile.

"I'm afraid not," she said, and in a low voice so as not to disturb the other children, she began to go over the reversed letters and backward shapes on the tablet.

"Please, miz," interrupted Jemima. "I cain't work on my tablet, could I practice on the board instead, please?"

Elizabeth looked first at the child, who had her mother's mild looks but her father's sullen temperament, and then down at the tablet in her hands.

Writing on the board was one of the most coveted of classroom privileges. The children argued about it at every opportunity. Of course, they would and could argue about anything: bringing in the firewood, cleaning the boards and sweeping the floor, passing out books, who should leave the room first and come back in last. In the recess Elizabeth had heard the boys arguing about whose father could piss in a higher arc, one argument she had kept far away from. She had found that there was no subject or task too small to quibble over. But writing on the board was the most contentious issue of all.

The others watched her with a mixture of curiosity and caution, wondering how she would deal with Jemima. The child was bright, and needed direction. But she was also cunning and disagreeable. In another classroom, with a male schoolteacher, both her intelligence and her wiles would have been crushed in short order. How to cope with one without undermining the other? Elizabeth knew that Jemima had lessons to teach her, but sometimes it was hard to be philosophical when confronted with her smug little smile.

The fire crackled in the hearth while she considered, feeling the weight of all the children's attention on her. Even Hannah, who rarely looked up from her work, was watching.

"Go on now, ‘Mima," called Liam from the back of the room just when Elizabeth thought that the child was not going to give in and would have to be brought to task publicly. "Set down. Cain't you see she won't be budged? She ain't gonna let you take no shortcuts."

"Thank you, Liam," Elizabeth said, trying to suppress a smile and only partially succeeding. "I think Jemima and I understand each other well enough."

A flicker of disappointment flashed over Jemima's face, but she went back to her table without further complaint. She settled herself onto the bench with tight little movements, taking care not to touch Hannah. The two children might have been in separate classrooms.

* * *

On Saturday Elizabeth dismissed school with a heavy heart and took more time than she needed to set the cabin in order before starting out. She stood on the little porch for a moment, looking at the way the world around her dripped from every twig, and pulled her shawl and her hood up over her head in a vain attempt to stay dry.

Within ten minutes her skirts were muddy and Elizabeth was anticipating a cup of tea and a dry pair of shoes, even while she dreaded the evening at home. Kitty Witherspoon and her father were coming to call, and Richard was expected back from Johnstown. She wasn't sure what she dreaded more, Richard's attentions or Kitty's unhappiness about Richard's attentions.

There was a crackling in the bush, and Elizabeth paused.

"Come on, then, Dolly," she said kindly. "Come along and walk with me.

As the eleven—year—old emerged from the wood, Elizabeth smiled. "You needn't be afraid," she said kindly. "I'm glad to have your company on the walk home."

This was not strictly true, but Dolly Smythe was so painfully shy that Elizabeth felt obliged to encourage her every effort to reach out.

Dolly bobbed her head and attempted a half curtsy, all elbows and awkward good—will, her gaze directed firmly downward. Elizabeth was sure this was due to the fact that the child was terribly cross—eyed. She expected her to fall into step beside her and walk the rest of the distance in silence, but Dolly surprised her.

"There's somebody watching," she said breathlessly.

Elizabeth came to a stop, sliding a little in the mud. She looked into the woods, but saw no sign of anyone at all.

"What do you mean?"

"Somebody's watching." Dolly shrugged, unwilling or unable to be more specific. "I heard 'em, just now."

Elizabeth considered for a moment, feeling the way her heart picked up a beat.

"Probably one of the boys," she said. "Wanting to scare us.

Dolly glanced up, one of her rare direct looks. Below arched brows the color of wheat, one green—gray eye darted toward Elizabeth with the other lagging behind. She dropped her gaze suddenly.

"No, ma'am," she said simply.

"Well, whoever it is, they'll catch a cold," Elizabeth said, sounding cross when she knew that she should be sounding frightened. She wanted to call out Nathaniel's name, force him to show himself, but she closed her mouth in a firm line and set out again, with Dolly slipping and sliding beside her.