The new shelves were of cherry wood, carefully sanded and rubbed, and Martha was pleased every time she looked at them. They weren’t as intricately carved as Ethan’s, but all she really wanted was a way to make the common room a little more her own, and her books would do that.

When Daniel came in he took a minute to admire the filled shelves, and then he sat down to his late breakfast of tea and boiled eggs sprinkled with salt and pepper.

Martha sat down opposite him. “Thank you,” she said. “I missed my books. But there’s still a lot of space. Shall I put your books on the shelves too?”

Nothing unusual about her tone or the request, but she watched him anyway. If he grinned at her now, then he knew what she was about.

Instead he said, “Good idea. It might take you a while to track them all down, though.”

Daniel was very good at sniffing out mischief, no doubt a skill acquired in near ten years of teaching clever and often devious Yorker children, but it seemed he didn’t have any sense of what she was up to. Because she did have an ulterior motive and a plan. It had been in the making ever since they came home from Johnstown, when she had waited in vain for Daniel to produce the promised book by A French Lady of Leisure.

Her choices were few: She could ask him about it directly, or she could go exploring and seek it out on her own. Neither option appealed to her overmuch. Married or not, Daniel had a right to his privacy, and she wouldn’t go through his things until and unless he gave her specific permission. And now he had. She had his leave to look through his books.

He had a lot of them, many from his mother who passed them along when he took over the school. Some Martha recognized because Elizabeth had read them to her class. Gulliver’s Travels she remembered especially well, because Miss Elizabeth—as Martha had called her then—had been so delighted by the story herself.

Martha began with the table that served as Daniel’s desk, piled high with stacks of books. Geography Made Easy: A Short but Comprehensive System. More Speedy Attainment of the Latin Tongue. A Rhetorical Grammar of the English Tongue. Practical New Grammar. The Schoolmaster’s Assistant, a Compendium of Arithmetic Both Practical and Theoretical. The Natural Sciences. The Art of Writing. Sketches of the Principles of Government.

The books not related to teaching were more scattered and had been much more thoroughly read. Kant’s Anthropologie, The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, M’Fingal, Moll Flanders, Tom Jones. She was surprised to see that together they had enough novels to fill an entire shelf.

There were dictionaries and grammars for Latin, German, and French. In general there were a lot of books in French; she found a dozen of them on the worktable, of all places, under a pile of shirts that needed mending. She sat down to look through them, her pulse picking up a notch.

Descartes, Toussaint, Voltaire, Balzac, Rousseau, Diderot, and a French grammar and dictionary. Dry as dust, all of them. No sign of the Lady of Leisure.

While she dusted and arranged all the books she had found, Martha considered. There were three possibilities, as she saw it. She could confront Daniel directly and insist that he either produce the book or confess he had made the entire story up out of whole cloth; she could continue to search; she could simply put it out of her mind.

She tied up her skirts so they wouldn’t be in her way when she climbed the ladder into the attic to look through the boxes she had seen up there.

Ethan had plans to open up the attic into a sleeping loft, but that was further down his long list of improvements. For now it was nothing more than a raw floor with slanting walls that needed diligent dusting and sweeping. Moreover, it was tremendously hot even in May despite the open vents at either end.

The trunks were lined up in a row. Martha lifted the lid on the first box and dropped it as soon as she realized what she was seeing were packets of letters, all tied with serviceable string. She was curious, but the idea of reading someone else’s mail—even her husband’s—that she would never even consider. The letters were Daniel’s, and Daniel’s alone.

The second box was full of clothing carefully folded. She made a note to herself to ask him about these things, and then she went to the third and last box.

She hesitated, because a question had come to her, one she should have considered first. What was she going to do with the Lady of Leisure once she found her?

Daniel, look what I found in the attic.

Daniel, is this the book you were telling me about?

Daniel, your French Lady of Leisure’s memoirs were very instructive. Would you care to join me in our room on our very broad, very high, very chaste bed so we can discuss them?

The sensible thing to do would be to walk away.

With one quick movement Martha lifted the lid.

It was almost a relief to see that the box was empty; she could put this nonsensical crusade aside. Except that there was a single piece of paper at the bottom. She picked it up.

In Daniel’s hand, a single sentence written in ink as black as his heart: I know what you’re looking for.

Outrage and laughter and embarrassment vied for the upper hand while Martha sat there looking at the message Daniel had left for her. Then she heard a familiar voice calling.

“Martha!” Birdie yelled. “Where are you?” And then Hannah’s voice: “No need to shout, little sister.”

“Maybe she forgot we were coming,” Birdie said.

And she had. Martha had forgot completely about Hannah dropping by with her Chinese needles. She asked herself if she was mean enough to enjoy the discomfort the treatment would cause Daniel, and decided that she was not.