“You haven’t answered any of my questions, you know. Not about the Bleeding Heart and not about Nicholas either.”

“I haven’t,” Jemima said. “And I won’t.”

“It looks to me like you’re not well enough to travel,” Birdie told her. “So Nicholas won’t have to go.” She didn’t say, because you’re dying. Instead she said:

“You don’t have to worry about people being mean to Nicholas because of you,” she said. “You don’t have to worry about him going without, because Callie wouldn’t let that happen and neither would Martha. And neither would my folks, because Martha and Callie belong to us now and so Nicholas is one of us. You may hate that idea, but the truth is, as long as he stays here he’ll be happy. The same is true of Martha, because she’s not going anywhere and you can’t make her do anything. It’s too late for that.”

Jemima was staring at her again, but the heat was gone from her face. There was no anger there and not even any irritation, which was usually what happened when Birdie got to talking with grown-ups this way. She just looked tired and sick.

She said, “What about Callie? Is she happy?”

“I don’t think she knows how to be happy,” Birdie said. “Maybe she never got the hang of it, even when she was little. Because her ma was sick and because everybody went off without her and left her alone. All she cared about for a long time was the orchard, but that didn’t make her happy either because the crop kept failing. Which is why I don’t think you really want the orchard, even if the Bleeding Heart does turn out as good as Callie hopes.”

“What difference would that make?” Jemima said. “She sold the orchard, to Levi Fiddler, of all people. Levi and Lorena—” She made a disgusted voice deep in her throat.

Birdie took a deep breath. “You don’t understand, then. You don’t understand how Callie thinks about the orchard. It don’t much matter to her if she owns it, but it does matter that something comes of it. Her father loved the orchard and she loved it for his sake. Haven’t you ever done anything for the love of it?”

For a long time Birdie thought Jemima had gone to sleep and she wouldn’t answer, but then she did. She said, “People here think they know me, but they don’t. They don’t know the first thing about me.”

“I don’t think you want people to know,” Birdie said. “I don’t think you know yourself.”

Jemima’s face twisted. She said, “What do you want of me?”

“I don’t need anything from you,” Birdie said.

“Then get out of here,” said Jemima. “And leave me alone.”

Chapter LXII

It seemed to Elizabeth that in extreme duress a particular mood fell over the village, a living thing with tendrils that reached everywhere and bound everyone together. It had happened during the flood, it had happened when fire burned down the Maynards’ barn, and when disease stole whole generations of children from one family or another. That same mood could turn abruptly and bring out the worst of man. The slaughter of a thousand birds for no reason but bloodlust, the push toward war. Her first year in Paradise she had seen the worst come to pass, when a few men had roused the village—much smaller then—to move against the Mohawk on Hidden Wolf.

Her father-in-law had been one of the few people who could put a stop to trouble with nothing more than a few well-placed words. Even the drunkest, most bellicose trapper had backed down when Hawkeye stood up and looked him in the eye.

Why those things should come to mind Elizabeth was not at all sure. The feeling of foreboding that followed her from home all the way down to the village had no grounding, as far as she could tell, in any observable fact. It was impossible to imagine that the village might rise up in outrage for Jemima, who had no friends here. Once word was out that Martha was refusing to take Jemima in, Missy O’Brien might try to work up outrage about a child unwilling to look after a sick mother. Then again, Missy’s own husband had a complicated and unhappy history with Jemima—one that Missy would prefer to forget—and so it seemed unlikely that trouble could come from that corner. Nor could Elizabeth imagine a crowd storming the Red Dog to serve justice to a dying woman. That kind of mob needed a leader who was skilled at directing violence in a particular direction.

The situation, when she could make herself look at it dispassionately, was not very complicated. A woman they had thought gone for good, someone many people had cause to dislike or even hate, that woman had come back to Paradise to die. Why exactly she had done such a thing was a mystery that might never be solved beyond one basic and undeniable fact: She would suit herself, regardless of the trouble and pain she visited on her daughter and stepdaughter and their families.

Nothing Hannah had told them of Jemima’s demands had surprised Elizabeth, but she had learned to trust her own instincts, and she knew somehow that there was more to this story. Turning onto the Johnstown Road she realized what it was.

Not the story Hannah had told, but Hannah’s own manner when she delivered it. She had lost many patients over the years to disease and injury, old people and young. Even the most tragic cases, the ones that must break even the most stalwart of hearts, even then Hannah maintained her calm.

And now, less than an hour ago she had stood in a circle of women of her own family, and she had struggled but failed to completely hide her disquiet.

Elizabeth was irritated with herself that she had not registered this at the time, but the shock of the news about Jemima had made Elizabeth turn all her focus to Martha and Callie. She had missed the signs, but she was sure Nathaniel had not.