The wind came up from the village and with it the sound of hammering and sawing, faint but persistent. Every man who could be spared had been put to work, and as a result most of the families who had lost their homes in the flood would have roofs over their heads within another week. Sooner, if it weren’t for the spring mud.

Sometimes Ethan came by and gave her news from the village or read the newspaper to her while she mended or sewed. From him she learned which houses needed roofs and which families were in most need of food or an encouraging word. Not that she provided these things; she stayed on the hill and did what she could to help the Bonners. But Ethan clearly needed to talk of these things, and it was an old habit between them, something left over from Manhattan when he had been her tutor.

The Spencers had first enrolled Martha at Miss Martin’s School for Young Ladies, but she had felt out of place there and terribly unhappy. Letters went back and forth between Manhattan and Paradise, and one day Amanda presented a proposition. The Bonners believed Martha was too intelligent to be satisfied with a curriculum that went no further than needlework, deportment, and rudimentary French. She should learn Latin and the classics, algebra and philosophy, and anything else that interested her. Italian? History? Tutors could be had for any subject, really, and in the comfort of the Spencer’s house.

In the end Ethan had taken most of the responsibility for her schooling. Miss Anne Schubert was hired as a singing tutor—Martha had no interest in pianoforte, but she did have a clear and very sweet alto voice worthy of training, or at least the adults claimed that to be the case. There was a drawing teacher as well, and from Amanda she learned the fine points of crewelwork embroidery.

The only problem, as Martha saw it, was that Ethan’s concern for her education was something he took far more seriously than she did herself, at least at first.

He gave her books to read and long lists of verbs to conjugate and memorize. At a weekly supper he would draw her into conversation about her studies. This was not so terrible, because Will and Amanda were always there and the discussions were often too interesting to be thought of as examinations.

Then Ethan had moved back to Paradise, leaving her with the injunction to keep working on the list of books he had left behind.

It had been a relief at the time, not to have to bother with conversations about taxes and trade, Cromwell and Richard III. No more French subjunctive clauses, or dusty old Latin historians. When Ethan left Manhattan Teddy had just begun to court her, and with Teddy on her mind there was no room for anything else. Martha rarely thought of Ethan at all—she was embarrassed to admit this to herself, but it was true—until the day Teddy broke off the engagement. The Spencers did their best for her, but she would have liked to have Ethan nearby as well.

She was not the only one who felt his absence. Ethan Middleton was one of the most eligible young men in Manhattan. He had a great deal of money and property both; the men all thought well of his skills in business and his financial dealings; he was personable and good-looking and he could dance so well that when he did make an appearance at a ball, many heads turned eagerly in his direction.

In New-York he had presence and a sterling reputation, but here in Paradise they saw him differently. It most likely had to do with his Bonner cousins. In a crowd of Bonners, Ethan seemed to fade away. Martha had talked to Amanda Spencer about this more than once, because it struck her as unfair.

“His whole posture changes,” Martha had said. “As if he doesn’t want to be seen.”

Amanda couldn’t disagree with Martha’s observations, but she knew more of Ethan’s history and saw the matter differently.

“He is very much like his father,” she said. “But only in his appearance. The high brow, the shape of his head and hands and fingers, all except his coloring—he is the image of Julian. But in all other ways he is nothing like Julian at all. Not in temperament nor in spirit. Julian had no ambitions at all, and Ethan—why, you see for yourself. There’s hardly a charitable cause that he doesn’t support. He is always hard at work on one project or another.” She drew in a short breath and held it for a heartbeat. “Cousin Julian was a difficult and unhappy young man.”

Which was all Amanda could be coaxed to say about Julian Middleton, who had died of burns from a fire he had set himself, only a few hours before Ethan was born. There was a great deal more to the story, but those details had proved impossible to extract. Plenty of people knew about Ethan, but nobody was talking.

With that thought a possible explanation came to mind and so she asked Amanda directly. “Can you tell me just one thing? Does Ethan know the things you won’t talk about?”

Amanda nodded. “Oh, yes,” she said. “There were people in Paradise who made sure of that.”

Which meant, Martha understood, that it was her own mother who had had some part in telling Ethan things that would hurt him most. His mother had been vain and silly and died too young, and his stepfather had little use for him until he was old enough to take over the more unpleasant tasks that came a doctor’s way.

To Martha’s eye, at least, Ethan seemed to have survived all that and prospered. He had inherited almost seventy percent of the land in and around Paradise, not to mention properties from Johnstown to Albany and beyond; he need never raise a finger if he didn’t care to. But he worked without pause, as if the village’s welfare rested entirely with him. He was never so talkative as he was when the subject was Paradise and improvements that might be made.