Everything in Lyman’s head, the suspicions and anxiety and the fresh terror that he had been found, suddenly collapsed like butter in a warm pan.
“Minerva.” And suddenly his lips were on hers.
•••
The full unabbreviated name of the place was the Bonaventure Farming Cooperative for Agricultural and Scientific Inquiry, although no one who hadn’t visited would know that fact as the sign nailed beside the front door of the Consulate was the only medium wherein the whole title could be expressed. In conversation it was simply Bonaventure Farm or, curter still, Bonaventure.
The first word of the name, Lyman came to understand, resulted from a vote decided early in the farm’s first days, a simple blessing of good luck upon the experiment. Farming Cooperative referred to its economic structure. It was the latter part of the farm’s title that held the most importance for its founder, a fact that Lyman learned as he spent time with Grosvenor in the overgrown field behind the cabins.
“You have never asked me, Mr. Lyman, why we have christened the main house the Consulate,” said Grosvenor to him as they dug, “but you must have guessed. It is because that was our first building when we began, and it is still where we first greet guests when they arrive at the farm. It is nothing less than our embassy to the rest of the world.”
Lyman, with some reluctance, found himself conscripted into his apprenticeship of earth moving, which usually occurred after supper. There he would be, sitting at the table, chatting with Minerva, when suddenly her father would tear the napkin from his shirt collar and implore Lyman to join him in the field. There was no avoiding it, though at least Lyman avoided the clearing up after the meal, a chore the men were expected to conduct in balance to the women’s preparation of it. Lyman would have very much liked to have avoided the digging as well, remaining tableside to laugh and talk with Minerva, or at least retire to his bed in the stone house unmolested.
“The Consulate is where we, the plenipotentiaries of the new regime, greet those citizens of the old. To them we must demonstrate that a lifespan can be expended at something better than mindless toil in a factory or a shop or on a wharf. Everyone must work to feed himself, it’s true; yet they must also spare a few hours of the day to minimize the evils of this world through experimental progress.”
As Lyman worked, Grosvenor would soliloquize on soil types and ratios of compost to sand or the corn varietal best suited to the Connecticut climate. It was not enough to grow food or for the farm to support itself financially, he informed Lyman: it had to contribute something original as well.
Lyman listened and nodded, often pausing to lean upon his instrument or wipe a handkerchief across his face.
“Nature wears many robes, Mr. Lyman, but we must tease the secrets out of her pockets. God has seen fit to give us the intellects to do so. In time, all that is mysterious to mankind will be unriddled.”
“Including, I hope, the bones you’re looking for.” Lyman tried very hard to make it a joke, to keep the exasperation from his voice, yet in all of their hours of digging, they had failed to disinter so much as a mouse’s toe.
“Patience, Tom!” said Grosvenor. “I keep Bonaventure’s greatest discovery hidden in my office—that thing which we found here in this very field when we laid this foundation. When I finally show it to you, I need you to understand what it represents. Or, shall I say, what is at stake.”
“And what is that?”
For a moment, Grosvenor said nothing, his face as impassive as granite. “Some things at Bonaventure,” he said finally, “are not what they may appear to be. The knowledge of this, of this true state of things, is a heavy burden. I want someone who understands what needs to be done if Bonaventure is to prosper. As I said before, an apprentice of sorts.”
Lyman nodded. “If you mean to say that Bonaventure is not on the steadiest financial footing, I regret to inform you it’s no secret. As much has already been hinted at, by you and several of the others.”
Drapery fell across Grosvenor’s face, a shadow of frustration and disappointment, and somehow, instinctually, Lyman knew he had said an inopportune thing. Yet why it was wrong or what he should have said in its place escaped him.
“Yes.” Grosvenor set down the shovel in his hands. “In regard to that.”
Every hair on Lyman’s arms stood on end.
“I’ve been speaking to some of the other members of the community,” said Grosvenor. “Some believe that a better qualified craftsman would have improved the stone house to a greater extent by now. They even suggest you may not be a carpenter at all.”
Lyman could guess the fountainhead of this distrust. “Some, or just Mr. Sutton?”
But Grosvenor, to his credit, did not attempt to pretend the barn door was shut when the horses were so clearly in the pasture. “Please don’t blame Mr. Sutton. He was a broker in his previous career, and like me, his training has made him particular about numbers and details. He only wants what’s best for the farm.”
“Which is why I find Mr. Sutton’s preoccupation with past careers so curious. What does a broker know about sowing and reaping?”
“I believe Mr. Sutton’s point is that, unlike him, you were explicitly recruited to Bonaventure for your skills.”
“And I believe he has no right to complain. If I had not come to Bonaventure, the stone house would have remained a ruinous heap in the woods. Currently it is much more so.”
“Perhaps. Or would it have been further along had someone else arrived in your place?” Grosvenor asked. “Bonaventure’s dilemma is one of expansion. We need more hands to grow, but
