I swing around. There is no one there.
The vibrations must be my own heart beating in my chest.
“Cowardly spy!” I sign to myself.
Widow Tilton and Mrs. Lee will not stay out in the cold for long, so I must hurry.
I take up the letter and read:
Again I feel the floor vibrate. I peer out the door and see Widow Tilton’s shadow in the kitchen. She is at the basin washing dishes.
I scold myself for not making a clear picture in my head before I moved things and do my best to replace everything where I found it. I slip out of the bedroom while the Widow Tilton’s back is to me.
I hold my breath and press myself up against the wall. It confounds me that hearing people can detect the slightest sound. Widow Tilton turns and looks toward the door. Not seeing anything, she shakes her head and returns to her washing. I take my chance and dash out.
I am careful not to slam the door behind me.
Walking home, I think about the letter. Who wrote it? There are other ignorant people who think as Andrew does?
Sarah Hillman runs out to greet me when I pass her house. Carrie Tilton trails behind her. It gives me a start seeing her after I have just evaded her grandmother.
“You are so lucky to have that young man calling at your home,” Sarah signs. I detect a glimmer in her apple-green eyes.
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Don’t be a silly girl,” Sarah signs, acting older than her twelve years. “He’s very handsome, with those piercing blue eyes. He isn’t a simple island farmer or whaler. He’s from the city, and he attended Yale University, even if he didn’t finish his studies.”
“I don’t see it like that,” I tell her.
“Oh, you can’t fool me,” Sarah signs, resting her hand under her tilted chin.
Carrie casts me a sympathetic glance.
“Andrew is ten years older than I,” I sign.
Sarah gives me a knowing look, twisting her red curls around her fingers.
“That won’t matter when you are eighteen and he is twenty-eight,” she signs. “And with your brother gone, your father needs a son to inherit his property. My mother says it’s obvious why your family had him over for dinner and has taken an interest in him.”
“Not because of me!” I sign.
“Don’t play coy with me, Mary Lambert,” she signs aggressively. “Everyone is talking about it.”
“You stop gossiping about my family!” I sign.
I walk away without a single courtesy. I don’t have time for such silliness.
On my way home, I think more about the letter. What is a live specimen?
Behind the barn, Thomas is sweeping out the sheep shelters and putting in fresh wheat straw. The flock can abide snow but need blocking from the winter winds.
I am still brooding over the missing map and not ready to go inside. I walk over to him. “I saw Sally last week,” I tell him.
“She said so,” he signs.
“She told me a story,” I sign, “about a man who came to the island uninvited, conducted a survey, and took things that didn’t belong to him.”
He stops working and focuses his attention on me.
“Stories can be interpreted in many different ways,” he signs.
“I have heard some arguments about land disputes,” I sign. “That our fathers took land that didn’t belong to us.”
He stops and rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“As far as I am concerned,” he tells me, “there have never been any real disputes.”
“What do you mean?”
“Missionaries and English settlers have made land claims up and down Noepe,” Thomas signs confidently. “It remains a Wampanoag island. In truth, no one can truly buy or sell this land. It belongs to a far greater Being.”
“You mean your god, Moshup?” I ask.
“I shouldn’t call him a god but rather our greatest ancestor,” Thomas signs. “He, not the Church or the Commonwealth, is the only one who gave us a deed to the island. He taught us to be partners with it in respectful stewardship.”
“I follow Christian beliefs,” I tell him.
“All beliefs are important to the believers,” he signs.
“Do you think my family should leave?” I ask Thomas.
“That will not happen,” he signs. “We are willing to share. But that doesn’t mean you can lay claim to land that was granted to us, or that an honest woman can be falsely accused.”
“I told the truth about the sheets,” I sign. “I am truly sorry for the part I played in Helen’s persecution.”
“It was good of you to speak the truth,” he tells me. “Just as it was honorable for your father to testify that when I scuffled with an Englishman, it was in self-defense.”
“Why does it matter that we are English or Irish or Wampanoag?” I ask him. “We are all Americans now.”
“I think you know it’s not as simple as that,” Thomas signs.
Do I? It’s hard to reckon it out in my mind. Sam paws at my leg.
Thomas points toward my house. Mr. Pye’s carriage is outside.
I leave Thomas to his work. Sam follows me to the house. Before going inside, I command him to “sit” and give him a good scratch on the rump. His undercoat has grown for the winter, so he is big and bushy. I know he wants to sleep by the fire, but he must sleep in the barn to help keep predators at bay.
When I enter the kitchen, I see that Andrew and Miss Hammond are here too. The hearth is not just well-cleaned and the table well-laid with silver, but festive red candles are aglow, and fresh pine boughs crackle in the fire. Mama instructs me to pour ale for Papa, Andrew, and Mr. Pye in pewter mugs from the cupboard. Will wonders never cease?
There is much fussing over the beautiful preparations as we take our seats. Mama has a right to look proud.
Although it is not my place to ask questions at supper
