Small territory. A pause. How are you finding it? The teaching familiar, she said. Some of the children are further behind than they should be.
There's a boy named Thomas. He's nine who has never been taught to write. Nobody seems to know why. He frowned. I'll speak to Anders.
I've already spoken to Anders. I wanted you to know because Thomas's family works on your land. The Hendersons. Something moved across his face. James Henderson.
He's been with me 6 years. His son can't write his own name. He looked at her. I'll see to it. Good.
She stepped back inside. Was there something else? He held his hat another beat. I wanted to say. He started and stopped.
I wanted to say that I'm glad you stayed. She looked at him. Not for my sake, he said quickly. Or not only. I meant this valley needs people like you.
People like me, she repeated. People who see Thomas Henderson and do something about it. She was quiet for a moment. Good afternoon, Mr. Carter.
Good afternoon, Miss Bennett. He put his hat on and walked away. She watched him go, the set of his shoulders, the way he walked, like a man always carrying something heavy that he's decided not to put down. She went back inside and thought about Thomas Henderson. She did not think about William Carter.
She did not think about him very much at all. He came back on Thursday. This time there was no pretense of other business. He rode into Cedar Falls tied duchess at the post outside the Gilmore house and asked Mrs. Gilmore if Miss Bennett was in.
Mrs. Gilmore told Clara about it with the transparency of a woman who has decided to involve herself and sees no reason to be subtle. Clara went down. Mr. Carter, Miss Bennett, he held out a book.
I found this in my library. Thought it might be useful for the school. She took it. A McGuffy Reader third edition practically knew. She looked at it.
She looked at him. You rode three miles to bring a school book. I had other business. What other business? A pause.
None. He admitted. She looked at him for a long moment. Something shifted in the air between them. Not resolution, not quite, but something adjacent to it.
The first softening of a line that had been drawn very hard. "Come in then," she said. "Mrs. Gilmores made tea," he blinked. Clearly, that had not been what he expected.
"I thought you thought I'd send you away. I half expected it. I half considered it. " She held the door. "But you brought a McGuffy reader, and there are 43 children in this valley who need all the help they can get. So, come in. " He came in.
They sat at Mrs. Gilmore's kitchen table again. Mrs. Gilmore made herself scarce with visible satisfaction. "Can I ask you something? " Clara said.
"Yes, the woman. " Margaret. She kept her voice level. "What did she take from you? " "Not the money, not the business arrangements. What did she actually take? " He looked at his tea. "My judgment," he said at last.
My confidence in it. I had always believed I could read people, that I was not particularly warm, maybe, but not stupid. She made me feel stupid. You weren't stupid, Clara said. You were deceived.
Those aren't the same thing. He looked up. Being deceived says something about her character, Clara said. Not yours. He was very quiet.
Although, she added, "Testing me does say something about your character. " "Fair," he said. "I'm not saying it to be cruel. I know you're not. " She picked up her tea. Outside the window, the late afternoon light was the long gold of a summer's end. "My father left when I was 11," she said.
"Just left? No explanation. My mother had four children and no income and she sold every piece of furniture we owned except the beds and she found work at a textile house and she never cried where we could see her. He was listening. I understand.
She said what it is to decide that depending on people is the dangerous thing that if you just don't let anyone in, they can't leave. She set her cup down. I also know it doesn't work. It just makes you very alone and very tired. He said, "Nothing. " "You can build a wall high enough that nothing bad gets in," she said.
"But nothing good gets in either. " He looked at her in the late light. His eyes were very quiet. "I know," he said, soft, without argument. She nodded. "Drink your tea, Mr.
Carter. " He drank his tea. On Saturday, he brought Duchess to the schoolhouse and offered with the careful formality of a man who has thought about how to phrase something and is still not sure to show Clara the Valley on horseback. If you're ever going to live here, you should know what it looks like from a better angle than the trail. She said yes, not because she had forgiven him. She was still working on that.
It sat in her chest, not like stone anymore, but like something that had softened at the edges without quite giving way. "Not yet," she said. Yes, because she was a woman who had come 2,000 mi to build a life, and a life required knowledge, and knowledge required looking, and because if she was being honest with herself, which she preferred to be most of the time, she wanted to see the valley from whatever angle he saw it. They rode for 3 hours. He was a different person on horseback, quieter even, but with a kind of ease that the town didn't bring out of him the ease of a man in the place he belongs doing the thing he was built for.
He pointed things out without commentary, letting her look the line of the river in the valley bottom. The shapes the grazing cattle made against the hill, the distant blue gay rise of the mountains closer. Now he told her the names of things, not to impress her, just because she would need to know. She listened. She asked questions.
He answered them. At the top of a low ridge where the grass flattened and the whole valley spread below them in the late morning light, he stopped Duchess and they sat without speaking for a long moment. It's beautiful, she said at last. Yes, you're lucky to live here. He was quiet for a beat.