“Enough, anyway.”
I winced. “I’m sorry I hurt Mama’s feelings. I—I don’t know why I said what I did.” Because it was true? Because I could have wielded so much more power and enjoyed so much more freedom if I’d been born a son? I sighed, my breath still quivering from the long cry. “But I’m not sorry I blasted Matthew. He’s a cocksure idiot.”
“He’s just immature. I think all this trouble cured him of his gambling propensity.”
“I should hope so. The fool: capering to town, his pockets stuffed with hard-earned money, and losing it all—for what? To impress the oh-so-mighty-and-important Mr. Goodrich?” I made a sound of disgust.
“What do you have against the Goodrich family?”
There was a dare in the question. I retorted curtly, “Nothing.”
“Jealous?”
“I am not jealous.”
“I think you are. In fact, I think your disposition is inherently jealous.”
“Ah. In addition to hot-tempered.”
“Exactly.”
I growled. For a suitor, the man could improve his lovemaking skills. “That’s a terrible thing to say about me.”
“You were jealous of Rachel.”
“Rachel’s my friend.”
“She wasn’t at first.”
“Well, if you want to go back to the beginning, I guess you’re right. I thought she was silly.”
“You were jealous of her, jealous of how much Gideon liked her. I don’t think you started enjoying her company until you realized she didn’t return your brother’s feelings.”
“Not true!”
“Then there are the Goodrich girls. Remember, I heard how disdainfully you dismissed the trappings of their wealth.” He shook his head, as if sadly recollecting. “That speech positively smacked of jealousy.” Before I could sputter a rejoinder, he continued: “And of course, there’s what you said about Matthew, how unfair it is he gets the bulk of the land on account of being the eldest.” He shrugged and said simply, succinctly, “More jealousy.”
I bristled. “Not just on account of his being the eldest—on account of his being the eldest son. You, Mr. Long, can’t appreciate what it’s like having this await you.” I waved an agitated hand to indicate the little graveyard.
“We all have this waiting for us,” he answered dryly.
“Not death. Submission. Following whatever rules your father, then your husband sets out for you, toiling without ever owning, obeying without ever deciding, having as much freedom and say as a broodmare,” I said wrathfully.
“That’s only true if you set yourself up with someone who doesn’t care for your feelings and wants to knock you down.”
“It’s true for every girl.”
“Who marries poorly.”
“Even the ones who marry well. It’s always a possibility, if the husband loses his tenderness, interest, or patience. The woman’s at his mercy.” I fisted my hands. “But who knows? Maybe she won’t live long enough to suffer his abuse. Chances are childbirth will kill her while she’s still in her prime. Then she can die with everyone vaguely and fondly remembering her as a biddable girl.” I breathed a wild cackle and shot my arm over the fence to point at my birth mother’s marker. “As a great beauty! What hopes and joys God promises the fairer sex.”
Mr. Long took a step back. “What are you trying to say, Harriet?”
“That a woman’s fate, whichever direction it takes, fails her spirit and potential, that a woman’s options, no matter how I look at them, are offensive.”
He stared at me silently for a moment, then said quietly, “Including the option of a loving marriage?”
“Especially that option.” I was breathing fast, almost gasping. My hands sought out the fence post. The memory of the pond returned, the sluggish, cold water clawing at my cape and filling my gown, the way the icy edge of the opening I’d made with my body came apart in my struggling grasp. “So if you think, Mr. Long, that I’m just another object for sale, a little trinket for purchase, you’re wrong. I—” I panted and looked around me, feeling dizzy and sick. The sun had cut apart the clouds again and now streamed over the mountains and fields, spangling the scattering snow, turning the flakes into silky stitches tying up the afternoon.
Like a person who just can’t help herself, a person intent on drowning, I finished in a strangled voice I couldn’t even recognize as my own: “I won’t marry you.”
His head snapped back. For a fraction of a second, something horrible and wounded seized Daniel Long’s expression.
Then severity smoothed it away. Face hard, he nodded once, buttoned his coat, and with the sort of surgical precision with which he whittled dumb wood into things of loveliness, said softly yet clearly, “Dear Miss Winter, I don’t recall ever asking you to.”
*
That night, I raised my head from the kitchen table and gazed blurrily at Mama. A squint was all my swollen eyes could manage. “I have to go.”
She slowly wagged her head, her forehead wrinkled, her cheeks damp from crying. “But the Genesee Valley, Harriet? That’s so far away. Why … I’ll never see you.”
Her hurt added to my anguish. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t bear to witness her pain, so I stared over her shoulder. Firelight played against the rough-hewn wall. Gideon’s shadow interrupted the wavering display. Then Papa’s. The two men joined us at the table, my father beside my mother, his arm bracing her shoulders, my brother next to me. He gave my clasped hands on the table a pat.
The house was silent. I didn’t know where my parents had shooed the rest of the family. Perhaps they’d left on their own accord. Probably hiding. Overwhelmed by Matt’s duplicity. Terrified of the crazy eldest sister.
Gideon cleared his throat. “I was thinking, now that Betsy’s old enough to cover a good share of the inside chores, you wouldn’t mind Harry joining me. From what I hear, the land there is thick with endless woods. I’ll have to spend days clearing it just to hack out enough space to raise a shelter. It promises to be a tremendous amount of work for one person to endeavor. I aim to purchase two oxen and a wagon at auction next month, and between those expenses and the down payment on my parcel, I won’t have any money left to hire hands. Harry would be a great help to me.”
My father’s hand came off the table, palm up, a bewildered, questioning hovering. “But you can’t really want to go, can you, kitten? You love it here. I know you do. Why do you want to leave?”
I mutely stared at him. He was right. I didn’t just love it here; I adored it—the beauty of this area’s seasons, the comfort of its rituals, the way the land fed and fostered us, provided the conduit through which each of us communicated with the other, without having to say a word. Had I ever truly, in my heart, thought I’d leave?
But now I would. Because I had to. Because I’d flayed someone who mattered to me with hurtful words. Because I’d mucked up my relationships here, burned my chances to the ground. Because I hurt. Because I was humiliated.
Because I was sick of being what everyone expected me to be.
I gratefully squeezed my brother’s hand and answered weakly, “Gid’s my best friend, Papa. He needs me.”
Mama’s fingers had traveled to her cheeks. “What about Daniel?”
I couldn’t talk about him. I just shook my head, squeezed my eyes shut, and admitted my despair with a wet whimper.
We sat silently for a moment. Then Papa sighed. “I appreciate your wanting to be a help to your brother. But he’s got Robert and Ed to support him. Gid hasn’t been happy here for a long time. But you…” He dropped his gaze to the table and worried a gouge there with his thumb. “Perhaps you and Daniel had a tiff, and now you’re smarting.” He looked at me, and his eyes were stern. “Don’t throw away your future out of pride, Harriet. Don’t make a decision you’ll regret.”