Wild Rose

“Well, you take care, my dear. I know you have no one in the world to speak for you. I feel it’s my bounden duty to look after you as if you was my daughter.”

“Yes’m.” Geneva looked at the butter. “Well, I’d best get this out of the sun.” She gave her neighbor a final nod. “I’ll be seein’ ya. Thank you kindly for the butter.” She turned back toward her door, hoping that by the time she came out, Mrs. Stillman would be gone.

She could feel her neighbor’s gaze on her until she closed the door behind her. She waited, peering through her curtain until the older woman climbed back up the hill, before venturing out again.

Captain Caleb was nowhere to be seen outside his yard, so Geneva headed toward the kitchen door, forgetting about Mrs. Stillman as her thoughts turned to her impending reading lesson. Her heart began pounding with each step she took closer to the house.

She heard the captain’s voice immediately after her knock, bidding her come in. She turned the doorknob and entered his kitchen. It was a large room, larger than her entire house including the lean-to. Not as large as the big hotel kitchen down at the harbor, but larger than any other kitchen she’d seen.

“Come on in. I’m back here.”

Geneva followed the captain’s voice through a dining room and into a long, airy room at the back of the house. Her first impression was space. So much empty space. Space and light. The room had a clean, swept feeling. It contained very little furniture. The walls that faced the windows were lined with empty bookcases. She ventured farther along the shiny wooden floors. Two framed pictures hung one atop the other on one wall. Square-rigged ships. She wondered whether they were from his father’s line.

The focal point was the windows, a whole row of them overlooking the sea. It was exactly what she’d imagined it would look like, the view from a house right at the end of the Point.

“That’s the reason I bought this piece of land.”

Geneva jumped at the sound of the captain’s voice behind her.

He came and stood beside her. “I took one look at the view from the old house that used to stand here, and knew this was where I wanted to build my home.”

Geneva just nodded, too awed by the fact that the captain’s thoughts and hers had coincided so perfectly. “It’s the most beautiful spot in Haven’s End.”

He glanced at her. “You’re just up the hill.”

“I look out onto the bay. I like it well enough. But this is the wide-open sea.”

He nodded in understanding. “I imagine the gales blow fierce in winter.”

“You keep a good fire goin’, you’ll be all right.”

He motioned to her book. “Shall we get started? Come, I’ve set up a table out here on the porch. As long as the weather is so nice, I thought we might as well be outside.” He led her through a glass-paned door to a veranda.

Geneva sat and looked from the captain, seating himself so close to her, to her mother’s book in her hands, and finally to the shimmering sea beyond the two of them. Mrs. Stillman, the rest of Haven’s End and Miss Harding were all somewhere far behind them. Only she and the captain existed in this world. Suddenly, she felt as if she were tasting a little bit of heaven.

The captain held out a hand. “May I?”

She nodded and handed him the book.

He laid it on the table and opened it. She saw him frown and began to worry that something was wrong.

He looked at her. “This is in French.”

She stared at him, her thoughts tumbling around, but all pointing in one direction: once again she’d failed.

When she didn’t speak, he asked her, “Do you understand what that means? It’s written in another language. It wouldn’t do you much good to learn to read in French.”

“It was my ma’s. She spoke the language.”

“Your mother was French?”

“Only half. But she was raised in a convent, in Québec. I reckon that’s all they spoke to her up there.”

The captain smiled at her. “You say it like a native. Did your mother teach you her native tongue?”

Geneva shook her head. “No. I heard her say a word now and then, but I didn’t understand it. Pa made her speak English whenever he was around.” She looked beyond him toward the sea. “I remember she’d call me chérie. And she gave me a long, funny-sounding name.”

“Your name is not Geneva?”

She shook her head. “Geneviève.” She pronounced it just the way she used to hear her mother say it, with the airy g sound and the last syllables all running together like a softly expelled breath. “Trouble was, Pa couldn’t say it right, and ended up deciding it should be plain old ‘Geneva,’ but Ma always said it the French way. Geneviève,” she repeated. She turned to see the captain looking at her in wonder. She felt the heat steal into her face. “What’s wrong with that?”

“You say your name exactly as a Frenchwoman would. Your accent is impeccable.”

Her chagrin turned into pleasure. But she just shrugged. “That’s about all I can say.”

The captain closed the book, resting his hand atop it. She remembered his hands, large and capable-looking, from the first time he’d touched her, back on the wharf. They were not so much the gentleman’s hands as they had appeared then, but still appealing, probably more so now that they were toughened by the soil.

“It’s a Bible, you know.”

She pulled her gaze away from his hands. “What? Oh.” She focused on her mother’s book again. “I should have figured. She was always reading it. Especially once she was bedridden.”

“Was she ill very long?”

“Just a year.”

“I’m sorry. How old were you when you lost her?”

Geneva shrugged. “Eight, nine, near as I can reckon.”

“You don’t remember exactly how old you were then?”

“Not exactly. Pa didn’t believe in celebrating things like birthdays.” She gave a bitter laugh. “If I could read, I’d know exactly how old I was. Ma wrote it all down here.” Geneva reached for the Bible, and Captain Caleb pushed it toward her. She opened it to one of the front pages where she knew her mother’s handwriting appeared. She flattened the pages and turned the book back toward the captain, beginning to feel the excitement of uncovering a long-held secret. He leaned over it, seeming as eager as she felt.

“Geneviève Samantha Patterson. Née 5 Mai, 1850.” He looked at her triumphantly.

“You speak French,” she said.

“Just what I learned in school.” He smiled at her. “You, Miss Patterson, were born on May fifth. You just turned twenty-three last month.”

She nodded slowly. “I knew it said five, but I wasn’t sure of the rest.”

“Now that we’ve solved that mystery, we still have the problem of how we’re going to find you something to read. Did you never have any schooling at all?”

“Just a couple of years. Then Ma got sick, and Pa took me out of school to tend to her.”

“You must have been rather young for such a burden.”

“She was no burden. I was glad to do it.” Geneva looked down at the painted wooden table. “Wish I coulda’ done more.”