Page 41 of Caroline’s Compass

“You may submit revisions in writing,” Caroline said.

Charlotte opened the family record. “I can witness them.”

Thomas looked around the circle. “I have entered negotiations with a committee.”

“Anything Caroline does not have to redo,” Martha said.

The standard proved severe. Thomas repaired the strap, carried water, and split kindling. Caroline redid none of it. Lucy kept count and announced that he had earned three-quarters of a kiss.

“How is a quarter measured?” Thomas asked.

“You are the surveyor,” Lydia said.

Caroline confiscated the counting stick and assigned everyone to supper preparation. Thomas told her privately that he had hoped courtship involved fewer fractions. She told him to blame his profession.

The day's travel passed without crisis. By sunset, that qualified as a celebration. Mrs. Bell proposed a storytelling evening after supper, and no one had sufficient energy to escape.

The company formed a circle around the largest fire. Children sat on blankets. Adults brought stools, overturned buckets, wagon tongues, and whatever else might support a tired body. Nathaniel settled beside Eleanor with his right arm protected against his chest. Thomas took a place across the flames from Caroline.

Mr. Daugherty told a story about hunting a bear that grew larger every time someone questioned him. Martha countered with a tale Father had loved, about a farmer who tried to teach a mule humility and learned the lesson himself.

Lydia objected that both stories contained lessons and therefore violated the spirit of the evening. She stood, planted one boot on an overturned bucket, and announced that she would tell a true account of the night a chicken saved the Whitaker family from ruin.

Caroline said, “We have never owned a heroic chicken.”

“That is what makes the story remarkable.” Lydia waited until Lucy stopped giggling. “Her name was Beatrice, and she possessed the soul of a soldier.”

The chicken, as Lydia told it, had discovered a thief beneath the kitchen window, attacked him with military precision, and preserved both the family's silver and Father's dignity. Caroline remembered the incident. The thief had been a raccoon, the silver had been two pewter spoons, and Father had fallen into the rain barrel while trying to catch it.

“You have improved the facts,” Charlotte said.

“Facts become rude when allowed to interrupt a good story.”

Mr. Daugherty laughed so hard that he had to remove his pipe. Even Thomas smiled, although he looked toward Caroline as if asking which portions might be trusted.

“None,” she told him.

“Beatrice was real,” Lydia protested.

“Beatrice was roasted the following Sunday.”

Lucy covered her ears. “A hero deserves a kinder ending.”

Grace took the next turn. Her tale concerned a princess with six older sisters and one younger sister, each of whom offered advice before the princess had finished describing her problem. Eleanor advised patience. Caroline made a list. Charlotte found a contradiction in the villain's story. Rebecca suggested shooting him. Martha fed everyone before they attempted anything difficult. Lydia ignored the plan. Grace herself made an observation no one appreciated until too late.

“And what did the youngest sister do?” Lucy demanded.

“She announced every secret in the kingdom before breakfast,” Grace said.

The circle erupted. Lucy threw a rolled stocking at her. Grace caught it and bowed.

Thomas leaned toward Caroline. “The resemblances are subtle.”

“Grace has always struggled with invention.”

Rebecca did not volunteer, but Samuel Turner begged for the story of the runaway bull. Rebecca relented only after he promised not to imitate it. Her version was spare and practical: a neighbor's bull broke its pen, six grown men climbed a fence, and seventeen-year-old Rebecca led the animal into a shed with a pan of grain.

“You forgot the part where your skirt caught on the gate,” Martha said.