Page 42 of Caroline’s Compass

“That did not affect the bull.”

“It affected the minister,” Eleanor said. “He had to lend you his coat.”

Rebecca stared into the fire. “The minister has surely forgotten.”

“He preached on modesty the next Sunday,” Caroline said.

Even Rebecca laughed then, quick and unwilling, and Samuel looked at her as if she had defeated an army.

Charlotte offered a quieter story about Mother hiding written clues through the house on birthdays. The final clue always led to a gift too small to justify the search: a ribbon, a peppermint, a new pencil. Yet Charlotte remembered every hiding place. By the time she finished, the fire had settled low, and the sisters' laughter had softened into remembrance.

Martha reached for Eleanor's hand. Lucy leaned against Grace. Caroline felt the familiar ache of missing their parents, sharpened and eased by hearing them restored through seven different memories.

Thomas did not offer comfort she had not requested. He simply shifted the water bucket closer to her feet so she could warm both hands around her cup.

“Your turn,” Lydia told Caroline.

“I have no story.”

Seven sisters objected at once.

Caroline surrendered with poor grace. She told them about Father teaching her to drive a wagon when she was twelve. She had insisted she could manage the reins alone. The team had obeyed perfectly until a blue scrap of cloth blew across the road, at which point both horses turned into Mrs. Partridge's vegetable garden.

“You told us Father was driving,” Lucy said.

“I protected my reputation.”

“For fifteen years?” Thomas asked.

“It required considerable protection.”

She told how Father had climbed down, surveyed the crushed cabbages, and made Caroline apologize before helping her back onto the seat. He had not taken the reins. He had said a mistake did not prove she was incapable; it proved she now knew one more thing to watch for.

When Caroline finished, Thomas's gaze rested on her with an understanding that felt almost like touch.

Then Mrs. Bell cleared her throat with the unmistakable confidence of a woman who had found a better target for the evening.

“Once,” she began, “there was a surveyor who could measure any distance in the territory.”

Caroline went still.

Grace covered her mouth.

“He could calculate the width of rivers, the height of hills, and the number of steps between every camp and supper. But he could not map the distance between himself and a certain capable lady.”

Laughter moved around the fire. Caroline wished the prairie would open beneath her stool.

Mrs. Bell continued, “He tried a chain, but she told him it was impractical. He tried a compass, but she said it only pointed north. Finally, he tried—”

Thomas rose. “Mrs. Bell, your account contains a serious surveying error.”

She blinked. “Does it?”

“A chain would never be used first. Any competent surveyor would begin by establishing a baseline.”

The company laughed harder, but their attention shifted to him.

Thomas picked up a stick and drew in the dirt. “Unfortunately, this particular surveyor was trained by a man who believed every baseline should begin at the nearest coffee pot. His work therefore wandered badly.”