Page 58 of Charlotte

Mrs. Beck beamed. “I like it.”

“Of course, you do,” Mrs. Hanford muttered.

Cornelia Montgomery covered a smile by examining a stack of primers. The library looked more like itself today. The original shelf stood steady against the north wall, and a second shelf was promised by Mr. Stafford before the end of the week, assuming no one broke a chair, door, wagon wheel, or limb in the meantime.

The lending ledger sat on the table by the door, ruled in Delly’s neat hand and guarded by an inkpot, two pencils, and a jar of sand.

The empty space where Tennyson had been still drew Lottie’s eye. Peterson had not returned it.

Good, she thought.

A borrowed book meant he had a reason to come back. She was sorting household guides when a girl of about ten came in with a wilted flower clutched between both hands.

“Miss Bellamy?”

Lottie looked up. “Yes?”

“My ma says you brought a book with plants in it.”

“I did.”

The girl crossed the room and laid the flower on the table with great care. It was pale purple, bruised at the stem, and slightly crushed from being carried too tightly. “Do you know what it is?”

Lottie bent over it. “I don’t, but we shall find out.”

The girl’s eyes widened. “Can books do that?”

“Some books can do almost anything if a person asks kindly.”

Cornelia came to stand beside them. “That looks like one of the wildflowers from the meadow above the churchyard. Peterson would know.”

Lottie’s hands paused on the botany volume.

Mrs. Beck leaned closer. “Mr. Peterson knows flowers?”

Cornelia’s expression remained perfectly composed. “He knows the ridge.”

“That is not the same thing,” Mrs. Hanford said.

“No,” Cornelia agreed. “It is useful.”

Useful.

Lottie kept her attention on the flower. The word still bothered her now, though she had used it easily all her life. She had begun to see how often people praised a person for what could be put to work and forgot to ask what else lived beneath it.

“I can look it up,” Lottie said.

The botany volume was beautiful, but it had been written for eastern readers by a gentleman who did not seem to believe Washington Territory existed in any botanical sense. Lottie turned several pages, examined engravings, and found three possibilities, none of them quite right.

The girl leaned closer. “Does the book not know?”

“It appears to be a lily of sorts.” Lottie picked up the flower to compare to the etchings. “There doesn’t appear to be anything close to it in here. Perhaps the book has not been properly introduced to this part of the country.”

A low voice came from the doorway. “It’s camas.”

Lottie looked up too quickly. Peterson stood at the open door with Tennyson tucked beneath his left arm.

He wore his work clothes again, with sawdust clinging to one sleeve and his hat pushed back just far enough so Lottie could see his eyes clearly.