But things don’t improve. The dismal alphabet is full of recrimination and punitive rhymes. Ruby goes silent after “Jfor Job,” her hands folded on her lap. Job’s story of suffering is certainly a somber one, but there seems to be something else going on beneath the surface of Ruby’s reticence. I close the primer and set it aside.
“Ruby, what’s the matter? We were doing so well.”
“I’m just tired. That’s all.”
But there’s something deeper behind her eyes. An old hurt I can’t fathom.
“If there’s something bothering you, Ruby, you can talk to me. You can trust me.”
She sucks in a quick breath, draws her lower lip into her mouth. “They use Bible stories and verses ...” she says, her words trailing away. “The masters. They use them to make us think our suffering is some kind of glory. To keep us down. Their preaching ain’t no kind of blessing.” She looks at me, her eyes narrowing. “Their god is mean.”
A wave of shame washes over me. I’ve witnessed what prison does to the enslaved. How the warden forces them to labor. How they are sent to the jail by their masters, to be punished. I should have considered Ruby’s past when I chose the materials to teach her. I was rash. I push the book away. “I’m so sorry, Ruby. We’ll choose something else to learn with. No more Bible verses or stories. No moralizing.”
“I ... I do want to learn to read, Miss Mary. I do.”
“I know. But there are other books you might learn from. How about I read a story to you, instead?”
I open the other book toThe Legend of Sleepy Hollowand begin to read, running my finger along the sentences while Ruby looks on. Eventually, her shoulders lower and her demeanor softens, drawn in by this charming story about a bachelor schoolmaster sent to the haunted countryside. Although I worry when we get to the passages about Mr. Crane’s classroom discipline, Ruby seems unbothered, given the context of the words and the schoolmaster’s apparent favor for the meek over the strong.
“I like this, much better,” she says after a while. “Can I try?”
I place the book in front of her and point to a sentence. “You’ve seen this word several times, Ruby. What is it?”
“‘All.’A-L-L.”
“Yes! Very good.”
She smiles. I point to the next word. “This one is longer, but you’ve seen a similar word as well.”
“‘The’?” she asks.
“Yes. Now, put anson the end of it and extend theesound. It’s called a longe.”
“Thes ... these.” Her eyes brighten. “All these!”
“Yes!”
She progresses through the phrase with focused deliberation, until she’s nearly read the entire thing:All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness ...
We talk about commas and semicolons, and then I close the book to mark our place, noting Ruby’s yawn and my own aching legs and back, stiff from hours of sitting. “Why don’t you lie down on the davenport, Ruby, and take a nap, until your father comes to fetch you. We’ve done a lot today, and a young mind needs rest. You’re safe here, I promise.”
“Maybe I will, just for a little while. To rest my eyes. I won’t be able to come tomorrow. We’ve got to empty the crab traps. It takes all day.”
“All the more reason for you to rest.”
She nestles onto the leather-covered sofa in front of the crackling hearth. I cover her with a woolen blanket and leave her, closing the library door behind me.
I find Alex on the upper piazza, looking out over the marsh. He turns at the sound of my step on the boards, greeting me with a smile. “I heard you and Ruby laughing. Things are going well, I take it?”
I join him at the railing, basking in the warm glow of the lowering sun. “Yes, she’s a quick and clever study.” I consider telling him about Ruby’s response to the primer but decide not to. I’ve apologized to Ruby and will be more careful in the future. I don’t want to give Alex any reason to question my abilities or cause undue concern.
“I’m not surprised she’s catching on quickly. She’s a bright girl.” Alex clears his throat. “I’ve been wondering about you, Mary. How did you come to be all alone out here? An educated young woman, who can read and write ... quite rare for a vagrant.”
I school my face into a neutral expression. “I hoped to be a governess, but I was orphaned at a young age and was forced to leave my education behind. My father was a soldier. He died in the Mexican War.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
The lie about Papa is smooth, impressive, and believable, just as I hoped it would be. Now I just need the right sort of lie for Mother. “My mother passed when I was just a few days old—of puerperal fever. After Papa died, I was on my own.”
