Page 81 of Caroline’s Compass

Charlotte asked him to name all seven unmarried sisters in order. Thomas did so, including ages, which Caroline considered unnecessary courage. Martha asked what he would do if Caroline forgot to eat while balancing accounts. He answered that he would place food on the ledger. Rebecca asked whether he could repair a harness. He said poorly but under supervision.

Grace asked what he would do if Lucy followed him on a survey without permission. Thomas looked at Lucy. “Return her to Caroline before she found a cliff.”

“There may not be a cliff,” Lucy objected.

“Then I would return you before you found one.”

Lydia asked the final question. “If Caroline says she does not need help, what does she mean?”

Thomas considered long enough to prove wisdom. “It depends whether she is carrying one task or twelve.”

Eleanor laughed. Rebecca nodded once. Martha gave him a biscuit. Lydia announced that he had passed, though Charlotte pointed out no scoring method had been established.

Caroline folded her arms. “Am I permitted an examination?”

Thomas handed her his notebook. “Name three mistakes in yesterday's ridge figures.”

She found four.

“You pass,” he said.

The sisters groaned at the romance of arithmetic and scattered toward their work. Caroline remained beside Thomas. The foolish questions had carried a serious promise beneath them: marriage would not remove her from the family, and the family would not allow Thomas to imagine he had married only one Whitaker.

Later, Thomas spread the official route book across a crate. Caroline sat opposite him while he copied the flood detour in ink. His ankle remained wrapped and elevated on a folded blanket; they had agreed there would be no wedding until he could stand through it without leaning on the minister.

He entered the ridge bearing, the clay descent, the safe order of approach, and the height of the flood debris. Beside several decisions, he wrote C. Whitaker.

“You do not have to put my name on every one,” she said.

“I am recording the source.”

“You are trying to provoke me.”

“Also accurate.”

He reached for the brass instrument beside her hand. Beneath the repaired hinge, he had scratched two small words into the case.

Caroline’s compass.

She traced the letters. “It was Father’s.”

“And he entrusted it to his daughters. You recovered it from his papers, learned its use, broke it, permitted its repair, and navigated a search with it. Objects may have histories without having only one owner.”

Caroline opened the lid. The needle swung beneath the cracked glass and settled north.

“Caroline’s compass,” she said.

“A notoriously opinionated instrument.”

“It points in one direction.”

“And explains at length why the other directions are wrong.”

She leaned across the route book and kissed him. From behind the nearest wagon, Lucy groaned.

“You may come out,” Caroline called.

Lucy appeared, offended. “I was giving you privacy.”