Chapter One Oak Grove
Jean McNutt gave Thomas and me each a small leather bound book. Said a man should write what the road takes from him before folk forget it. I told her there was little worth writing yet. Thomas laughed and said that was exactly when a man should begin.
—Edwin Beard — Worcester, 1724
1824
One of the hands did not come in that morning. The work was set the day before. Jonas did not send for him. No one said where he had gone.
I remember the morning the schoolhouse was first proposed, though at the time none of us understood what might grow from that small frame beside the churchyard graves. We believed we were building a room for instruction. In time it proved to be something else entirely.
The Oak Grove Presbyterian Church stood among the oaks as it had for years, the logs darkened by weather and its yard rising gently into a scatter of stones marking the settled dead. Beyond the fence, fresh-cut beams lay stacked in careful rows, and four upright posts had been set into the earth where a schoolhouse was proposed to stand.
It was not yet a building, only an intention.
I stepped down from my father's carriage and gathered my skirts clear of the thaw-softened ground. A boy moved forward at once to take the Major's reins, holding the horses steady while men gathered near the rising frame. The air carried the scent of sap and damp soil. Somewhere beyond the trees, the river moved unseen but steady in its long course.
My father removed his gloves and surveyed the timbers without comment. Approval was never granted quickly in our household.
Men stood in loose clusters near the beams, boots sinking slightly into the earth. Some spoke of subscription amounts. Others of lumber hauled from distant tracts. A man steadied one of the upright posts while another checked its alignment with quiet care.
Ephraim Sharp stood nearest the frame, broad-shouldered, grave in expression, his coat brushed but plain. He rested both hands on the head of his cane as though the earth itself required holding.
"We must consider what we are building," Sharp said evenly. "Instruction is not a trifling matter. If we raise a school, it must serve those prepared to uphold the standing of this settlement."
A smaller farmer near the back shifted his weight. "And who judges preparedness?" he asked.
Sharp did not turn. "Those who have borne the burden longest."
Jonas Beard stood a few paces from him, one hand resting lightly against a walking stick worn smooth at the curve. He had not forced himself to the center, but when he spoke, the men listened.
"If the school stands," Jonas said, "it must stand upon shared obligation. Support will be given in proportion to means. Those who would see their sons instructed must contribute as they are able."
Sharp's gaze sharpened.
"And if proportion invites presumption?"
"It invites discipline," Jonas replied calmly.
The wind moved lightly through the oaks. No one raised his voice. A boy carried a coil of rope across the yard, stepping carefully around the graves.
Sharp's jaw tightened slightly. "Standards are not preserved by generosity."
"Nor by exclusion," Jonas said.
The silence that followed was brief but complete. The upright posts did not tremble.
I felt my father's attention settle more firmly on Jonas.
The gathering drifted into practical matters — the size of the room, where benches might be set, how subscriptions would be recorded.
"And who will keep the subscription?" someone asked.
Several men glanced toward Jonas.
When the men began to disperse, my father led me forward.
"Mr. Beard."
"Major." Jonas inclined his head.
"My daughter has taken an interest in instruction," my father said. "She will expect this endeavor to be governed with care."
I did not lower my gaze.
"You speak as though it will endure," I said, glancing toward the rising beams. "Timber endures only so long as it is tended. Who will tend it when enthusiasm fades?"
Jonas looked at me more fully then.
I had seen him before — at church, in passing — but never at such close measure. He did not shift his weight or soften his attention when I spoke. The steadiness of it surprised me.
"Those who pledged their names," he answered.
"Names fade more quickly than wood," I said. "And pride quicker still."
The corner of his mouth moved despite himself.
"You expect it to fail."
"I expect men to grow complacent," I replied. "And institutions with them."
He rested his weight more deliberately against the crook, considering me.
"You are severe, Miss Poage."
"I am practical."
"And you believe practicality sufficient to preserve a schoolhouse?"
"I believe neglect sufficient to undo one."
He let out a quiet breath that might almost have been a laugh.
"You would have us governed by vigilance, then."
"Would you prefer vanity?"
There it was again — that steadiness in him. Not sharp, not reckless. Measured.
"I suspect," he said, still watching me, "you would not be among the complacent."
"I would not."
Behind us, Ephraim Sharp spoke in low tones, but Jonas did not look away immediately.
"You are welcome at the next meeting," he said. "If only to ensure we do not mistake permanence for success."
"And you are welcome to be corrected," I replied.
This time he did allow himself a brief, unmistakable smile.
"I do not fear correction," he said. "Only indifference."
That seemed to satisfy me.
When I turned toward my father, I felt his gaze remain where I had stood.