“Well, I do not think this is a wise idea at all,” said George Simmonds. “And I shall be writing to Governor Hatch tomorrow to tell him as much. I believe sending young women out by themselves is a recipe for disaster. And I can see nothing but the foment of ungodly thoughts and bad behavior from this ill-conceived idea, First Lady or not. Good day, Mrs. Brady.”

“Good day, Mr. Simmonds.”

The gathering began to rise heavily from its seats.

“I’ll see you at the library on Monday morning,” said Margery O’Hare, as they walked out into the sunlight. She thrust out a hand and shook Alice’s. “You can call me Marge.” She glanced up at the sky, wedged a wide-brimmed leather hat onto her head, and strode off toward a large mule, which she greeted with the same enthusiastic surprise as if it were an old friend she had just bumped into on the street.

Bennett watched her go. “Mrs. Van Cleve, I have no idea what you think you’re doing.”

He’d said it twice before she remembered that this, in fact, was now her name.

TWO

   Baileyville was unremarkable among the towns of southern Appalachia. Nestled between two ridges, it comprised two main roads of a stuttering mixture of brick and timber buildings, linked in a V, off which sprouted a multitude of winding lanes and paths that led at the lower level to distant hollers, as the small valleys were known, and at the higher, to a scattering of mountain houses across the tree-covered ridges. Those houses near the upper reaches of the creek traditionally housed the wealthier and more respectable families—it being easier to make a legitimate living on the flatter lands, and easier to hide a liquor still in the wilder, higher parts—but as the century had crept forward, the influx of miners and supervisors, the subtle changes in the demographics of the little town and its county, had meant that it was no longer possible to judge who was who simply by which leg of the road they lived on.

The Baileyville WPA Packhorse Library was to be based in the last wooden cabin up Split Creek, a turning on the right off Main Street and a road that contained white-collar workers, shopkeepers and those who made a living mostly by trading what they grew. It was squat on the ground, unlike many of the lower buildings, which were set on stilts to protect them from the spring floods. Cast into part-shadow by an oversized oak to its left, the building measured approximately fifteen strides by twelve. From the front it was entered by a small flight of rickety wooden stairs and from the back by a wooden door that had once been wide enough for cows.

“It’ll be a way for me to get to know everyone around town,” she had told the two men over breakfast, as Bennett yet again questioned his wife’s wisdom in taking the job. “Which is what you wanted, isn’t it? And I won’t be under Annie’s feet all day.”

She had discovered that if she exaggerated her English accent, they found it harder to disagree with her. In recent weeks she had begun to sound positively regal. “And, of course, I will be able to observe who is in need of religious sustenance.”

“She has a point,” said Mr. Van Cleve, removing a piece of bacon gristle from the side of his mouth and placing it carefully on the side of his plate. “She could do it just till the babbies come along.”

Alice and her husband had studiously avoided looking at each other.

Now Alice approached the single-story building, her boots kicking up loose dirt in the road. She put her hand to her brow and squinted. A newly painted sign proclaimed “USA PACKHORSE LIBRARY, WPA” and the sound of hammering emerged in staccato bursts from inside. Mr. Van Cleve had indulged a little too freely the previous evening and had awoken determined to find fault with whatever anyone happened to do in his house. Including breathing. She had crept around, wrenched her way into her breeches, then found herself singing softly on the half-mile walk to the library, just for the joy of having somewhere else to be.

She stood back a couple of paces, trying to peer in, and as she did, she became aware of the low hum of an approaching motor, along with another, more erratic sound she couldn’t quite distinguish. She turned to see the truck, noticing the shocked expression on the driver’s face. “Whoa! Look out!”

Alice spun around just as a riderless horse came galloping down the narrow road toward her, its stirrups flapping, reins tangled in its spindly legs. As the truck swerved to avoid it, the horse shied and stumbled, sending Alice sprawling into the dust.

She was dimly aware of a pair of overalls leaping past her, the blare of a horn and a clatter of hoofs. Whoa . . . whoa there. Whoa, fella . . .

“Ow.” She rubbed her elbow, her head ringing with the impact. When she finally sat up she saw that a few yards away a man was holding the horse’s bridle and running a hand down its neck, trying to settle it. Its eyes rolled white, and veins popped on its neck, like a relief map.

“That fool!” A young woman was jogging down the road toward them. “Old man Vance tooted his horn on purpose and he bucked me off in the road.”

“You okay? You took quite a spill there.” A hand reached out and helped Alice to her feet. She stood, blinking, and regarded its owner: a tall man in overalls and a checked shirt, his eyes softening in sympathy. A nail still protruded from the corner of his mouth. He spat it into his palm and shoved it into his pocket before offering a handshake. “Frederick Guisler.”

“Alice Van Cleve.”

“The English bride.” His palm was rough.

Beth Pinker appeared, panting, between them and snatched the reins from Frederick Guisler with a growl.

“Scooter, you ain’t got the damn brains you was born with.”

The man turned to her. “Told you, Beth. You can’t run a Thoroughbred out of here at a gallop. It gets him wound up like a spring. Take the first twenty minutes at a walk and he’ll be good for the day.”

“Who has time to walk? I got to get to Paint Lick by midday. Shoot, he’s put a hole in my best breeches.” Beth tugged the horse over to the mounting block, still muttering under her breath, then turned abruptly. “Oh. You the new girl? Marge said to tell you she’s coming.”

“Thank you.” Alice lifted a palm, before picking at the selection of small stones embedded in it. As they watched, Beth checked her saddlebags, cursed again, wheeled the horse round, and set off back up the road at a sideways canter.

Frederick Guisler turned back to Alice, shaking his head. “You sure you’re okay? I can fetch you some water.”

Alice tried to look nonchalant, as if her elbow wasn’t throbbing and she hadn’t just realized that a fine layer of grit was decorating her upper lip. “I’m fine. I’ll just . . . sit here on the step.”

“The stoop?” He grinned.

“Yes, that too,” she said.