There's a community meeting at the church hall next week. He said about the road at the county's east edge. It needs repairing and there's a question about who's responsible. Half the farmers in the county will be there. He paused.
You should come. I'm not sure I'm Elanor started. You're a land owner. Benjamin said 60 acres properly deeded including the 20. You have as much right to that meeting as anyone.
He met her eyes. More than some, given where your east fence line sits. Eleanor looked at him. "You're not going to stop, are you?" she said. It was not quite a question, pointing out where I have a right to be.
No, he said. He said it simply without performance. I'm not. Eleanor was quiet for a moment. All right, she said.
I'll come to the meeting. She came to the meeting. She sat in the third row because the second was full and she was not going to sit in the back. And she listened to 40 minutes of debate about road maintenance and county responsibility and shifting costs. And then a man named Alderton, a large landowner, prosperous and accustomed to his own opinion carrying weight, said something about the eastern road being primarily the concern of the larger properties.
At which point Eleanor raised her hand, and when Alderton looked at her with the particular expression of a man who was not expecting a hand from that direction, she stood up and said clearly, "The eastern road directly borders the Witmore farm, "I've got 60 acres running along that section, and I've repaired my own fence line twice this season because of drainage from the road deteriorating. I'd like to hear what the county's position is on responsibility." There was a silence, not a hostile silence, more the silence of a room reconfiguring. The meeting chairman, a mild, careful man named Hooper, who Elellanor had seen at the fair, looked at her with careful neutrality and said, "Mrs. Whitmore, Miss Whitmore," she said pleasantly. "And I'd like an answer." Hooper gave her an answer.
It was not a satisfying answer, but it was an answer, and it was delivered with the respect that he would have delivered it to any landowner present, which was all she'd asked for. On the way out of this meeting, a man she didn't recognize fell into step beside her. He was perhaps 50, weathered with a direct bearing that reminded her of Benjamin. "Frank Alderman," he said. "Ruth's my wife." "I know Ruth," Eleanor said.
"She told me." he said said I ought to introduce myself properly. He walked alongside her for a moment. That was well done. He said in there. I only asked a question.
Eleanor said. Sometimes that's all it takes. Frank said. She was nearly at her wagon when she heard Alderton's voice behind her talking to two other men, not bothering to lower his voice. Thomas Whitmore's charity case is what she is.
Gave her that land to get rid of her is what I heard. You wait. Eleanor did not turn around. She did not stop. She put her foot on the wagon step and climbed up and picked up the rains, but her hands, for just a moment, were not quite steady.