The Gifted

by Ann H. Gabhart

  Journal Entry

  Harmony Hill Village

  Entered on this 20th day of June in the year 1849

  by Sister Sophrena Prescott

  There is upset among our novitiates. Upon rising this morn, one of the beds was found to be unoccupied. The young sister named Abigail has chosen to run back to the world. Sister Edna reported the news to Eldress Frieda after the rising bell during the time of early chores. I was with the eldress when Sister Edna made her report. Both of us were much disturbed by the folly of the young sister and the sorrow-burdened life she has no doubt run toward. A life with none of the blessings and gifts she could have enjoyed so abundantly here among us.

  The sister never settled into our ways. From the first day among us she resisted our teachings. While we all hoped her will would bend and she would see the error of her ways, I don’t think any of us were overly hopeful of that happening.

  I do have to admit I was greatly relieved to see Sister Jessamine obediently following after Sister Edna, for she too had to come when Sister Edna made the report due to her condition of constant supervision. I was very uncertain of what temptations might beset her after she read the letter from her natural father of the world. She has not tried to deny her confusion of thought, and when I heard upon rising that a sister had slipped away during the night, I could not help but be concerned for our Sister Jessamine. That was why I was seeking out the eldress. So I could relieve my worries in her regard.

  I must confess I did succumb to the temptation to read the letter that lay in wait for our sister so many years. Nigh on twenty. Since she was a tiny baby. I intended to do no more than stuff it back in the envelope and return it to the Ministry to keep or destroy as they saw fit, but the words reached for my eyes. I told myself knowing what the letter said would better equip me to help my sister in her confusion, but it is a truth that our minds can very often come up with what we tell ourselves are valid reasons to do the things that tempt us. To stray from the simple path of obedience.

  The words I read did not cause me to doubt my life here among my brethren and sisters. I am content here. It is my life. My work. My worship. But the words of Sister Jessamine’s natural father did bring tears to my eyes. As Sister Jessamine told me after she had finished reading through the letter—he loved her. A worldly love to be sure, but expressed with such sincerity I could not help being moved by his words. So it is no wonder our young sister felt some confusion in her heart.

  I never knew feelings like that. Never really felt loved until I came into the Society where I am ever surrounded with love. My natural father thought me no more than a burden. A female plain of face. He cared not that I showed an affinity for words. He wanted sons to work with him in the fields and ride after him to the hunt. My mother, worn brittle by the cares of the world, only wanted me grown and settled. The two of them pushed me into a sinful union of wedlock. Oh, what a blessing it would have been for me to be carried to the village here at a young age as Sister Jessamine was. And yet, she does not recognize the gift she was given. She only wants to look over her shoulder to the past or into the beyond and wonder.

  I do not have to wonder. I have seen many troubles of the world. I heard my mother crying in the night and understood her tears after my own unhappy marriage. I experienced the stress and sin brought about by individual family ties just as Mother Ann warned would happen. But here at Harmony Hill we have established a heaven on earth, a paradise of love.

  I am content. Sister Jessamine may find such contentment in time, but for now, it eludes her. Instead, the letter’s words dance in her mind, enticing her, making her wonder even more about the things of the world. I know this is true even though she might deny it every bit.

  Eldress Frieda tells me I must stop clinging to our young sister and allow her to come to belief on her own. For while we can be a bridge to help someone along on their journey, we cannot make the journey for another. Those who come to us must open their eyes to the truth and embrace it on their own. We must allow them to step out on the Believers’ pathway and affix their signatures to the Covenant of Belief without unseemly duress.

  We can pray. We can labor dances and sing down love from Mother Ann. We can shake carnal thoughts from us. But only if that is our desire. Would that Sister Jessamine’s desires will bring her back into communion with her sisters and brothers and not entice her into the world. Into sin.

  20

  At White Oak Springs the days were for relaxing and taking the waters, but the nights were for socializing and dancing. The Springs threw open the doors to the ballroom at least three times every week. Sometimes more. People came to the Springs to be entertained and the owner aimed to please.

  Wednesday night was the first dance after Tristan came back from the Shaker village. He thought of simply staying in his room in order to avoid the awkward attempt to dance with one arm still swathed in a sling, but his mother turned pale and began breathing too rapidly as she sank down on the chair in her dressing room. Her maid, Louise, had to pull out the smelling salts.

  His mother had always been prone to swoons if things didn’t go her way, and the very thought of him not at least signing Laura Cleveland’s dance card this one night was enough to make her doubt her chances for a happy life. So he sighed and agreed to do as she wanted. That had been his path ever since his father died. Do as Mother says.

  In the past, before he’d gone off to fight in the war, Tristan had enjoyed the flirtatious atmosphere of such dances. He liked bringing blushes to the faces of the girls as he spun them around the dance floor. It had been a game he wanted to play. But now it simply seemed too warm in the ballroom, too crowded on the dance floor, too noisy with the talk. And not a word that mattered.

  He looked toward the double doors that led into a rose garden with longing and thought of escape. But he didn’t want to just escape for a few moments of fresher air and rest for his ears. He wanted to escape the whole situation.

  He and Laura had walked around the lake again that afternoon, but this time he’d been forward thinking enough to secure bread crumbs. Laura delighted in feeding the ducks, laughing at their noisy demands and greedy beaks. He laughed with her, and once again, the same as the day when they had spoken so honestly with one another about his disappearance, he told himself marriage to Laura would be far from odious.

  Laura was lovely. And wealthy. And liked to laugh. So what if her eyes were more gray than blue and showed little warmth when she looked his way. He should count that a challenge and woo her until she did look on him with love. She was a girl any man would be proud to court. In fact, at that very moment on the other side of the ballroom, she was surrounded by several hopeful gentlemen trying to bring warmth to her eyes. She was definitely the most popular belle at White Oak Springs.

  He should count it his good fortune she was appearing to favor his attention over the others. He should be there in the circle around her now, paying court. He’d already noted his mother’s pointed looks toward him from where she sat next to Mrs. Cleveland. She was courting the family with the same diligence she expected him to attend Laura. He had already lost a week while with the Shakers. He could ill afford to drag his feet now with the other suitors so determined.

  In fact, he once more intended to say the words that afternoon, but when the bread crumbs were gone, Laura had held her hand to her head and claimed a headache. So they had no quiet moments on a bench by the pathways where he could speak words of love. Or if not love, then at least commitment. As though she knew his intent, she had almost run back toward the hotel, claiming the need of a few hours of quiet rest in her room before the evening, but later he’d seen her on the porches. It occurred to Tristan that he might be the reason for her headache instead of the garrulous ducks.

  He would pull up his determination and cross the room when the song ended. His name was on her dance card, but one dance would not be enough to please his mother. She expected him to dance attendance on the girl throughout th
e evening as Laura’s other hopeful suitors were doing. He would do his mother’s bidding. At least enough to keep her happy so she wouldn’t begin to cast around for another candidate for his affections. Several less attractive possibilities were in that very room.

  His eyes touched on Thelma Jackson with her strident voice that hurt his ears. Then he quickly passed his glance by Marian Williams whose eyes reminded him of an unhappy weasel and whose face and neck bloomed with red splotches whenever he spoke to her. Both had successful fathers. Rich fathers. Not fathers who forgot to mind to business and went off to war only to carry home a deadly illness. Patriotic and heroic, but heroism didn’t pay off debts.

  Looks weren’t everything, he reminded himself. A good woman with intelligence and grace, that was what he needed. That was what it appeared Laura Cleveland was. All that along with a pretty face and stylish bearing. And the money. He could never forget the money. Perhaps that was his problem. The feeling he was being bought. Then again, perhaps not bought. Sold might be the better word. Sold by his mother to maintain their lifestyle. A lifestyle he no longer cared about.

  Still, he could not imagine his mother anywhere but their house situated on one of the best streets in Atlanta. Even the thought of her doing her own housework or laundry was ludicrous. She needed servants. She needed new hats and social events. He could hardly expect her to become a governess or a shopkeeper. The very idea was enough to make a laugh work up inside him as he looked across the room toward her. She had never wanted for anything in her lifetime. Born to money, reared in money, and married in money. At least that had been her intent. She’d had no way of knowing her husband would have a careless view toward their fortune.

  Tristan doubted if she’d ever even given any thought to the possibility the money well might run dry. Now that it had, he had a duty to his mother. Not only that, but his father’s debts had become his debts. Debts that kept increasing with each passing day like storm clouds piling in on storm clouds. He’d seen the papers from the lawyers. His mother was right. He needed to marry Laura Cleveland.

  What he did not need to do was keep recalling cornflower blue eyes and blonde wisps of hair sneaking out of a bonnet. One day could not change his whole life. A day he couldn’t even remember. But he did remember the blue-eyed sister. Jessamine.

  Jessamine. A flower in the south. Yellow blooms that released their fragrance in the cool of the evening. A heady fragrance that had surely led to many a man going down on his knee in a garden to promise his undying love. Perhaps he needed to be in that southern garden with Laura instead of thinking on the flower he had left at the Shaker village.

  “She’s the belle of the ball.” Sheldon Brady stepped up beside him and followed Tristan’s gaze across the floor to Laura. “I think she’s already heard three proposals in the three weeks she’s been here.”

  “Three?” Tristan looked toward the man to see if he was trying to fool him.

  Brady smiled. “Three. Laura tells me that is nowhere near last summer’s pace, but then last summer was play for her. This summer her father is expecting her to seriously consider some of the propositions.” The man’s smile disappeared as he leveled his eyes on Tristan. “At least one of them.”

  Tristan veered away from talk of proposals by asking, “Have you known the Clevelands long?”

  The man’s smile returned, polite, revealing nothing. “Only a couple of years. I did a reading at Laura’s finishing school in the East. She so enjoyed my essay that she invited me to visit their home in Boston.”

  “Boston? I thought they lived near Atlanta.”

  “The Boston house was her mother’s childhood home. Viola much prefers the north, and remains an avid supporter of the arts in that city. And while it would be preferable to not have to depend on such, the social rounds are an important part of my work. The funding part. The ladies buy more books when they know me.”

  “That’s right. You write romantic novels.”

  “That’s how I manage to stay out of the poorhouse, but as Robert says, romantic drivel. Someday I will write the novel I am intended to write. Poetic and sweeping in scope.” He said the words in such a way that Tristan wasn’t sure if he was serious or simply making fun of himself. “But write I must, whether it is drivel or literature worthy of kings. The paper calls to me and demands my ink.”

  “Laura seemed quite impressed at dinner on Tuesday.”

  “Oh yes, Laura.” His voice softened a bit as his eyes went back to Laura. “A lovely girl with discriminating taste. At least that’s the reason she gives her father for spurning so many promising proposals. I think Robert fears she will be an old maid and Viola fears she won’t. Dear Viola has suffrage leanings.” Brady’s eyes slid over to Viola Cleveland and Tristan’s mother and then drifted back to settle on Laura. “Rumor has it you are Robert’s favored candidate at present.”

  “Rumors fly here at the Springs.” Tristan kept his voice light.

  “They do, but often a spark of truth sets off the rumor. Old rich is fashionable in the south and Robert does want his little girl to have every advantage.”

  “Most fathers would surely feel the same.” Too late Tristan remembered Sheldon Brady had claimed a daughter. The one he left as a baby with his grandmother. The lines on the man’s face deepened and Tristan tried to soften his words. “I mean I assume they would. I am not a father.”

  “But I am and you are right. I did want her to have every advantage. I had so many plans for her. A good school. Journeys to the ocean and hikes into the mountains. Dances such as this when she came of age.” He kept his eyes on the dancers spinning past them as he went on. “I suppose I built up a father and daughter fairy tale in my mind to assuage my guilt for leaving her behind. I should have gone back for her whether she answered my letter or not.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Why didn’t I? An excellent question. But I can only come up with excuses, not a valid answer. The years have held many ups and downs for me. More downs than ups and sometimes I barely eked out enough with my writing to supply my own needs, small as they were. It’s only lately that I have found a measure of success that now allows me sojourns in places like this.” He waved his hand out toward the dance floor before he looked straight at Tristan. “You are young. You have yet to experience many of the trials of life.”

  “I fought in Mexico. I thought I might die in Mexico.”

  “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to suggest that fighting in the war and the grief of your father’s death were not trials. They surely were,” the man said quietly. “But there are trials over which we have little control and times when we simply end up clinging to the boat sides, praying for the best as we traverse the rough waters of life. Then there are those other types of trials where our hand is on the tiller. We are guiding our course with our decisions. We make choices. Those are the trials that can continually haunt us, for we have to wonder if we traversed the right stretch of the river of our lives or if our hand was clumsy on the tiller.”

  “Do you think the Shaker girl who rescued me in the woods could be your daughter?”

  “I don’t know. I have done little but wonder about that the past two days as I made a pretense of writing.”

  “Would your grandmother have joined with them? With the Shakers.”

  The writer smiled. “That I know without the first doubt did not happen. Ida Kendall was not one to give up her freedom. She would have never left the woods. She had lived there so long she was as one with the trees.”

  “Perhaps she got sick.”

  “I think that may be what happened. I don’t know why I didn’t worry about that when I left my child with her, but Granny seemed ageless to me. My thinking was faulty, for her age was advanced.” He paused a moment before he went on. “I did go back to the cabin once, the year Jessamine would have been fifteen. The cabin roof had fallen in and a family of raccoons had taken up residence. In behind the house, I found several graves with no markings other than
fieldstones, so I had no way of knowing who lay in those graves. People I had never met or perhaps my grandmother or my daughter or both. The area had seen a cholera outbreak not so many years before I returned.”

  “So you thought her dead. Your daughter, I mean.” Tristan watched the man. They both had forgotten the swirl of dancers in front of them and even Laura surrounded by her flock of admirers as she sipped her drink and took a break from the dance floor.

  “I didn’t know what to think. I inquired in the nearest town, but no one knew anything about Ida Kendall or Jessamine Brady. That did not surprise me. My grandmother was a recluse who cared not if any living, breathing people inhabited her world. She is the one who passed down to me the desire to create fictional worlds. She lived in her story lands there in the woods. My mother had a little of the fey in her as well, but she gave it up when she married my father. It was ever a grief to her to be compelled to live so completely in a world where make-believe was not allowed. My father was very stern and thought the use of one’s imagination was not only foolishness but verging on a sinful waste of one’s energy and time.”

  “That obviously didn’t stop you.”

  Brady laughed. “A child with an imagination can figure out ways to hide his dreaming. I could no more give up stories than cease breathing.”

  The music stopped and the dancers all changed partners. Laura moved out on the floor with a man named Calvin Green. He looked as if he’d won the prize as the band struck up a new song and he slid his arm around her waist. She, on the other hand, appeared to be as bored with his attentions as she had looked that afternoon with Tristan’s once the ducks had finished off the bread.

  The couple glided toward Tristan on the dance floor, but when Green noticed him there, he frowned as if fearing Tristan might steal her attention from him even while she was allowing him the dance. Tristan pushed a smile out on his face when Laura looked his way, but she stared back at him with the same cool smile she was giving Green. Then her smile warmed as she noticed the writer beside him.