The Gifted

by Ann H. Gabhart

  When Jessamine didn’t say anything, Abigail turned loose of the strand of hair she held and leaned down to peer at her face. “Don’t look so downhearted, my sister. You have the beauty both inside and out and the world is waiting for you.”

  A soft knock sounded on the door and then her father was calling her name. Abigail hurried over to open the door and Jessamine pulled on her shoes. A new day in the world awaited. And her father might have the promised pen and paper. That by itself was enough to make enduring the layers of petticoats and the scratch of prickly lace against her skin worth it. She thought fleetingly of the soft Shaker dress folded and stuck in the bottom of the bureau. Knowing it was there was a comfort to her, a connection to her sisters at Harmony Hill. To Sister Sophrena.

  As she stood up to go to her father, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror again. Sister Sophrena wouldn’t recognize her. She barely recognized herself. She started to turn away quickly from this stranger staring back at her. Then she stopped as she heard Abigail greeting her father at the door. She stared straight at the girl in the mirror.

  It was time she got to know her better. Maybe not a princess. She was right that a dress couldn’t make a princess any more than one stolen kiss could make a prince fall in love with her. But she was in the world, and whether she decided to embrace it or not, she did want to see it. At least for a little while.

  “You look lovely, Jessamine.” Her father stepped up behind her and met her eyes in the mirror.

  “Yea.” She shook her head a tiny bit. “I mean yes. I’ve never worn such dresses or peered in such large mirrors.”

  “Nor wanted to from the look on your face.”

  “Mirrors are not one of the things I wondered about. The closest I had to this is a still pool of water on a sunny day and that reflection was most fun for the rock one could pitch to make it dissolve into ripples.” Jessamine reached out and touched the mirror making it wobble a bit in its stand.

  “Well, don’t be throwing rocks at this mirror. Superstition claims a broken mirror leads to seven years’ bad luck. Plus Dr. Hargrove would charge triple its worth to my account.” Her father laughed and then held his hand up where she could see the pen and paper he held. “But I’ll wager you have long wondered about these. Or at least wished for them.”

  She forgot the mirror and the strange girl staring out of it as she took the pen and paper from him. “Can I truly write anything I want?”

  “Anything. Let the words spill out. Joy. Sorrow. Love. Hate. Truth. Lies. You get to choose every word, every feeling you want to write.” He was smiling at her.

  She hugged the book of paper to her and spun around in her happiness. She forgot her petticoats in the small room and Abigail had to grab the lamp before she jarred it from the table next to the chair.

  Sister Sophrena Prescott

  Harmony Hill Shaker Village

  June 22, 1849

  Dear Sister Sophrena,

  The world is a surprising place. Yesterday morning I rose from my Shaker bed with no expectations other than those I had on any other day. To do my duties for the good of the Society. This morn I woke from my sleep with no idea of what to expect of the day. It seems an almost opposite world where each hour something unexpected jumps up to make me wonder. I am nearly dizzy with the wondering. I feel at sea, drifting with no familiar land in sight. Of course, as you well know, my sister, that is somewhere I have never been. On the sea. But my father of the world says he will take me to see the sea. And to see so many other wonders of the world. Wonders I never even knew to ponder on.

  I do beg your forgiveness for the way I left Harmony Hill. It surely seemed sudden and impulsive. For years you have tried to cure me of such impulsiveness. The sort of unrestrained curiosity that often ended with me in trouble and out of step with my sisters.

  I am truly out of step now here at White Oak Springs. Worse than out of step. Fearful to take a step for worry it will be in a wrong direction. My father says I will learn more of the world’s ways each day. He says there are no rules, but I think he has been such a part of the world that he has no vision of the rules that seem to control every action of those here at the Springs.

  The man I found in the woods and brought back to the village is here, but you need not be concerned with him being a bother to me. Sister Abigail, who is also here at the Springs, tells me that Tristan Cooper is betrothed to a girl so rich she could be a princess. Money seems to matter much in the world. At the village all that mattered was doing our work faithfully and loving the Lord and our brethren and sisters. I do not see that sort of love here, or have not yet, I should say. I haven’t been in the world long and surely there will be brotherly love here.

  Everyone is being very kind to me. Especially my father. He has bought me several new dresses, for he says I cannot wear my Shaker dress here. You would not recognize me on the outside, but I would hope you would still recognize my heart that remembers you with much sisterly love.

  Your sister,

  Jessamine

  Journal Entry

  Harmony Hill Village

  Entered on this 22nd day of June in the year 1849

  by Sister Sophrena Prescott

  Friday, a good day of faithfully performing our duties here at Harmony Hill. I worked at preparing the straw for more bonnets. Come Monday, my duty will change to the sewing room since we have vital need of new dresses and shirts for the converts who have come among us in the last few weeks. I am glad to be using my talents for the good of the Society for from the time I was a child I have been able to make fine, straight stitches that hold long in a seam.

  During our time of contemplation after our evening meal, Eldress Frieda brought me a letter. I recognized the writing at once as that of our former sister, Jessamine, and I cannot deny that my heart grew light with joy. Eldress Frieda said the letter had been carried here by Brother Hector who had been out trading with the world on this day. The Ministry read it at once and made the decision to allow me to receive it so that I could correspond with our former sister in hopes she will see the error of her ways and return to us.

  Brother Hector reports he might have caught sight of our former sister, since he saw a lady conversing with the servant who asked Brother Hector to carry the letter here. He could not be sure it was her. He wisely does his best to keep his eyes away from those of the world as much as he can when he goes to White Oak Springs to deliver the rosewater and tonics and other items that are so in demand there. We are dutiful stewards of the blessings of the Lord and happy to make gain from the work of our hands. Brother Hector is glad to be of service by trading with the world, but he has no desire to be enticed into sin by the waywardness he sees there.

  A waywardness that it seems, from the words of our former sister’s letter, may be engulfing her. But upon reading her words, we—the Ministry, Eldress Frieda, and I—feel she may be somewhat regretting her decision and casting her eyes back toward Harmony Hill. If so, the Ministry is quite willing for me to convey our readiness to have her come home. We have given our former sister much of our time and training as well as much of our love. It would be good if she were to return. And in truth, she admits the world is a baffling place. Her words do sound a bit confused with first excitement and praise for the new world she is seeing and then worry as she wonders of the rules of the world that are so unknown to her.

  I will write to her early in the morning. That way the Ministry can read it and decide if I should mail it from the Postal Office or let Brother Hector take it. When he next returns to the Springs, I am told that during their busy season, they require much from us—brooms and silk handkerchiefs and as much strawberry jam as we can spare for their morning tables. The jam is especially good this season, but we must supply our own tables first.

  27

  All day on Friday, Tristan had wavered between one minute wishing Jessamine had stayed at the Shaker village far from his eyes, and the next, wanting to haunt her shadow so he might be
near enough to have the chance to touch her. To feel the magic of her lips under his yet one more time. The kiss they’d shared had shaken his world. He had told his mother when she confronted him in the garden that nothing had changed. He lied.

  Everything was changed. Everything.

  And yet he could change nothing. He had made a promise to Laura. He’d made a promise to his mother. His future was ordered. The beautiful Jessamine was not part of that future. He had felt the attraction at the Shaker village, but thought it no more than a dalliance. After all, the Shakers didn’t believe in romantic love, and while Jessamine had not completely closed away the natural curiosity about love, she was a Shaker. So once he rode away from the village, he thought the temptation would end for both of them. He didn’t deny he had wanted to turn his horse around to ride back to the village that Sunday to at least tell her goodbye, but he’d kept riding toward White Oak Springs. Kept doing what had to be done for the family name. The family fortune. Trade his future to keep his mother in jewels and feathers.

  Then Jessamine had appeared no longer in her Shaker dress. So beautiful that his heart had leaped into his throat with his first sight of her. Something his mother noted right away. He had never been able to hide anything from her. She knew him the way she knew the back of her own hand. That’s why she was waiting to confront him in the garden. To make sure he didn’t do anything foolish. And so he’d told her nothing had changed.

  His mother had believed him. Or perhaps more likely she knew he lied, but she believed he would do as she said. Hadn’t he always? She accepted his lie, found her smile, and hurried back inside to entertain her lawyer friend before one of the other unattached women of a certain age latched onto him. Tristan followed her, steeling himself to practice more pretense when what he wanted to do was find Jessamine and beg her never to run away from him again.

  She wasn’t in her seat by the door. He didn’t see her anywhere, and in spite of his lies to his mother, he might have turned back to the garden to be sure she hadn’t lost her way if Laura hadn’t slipped her arm through his to claim his attention. Laura was merely trying to keep Calvin Green at bay by claiming Tristan and giving credence to the rumors of their pending engagement.

  Green obviously wasn’t ready to accept that as he hovered in the background ready to pounce if Tristan happened to step away from Laura. She had no intention of letting that happen. What choice did Tristan have but to play the part of her admiring fiancé-to-be even after the beautiful Jessamine came in from the garden to reclaim her seat by the open doors? When other men approached her with a word of welcome, Tristan wanted to rush across the room and push them aside, but he could hardly shake off Laura’s claiming hand. Not after the promises he’d made that very day. Not even if the only reason for her hold was her dislike of Calvin Green.

  Tristan wished Laura was in love with Calvin Green. If so, he would have joined their hands together with gladness. But that wasn’t the man Laura was pining after. Tristan had no idea who that man might be. Perhaps someone in Boston. Someone without the pretense of a socially acceptable name. Someone without pretense.

  That’s all he and Laura had. Pretense.

  That afternoon as they strolled around the lake, he had thought of ridding himself of pretense. Ridding both of them. She could go chase her true love whoever he might be and he could go chase Jessamine. He’d seen Jessamine earlier on the veranda, her head bent over a pad of paper in front of her. Drawing or writing, he couldn’t tell which.

  She had taken no notice of him at all. Perhaps he had been nothing more than an answer to her curiosity of how a kiss would feel. If it had been more, she would surely glance his way. Allow him to capture her eyes if only for the brief flash of a second.

  Now, here at the evening meal, when Tristan had thought their close proximity would mean she would have to notice him, she passed her eyes across his face quickly with a polite greeting as though they had never shared those garden moments. Perhaps the kiss had not lived up to her expectations. Perhaps she wanted simply to forget it ever happened.

  He watched her covertly in hopes she would let down her guard and allow him at least a smile. She did not. She smiled at her father, easily and often. She smiled at Viola Cleveland as she copied her every move in eating her bread and salad and drinking her tea. Nobody clanged a spoon against a glass on this evening. Not even Robert Cleveland. He was too intent on being sure the lawyer from Atlanta knew the truth of things.

  Mr. Ridenour had found his tongue during the day. The two men were ready to right the wrongs of the country, but the only thing they managed to agree on was that the country was in need of saving. While their words were civil, they were also loud enough to dominate the table conversation.

  With eyes wide with fright or perhaps amazement, Jessamine watched them argue. The Shakers surely didn’t have such disagreements, especially at the dinner table. Then he remembered Sister Lettie telling him they made no conversation at all as they tended to the serious business of supplying their bodies with the fuel for work. Pleasant or angry. The unaccustomed noise in the dining room had to be pounding against Jessamine’s ears. She did seem distracted, perhaps overcome by all the differences of life away from the Shakers.

  But then Laura seemed distracted too. She hardly spoke to Jessamine even though Mrs. Cleveland was continually offering the girl special kindness. He wondered if that was because she saw her own diffidence mirrored in Jessamine. But what was it Laura had told him? That most people misjudged her mother and mistook reserved politeness for timidity. He caught the woman watching him across the table a time or two after that, and wondered if perhaps his mother was mistaken about which of Laura’s parents he needed most to impress.

  Tristan let his gaze slide around the table. Was Viola Cleveland only pretending to kowtow to her husband’s thinking? Was Robert Cleveland’s bluster a noisy cover-up of his own insecurities? And what of Tristan’s own mother with the blush coloring her cheeks while she pretended interest in the lawyer’s political talk? Was the blush from worry that Cleveland would be offended by the other man’s opposite views or was the warmth in her cheeks the result of Ridenour’s obvious admiration? While Tristan had difficulty imagining his mother being swept away by romantic thoughts, when he really looked at her as a person other than his mother, he realized she was not too old to enjoy engaging in a bit of harmless flirtation at a place like White Oak Springs. And what of Sheldon Brady who made his livelihood penning romantic stories that were nothing but make-believe? Was he only pretending to be a devoted father because it was amusing him? Then again, who was Tristan to look down at anybody else’s posturing? Heaven only knew, he and Laura were pretending to be what they were not. Perhaps the only person sitting at their table honest enough to simply be herself was Jessamine. What was it Sister Lettie had told him? That the Shakers valued the gift to be simple over all others.

  The gift to be simple. To do what was right. To stop the pretense. But the Shakers pretended. If they believed they could conquer the need for love between a man and woman, they were fooling themselves, without doubt. But weren’t he and Laura denying that same need? Denying romantic love the same as the Shakers. And so his thoughts went around until he felt as dizzy as one of those Shaker sisters he’d watched stagger and fall after being overtaken by a whirling ecstasy in their worship meeting.

  Tristan was relieved when Laura claimed exhaustion and stated she planned to retire to her room after the evening meal. There was no dancing in the ballroom, but the band was playing on the piazza and luminaries traced the pathways around the lake.

  Mosquitoes. There would be mosquitoes. Tristan made himself think of the whining pests so he could mash down the desire to be out there strolling around the lake with Jessamine. He leaned against one of the porch pillars and peered out at the ladies’ light-colored gowns glimmering in the moonlight. One of them might be Jessamine keeping in step with another man and perhaps wondering about a kiss from lips other than Tristan�
��s. The thought stabbed through him, and though he knew he had no right, he stepped off the porch to go find Jessamine. To see with his own eyes who she was with. To keep her from stepping into the shadows with the wrong man. Any man would be the wrong man.

  “Looking for someone?” Calvin Green stepped up beside him. The man must have been in the shadows watching him. For what purpose, Tristan couldn’t imagine.

  “Simply enjoying the night air. How about you?” Tristan kept his voice cool. He hadn’t liked the man from their first meeting when Green had bragged about perfecting his shooting eye by using his aunt’s cats as targets.

  Now Green had the look of a man with a secret up his sleeve he thought gave him a winning hand. “I’ve always got my eyes open. You never know what or who you might see. Things that might be interesting to others, if you know what I mean.”

  There was something vaguely threatening in the man’s tone. Something that Tristan saw no reason to ignore. He stared straight at him as he spoke. “No, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Some people like living in the dark.” The man made a sound that might have been a laugh as he slid his eyes away from Tristan and out toward the couples around the lake. “I don’t think our Laura is one of those people.”

  Tristan could have told Green how in the dark he was if he thought Laura would ever look favorably on his courtship, but he kept back the words. He had no wish to goad the man into fisticuffs. Especially with his right arm still tethered in a sling. How long had Sister Lettie told him to leave it bandaged? Three weeks or was it four? It had been two. Two short weeks since he’d been shot and left for dead in the woods. Perhaps he owed his very breath to Jessamine.

  “Our Laura?” Tristan kept his voice light. “I don’t think either of us can claim ownership.”