The Gifted

by Ann H. Gabhart

  You are every bit as beautiful as I always imagined you would be, my Jessamine. You share my blood and you share my gift. Embrace the gift of words. It will bring you joy and sorrow. But be confident that the joy will always overshadow the sorrow.

  So I beg you to trust me and remember my promise to return. Meanwhile this is the best way. Seize your chance for love.

  Your loving father

  She looked up from the letter. He claimed to love her. He promised to be part of her life. To be her father. She believed him, but the fact remained underneath his words that he was gone beyond her reach. First Tristan and now her father. Both loving her. Both leaving her to find her own way.

  She glanced down at the words again in the gray light coming in the window. He was right. She did not understand. How could she trust what she did not understand? He’d left her alone in this strange world.

  Sister Sophrena’s words echoed in her mind. Worldly love will disappoint you, Sister Jessamine. You can be assured of that, but the love of your sisters and brothers will forever be strong.

  Her father had told her that with the morning her answer would come. She would know her path, but she didn’t know when she’d ever felt more unsure. She shut her eyes, bent her head, and spoke her prayer aloud. “Please, Lord, I don’t know what to do.”

  When she looked up, the sun was peeking over the eastern horizon, and there, riding toward the hotel was Brother Hector making a delivery to the kitchens. He was getting an early start to his duties on this day.

  She went to the wardrobe and reached down under all Mrs. Browning’s lovely dresses to pull out the neatly folded Shaker dress. She had her sign. ’Tis the gift to be simple. ’Tis the gift to be free. Free from heartache. She had run to the world, ready to embrace its gifts, and found them wrapped in nothing but sadness.

  As she pulled the familiar dress over her head, her father’s written words whispered through her thoughts. Now you must trust and wait for that love. Never doubt your heart. But she would not wait to see Tristan marry the princess. She had her sign.

  She touched the pen and notebook. She so wanted to carry them with her. But they would not be allowed at Harmony Hill. There were rules to follow. Rules to give order to one’s life. She dipped the pen in ink and wrote Abigail a note giving her the dresses. Then she laid the pen on the book, turned, and went out the door, leaving the world behind her.

  Journal Entry

  Harmony Hill Village

  Entered on this 27th day of June in the year 1849

  by Sister Sophrena Prescott

  What a joyous day for us here at Harmony Hill! Our sister has returned to the fold. Brother Hector brought her back to us before the midday meal this day. I could hardly believe my eyes when Eldress Frieda summoned me to the Trustee’s House. But there was our Sister Jessamine standing with the eldress, in the Shaker dress she wore away from here only days ago.

  She kept her eyes downcast, shamed by her falling away, as she begged my forgiveness. I gave it readily, for I was so very relieved to see her back within our safe borders. I expected her to look up and smile then as she has done so many times over the years after I have forgiven her some slight, and she did. But it was not the same smile as in past years. Her lips did turn up, but the sorrow in her eyes took away any thought that her smile might come from her heart. She looked bone weary as if she’d been harvesting beans all through the day without the proper rest breaks to keep her body strong.

  The world has mistreated our sister. She has been wounded in some sorrowful way, but we will love her back into communion with us as Believers. We will stand between her and whatever tries to separate her from this, her family. Here she will once again find peace. Here she will once more dance and laugh and receive our mother’s love. The love of her sisters and brethren will heal the bruises of the world in time.

  Time Eldress Frieda says the Ministry has granted her. She will not be pressured to give her confession until she is ready. Such is our way. While the sins must be confessed and such confession is the beginning of healing, we do not force such words from our sisters. Those words repenting of whatever sins led her away from us must rise from within her and not be put into her mouth by my eagerness to have her as a loving and forgiven sister again.

  What wonderful words to say once more? What will we do with Sister Jessamine? Tomorrow she will be allowed to rest if she so chooses, but she indicates she would rather be given a duty. “Idle hands are a temptation to the devil,” she said when the rest was offered. So Eldress Frieda gave her a duty in the gardens. There is much work to do there right now. Beans to pick. Corn to gather for roasting ears. Peppers and onions. Our tables will be weighted down with the product of our hands.

  Hands to work. Hearts to God. That truth is circling my head on this evening as the sun sinks in the west. Our beloved sister has come home. My feet will be light when we labor our songs at meeting on Sunday.

  33

  Tristan had no idea what day it was when he awoke to sunlight streaming in his window. Dr. Hargrove had dosed him with something to make him sleep. First the Shaker doctor. Now Dr. Hargrove. When Tristan had protested, Dr. Hargrove told him knocks on the heads were nothing to mess with and a man who had narrowly escaped with his life twice in less than a month should be more than ready to rest awhile before chasing after time three.

  Tristan had no argument for that. He had been flirting with death a little too often. If he wanted to think back to his time in Mexico, he’d already cheated death more than those three times Dr. Hargrove was warning him about. In wartime, death could catch up with a man on the battlefield at any time and lurked continually in the sick camps. It wasn’t as expected at a watering spot where healing and romance were supposed to be the orders of the day.

  Not that anyone expected there to be a third time here on this side of the war. This side of the storm. Not Dr. Hargrove, not the sheriff with the thick eyebrows over tired eyes who had asked questions Tristan couldn’t answer. He had no idea why Calvin Green would arrange for him to drown any more than he knew why he’d been shot in the woods.

  This time he did remember. He knew he’d gotten the message he thought might be from Jessamine. He’d rushed outside with the storm rising. The men had come at him from the shadows and clubbed him in the head. He remembered the feeling of floating above the lake and looking down at his body and Jessamine. Then sadness and darkness had engulfed him and wiped away his knowing until he came to, coughing up water and struggling to breathe. Before the tornado.

  That he had not forgotten in spite of his thumping head. Nor had he forgotten the words he’d spoken so truthfully to Jessamine. Words of love. Words of regret. Those words had chased through his head all the while he slept. Had she really told him she loved him too or were those simply words that had risen out of his desire? Perhaps he hadn’t remembered as clearly as he thought he did.

  Now he pushed open his eyes and wondered how long Dr. Hargrove’s powders had kept him asleep. A night? Through a day? Or more? He tried to move, but while his mind was awake and ready, his body continued to sleep. His arms and legs felt as though an elephant was sitting on them, and for a panicked moment he worried he might be paralyzed. But he’d walked to the hotel from the lake. With help, but he’d walked on his own feet. He had sat in the chair and talked to the sheriff. He would arise from the lethargy wrapping around him. The residue of the doctor’s drugs. He’d felt some the same at the Shaker village, but Sister Lettie had given him an energizing draught to help him up on his feet.

  Maybe he should have listened with more attentive ears to Sister Lettie’s talk about being a Shaker. At least then he wouldn’t be marrying the wrong woman. He wouldn’t be marrying at all. He pushed aside marrying thoughts and concentrated on raising his left arm up so he could see it. He hoped the good doctor hadn’t found more broken bones after his powders put Tristan to sleep.

  Sister Lettie’s hard bandage was gone. In its place were strips of cloth wrapped t
ightly around his arm, but he could bend his elbow now. He moved his arm back and forth a few times to savor the movement even though the joint complained. With effort he pushed himself up to a sitting position. It was time to awake and decide his future.

  He’d told Jessamine it was decided. That he’d made promises he had to keep, but now doubts were creeping in. Whether it was the hours of sleep or the bright sunlight forcing him to open his eyes, he was ready to stare down the truth. Jessamine’s face would never fade from his thoughts. He loved her. He could not deny that love for a house. Not even for his mother. He could not sentence Laura to life with a man who could never love her. He could not live a lie. Love was worth pursuing.

  His head thumped when he stood up, and his leg muscles complained but didn't give way. He was alone in his room, but someone had brought water in the pitcher for washing and a tankard of water for drinking. He sipped the water, remembering Sister Lettie’s warning not to drink too greedily when he awoke at the Shaker village. The cool water he poured from the pitcher into the bowl and splashed on his face brought him fully awake.

  He practiced what he would say to his mother as he dressed and combed his hair. His words rose out of him like a prayer for understanding until he wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince the most. His mother or himself. Or perhaps the Lord. He raked the comb across the knot on the side of his head and winced. Without Jessamine following him from the ballroom and wading into the lake after him, he’d be on to his final reward.

  He dropped his hands down to his sides and stared at himself in the mirror. Would the light have pulled him into it or would he have been released to the darkness? He shuddered as he remembered the light fading and the black surrounding him.

  “Dear Lord,” he whispered. “Forgive me. Whatever happens, help me never to again lose sight of your light.”

  There was a tap on the door between his room and his mother’s. She opened the door a few inches and peeked around it, almost fearfully. Then she was smiling. “Oh Tristan, I am so relieved to see you up and dressed.”

  “Come in, Mother, or would you rather I come into your room?”

  She pushed the door the rest of the way open and beckoned him toward her. When he was near she laid her hand on his cheek. “You’ve given me such a fright. I prayed daily protection down on you while you were in that horrible war in Mexico, but I had no idea danger would stalk you here. But you don’t have to worry now. That Green man is long gone.” She took his hand and pulled him toward the two chairs in the sitting area of her room.

  “The sheriff didn’t catch him then?” Tristan asked as he sat down in one of the small chairs. It supplied little comfort in spite of its upholstered seat.

  “No, no.” His mother perched on the other chair. She fingered her skirt and wouldn’t meet his eyes. “We felt it enough that he was gone.”

  “We?” Tristan frowned at her. His head was thumping again, but not so much that he couldn’t think.

  “Dr. Hargrove, Jackson, and I.” She rushed on before he could say anything. “I told them I was sure you would agree.”

  “Jackson?” Tristan stared at her bent head.

  “Yes, it was great good fortune Mr. Ridenour was here to be of help to me. You will have to thank him,” she murmured as she continued to fold and unfold a pleat on her skirt. At last she looked up at him, her eyes a bit wary, before she went on. “You have to understand that Dr. Hargrove is quite concerned of how news of the attack on you might do damage to his establishment here. You must admit the dear man does work so hard to give his guests a lovely experience. A time of healing and good times, not danger.”

  “They tried to kill me.” He didn’t mince words as he stared straight at her. “I’d be dead even now if not for Jessamine.”

  “And I will forever be grateful to that girl for her bravery in following you into the storm. I could not have borne it if you had drowned, Tristan.” She reached over to grasp his hands in hers. “But you are alive. And since no permanent harm was done to you or the young woman, it seemed only reasonable to allow Dr. Hargrove to keep the reputation of his establishment clear. He has offered to wipe our charges off the books this year and even offered a free return visit next season. Jackson thinks that very fair.”

  Jackson again. Tristan swallowed down his irritation. “What of justice? Doesn’t your Jackson believe in justice? Green tried to kill me. Twice.”

  “You don’t really want to be embroiled in such a scandal.” She turned loose of his hands and sat back in her chair to eye him as her sympathy drained away. This was the mother he knew. The one who expected him to listen to her and do as she said. “It is not only our family you must consider, but also the Clevelands. It is said that man, Green, was pushed over the edge by his love for our dear Laura.”

  Laura. The name brought Tristan back to his practiced words. Perhaps she was right. It didn’t matter about Green. It just mattered about Jessamine. “Mother, there are some things I need to tell you.”

  “I’m sure, but first, you must listen to me.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand to stop him. “Wait. You may not realize that you have slept around the clock and then some. Much has happened that you do not know.”

  “I know that I love Jessamine Brady.”

  She shut her eyes and breathed out a sigh that he wasn’t sure sounded more irritated or sad. “My dear son, some things are not easy.”

  “I’ll find a way to help you keep the house. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way. It would not be fair to Laura or to me for us to go through with this sham of a marriage. No matter what you say. Love does matter.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Tristan looked at her as though he might not have heard her right.

  She smiled and repeated her words. “Yes, it does. Jackson has asked permission to seek my favor with the intent of asking me to marry him. I know that news might be upsetting to you since your father was so very dear to you as, of course, he was to me too. But life goes on.”

  Tristan couldn’t think of the first thing to say as she kept talking.

  “He is going to help unravel your father’s investments and has worked out a deal with Robert Cleveland in regard to our company. While it is very true that Robert was much in favor of a match between you and Laura, as was I, he says our business relationship did not necessarily hinge upon your alliance. Especially since it seems he had very little control over Laura at any rate. Viola’s northern ways must have had more of an impression. That woman is quite radical in her thinking.”

  Tristan’s head was beginning to spin. Whether from his mother’s convoluted words or the knot on it, he wasn’t sure. “What in the world are you trying to tell me?”

  She blew out a puff of air as though she’d been holding her breath waiting for his reaction. Then she leaned toward him with sympathy in her eyes. “It seems our dear Laura cared little for her father’s plans. She and Sheldon Brady have run off together. I thought they looked entirely too familiar out on the dance floor.” She lifted her head with a sniff before she sat back and reached in her pocket for a handkerchief to delicately dab against her nose. “Robert is quite beside himself, but Viola acts as if it was the very best thing that could have happened.”

  Tristan wished his head would stop pounding. That might make things easier to understand. His mother and Ridenour. Laura and Sheldon Brady. Then his heart lifted. Prayers he hadn’t even thought to utter had been answered. He was free. Free of his promises to his mother and to Laura. A smile pushed out on his face and he wanted to jump up and go in search of Jessamine.

  His mother must have guessed his thinking. She put her hand on his arm to keep him from standing. “She’s gone.” She looked genuinely sorry to say the words.

  He knew who she meant, but he asked anyway. “Who’s gone?”

  “That young Shaker girl. Jessamine. Her maid told Dr. Hargrove she returned to her people. Those who shut away the world and live lives we
cannot understand. Dr. Hargrove says they are peaceful and good people, but it all sounds very odd if you ask me. Dancing for worship and wearing those odd clothes. All looking so the same. I can’t imagine.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “The maid found a note in her room when she went in yesterday morning and now this day is more than half spent.” She squeezed his arm with compassion as she said softly, “I am so sorry, Tristan.”

  He pulled away from her. He had to go after Jessamine. But when he stood up and started toward the door, his head went round and round and his stomach rolled over. He staggered against the wall and his mother rushed to his side to steady him.

  “Let me help you back to your bed. Dr. Hargrove says you need rest.”

  “I don’t want to lie down.”

  “It’s either lie down or fall down.” His mother pushed the truth at him as she guided him through the open door back toward his bed. “Besides, even if you were able, she made her choice. Don’t you think you should honor that?”

  He let her help him into the bed then. Her words stabbed through him. Made her choice. Jessamine had retreated from the world. She was gone. The pain in his head thumped and the bed kept spinning. Nothing was making sense. He wasn’t sure anything would ever make sense again. Not without Jessamine.

  Journal Entry

  Harmony Hill Village

  Entered on this 28th day of June in the year 1849

  by Sister Sophrena Prescott

  The temperature is reaching toward 90 today. Very warm for June, but we have been continually blessed with sufficient rain for our gardens and crops. It looks to be a bountiful summer with much reward for our labors.

  The sisters who were assigned duty in the sewing rooms have been brought to the preserving houses in order to put up our bountiful vegetable harvest in a timely manner. We have many bushels of string beans that must be prepared for canning or drying. It is not a bad chore as we are able to carry the beans out under our shade trees and work there. Those in the canning house have a more tiresome duty and the eldresses are rotating the duty by the hour so that none of our sisters will overheat in the kitchens.