SIXTEEN
ROSE SPED HOME FROM LANGUOR, BARELY AWARE OF the car bouncing over the rutted road. Disturbing questions flashed through her mind. Richard Worthington had recognized her—why hadn’t he stopped her or called attention to her presence? Why had he merely smiled? Was it a smile of triumph, or something else? Whatever it meant, she could not seem to make her heart stop pounding. She wished above all that she had been able to remain and hear more about what Kentuck and Laura Hill had in store for the Shakers. Now she could only imagine, and she imagined the worst.
She went right to bed, but her fears refused to subside. Each time she drifted to sleep, nightmares jerked her awake. At 5 A.M., she finally gave up and tossed off her twisted bedclothes. She slipped into her brown cotton work dress, pinned her hair against her head, and tied her cap over it. The worldly clothes she had worn the night before were hanging from wall pegs. She might as well return them now, before everyone got up for breakfast. She gathered them in her arms and eased quietly out of her room.
Rose paused on the top step of the attic staircase, her feet refusing to move forward. The strain of the last few days was catching up with her, and suddenly the plain Shaker storage room sent a chill of alarm through her. Dawn’s light filtered weakly through the attic skylight, leaving the corners dark. Her exhausted, overstimulated imagination saw moving shapes in the shadows. She closed her eyes and shook her head in irritation. Some eldress I’m turning out to be, she thought. I can’t even face a dim room without cowering. She opened her eyes and headed straight for the built-in cupboards without another glance toward the shadows. The other sisters in the house would be rising very soon. She hurriedly stashed away the clothing, annoyed that her hands were shaking.
Once everything was back in its place, she hurried down the stairs to the main floor. She found herself running the last few steps. Closing her office door behind her, she leaned back against it, catching her breath. The curtains were drawn, the room dark. She reached for the light, then drew her hand back and yelped as, this time, a shape did move in the shadows. She flipped on a light, and Elder Wilhelm faced her, his mouth set in a grim line.
“Wilhelm, for heaven’s sake, you startled me. What are you doing here at this hour, and sitting in the dark?”
“The Lead Society Ministry will be as interested as I in thy explanation of this,” Wilhelm said, waving a sheet of paper at her.
Rose took the paper and stifled a groan as she recognized the typeface. A “special edition” of the Languor County Watcher. They must have begun printing it as soon as they returned from their public meeting. She sank into her desk chair and began to read.
SPECIAL EDITION
LANGUOR COUNTY WATCHER
Citizens of Languor County, this is to alert you to IMMEDIATE DANGER!! We have shocking information about the Shakers, our close neighbors and our enemies, who threaten our peaceful way of life. We have told you before of their odd dress and their pretense of virtue, while all the while they live corrupt and wanton lives, free of marriage vows.
“Wilhelm, ‘corrupt and wanton lives, free of marriage vows’? How can you even read this nonsense? It’s all lies, and we can easily refute them, if we care to do so. Our friends will not believe any of this.”
“Read on,” Wilhelm said. He stood in front of her, hands crossed over his barrel chest, and watched her.
Last evening, a number of good citizens held a meeting—in a true Christian church, not one of those Shaker meetinghouses where men and women fly into babbling trances and worse. We wanted only to discuss, like reasonable people, how to preserve the safety and tranquillity of our great county. But a spy was in our midst! The Shakers sent one of their minions sneaking into our church to listen and report back, so that they can destroy all our hopes and plans.
Yes, friends, the danger is real. And why? Because the Shakers are running scared! You’ve no doubt heard about the strange death which came recendy to one of the so-called Believers, a man named Samuel Bickford. Some of you may have known him, even done business with him, thinking him a gentle, honest soul. But he was no such paragon. His crimes go back decades and include the most heinous of all—murder of an innocent. He never confessed his wretched sins, nor paid the price. The others protected him, of course. They pretend they are so much against violence that they will not defend their country against an invader, but when one of their own kills, they cover it up.
The Shaker named Samuel Bickford did not die a natural death. We believe that he died by his own hand, after years of keeping his crimes to himself. His death is a confession of guilt, the confession he had not the courage to make in life. And the other Shakers would protect this secret as well, if we gave them the chance. They could not survive and continue to do business with us honest folks if this and other secrets were to see the light of day. That is why they sent their own eldress, dressed as a true citizen of Languor, to spy on our meeting!
Samuel Bickford’s burial is to be this very afternoon, in the Shaker graveyard. We urge you all to attend! Bring your children and tell them all about the sinful doings of those people. Let them know we will not tolerate their kind among us!
Rose sank back in her chair. So this is what they had in mind—a mob at Samuel’s funeral. But why? Did they truly wish to drive the Society out of the county?
“We can’t hold the funeral, of course,” she said. “We certainly can’t have hordes of the world’s people trampling our graves and shouting at us.”
Wilhelm snorted in derision. “Nay, thy behavior has certainly put a halt to any hope we have of a respectful burial for Samuel. I’ve already made arrangements for a small, private ceremony late this evening, after we are sure that no one from the world is about.
“Samuel’s name will be dragged through the filthy streets of the world for years to come, and he did not deserve such treatment. Believe me, the Lead Ministry will be hearing about thy behavior, sneaking into a worldly meeting at night, disguised as a slut, no doubt. I’ve already put a call in to the elder at Mount Lebanon, and we shall see how long they allow thee to continue as eldress.”
“My behavior? Wilhelm, I did what seemed necessary, and I am certainly not responsible for this disgusting drivel. Mount Lebanon will not be bothered in the least by my doing my job. Yea, I went to the meeting, and I wore a castaway dress from storage. And before you ask why I didn’t inform you, it is because I do not need to do so. I am not your servant, to be told to go or stay at your will. You should be much more concerned about what these people have in store for us, instead of leaving me to handle them on my own. That is all I have to say.” She snatched up the copy of the Watcher and walked around Wilhelm and out the door of the office, leaving him standing alone, silent for once.
* * *
“Oh, Caleb, you shouldn’t be here, and you’ve been drinking. I can smell it. You promised you wouldn’t anymore; you promised you wouldn’t—for me.” Sarah’s soft brown eyes filled with tears. Her nerves were overwrought anyway, what with creeping out into the orchard during the workday, once again, to meet Caleb. It was just too much that he’d been drinking again. He was a good man at heart, she knew that, and she had been so hopeful that he’d stop drinking for her. But lately she’d begun to despair. Maybe her love just wasn’t strong enough. It had been the same with her uncle. She had loved him dearly, tried and tried to help him stop drinking. But the alcohol had killed him, and she’d been unable to stop it.
“I haven’t had more than just the one drink, Sarah, just a little pick-me-up, is all.”
“Cal, I’m really worried about what’s going on here in the village. You never let on these awful things would happen. I’m scared you’ve been lying to me. I’m just not sure we should see each other for a while.” She tried to sound sure of herself, but she knew her voice betrayed her. Despite her growing doubts, it hurt to think about losing him.
“Sarah, we gotta stick together, we belong together. I need you. Without you, there’s just no point
to anything.”
“But what have you been doing? I sneaked you those brethren’s work clothes the other day—just so you could get some of your old journals back, you said—and the next thing I know, the schoolchildren are being attacked by rats. I can’t bear to think that you might have done that, Cal. And who attacked me in the Sisters’ Shop? It wasn’t you, was it, Cal? Please, please tell me it wasn’t you.”
“As God is my witness, I never hit you, Sarah. Never. That could’ve just been some hobo sleeping in your building, and you surprised him.” Caleb’s face brightened as he warmed to his story. “Yeah, that’s gotta be what happened.”
“What about all those other attacks? If you didn’t do any of it, who did?”
“Look, Sarah, I’ve always told you whatever I knew. I got you those newspapers, didn’t I? Those are the folks at the bottom of everything, not me. You can see that, can’t you?”
Sarah lifted her chin defiantly. “I made sure Eldress Rose got those horrible papers,” she said. “I gave one to Elder Wilhelm, too.”
“Dammit, Sarah, why’d you do that? You was supposed to keep those papers secret—I told you.” His bloodshot eyes grew wild, and Sarah jumped back.
“You know who those people are, don’t you? Don’t you?” Sarah’s fear and anger and disappointment all dissolved into tears.
“Sarah, no, you gotta trust me. I’m gonna find that out, you just trust me. Whoever they are, I’ll track them down.”
He reached into his pocket. “Look what I brought you,” he said. He handed Sarah a wrinkled journal page.
She opened it with trembling fingers and read it through twice. Her anguish changed to hope. “I don’t understand, Cal. This says . . . Does this mean that I have a brother?”
* * *
Richard Worthington glanced at the copy of the Languor County Watcher on the desk in his study. He’d tried to keep Frances from seeing it. He didn’t have time for an argument; he needed to think. This diatribe wasn’t exactly what he’d planned when he told the apostates about Rose’s presence at the meeting the night before, but maybe he could still get things to work out his way. He had waited for her to get safely away—it wouldn’t do to have some of those unpredictable creatures in the audience get rough with her. He wanted this done cleanly and quietly.
“Daddy, Daddy, look at me!” Rickie ran into the room, his arms flying out from his sides as if he were about to catch an air current and swoop into flight. Instead, he crashed into Worthington’s smoking table, knocking it, himself, and a lit cigar to the rug. Rickie began to sob noisily.
“Rickie, what the—” Worthington quashed the expletive that hovered on his lips, as well as the look of irritation on his face. Rickie might be hurt; that was far more important than his Chippendale table and Partagas Corona. He scooped the boy off the floor and looked him over for signs of injury. His knees, showing below his short pants, were as plump and pink as ever. His pride was hurt, that was all.
“There, you’re not hurt anywhere, are you?”
Rickie shook his head, his lower lip still quivering.
“Then there’s nothing for a big boy like you to cry about, is there?” The boy had to learn not to look weak, and the sooner the better.
The cigar was still smoldering, so Worthington gathered it and what ashes he could and threw the whole mess in the fireplace.
“I heard Rickie crying all the way upstairs.” Frances Worthington ran into the room, her arms extended toward her son. “Rickie, darling, are you all right?” Kneeling in front of him, she stroked his cheeks and murmured soothing sounds. At the attention, Rickie began to sniffle again.
“That’s enough, Frances. Leave the boy alone. Don’t make a baby out of him.” He took Rickie’s arm and pulled him out of his mother’s embrace. Yanked off balance, Frances stood too quickly and fell backward against Worthington’s desk. As she steadied herself, she saw the Watcher. She snatched it up and began to read.
“That isn’t important, Frances, give it to me.”
Frances jumped away from him and continued to read. “Those people wrote this, didn’t they? Didn’t they, Richard?”
“Rickie, go play in your room now,” Worthington said. With an uncertain glance that went from his father to his mother, who were staring angrily at each other, Rickie backed out of the room.
“Well, Richard?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“It is very much my concern. You’re involved with some frightening people who have plans to destroy the Shakers, and I don’t like to think what those plans include. I want to know what your part in this is.”
“There are no plans, Frances, you’re imagining things again. That paper is no more than an expression of how everyone around here feels about those Shakers.” Worthington held his hand out. “Now give it here.”
“Why, Richard? Why do you want to destroy those people? They brought you up, gave you an education. They’ve always been good neighbors, and they make their loan payments on time, you’ve always said that. I’ve never understood why you hate them so.”
“You weren’t there. You didn’t live with them. If it weren’t for them, my youth would have been completely different. If they hadn’t enticed my weak mother into joining them when Father died, we could have lived so much better. Instead they took everything we owned. I’ve had to fight, work day and night, to provide you and Rickie with the kind of life we should have had all along.”
“That’s nonsense, Richard. We had plenty of money from my family. We don’t even need the bank.”
Richard’s face darkened, and his eyes flashed. “How dare you. I would never live off my wife’s money. I won’t rest until Rickie has every penny he would have had if those Shakers hadn’t stolen it.”
He wiped the emotion from his face and busied himself stoking the fire, all the while feeling Frances’s eyes on his back. He did not wish to discuss his life in North Homage with Frances. How could he explain any of it to her? Yes, they had fed and clothed and educated him, even shown him affection, and, yes, he should have been grateful. But he wasn’t. A part of him—the part that was his gentle mother’s son—knew it was selfish to feel as he did. Hadn’t they all tried to teach the dominance of worship and charity and striving for perfection over the mere accumulation of wealth and possessions? But a stronger part of him could not release his intense resentment. They preached those ideas, but what did they do? They convinced his gullible mother to sign over all the land inherited from her well-to-do husband’s family—rich farmland that should have come to Richard, and after him, to his son, Rickie. He could not forgive the Shakers for their hypocrisy.
He turned his back to the fire to find that Frances had left the room. Just as well, he thought. She’ll never understand what I have to do.
SEVENTEEN
“WE’VE LOST THE BETTER PART OF AN AFTERNOON of planting,” Rose complained. “People from the world trampled through all afternoon. You’d think they’d have better things to do than try to invade Shaker funerals.” She handed Josie the bags of dried chamomile, thyme, basil, spearmint, and peppermint she’d requested from the Herb House. Rose felt tired and cross, a sure sign she needed to skip fewer meals and get more sleep. She sank wearily onto a ladder-back chair, its woven seat frayed by decades of ill Believers, and watched Josie refill her empty tins and put them back in the Infirmary medicine cabinet.
“Yea, my dear,” Josie said, “but it had to be. We could hardly tell the world when the funeral would be held and take the risk of having poor Samuel put to rest with strangers shouting all those terrible lies at him. Gentle as he was, such a ruckus would surely have brought him back to have his say, and we’d have been all night getting him buried.”
Rose managed a light laugh, and Josie eyed her with professional concern. “Rose, I was more amusing than that, surely. Would a tonic be in order, perhaps? Did you get any sleep at all last night?”
“So you’ve heard, have you?”
“
Hasn’t everyone?”
Rose groaned. “Of course everyone has. Nay, I slept very little, and this morning Wilhelm took me to task for my adventure last evening.”
“I hope you told him to tend to his own business and leave the adventuring to you!”
“Less colorfully, but yea, I told him I needed to find out everything I could about what’s happening here.” She sighed. “Being eldress is far more exhausting than I’d expected. Agatha seemed to handle her burdens so lightly.”
Josie’s face bunched up into a grin. “You’re doing fine, my dear. Agatha herself would have been just as troubled by recent events, I assure you.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Nay, it’s true. When Agatha began as eldress, she was a bit older than you, but just as uncertain.” Josie chuckled to herself as she stuffed crumbly dried chamomile flowers into a tin. “I remember an incident—I shouldn’t tell this, but it’ll do you good to hear it. Her first year as eldress, Agatha was faced with two pregnant sisters! She was beside herself, had no idea what to do. Elder Obadiah, who was not unlike our Wilhelm, wanted them thrown out, but then he’d never have to face such a dilemma with the brethren, would he? Well, Agatha just couldn’t toss those girls onto the streets, certainly not when they were carrying new life within them. But the silly things would not confess nor name the fathers, and no other Believer would tell on them. And do you know what Agatha did? Took over a Union Meeting one evening! There we all were, sisters sitting across from the brethren, all set to discuss social events and theological concerns, and tiny Agatha stood up on a chair and told everyone they’d better listen up and tell her who was responsible for those babies or the Society would hear about it in every homily she ever gave for the rest of her life. The culprit confessed right there in the meeting. Between you and me, it was one man fathered the two little ones. Very popular with both the sisters and the brethren. No one wanted to lose him, but really!” Josie shook her head and sent her chins jiggling.
A Deadly Shaker Spring Page 14
