Which Way Home?

by Linda Byler

  Helen looked up from her plate and watched Hester intently. “Emma, your Negro is light skinned. Is she a mulatto?” she asked, watching her friend shrewdly.

  Emma’s face was kind, soft, and benevolent, the steel beneath her skin well hidden. Her remark was courteous as well. “Why, yes. Helen, she is, in fact, of mixed origin. I believe they said Jamaican, when I bought her at auction.”

  “But,” Helen spluttered, wrestling with curiosity, “I had no idea Enos was so well-to-do that you can afford a servant.”

  Emma batted her short lashes and lowered her eyelids humbly. “Oh, Enos was a man of means. Indeed he was. But so modest, so very unassuming.”

  This remark set Helen directly on the path of acquiring a girl to serve her food, no matter what the cost. Never once did she imagine that Emma had taken in an Indian, the way some people claimed. Why, she was so well-to-do she had her own servant. But then look at the way that woman has given, casting her bread upon the waters in more than one area. God rewards people like that, she told Rufus.

  Walter Trout took one bite of the chocolate cake and figured it was among the best things he’d ever been fortunate enough to taste. He watched Hester’s impeccable manners, her quiet serving of this delicious meal, and wondered if he could possibly be called to Sunday dinner more often. Even when they’d be living out in the country and all. His warm heart felt a great longing to erase the sadness from the young girl’s eyes. He looked forward to being able to sit at Emma Ferree’s table again.

  Billy watched Helen Denlinger’s face turn steadily darker, her breathing light and quick as she consumed her cake, and thought how much she looked like a catfish after you take it off the hook, gasping for air the way they did.

  CHAPTER 9

  IT WAS IN APRIL, WHEN EVERY STREET IN LANCASTER had turned into a slick, brown quagmire, the showers replenishing the soupy mess almost every day, that Emma hired a boy from the livery to take them out to the country to see the new home.

  She was worried about Hester, so lifeless and thin. She had no appetite and said very little. Even Billy could not get her interested in anything. When the carriage pulled to the door, Emma hustled both Hester and Billy out, shooting uncomfortable glances Walter Trout’s way. He had hinted broadly that he could accompany them, seeing as how he owned the property and all, but Emma said there was no need, they’d be fine, and dismissed him easily. He watched them go through an opened curtain, then thought perhaps it was best that they go without him since the carriage looked pretty narrow.

  Emma heaved herself into the carriage, taking the livery boy’s hand as an aid. She meant to touch it lightly the way the younger ladies did, filled with grace, but she pushed down on the slight boy’s hand so hard he had to hold it up with his opposite one. His face grew red with exertion, and he considered himself extremely fortunate to have any room at all beside her on the front seat. Emma did think that if the time ever came that Walter would accompany them to the country, they would need a sturdy wagon, not a weak carriage. They made them so flimsy these days.

  She set her hat squarely on her head and tied the thin scarf down over it securely beneath her one soft chin, then sat back to enjoy the ride. The air was wet, filled with scents of rain and standing water and dripping new plants that seemed to be bursting with happiness. The sunlight was weak but getting stronger each day, holding the promise of heat and humidity, a coming season of plenty.

  They passed the wheelwright’s shop, a row of houses, and the livery. Soon they could smell the open fields, the forest, the clean new grasses that waved and bowed by the muddy roadside. Their progress was slow. The horse lowered his haunches and leaned into the collar, pulling the carriage through the ruts made by all kinds of traffic.

  Hester sat in the backseat, her face hidden by the broad brim of a large, blue bonnet, an old one of Emma’s, who had carefully adjusted it to hide the color of her skin. Beside her, his new straw hat pushed to the back of his head, Billy hooked an elbow over the back of the carriage, whistling and warbling and chirping to his heart’s content. His blue eyes followed the soaring of the birds, the way they dipped and wheeled in the blue sky, smudged by streaks of white clouds.

  Hester asked if he knew the fish bone clouds, the ones that appeared in the east when a good rain was coming the following day.

  “You can’t go by that,” he said airily.

  “Sure you can.”

  “Nah.”

  “So tell me how you can predict rain.”

  “Go out and see if it’s raining. That’s easy.”

  Hester laughed.

  Emma turned, so glad to hear this sound.

  Hester smiled at Emma and said there would be so much she could teach Billy about nature, the garden, the herbal medicines she prized. Emma said probably not just Billy, but her, as well.

  Their first view of the house was a disappointment. It was in lamentable shape. A moth-eaten dress that looked suitable from a distance, but the damage clearly visible as they approached.

  Emma almost fell out of the carriage in her eagerness, while the boy who brought them stayed sitting in the exact same spot. There was no way he was going to put his life in danger and help this lady down.

  Emma rushed to the front door, her small feet pattering across the wet grass, giving the illusion that she was floating, as if wheels propelled her smoothly along.

  The door was attached by only one hinge, allowing creatures access to the house. By the looks of it, plenty of them had taken up residence. The rooms were filthy, the kitchen black with smoke.

  “Now, how can this be? Walter said there was a couple living here, but they couldn’t afford the rent.” Emma’s voice was thick with despair, almost a whine. Billy had spied a snake already and was off across the wet grass. Hester stepped through the door, turned her face left, then right, sniffed, wrinkled her nose, and pronounced it livable.

  There was a fairly large kitchen in front, the first room of the house. Half of one wall was filled by a vast fireplace, a wide beam placed across the top, the stone and mortar disappearing into the ceiling in the middle of the house.

  The floors were oak planks, wide and sturdy but littered with rodent’s waste, bits of nutshells, grass, dead flies, and other insects. The sitting room took up the whole left side of the house, a tiny, circular stairway going out of a corner of it to the upstairs. There were only two bedrooms. The ceiling was the underside of the oak roof shingles.

  Everything was covered with the remains of free, scurrying mice and rats. Likely mink, otter, opossums, and skunks, too, Hester thought.

  “Let’s just stay in town.” Emma’s voice carried genuine tears, ill concealed. “Du yay. Du yay,” she kept lamenting.

  Hester said nothing. She realized her position as the person who was the recipient of this kind woman’s charity and didn’t wish to appear bold. Her whole heart longed for this space, the fields and grasses, the trees and water, clean and fresh and free. She wanted to stay here in this unused dwelling, away from the fear that dogged each day, the feeling of being stalked, her spirit repressed, unable to go outside and smell the scent of the town. Without that, the very atmosphere seemed secondhand, as if the air had already been breathed by someone else, and her allotment had been spare.

  Emma had started on her other excuses, reasoning that at her age, there was no sense in working like this, and she was fairly certain that fat Walter Trout wouldn’t lift a finger to clean this place. Hester thought of Kate saying, “The pot shouldn’t call the kettle black,” but said nothing.

  Quickly, Emma shot out, “Hester, what do you think?”

  “I want to stay! Please, can I stay here? I’ll clean, I’ll do everything. I don’t want to go back.”

  Emma’s eyes widened, popping in surprise. “You do?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes! I love it here!” She swung her arms toward the surrounding hills, the grasses heavy with good moisture, the soil beneath it so rich, so fruitful. She explained where a garden could be ma
de, a horse and wagon kept in the adjoining barn, a fence built for a pasture, perhaps in time their own plow, more than one cow, a nice flock of chickens.

  When the doorway darkened, Emma lifted a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with fright. She squeaked helplessly. Hester stayed still, her back rigid, without looking. It was best this person did not see her face.

  “Hello.” The voice was deep with a demanding quality.

  Emma’s chin wobbled a few times before she could speak. “Yes, yes. Hello.”

  “I was riding across the field and saw the carriage parked by the barn. I was curious, is all.”

  “Oh, of course.” Emma stepped forward, her natural goodness of heart shining as usual as she thrust her plump hand in the general direction of the tall, dark man.

  He bent to take it and shook politely. “I am William. William King.”

  “Emma Ferree. Enos was my husband’s name.”

  “The cheese peddler?”

  “Why, yes, yes, he was a peddler. Cheese. Yes!” Delighted, Emma gabbled away like a silly turkey being chased by its peers, recognizing her words had no merit had she not been connected to Enos.

  The tall young man was very good-looking, Emma summed up, and she was always a bit tongue-tied around selly goot gookichy. This one might be Amish, though, since he was wearing those wide suspenders and that flat-looking hat.

  He lifted his chin in Hester’s general direction. “And her?”

  “Hester? You mean our Hester?” Too late, Emma realized her mistake. Hester moved swiftly. Like a wraith, invisible, she melted away through the half-open back door.

  William King’s face blanched. He looked as if he had, in fact, just encountered a schpence. “Who? What is her name?”

  His eyes were terrible in their intensity. Emma’s plump, pink hand went to her throat to still the fluttering. “It is Hester. Hester Zug.”

  “No!”

  In a few long strides, he pushed Emma aside, tore through the door in the back of the house, and lunged down the steps. Hester heard his name. She heard his voice. All her own shortcomings, the color of her skin, Hans, her past, rose directly in front of her, roared and crashed and clawed their way past any hope of meeting him again. She could not look at him. He must never see her. She ran, lifting her skirts. The rush of air caught her hat, swinging it off her head. It hung by its wide strings, flopping, bouncing like a terrified bird, a parody of her heart. She increased her speed when she heard strong footsteps behind her.

  “Hester! Wait! Wait!”

  She looked back, wildly.

  “Please stop. I just want to talk.”

  On she ran, determined that he must never see her.

  He overtook her, then reached out and caught the flapping bonnet. She slid to a stop, her chest heaving, her hands balled into fists.

  “Hester. Oh, Hester.” The words were a caress, a coming home, a believing of the impossible, the accepting of a miracle.

  “Don’t. Don’t.” She whispered the words harshly, her eyes downcast. She would not lift them.

  “Hester, it is you.”

  She felt his nearness, heard his breathing.

  “Look at me, Hester.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Try. Please try.”

  What kept her from allowing him to see her eyes? All the shame of her past. The greedy, clutching self-loathing that choked her and tamped down her eyelids.

  She felt his strong, calloused finger reach out and lift her chin. “Hester?” he whispered.

  Tears squeezed through her closed eyes. She caught her lower lip in her teeth to suppress the emotion.

  “What is it?” he whispered.

  “I am not who you think I am.”

  “Who are you?”

  Her eyes opened, revealing black, liquid pools of pain and uncertainty. She saw the tall, dark form, the black hair cut squarely across his forehead, falling below his ears at the side. She took in the blue of his eyes, the chiseled nose, the perfect mouth. “I ran. I ran away. I am with the English.”

  The disappointment that darkened his face was hard to watch, so she lowered her eyes.

  “Why?” he grated.

  “You remember the wedding?”

  He nodded, eagerly.

  “Annie didn’t like me. It didn’t work out.”

  “If I remember, I warned you.”

  “Yes.”

  Emma was walking toward them, her calling reaching their ears. For a long moment, he drank in the face kept alive in his memory, so much as he remembered, and yet so different. Fear clutched at his heart. Why had she left? What had she done?

  Emma’s short form was so unwelcome William King had to visibly rearrange his features to accommodate her breathless appearance. Fat little gwunder nose.

  “Oh, oh, oh.” Emma’s voice made puffing sounds, like a small, fussy locomotive.

  “Hester. Hester, my love.”

  Stopping, Emma looked from one face to another, her sharp eyes boring into the mask of impatience across William’s, the raw despair in Hester’s, a vulnerability that brought sharp words of rebuke to her small, red mouth. “Mister, you are upsetting Hester. You should not have run after her this way. She has been through an ordeal. Now you just go easy on her. I mean it.”

  His anger was ill disguised. It rippled along the muscles in his cheeks, turning the brilliant blue of his eyes a shade darker, an orange flame appearing only one second before evaporating. “Oh. I didn’t mean to upset Hester. I am not aware that I did.”

  Oily words. Emma was quick with her tongue. “Then, I would suggest you leave her alone.”

  William drew himself up to a magnificent height, his eyelids falling to a level of condescension he was accustomed to exercising over his peers. He cleared his throat. “Hester and I have met before.”

  “Really?” Emma’s tone was flat and as uncompromising as a stone wall.

  Hester became agitated. A hand went to her throat. “William King and I met briefly at my father’s wedding. He does not know my story.”

  “If you will please allow me to continue my conversation, perhaps she can tell me in her own words.”

  “Oh, no, she ain’t. You want to talk to my Hester, you ask her if you can come calling, like any gentleman. And for now, we will be busy, too busy, in fact, to have you around.”

  Before he could reply, Billy popped out of the high grass, his gray hat pulled down so far he didn’t appear to have a face, only an opened collar and a chin. “Hooo!” he yelled. “Frogs ain’t easy to catch.”

  He tilted the grimy hat back out of his eyes, releasing a curtain of copper hair, sized up William with his blue eyes, and blurted, “Who’re you?”

  William’s smile was genuine, his white teeth lighting up his face as he bent to extend his hand to Billy’s, grasping it firmly with a solid shake.

  “William King. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  Billy wasn’t used to meeting men—strangers—that were ten feet tall, he guessed. His hand felt as if it left the wrist it was attached to, but he figured it was still in working condition, once William King let go of it. Together they walked back to the house. William did most of the talking with Billy injecting his flow of words with boyish remarks.

  Emma’s face looked like a thundercloud, her eyes snapping blue sparks, her mouth a compressed downturned slash of disapproval.

  Hester walked beside William, making no sound except for the gentle swishing of her skirts in the unkempt grasses.

  “Hey! You know we’re gonna move out here? Oops!” Billy’s hat slid off the back of his head when he lifted his face to watch William speak. He grabbed it off the moisture-laden grasses and clumped it back on his head, shoving it down hard with both hands, then jerking on both sides of the brim, enlarging the tear on the left side of the crown.

  “We hafta move on account a Hester bein’ a Injun. You know they killed ’em all now. Lancaster County don’t have any Injuns no more.”

&nb
sp; “Good. You can’t trust them.”

  Emma jerked her right shoulder, walked faster, but kept her peace.

  “Yeah,” Billy said, nodding his head rapidly, unsettling the loose hat once more. He grabbed it with his right hand, pulled it down over his ears, bobbed his head a few times to ensure a good fit, then walked solemnly ahead, digesting this new way of thinking about “them Injuns.”

  When they reached the house, Emma turned to William. “Good day.”

  William searched Hester’s face but found only hidden eyes beneath lowered lashes. “I’ll be on my way then. If you need help, I’ll be available. My parents’ house is only a few miles across these woods as the crow flies.”

  Hester lifted her eyes to watch his retreat. She thrilled to the set of the shoulders, the way he loped easily. Like a wolf, effortless.

  Emma fumed and steamed, fussed and stewed, worrying herself to the point of hysteria. She told Hester that man was up to no good, and if she knew her place, she’d have nothing to do with him.

  Billy said, “Why not, Ma?”

  Hester watched the figure on the horse, a striking rider, disappear into the row of trees. Confusion rode uncomfortably on her shoulders.

  Well, first things first. Saying nothing, she left Emma and Billy to their own little war of words, slipped through the front door, and assessed the damage, the things they’d need. She made a mental list, then returned to the front door, preparing to leave. They did need a man to help them, certainly. Walter Trout was a bit dubious with his weight and all.

  But Walter proved to be a wonderful help. His face was covered by the wide brim of a straw hat, his thick red suspenders holding up the homespun kneebreeches very well, the clean linen shirt bunching over the top of them as he wielded a hammer, pulled a saw, swung an axe. He whistled, sang, or talked, one of the three, all day long. He could only be described as a jolly soul. Hester found him to be a storehouse of amusement. It rolled out of him the way spring water bubbled out of the ground. Spring water was like that. It you tried to stop it, it squirted out the side, stronger than ever.