Lillian plunked her hands on her hips and gave him a mock scowl. “Oomkje Bornholdt, you made a terrible mess of my house! This must be righted before bed.”
He smirked. “You are very bossy, Frü Bornholdt.”
The title—Frü Bornholdt—hung in the room, bringing a tense halt to their lighthearted banter. With the boys calling her “Ma” and Eli calling her “Lillian,” she hadn’t stopped to think of herself as anything other than Frü Vogt. But she was Frü Bornholdt, Eli’s wife. The name took her by surprise, but the greatest shock was realizing she didn’t find the sound unpleasant.
Scrambling to restore normalcy, she said, “W-will you now build a Feaheat in your sod house, too?”
Eli swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Nä. The walls, they do not have enough length to support a fireplace. We had some trouble cutting this hole and keeping the sod wall from collapsing. We wedged a board across the top of the opening to support the wall and coated it double-thick with clay so it will not catch the flames.” A smile teased the corners of his lips. “All the laughing you heard came because chunks of sod kept falling on Henrik’s head. Joseph said he hoped it would knock sense into him.”
Lillian chuckled softly, envisioning the scene. Then she sobered, thinking of her chilly day in his sod house. “But you’ll be so cold. Surely the winter, when snow arrives, will be even colder than today. You must have a source of heat, too.”
He waved her concern away. “Ach, I will be all right. I will cover myself with several quilts and maybe that deerskin from Henrik’s kill. It keeps the deer plenty warm enough.”
Despite his lack of apprehension, Lillian remained dubious. “I think quilts and deerskin might not be enough.” What would she and the boys do if Eli froze to death? Anything might happen in this unfamiliar new land.
Eli continued in a convincing tone. “I will be fine, Lillian. It can be no colder than my attic room in Reinhardt’s house when I was a boy.”
Although Lillian had known Reinhardt and Eli her whole life—she’d known everyone in the village of Gnadenfeld—she hadn’t realized they’d slept in the attic. The attic of her own home had been unbearably hot in the summer and frigidly cold in the winter. She shivered just thinking of trying to sleep in such an uncomfortable room.
“You and Reinhardt slept in the attic? But the Vogts’ house was so large. Why did you not use a downstairs bedroom?”
“You misunderstand me, Lillian.” Eli rubbed his finger beneath his nose. “Reinhardt had a room in the main part of the house. I slept in the attic.”
Lillian stared at him in astonishment. In all her years of acquaintanceship with the Vogt family, she had assumed Eli was treated like part of their family. He and Reinhardt were together constantly, like any other brothers, alternately romping and tussling. To discover this inequity in treatment both troubled and angered her.
Apparently Eli read the dismay on her face because he shrugged. “I had plenty of quilts, and it was quiet—peaceful.”
“Even so.” Lillian’s voice trembled with indignation. “They took you in. They told the entire village they considered you their son. And all the while—”
He stepped forward and curled his hands over her shoulders. “Lillian.” She gazed into his serene face. “It does not matter. Do not let this sully your memories of the family. They were good to me. They fed me and clothed me and cared for me, never asking anything in return except respect and obedience, just as would be expected of any child. I was never mistreated or neglected.”
A gloomy picture filled Lillian’s mind—a picture of a small boy shivering beneath a pile of quilts, all alone and shut away from everyone. “But an attic room! Is that not neglectful?”
“Lillian, had it not been for them, I would have been on my own.” He turned stern, silencing her protests. “I thank God for their kindness to an orphaned boy every day. We will not speak of this again unless it is with appreciation for the sacrifice they made in raising a child who was not their own.”
His hands slid away from her shoulders, and he stepped back. Sniffing the air, he said, “I believe the Bobbat is nearly done. I will get the boys; we will wash up and enjoy a good meal together before restoring order in this room.” He strode from the sod house, leaving Lillian alone in front of the newly constructed fireplace.
Her heart ached over all the brief conversation had revealed. Despite his claims to the contrary, she knew hurt lingered in his heart. How often he must have felt discarded and unwanted, trundled away in an unpleasant space while the rest of Reinhardt’s family enjoyed comfortable rooms.
And now she also understood Eli’s open acceptance of her sons. He didn’t want them to experience the same rejection he’d felt as a boy being raised by a man other than his father. So easily Eli could have become bitter, but instead he had chosen to seek his peace in a relationship with God. She felt a swell of admiration for him, but another emotion rose above it.
Lillian believed she was falling in love with her husband.
26
The wind whistled, rising in pitch and volume until Lillian wanted to cover her ears. Then, as quickly as it escalated, it sank to a gentle whisper, teasing her with the idea that it might have blown itself away. Over and over the process repeated, keeping her from drifting into sleep.
Thankfully, the wind wasn’t disturbing her sons. Henrik and Joseph slept soundly on their mats across the room, worn out from their day of sod cutting, chimney building, and jollity. They had nearly fallen asleep in their supper plates, tottering off to bed the moment they finished eating. But she lay, wide-eyed and alert, attuned to the wild song of the wind. And thinking of Eli.
Did he sleep? All alone in his little sod house . . . just as he had been all alone in his attic room in Gnadenfeld? The ache in her breast increased with the howl of the wind as she envisioned him as a little boy with covers tugged up to his chin, lying beneath the slanting rafters. Tears pricked at the image, and she blinked rapidly, shattering the unpleasant picture. But the tears still flowed.
“So much unfairness in this life, God,” she whispered. She had overheard Eli addressing the Lord on many occasions when he was unaware of her presence. When he prayed with the family, his demeanor reminded her of a minister, but when speaking with God on his own, he revealed the intimacy of his relationship with his Maker.
Over her weeks of Bible reading and everyday communication with God, she had begun quiet conversations with God— conversations that were prayers, yet not bound by formality. She had found purpose in both means of speaking to Him. So it felt perfectly natural to talk to Him open-eyed, snuggled in her feather mattress, rather than with bowed head and closed eyes, on her knees.
“Why must hard things happen, Lord? Especially to children. Eli orphaned and then not truly loved and accepted . . . my own little Jakob falling while playing a game . . .” Her voice caught, images of Eli and Jakob bouncing back and forth in her mind so rapidly she found it difficult to distinguish one from the other. “You must have a reason, but I do not understand. If You can do anything, why do You not remove suffering from our lives and let us be always joyful?”
The wind howled angrily, and she shivered beneath her quilts. “I am sorry if I offend You with my questions. But please, Lord, help me understand . . . and help me find a way to atone for the lack of full acceptance Eli received as a child.”
“Lord, help me understand and not resent Lillian for her reaction.”
Eli knelt beside his bed, his beard brushing his laced hands as he prayed. Lillian’s face haunted him—the look of pity when she uncovered that one small truth of his childhood. So many times while growing up he had seen pity in people’s eyes. He’d heard the whispered comments: “Poor Eli . . . Without parents or a home, what will become of him?”
Poor Eli . . . How he’d hated the sound of it! As if his parentless state somehow demeaned him. He’d worked hard to overcome the disgrace of being orphaned. In school, he studied to stay at the top of his class
; for Reinhardt’s father, he performed twice as many chores as his foster brother; in the village, he helped build houses and barns and repaired wagons for anyone who needed assistance. When grown, he became a prosperous farmer and a respected horseman. Yet, despite all of his accomplishments, the murmur plagued him. Poor Eli . . .
He’d thought the pitying murmurs had been left behind in Gnadenfeld. But no, they found him even here on the plains of Kansas. Earlier that evening, when Lillian had looked at him with the sorrowful expression he had come to loathe, the shame came rushing back. Pushing up from his knees, he blew out a mighty breath of frustration.
“I do not wish to be Poor Eli to Lillian. Maybe Capable Eli, Dependable Eli, Needed Eli, or . . . best of all . . . Beloved Eli.” His shoulders slumping, he rasped to the empty room, “Will she look at me now and see the man I have become, or will she always see the lonely child?”
The thought of forever being Poor Eli to this woman who had stolen his heart was unbearable. The cold, fiercely blowing wind crept in along the edges of the door and battered the sod house until little bits of grit drifted from his sod ceiling. He stood in the center of the room, listening to the wind howl like many tormented voices, feeling as though his soul joined in the chorus. But standing there shivering on the dirt floor, even if he did it all night, would solve nothing. It couldn’t erase the past. Not the past of years ago, and not the past of hours ago.
He blew out his lantern and rolled into the quilt-covered straw mound that served as a mattress. “Lord, take away the memories,” he begged. But lying there, cold and alone, he felt like Poor Eli.
Birdsong, joyful and shrill, teased Eli from a sound sleep. He rubbed his eyes, then sat up groggily, looking around in confusion. With no windows in the sod house, it was difficult to determine the hour, but tiny slivers of sunlight sneaked through the cracks around the door. The brightness told him sunrise had arrived some time ago.
He leapt from his bed, scrambling for the clothes that lay across his trunk. How could he have slept so long? The answer came easily—he had lain awake far into the night, bothered by the windstorm and the troubling thoughts concerning Lillian. Suddenly, he realized the wind no longer roared—a welcome change. But would Lillian’s pity have drifted away, too?
Sunlight washed over him as he stepped outside. The morning was cool but calm, reminding Eli of the late days of September. He shook his head. This land was as changeable as a rich woman’s wardrobe. Would these fluctuating temperatures have a negative effect on his fledgling wheat crop? He supposed only time would provide the answer.
Lillian and the boys sat around a trunk, which Henrik must have pulled out into the sunny yard. Joseph looked up from his plate and grinned. He pointed at Eli with his fork.
“Pa is awake.”
Lillian turned on her stool, wiping her mouth with a square of cloth. Her smile offered as much warmth as the sun. “We saved you some fried potatoes and onions. Come, sit. I will fry you the last two eggs.” She bustled toward the cook fire, where a skillet waited.
Eli didn’t need a second invitation. His stomach growled as the scent of the potatoes reached his nose. He sat on the remaining stool and bowed his head in silent prayer before scooping the remainder of the potatoes onto his plate. They were cold, but he didn’t mind. They tasted good. He’d eaten half of the serving when Lillian approached, a pair of perfectly fried eggs centered on her wooden spatula.
“There you are.” She rested her hand on his shoulder as she slid the eggs onto his plate. His scalp came alive with her touch, and he involuntarily jerked upright. Her hand fell away quickly, and she shot him a puzzled look. Without a word, she returned to the fire and placed the spatula on the edge of the skillet.
His hand trembling slightly, Eli cut into his eggs and lifted a bite to his mouth. But although they were fried just the way he liked them—with the white fully cooked and the yolk warm and runny—he found little enjoyment in the food. Why had Lillian touched him? His mind skittered back to the many times someone had patted his shoulder, offering condolence with sad eyes.
The boys excused themselves and ambled away from the table, heading for their morning chores. Lillian remained beside the fire, scraping the crusty remains of eggs and potatoes from the inside of the skillet into the flames, while Eli finished his meal. As soon as he was done, she returned to the table and picked up his empty plate.
“Did you get enough to eat? I can fry some more potatoes if you are still hungry.”
Her friendly, helpful tone showed no hint of misplaced pity, but his shoulder still tingled from the feel of her hand. He eyed her with suspicion, watching for compassion to creep into her expression.
“Nä, I am plenty full, dank. And I am behind on my work with my late sleeping. Someone should have roused me.” An unintentional note of accusation colored his tone.
Lillian smiled sweetly in response. “You worked hard yesterday. You earned some extra sleep. The boys are capable of seeing to the morning chores. If you would like to rest, then—”
“Nä.” Eli rose, swiping his mouth with his napkin. He tossed the rumpled cloth onto the trunk and turned to leave.
But for the second time that morning, Lillian reached out. Her fingers landed lightly on his forearm, sealing him in place as effectively as a stake driven through the toe of his boot.
“What tasks have you set for yourself today?” Her casual tone stood in sharp contrast to the fierce beating of his heart.
“W-why do you ask?”
She gave a delicate shrug, but her hand didn’t move. “I have an idea for an improvement, but I do not wish to take you away from something important.”
He lowered his arm, separating himself from her touch. He immediately felt the absence and wished he had remained still. He swallowed. “I planned to twist the dried grass into logs to burn in the Feaheat this winter.”
“More logs?” She laughed softly, a strand of honey-colored hair slipping free of its bun to frame her cheek. “You already have a pile as tall as me in the corner of the sod house.”
“Jo, well, it will take much fuel for both warmth and cooking.” His voice took on a defensive tone.
For a moment, Lillian’s brow creased, but then a smile replaced the slight scowl. “Are the boys able to form the logs?”
“For sure they are.” Eli had taught the boys to twist a hank of dried blades so tightly they doubled into themselves, creating bundles the size of a man’s forearm. The bundles didn’t burn as long as wood or buffalo droppings, but they created good heat. The boys were now adept at forming the grass logs. “But Joseph needs to study. If we were in a village, he would be in school. He has an available teacher in Henrik, so I thought the boys would use a portion of the day to study.”
“I see.” Lillian nibbled her lower lip, toying with the hem of her apron’s skirt. Her disappointed reaction stirred his curiosity.
“What did you wish for me to do today?”
Her head shot up, hopefulness lighting her eyes. “I was thinking last night while the wind blew so hard, bringing in the cold, that you will have a difficult time staying warm without the help of a stove or a fireplace.” She turned toward the sod houses. “The houses are close together—only three wide paces apart . . .”
When she started walking, Eli automatically followed. She entered the narrow gap between the houses, then spun and faced him, flinging her arms wide. Her eyes shone with excitement, making her seem much younger.
“What if you cut doors into the walls that face one another and built a hall to connect the two sod houses? Would some of the heat from the fireplace reach the smaller house?”
Eli shook his head slowly. Her suggestion wasn’t a foolish one. Heat would certainly find its way to the second house, taking some of the chill from the room. If he built the walls even with the smaller sod house, they could stack many of the supply boxes on either side of the walkway in the hall, freeing up the living space of the large sod house. He could see the sense of
the idea, but she’d neglected one important detail.
“Lillian, if I were to do what you suggest, we . . . all . . . would be residing under one roof.”
His subtly emphasized word hit its mark. She stood in shadow, but he saw pink creep into her cheeks. She lowered her gaze and brushed the toe of her shoe over the short cropped grass. “And would that be . . . unpleasant?”
Eli, uncertain he’d heard correctly, took a step closer to her. “What are you saying?”
Her head still down, she lifted her shoulders in a slow shrug. “We are . . . husband and wife. The boys . . . they are getting along well with you. Perhaps . . .”
Poor Eli . . . living alone in the little sod house . . . The disparaging words trailed through his mind, taunting him. He clamped his jaw for several seconds, gaining control of his emotions before speaking.
“Lillian, we are husband and wife. It was necessary for us to form a union or we could not travel together. But we are not husband and wife as—as you and Reinhardt were husband and wife.” The statement pained him, but speaking it aloud also brought a measure of relief. It was time they stop playing the cat-and-mouse game they had developed and accept the truth. “Our marriage has served its purpose. Henrik is here in America, safe from military involvement, and he will have the means to attend university when the crop is harvested. You and the boys are provided for. But . . . when the others come . . .”
His mouth went dry. He looked into her wide, bewildered eyes and forced himself to continue. “When the others come and our village is established, your needs will be met by the villagers. The church has always cared for widows. My presence in your lives will no longer be needed the way it is now.”
“W-what are you saying, Eli?” Her voice sounded raspy, as if she battled to bring forth words. “Do you . . . do you intend to leave us here alone?”
Eli sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. Why did her words make him feel like a traitor? Despite his own fickle heart, which had tricked him into falling in love in the middle of a marriage of convenience, he knew their relationship could never be genuine.
Fields of Grace Page 21
