Marie looked around. It was only when she finally had some peace and quiet that she realized just how much the constant chatter in the workshop upset her. Talk, talk, talk—all day long. Even listening wore her out. She sighed.
Why couldn’t everyone just do their work in silence?
It had looked as though Johanna might stay home after Ruth had gone out for a breath of fresh air—Good gracious! Did her older sister think that she always had to be around to hold Marie’s hand?—but then she had headed out the door to see Peter.
Reverently, she fetched a fresh sheet of paper from the drawer and picked up a pencil. It was too sharp for her purposes, so she picked up another and tested its point with finger and thumb. This one was good, it would give her the soft lines she needed. Marie began by drawing a circle about the width of the bottom of the dish. For a while, all she did was look at the circle. This was how much space she had to work with. No more, no less. The challenge was to place the basket so that the vegetables could spill out over the brim to one side—but which side? There also had to be enough room on the other side for the cucumbers to stand upright, as it were. Even as she was still thinking about the structure of the still life, her pencil began gliding over the paper in gentle strokes.
Marie was suffused with the same warm glow that she felt every time she sat down in front of the paint pots in Heimer’s workshop. Heimer must have some notion of how much it meant to her to be allowed to paint, because for the last few days he had only assigned her to the painting bench, even though the others had different jobs every day.
She held the paper up at arm’s length. Good. Just to be quite sure, she stood up and took two steps away from the table. She smiled. Even from a distance, the basket and its contents were quite clear. She pulled the chair back in to the table and sat down. The next step was to choose the right colors. For some of the vegetables, she already knew exactly which color she wanted. The violet for the cabbage could be mixed together from dark blue and carmine red, and she could use the same red to make the orange by mixing just a drop into the lemon yellow they used. She could hardly wait to see how the paints would mix and mingle. But the basket would be the problem. Brown wasn’t a color suited to painting onto clear or silvered glass. It just ended up looking dirty—as though the dish had been put back in the cupboard unwashed.
Marie gnawed at her lip. A blue basket would look wrong, as would a red one. Perhaps she could use the white enamel? She closed her eyes and tried to imagine how it would look. No, if she used white then the woven pattern of the basket wouldn’t show; it would simply look like porcelain.
Marie sat up with a start as the clock on the wall began to strike. Nine o’clock already! It wouldn’t be long before Ruth and Johanna came back. She put her sketch back into the drawer, along with the pencil. She didn’t need them any more tonight. But the basket . . . Marie imagined again how it would look, enjoying the vision. And then and there she had the answer: gold! She would use the same gold that they had been using that afternoon to paint the pistils onto the wildflowers. If she laid it on thinly, it would let the light through in such a way that the shadows in the pattern were there from the start. It would look bright and appealing, and it would go well with all the other colors she had in mind.
“Just one thing: How on earth will I talk old Heimer round?” Marie asked herself aloud, then laughed at the sound of her voice.
She would paint that basket—no doubt about it. Even if she had to buy a dish to do so.
By the time she was ready for bed it was half past nine. Neither Ruth nor Johanna was home yet. Marie was a bit surprised that Ruth would want to go out walking for so long in the cold. She had probably gone to pay a call on Peter as well after her stroll. Marie snuggled down under the covers and got comfortable. She was still in a daze, thinking of the shapes and colors of her design. Marie couldn’t imagine that either of her sisters had had anywhere near as much fun as she had that evening.
“You’re so beautiful! So soft. And so . . . rounded,” Thomas whispered into Ruth’s hair as he stroked her breast.
She moaned softly in reply as warm ripples of pleasure spread through her body.
Thomas then began circling her nipples gently with his fingers. Strangely, the ripples intensified.
“You feel so lovely. Everything about you is beautiful.” He stroked her more urgently.
Ruth felt that he could set her afire just as easily as he turned up the flame on the gas lamp. She had never even dreamed that it was like this, that a man’s desire could feel so wonderful. She had no name for the astonishing feelings coursing through her body, but she knew that they had changed her life forever. Did other women feel like this? She lifted her face toward him.
He kissed her so roughly that he squashed her lips unpleasantly against her teeth. Ruth turned away and broke the contact between their mouths. She had been yearning for a somewhat softer kiss, one that wasn’t so greedy. The flame within her died out.
“Not like that.” She gently moved his hand away as his fingers fumbled at the buttons on her blouse. Why couldn’t he just carry on stroking her and muttering lovely compliments?
“Why not? You like it too. You know you do. I want to have a little bit of fun with my girl!” Thomas squirmed up against her, trying to put his right leg between her thighs as he did so.
There was an undignified tussle, and Ruth felt her back thump against something. Thomas was snorting and panting so heavily that it made her a little queasy to hear him.
“Thomas!” She forced a laugh, and managed to shuffle away from him. To soothe his pride, she turned her mouth up to him and let him kiss her. He sucked greedily at her lips, and for a while they were lost in the taste of each other’s tongues.
But it wasn’t long before she felt his hand on her cold thigh. The warmth inside her cooled suddenly.
Not that.
She fished around under her skirt, grabbed his hand and removed it. The blanket that Thomas had spread out on the warehouse floor was as ice-cold as the stones beneath it. Ruth shuddered.
Indifferent to her change of mood, Thomas wriggled up against her once more. “Don’t be so stubborn!” he whispered into her ear.
Ruth shoved him firmly away. “In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s ice-cold in here! I hope I don’t get sick!” she said in an accusing tone as she straightened her blouse and smoothed out her skirt.
Thomas looked at her, baffled. “I could have warmed you up. But you don’t want to.” He stared down at the bulge in his pants.
Ruth was close to tears. “Sometimes I think you don’t care about me at all. Every time we meet you drag me in here. You’ve never even asked me once whether I like coming to this dingy hole!” She couldn’t have said herself why she was so on edge all of a sudden.
“What are you talking about?” Thomas looked utterly perplexed. “This is a fine place to meet, not a dingy hole. Nobody else has a key, except my father, and he certainly won’t be coming here at this hour. And it’s not ice-cold; it’s just a bit brisk.”
“But . . . I just feel that we’re taking things much too fast!” There, she’d said it. What was it that Joost had always told them? A woman who didn’t respect herself would never find a man to respect her.
“But we love one another! How else is a man supposed to show his girl how much he loves her?”
“I could think of one or two other ways,” Ruth thought bitterly. “We could do something else for a change. We could go to Sonneberg, for instance, and go window-shopping. Johanna tells me that . . .”
“I don’t understand you,” Thomas broke in, shaking his head. “Why would you want to go hiking the hills in the middle of winter?”
Seething, he folded up the blanket and hid it on a lower shelf. He had brought it here a few days ago in preparation, but he found that Ruth was far harder to please than other women. Too cold here and too ding
y there, and once she had even complained that his shirt was scratching her cheek! Sometimes he thought he couldn’t do anything right with her. And that was a problem, because he had never wanted a woman the way he wanted Ruth. The very idea that he was with one of the prettiest girls in the village fired up his desire. The fact that she was a virgin only made him want her that much more. How often had he and the other village lads fantasized about showing one of the Steinmann girls a good time? Well, so much for that. The way she fought to protect her virtue, you’d think she had a pot of gold between her legs. He felt a stirring in his pants at the thought.
The silence stretched out between them as each waited for the other to apologize.
“I have to go,” Ruth said at last. She felt disheartened at the thought that there would be no fire in the oven back home, no hot brick to wrap in flannel and take to bed with her. She wound her scarf twice around her neck and already had her hand on the door handle when Thomas put his arms around her from behind.
“Come along now, don’t be such a sulk. How about we meet again tomorrow?” He grinned at her.
She took his hand off her arm. “Tomorrow’s a Saturday. I don’t think I’ll have the time.” Even if she had to spend all day scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees, with Johanna and Marie, Thomas mustn’t get the idea that Ruth Steinmann was easy.
But she had hardly stepped outside into the alleyway before she felt herself overcome with longing for Thomas once more. Maybe she had been too harsh with him? She would have liked to turn around and throw herself into his arms. After all, she loved him too.
If only he weren’t so insistent!
15
Indeed, Ruth spent all of Saturday hard at work. Instead of scrubbing the floor, however, she learned that they were off to gather wood.
Peter had come knocking early that morning, and they set off. They had hardly buttoned up their jackets before he was handing out the tools: a few saws, large shears for cutting branches, stout twine for binding up the wood, and a half dozen baskets. He had a knapsack with him as well. “Lunch,” he said. “We’ll need it when the sweat begins running down our brows!” Ruth and the others had laughed. Peter and his jokes! The baskets weren’t heavy; the sun was shining down through a thin layer of clouds, and they were almost in a holiday mood as they set out.
Neither Ruth nor her sisters had ever gone out to the forest to gather firewood. Joost Steinmann hadn’t been a master maker, and therefore hadn’t had the right to go gather his own wood, and besides, it was men’s work. Up until then, the Steinmanns had always bought their household wood from Ugly Paul. Not that he was really ugly, but the wood seller was known for the ghastly faces he could make to scare children or just for fun. He went around the village from house to house, his basket of wood stuck fast to his back—nobody had ever seen him without the pack on his shoulders. When they had been little, the girls used to hide behind the wardrobe when Ugly Paul sat down at the kitchen table with their father to settle up the bill for the wood he brought them.
This year, however, Ruth would have happily sat down at the table with the funny old man, all on her own if need be. She quickly learned that gathering firewood was hard work. The little patch of forest where Peter was allowed to gather firewood was on a steep, almost inaccessible slope overgrown with knee-high saplings. Anything would have been better than scrambling around and trying to keep her footing like a mountain goat. Endlessly slipping and sliding, she desperately dug her heels into the earth, scarring the ground with her boots. Before she could even recover her balance, she heard a call of “Timber!” from above, and a branch as thick as her arm landed just a couple of feet away. And then another. And then another.
Ruth clung to the steep slope as tightly as she could. Earlier that morning she had been hit by a branch, and ever since then her elbow hurt every time she stretched her arm. On top of that, she had to put up with Johanna scolding her for not paying attention when they called out. Ha! Ruth knew that they hadn’t called out at all. They had probably been canoodling up there in the trees, rather than thinking to warn her. Johanna didn’t need to make such a show of concern. She hadn’t even climbed down to look at Ruth’s arm.
When no more wood came flying down, Ruth hobbled out cautiously to gather the freshly fallen wood into a single pile.
It was just like Johanna to go up there with Peter! Probably she was having an easy time of it while he did all the work.
“I’m throwing down some more wood!” Ruth called down to Marie, who was a good two hundred yards below. “Did you hear me?” she called again when there was no answer. She waited until Marie answered, then swung the first bundle down the slope. She felt a sharp stab in her elbow and yelped with pain. She watched as Marie crawled uphill to fetch it. It had only gone halfway down the hill again. When Peter had shown her how to swing the bundles out and down, it had looked like child’s play. The only difficulty was in making sure they didn’t get tangled up in the underbrush on the way down. The first few throws had gone smoothly enough, and the wood had landed right at Marie’s feet. All her sister had to do was bend down and gather it into the baskets. It wasn’t long, however, before her arms began to ache and her strength deserted her.
She flung the next lot of wood down, trying not to stretch out her arm all the way as she threw. This time it landed where it was supposed to, but Ruth still felt like crying. It was too much! After all, it wasn’t as though they had been well rested before setting out. They had been at work all week, and had spent the evenings doing laundry or cleaning the house or cooking or doing a thousand other things that had practically taken care of themselves in the old days. They had hardly had time to stop and breathe.
Whenever she wanted to meet Thomas she had to sneak away like a thief in the night. She felt even sorrier for herself when she recalled the way they had squabbled last night. But then she remembered some of the flattering compliments he had paid her. He was the son of one of the richest glassmakers in all of Lauscha, and he thought she was beautiful. Desirable. She looked down at herself. Were her breasts really that much prettier than other women’s? Thomas had said they were. She asked herself in a fit of jealousy how many breasts he had seen. She shut her eyes for a moment and ran her cold hands over her jacket. What would it be like when he ran his fingers over her naked skin? Maybe she should let him next time they met?
“Timber!” she heard from above.
Before she knew it, half a dozen branches crashed down right by her.
“Watch what you’re doing! I can’t manage this on my own! Why can’t one of you come down here and help!” she called, tucking back a strand of hair. This was another fine mess that Johanna had gotten them into. She was quite sure there must have been a simpler way of getting firewood for the winter.
Neither Peter nor Johanna said a word. Instead Marie called up, “What was that you said?”
Ruth cast a sullen glance downhill. “I wasn’t talking to you! Don’t worry!” When it came to carrying heavy loads, they really couldn’t ask much of Marie; she was simply too delicate. Ruth found herself thinking of Eva. She was a slim little thing as well, but her forearms were corded with muscle, and her whole body was as tough and lean as that of a boy who spent his days climbing trees. Born into a family that worked with slate, she had gotten used to hard work even as a little girl, and her fingers were strong and bony from all the filing, slicing, and sharpening that it took to make a stylus. Ruth would never want to trade places with someone in that line of work. But Eva’s life these days more than made up for her difficult childhood: she may have been on a bed of thorns before, but her life was certainly a bed of roses now. Ruth rubbed her sore back and asked herself for the umpteenth time how the woman had managed that particular trick.
As soon as they had reached the forest, Peter had set Johanna to work gathering the branches that he cut and tying the smaller ones into handy bundles. But Johanna soon grew
tired of waiting for the branches to fall. Without being too obvious about it, she peered over his shoulder. Then she picked up a saw of her own.
The handle sat snugly in her hand as she set the saw blade against a branch. Instead of sinking smoothly all the way through the way it did when Peter cut though, the blade’s teeth snagged in the wood.
She expected him to burst out laughing. Or to tell her to put the saw down. But Peter just kept on working, as though what she did was no concern of his. She watched, and saw that he pulled his arm back farther than she had. And he kept his wrist quite still, while hers had wobbled from side to side like a cow flapping its tail. She tried again. This time she managed five strokes of the saw before the blade got snagged again. Peter looked over at her as she cursed softly, but said nothing. She stared at the crooked line her blade had made. She had to saw straighter. When she got to work on the next branch, she steered the blade a little with the thumb of her other hand. And there it was! “It’s working! I can do it!” she announced, beaming with pride.
The Glassblower (The Glassblower Trilogy Book 1) Page 9
