She knew she was being foolish and reproached herself for it. Hadn't she promised herself not to be any man's fool? Or his paramour?
She looked at Jason now, surprised by his question. Try as she might, she couldn't envision him in a house of worship.
"Yes." His thoughtfulness in making the suggestion pleased her. "I would very much like to go." She realized that she needed the solace and tranquility of church for more than one reason.
Jason's suggestion brought a cry of pleasure from Lucinda. She was already on her feet, hastily tucking the quilt pieces away in her sewing box. "Why Jason, what a lovely thought. It's been so long since we've all gone together." She attended sporadically herself, nonetheless, it gladdened her heart to have more company than just her son. She was eager to cleave to the others whenever she could, perpetually hoping to be one with the family. "I'll just get Christopher ready and be back quickly." She paused in the doorway, a bird momentarily stilled in flight. "I don't suppose that Aaron would like to come."
"Ask him and see," Jason suggested. He knew she needed encouragement for even the simplest of undertakings. Lucinda flew off to find her husband.
Aaron was annoyed at having his day of rest disturbed by his wife's silly proposal that he join her and Jason for services. It was only as she retreated, murmuring something about wanting to show Krystyna the newly built house of worship, that he suddenly agreed to accompany them. Lu-cinda happily went to ready her son. It never entered her mind to question her husband's change of heart.
Savannah was about to step into her carriage when Lucinda called to her. "Wait for us, dear, we're coming, too."
Savannah bridled her impatience. She preferred making her weekly visits to the little wooden church alone. Arriving in the grand carriage she had convinced her grumbling father to purchase only served to further delineate to the other women in the area how far above them in stature she really was. And since the Reverend Peregrine Blake was Winthrop's uncle, she was always assured of a seat in the first pew, next to Winthrop. She enjoyed knowing, as she raised her eyes heavenward in pious prayer, that she was the focus of the attention of all the other women. And of the men.
She turned, about to suggest to the silly goose that perhaps Lucinda would be more comfortable in her father's old carriage, but her annoyance with Lucinda faded as she saw Jason approaching. With that wretched woman at his side.
"She's coming, too?" Savannah demanded sharply, her nostrils flaring.
Krystyna merely glanced at the finely attired younger woman as she passed her. "I thought your God was open to everyone." With no further exchange, Krystyna climbed into the carriage gracefully, taking possession of it just by her presence.
Savannah fumed as she pushed Lucinda aside. Head held high, she took the seat opposite Krystyna and proceeded to ignore her.
Jason rejoiced at seeing Savannah put in her place. She considered herself to be head and shoulders above everyone else, but as far as he was concerned, that clearly wasn't the case. "Come, dear sister," Jason teased, "is this the proper frame of mind with which to attend the house of the Lord?"
Savannah shifted her glare in his direction. "Silence, Jason."
"She's very eloquent when she's angry," Jason confided to Krystyna, not bothering to lower his voice.
Krystyna took no pains to hide the smile that came to her lips. There were times when he could be very amusing. It almost made her forget to be wary.
"You look even better when you smile," he whispered.
"I feel better when I have something to smile about."
He nodded and said nothing. At least she was speaking to him with more than single words. He would find his path in this. It need only take time and he had plenty of that, he judged.
Krystyna had not expected that any house of worship she found in the Colonies would be ornate. But in her wildest musings, she had never envisioned a church would look so austere. So poor. She was used to opulence. The landowners she knew took pride in the building where they came to bow their heads before the only power they recognized as above them. Even the peasants found joy in the splendor of the church. It was something beautiful to cling to in a world full of dirt and meagerness. They took their religion very seriously, and they felt the more ornate the decoration, the greater the expression of their belief in God.
Jason saw Krystyna's shocked expression as he helped her down from the carriage. She hardly seemed to notice his hands on her waist. "Not what you're used to, is it?"
She only shook her head. She didn't want to insult anyone with her reaction. "It is different," was all she said.
The bareness inside appalled her. There were no flowered altars, no rich statues, no stained-glass windows creating pools of rainbows. Only a tall pulpit facing rows of pews. And a tall man of fifty, clothed in black.
Krystyna studied the man standing next to the pulpit as she slowly followed Jason down the aisle. This had to be the man of God they had come to listen to. She saw no warmth in his face, but then, she had heard of many a priest who was his own man before he was God's.
"In here." Jason ushered her into the first pew.
Savannah pursed her lips angrily. That was her place. Winthrop had been waiting at the door for her to arrive, and he now looked at his fiancee questioningly.
"Savannah, why are they—?"
She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. "Be quiet." She didn't want a scene here with everyone else watching. In her heart, she knew she would lose in any confrontation. Jason would best her; he was on that wretch's side.
Savannah looked at Winthrop. His face was contorted by pain. She hadn't jabbed him that hard. The simpleton! His face reminded her of a dumb ox's. With an impatient gesture, she motioned him toward the second pew. Under no circumstances did she want to be in the same pew as Krystyna.
The Reverend Blake focused his myopic eyes on the first pew, and he wondered who the woman next to Jason McKinley was and why she had displaced his nephew and future niece. He was surprised that the rest of the McKinley household, save that traitorous old fool, had shown up for services. Perhaps his sermons had finally attracted them. The thought brought a smile to his thin lips.
He rose behind the pulpit, then stood, waiting for the murmuring to stop. When he finally began, his tone was loud and resonant, filling all the corners and spaces of the small building.
Krystyna listened, waiting to hear something that would move her, something that would bring peace to the turmoil she felt inside. But as the reverend went on and on, his words were not of love, not of caring for one's self and one's neighbor. His sermon was about hate. The hate that was being generated in the Colonies, aimed against their beloved mother country.
Krystyna looked at Jason. "Is it always like this?" she whispered.
He inclined his head toward her and saw the reverend's eyes shift in their direction. "Usually," he replied. "That's why I don't care to attend very often." He saw the reverend as an older version of Winthrop, except a lot thinner. And more forceful. But just as vain and just as inclined to give himself airs when none were warranted.
The reverend's voice grew louder as he glared in their direction. How dare they speak when he was preaching?
"This is what comes from immorality," he thundered, pounding the pulpit with his fist. "From leaving yourselves open to the devil. Yes, the devil, I say." His eyes washed over the congregation he couldn't quite see. "His influence is everywhere. Aren't the young people taking to wearing brighter colors?" Pointedly, he looked at Krystyna, who had chosen to wear the only bright dress that Lucinda had brought her. It annoyed him that she didn't flinch beneath his accusing eye. "Where are the somber, pious hues of yesterday? Gone in the wake of the French and their godless influence. Everywhere we turn, there is the devil, whispering in our ears, telling us to defy our good King, to bite the hand that feeds us and cares for us. And we listen. Yes," he shouted, "we listen." He shook his head in amazed disbelief. "It is time we stopped listening. For if we do not
, there will be havoc among us and when we die, we shall all burn in the fires of everlasting hell!"
The man gripped the pulpit with both hands, his voice rising even higher. "Repent! Repent I say, for it is not too late. Those of you who have allowed yourselves to be vain, who have decorated your homes with paintings, tapestries of the devil, rid yourselves of them now, for they are what is leading you astray. They are weakening your moral fiber, allowing you to become indulgent, making you crave more." He shook his head at the congregation's transgressions. "Always more. This cry for freedom is part of the depraved craving that feeds upon you. It is not your fault, my friends, for it was introduced by those heathen idolaters, the papal lovers."
Jason saw Krystyna's knuckles whiten as she clenched her fists in her lap, and he noted the smoldering look in her eyes. He hadn't thought that Blake would be this bombastic and insulting. He regretted bringing her. It would be another thing she would hold against him.
Krystyna couldn't take any more. The man's last words had broken her resolve to suffer his sermon in patient silence. They were a direct insult to her religion. She rose to her feet and saw the reverend's mouth drop open in midsentence.
Jason stood up as well, and something in Krystyna's heart warmed at this silent support. She saw Lucinda looking at her with horror-stricken eyes, and regretted the distress she was causing her, but in good conscience, she could not remain and listen to the preacher any longer. Krystyna left the pew.
"Young woman, where are you going?" the reverend demanded angrily. "I am not finished, and no one leaves while I am preaching." His voice commanded her to return and to repent her willful transgression, even as he thought he would use her in next week's sermon as an example of heathenish behavior.
Krystyna squared her shoulders. She hadn't wanted to cause a scene, merely to leave. But she couldn't go without answering. She turned to face him and saw that the others in the church were regarding her with curiosity. "You are not preaching, you are shouting," she pointed out, and saw his frown turn ugly. "None of your words concern God, or love or understanding. I do not wish to listen to your sermon of hate any longer. Your words are lies."
With that, she turned and continued to walk out.
"Heathen!" Blake shouted after her. "Nonbeliever!"
Krystyna kept walking until she was outside.
Once the door was shut behind them, Jason scooped her up into his arms and kissed her soundly. She was totally dumbfounded by his reaction. "You were wonderful!" He laughed, spinning her around.
There was no doubt about it. The man confused her. She had expected him to be annoyed with her for embarrassing him. Instead, he'd not only joined her when she'd left but he approved.
"I guess we won't be coming back here," he said as he set her down again. He took her hand and walked back to the carriage.
The driver had been dozing lightly. He awoke with a start, surprised to see them. His brown eyes searched the area for signs of the others as he wondered why the service was over so quickly. But none of the family members followed. Thinking the couple had come out to get some air, he settled back to wait and was asleep again within moments.
This had been a disappointing experience. Krystyna would have liked the comfort of pious, hopeful words for her troubled soul. "I shall pray in my own fashion." She looked back at the small building. It was bathed in shadow. Even the sun avoided it. "There is no joy in listening to words of hate."
Jason leaned against the carriage. "You'll probably be the subject of his next four sermons."
The smile he wore took over every feature on his face. "You seem very pleased."
He didn't want her to misunderstand. "Not about that, but it's nice to see someone put that pompous windbag in his place. He thinks he walks on water."
Krystyna didn't reply. There were many things about this America that she didn't understand or like. She couldn't wait to go back home again.
Jason helped her into the carriage and they prepared to wait for the others. "The old man will certainly be tickled to learn about this."
"Your father?" He nodded. "Mr. McKinley does not like him, either?"
"Hates him," Jason corrected. His father had never been a very religious man, but while Reverend Abernathy had led the congregation, Morgan had dutifully attended. If nothing else, it was an excuse for a social gathering. But when Abernathy had died and Blake had taken his place, Morgan had suffered the man once and never returned. He had walked out on the sermon as well. They were a lot alike, this wild vixen who made his blood warm and his father.
"Then I am in good company, at least."
"At the very least," he agreed as the doors of the church opened.
Krystyna didn't realize, as she watched Savannah stalk toward her, the others keeping well behind, that Jason had taken her hand and that a warm, comforting feeling had come over her because of it. Instinctively, she curled her fingers into his and waited for the others to reach them.
Chapter Fourteen
Teaching Christopher was not an easy matter. Krystyna found him to be a rather bright boy but hostile to the idea of having a female instructor. It wasn't that he'd liked Master Phipps. He'd hated the soured, prissy old man. Phipps had been waspish and given to beating his student about the head and shoulders if the lesson wasn't learned to his satisfaction. Having more than a dose of his grandfather's pride, Christopher hadn't complained to his mother about the beatings. Instead, he'd suffered them in silence, waiting for the day he would be rid of Master Phipps.
But he was far from pleased with the dour man's replacement. He didn't like his tutor being a foreigner, and her gender added insult to injury, for in his opinion women taught babies. At the age of ten, Christopher saw himself as being closer to a man than to a child. He had, Krystyna soon came to see, the McKinley arrogance.
Christopher was always polite to her, but he challenged almost everything she said. Lessons ran between four to five hours each day, and she felt bone weary after each session.
But as the days rolled into weeks and Christopher discovered that he couldn't antagonize his new teacher, that she wouldn't be cowed, that though she could be stern, she was fair and never abusive, he grudgingly accepted her and began to listen to what she was telling him. As his hostility dissipated, Christopher discovered that history, a subject he had always found extremely boring, now unfolded before him like a vast, continuing story. The main characters came and went, but the thread, the progress of humanity, continued throughout the ages. Krystyna made learning a challenging pleasure rather than a hateful chore.
Christopher forgot to be bored and began to look forward to his lessons. By December, he and Krystyna were great friends.
"What does this mean?" Christopher jabbed a finger at a word in the book Krystyna had given him to study. The room was lit with candles, though it was only coming upon noon. It was snowing outside, and the sky had gone dark with heavy clouds.
He has hands like Jason's, she suddenly thought as she bent over to read the word. Christopher was tall for his age and very fair of face, much fairer than Jason, yet he reminded her of him. In Christopher, she saw what Jason must have been like as a boy.
"Renaissance," she read. She straightened up. "Renaissance means rebirth," she explained when he looked at her uncertainly, waiting for further clarification. "It is a name given to this particular period of history because literature and art became important again for the people. Their interests were renewed, reborn," she emphasized the last word and was rewarded with a look of understanding on the young boy's face. "During that time, artists were encouraged to enrich people's minds."
Christopher absorbed this information and appeared to mull it over. He cocked his head and asked, "Is that what we're having now?"
Krystyna looked at him, trying to guess what had prompted his question. She thought of the straitlaced life of many of the people that she met since she had arrived at Smoke Tree. She remembered her only visit to the church, where the bombastic preac
her had stood in the pulpit and damned artistry until his very neck had turned red above his stiff collar. He had proclaimed art to be the work of the devil. From what she had gathered, there were many other people here who shared the same view.
She sat down beside Christopher. Her action pleased him a great deal. It was as if she regarded him her equal. "I am afraid I do not understand. I do not know of any artists or writers that you have here."
Christopher shook his head, his blond hair dancing about his ears. "No, no, you said rebirth. Grandfather says that's what's happening now. To us," he added when she still didn't look as if she understood.
"Oh?" He meant the revolution. This was an area that she would have to handle delicately. The boy's father and grandfather were in direct disagreement on this subject and while her pact was with the elder, it wouldn't do any good to antagonize Aaron. "Tell me what your grandfather says."
She didn't need to coax him. He would tell her anything she wanted to know. Christopher was beginning to bear a great affection for his teacher. In fact, he had wondered if she would wait for him to grow up before finding someone to marry. He'd decided if she liked him enough, she would. "Well, Grandfather says that the King is making life hard for us, and if he doesn't stop treating us like serfs," he said importantly, "we're going to rebel and make him listen to us. He's awfully far away, you know, and can't do that much to us."
Krystyna shook her head sadly. "Oh, I am afraid kings have very long arms, Christopher. King George has many soldiers to send over to make your countrymen stay in line."
Christopher's face fell as he looked at her. He had been so sure that he had found a real friend. "Then you agree with my father?"
What have I said to make him so unhappy? she wondered as she looked down into the distressed face. "What does your father say?"
Moonlight Rebel Page 14
