Numees lifted the basket of bean pods to show to Nijlon. She said something to her sister, and Betsy realized, startled, that she understood what she was saying.
“Many bean seeds for next year’s garden,” she was saying, and Nijlon nodded, pleased.
Next year.
Betsy’s contentedness evaporated. Will I still be here next year? And the year after that? Is this going to be what my life consists of?
Not Faxon’s Farm
October 4, 1763
It was a mellow day in early October. Felix balanced a log on the stump, stood back, cracked it dead center, and cleaved it with two whacks. He’d been waiting and waiting for school to let out. Anna had come to get Willie a half hour ago and was still in the house, probably talking to Dorothea. He’d already split a stack waist high, watching the house for the moment to strike. He’d chopped enough firewood to last through the winter.
Today was the perfect opportunity—Maria was over at Beacon Hollow, working with Anna and Tessa on the canvas to be stretched over the wagon hoops. It was a rare day that Maria did not spend at Not Faxon’s Farm and he aimed to make the most of this chance. Finally, he saw Anna and Willie leave, and then his own boys burst out of the house and into the woods to check on their beaver traps. He let the axe fall, grabbed a rag, and wiped his face and hands. He’d been sweating like it was a summer day. He picked up an armful of wood to take to the house, and wore his most purposeful expression.
Felix slowed as he went up the steps to the house so he could catch his breath. It wouldn’t do to seem too eager. His mother was resting in a chair by the fireplace and Catrina was cleaning up the table from the day’s activities. He looked around the room. He hadn’t noticed, but it was considerably cleaner. The clutter was gone. The room looked dusted, swept, sparkly clean. A copper pot gleamed on the mantel. Huh. He had never realized the pot was made of copper—it had been that badly tarnished, that badly in need of a polish.
Catrina stood at the end of the table, chin to her chest, riffling through a book, smiling absentmindedly at something that amused her. A stray lock of hair had slipped down and fallen against her cheek, and she tucked it behind one ear. Heaven’s sake, what a smile did to Catrina Müller’s face—eyes crinkling at the corners, lips softening. Gone was the stoic façade. For a moment Felix imagined Catrina belonged here, in the kitchen at Not Faxon’s Farm, that she was his woman, helping to raise his boys and care for his mother. She glanced up at him, and he realized he’d been staring and became self-conscious.
“That’s a lot of wood you’ve been chopping out there,” Catrina said.
Their eyes held for several beats while he felt his face flush with color. “Well, after all, winter is coming.” He dumped the wood in the box on the hearth, took his hat off, and held it against his chest, then cleared his throat. “Catrina, I wondered if perhaps you might be interested in going on a walk.”
She didn’t even look up as she filled her leather satchel with books she had brought with her. “A walk?”
“Yes. A walk.”
She cast a glance at him. “With you?”
“Yes.”
She paused and looked at Dorothea. “If you have something to discuss in private about your boys, I think your mother has fallen asleep. You can speak freely.”
As if on cue, Dorothea’s jaw went slack and she let out a loud snore.
“No. It’s nothing like that. I just thought it would be nice to go on a walk. It’s a beautiful autumn day.”
She stopped packing books and gave him a puzzled look. “Felix, are you asking to court me?”
Felix swallowed. “No!” Yes. Maybe. “Just a walk in the woods. That’s all.”
“Well, thank you for your interest, but no.”
“No?” No? Seriously? He backed off, rubbing his hands on his thighs self-consciously. He was never self-conscious. Never!
“No.” She picked up her satchel and headed toward the door.
“Why not?”
She stopped at the door. “Does there have to be a reason?”
“No. Yes! Why aren’t you interested in me?”
She put her satchel down. “You and I . . . we’re complete opposites.”
“But opposites are supposed to attract. Supposed to balance each other out.”
She shook her head. “This is different.”
“How so?”
“Please don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?”
She winced. “You are intellectually lazy.”
“I’m what? What?” Intellectually lazy. What does that even mean?
“Felix, when did you last read a book?”
Felix sputtered, at a loss for words. “I . . . um . . .” The truth was . . . he couldn’t remember ever finishing a book.
“If it weren’t for Anna’s and Dorothea’s insistence, your sons would be growing up unlearned. Ignorant backwoodsmen.”
“Ignorant? Ignorant! They can track a deer better than any man in our church!”
She lifted a finger in the air. “I will grant you that. They will not go hungry. But there is more to life than eating.”
Felix was once again at a loss for words. He had never, ever been spurned by a woman. Nor had he been told he was intellectually lazy! Which he wasn’t.
Maybe he was.
“Thank you, though, Felix, for your romantic ardor. It’s terribly flattering.” She picked up the stack of books and swept out the front door to her pony cart.
Romantic ardor? Hardly that. It was only a walk in the woods. That’s all! Did Catrina Müller have any idea how many girls would be honored to go on a walk with him? Dozens! At least two that he could name.
He ran outside as she climbed into the pony cart. “Did you know, Catrina, that I’m considered the most eligible bachelor in the county?”
“A bachelor is a man who’s too fast to be caught or too slow to be worth catching.” She flicked the pony’s reins and headed down the path.
Felix remained at the hitching post, watching the pony cart until it disappeared around the corner. He was dumbfounded. Flummoxed. And rather offended. His sons appeared at his side with curious looks on their upturned faces.
“Boys, I’ve made a decision. Catrina’s given you a fine start at book learning. But I’m going to tell her that we won’t be needing her anymore. I’ll take over from here.”
The boys exchanged surprised looks. Horrified looks. “Pa,” Benjo said, taking the lead as was his nature, “we want to learn to read.”
“Yup.” Dannie lifted his hat to scratch his head. “I want to get my sums figured out too, so I can trade my skins and not get cheated.”
“Of course you do. And I’ll teach you.”
Benjo smacked himself in the head and fell backward, sprawled on the grass. “Not this again!”
“Not what again?”
Benjo lifted his head off the ground and looked at Felix. “You say you’ll teach us but you never get around to it.”
Felix was flabbergasted. Kerfuffled. The world was upside down. “So let me get this straight. You want to learn to read.”
Benjo sobered, sat up and looked at his father. “Yes.”
“And you don’t think I can teach you.”
“Nope.”
“But you think Catrina can teach you.”
Benjo made his floppy hair bounce by nodding so hard. “She teaches us the stuff that matters most.”
Felix started sputtering. Teaches them things that matter most? What did they think he’d been doing for the last nine years?
“Pa, she’s not so bad,” Benjo said.
“In fact, we like her,” Dannie piped in. “And she’s nice to poor Willie.”
“She’s nothing like you warned us she’d be,” Benjo said. “All those stories you told us—like how she tricked you into getting drunk on the Charming Nancy, and how she was always tattling on you—she has a different version of those stories.”
Dannie looked up at Felix w
ith wide, unblinking eyes. “Maybe you have her confused in your head with someone else on the ship.”
Felix felt his face flush as Benjo’s words struck home. Catrina Müller wasn’t the girl he’d remembered. Nothing like her.
Beacon Hollow
October 16, 1763
On Sunday, right before church ended, Bairn stood between the benches and turned in a circle to look around at everyone, his smiling gray eyes resting on Anna. She felt a rush of feelings well up for him: love, admiration, respect.
“After our fellowship meal, I hope you will stay on for a few extra moments.” Bairn pressed his hands together. “The Conestoga wagon is, at long last, completed. So many of you played a part in the making of it—all the women had a hand in spinning the linen and weaving the sturdy canvas, Anna, Tessa, and Maria waterproofed it with linseed oil and stretched it over the hoops, Hans made the hardware from his forge, Felix trained his new breed of horses to pull it, Martin Gingerich made the hemp ropes out of flax.”
Bairn glanced at the men in the back row. “Many of you gave up time in your fields to work alongside me in the carpentry shop, to share a suggestion or two. Your advice and practical help shaped this wagon.” He smiled, and lifted his arms wide. “Working together, we have achieved far more than we could have ever hoped. Let us take a moment to thank God for the gift of community.”
So like my husband. To give praise to others for this mighty accomplishment. Over a year of his life had been consumed in the design and building of this wagon, yet he deflected all personal tribute to extend out to the church and give glory to God.
Early Monday morning, a bitter wind swept over the orchards and swirled about the house and barn, but it did not slow Faxon Gingerich from arriving before dawn to claim the wagon. Bairn had predicted as much after seeing Martin at church yesterday. “Were it not for the Sabbath, Faxon would be here today,” he had told Anna as they readied for bed. “Expect him when the cock crows.” Bairn had purposely waited for Sunday to declare the completion of the wagon—he wanted their little church to have the first look at it.
On this morning, Faxon brought his son Martin along, a fine young man who was smitten with Tessa, which endeared him to Anna, as did the fact that he had started to attend their church on his own church’s off Sundays. Tessa was not at all endeared to him; long ago, Martin had made some kind of disparaging remark that had revealed a permanent flaw in his character, Tessa firmly decided. When her daughter made up her mind about someone, good or bad, there was no changing it. That, Anna pointed out to her, revealed a flaw in her own character. Tessa frowned and insisted her mother just didn’t understand.
Anna invited Faxon and Martin into the house and out of the cold while Bairn went to prepare the wagon. She heard Tessa’s footsteps above in the loft. Martin heard, too, and kept glancing up the stairs to see if Tessa might be coming down. She sighed, knowing her daughter. Tessa wouldn’t dare come down as long as Martin was in the kitchen.
Anna served Faxon a cup of hot tea which he laced heavily with cream and sugar, then served him another. He sat impatiently at the table, drumming his fingers.
“I have freight to haul to Philadelphia this very morning,” Faxon growled as Anna poured a third cup of tea.
Too bad, she thought, smiling sweetly. He would have to wait right there until the sun rose. She knew Bairn wanted the appearance of the horses and wagon to have the proper impact on Faxon after so many months of his haggling, nagging, and criticizing.
As the morning sun broke through the trees and lit the yard, streaming into the east-facing window and onto the wooden floorboards, she heard the sound she’d been waiting for, the signal that Bairn was ready. Faxon lifted his head and perked up, reminding Anna just a little of their dog Zeeb. It was the sound of bells.
Faxon drained his cup, ran the back of his hand across his lips, and lurched to his feet. “Well, at long last, I believe the wagon awaits.”
They hurried outside. Bairn was guiding the wagon into the yard, pulled by Felix’s young colts, trained to act as a team. The sight of it was magnificent and Faxon’s eyes went wide with awe. Martin, who had seen the sight yesterday after church, couldn’t stop grinning.
Six big and beautiful horses, two by two, with bells tinkling above their harnesses to act as warnings to anything in their way, pulled this long, boatlike wagon, with wheels as tall as a man, and canvas covering stretched tight over the bows. Bairn walked along the left side, reins in his hands.
Faxon Gingerich, for once in his life, was speechless. He walked from the front of the horses to the back of the wagon, then around the other side, dumbfounded, before he recovered his senses. “Can it float?”
“No,” Bairn said, laughing. “It is not meant to act as a boat. But it should be able to get through a creek or river without getting any supplies wet. The back end comes down, like a hatch, to make filling the wagon easier.”
“What wood did you use? I’d forgotten.”
“Black gum. Its grain makes it nearly unsplittable.”
Faxon asked a few more questions, listened as Bairn taught him how to steer the team of horses, and then he did something unexpected. He thrust his hand out to shake Bairn’s hand and said, “Thank you, Bairn Bauer.”
14
Monongahela River
October 18, 1763
Along the shore of the river on a sunny afternoon, Betsy scraped dried corn kernels off cobs using the jawbone of a deer. Its sharp edge worked surprisingly well.
“That is not a new task for you.”
She looked up to find Caleb standing at a distance. She hadn’t been aware of his presence until he spoke, but that was not unusual. He had a way of silently appearing and disappearing. She smiled. “Yes, I’ve done this many times for my mother.” She lifted the jawbone. “Though I’ve never used a bone to scrape before.”
He dropped to the ground beside her, crossing his legs, and pulled out his knife to help her get through the large basket of dried corn. As they worked, they fell into an easy conversation, flowing as naturally between them as if they’d been longtime friends.
“We had no corn in Germany,” Betsy said. “It was new to my family when we reached the New World, but we learned to adapt quickly. It wasn’t long before it was part of every meal. Cornbread, succotash, pones, fry bread, johnnycakes.”
“Johnnycakes?”
“It’s a flat, thin cake, useful to carry on a day’s journey. My father used to take a stack of them when he went to Germantown to buy farm supplies. My brother Johnny thought they were named for him.” She hadn’t spoken much of her home and family to Caleb, and as she spoke, a terrible, raw longing welled up. She looked down at her lap and pinched a fold in her dress, trying to master her feelings. When she glanced up, she saw in his face not the sympathy she’d expected, but a startled recognition. “What is it?” she managed to utter.
“I was remembering,” he said, in a voice as hoarse as her own, “of the time after my mother died. My father had died years earlier, of injury, and now my mother was gone, of sickness. I could not—” He stopped and shook his head. “I could not see a way out of sadness.” He dropped his chin to his chest. “You do not feel at home here, do you?” He lifted his head to look at her.
She stared into his eyes a moment too long. She felt a strange seizing, deep in her heart—as if it, like the whole rest of the world, had ceased beating. “No. No, I don’t.”
“Can you not try?” In his eyes was a plea. “Try to accept this life?”
She shook her head, eyes stinging with tears. “I can not.”
“Betsy, abandon your dream of returning,” he said. “This is your home. We are now your family.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks, splashing on her dress. “I still have a family. My family is my brother, Johnny. Someday, we will be together again. I have to believe that. I don’t belong here, Caleb. I never will.”
He reached over and took the deer jawbone out of her hands. “But you a
re becoming Indian.”
She shook her head. “Even if I wear Indian clothing and use Indian tools, in my heart, I belong elsewhere. My heart is elsewhere. My heart . . . belongs to someone else. My heart is pledged to another man.”
Slowly, he rose, walked down to the river, and stood facing it with his arms crossed against his chest. She knew the look, the stance, well on him. Those were the moments when he seemed most alone to her, most self-contained. Not lonely, but not reachable. After several long moments, he returned to her, but didn’t say another word. He bent down to brush her cheek with his hand, gently running a finger down her scar, the tenderest of gestures. He left her to finish her task and went back to tend the fire.
It was late when she returned to the wigwam. She felt weary—and grateful when Numees scooped a bowl of stew from the pot over the small fire and handed it to her. They ate in silence, side by side. She knew Numees sensed her distress, but she did not have enough command of the language to explain why, nor did she want to try.
Blue Lake Pond
October 30, 1763
As long as the weather cooperated, Hans, Tessa, and Willie spent Sunday afternoons at Blue Lake Pond. Hans taught poor Willie to skim rocks, to fish, to build a fire using a flint. Too often, Martin Gingerich would appear, joining them as if invited, though he wasn’t. To be fair, Blue Lake Pond was a gathering place for the handful of young people of Stoney Ridge. On this sunny afternoon, to Tessa’s delight, Martin did not tag along. She had Hans all to herself. Along with poor Willie.
Tessa’s feelings for Hans grew stronger each time she was with him. She had always known she loved him, but the last few weeks, she had fallen even deeper, even further; she was helplessly, hopelessly in love with him.
She knew Hans was caring of her, but she also knew that his eyes did not hold a unique ardor for her, not the way her father looked at her mother, as if she were a precious treasure. Or the way she had caught her uncle Felix gazing at Catrina during church this morning, as if he’d been struck by Cupid’s arrow.
The Return Page 16
