Wilhelm glowered toward the Trustees’ Office, at the west end of the village, where the dust was still settling from the recent departure of the sheriff’s brown Buick. Rose stood near him, but not too near, in front of the Ministry House. To be truthful, she very much wanted to keep Wilhelm out of the way. He had a habit of stirring up pots that were already boiling. She hoped to determine the truth of Hugh Griffiths’ death quickly and quietly.
“Well, what did the sheriff conclude? Are we to be blamed, as usual?”
Rose paused to measure her words. “He certainly did not conclude that we Believers are responsible for Hugh’s death,” she said. “As you know, the sheriff is not a supporter of ours, but he is not an unreasonable man. And certainly not stupid.”
Wilhelm snorted. “Thy faith would be better placed in Mother Ann.”
“My faith is in Mother Ann, and in the Father and Holy Mother Wisdom, and I’m sure they will be with us, as they always have before.”
“So it is thy belief we should put ourselves in the hands of the Sheriff?”
“For the time being,” Rose said. “All evidence so far points to suicide, and the Sheriff did not deny that.” She did not add that Brock seemed open to, even eager for, any evidence to the contrary.
“Was there a note? It is my experience that suicides compound the cowardice of their crime by requesting forgiveness beforehand, as if wanting God to give them permission to sin.”
“Nay, there was no note found near the . . . near Hugh.” Rose worried that Brock might pursue the murder notion out of spite that all apparent sources of evidence had been tampered with, but she kept that concern to herself.
“I haven’t time to waste; there is work to be done,” Wilhelm said. “We shall have a worship service following the evening meal. We must make sure our visitors attend.”
“Wilhelm, you know the New-Owenites are not in tune with our faith. Why don’t we just—”
Wilhelm’s blue eyes hardened. “It seems the fire in thy heart is dying out. I fear what we have come to, with such a worldly eldress as thee. There is clearly a sickness of the soul among these visitors of ours. If we can turn even one of them from his carnal life, we will have served. See that the women attend this evening. I will see to the men.” Wilhelm settled his flat-brimmed work hat on his head and strode toward the barn.
Rather than tackle the task of convincing the New-Owenites—who were opposed to any form of organized religion—to attend evening worship, Rose gave in to her curiosity and concern about the quiet waif, Mairin. It was nearly time for the noon meal; Charlotte and the children should be back from their hunt for black walnuts. Though it was Tuesday, the morning’s lessons had been canceled due to Hugh’s death. The children would not need to return to the Schoolhouse until the afternoon, so now they might be doing chores in the Children’s Dwelling House.
Despite the tragedy she had so recently witnessed, Rose’s spirits lifted as the sun edged away from its cloud covering and warmed her shoulders. She untied her long cloak to let the breeze billow the wool away from her skin. Avoiding the dusty, unpaved central road, she walked through the bluegrass, now brown and layered with fallen sour gum leaves, their intense reds fading to rust.
As she passed the open door of the Sisters’ Shop, a strong, insistent voice reached her. It sounded familiar. She paused and listened. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone sounded persuasive. She walked closer until she recognized the harsh voice of Celia Griffiths. It surprised her that Celia would bother to visit the Sisters’ Shop so soon after her husband’s death, let alone talk earnestly with the sisters—who, presumably, were working hard at their dyeing, weaving, and sewing.
Rose began to feel self-conscious. She knew that Wilhelm had given Celia, and the other visitors, permission to roam the village freely and learn what they could from the Shakers, so their own utopian experiment might avert the chaotic demise of the original Owenite colony. But what she was hearing in the Sisters’ Shop sounded more like teaching than learning. If Rose interceded now, Celia would probably stop immediately, but Rose was curious to know what was going on. She moved on quickly toward the Children’s Dwelling House, promising herself that later she would chat with Sister Isabel, who should be weaving in the Sisters’ Shop. She could count on Isabel to remember every detail of the episode.
Within moments, Rose heard children’s laughter coming from behind the Children’s Dwelling House. She followed the sound to the garden in back, given over entirely to the care of the children. The plants—herbs and vegetables, with a few flowers, in defiance of the rule against ornamentation—were mostly dead now, with the exception of a few hardy perennials. The children were taking advantage of the warmth to dig up dead annuals and turn the soil in preparation for spring. Charlotte was hard at work along with them.
Mairin sat off to the side, cross-legged in a corner of the garden. With slow and careful movements, she was turning over spadesful of black loam and breaking up clumps. Rose approached the girl. Charlotte and several other girls smiled or waved at her, but Mairin concentrated on her task. She did not look up until she saw Rose’s feet in front of her.
She gazed at Rose with wide coppery-green eyes and her mouth slightly open. She did not smile or even register recognition. From Rose’s height, Mairin looked like a toddler. The urge to sweep her up and hold her was strong, but the girl’s odd detachment kept Rose still.
“You remember me, don’t you? I’m Rose; we met in the orchard.”
Mairin gave a solemn nod.
“Would you like to go for a walk with me?”
A moment of hesitation, then another nod. Rose held out her hand. Mairin rolled up on her knees and stood with a hint of awkwardness, as if her joints weren’t set quite right. But she did not reach for Rose’s hand. Something told Rose to stay as she was. After what felt like interminable moments, Mairin slid her small hand into Rose’s.
The lifting of her own heart startled Rose. She didn’t know how or why, but this strange little girl touched her. Perhaps she sensed the wound lurking beneath the detached self-possession.
“I have an idea,” Rose said. “Have you ever tasted candied angelica root? I think the Kitchen Sisters recently finished putting up a large batch. Most of it we sell to the world, but we do keep some aside for ourselves. Let’s go see, shall we?”
“See you later, Mairin.” Nine-year-old Nora glanced up from her digging and grinned. “I’ll ask Charlotte if you can stay in my retiring room, okay? We could have a lot of fun—you, me, and Betsy.”
“Okay.” It was the first word Rose had heard Mairin speak since her departure from the orchard earlier. Rose was encouraged. If Nora could befriend her, Mairin might begin to blossom. Rose gave Nora an approving smile before leading Mairin toward the Center Family Dwelling House kitchen.
As they opened the outside door to the kitchen, they were enveloped with warm, fragrant air. Sister Gertrude, the Kitchen deaconess, was just removing a dozen or so pans of sweet potato bread from the bread oven. From a smaller oven came the fresh, crusty smell of vegetable potpies. There was plenty of good food this time of year, following the harvest, but the North Homage Shakers had elected to designate vegetarian days, both to stretch out the precious meat and in the belief that such a diet would be good for their health.
Rose had forgotten that the noon meal would be served within the hour. She should not be feeding candied angelica root to Mairin, who clearly had suffered from malnutrition. It might seem too tempting and spoil her appetite for more nourishing food. But when she saw the girl’s face, she changed her plan. Mairin’s eyes were wide and shiny as she gazed at the sweet potato bread, and her mouth stretched into a hopeful smile.
“Would you like to try some of the bread first?” Rose asked.
For an answer, Mairin reached out her free arm toward the nearest loaf. Her fingers arched in clutching desperation, the shape of her hand all the more clawlike because her knuckles were unusually large and knobby. She made a quick,
impatient sound in her throat.
“Nay, child, the pan will burn your fingers,” Gertrude said, but gently. It was clear Mairin was showing the effects of chronic starvation. Her desire for food was urgent They would have to be careful she didn’t gorge herself and become ill, Rose thought.
“Polly, cut the child a piece of bread,” Gertrude said. “And put a bit of butter on it.”
Mairin’s eyes never left the loaf as Polly popped it upside-down out of the pan, righted it, and cut off a thick, steaming slice. The butter melted and sank into the orange-tinted bread. Polly slid the slice onto a white plate and put it on the large nicked work table in the middle of the kitchen. Mairin pulled toward it, leaning her weight away from Rose’s restraining hand.
When Mairin reached the table, only the top of her head showed. Not to be daunted, she flung up her arm and grabbed at the plate. Sensing disaster, Rose held the girl around the waist with one arm and reached for a cushioned foot bench with the other. Some of the smaller girls were in the habit of using the foot bench to give themselves more leverage when working at the table. She plunked Mairin on top of it.
Instantly, the girl grabbed the bread and stuffed a corner in her mouth. She bit off nearly a quarter of the slice. Her cheeks puffed out, so filled with bread that she couldn’t chew. With a cry of frustration, she spit the bread back on the plate. All the kitchen sisters watched, horrified and fascinated. None of them had ever truly been hungry, and they had never seen such sad greed. Rose was also surprised that in the week and a half or so that the New-Owenites had been in North Homage, none of the sisters had seen Mairin eat before.
Tears streamed down the child’s face. It was the first show of genuine emotion Rose had seen in her.
“It’s all right, Mairin,” she said, stroking the girl’s fuzzy hair. “Just take it a bit more slowly, and you’ll do fine. I promise you can have all the food you need. That’s it, just a small bite.”
Mairin adjusted her mouth on another corner of the slice, until the bite was a reasonable size. Her tears dried and her eyes closed in ecstasy as she chewed and swallowed.
“Nay, slower now,” Rose said, as Mairin tried to stuff more into her next bite. “That’s right. See how delicious it is when you take it slowly? Now, just put the bread down and take a break, so your stomach can enjoy it, too.”
Mairin paused a few seconds but could not let go of the bread, nor could she shift her gaze anywhere else.
‘Time to put your hands to work, now, Sisters,” Gertrude said, breaking the spell. “The bell will be ringing any minute, and we aren’t nearly ready.” The kitchen sisters scattered.
Rose talked Mairin through the remainder of her slice of bread. By the time the straggle had ended, it was clear that the girl would need firm coaching to learn to eat properly. She still ate as if she’d just been brought in off the streets. How could she possibly have been with the New-Owenites for two full years and still be so controlled by the memory of starvation? Had Celia spent any time with her at all? Or had she quickly written the girl off as incorrigible? Celia had mentioned keeping her “out of civilized company.” Did she ever eat meals with other people? Rose felt the stirrings of a fierce protectiveness that before now had been reserved for Gennie Malone, a girl she had befriended at about this same age. But Gennie was grown up and planning to marry soon, and the mothering corner of Rose’s heart had gone dormant. Until now.
“I’ll tell you what, Mairin. There’s someone I want you to meet. She’s a very good friend of mine, but she is too frail to come to the dining room, so why don’t the two of us join her for lunch in her retiring room?”
Mairin’s face went blank again.
“I know you’ll like her,” Rose said. “Her name is Agatha, Agatha Vandenberg, and she was very kind to me when I was your age. We’ll go find some candied angelica root and bring it along to share with her, shall we?”
Mairin gave her single solemn nod, and Rose led her to the pantry. Intent as she was on food, Mairin also seemed fascinated with the kitchen. She paused to stare at the row of shiny copper-bottomed pots hanging from pegs spaced along a narrow strip of wood that encircled the kitchen wall at just above head level. Rose was glad to see her show some curiosity in her surroundings.
Rose cut a healthy slice from one of the sugar-coated boiled angelica roots laid out to dry on cookie sheets. She wrapped it in a kitchen cloth and decided to carry it herself after seeing Mairin’s avid gaze follow every movement. After telling Gertrude where they would be for the noon meal, Rose led Mairin out through the empty dining room and into the hallway. A few retiring rooms were located on the ground floor and reserved for the aged and infirm. Agatha now lived in one of them.
“Rose, what a double treat you’ve brought me,” Agatha said when Rose introduced Mairin and showed Agatha the angelica root. “Candy and a new friend, both.” She reached out a thin, trembling hand and touched Mairin’s arm. To Rose’s surprise, Mairin did not pull away. She studied Agatha’s fine-boned face with as much interest as she had given the copper-bottomed pans.
Mairin sucked on her lower Up for a moment, then smiled a slow, soft smile. “You are a pretty lady,” she said, in her low, lyrical voice.
Rose was stunned. She had never known anyone so full of surprises.
Agatha laughed with delight, a sound Rose had not heard since before her last stroke. “Thank you, child. You see with your heart. My own eyes have grown dim with age, but I can tell that you have quite lovely and unusual eyes. Did you get them from your mama or your papa?”
“Both,” Mairin said. “Mama had brown eyes, and papa’s were green. They’re both dead.”
Rose had to sit down. Agatha had always been able to speak directly to the soul, but lately Rose had to wonder if she was beginning her final angelic journey. Her powers seemed to intensify as her body weakened.
“It is very sad when your mama and papa die so young,” Agatha said. “Mine died when I was three, and poor Rose really doesn’t remember hers, either. How old were you, Mairin?”
“Five. But I remember them both.”
‘Tell me about them.”
Mairin pulled a small rocking chair over near Agatha and climbed into it. Her feet dangled above the ground, so she tucked them underneath her. Agatha handed her a soft, brown blanket from the arm of her own rocker. Mairin wrapped herself into it up to her neck. For the first time, she looked almost like a normal child.
“My mama was beautiful,” she said. “Her skin was darker than mine, and she sang a lot, especially when she was drinking. Papa was from Ireland. He drank a lot, too, and sometimes he and Mama beat on each other, and then Papa would beat on me. He always said he didn’t mean to hurt us.” Mairin’s tone was nonchalant.
Agatha’s smile had disappeared. “How did your mama die?”
Mairin’s face once again went blank. “One day they were beating on each other, and Papa threw Mama against the stove. She fell down and didn’t get up.”
“You were there?”
Mairin nodded. “I was hiding behind the door, and I could see through the crack.”
“What happened then?”
“Papa got his gun and shot himself through his mouth.” Mairin’s voice was lightly conversational. Nothing in her manner invited expressions of understanding or sympathy. It was as if she were recounting a bucolic scene she’d witnessed on a recent train ride. She snuggled down in her blanket, seemingly unaware of the silence that followed her revelation.
“Child, who took care of you after you lost your parents?” Agatha asked.
Mairin shrugged one thin shoulder. “Oh, I went here and there,” she said. “An aunt for a while, but then I had to leave. Other folks after that.” Her eyes wandered over to Agatha’s lamp table, where the candied angelica root lay wrapped in its cloth.
At that moment, a knock on the partly opened door announced the arrival of a kitchen sister with lunch. Rose set the tray on a small, pine desk. She cut portions from a vegetable po
tpie and delivered them to Agatha and Mairin before settling at the desk with the last portion for herself. The steam warmed her face, and she paused to breathe in the rich scent of herbs and pie crust before saying a silent grace.
As she munched her first bite, she glanced at Mairin to find her leaning close to her plate and shoveling the last bits of potpie into her already full mouth. Agatha watched, too, her own food untouched. She turned to Rose, sadness and understanding in her cloudy blue eyes.
“You know,” Agatha said, “I find I’m not terribly hungry just now. Would you care to help me eat my portion, Mairin?”
The girl slid off her chair, holding her blanket over her shoulders, and sat on her knees in front of Agatha’s rocker.
“Why don’t you bring over your spoon?” Agatha said. “I’ll keep the plate on my lap so it won’t spill, and we’ll share the food. How does that sound? I’ll take a bite, and then I’ll hold the plate so you can have a bite.” Agatha was weakened, especially on her right side, from a series of strokes. She had learned to eat with her left hand because her right was unreliable. Now, however, she picked up her spoon with her shaky right hand. Slowly she scooped up a small bite of pie and tried to lift it to her mouth. Halfway up, her hand began to tremble and dropped back to the plate.
Mairin’s eyes flashed with feral impatience. Her shoulders tightened and her hands clenched and unclenched as if she could barely keep from grabbing the plate from Agatha and pouring the food in her own mouth. Rose held her breath.
Agatha smiled gently. “I’m so sorry, child. You see, I’ve been very sick, and sometimes it is hard for me to manage to eat. I get very hungry, as you can imagine. I wonder if you would help me?”
With amazement, Rose watched Mairin’s face as Agatha spoke. Greed turned to confusion, and in an instant, when Agatha said how hungry she got, Mairin’s expression dissolved into pain. She rose up on her knees and took the spoon from Agatha’s shaking hand. Aiming carefully, she placed the spoon at Agatha’s lips and waited for her to chew and swallow. Agatha nodded to encourage the child to take her own portion, but instead of picking up her own spoon, Mairin scooped up another bite and brought it to Agatha’s mouth. Agatha was so surprised that she took several moments to accept the food.
A Simple Shaker Murder Page 3
