A Simple Shaker Murder

by Deborah Woodworth

  A boy ran up to Mairin. Rose didn’t know the boy by name, but he was a child of one of the farm families living near North Homage, brought daily to the village for schooling. He put his hands on his hips and seemed to be scolding the girl. Nine-year-old Nora stopped her play and watched the two. She ran toward them as the boy started wagging his finger at Mairin, who shrank back against the wall. Soon Nora and the boy were arguing, and Mairin slipped away from them, back into the Schoolhouse.

  Rose picked up her skirts and ran toward the building. She could hear Gilbert hurrying behind her. The back door of the Schoolhouse led to a small storage room, then on to the schoolroom. In one corner of the storage room, behind a row of unused desks, Mairin had curled herself into a ball. Charlotte knelt beside her, but the child cowered away from her.

  “Rose, what has happened?” Charlotte asked. “Mairin seems terrified, but I can’t get a word out of her. Has she been hurt? I wish I’d been out there, but I had some work to do, and I thought the children would be fine on their own for a while, with the older ones watching the younger ones.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Rose said. “It looked as if one of the local boys was teasing Mairin, and she became frightened.”

  “Did he hurt her? Oh dear, Wilhelm will insist we teach the boys and girls separately again, and we have no one else to help.”

  “Don’t worry yourself now,” Gilbert said. “It looked to me like the normal sort of nonsense little boys get into when they haven’t been trained in the proper environment.” He seemed oblivious to the sharp stares Rose and Charlotte aimed at him. “He needs civilizing, but he did no actual harm. And Mairin is a bit over-sensitive.”

  “Did it occur to you she might have been hurt in the past and is easily frightened because of it?” Rose asked, not masking the irritation in her voice. She, too, knelt near Mairin and lightly stroked her hair. Mairin jumped as she felt the touch. Rose was troubled by the girl’s trembling, which was severe enough to seem almost like a seizure.

  “We know very little of Mairin’s experiences before she came to us. I’m sure you noticed she isn’t very communicative,” Gilbert said, ignoring the fact that Mairin could hear him. “No doubt she was treated roughly on the streets, but now she has been well cared for these past two years, with the very best environment, so I’m afraid what we are witnessing is an innate weakness in her. She may never achieve a fully civilized state, though I believe she can be made better.”

  Rose sat back on her heels and stopped stroking Mairin, for fear the sizzling anger she felt would charge through her veins and into the child’s awareness. Nor could she chance a look at Charlotte, whose rage, she knew, would be at least equal to her own.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Griffiths, you would be good enough to leave us alone with Mairin for a spell. Although she knows and surely trusts you, the company of women might be more soothing to her just now.” She forced herself to smile.

  Far from taking offense, Gilbert seemed relieved. “Of course, I’ll leave her with you two.” He backed away too quickly and tripped on one of the stored desks, but managed to right himself without damage.

  “Before you leave, I have one other suggestion,” Rose said. “If you would be willing to let me, I would like to try my hand at—civilizing, you said?—civilizing Mairin for the remainder of your visit. She has seemed to respond well to me, and I would like to know her better. It would free you to spend your time most productively learning what you hope to about living together in a community. Would you and Celia be agreeable?”

  The storeroom was dim, but Rose thought Gilbert’s eyes lit up. “Well, we are quite fond of Mairin, of course, but if you’d like to try your hand with her, I’m sure Celia would not object. I’ll talk to her right away. We’ll want to know how she’s doing, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Gilbert left so fast that Rose laughed out loud.

  “I’m sure he hopes Mairin will be redeemed—especially if someone else does it for him,” Charlotte murmured, as she stood and brushed off her long skirt. “I’d really better go out and check on the children. Will you two be all right?”

  “Yea, go on ahead.”

  Mairin had stopped trembling and fastened her bright eyes on Rose, who leaned toward her and reached out a hand. “Can you stand up?”

  Mairin slipped her hand into Rose’s and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.

  “Have you been hurt?” Rose asked.

  Mairin shook her head.

  “Is it all right with you if you stay in my care for a bit?”

  The girl nodded.

  “Good. We’ll go to the kitchen and have a treat soon. But first, would you tell me what that little boy said to you? I promise you’ll feel much better if you talk about it.”

  Mairin was silent for a few moments. When she spoke, Rose was again taken aback by her strangely mature voice. “He called me a little monkey,” she said. “He said my mama must have swung from trees, and that’s why I’m a brown runt with no manners.”

  “I’m so sorry that was said to you,” Rose said. She blinked back tears as she sought the right words. “You know you aren’t . . . what he said, don’t you?”

  Mairin shrugged. “Other people have said those things to me. They don’t bother me so much anymore.”

  “But you were frightened, Mairin. What frightened you?”

  Mairin shrugged again.

  “Who were the ‘other people’? Families you lived with after your parents died?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Mairin, did those people ever say or do other things, too?”

  A wave of fear washed over the girl’s face. She pulled her hand back and stepped away from Rose. “I’m hungry. Can we get a treat now?”

  “I know it’s hard to think about times when people hurt you, but it’ll help if you tell me. I promise. Did anyone beat you?”

  Mairin’s face went blank, as if she had stepped into another world. “I’m bad a lot,” she said, without emotion.

  Rose sensed Mairin had reached her limit. “We can talk about this more at another time,” she said. “Let’s go get something to eat, shall we?” As she took Mairin’s limp hand and led her into the sunshine, one more question haunted her. She couldn’t put it off. “Mairin, when you said you are bad a lot, do you mean . . . now? Do you still think you are bad a lot?”

  “Yes, a lot.”

  Rose’s jaw tightened, and the tears that hovered on her eyelids were tears of fury.

  SEVEN

  A BRISK WIND HAD KICKED UP BEFORE THE EVENING MEAL, AND Wilhelm’s announcement of a worship service indoors was greeted by the Believers with pleasure. Though a man had died, a service also meant staying warm and together, rather than trudging off alone or in small groups for another hour or two of chores. In recent years North Homage had struggled to keep going with too few Believers and too much work. They continued to feed and assist visitors, neighbors, anyone who needed their help, but their own strength and resources were dwindling. Little was said about the end many feared was coming. Worship held them together and reconnected them with the heaven they longed for.

  With Rose’s help, Sister Charlotte had settled the children, including Mairin, in the Children’s Dwelling House, with the older ones watching over bedtime preparations and prayers. The wind had died down by the time they’d left for the Center Family Dwelling House, but their wool cloaks felt good in the crisp air. More than likely it would be warm again by the next afternoon; autumn was a long and glorious season, inching its way into the damp, overcast days of winter.

  Rose and Charlotte were the last to arrive at the Center Family Dwelling House. The large meeting room, where the service was to be held, was divided in half by an open space which, separated rows of chairs. Women sat on one side, men on the other, facing each other. Most of the worshipers still wore their loose Shaker work clothes, giving the room the look of a sketch from an earlier century. Old-fashioned dress was part of Wilhelm’s plan
to pull North Homage back to the days when it was growing and vibrant. So far, his scheme had seen little effect; the village continued to dwindle, and setting themselves apart from the world only seemed to make their neighbors less tolerant of the Shakers, despite their reputation for honesty and high quality products.

  Among the long, drab dresses with white kerchiefs crisscrossed over the bodice, Rose spotted some worldly clothing. She had informed the New-Owenite women that the worship service would honor Hugh Griffiths, as Wilhelm had asked her to, and they had all shown up. She skimmed the men’s side of the room and saw all the male New-Owenites in attendance. As her gaze moved from Gilbert Griffiths, she met the eyes of Brother Andrew. They gave one another a brief nod, then looked away, so as not to give the wrong impression to the monitors assigned to watch for “special looks” between sisters and brethren.

  Rose and Charlotte slipped into two chairs in the back row. Both were tall enough to see the room over the heads of others. The Believers bowed their heads in silent prayer, easing themselves into a worshipful state, while the New-Owenites fidgeted. After several moments, Wilhelm rose from his first-row chair and walked to the center of the room.

  “Believers and friends,” he said, “I am pleased that we have this time to worship together. I believe we have a common purpose and that the Holy Father has brought us here in one place for a reason. Everything that has happened, even when it appears as evil, has happened for the good of our joint mission. We are all called to work together, as spiritual friends and allies.” Wilhelm’s rough features softened into a benign smile.

  Rose felt a jolt of confusion, of disorientation, as if she had suddenly been whisked to another world where everything was the opposite of her own. Where was the fiery righteousness she had come to expect from Wilhelm’s speeches? Where was the impatience, the intolerance of anything carnal? Perhaps his conciliatory manner was meant to be respectful, but it sounded like a welcome to newly committed Believers.

  She glanced over at Andrew, whose open mouth told her that he was as puzzled as she was. Next to him, however, Gilbert Griffiths had a smirk on his face. Before any response was possible, Wilhelm beckoned the singers to the middle of the room and cued them to begin a welcoming hymn, which they sang with less verve than usual.

  Instead of calling for dancing worship, which he usually did, Wilhelm nodded to the singers to be seated when they had finished, and he moved again to the center of the room, apparently gathering steam for another announcement or perhaps a homily. A movement on the men’s side caught Rose’s attention, and she turned to see Gilbert stand and work his way toward Wilhelm. The scowl on Wilhelm’s face said clearly that he had not planned this. However, Gilbert stood with a confident smile beside Wilhelm, who was taller and broader and fiercer by far.

  Moments dragged by in silence while Wilhelm struggled to overcome his surprise and regain momentum. Rose might have enjoyed seeing Wilhelm caught off guard had she not been so worried about what was going to happen.

  Gilbert drew in his breath as if to speak, but Wilhelm took a step forward and spread open his arms.

  “Brethren and sisters,” Wilhelm said, “I urge thee to open thy hearts and welcome our visitors from the world. Though they may dress differently from us, and talk and work differently from us, we are both called by God for the same purpose. I say this to them, as much as to thee. Though we are apart from the world, and they are, as yet, still of it, we reach for the same stars. We all seek to build a heaven on earth, a place where we can dwell like the angels. And we can create that heaven by working together, all of us, with our eyes on the task, and our hearts free of earthly distractions.”

  Gilbert raised his eyebrows, and Rose knew why. Wilhelm had just urged the New-Owenites to give up their carnal lives and become Shakers, celibate and faith-centered. His plan was transparent: the Shakers could survive and flourish if they absorbed the New-Owenites, especially the strong, young men who were the leadership.

  Rose found herself clutching the sides of her chair seat, steadying herself for the fight ahead.

  Gilbert stepped forward, just a shade in front of Wilhelm. “I must agree with our pious friend,” he said. The tautness of his wiry body belied his casual, conciliatory tone. “We have much in common with our Shaker hosts, and a great deal to learn from them. I believe, too, that we have some strengths we can share with them.” He looked out over the audience, lingering on the faces of the two young brethren, Archibald and Matthew.

  “Yea, indeed,” Wilhelm boomed so powerfully that Gilbert flinched. “We will be glad to learn from thee as well, during thy brief visit.”

  Gilbert turned as if to engage Wilhelm in private, friendly conversation. “I’d be more than happy to take some time right now, as we are all gathered—”

  “During worship,” Wilhelm said, “it is our habit to worship.”

  “Naturally. I only thought, because you’d asked us to be together . . .”

  “I asked us to be together for the sake of worship.” Wilhelm’s voice was dipping dangerously low, a warning to those who knew him. He fixed Gilbert with a fierce stare. Several moments passed in silence.

  “Ah,” said Gilbert, his tone still light but with a new undercurrent of authority. “But you see, we New-Owenites do not worship, even to say farewell to a friend. Perhaps we had not made that clear. We understand your need to do so, of course, but we have no need of such a . . . comforting fantasy. We understand human nature and what it takes to make a man happy and good. We have—”

  “This is worship!” Wilhelm roared.

  This time Gilbert did not flinch; instead, his smug smile implied he had won a point in the debate. “Of course, Wilhelm. We are sorry for the misunderstanding, and we will leave immediately.” He bowed slightly, turned, and nodded at the other New-Owenites to follow him out the door. The tall man named Earl Weston watched one of the sisters as he left the room. Rose saw three Believers squirm and bob, as if tempted to leave with the New-Owenites. Two were brethren, Archibald and Matthew. She could not immediately recognize the third, since she could see only the back of her white-capped head in the front row on the sisters’ side. As the sister’s head swiveled to watch the visitors exit, Rose saw that the apparent sympathizer was Gretchen, the young Laundry deaconess.

  Rose twitched under her blanket, unable to fall asleep yet unwilling to leave the warm comfort of her bed. She was still edgy from the tense worship service that evening. She was beginning to understand that both Wilhelm and the New-Owenites had come to their cooperation with hidden purposes, only now coming to the surface. The possibilities alarmed her.

  She tossed off her covers and reached for her bedside clock. Eleven P.M.—not late by the world’s standards, but well along into the night for the Shakers, who were out of bed by 5:30 in the fall and winter months. Well, if she couldn’t sleep, she might as well be up and doing something useful.

  Now that she was eldress, Rose shared the Ministry House, occupying the entire second floor, while Wilhelm lived on the ground floor. A century earlier, when North Homage had peaked at two hundred Believers, two elders and two eldresses had lived in the Ministry House, eating their meals together in the small dining room, where they discussed the spiritual and often practical direction of the village. Now, for fewer than forty Believers, it was not really necessary to have both an elder and an eldress, but Rose was glad to provide a balance to the powerful, zealous Wilhelm. At times, though, she grew weary of the constant struggle. This promised to be one of those times.

  During the past few months, Rose had been setting up a workshop for herself in the empty room on her floor. She rarely used it since she had very little time alone, but it was helpful for a sleepless night. She pulled a workdress over her nightgown for extra warmth and left her retiring room, carrying her journal with her.

  The workshop was sparsely furnished with a small desk and ladder-back chair, an old worktable, and a lamp. The aged ironcast wood-burning stove stood off to one side
, still in working order. Perhaps when this Depression ended, the Society could find the money to install a more modern heating system, but for now, and to Wilhelm’s satisfaction, they had to make do with the old methods.

  Rose opened the door of a cupboard recessed in the thick wall. Inside was a small pile of books she had selected for study, mostly Shaker theology from the Ministry library. However, on her way to bed that evening she’d also pulled Robert Owen, by Frank Podmore, and a couple of pamphlets about New Harmony that had been brought by Believers moving to North Homage after the demise of the Pleasant Hill community. She took the Owenite materials to her desk and began skimming through them.

  It wasn’t long before Rose understood why Wilhelm thought his plan to convert the New-Owenites might work. Like the Shakers, Robert Owen had believed deeply in the importance of communal living, doing away with private property, and granting equality to all, no matter what class or race or gender they’d been born into. He denounced traditional marriage. He believed in educating children and treating them with kindness. He even envisioned severing parental bonds and housing the children together, as the Shakers did.

  Her eyelids started to droop, but she kept on reading. The more she read, the more convinced she became that Wilhelm and Gilbert were surely both fighting a losing battle. Their differences overwhelmed their similarities. In fact, as far as she could see, Robert Owen had been like Wilhelm in one respect only—they both had a yen for martyrdom. As a follower of Owen, Gilbert Griffiths would never accept the strict celibacy and profoundly religious basis of Shakerism, and Wilhelm would not give them up if he were the last Shaker left breathing. Nay, she wasn’t worried about them. If anything, their fruitless struggle would keep them both occupied. However, her worry reappeared when she pondered the effects on other Believers.

  The young brothers, Archibald and Matthew—had they been swayed by Gilbert’s rhetoric? Was Gretchen in danger? Lottie and Frieda? All were in their mid to late twenties. All had put aside what might be strong urges for families of their own for life in the Society. Might they come to see New-Owenism as a way to live in community, work for a higher purpose, and still have families?