The Gifted Page 16

  “I have to go back,” he said.

  “The world can be a wicked place.” The doctor squeezed Tristan’s shoulder before taking his hand away. “But each man must make his own choices. For right or for wrong.”

  Tristan wanted to tell him that was the problem. He wasn’t able to make his own choices. All his life, someone else had been choosing for him. His father’s choice had led him down a soldier’s path. His mother’s choice was pushing him toward a marriage altar. Even if he could have stayed there among the Shakers, he wouldn’t have the choices he wanted. He would turn into hands and feet in service to their beliefs. That was no choice at all.

  He looked at the doctor with a good bit of regret as he said, “I will miss you and Sister Lettie. You will thank her for me, won’t you?”

  “Yea, but thanks are unnecessary. She did naught but her duty in caring for you. I will have a brother bring your clothes and your horse. The bandages should be sufficiently hardened now so your arm will be properly protected as long as you keep your seat on the horse.”

  Tristan touched his arm and was surprised at how stiff the rag binding had become. “I am indebted to you.”

  “Nay, our mercies are freely given.” Brother Benjamin waved his hand in dismissal before he turned to leave. He stopped at the door to look back at Tristan. “You will always have a place among us if you decide to turn from the ways of the world and seek the path to salvation. Perhaps that is the journey you fear to begin. Some men resist their need for the Lord.”

  He didn’t wait for Tristan to answer, but went on out the door. That was just as well, for Tristan had no answer.

  It felt right putting on his own clothes again, even though he had to rip open the seam of his shirtsleeve in order to slip it over his bandaged arm. It felt right pulling on his boots with his good hand. It felt right mounting his horse. The animal nickered when he put his hand on the horse’s muzzle. That too felt right.

  What didn’t feel right was riding away from the village without telling the beautiful Jessamine goodbye. Without satisfying his desire to touch his lips to hers at least one time.

  He turned his horse in the direction that would take him to White Oak Springs. He hoped it would be a long ride. He did not look forward to facing his mother. Her joy at his return would not overshadow her anger. He was sure of that.

  He had no thought of Laura at all.

  Journal Entry

  Harmony Hill Village

  Entered on this 18th day of June in the year 1849

  by Sister Sophrena Prescott

  Monday. I have ever loved Mondays. A day to step into service with renewed vigor while Sunday’s meeting echoes in one’s spirit. Even before I came to Harmony Hill, I welcomed Mondays, although Sunday then did not echo so beautifully within my soul. While each Sabbath should have been a time for rejoicing, instead the days more often were spent by those around me dwelling on unmet expectations and even recriminations. I never seemed able to please anyone. Certainly not the man with whom I entered into the sinful state of matrimony and perhaps not even my Lord with my halfhearted worship. I sang but never with joy. I bowed my head but more in fear than devotion.

  But the Lord had mercy on me and nudged my former husband, Brother Jerome, toward the Believer’s path. I would have never come on my own. The idea of the shaking and dancing worship seemed too odd to me then with my spirit trapped and frozen within me. Oh, but the joy of loosing those restraints. Of accepting the love Mother Ann throws down to us with such wondrous abandon. Of understanding one’s place at last. Accepting that place. Rejoicing in that place. Hands to work. Hearts to God. Both bring me such joy now when before there was no joy, only tiresome duty.

  Duty here among my brethren and sisters is not burdensome. Many hands make the work easy. Our good mother told us to work as if we had a thousand years to accomplish our tasks or as if we had knowledge of our death on the morrow. Here at Harmony Hill the labor of our hands is surely as much an act of worship as any song we might go forth to exercise.

  That, at least, is a truth Sister Jessamine has embraced. She has ever been willing to work faithfully and obediently at whatever duties assigned to her. She loves her sisters and brothers. I have no doubt of that. But. Oh, why is there always that word when I think of dear Sister Jessamine? I have no such thoughts when I consider Sister Annie or Sister Wileena or even Sister Abigail. That sister will not long be with us unless she has a change of heart.

  But our Sister Jessamine has a pure heart. I see it in her eyes. She is eager to do her duty. And yet she often stumbles along the pathway of proper behavior. I fear her stumbles may increase with Sister Edna her constant companion.

  I should cross out those last words. The Ministry knows best. Perhaps Sister Edna’s stern guidance will be exactly what Sister Jessamine needs to bring peace back to her spirit, but I worry that will not prove true. I saw the look in Sister Jessamine’s eyes as she followed Sister Edna out to their duty of planting late beans this day. It was a look I had not seen there before. A weary look. A sad look.

  A look that may have more to do with the incident following our meeting yesterday than with her duty in the gardens. The man from the world was proven to be deceiving us and has left. Good riddance, I say! I noted him watching Sister Jessamine in the meeting. It was not the look of one considering the Believer’s path. Nor was her look back at him one that should be exchanged between a brother and a sister. It is a good thing—a providential gift—that he is gone from us with his lies and temptations. Without the upheaval of his presence, Sister Jessamine will have the opportunity to settle back into the way of a proper Believer.

  There is still the letter. Eldress Frieda has not shared with me the decision of the Ministry in that regard. That is not my concern. Nor my duty. I am to weave bonnets this week. A good duty to begin on a Monday. Making something useful with my hands. But I could be just as content pulling weeds from the spice gardens.

  Or there is always the laundry. A good and fitting duty for a Monday. There is something satisfying about scrubbing clothes. Even in my worldly life, I took to Mondays because it was washday. Then I had to make many trips to the spring for water that had to be heated in iron kettles, but I never minded the chore. I counted it a blessing to be outside with the sky for a ceiling and the trees for companions.

  Laundry here in our village is not a bit burdensome with many sisters taking their turns in the washhouse. We have no need to make tiring treks to the springs, for pipes bring the water to the washhouse. And scrubbing time is much shortened by the machines one of the Believers in the north invented. That is the way with our Society. We continually search for a better way and share that way with all. The work of our hands is a gift and Mondays a time to treasure as we begin a new week of honoring God with our labor.

  I have been blessed with many Mondays here at Harmony Hill in the fourteen years since I came to join with them. I had just turned twenty-three when we came on a Monday. Is it any wonder I have such affectionate feelings toward Mondays?

  14

  Tristan pretended not to notice when Laura’s cheek muscles tightened as she suppressed a yawn. Tristan bit the inside of his lip in an effort to hide his own yawn. His apology was boring the both of them. But they kept walking together, kept doing their best to keep up the smiling pretense of courtship.

  She had not seemed at all surprised to see him back at White Oak Springs or particularly pleased. He’d heard absence made the heart fonder, but a week apart had done little to warm either of their hearts if their walk around the lake was any indication. Two acquaintances thrown together with little to say to one another of any import.

  She paused in their walk to look out at the ducks on the lake. A gaggle of the fowls began racing across the water toward them in hopes of bread crumbs. The owner of White Oak, Jefferson Hargrove, liked to goad the ladies who took such pleasure in feeding the birds by claiming how good the fattened ducks would taste at the end of the season. He could s
ay anything to the ladies with that indulgent laugh of his and they would flutter their fans and think he was merely teasing them. But Tristan had no doubt roast duck would be on the man’s table before the snow started flying here in winter.

  Hargrove was a wiry bundle of energy and charm who had trained as a doctor and served as a soldier in every war in the current century. He was reputed to be able to outshoot any man in the country and enjoyed proving his abilities at his resort’s shooting club. Even as Tristan and Laura stood by the lake and looked out over the water sparkling in the sun, they could hear the booms of other men target practicing not so far away. He looked down at his arm still in the sling Sister Lettie had fashioned for him and wondered if he could shoot with any kind of accuracy with his left hand.

  It was strange, but he had found everything more difficult to do when he got back to White Oak Springs. While at the Shaker village he hardly noticed the inconvenience of his injured arm. Perhaps because there no one expected anything of him. He could lie in the bed or walk about the doctor’s gardens. He could step into the shadows with the beautiful sister where he’d had not the least problem caressing her cheek with his left hand.

  “Oh, I do wish we had some bread for them,” Laura was saying. The ducks were right at their feet, making guttural sounds of demand.

  “I could go to the kitchen and fetch some,” Tristan offered. Anything to please. Anything to make the afternoon pass.

  “Would you? Oh, that would be lovely.” Laura turned the full shine of her smile on him.

  Her light brown hair was caught up in an elaborate twist on the back of her head with a few curling tendrils carefully pulled loose to frame her face. Tristan had no doubt her maid had spent much of the morning combing and pinning the curls and helping Laura into her corsets and frothy white dress. She carried a matching white parasol unfurled over her shoulder to protect her pale skin from the sun. Her hand on the parasol handle was very white and slim and soft. He doubted she’d ever done so much as pick up her own handkerchief.

  He remembered the beautiful sister’s hands with the briar scratches from her day spent harvesting rose petals. Her cap had hidden all but a few blonde wisps of hair that held out the promise of spun gold. Her dress had been of a simple, almost coarse material and covered with that bulky collar and an apron, but her feminine shape had not been completely hidden. Vaguely he could remember clinging to that shape as he rode to the village with her. That was a memory he wished he could bring into clearer focus.

  “Whatever are you thinking about, Tristan?” Laura waved a lacy hankie in front of his face. “You seem a hundred miles away.”

  “Forgive me, Laura. I fear the knock to my head has dulled my thinking.” He forced a smile as he regretfully let his memory of the beautiful Jessamine slide back into the shadows of his mind.

  “That will improve, won’t it?” The hint of blue in her gray eyes faded as alarm flooded her face.

  “The doctor at the Shaker village seemed to think it was but a temporary problem.”

  “Yes, but are you sure you shouldn’t seek out other treatment? Do you truly think anyone there in that village would know about medical issues? Being sequestered the way they are.”

  “They seemed very knowledgeable about many things.” When he saw her look of doubt, he continued. “The Shaker doctor had practiced as a physician before he became one of them.”

  “If that’s true, why ever would he join with those people?”

  “I suppose he believes in their way.”

  “You mean shaking and dancing and claiming such behavior is worship?” Her smile returned as she twirled her parasol. “Last summer while I was here at White Oak, they took an excursion to the village as an amusement. I was a bit under the weather that day so was unable to go.” Laura touched her forehead lightly as if remembering the distress of her illness even now. “But my friends regaled me with many stories upon their return. I found some of them hard to believe. Julia Byrd claimed one of the men fell rigid right at her feet. Stiff as a board with his eyes wide and staring. She was quite sure he was dead and said it was enough to make her swoon. That she might have done just that, except she worried they might drag her away and do their best to turn her into one of those plain women.”

  When Laura laughed, Tristan politely smiled along with her, but she must have sensed his lack of enthusiasm. “Oh well, when Julia tells it, it is quite amusing.” With a small sigh, she turned back to stare at the ducks now losing hope of bread crumbs and drifting back out to the center of the lake.

  It was a beautiful lake. A beautiful place. It was rumored Dr. Hargrove had invested a veritable fortune in the four-story brick hotel that was the center point of the resort. Between June and September the Springs was a swirl of balls and other social entertainments. Courtships abounded. Of course many did actually come for the medicinal properties of the mineral spring waters reputed to cure everything from ague to rheumatism to dropsy.

  The doctor also touted the benefits of fresh air and healthy food. Tristan wondered if the man had once been a Shaker. His ideas sounded very like something Sister Lettie would advance. The thought of Jefferson Hargrove a Shaker made Tristan smile with genuine amusement. Too bad his smile came too late to impress Laura with his enjoyment of her story.

  But the man he’d met the week before when Tristan and his mother had arrived at the Springs was unlikely to exclude himself from the company of women no matter what stress they might engender. It was rumored Dr. Hargrove was on the hunt for a new wife and had his eyes on a lady less than half his age. He’d been heard to claim that then they might be equally vigorous. Now in his sixties, the man boasted he had already outlasted two wives. Nothing Shaker-like about any of that.

  When another small sigh escaped Laura, Tristan remembered his promise of bread crumbs. “Do you want to wait here while I get bread for the ducks or perhaps you’d be more comfortable on one of the benches?” Tristan pointed toward a well-shaded group of benches between the lake and the hotel.

  “Never mind, Tristan. The ducks appear to have lost interest.” She turned without actually looking at him to begin walking along the lakeside path again. It was obvious it wasn’t only the ducks that had lost interest.

  They strolled along in silence. At least they seemed to be able to match their strides. Perhaps with time they might be able to match a few thoughts and feelings as well. They’d only met a couple of weeks ago. A plant didn’t germinate and bear fruit overnight. Love could take awhile to flower.

  But what of attraction—the seed of love? The sight of a beautiful girl could plant that seed in an instant. He knew it was possible because it had happened in an instant for him with the beautiful Jessamine.

  He clamped down on the thought. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on memories of Jessamine. In all likelihood, he would never see her again. She would become a devout Shaker sister. He would become a devout husband and father.

  That would not be such a trial. Laura was lovely. When his sons arrived and grew into little men, he could plan adventures with them just as his father had planned adventures for Tristan. He wouldn’t plan sending his sons to war. He hoped never again to hear the bugle call to war. But there would be mountains to climb. Wilderness places to explore. Perhaps in time, they could even go west and see the wonders there.

  Marrying Laura would not be hardship. Rather a beginning. His mother had assured him of that last evening after her long tirade taking him to task for not sending word of his whereabouts. He claimed the loss of memory, but she was not as believing as the Shakers. She knew him too well. When at long last her anger had vented, she once again slipped on her comfortable Southern lady charm that pretended helplessness while hiding an iron will that made sure things happened as she wanted.

  It had worked well on Tristan’s father. And he supposed it was working on him. Wasn’t he here walking with Laura Cleveland? Hadn’t he promised his mother the night before to be so charming that Laura’s gray eyes wou
ld begin to warm when she gazed at him instead of reminding him of the cold wall of a cave? Not the blue of a warm summer sky.

  He shut his eye, disgusted with himself for allowing Jessamine to sneak back into his thoughts again. Charming. That was what he had promised to be. And if that didn’t work, then direct. He’d just go down on a knee and ask Laura to marry him. She’d say yes. It didn’t matter that she seemed to be having as much problem exercising her charms on him as he was on her. She had to answer to her father the same as he did his mother. The two of them had plotted and decided what was to happen. Now they were impatiently waiting for their children to dance to the music they’d written.

  Dancing. Would every thought he had bring forth the Shakers? And Jessamine. Dancing and whirling. Smiling at him.

  He looked toward Laura at his side, but her parasol hid her face. “Why don’t we go sit in the shade, Laura?” He pushed the sound of a smile into his voice as he put his hand under her elbow and guided her off the path to one of the benches placed strategically to rest the walkers. “I’m anxious to hear what happened while I was gone last week.”

  And I will laugh and smile at all your little anecdotes. He spoke that promise silently, but he intended to keep it.

  Laura looked at the bench and hesitated. Tristan whipped out his handkerchief with his good hand and managed to spread it on the bench to protect her pristine white skirt.

  “Thank you,” she murmured as she perched on the bench without leaning against the back. She folded the parasol and placed it beside the bench before carefully arranging her skirts to hide any hint of ankle.

  Being a lady had its definite disadvantages, Tristan decided. Jessamine would have surely taken a seat on the bench without the first worry of her dress the same as she’d straddled his horse with no visible concern over her exposed shoes and stockings. He tried to recall the turn of her ankle, but all that happened in the woods was little more than a blur. He remembered nothing at all before he awoke to the sound of the two sisters wondering what to do with him. That time was erased as if it had never happened, but the still angry-looking wound on his head and his encased arm were proof enough it had.