A Deadly Shaker Spring (14 page)
Read A Deadly Shaker Spring Online
Authors: Deborah Woodworth
“I agree with Richard,” Laura said, rushing to get the words out before her husband quelled her. “All we want is to get rid of the Shakers, right? So why don't we just foreclose, if Richard thinks he can do it? Harassing them, getting people all riled up against them, it's plain dangerous, has been since we pulled in that girl, Sarah.”
The men stared at her. Even Kentuck was speechless. His wife usually said a few words only, or nothing. Worthington began to calculate. In fact, he agreed with her, but he didn't want to be pushed into foreclosure too early. If he had enough time, he could get what he wanted without actually foreclosing and making a significant number of townspeople angry with his bank.
“Let's go on with the original plan,” Worthington said. “We need the townspeople on our side. If we foreclose too soon, it might turn the town against us, create sympathy for the Shakers.”
Kentuck threw a triumphant glance at Laura and cleared his throat.
“Just to be on the safe side, no reflection on anyone here, but I'll keep the contents of the
Watcher
to myself for now.” He scanned the group with narrowed eyes. “Now, we have one more problem. No need to
panic, but we'll need to tread carefully. I'm sure we all remember Samuel BickfordâBrother Samuel to some of us.”
Worthington felt his chest tighten. Laura stiffened, and the others nodded.
“I reckon he saw more than he should have last Sunday. He knows us all, including me and Laura. I warned Laura not to go along on Sunday, but she did anyway. Always wants to be part of the action, thinks we menfolk won't do things right. Anyway, maybe she thought she had a reason, but never mind now, the damage is done. Samuel saw her and recognized herâcalled her by name, I heard him. That means he suspected I was there, too. No need to hide from him anymore, I figured; might as well take the situation in hand. So I called over to North Homage this morning and talked to Samuel.” Laura emitted a high-pitched squawk, which her husband ignored. “Told him we had enough dirt on him to get him booted out of the Shakers so fast there'd be nothing left but a swirl of dust to mark his place.”
“Was this wise?” Worthington asked. “Even if you know something about his past, how do you know he hasn't already confessed?”
Kentuck shrugged. “Unlikely. I know Samuel. We were friends once, remember. He plays it safe, never could admit his own failings. If he'd confessed, he'd be elder by now, or trustee, or something better than plain Brother Samuel. He'll keep quiet about us.”
Still Worthington had his doubts, but he kept them to himself.
S
TICKY
K
ENTUCKY NIGHTS WOULD ARRIVE SOON
enough, but for now Rose felt more comfortable in her long-sleeved winter nightgown. She slipped the worn garment over her head and settled in bed with all of Agatha's old journals stacked on her nightstand. After Samuel's interrupted confession about his relationship with a Shaker sister decades earlier, Rose was deeply curious. The affair might have been mentioned during the thirteen-year period reported in the journals that Agatha seemed to want her to read. She'd already finished the volumes for 1908 through 1910, so she picked up 1911, squirmed closer to her headboard, and began to read.
The rough binding cracked as she opened the volume, and a few bits of dry glue fell onto her coverlet. The handmade paper had yellowed and smelled faintly of mildew. The reading was slow-going and required alertness, because of Agatha's habit of using initials often, instead of names.
Rose's eyes had begun to blur when she finally found anything of interest, nestled between cheerful crop reports. It was late summer 1911.
I worry about C.C., such a troubled boy, so nervous and unsure these days. K.H. has been taking
a guiding hand to himâworking him long days in the fields and the Broom-makers Shop, teaching him to read and write in the free eveningsâbut it doesn't seem to do much good. The child always looks so forlorn and gloomy, as if his life stretched before him as a long sadness. I shall pray for him
.
The incidents continue. There was a terrible screaming yesterday morning, I heard it from my retiring room as I prayed before breakfast. I ran outside and saw all the kitchen sisters scurry from the Center Family House, hysterical every one of them. They'd all arrived in the kitchen to fix breakfast only to find a dead rat hung by its tail from a wall peg. Horrible, cruel joke. We have an evil with us
.
Rose felt chilled and pulled her coverlet up over her chest. Rats, again. Recent episodes in the village were not identical to Agatha's reports, but they were eerily similar. She remembered something that Agatha used to say to her: “If evil is not vanquished, it will think it has won.” Had the same evil returned to fight again?
Rose ran a hand through her tangled hair, free of its daytime cap. She still wore it long, even now in her mid-thirties and as eldress, to provide warmth during the damp Kentucky winters. Or so she told herself. Her hair was her sole point of beauty and the one conceit she had been unable to release. When it fell around her shoulders at night, she could, for a moment, feel like a young girl again, instead of a woman with too many worries.
She skimmed through to the end of the journal in her hands. Aside from a small fire in the Broom-makers Shopâblamed on the hot, dry weather and piles of broom strawânothing suspicious caught her eye.
She put the 1911 volume aside and picked up the next in the pile. Her bedside clock said midnight. Breakfast at 6
A.M
. during planting season, and she had promised to help in the herb fields afterward. She would be starting the new week with too little sleep, but that was nothing new. She stretched and settled down with Agatha's observations of North Homage in 1912. Her efforts were rewarded quickly.
The new year has barely begun, and already the signs are bad. I found F. and S. in private conversation behind the Herb House. Never mind how cold it was, there were the two of them, their heads shamelessly close together, their shoulders nearly touching. I stopped them, of course, and made no bones about my displeasure and disappointment. They stammered and said they had merely run into one another. I cannot believe them, and that saddens me. I am not so old nor so unworldly that I could not see the brightness in their eyes. I have given them a warning, and I'll be watching them from now on. I pray they have not fallen into the flesh! They have been good Shakers, hard-working and kind. I told F. to meet me at the Ministry tomorrow for a thorough confession
.
F. and S. could refer to Faithfull and Samuel. Her heart racing, Rose skipped through Agatha's four-page summary of how many tins of rosemary and basil and other herbs the sisters in the Herb House had prepared for sale to the world. She came to the section she sought, but she sighed in frustration. All Agatha had written the next day was:
F. was here to confess this morning. It is even worse than I feared, and still I may not know it all. There are more involved. Must talk to S. soon
.
Rose flipped through page after page of everything from homily ideas to a variation on a recipe for rosewater cookies before Agatha reported meeting with S. in the office of the Ministry House.
S. has refused to confess to me, or to Obadiah, but I have been watching carefully, and I believe my worst fears are confirmed. And more. The anger runs deep. There is great danger to all of us if this is not handled quickly and well. Must pray for guidance
.
The clock said 1
A.M
. Rose tried to read on, but her eyelids dragged despite her curiosity. The open journal dropped against her chest, and she fell asleep.
“Eldress! Eldress, wake up! It's Samuel, you've got to get up and come to the kitchen right now, Josie said so.”
At first Rose thought she must be dreaming, as if
she had fallen into Agatha's journal and was writing her own details to the skimpy story about Samuel and Faithfull. Then she recognized Sarah's voice and opened her eyes to find herself still slouched against her headboard. She winced at the crick in her neck as she reached for her clock. Five-thirty
A.M
. Rose noticed that the room was lit. Usually she awakened as soon as a light came on. She must have been deeply asleep.
“What is it?”
Sarah stood over her, holding Agatha's journal against her chest, her eyes wide with an unreadable emotion, grief or fear. “The kitchen sisters found him when they arrived to cook breakfast. He was just . . . just sitting there at the table, as if he'd gotten hungry and gone for a snack. The cookies were still sitting in front of him. He never even got to enjoy them.” Her voice sounded faint and far away. “Samuel is dead,” she said.
“What?!” Rose tossed aside her covers and jumped out of bed. “But I spoke with him only yesterday. How can this be?” She noticed Sarah begin to sway. Waving her hand toward the bed, Rose said, “Sarah, sit down, catch your breath and get warm. Why didn't you wear your cloak, for goodness' sake? I'll be ready in a few moments and you can tell me the rest on the way to the kitchen. You don't have to go in again if it upsets you.” She turned to pull her work clothes out of drawers and off wall pegs. Hurriedly she dressed and stuffed her unpinned hair into her cap, where it bulged to one side. Never mind, she'd fix it later, or, more likely, forget about it.
“Come along, Sarah, let's . . .” Rose turned to find
Sarah staring down at the open journal in her lap. She was shivering. “Sarah!”
Sarah's head jerked up and she closed the book. Rose lifted the journal from her loose grasp, placed it with the other volumes, and carried the pile into her sitting room. Sarah followed obediently.
“Let's find something to keep you warmer,” she said, pulling a small coverlet off the back of her rocking chair and folding it into a shawl. As Sarah wrapped the soft wool around her shoulders, Rose piled the journals into the small cupboard in the wall of her sitting room and led Sarah into the hallway.
“Has Wilhelm been called?” Rose asked as they approached the Center Family dining room. She suspected that Josie, who was no supporter of Wilhelm, would bypass him.
“Nay, I don't think so.”
“Then call over to the Ministry from the hall phone, please.” Rose had learned her lesson from the rat episode in the schoolhouseâno matter how difficult Wilhelm could be in a crisis, it was best not to leave bad news for him to find out from others.
Brother Samuel Bickford slumped sideways in a large rocking chair pulled up to the kitchen worktable. One arm hung over the chair arm and touched the floor. Samuel's eyes were closed, his face expressionless, as if he had slipped away peacefully during a nap. In front of him, piled on the notched wood of the table, sat three rosewater cookies. One cookie was partially eaten.
Samuel's rocking chair looked low to the ground because of the unusual height of the table, which was
designed for sisters to stand and slice bread or mix ingredients. Rose thought the arrangement an uncomfortable way to have a snack.
“I left him just as he was when Gertrude found him,” Josie said. She and Rose were alone with Samuel. The kitchen sisters were in the dining room, praying for him.
“There was nothing to be done for him, anyway, I'm afraid. It looks very much like a heart attack to me, but . . .”
Rose brushed her hand against Samuel's cheek. It felt slack and cool. “He has been gone awhile,” she said. “Josie, did something seem odd to you? Is that why you left him here instead of having the brethren carry him back to the Infirmary?”
“Yea, though I could be wrong. Samuel was fifty-five, I know, but he was so lean and strong, no hint of heart weakness. Why, he rarely came to the Infirmary for more than peppermint tea to soothe a cold.”
“Yet heart attacks do not always announce themselves, do they?” Rose asked.
“Nay, you are right, of course.” Josie frowned and pursed her lips.
“Something is bothering you, isn't it? Do tell me now. I asked Sarah to call Wilhelm, so we won't be alone for long.”
“It's the cookies. I've never known Samuel to eat sweets of any kind,” Josie said with a rueful smile. Her own fondness for sweets was apparent from her rotund form. “For years I thought he didn't like them, and I used to tease him about it, but one day he looked very sad and told me it was penance for his sins, that he'd never touch anything sweet again. You knew
Samuel, he was so serious about keeping his vows. I can't believe he would sneak into the kitchen at night to eat cookies; I just can't.”
Rose thought of the vow that Samuel had broken many years ago. His guilt had been so strong that she could understand his spending the rest of his life making pointless vows and following them to the letter in an endless effort to atone. It saddened her that he had died without the relief that full confession and true atonement would have brought.
