Cheryl Reavis (15 page)

“Your little girl is here, Caroline. With Anna. I thought you would want that—”

She looked at him then, disbelieving, her incredulous look wounding him deeply.

“What did you think I would do with your daughter, Caroline?” he asked, gripping her arms. “Do you think I understand nothing? You were too ill to ask. I did what I thought you would want.” He abruptly let her go and moved away from her. “I will wait here,” he said.

She hesitated, then stepped through a broken place in the low stone wall. He watched her walk toward Ann’s grave, tentatively at first, and then with a firmer step. She stood by the graves for a long time, until finally, she reached down to touch the small headstone.

He stopped watching then, moving farther away to leave her to grieve alone. She was so sad. He wanted to do something for her, anything that would make her feel better, but he knew only too well that she wanted nothing from Frederich Graeber. He adjusted old Koenig’s bridle, checked his
formerly ailing hoof to see how it fared, speaking to him softly, not realizing that Caroline had returned and was standing close by.

When he looked over his shoulder, she gave a small shrug and crossed her arms over her breasts.

“It’s green,” she said.

“Yes,” he answered, understanding her remark. “William did it—cut the sod to cover the grave. He took it from a meadow on the Holt land—a place you liked to go when you were a little girl, he said.”

“There were…flowers on the grave.”

“Mary Louise and Lise bring those from time to time,” he said. “It’s been more than a month, Caroline.” He watched her steadily. She took a deep quiet breath.

She said something he couldn’t hear, more to herself than to him.

“Are you ready to go now?” he asked, and she nodded. She went to stand by the horse so that he could lift her up again, but she still had that vacant, detached look about her, as if she hadn’t quite agreed that she would be staying in
this
world and not going to the other.

“There is one other thing,” he said. “If you need to speak to him—to Gerhardt—I won’t keep you from it—”

“No,” she said immediately, finally meeting his eyes. “I don’t need to speak to him.
She
meant nothing to him. I have understood that for a long while.” She reached out to wind her fingers absently in the horse’s mane. “Was there a…service for her?” she asked, her eyes sliding away from his.

“Yes. Johann said the words. The Steigermanns were there. And your brothers.”

“And you?”

“Yes. Me.”

He didn’t have to say that Beata didn’t come. He moved to her side and lifted her onto the horse. Then he stood on the low wall to climb up behind her. As they rode away, she
turned to watch the place where the baby lay as long as she could.

But she didn’t say anything more. The ride back was quiet and undisturbed, and he savored the time with her, letting the old horse find his own way in his own good time.

Caroline.

He wanted to find some words that might help. He wanted to touch her. He did nothing.

“Frederich?” she said as they were about to ride into the yard. She turned around as far as she could to face him. He put his hand on her waist to keep her from falling.

Her eyes searched his. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He didn’t know what to say. He was completely unprepared for her gratitude. He was unprepared even for her acknowledgment of his presence. He said nothing, and she abruptly put her arms around him and pressed her face against his shoulder. “Thank you, Frederich. I won’t ever forget—”

He held her tightly, awash in emotion, afraid that she would suddenly remember who he was and pull away. He touched her cheek with his rough hand, stroked the dark hair he’d been so longing to touch.

“I would do anything for you,” he whispered—in German—because he was a coward where she was concerned and because he needed to voice the thought to himself as much as to her.

He held her, feeling her sorrow and his own, determined to keep her close like this for as long as she would allow it. But the horse pranced nervously, and she abruptly let go of him and slid from his grasp to the ground, hurrying into the house without once looking back.

He sat there, completely overwhelmed by the realization that he couldn’t deny the truth any longer. He cared far more for this exasperating woman than he ever intended, and he wanted her—as a friend, a lover, as a wife.

And now she was grateful to him—her unrelenting grief over the death of her child had made her vulnerable enough to let him see it. Somehow it only compounded his loneliness.

What now?
he thought. But he knew. He didn’t want her gratitude any more than he wanted her incredulity that he was capable of behaving as if he were a decent, civilized man.

I should have let Eli take her.

If he had, then perhaps they both would have been out of his life now and he could live in peace.

He gave a sharp sigh and looked toward the house. He saw Caroline moving back and forth in the glow of the lamp in that solitary upstairs room, the place where he was not welcome. And Beata stood watching him from the kitchen window below.

W
hen the dream began, the baby was crying. Frederich had been wrong when she said she didn’t cry—Caroline could hear her so plainly. Her baby daughter was in her cradle there on the other side of the room, and all in the world Caroline had to do was go to her.

But the room changed—doors where there had been none. And people—Johann preparing to read in his book of rituals, and Leah Steigermann dressed in black.

Wrong,
some part of her thought.
Wrong for Johann to come here with his book. Wrong for Leah to wear mourning. Don’t you hear her crying, Leah?

I’ll get her,
she thought.
I’ll bring her so you both can see—

She couldn’t move her legs, couldn’t tell where the cradle sat anymore. And the baby cried and cried—

I’m coming!
she wanted to say, but she had no voice.
Please, little one, I’m coming—

She could still hear her, but now Beata stood in her way and wouldn’t move aside no matter how hard Caroline tried to get past.

Get away, Beata!

Oh, I’m sorry,
Beata said quite distinctly.
I thought you
knew/

And then she smiled—that terrible smile she had—Beata, victorious.

No! I don’t know! I don’t!
Caroline tried to say, but Lise came bursting into the room, her hands clasped over her heart, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Aunt Caroline! Papa is going to play again!” she cried, jarring Caroline awake.

“What?” Caroline said, disoriented and still in the clutches of the dream. She tried to sit up, looking wildly around the room, her heart pounding.

Where is my baby?

But she knew instantly. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. And her baby lay at Ann’s side in the German cemetery.

“He’s playing the fiddle again, Aunt Caroline! It’s my birthday present. Any song I want! ‘Old Blue,’ ‘Aura Lee’— anything!”

“What?” Caroline said again, but Lise didn’t hear her. She whirled away, dancing out the door and into the upstairs hallway.

Caroline lay back and closed her eyes.

Lise’s birthday.

She took a deep breath and willed the dream to fade, letting the harshness of reality take its place.

There is no baby. There is nothing.

She had to force herself to get out of bed. She had to force herself to do everything these days. She stood for a long time staring at her face in the mirror. She had to try harder. She was not going to spoil Lise’s special day, and she took unusual pains with her toilette before she put on the stark mourning dress. Three months. One wore black for three months after an infant died. Who decided such things? she wondered, and how could that be enough time when more than a month had already passed and she didn’t even remember it?

Beata was already at work in the kitchen when Caroline came downstairs. She immediately sniffed and turned away. Certainly Beata had cause for complaint. Caroline hadn’t been doing “her job” these past few weeks, and it was clear that—Lise’s birthday or not—Beata was not in a forgiving mood.

She dismissed Beata with a sigh and tried to concentrate on more pleasant things—how proud Ann would be of her wonderful older daughter. The
Geburtstagstisch,
the birthday table, stood ready near Lise’s chair, stacked with presents from all of them, even the Steigermanns and William and Avery. Caroline added her gift to the pile, a small silver brooch that had belonged to her mother. She had had no money with which to buy a gift and no time, because of her illness, to get anything made. She thought that Lise would like the brooch. It would make her feel grown-up and ladylike.

But it was Frederich’s music that would give Lise the greatest joy. Caroline hadn’t known that he had changed his mind about playing the fiddle for her birthday. He hadn’t said anything about it. Since that day at the cemetery, he hadn’t said much about anything.

The first bawling notes of “Old Blue” came drifting in from the porch, but Caroline made no attempt to go out and join the others. Frederich had become stern and cold and German again—at least where she was concerned. She would never understand the contradictions in the man. He had shown her great kindness when she needed it, and if she could believe Leah Steigermann, it was because of his determination that she was even alive. The only thing she really understood was that there had been no change in their arrangement. He intended that she look after his children, but he didn’t want her as a wife.

She looked out the window. Lise sat as close to Frederich as she could without interfering with his playing. He stopped
long enough to take a request, then began another song, a waltz that Caroline didn’t recognize. She listened to the haunting, three-quarter-time melody, seeing in her mind’s eye the occasion Lise had talked about, when Ann was still alive and she and Lise had danced around the room to the lilting music of Frederich’s fiddle.

She heard Mary Louise coming two-feet-on-each-step down the stairs. Someone had taken over yet another of Caroline’s duties and dressed her for church—Frederich or Lise, she supposed. When Mary Louise reached the bottom step, she immediately ran into Caroline’s embrace.

“Good morning,” Caroline whispered in her ear, because she loved whispering. Or perhaps Mary Louise had had to tiptoe around so much while Caroline was ill that she hadn’t realized it was all right to make a little noise now.

Mary Louise giggled and leaned back, taking a moment to stare into Caroline’s eyes. Caroline understood the process, the need Mary Louise had to determine whether her aunt would be more herself today or whether she would be crying again.

“Is it my birthday, too?” Mary Louise asked, also in a whisper.

“No, not today. Yours will be here at Christmas time.”

“Is that tomorrow?”

“No, love. About four months from tomorrow. Don’t you want to go listen to your papa play?”

Mary Louise nodded, and Caroline let her go, abruptly turning around, because she felt Beata’s eyes on her. She
always
felt Beata’s eyes on her.

“What is it, Beata?” she asked pointedly, in spite of the fact that she’d slept too late and she’d let someone else dress Mary Louise for church. It was senseless to expect any kind of truce with this woman.

“You won’t get above yourself in this house, Caroline Holt,” Beata said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I see how you watch Frederich,” Beata said knowingly. “I see what you are planning. I know the lies you tell him—”

“Beata, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The things you are saying about me! He doesn’t believe anything you tell—”

“I haven’t told him anything!”

“You think he wants the likes of you in his bed? Ha! He will keep you in your place—you are no better than that sister of yours—!”

“If you have something specific you want to say about me or my sister, for the love of God, say it!” Caroline cried.

The music from the porch abruptly stopped. Frederich came into the kitchen with both children in tow; it was clear that he—that all three of them—had heard the exchange.

“Go upstairs now,” he said to Lise. “Help Mary Louise finish getting ready. We leave for the church soon.”

Lise stood for a moment, looking from one adult to another, her face worried and upset. Caroline would have reached out to her, but Frederich said something in German to Beata, a remark that precipitated yet another of her harangues.

I can’t stand this!
Caroline thought. She gathered up her skirts and walked rapidly out onto the porch, all but running down the steps and away from the house. She didn’t realize that Frederich had followed her until she was well inside the barn.

“Caroline!”

She abruptly stopped and turned around, expecting him to criticize her again for yet another disruption of his household. But he remained silent, watching her closely— for signs of hysteria, she supposed, not understanding that she would cry only for her lost child. She refused to shed
tears over anything Beata Graeber said, whether she understood the words or not.

She gave a wavering sigh. She had lost her temper and she shouldn’t have. It was Lise’s birthday. She should have made a better effort to keep the peace—for Lise’s sake. She wanted to tell Frederich that, but she didn’t. “What do you want?” she said instead.

“What do you want, Caroline Holt?” he countered.

The inside of the barn was dark and quiet. She could smell hay and dust, horse and weathered wood. The Belgians gave a low rumble and went back to munching their morning corn. Narrow shafts of daylight came through the cracks in the wall.

“I want to be left alone,” she said, feeling close to tears after all.

“Few of us will ever have that luxury, Caroline Holt. I want to tell you this. You are well enough now. I want you to come to church this morning.”

So,
she thought. Everything was back to normal again. Her baby was gone forever and Frederich was making his proclamations, to which she would dutifully comply. She stared at him. He held her gaze, until she was the one who looked away. He was a big man, and his presence and his piercing gaze crowded her so much that she wanted to turn and run.

She made a concerted effort to stay calm and not to back away. “I don’t think—”

“People are saying that your shame and your guilt have driven you to madness,” he said bluntly. “There is nothing I can do to stop the talk. They need to see you at church so they will know it isn’t true.”

“Isn’t it?” she asked sadly. In those first days after the baby’s death she had certainly felt mad. Perhaps she still did. And no wonder Beata watched her so closely. Everything Caroline Holt said and did must be duly noted and
reported. If she didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, if she walked all the way to the churchyard in the dark of the night—well, the more bizarre the better.

“No,” he said, coming closer. “You are grieving for your baby. You are not mad—”

“Don’t!” she cried. “Don’t give me your consummate understanding! How can you know? You don’t
feel
anything!”

She regretted the remark instantly, but it was too late to take it back. He looked at her a long moment, then turned and walked away.

“Frederich, wait,” she said, following after him. “I didn’t mean—”

“I
feel,
Caroline,” he said without looking back at her.

She caught his arm. He jerked free of her grasp, but he stopped walking.

“I’m—sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to…hurt you.”

He answered her in German. She didn’t understand.

“How can you hurt a man who doesn’t feel anything?" he asked in English. “I will tell you what it is I feel. I feel
your
sorrow. And I feel your contempt. All the time. Do you think I am too stupid to know these things?” He took a step closer. “I don’t want you to
be sorry
and I don’t want your pity any more than you want mine.”

“Please…” she said, because he was crowding her again. She could feel the heat and the power of his body. She tried to move away. He wouldn’t let her get by.

“Mein Gott.
You’re still afraid of me. Even after—”

She looked up at him when he didn’t go on. “Yes,” she whispered.

He reached for her then. She saw his intent, and she stood there, rigid and unyielding. She would feel nothing, give nothing. She would be as unemotional as she’d accused him of being.

But his arms were warm and strong, and the sadness was going to overwhelm her again. She pressed her face into his shoulder. He smelled of soap and cedar-scented Sunday clothes. His callused hand stroked her cheek. After a moment he made her look at him, his eyes searching hers—not for permission but to understand—it was almost as if he were the one who was afraid.

He said nothing. Instead, his mouth touched hers, tentatively at first and then harder and so insistent that her lips immediately parted. He tasted her, again and again, as if he was starving and she the morsel that would save him. The ensuing rush of feeling took her breath away.

She wanted more.

More.
..

There was no tenderness in him, and she needed none. She had been alone for so long, empty for so long. And driven by the intensity of her desire, she strained against him to give him access to her mouth, to let him touch her wherever and however he wanted.

She gave a small whimper when his hand slid to her breast. Her body arched in pleasure. Her breasts grew heavy and her belly warm. She clutched the back of his shirt to keep from falling. The sudden weakness in her knees made her sag against him.

He pressed her closer. She could feel his hardness, feel him trembling. She could feel herself trembling.

“Papa!” Mary Louise called suddenly from somewhere outside.

It was he who stopped, tearing his mouth away from hers, his body rigid, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She could only cling to him, impatient and needy.

“Papa, it’s church time!”

The barn door creaked loudly behind them, and Frederich pulled her deeper into the shadows.

“Papa, Beata’s getting
mad
now!” Mary Louise insisted, her voice nearer still. “Papa—!”

He turned Caroline abruptly around, but he didn’t let go of her. “I don’t want your pity,” he said roughly against her ear before he sent her reeling into the sunlight. “Stay away from me—for both our sakes—”

He doesn’t want the likes of you in his bed.

Stay away from me—

Yes,
she thought.
I won’t make that mistake again.

She tried to keep her mind on Johann’s sermon. She should be thinking of the pitfalls of human wickedness he so eloquently put forth and not Frederich Graeber. She could see him across the aisle and two rows up. She could see the way his hair lay on the back of his neck. She could see and know how it felt in her hands, know how his mouth tasted—

She closed her eyes against the rush of feeling. The desire was still there, in spite of his rejection, in spite of the fact that he hadn’t looked at her even once since they’d left the house. She might have been someone he’d never even met.