The Language of Paradise: A Novel (6 page)

“Mama is a natural physician,” Sophy said. “The folks here trust her more than the doctors. I am grateful she was born in civilized times, or she would surely have been burnt for witchcraft.”

Mrs. Hedge’s hands flew to her breast. “There’s a nice thought to take to Sunday dinner! You had better guard your tongue, girl. Don’t let the Reverend hear you talk like that.”

Gideon was impressed, and a little startled, that such tartness could issue from a girl so shy. “And where is your garden, Miss Sophy?” he asked, changing the subject like a discreet guest, but in truth, succumbing to an urge to say her name. It filled his mouth pleasantly: the slippery
s
; the round
o
, fat and full like her celestial alter ego; the soft crush of the
ph
giving way, after mild resistance, to the diminutive.

“Not much is coming up at the moment,” the girl said. “The lilacs are gone and the roses are just starting.”

She led him to a circular plot surrounded by ornamental stones. At its center was a spindly bush with plantings radiating out from it like the spokes of a wheel. “I wanted a statue in the middle, or a little fountain, but Papa said that wasn’t practical. Soon I’ll have sweet peas and heliotrope and jasmine. Daisies, too—I don’t spurn the wildflowers. The rosebush was my birthday present. I call it the queen of the garden. It looks very proud and regal, don’t you think? Micah said he would build me a trellis to train the vines on.”

“I think it’s lovely just as it is,” Gideon said.

Shyness overtook her again. She lowered her eyes and gazed at him through the screen of her lashes. “I must get back to the house with these,” she said, and ran off with her basket.

Mrs. Hedge was bending over the herbs, but Gideon was certain she’d been attending to every word that passed between him and Sophy.

“You’ve truly made an Eden here,” he said. “I wonder how you manage to find time for anything else.”

“We all do our part. The Reverend and the boys prime the soil and put the garden to bed come winter. It’s hard work getting them to weed, though. I could use more daughters, but the Lord gave me just the one, and she is mine only because my husband’s sister died bearing her. My own girls didn’t keep. I had three, and not one lived to see her second birthday.”

She spoke with such dispassion that she might have been talking about a bushel of apples gone bad. “It must be a great consolation to have Sophy,” Gideon said.

“A consolation, and a trial. She’s not easy, my Sophy. She and I have little in common, we are always rubbing each other wrong. Some days I think she hasn’t a practical bone in her body, that head of hers is always somewhere else. She has the Hedge temperament. Artistic, like the Reverend, though she lacks his core of granite. Each year I see more of Mary in her—not to speak ill of the dead.” She looked at Gideon, uneasy. “Don’t mistake me, we are very fond. She’s all the daughter I have, and I’m the only mother she knows. I thank God for her every day.”

THE HEDGES HAD CREATED
a home that fit them as neatly as a shell fits a tortoise. The rooms seemed enormous to Gideon, who was used to cramped quarters. He thought first of a barn, and then of a small factory, for every space was devoted to some kind of industry. The sitting room alone housed a spinning wheel, a loom, and an easel; reeds and half-finished baskets were stacked in one corner. Apart from a few old pieces that had been handed down, the Reverend and his sons had made all the furniture. The style was sturdy rather than elegant, but Gideon was intrigued by the rocking chairs—six of them, arranged in a semicircle around the fireplace. Ornamental carving gave each an individual character. “I’ve made one for every member of my family,” Hedge told him. “A superior form of seating, in my opinion. I find the motion facilitates reflection.” Gideon noticed that the headboards bore different Scripture references. He wondered which chapter-and-verse belonged to Sophy.

They gathered around a table almost as long as the room that housed it: a long slab of oak set end-to-end with platters and bowls. In contrast to the Puritan austerity of the surroundings, the spread struck Gideon as a Tudor banquet. He hadn’t realized until he sat down how famished he was; a tureen of stewed chicken fragrant with herbs brought water to his eyes as well as his mouth. With as much stoicism as he could muster, he resigned himself to an interminable grace; Hedge’s dining-hall sermons were famous. He was startled when the pastor asked him to give thanks.

“Our Father in Heaven,” Gideon began, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes on the bowed heads around him. “I count myself fortunate to be in the bosom of this warm home, where signs of your favor are everywhere, in the abundance of the fields and the peace and plenty within. Never have I felt so much like a . . . a wayfaring stranger who looks with yearning at the lighted windows of a house along the road, and is surprised and gratified to be invited inside. I thank you for the wisdom of Reverend Hedge and the kind hospitality of his family. May you bless this food to our use, and . . . multiply the blessings of those who prepared it.” No more words came, so he said, “Amen.”

If the Hedges were surprised at the brevity of the grace, they hid it well. Mrs. Hedge smiled and nodded, and the young men were openly relieved at the prospect of eating while the food was hot. The Reverend had not yet raised his eyes. He appeared to be praying silently, holding them all in suspension as he covered the ground that his guest had missed. Color rose in Gideon’s cheeks as seconds turned to minutes.

“I fear I lack your eloquence,” he said when Hedge finally looked up.

“You have spoken from the heart. Nothing could be more pleasing to the Lord.” The parson inclined his head slightly in his guest’s direction, and turned to the roast, taking up his carving tools with solemn ceremony—as if, Gideon thought, he had received a command during prayer to shoulder the cross of daily life.

The talk at table began casually enough. James, who was to be married soon, was contemplating buying a parcel of land, and Reuben and the Reverend offered their opinions. The two older sons seemed born to work the soil. Bluff and hardy, long-chinned like their mother, they reminded Gideon of English squires, forking up hunks of meat while discussing the price of real estate and the merits of various fishing holes. If there was a grain of philosophy in them, it wasn’t evident from their conversation. The youngest, Micah, was the quiet one, never offering a word, but gazing at each speaker with a lively interest. He seemed no older than Sophy, his skin as soft and rosy as a girl’s, but Gideon pegged him as the Reverend’s true descendant.

“Do you have plans to follow your father to seminary?” he asked.

Micah, caught with a mouthful, took a second to grasp that the question was directed at him. He blushed and shifted the food to his cheek. “That was f-for S-Sam. My b-b-brother. I’m no s-s-s-stu—” His neck reddened, the sinews bulging with the effort of getting the words out. Gideon was beset with a fear that the boy would choke; he could almost see the unspoken syllables dammed up in his throat. “
I’mnogoodatstudying
.” This last emerged in a single breath, clotted like a German noun. In the ensuing silence, Micah slowly began to chew again.

Gideon was ashamed that his well-meant question had brought the young man’s struggles to light. Unsworth was looking at him with reproach—as though he had humiliated Micah out of malice—but Reverend Hedge interceded smoothly. “My son is too modest. He did well with Latin, and his copybooks were the neatest of all my children’s. If he is somewhat slow of speech, he’s marvelously quick with his hands. He’s all but taken over my workshop! One day, I believe, Micah will see his affliction as a special gift. A calling, even, for who can plumb the hidden purposes of our God? When Moses balked at speaking to the Egyptians, did the Lord not respond, ‘Who hath made a man’s mouth?’”

No one found it necessary to affirm the quotation. Gideon wished that Hedge had simply praised his son without appending a lesson; he was beginning to think that the pastor was that rare man whose private face perfectly matched his public one. He wanted to ask Micah what pieces of furniture he had worked on, but knew now to avoid the interrogative. “I’ve been admiring the rocking chairs,” he ventured, proceeding with caution. “Such fine craftsmanship.”

“Micah made my chair,” Sophy said suddenly. She had been silent during dinner, up and down with Mrs. Hedge, though Gideon had caught her looking at him once or twice; he was acutely aware of her but had made an effort to focus on the table at large. “Not the verse, of course. Papa does the letters himself to work the blessing in. But the rest is Micah’s—the back and seat and base, and the fancy carving. I think it’s the most beautiful one of all.”

“I’m eager to see it,” Gideon said. “Would you be so kind as to point it out after dinner?”

Before she could answer, Unsworth shifted the conversation in a different direction. “Garrison is to speak at a rally in Boston next Saturday. Pritchard and I are going down, and I hope at least one of you will join us. The more voices heard, the better.” He turned to Gideon with a tight smile. “What about you, Mr. Birdsall? I know we have many friends at the seminary. What cause could be holier to a praying man? We would welcome some company on the journey.”

Gideon was caught off guard. It was true that the slavery question was much spoken of at seminary, but he had paid little attention. Though, in theory, he was in favor of abolition, the issues of the day took up little space in his thoughts. Politics had no appeal for him: worldly affairs were transient, external to his longings. The idea of attending a rally, of merging with others in support of a cause, however noble, was foreign to his nature. From earliest childhood, his instinct had been to shy away from mobs of any sort; groups of rowdy children sent him running for his mother’s skirts. He couldn’t help suspecting that Unsworth had somehow divined this weakness and extended the invitation only to embarrass him. Gideon sensed that the boarder didn’t like him—perhaps saw him as a usurper. When Reverend Hedge singled Gideon out for conversation, Unsworth had withdrawn too quickly, receding with a sullen deference. After the parson’s rebuke, he’d abruptly turned affable and talkative, his gratification all too evident. There was something heavy about the man: a calculation that made even his loosest gestures seem contrived.

Gideon was about to plead his studies, but James rescued him. “Well, I can’t go. I have enough to do, getting ready for Caroline, and the farm won’t run itself. It’s not as if I have a moment to spare for the next month.”

“We can’t just take a day off,” Reuben echoed. “Besides, Garrison is a troublemaker, isn’t he, Pa?” He leaned back, smirking, an anticipatory glitter in his eye. It was obvious that he was hoping for a tussle.

The Reverend looked sternly at his son. “You never heard me say so, Reuben. I hope I’m kinder than to attach such labels to my fellow creatures. Mr. Garrison is a powerful orator, in thrall to a just cause. I don’t question his motives, only his method. His words inflame, but to what end? Any student of history knows what happens when rhetoric overcomes reason. The slave owners must be courted and gradually won over. Liberia held up as the city on a hill. In time they’ll see that resettlement is the only logical solution.” He made a steeple of his fingers and regarded the construction soberly. “You are all well acquainted with my views; I’m happy to discuss them further any other evening. On this day, it is more profitable to fix our minds on eternal truths. Mr. Birdsall, shall we retreat to my study for a little Hebrew?”

CHAPTER 4

____

CELESTIAL GUEST

S
OPHY WONDERS IF, AMONG THE BOOKS MAMA HAS PASSED
on to her—
The Female Friend
,
Means and Ends
,
The Sphere and Duties of Woman
—there is anywhere a chapter on the etiquette for entertaining an angelic visitor. Reuben plagued her while she was washing the dishes, making sheep-eyes and talking in a fluting voice. “
Oh, Mr. Birdsall, won’t you please sit in my rocker? I do believe it’s the nicest one of all!
” Mama shushed him, but with a smile. “I’m glad you spoke up, Sophy,” she said. “It’s about time you acquired some conversation.”

She has at last escaped to her easel, and is trying to lose herself in the English country scene that she started last week. The charm of the picture was all in her mind: her greenery is muddy, her thatch-roofed cottage is a woodshed wearing a wig. Usually she expends some Christian zeal on her poorer efforts—ye downtrodden one, I will lift ye up—but this afternoon her attention strays. The painting’s flaws are no match for the shining countenance of their guest, whose blue eyes have surely dwelled on celestial vistas.

The day has been filled with revelations. Sophy has read in the Bible that angels walk among us in the guise of men, but where is it written that they have surnames and hearty appetites? She’d fled from him this morning, hardly knowing why, and when he reappeared at church and spoke to her, she was like Micah, words frozen in her throat, thawing finally in humblest form. Asparagus was all she could offer, laying it at his altar like the poor gawking farmers at the Manger, giving what they had. It took all the courage she had to look into those eyes, but once she did, she knew they’d keep each other’s secrets: he would never tell about her dancing and she would never tell about his disguise. On the way home, Papa preached at his prize pupil, making a public show of him, and she thought, O foolish mortal, you know not who comes to your door.