Through Rushing Water (25 page)

“Our Christmas pageant.” Sophia managed to have a commanding presence even when the rev towered over her and she had to whisper. “The children have worked hard on their presentation.”

“But . . .” He scowled at Marguerite, holding her baby brother, and Joseph. “Indians playing the Holy Family?”

“Who played them last year?”

“Mother and I.”

Will thought having an elderly woman and her son in the roles confused the congregation. It sure hadn't set well with him.

Sophia made a face like she'd bit into a wormy apple. “The students voted—”

“Indians can't vote!” he hissed.

“The goal of this mission—”

Will stepped between them. “Frank's starting. You'll have to settle this later.” Which with Henry would be his “All the good I've tried to do has been undone by your actions” sermon.

Distinguished in a top hat and overcoat with a velvet collar, Frank read the Gospel account of Jesus' birth. Sophia sent Marguerite and Joseph down the aisle. The young girl unwrapped her baby brother. The little one studied the congregation. His lower lip trembled as if he might be working up to a cry. Joseph leaned forward and whispered. The baby reached up and grabbed on to his brother's finger, then relaxed in his sister's arms. Angels took their places. Shepherds arrived, then the kings.

Frank finished the reading, then looked toward the back of the church. Will gave him a thumbs-up. The young man had nailed every word. All their practice after school had paid off.

The congregation stood and sang “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” Baby Michael waved in time with the music and gave a no-teeth grin, which got the whole church smiling.

Will had met only one or two Jewish people, but he figured Mary and Joseph looked more like Poncas than blue-eyed Nettie and Henry. And Nazareth and Bethlehem were small, poor towns like this village, places where the Poncas would feel at home.

A lacy handkerchief fluttered. Sophia was crying. Will put his hand on her shoulder. “Henry's wrong. It came out well.”

“If I had gone to China, I would have missed all this.” She covered his hand and smiled with a Christmas-star sparkle. “Thank you.”

Will stepped up on the porch with an armload of firewood. If this cold kept up, he'd have to—

Sophia opened the door. Her cheeks glowed as red as Santa Claus's. “Merry Christmas! How is it outside?”

“Half inch of squeaky snow.” Will finished stocking the wood box, then rubbed his nose. “Feels like I breathed in icicles.”

“Perhaps we might visit Julia later?”

He nodded. Sophia had said something about China last night. He wanted to ask her what she meant. Nettie called them to the table, where she'd set out oatmeal and sausage.

James passed the coffee. “I bet you're missing some fancy parties in New York.”

“Last year was no celebration.” Sophia shook her head. “My father worked at West Point—”

“The military academy?” Will asked.

She nodded. “Down the river from the College. He taught cavalry tactics. Last Christmas I spent caring for him in his final illness.”

Nettie murmured her condolences.

“So this year is much improved.” Sophia toasted the staff with her tea. “It is my joy to celebrate the birth of our Savior with all of you. Your dedication and perseverance are an inspiration.”

“Hear, hear!” James lifted his coffee cup.

“Thank you,” Henry choked out. He could hardly yell at Sophia after such a compliment.

“We're having a better year too,” Will said. “Staff's healthy.” Last year they'd passed around the grippe. Will, as the only one not ailing, ended up doing all the work short of preaching.

“Thank the Lord for good health.” Sophia turned to Nettie. “Do you need help with the dinner?”

Nettie shook her head. “All it needs is time.” She leaned on the table. “Tell us about Christmas in Paris.”

Sophia's eyes closed halfway and her face relaxed. “Of course the climate is much more temperate. Church bells ring. Oysters for dinner. The air is fragrant with roasting chestnuts from street vendors and bread from bakeries.”

“Paris sounds so nice. Why did you leave?” Nettie asked.

Even her shrug seemed like part of a dance, involving both shoulders and a sway of her head. “Certain members of the Russian community there professed loyalty to the King of Heaven, but obeyed only the tsar. Then war with Prussia broke out. Father declined to participate in the conflict.”

“You've had such a sophisticated life. What do you miss most?” Nettie asked. “Balls and dinner parties? Going to the opera and ballet?”

“The heat at Vassar?” Will guessed. “I hear they keep the rooms at sixty-five degrees.”

Nettie gave a little snort. “Sixty-five? I can barely get my oven that warm.”

James rubbed his mouth. “French wine.”

“Not what
you
would miss,” the rev growled at James, then lowered his heavy eyebrows at Sophia. “Bathtub. I heard you fussing about having to use the washtub.”

“Forgive me. I should not complain. Not when our neighbors lack even that necessity.” Her blue eyes focused on something none of them could see. “No, what I miss most is reading. Selecting a book or periodical from the library, settling into my favorite chair by the window or under the lamp. Or in Paris, in a public garden. Many of the joys of Paris are without cost, which was fortunate. We had left much behind, necessitating simple living.”

She turned to Will with a smile. “Perhaps God used that challenge to prepare me for His work here.”

Another piece of the Sophia-puzzle dropped into place. As his sister-in-law would so delicately put it, Sophia had endured times of reduced circumstances.

“Doesn't get much more simple than this,” Henry muttered.

Nettie shot him a warning frown, then asked Sophia, “And how do you celebrate Christmas in Russia?”

“Also ringing church bells, but higher, more musical. So far north, St. Petersburg is blessed with plenty of cold and snow. We have festivals on the river. The Church follows the old calendar, so Christmas is a week later—January 7. We fast on Christmas Eve and attend church twice.”

“So you've never had a normal, American Christmas?” the rev asked.

Will noticed Sophia's left eyebrow arch upward in response to Henry's assumption that only American Christmas was “normal,” but to her credit, she refused to take the bait. “Sometimes Father and I celebrated with students who could not return home.”

“Sounds fun,” Will said.

“We tried, but it was quite melancholic, with everyone wishing for family. Certainly I understand. Many years when I was at Smolny, my father could not return for me. It is not a life I would wish for a child.”

“We traveled a bit too, depending on where the church sent us.” Nettie patted Henry's hand. “But we always had each other.”

“Michigan, Wisconsin, Illinois. Always cold and snowing,” Henry complained, gaining another kick from his mother. His gloom and doom would earn him a permanent bruise.

“Every year my father and I would go stomping around the hills, looking for the perfect Christmas tree.” James refilled his coffee. “It had to be at least ten feet tall to hold all the baubles my sisters made. And it had to topple over at least once during the holidays, preferably during our Christmas party. Horrified my mother.”

“Will?” Sophia asked. “Did you have a tree?”

“Trees are pretty scarce in Iowa. But we got stockings with nuts, an orange, hard candy.” Like the Poncas got last night.

The years blurred together. He recalled his father bringing home a turkey, his mother serving a gingerbread cake sprinkled with white sugar, Will squeezing between his brother and sister at the table. His family all together. Maybe he hadn't been to Paris, but he'd been blessed in other ways.

Nettie pushed back from the table. “Sophia, while I check the roast, how about you get out your gusli and sing us a few Christmas carols?”

“Speaking of Christmas carols—” Will hoped the good feelings Sophia had sparked would stretch around the table to the Ebenezer Scrooge of books. “I don't suppose we could read Mr. Dickens?”

Henry gulped and tried to find a way to refuse, but Sophia clapped her hands and gasped. “You have a copy of Dickens's
A Christmas Carol
? Oh yes, let us read it!” In her best British accent she quoted, “‘He knew how to keep Christmas well.'”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-F
IVE

E
asy. A little less pressure.” Will adjusted Spotted Horse's hold on the plane. They had joined three planks with dowels and were smoothing them into a tabletop. The plane peeled off a yellow curl almost as pretty as one of Sophia's.

No. He had to attend to his work. No thinking about Sophia, hoping her hair would escape her pins. Wondering how it would feel—

“Better?” Spotted Horse hadn't finished the table for Christmas. Maybe he'd have it done by New Year's.

“Uh. Yes. You got it.”

When she got off the boat, Will had pegged Sophia as high society. But he was wrong. She knew the lingo, had crossed paths with some of its members, had taught their daughters. But she wasn't one of them.

A gust of wind sprayed him in the face with snow, cooling his thoughts. The warehouse needed major roof repairs, but the rafters were too rotted to risk sending anyone up to fix it.

Brown Eagle dashed in and shook the snow off his blanket.

Walks in the Mud pulled benches close to the potbellied stove. “Hurry up. We want to hear Will read.”

Spotted Horse put away the tools, and Will opened his Bible to the last chapter of First Corinthians. “‘Now concerning the collection for the saints . . . ,'” Will read. “‘And when I come, whosoever ye shall approve by your letters . . .'”

Sophia was right. The apostle Paul had written letters to wealthy churches asking them to help the poor in Jerusalem. Just like she had.

Brown Eagle nudged him with his elbow. “Falling asleep?”

“No.” Will rubbed his hands over his face and straightened. “Waking up.”

“He is thinking about the teacher,” Spotted Horse said.

“How do white people marry?” Walks in the Mud asked. “She has no family and you have no horses.”

“He could make a herd.” Brown Eagle held up one of the toys Will had carved.

Will's face heated. Spotted Horse chuckled and nodded at him. “I do not know why they call
us
redskins.”

The off-kilter door rattled, and Henry stuck his head in. The men fell silent.

“We need another coffin.”

The rest of the world celebrated the new year, but not the Ponca Agency. Yesterday they buried Julia.

Sophia blew her nose and wiped her eyes. She must not mope about waiting for her heartache to ease. Nettie had lost her closest Ponca friend and assistant. Sophia must attempt to console her. She took her tangle of yarn to the kitchen. “I fear I have misplaced a stitch.”