Daughter of the Sword (35 page)

Your blossoms so fair—”

He urged the plucking of those flowers. Fall would be too late. It was so much the cry of all lovers, the way she'd felt about Dane, the way Sara and Thos had been, that Deborah smiled through her tears as Conrad's voice trailed off and she told him through the aching in her throat, “That's beautiful!”

The road from the Kaw to Friedental was a dim pair of ruts, scored deeper by the tracks of Laddie's and Conrad's horses. It followed a small stream, bordered by winter-naked hickorys, oaks, and maples. Conrad called one halt to water the horses and walk around to stretch. He had a cup in his pack and brought Deborah a drink, then drank himself.

“I wish it were wine,” he told her, blue eyes as warming on her as the sun. “I've thought of you much, Miss Deborah, since we met at the smithy and again on the Fourth of July.” His mouth tugged down in quizzical self-deprecation. “In fact, it was the hope of seeing you, not a desire to join in my adopted country's patriotic fervor, that took us to town that day.”

His frankness compelled the same from her. “Sir, I should tell you I consider myself engaged.”

Straight ash-colored brows drawing together, he said, “Not to Rolf Hunter?”

“No. His brother.”

“Where is this brother?”

“He—went to California.” Deborah looked away, mouth trembling. Conrad took her hand, drew back the gauntlet cuff, and kissed the pulse of her wrist. “Oh, my dear,” he muttered. “Don't let me trouble you! It's just that, if you were plighted to me, I couldn't leave you.”

“Dane could.” The bitterness escaped before she knew it.

Eyebrows lifting, Conrad said, “But he'll be back, surely?”

“In the spring, he said. But what good will it do? He'll still want to take me away. That's why we quarreled before.”

“You don't wish to go?”

“I won't.”

“Perhaps he'll stay.”

Deborah shook her head. “No,” she said woefully. “He's too stubborn.”

Conrad burst out laughing. “Like you,” he said. Sobering, his contemplative, almost speculative gaze reminded her that, in spite of his renunciation of it, he was used to command, an older, wiser, more experienced man even than Dane. “Permit me to wonder how, this dilemma appearing unsolvable, you feel betrothed?”

“Because I love him.”

The amused expression left Conrad's face. Turning, he brought the horses, then helped her into the saddle. For a moment, his hands closed on horn and cantle, locking her in. “Love, like grief, wears out,” he said, then sprang up on his tall gray horse.

Friedental, a safe distance from the stream, presented a curious, extremely neat pattern. A dozen white frame houses ranged on the north side of the road, facing south. Rows of young cottonwoods and other trees were planted between the houses, on either side of the road, and around a church that looked much like the other houses except for its steeple.

Fields and orchards ran in long broad strips on either side of the road and houses, and one lone dwelling sat back in the orchards. There was a sod stable near each house and two large, lofted barns in what appeared to be a common meadow stretching along the stream.

Pausing at a distance to stare, Deborah, exclaimed, “I can't believe such a place is really here! It looks like a giant child's toy village!”

“Wait till you see the dolls!” Conrad laughed. “They're inside for dinner now, but you'll meet them later.”

Till she saw the village, it hadn't really occurred to Deborah that other people were involved in whatever risk there might be in sheltering her. She reined in Chica.

“Mr. Lander, did Sara tell you in her letter that Rolf Hunter may look for me, that he could be dangerous?”

“Yes. I beg you not to fear. My colonists are dedicated to peace and non-resistance. I'm not.”

“I'm not worried for myself, but if he hired some ruffians—I'd never forgive myself if the village were hurt because of me!”

He closed his hand over hers; she felt warmed even through glove and gauntlet. “Chances are slight that anyone would look for you at Friedental. We're off main-traveled ways and have no visitors. But I wouldn't make a decision like this by myself. While Laddie ate and rested, Elder Goerz called a meeting. The unanimous vote was to welcome you. Though you'll stay with Ansjie and me, you're asked to consider yourself an honored guest of the settlement.”

“How kind of them, to run risks for a stranger when they themselves are in a strange land.”

“Mennonites have so often been fugitives that they feel sympathy for the hunted.”

Deborah's jaw clamped shut. “I'm in my own country! I won't hide forever.” Her Bowie was gone, but Johnny had promised to make her another, though he advised her not to carry one at Friedental. “Forget all that for now,” he'd said. “Let Conrad take care of you this little while.”

“Of course you won't stay in hiding,” Conrad now said calmly. “I hope you'll think of this as a visit, not an ordeal, and yourself as a blessing to us, not a problem.”

“You're very, very kind.”

Gravely, he shook his head. “Very, very lucky.”

They splashed across the stream, stopped to let the horses drink, then rode past the church and a row of shuttered houses, angling back past the fields to the house in the young orchards. “Since we're not of their religion,” he explained, “Ansjie and I thought it best to live a little apart.” His teeth flashed. “Also, to be honest, I can do without so much proximity. The trees are young now, but in time they'll make an effective curtain, and I suspect everyone will be pleased when thick green leaves give privacy without the affront of a wall.”

“But in winter the trees are bare.”

His eyes touched her. “In winter one has the patience of hope and waits for spring.”

As they rode up to the stable, where doves cooed about the thatch, a young woman Deborah recognized as his sister hurried from the house, hands outstretched to take Deborah's as Conrad helped her from the saddle.

“Wilkommen!”
she greeted, then chided herself. “No, I must my English practice! Welcome, Miss Whitlaw! Come inside and warm yourself. Hurry, Conrad! I've been keeping dinner warm and I'm hungry!”

“Hungry or sated, it takes the same time to care for horses,” said Conrad, taking Chica's reins. “Besides, if I know you, you've been nibbling! Isn't that a
strudel
crumb on your cheek?”

Lifting a guilty hand, Ansjie found nothing and blushed.
“Taugenicht!”
she bubbled. “Good for nothing! For such a tongue, there may be no crumbs left!” She slipped her arm through Deborah's and drew her up the path through trees which, though leafless, were warmly tinged with sun, and neatly trimmed hedges bordering garden plots, raked and awaiting spring.

In a sort of back porch or anteroom, crocks and food stood on shelves and a trapdoor closed off what must be a cellar. Most of the porch was filled with brush, apparently trimmed from the hedges, corn stalks and corncobs, weeds, cow chips, and tightly twisted bundles of long prairie hay. Though the Friedentalers had used wood for their homes, they weren't wasting it as fuel.

Near the inner door was a long, low shelf holding boots and house shoes. Above these were pegs holding coats and cloaks, hats and gloves. “Please?” Ansjie selected a pair of crimson felt slippers. “These will fit you, I believe, and so the floor stays
schön.”
At Deborah's puzzled look, she put her fingers to her rosy lips. “Nice, I should be saying! Beautiful is too much for floors,
nein?
”

“But yours
is
beautiful!” Deborah exclaimed as Ansjie opened the door.

The floor was made of seasoned hardwood, not warped, splintering cottonwood shrunk to leave large cracks—and, of course, on the frontier, anything better than a dirt floor was a luxury. Polished to a sheen, the floor actually reflected the big brick stove, which was almost as long as the women were tall and stood six feet high. It was built in the wall, the cooking surface and oven reaching into the big kitchen, which ran the width of the house.

Carpet stretched beneath a polished table and chairs beside a curtained window. Shelves gleamed with copper and pewter, enamel and blown glass, while a handsome cabinet, carved with leaves and flowers, held crystal and porcelain that reminded Deborah for a heart-stopping moment of Mother's fine china, smashed in the cabin's smoldering ruins. The scoured long table beneath the shelves was fitted with ingenious holders for knives, rolling pin, sieves, and other utensils, and beneath were bins and drawers.

“Praktisch!”
declared Ansjie, opening a bin to show flour. “Peter Voth, the carpenter, made it, and the shelves, too.”

She gestured at the other side of the room, where two cushioned chairs were positioned to catch warmth from the stove and light from the window. A table held a three-branched candlestick, and there was a large single taper on a graceful writing desk by the window. Again, Deborah's heart skipped in half-painful, half-grateful recognition. Bookshelves filled the walls of the sitting room portion, more books than she had seen anywhere except in libraries. There was a globe on a reading table, another candle, and several opened books.

Following Deborah's feasting glance, Ansjie sighed. “Books we bring here, hundreds! But aways Conrad scolds me not to bring too much—too much clothes, dishes, furniture, bedding! These we can do without, but not his Bücher!”

He laughed from the door. “So abused, because I won't let you transport paintings and gimcracks and elegances that would crowd us into the stable! Besides, Ansjie, I think I'm not wrong in saying you've read most of these books.”

“Because you won't talk to me when you thrust your nose in the pages!” his sister retorted. “Wash now—you first, Miss Whitlaw—and I'll see if the goose can still be eaten!”

Deborah washed with castile soap at the stand near the stove and dried her hands on a spotless towel while Conrad went through a doorway on the other side of the oven. He had her pack, which contained the sketch pad, one of the dresses she'd given Judith and which Judith had given back, and Sara's contribution of drawers and chemise.

Not including what she stood in, it was all she had, except for the farm—the farm, with its wrecked house and stable, which she didn't even want to think about right now. But she shrank from charity.

“I hope there'll be something I can do here to pay for my keep.”

Ansjie handed her a bowl of steaming dumplings, herself hoisting a platter holding a braised fowl anchored by golden roast potatoes.

“Keep?”
She snorted daintly. “Do you speak of yourself like a horse or oxen? Of course there is work and you may help, but Conrad and I are glad to have your company.” She set down the goose and her frown changed to a smile. “Please,” she coaxed, “no more foolish words. Conrad will think it's my fault—”

“For what now?” he demanded, striding across the room and laughing as he dropped a kiss on her forehead.

“She's one of your independent women.” Ansjie wrinkled her uptilted, somewhat freckled nose, “She wishes to measure her food according to the socks she mends or butter she churns!”

Conrad watched Deborah while Ansjie plunked down side dishes of red cabbage and gravy, then put out a loaf of brown bread. Butter and several kinds of preserves and pickles were already on the table, which was laid with fine china and silver.

Drawing back one of the chairs, he seated Deborah, and then his sister, filled crystal goblets from a decanter of red wine. Deborah had never seen wine served at a meal. It seemed rather wicked, decadently European, and wholly desirable, sparkling with tiny bubbles.

She swallowed her demur along with her first taste of wine, sipped again, cautiously, and decided she might come to like it in time, though it was the appearance and idea that she enjoyed most.

Was Conrad looking slightly amused? Unfolding his linen napkin, he began to carve the goose and pass the plates while Ansjie added generous helpings of the other things. “There's a way you could earn not only your board, but a salary, if you'll accept it.”

“Conrad!” remonstrated Ansjie, eyes going wide.

“It's true,” he said stoutly. “You know better than anyone, sister mine, how I've labored with this writing! Now here is a lady with English for her native tongue, one accustomed to reading articles and editorials for a newspaper. What could be more providential?”

“Oh.” Ansjie relaxed and shrugged. “That!”

“
That
happens to be an important goal of mine,” he said good-humoredly. To Deborah, he explained, “An English publisher would like an account of emigrant life on the prairie, and though they could get a translation done, it's a point of pride with me to write it myself with the proper words.”

“Your English is very good, and Miss Lander's, too.”

“Please call me Ansjie,” the young woman implored.

“If you'll call me Deborah.”

“May I do that, also, and be Conrad?” he asked.

Having reached the ease of first names, Conrad said that he'd had an English tutor. His father, the count, had much admiration for England, and though Conrad was also required to learn French and some Italian, he and his brothers were expected to use English at every other family meal.

“It was one of Father's amusements. At the start of the meal, he would say, ‘We are English,' or,
‘Nous sommes français,'
or,
‘Siamo italiani'.
Or sometimes he assigned us positions or identities. One of us would be Augustine, another Pelagius, and a third a judge hearing us argue original sin.”

“But
you
can't believe in original sin!”

He laughed. “No, but historically, alas, Augustine's unhappy theory has dogged Western civilization to reach its noxious flowering in Calvin.”