A Deadly Shaker Spring (10 page)

S
ARAH DID NOT APPEAR FOR THE NOON MEAL
. R
OSE
would have noticed her absence, even if she hadn't been saving a place for her. With only twenty-nine Believers, ten of whom were men who ate at the opposite end of the large dining room, it was easy to spot a missing sister. Rose wanted to tell Sarah that Elsa would be transferred to kitchen rotation following the noon meal, though Sister Gertrude, the new kitchen deaconess, was none too happy about it. Rose had promised that Elsa would do only washing up and chopping, not baking, as she used to do. She turned up her nose at herbs and spices of any sort, so even her apple pies were bland.

Fifteen minutes into the simple meal, Rose spread her white linen napkin over her spring-vegetable soup and slipped away from the table. Josie glanced up at her with a question, but Rose tossed her a reassuring look. Her expression tightened as soon as she cleared the women's entrance to the dining room. Something was wrong, she could sense it. Sarah shouldn't have taken so long to finish embroidering an initial. She might have taken ill on the way over, a dizzy spell perhaps, as a result of her head injury. If so, she may
have gone directly up to her retiring room, which was on the second floor, just above the dining room. Rose knocked on the door and called her name. When no one answered, she eased open the door. Though Sarah lived alone in the room, it still contained three narrow beds, all neatly made as if waiting for the arrival of new Believers. Bright sunlight warmed the simple pine table and drawers built into the clean white walls. A few dust motes caught the light, but otherwise the room sparkled with cleanliness. There was no sign of Sarah.

Each floor of the dwelling house was equipped with one telephone, located in the hallway. Always open to labor-saving inventions, the Shakers had been the first in Languor County to install a phone system to connect them both with the world and with each other. Rose felt the skin prickle on the back of her neck as she waited for her connection to the sewing room and listened to the hollow, unanswered ring.

Rose picked up her long skirts and ran toward the Sisters' Shop. She told herself it was always possible that Sarah had decided to work through the noon meal. Believers worked hard; it wasn't unheard of to skip a meal. But the work wasn't so pressing that Sarah needed to stay, and she hadn't answered the phone. She was alone in the Sisters' Shop, as she had been the morning of her so-called accident. Rose ran faster. If that had been no accident, her attacker could have come back to finish the job.

Rose's heart was pounding nearly as loudly as her thick-soled work shoes, which thudded against the steps as she hurried upstairs to the sewing room.

“Sarah?” she called, as she pushed open the door.
Soft stacks of fabric absorbed her voice. She paused to catch her breath and called more loudly. No one answered.

Rose rushed across the empty room to Sarah's sewing desk, on which lay the embroidery she'd interrupted for the noon meal. It was still unfinished.

The window next to Sarah's desk looked out toward the Society's orchard, now studded with apple blossoms about to burst. Rose's eyesight was excellent, and the severely pruned branches allowed her a clear view of two people embracing among the trees. One of them wore the stiff bonnet and loose, long dress of a Shaker sister.

Rose turned on her heel and flew down the Sisters' Shop staircase. She'd be very surprised if that was anyone but Sarah. No wonder she wanted to work alone. The better to break her vow of chastity. Rose was furious not just at Sarah's deception but that she had allowed herself to be duped.

Her angry strides brought her to the orchard in minutes. She heard their voices just before she saw them, arms intertwined, strolling away from her toward the older, abandoned portion of the orchard. Sarah's pear-shaped body moved with surprising grace as she matched her stride to that of her companion. Rose didn't recognize the man's slight figure and shaggy brown hair. His clothes were of the world and much patched. He gently unlinked their elbows and slid his arm around Sarah's waist.

Rose hesitated. Unlike some of the other sisters, she knew what Sarah was feeling as she leaned into the man's protective embrace. But as eldress she had a duty to watch over the sisters and help them with just
such temptations as the feel of a man's arm. Suddenly embarrassed, as if she were peeping in a private window, Rose purposely crunched a branch with her foot.

“Sarah,” she called out in her sternest voice.

The couple leaped apart and whirled around to face her.

Now the man looked familiar to Rose. He might have been anywhere from his thirties to his sixties. A hard life—probably on the streets, judging from his shabby clothes—had etched deep lines in his thin face, and his pale blue eyes were haunted and red-rimmed. A drunk, or getting there, Rose thought. He looked sober now, though, and alarmed.

“Sarah, I am deeply disappointed in you,” Rose said.

Sarah's round, pleasant face reddened, and her eyes filled with tears. She hung her head until Rose could see only the top of her white cap.

“Mr.——?”

“Caleb Cox, Eldress, ma'am,” he answered, dipping his head in a gesture of conciliation. “We meant no harm, Eldress. Sarah, she's innocent, it's all my doing. Please don't blame her. I just never met a woman like Sarah before, so kind and gentle. I guess I pushed where I shouldn't've.”

“You understand our ways, then. You know that Sarah has taken a vow of celibacy, that she may not associate with men?”

“Yeah, I know your ways real well.” With that, he flashed a glance at Sarah, turned on his heel, and trudged off through the apple trees toward the fields just south of the village. Apparently he knew how to get back to the town of Languor without following
the unpaved road through the center of North Homage. Rose wondered if he'd walked all the way to the village in the first place, since Languor was eight miles away. He didn't look the sort to own a car or even a horse. Never mind, he wasn't her responsibility. Sarah was.

Tears streamed down Sarah's cheeks as she watched Caleb's retreating back.

Rose couldn't help but feel saddened. In her ten years as trustee, she had watched too many sisters stumble over the rule of celibacy. Some longed for their own children; others fell in love. Most of them lost their faith and left the Society, becoming apostates. Only a few, like Rose herself, ever returned.

As trustee, Rose had helped many apostates find a job and a place to live in the world. She would give the young ones money to start out. Those who had contributed goods or property to the community when they signed the covenant would receive some recompense, though the land remained with the Society.

Now Rose was eldress. Her responsibility to Sarah was more spiritual than practical.

“Come along, Sarah,” Rose said, taking the sister by the elbow. “We'll have a private talk in the sewing room.” She avoided the word “confession,” which was what she knew Sarah would need to do, both for her own peace and forgiveness and to remain in the community.

After a backward glance at Caleb's back disappearing through the trees, Sarah bit her lip and followed Rose docilely.

* * *

“I know it was wrong to meet alone with a man from the world, and I'll accept any punishment you say,” Sarah whispered. She and Rose sat close together, back at her sewing desk. Sarah sniffled, and her blotched, tear-stained face hung as though her neck had lost the strength to hold it upright. In her lap she crumpled a soggy handkerchief.

Rose was exhausted from the storm, a burst of inconsolable weeping and self-recrimination. She felt more competent to handle real estate negotiations than emotional floods. She thought about how Agatha would have dealt with Sarah. She'd have been firm, no doubt, yet always compassionate. True to the principles of the Society, and forever ready to convey God's forgiveness. She placed her hand over Sarah's convulsive ones, wet handkerchief and all.

“Sarah, it isn't so much a matter of punishment, you know that. You must confess to me, and you must mend your behavior, but just now I'm more concerned with what your actions mean. Answer me truthfully: Do you wish to leave us and go to the world?” She squeezed Sarah's hands. “Have you lost your faith?”

Sarah gasped and her head snapped up. “Nay,” she cried. “Oh, nay. Eldress, please don't make me leave.” She grabbed Rose's hand in a fierce grip. Rose winced as her fingers were smashed together and surrounded by a clammy handkerchief. She gently extricated her hand.

“I know how it must look to you,” Sarah said, gulping hard. “I know I should not have allowed Caleb to speak to me privately or to touch me, but he is just an old friend, I promise you. He didn't mean
anything wrong, he wouldn't do that. He is kind. He just wanted to help me.”

“How do you need help?” Rose sensed a lie. Sarah's speech was too rushed, too earnest, and she was avoiding Rose's eyes.

“Well, not exactly help. He just . . . he just wanted to pass along some news about my family. Caleb's an old family friend, you see. He knew my mother.” Sarah's voice hushed as she spoke of her mother. “He came to tell me about a family death, that's all. He was just comforting me.”

Rose frowned. “You never mentioned any other family.”

Sarah shrugged.

“Why didn't Mr. Cox come to my office first?”

“He didn't know. He just walked into the village and looked for me, that's all, just looked until he found me.”

“But he did know, Sarah. He said he knew our ways. When he spoke of you, he sounded like a man who felt more than friendship. And I saw the two of you embracing.”

Sarah hung her head and looked as if she might cry again, but this time Rose hardened her heart. There were lies in the air between them, and she meant to run them to ground.

“I'm waiting to hear the truth,” she said. “I do not believe that a mere ‘family friend,' and one who knows Shaker ways, would ask you to risk meeting him in private and even go so far as to touch you, which he would know is expressly forbidden. Sarah, who is Mr. Cox to you?”

Sarah raised her head and sat up straight, her round
face and murky eyes swept clear of emotion.

“Caleb is just a friend,” she said. “He touched me only to offer me comfort.”

“And what else did he come for?” Rose asked, her voice clipped.

“Nothing. I can't say.”

“So there is more, after all. Why can't you say? Are you frightened?”

“It is . . . a private matter.”

“A private matter? Sarah, you are a Believer. You have vowed to live a communal life, and a chaste one.” Rose shook her head. “I can't let this incident go without confession, you must know that.”

“I understand.” Sarah's lip trembled, yet this time she met Rose's gaze. “But I cannot tell you more than I have.”

“I am deeply disappointed in you, Sarah.” Rose regarded her for a long moment. “I'll give you some time to think this through. Your future in the Society depends on your willingness to open your heart to confession. We'll meet again day after tomorrow, after breakfast, in the Trustees' Office.” She leaned forward and touched Sarah's wrist. “Please think about your confession carefully, Sarah. I want to help you, but I can't unless I know the whole truth.”

Sarah's voice shook as she answered, “I can't. Even if you make me leave, I can't tell you.”

“Ah, she had a bad night, I'm afraid,” Josie said, when Rose paid her daily visit to the Infirmary and asked about Agatha's condition. “But I do have an interesting tidbit to report, my dear. I did as you asked—when Agatha noticed the absence of her older
journals, I told her you'd taken them to read. She smiled, my dear, as big a smile as she could manage, just like the old days!” Josie's cheeks bunched up in her own show of delight.

“That is very good news,” Rose said. She made a mental note to stay up all night, if necessary, to read more of the journals. Agatha clearly wanted to tell her something important.

“Is she too tired for a visit, do you think?”

“Nay, run along to her room. I'll let you go alone this time. I'm up to my ears in tonic mixing, what with these spring coughs and colds going around.” With a wave at Rose, Josie turned back to her desk, littered with opened tins and apothecary jars containing syrups and ground dried roots.

Agatha was awake but pale and groggy. “Don't tax yourself, my friend,” Rose said. “Josie tells me you slept poorly, so you rest and I'll do all the talking. As if that weren't always the way!” She was glad to see a feeble smile, though it faded quickly. She began to stroke Agatha's forehead, hoping she might drift into sleep.

Agatha opened her eyes wide and stared at the empty shelves where her old journals had been. She pushed her forehead up against Rose's hand.

“What is it, Agatha? Are you concerned about your journals? I took them, remember? I thought you wanted me to.”

Agatha fell back against the pillow. With her left hand, she fumbled for Rose's hand, still hovering above her head. She grabbed it and squeezed. Despite her tiredness, her grip was firm. Rose was elated. She could see a change in Agatha, more clarity.

“Agatha, are you feeling well enough for me to tell you what else has been happening lately?” Agatha squeezed and gave a slight nod.

“Well, I'm in a pickle, I don't mind telling you. Sarah is in the middle of something. I found her walking through the orchard with a man, who was being much too familiar with her. Not one of the brethren, I'm thankful to say. She seemed genuinely contrite and begged to stay with us, but when I told her she would have to confess everything to me, she balked. Now I don't know what to do. She doesn't speak much of her life away from North Homage, but clearly she suffered deeply at some point. I'm not sure when or how, though. When she speaks of her mother, she seems to feel genuine affection, almost worship.”