Judith Miller - [Daughters of Amana 01] (23 page)

“Who is it?”

Who is it?
How many people called him
Father
? “It’s me, Berta, your daughter.”

“I’m with someone. You’ll need to return later.”

His voice sounded strained, and I wondered if his patient was going to die. The thought was enough to send me scurrying to the door. I peered down the street, but Johanna was nowhere in sight. Should I follow and meet her somewhere along the road? What if she took a different route and I missed her?

I closed the door and plopped instead onto one of the hard, straight-backed chairs. Leaning forward, I rested my chin in the palm of my hand and counted the rows in the rug that was striped in blue, brown, and gray. Next I counted how many blue stripes there were and then the gray. I was in the midst of counting the brown stripes when the heavy metal latch clacked and the door leading to my father’s office opened.

A woman, looking as though she’d stepped from the pages of
Godey’s
magazine, stood framed in the doorway. Sunlight filtered through the windows and encircled her in a radiant glow. Her gown, the shade of ripe plums, was an immediate reminder of the pink silk skirt I’d worn when we first arrived in Amana. She carried a parasol in her lace-gloved hands, and thin plum-colored ribbons swirled atop her chapeau.

Instantly I knew.

Caroline
.

I jumped to my feet, my heart pumping as though I’d been running for hours. “What are you doing here?” I hadn’t expected to shout, but the sight of her caused a surge of dread and panic like nothing I’d ever before experienced. “You’re Caroline, aren’t you?” I choked out the question and prayed she’d refute my question and tell me she was a visitor who’d become ill while taking a tour of the village.
Please, God.

Before she’d said a word, my father appeared behind her and grasped the woman’s shoulders. Instinctively she stepped forward, and he moved to her side. Had it not been for the horror that shone in his eyes, they would have looked like the perfect married couple: he in his suit and white shirt, she in her elegant walking dress.

“What are you doing here, Berta?”

His tone was harsh and unfamiliar, and I struggled to understand why he’d spoken to me in such a manner. Arriving at his office unexpectedly couldn’t be considered improper. I was, after all, his daughter. He should have been pleased to see me.

“I had hoped to have a brief chat, but I see you’re busy.” I met the woman’s steady gaze. “With Caroline.”

I waited for him to respond, but it was the woman who extended her hand. “I’m Mrs. Harwell, and I am very pleased to meet you, Berta. Your father has spoken highly of you. I hope to see you again in the future.”

See me again?
I gasped at the outrageous remark. “Well, I don’t want to ever—”

My father grabbed my wrist and gave me a warning look. “I’ll see you to the door, Mrs. Harwell. The buggy will arrive at the general store to return you to the train depot in Homestead shortly.”

She bobbed her head. “I hope to have time to pick up a few gifts before I leave.” With a glance over her shoulder, she lifted her gloved hand and waved. “Good-bye, Berta.”

I glowered in return. How dare she wave at me and sashay out the door as though we were best friends. I considered shouting after her that she wouldn’t see me or my father again if I had anything to do about it.

The moment my father closed the door, he wheeled around on his heel. “How dare you speak to a guest in such a rude manner.” He narrowed his eyes until they were no more than slits. “I have never been so embarrassed in my life. And why did you address Mrs. Harwell as Caroline? Who is Caroline?”

Anger churned in my belly. He was going to play a game of denial with me. “Caroline is the woman who wrote you the letter I delivered. I believe you said she was one of your patients who lives in Chicago.”

“Oh yes. Now I remember.” He removed his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “It’s warm in here, don’t you think?”

“I hadn’t noticed.” My response wasn’t completely true. I thought he should open a window. The waiting room could use a breath of fresh air, but I wasn’t going to tell him. Besides, it was his own guilt that was making him warm. Of that much I was certain, for when trapped in one of my own lies, I’d experienced the very same feeling.

He seemed to regain his composure as he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “Exactly what did you want to discuss with me? Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Each day at midmorning and midafternoon, I deliver food to the garden workers. I asked Johanna to make the delivery so that I could stop here. Mother tells me you are going to Chicago to some sort of school.”

“Yes, that’s correct, but couldn’t we discuss this when I get home this evening?”

“There’s nobody waiting to see you, and I told Johanna I would meet her here on her return from the garden. I didn’t want to talk in front of Mother.”

He crossed the room and leaned against the doorjamb leading into his office. “Whyever not? We have no secrets.”

“Really?” I laughed.

He straightened at the sound of my derisive laughter. “Are you mocking me?”

Instead of answering, I asked a question of my own. “Exactly who is Mrs. Harwell? Another patient from Chicago?”

“No, of course not.” He pointed to one of the chairs. “Why don’t we sit down.” His complexion had turned a sickly gray that reminded me of the ashes I removed from the stove each day, and I wondered if he might faint. He didn’t wait for me to be seated before he dropped into one of the chairs.

“Would you open one of the windows, Berta?”

I did as he requested, but he wasn’t going to deter me. “You haven’t yet told me who she is, Father.”

“Her name is Mrs. Phillip Harwell, and she is the proprietor of a finishing school. I know you have been unhappy here in Amana. After investigating the school, I planned to talk to your mother about the possibility of sending you there to complete your education.”

“And what is the name of Mrs. Phillip Harwell’s finishing school? Caroline’s School for Educating Young Girls on the Fine Art of Stealing Someone Else’s Husband?”

My father’s complexion remained pasty, but he pointed his finger at me. “You watch your tongue, young lady. I will not be spoken to in such a manner. And why do you keep referring to Caroline?”

“Because I know all about her, Father. I read the letter. Let me see if I can remember the exact words.” I tapped my finger to my lips. “Ah yes. I believe this is a portion of it: ‘If you truly love me—as you so often have said—then why do you linger? Know that I love you, but I will not wait forever. Lovingly, Caroline.’

Does that sound vaguely familiar?”

Once again perspiration dotted his forehead. “Caroline and Mrs. Harwell are two different people. Mrs. Harwell is the proprietor of Harwell’s Finishing School for Young Ladies.”

“In Chicago?”

“No. The school is located in her home in Iowa City. Her husband teaches at the university, and she has decided the area is in need of a finishing school. She is seeking pupils.”

I didn’t believe a word he was saying. “And how did you happen to discover Mrs. Harwell and her finishing school? A strange coincidence?”

“No coincidence at all. I’d been looking to locate a place even before we arrived in Amana. One that wasn’t too far away. I saw an advertisement in the Iowa City newspaper.”

“And where did you see a copy of the newspaper?” I folded my arms across my waist, pleased I’d been able to catch him in another lie.

“You’ll find a stack of old copies in my office. And before you rush to conclusions, I have the Bruderrats’ permission to have them. Go on.” He nodded toward his office door. “I can see you don’t believe me.”

I considered saying I believed him, but I simply had to look for myself. Diverting my gaze, I walked past him and entered the other room. In the far corner I spotted a pile of newspapers, and I shuffled through them. Although I saw one or two from Chicago, the rest were copies of the
Iowa State Press
, the Iowa City newspaper. I returned to the outer office.

We both turned when the bell jangled and the front door opened. Johanna stood framed in the doorway. After a quick greeting to my father, she waved me forward. “We need to return.”

My father managed to get to his feet, his complexion still pale. “Give us just a minute longer, Johanna.”

She nodded and closed the door.

“We don’t have much time. We’ll take a walk after prayer service, when we can talk, but say that you believe me, Berta. I’m telling you the truth. This is the first time I’ve ever seen Mrs. Harwell, and I don’t know her first name.”

“Even if I believe you about the finishing school, that doesn’t explain Caroline or your plans for Chicago.” I took a step toward the door and then stopped. “Does Mother know about the finishing school, or is that another one of your secrets?”

“She knows, but she doesn’t agree that you should attend. Her preference would be that you remain here in Amana.”

“And what do you think Caroline would prefer? That you have no wife or daughter at all?” I turned and ran from the room, tears forming in the corners of my eyes before my feet hit the sidewalk.

CHAPTER 18

Dark splotches dotted the front of my dress where my tears had fallen. Swiping fingers beneath one eye and then the other, I sobbed as Johanna drew me into an embrace.

“Tell me what happened.”

I glanced toward my father’s office and could see him looking out the window. He was watching—probably worried I’d tell Johanna about that woman.

While keeping one arm around my shoulder, Johanna urged me forward. “Let’s go down the street a distance. We’ll sit down under the trees, where you can have a good cry.”

“I’m not going to cry anymore!” I sniffled and wiped my nose on the handkerchief I’d removed from her pocket. “But he better not try to send me off to any finishing school. I’ll run away and they’ll never see me again.”

Johanna lifted my chin with the tips of her fingers. Concern shone in her eyes. “Tell me what you’re talking about.”

Between sniffles, I sputtered the story of Mrs. Harwell, her finishing school, and the questions that still remained unanswered— ones about Caroline and whether my father planned to remain in Chicago. “I still believe Mrs. Harwell is Caroline.”

“But you saw the newspapers from Iowa City, didn’t you?”

“What does that prove?” I snatched loose from Johanna’s hold. Couldn’t she see that my father’s mention of the newspapers had been a feeble attempt to wriggle out of his lies? “Just because he read about a finishing school in Iowa City doesn’t mean that the woman in his office was the owner, or that she even knows the finishing school exists. Why are you defending him?”

“I’m not, but I think you need to give him the benefit of the doubt. You still have as many questions as you had before you walked into his office. Maybe more.”

I jammed the handkerchief into my pocket. “You’re right about that.” We circled toward the rear of the house. “Are my eyes puffy?”

Johanna laughed and shook her head. “No. You’re perfectly beautiful—as usual.”

What would I ever do if I didn’t have Johanna? She never failed to say a kind word or compliment me when I most needed encouragement. “I’m so thankful I have you, Johanna. You’re the only person who even tries to understand me.”

“God understands you, Berta. He created you, and He loves you. You must always remember that.”

I clasped her hand. “I’ll try. And I’m sorry I snapped at you before. Please forgive me.”

Her face brightened, and she sniffed the air. “I think I smell Sister Muhlbach’s honey cookies.”

Since my first taste of honey cookies, I’d developed a special fondness for them. I sent a fleeting glance in Johanna’s direction.

She laughed and nodded, already knowing I was hoping she’d give me her cookie. “Yes, you can have mine,” she said.

I grabbed her around the neck and hugged her. “Oh, thank you, Johanna. You are so good to me. I know I can always count on you.”

“God is the one you can always count on,” Johanna called to me as I made a pell-mell dash for the kitchen door.

Deep inside I knew God was out there somewhere, but Johanna was far more real to me. It was her shoulder I cried upon, not God’s.

For the remainder of the day I pushed thoughts of the woman and the exchange with my father to the back of my mind. I had no choice. Sister Muhlbach decided this would be the day I would learn to make the filled noodles I’d tasted only once since we’d arrived in Amana. On that occasion there had been visiting elders in the village who’d chosen to eat in our Küche. A special honor, I’d been told at the time, but I hadn’t understood why having extra plates to fill could be an honor. And though I still didn’t understand every event that signified importance within the community, I had learned that visiting elders always called for a special meal.

After Sister Muhlbach sent Johanna and Sister Dickel to the other side of the kitchen, where they would chop and mix the filling, she carried two large mixing crocks to the table and smiled. “One for you and one for me.” Her smile disarmed me. “Do not worry. I will lead you through the process, and when we are done, no one will be able to tell my noodles from yours.” She laughed. “Except maybe for me.”