Sins of a Shaker Summer (14 page)

She went first to Andrew's. Flipping back page after page, she found herself getting bored. It contained nothing but lists of herbs produced and packaged, comments about the crops, ideas for increasing or improving yields, new ideas for businesses, and an occasional comment about the weather, all written in a sprawling hand. Didn't Andrew participate in the experimenting? Rose had seemed to remember him saying that he did. So where were his ideas for various concoctions?

She moved on to the brethren's table and lifted off the top journal. It contained precise columns of names and numbers—customers, orders, amount of product delivered,
remuneration received, and profit for the Society. The profits were solid, if not stunning. The journal contained no personal comments or observations. Surely it belonged to Thomas Dengler.

As she reached for the next journal, probably Benjamin's, a shadow crossed her hand. It had no shape and was gone so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it, but her heart gave a lurch and she froze. She forced herself to look toward the window. Unbroken moonlight filled the small square. Must have been a bird; it was too quick for a cloud.

Gennie exhaled and pulled the journal toward her. Benjamin's handwriting was virtually illegible. Pages were filled with what looked like calculations, some crossed out, some with exclamation marks next to them. Short comments filled the margins, but Gennie could make out none of them in the dim light. At least this was more what she'd expected to see, but she'd never be able to interpret this scribbling. She flipped through all the pages. Most showed the same pattern, but a few contained paragraphs of writing. Gennie squinted with all her might and could make out only a few words—“shade” and “sun” seemed scattered through the pages, along with the names of various months. He must have been recording observations about growing conditions and patterns.

About halfway through, the writing stopped. Growing impatient, Gennie held the journal above the table and shook it, in the dim hope that she had missed something, maybe a loose note that she could sneak away with her. Nothing fell out, but as she waved the pages back and forth, she noticed some writing on the end pages. She put the book down and opened the back cover. The last two pages, laid flat, held some sort of design. The area was divided into equal squares, some with various-sized dots or circles inside. It reminded Gennie of something, but she couldn't think what. She held it up and back a ways, which made it harder to see but showed the pattern more clearly. Now she
recognized it. The design looked like a diagram for a garden.

She laughed out loud, then glanced around nervously. Who would have thought that arrogant, earnest Benjamin would be given to flights of gardening fancy? No wonder he hid his doodling on the back pages. She held the book closer and noticed tiny letters in or near the circles. His dreaming must extend to identifying plants and where they should go. Like the rest of his writing, the abbreviations were unreadable. Too bad, Gennie thought, grinning. She'd love to know if he had any flowers planned for his garden—especially those with no useful purpose.

Aware of the passing time, Gennie replaced the two journals as she had found them, then hurried to Patience's table. Her journal was much like Benjamin's, only neater. Gennie could read the writing, for all the good it did her. She realized how little she knew about medicinal herbs, beyond the little she had picked up from Josie, who used fairly well known remedies. Many of the ingredients were unfamiliar to her, and to make matters more difficult, Patience seemed to have her own naming scheme. She switched from common names to Latin names, then back to a different common name. Gennie recognized the name “yellow coneflower,” a daisy like flower that Josie sometimes used as a diuretic. On other pages Gennie saw instead the plant's Latin name,
Rudbeckia laciniata,
and again later, “thimbleweed.” Was Patience scatterbrained, or was this an attempt to keep her recipes confusing to the casual reader? Could some of the names Gennie didn't recognize actually be invented, or could they perhaps be plants that grew in the East?

As she had done with the others, Gennie skimmed through the book until she came to blank pages. On a whim, she flipped to the last two pages. It took a moment for her to comprehend what she was seeing. There it was, the very same design she'd just seen in Benjamin's journal. She held the book up so that it caught the moonlight. The same division
into squares, with dots and circles marking plantings. Only the handwriting was different. Here the notations next to the circles were in tiny, neat printing. Even so, she couldn't understand what she was reading. It must be some sort of abbreviation system or code. She couldn't be sure without more light, but some of the letters looked more like symbols or tiny drawings.

She sighed and closed the journal. But her curiosity wouldn't leave her alone. More than anything, she wanted to know what those letters and symbols looked like, and she needed light to find out. It was worth the risk. Besides, Shakers worked from before sunrise to after sundown—surely no one would be awake to see a small light in the Medicinal Herb Shop.

Grabbing the book, she wove through the shadowy room to Andrew's desk and switched on the small lamp. She slid onto Andrew's chair, sitting on the edge because her feet did not touch the ground. Some instinct told her to be ready to move quickly. She leaned over the book, trying to keep her head out of the small circle of light, and puzzled over the last two pages. She'd been right in her guess—tiny letters were interspersed with equally minuscule drawings. One looked like a bell; another resembled a musical instrument, a horn of some sort. The letters meant nothing to Gennie. They didn't seem to represent any herbs, or any other plants, whose names were familiar to her. Could she have been mistaken in her first impression? Might this be more than a garden design? Maybe it was a map of some sort.

She didn't have time to let her imagination wander unfettered. It must be past midnight. If she wanted to be up and ready to work at 4:30, she'd better work fast. She rummaged through the storage area under the flap that served as a writing surface. It was surprisingly messy for a Believer's desk. Finally she found a scrap of plain paper and a pencil. As faithfully as she could, she began to copy Patience's drawing onto the much smaller paper.

She clicked her tongue with frustration, and the sound startled her. All these little details . . . This would take her all night. Maybe she could find a larger piece of paper, thin enough for tracing. She ripped up her partial drawing and tossed it in a wastebasket.

Finding nothing in Andrew's desk, she began a quick search of the room, taking the journal with her. Just to be safe, she turned off the lamp. It didn't light anything beyond the desk anyway.

Against the wall, behind Patience's table, Gennie found a narrow door. She hadn't noticed it before. Must be a storage closet. Tossing the journal back on the worktable, she opened the door and peered inside. The room beyond really was no deeper than the cupboards and drawers built into the walls in other Shaker buildings. It must have been used to store tall, narrow objects—perhaps broom handles—used by the broom makers who had originally used the shop.

Gennie stepped inside. She just fit between the door and the wall. The room had a musty smell. Before the door swung shut behind her, a quick scan revealed nothing resembling forgotten stores of paper. Gennie turned to leave. She grasped the inside knob and began to push when she heard a sound she could not mistake—the faint whoosh of a well-oiled door opening to the drone of crickets, followed by the shuffle of footsteps. Gennie followed her instincts. She kept the closet door shut, with her inside.

Through the thin door Gennie could hear someone walking around the shop, coming closer to her, then apparently stopping at or near Patience's table. Was it Patience herself? Where had she been until now? Her heart fairly bouncing in her chest, Gennie tried to remember where she had left Patience's journal. Was it close enough to where she'd found it that Patience wouldn't suspect that someone had been looking at it?

The air in the closet was laden with ancient wood dust and mildew. Gennie's nose tickled. She held her breath and
pinched her nose until she saw spots before her eyes. The footsteps stopped right in front of her door, and Gennie leaned against the back wall, praying to God, Holy Mother Wisdom, Jesus, Mother Ann, Mother Lucy, and a couple of long-dead elders, just for good measure. The footsteps tapped away.

A long period of anxious confusion followed. Gennie pressed her ear against the door, hoping to hear the sounds of someone leaving the building. Her legs were beginning to ache, and every few minutes she had to stifle a sneeze. In the close quarters, the air grew increasingly stuffy as her body heat combined with the hot air left over from the day. The cotton of her work dress stuck to her back and chest. She considered trying to strip it off, but she envisioned an elbow hitting the wall and the door flying open to reveal her in her underclothes.

The minutes dragged, and the oppressive atmosphere was making her sleepy. She began to drift, not sure if she was fully awake at all times. The silence lasted so long that she thought she must have fallen asleep and missed the sound of a door opening and closing. Then the footsteps jolted her again, though they seemed farther away now. Was the visitor over on the brethren's side of the room?

Gennie's legs were shaking, and she was afraid she would fall, so she leaned against one of the narrow walls that formed the side of the closet and let herself slide down until she sat on the floor, her body parallel with the door. She could not fully stretch out her legs, so she wedged her toes against the opposite side wall and leaned her head back. She could stay awake no longer. Again she worked through her list of prayer recipients. After all, they had been good to her before; perhaps they would listen to her one more time.
Please,
she prayed to each by name,
whatever you do, please don't let me snore.
By the time the front door finally opened and closed again, Gennie was fast asleep.

R
OSE SPED ACROSS THE DEW-SOAKED GRASS IN THE DARK
. She cut around the back of the Infirmary, through the medic garden, to avoid curious, sleepless eyes that might be watching the central path from their retiring rooms. The humid night air weighed on her, but not as heavily as the memory of the evening she had just endured.

Rose had been in demand since the evening meal, and it had been far from pleasant. Moreover, she'd been frustrated in her plan to corner Patience for a pointed talk. She'd had to wait until now, well after bedtime, and not far enough from tomorrow's wake-up bell.

Wilhelm's harangue had been the low point of the evening. They'd spent nearly two hours in the library of the Ministry House, following evening worship, rehashing the sweeping gift until Rose regretted her vow of nonviolence. All Wilhelm really wanted to know was precisely how Rose was unworthy, as Patience had declared her to be, and it was the one question that Rose could not answer.

Many others had avoided her, doubt in their faces—except for her friends, of course, who drove her frantic with their solicitousness, thereby showing that they weren't sure of her, either. Only Gennie and Agatha seemed to understand that she needed to be left alone to track down the details of Patience's accusation. Gennie had sat, polite and silent, through the brief evening worship service, then
yawned and gone straight to bed, pausing only to hug Rose in front of the entire village. Frail Agatha, who often stayed in her room during evening activities, made her way to the family room and sat next to Rose for the service, reaching over to squeeze her hand during prayers.

Rose had no idea what time it was, and she didn't care. Nor did she care that Patience would undoubtedly be asleep. She had no intention of waiting for morning to confront her accuser. Rose believed in her heart that Mother Ann sent angels to speak to Believers through her chosen instruments, but nothing could convince her that Mother would have chosen Patience, or anyone, for such a vicious mission. Agatha was right, Patience's gifts seemed authentic. Rose was prepared to concede that someone—or something—spoke through her. But she doubted it was a holy angel. She did not intend to waste any more minutes allowing possible wickedness to fester in her Society.

The Center Family Dwelling House was dark and silent as Rose slipped in the front door. She climbed the sisters' staircase as quietly as she could, given her simmering temper, and went straight to Patience's retiring room door. As she raised her hand to knock, she was glad to note that Gennie's door was closed, so the sound probably would not awaken her. Apparently Patience slept through the knock, as well. Rose tried again, this time a shade louder. Still no response. Fearing Patience might be in another trance, or worse, Rose cracked open the door.

The room had three narrow beds, left over from the days when Believers filled the dwelling houses. Now each Believer had a private room, unless he or she preferred company. Even in the dim room, she could see that all the beds were empty. Closing the door behind her, she flipped on a lamp. None of the beds had been turned down, but the sheet on one showed an indentation, as if someone had sat on it.

The rest of the room was spartan, even for a Shaker retiring room. In addition to the beds, it contained a small table with a ladder-back chair, a rocking chair, and several
drawers. A small, square storage area was built into the wall. The wall pegs circling the entire room were mostly empty. Hangers hung from two of them—one holding a light blue, striped Sabbathday dress, the other, a second brown work dress. Rose saw no sign of a journal, which most North Homage Believers kept on their desks or tables, even if they wrote only occasionally.

Despite her eagerness to find Patience, Rose couldn't miss the opportunity to look around the room. She told herself it wasn't really snooping; she truly needed to find out more about this strange and perhaps dangerous woman. She began with the drawers, which were less than half full. Patience had the usual supply of underclothing, stockings, kerchiefs, and caps. A quick perusal revealed nothing suspicious or threatening. No pact with the devil, Rose thought, tempted to laugh at herself.