Sins of a Shaker Summer (2 page)

“She seems to be semiconscious and hallucinating again,” Rose said. She was not surprised to hear the girl mention an angel. Indeed, the spirits of long-dead Believers were known to visit living Shakers, especially during dancing worship, trances, and funerals. If Nora was dying, surely an angel Believer would come to be with her. But why a “bad angel”?

Rose stood well back as Andrew bent over Nora's bed. He drew a long finger gently across her dry lips as she muttered “bad angel” again and again. His jaw tightened, and he sighed. He straightened, staring over Nora's bed, apparently absorbed in the apothecary jars that lay scattered on the pine dresser next to her. With his right hand, he rocked the cradle bed in short, fluid movements as if the rhythm helped him think.

“What is it, Andrew? What do you think might have happened?” Rose asked.

Andrew's head jerked toward her as if he had forgotten her presence. He opened his mouth, took in a breath to speak, but let the breath out in another sigh. Without a word, he went to Betsy's bed and repeated his examination.

“You say they've been hallucinating?” Andrew asked.

“Yea, indeed,” Josie said. “Gretchen said Nora seemed quite terrified of her, kept calling her a monster, which is nonsense, of course. We all know how gentle Gretchen is.” Josie's voice trailed off as it became apparent that Andrew was not listening.

Rose watched him with irritation. Clearly he had a theory about what was wrong with the girls; why wouldn't he say what it was? She forced herself to give him a few more moments of silent thought. His narrow face expressed a series of emotions—Rose was certain she saw some fear,
possibly anger, and a hint of vigilance in his brown eyes.

She knew very little about Andrew yet. He had been with them only since the late spring, sent by the Lead Ministry in Mount Lebanon, New York, to take over as trustee. In her confessions to her friend and mentor, the former Eldress Agatha Vandenberg, Rose had admitted a nagging resentment against Andrew. Something about him bothered her, though as Agatha wisely pointed out, the problem might merely be that Rose had loved being trustee and regretted letting go of the job.

Certainly Andrew had been a welcome addition to the dwindling brethren. He was still no more than forty, with a quick mind and able body. Using his training in pharmacy and his business experience, he already had begun to reduce their debt by expanding the Shakers' tiny medicinal herb industry. Perhaps having to give up sole control over herb production also helped explain Rose's irritation with Andrew. When her duties as eldress allowed her, she still found herself drawn to the Herb House to help dry, press, and package tins of culinary herbs. But now Andrew was growing new, experimental herbs and taking over much of the culinary harvest to create patent medicines.

Rose snapped back to attention. Was that what Josie had been thinking about when she called Andrew to look at Nora and Betsy? Did she suspect they had gotten into some of his concoctions? Or worse yet, might he or one of his helpers have tested some new product on the children?
Goodness,
she thought,
I am growing sadly mistrustful.

Andrew continued to stare into space, so Rose drew Josie aside. “Do you have any idea where these girls might have been when they became ill?” she asked in an undertone.

Josie shook her head. “Nay, I haven't had even a second to question the other children, and these two haven't been lucid enough.” Her eyes strayed over to the small forms. “I have my suspicions, though.”

“Which are?” Rose asked, with a swift glance at Andrew.

“Well, you know what children are like. I'm sure we'll find they sneaked off and got into something they shouldn't have. Gretchen found them in the grass between the Trustees' Office and the Center Family Dwelling House. Either building would contain all sorts of cleaning compounds, and then there's the kitchen and the medic gardens, and who's to say what those two girls might have taken a notion to nibble on.”

“It's hard to believe they evaded Charlotte's eyes.”

“That little Nora is a clever one,” Josie said with a half smile. “She'll have thought of a way.”

Without a word to the sisters, Andrew strode from the room, his face pinched.

“Such an odd man,” Rose said before she could stop herself.

“Oh, do you think so, my dear? I think he is a godsend, truly a godsend. He knows so much, I wouldn't be at all surprised if he solved this mystery in no time. He already has an idea, you could see it on his face.” Josie's round face returned to its normal cheerfulness. Rose, on the other hand, felt unaccountably annoyed.

Rose cut across the unpaved road that ran down the center of North Homage and headed for the Children's Dwelling House. With a twinge of guilt, she ignored the path and angled through the trim, thick bluegrass. Her loose cotton work dress stuck to her back, heavy as winter wool. The thin white cap that covered her head, indoors and out, felt like a metal helmet, and the fluffs of hair that escaped from its edges were plastered to her face with perspiration. The heat wasn't helping her mood, which was part worry, part impatience.

Elder Wilhelm Lundel would be expecting a report from her soon, and she wanted to piece the puzzle together before she talked to him. Wilhelm had trouble accepting that they were now equal partners in the ministry, the Society's spiritual leadership. Since Rose had been eldress for less
than a year, she was aware of her inexperience and felt a need to prove herself worthy. It certainly would have helped if Andrew had shared his suspicions with her, she thought with renewed irritation. Never mind, she'd ask him later.

The Children's Dwelling House felt cool after the intense sunlight. Charlotte and the children had worked in the gardens all morning and again after the midday meal. They would all be tired. Normally Charlotte had them rest awhile in midafternoon, sometimes for several hours, on these steamy summer days.

Rose climbed the staircase to Charlotte's second-floor retiring room and knocked gently. After a second, louder knock, a groggy voice beckoned her in.

Charlotte slumped in a ladder-back chair at her small pine desk. A geography book and some notes were spread open in front of her. She had removed her white cap, and her short, dark blond hair fell forward over her face. A crease across her forehead revealed that her study session had turned into a nap.

“Oh, Rose,” she said, with a self-conscious laugh. “The girls are resting, and I thought I'd get a head start on my teaching for the fall. But I must have fallen asleep. I'm so sorry. This heat . . .”

Rose laughed, too—a welcome moment of release. “I believe I speak for Mother Ann and all Believers,” she said, “when I assure you that you are forgiven.”

Charlotte grinned as she ran her fingers through her tousled hair and pushed it back into her cap, which she tied at the nape of her neck.

“What is it? What has happened?” she asked as Rose's smile dissolved.

“Nora and Betsy sneaked out of their rooms.”

“Those two! This isn't the first time, you know. I'll give them a good talking-to, you can count on that.” Charlotte stood and shook out her wrinkled dress.

“I fear it might be some time before you'll be able to
have that talk. They've gotten into something and made themselves ill.”

“Oh dear. Very ill?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“It's my fault,” Charlotte said, dropping back in her chair. “I should have known; I should have watched more carefully. Are they going to be all right?”

“I don't know.”

“Dear God.”

“Indeed. Charlotte, I need to know what those girls might have touched or eaten. You said they've sneaked off before. Do you have any idea where they've gone?”

“Nay, I've never been able to catch them at it, the clever little creatures.” Charlotte's stern tone held a hint of admiration. “Each time they've ‘just been to the bathroom' or ‘down in the kitchen,' and I haven't been able to disprove it. But it's always the two of them at the same time, so I know they're up to something.”

The hall telephone jangled, and Rose heard a young voice answer.

“Are the children finished with their naps?” Rose asked Charlotte.

“Yea, it sounds as if they're up and about.”

“Then let's ask them if they know anything about Nora and Betsy's adventures, shall we?”

As Rose turned to the door, a girl of about seven, clutching a corncob doll, peeked inside. “Sister Charlotte? Sister Josie says to tell Eldress to get back over to the Infirmary right away.” She smiled shyly at Rose.

“Thank you, Marjorie. Did she say why?” Charlotte asked.

The girl shook her head. “Nay, I think it was a secret.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because she was whispering.”

Leaving Charlotte to question the children about Nora and Betsy, Rose rushed back to the Infirmary. As she
crossed the central path, Elder Wilhelm's muscular body and shock of white hair disappeared through the Infirmary door. She felt her jaw tighten as she wondered how Wilhelm would turn this tragedy into a criticism of her competence as eldress. He hoped to replace her with someone who thought as he did—someone who would support his efforts to take the Society back to the early nineteenth century, when novitiates signed the covenant and crowded into dwelling houses as fast as the brethren could build them. It was because of Wilhelm that North Homage Believers wore traditional dress, which other Shaker villages had modernized or even abandoned.

Rose assumed that one or both girls had taken a turn for the worse, and she expected flurried activity around their beds, but what she saw when she entered the sickroom sent a flash of fear through her heart. Three sisters had joined Josie on one side of Nora's bed, while Andrew and Wilhelm stood on the other side, their backs to Rose. She rushed forward, convinced she was viewing a deathbed scene. But when she reached Nora, she saw one sister bent over the bed, both hands covering the child's face.

Sister Patience McCormick's deep voice half-sung what sounded like a prayer. At least, to Rose it seemed to have the rhythm of a prayer, though she heard only an occasional word in English. Rose had finished the Shaker school system and left the Children's Order by the age of fourteen, more than two decades earlier, so she had little experience with other languages, except what she had learned from visiting businessmen during her ten years as trustee. She thought she recognized a few French words, a little German, and some Latin.

Startled by a familiar clumping sound, Rose glanced toward the entrance to the sickroom. Sister Elsa Pike planted her sturdy body just inside the doorway. Her round, flat-featured face exuded suspicion.

“I heard one of them girls got into something she shouldn't've,” Elsa announced, “so I come right over. If
it's anything grows around here, plant or animal, I'll know what to do.” She brushed past the sisters to the foot of Nora's bed.

Rose clenched her hands around the sides of the cradle bed. Perhaps her reaction was instinctive—whenever Elsa entered a room, Rose prepared for battle. This battle, she feared, would be fought over a helpless eight-year-old child. She was certain that Elsa had somehow heard about a healing in progress and raced over to interrupt. Elsa considered the gifts of the spirit to be her own private domain.

Ignoring the drama unfolding next to her, Elsa grabbed Nora's foot and shook it, as if she were awakening the child from slumber.

Patience did not flinch, but her tone became louder, more insistent. A drop of perspiration traveled down the side of her flushed face. Her eyes flew open and she began to tremble as if electric shocks pulsed through her body. Wisps of gray-streaked black hair pulled free of her cap.

“Mother Ann is among us,” she said in a raspy voice. “She has come to heal this innocent child. From our Mother's heart through my hands, may this child be healed!” She stroked Nora's face over and over. Now not even Elsa stirred. When Rose became light-headed, she realized she had stopped breathing.

Nora twitched violently, then grew still. She seemed to have fallen into a deep sleep.

“She is healed,” Patience whispered, stepping back from the bed. The slow blinking of her eyes betrayed her own exhaustion. Without another word, she left the room.

After a few moments of silence, Josie drew her hand across Nora's forehead, then felt for her pulse.

“She does seem better,” Josie said.

“Can you be certain she is truly out of danger?” Rose asked. Wilhelm narrowed his eyes at her, but she ignored him.

“Well, her pulse does feel a bit stronger,” Josie said.

“But you can't be sure?” Rose asked.

Josie shrugged. “I can't, of course, but . . . Nay, I can't be sure that she is healed.”

“This ain't no healing,” Elsa said, snorting in derision. “That girl will be sick as ever come nighttime, just wait and see.”

“W
ALK BACK TO THE FIELDS WITH ME
,” W
ILHELM COMMANDED
. “We must discuss how to proceed.”

A private chat with Wilhelm usually gave Rose an aching head, but she was curious about his reaction to Patience and her apparent healing of Nora. Certainly healing was one of the gifts of the spirit possessed by their foundress, Mother Ann, and by many early Shakers. Wilhelm longed for the gifts to reappear in North Homage. His longing was so ardent that he had allowed himself to be duped in the past.

They walked in silence down the village's central path, past the Meetinghouse and the Ministry House. The Shakers frowned upon private conversations between men and women, but as elder and eldress, Rose and Wilhelm were expected to consult often about Society concerns. Even so, Rose took care not to walk too close. In truth, she felt more comfortable at a distance from Wilhelm.