She hadn’t really considered where to go, once she’d escaped the kitchen. They were running out of rosewater for their baking; maybe she’d visit the Fancy Goods Store. It always seemed warmer there—maybe because it was attached to the Trustees’ Office, where lots of folks visited from the world. She could surely talk the sisters into contributing a bottle of rosewater from their supply. It wasn’t as if they had many customers these days, though they were hoping that Mother Ann’s Birthday might bring in a few more collectors to buy the special Shaker dolls and pincushions and so forth the sewing sisters were making. But, no, the sisters would be in the dining room, and Julia was no longer there to mind the shop over the noon hour, so it would be closed.
Dulcie stopped on the path. A convulsive shiver shook her as she looked around the deserted village and gulped back a sob. The emptiness felt like a punishment, all she could look forward to in her life. She’d done such an awful thing. Of course, it was Julia’s fault as much as anyone else’s. Shame caught like a bone in her throat. With Julia gone, there was no one she could talk to—not the sisters, kind as they were; not her so-called friend, Carlotta; not even Theodore. Especially not Theodore.
Her footsteps broke the silence as she stepped off the cleared path onto the crusty snow. All she wanted was to go back to the Brick Dwelling House, to her warm little room, in which the Shakers were letting her stay while she worked for them. She’d curl up into a ball on her narrow bed, and pull the soft wool coverlet over her head. She might get caught, though. Instead, she crunched through the snow toward the old Round Stone Barn. It wasn’t used anymore. She could usually count on being alone there. Being alone terrified her but seemed only right, somehow. Maybe she’d stay there until she died of the cold. In her most frightening nightmares, she nearly always died of either hunger or the cold, so it was only fitting that she should miss supper and freeze alone in the barn. Maybe that would fix things again.
Clouds of deep gray easily overpowered the weak winter sun, turning noon to near dusk. The Round Stone Barn was built on a hill, with entrances by ramps to all three levels. Dulcie jogged stiffly toward the upper entrance, noting that hers were the first feet to make prints in the snow. If the village missed her too quickly, she supposed someone could follow her footsteps, but if the sky kept its promise, fresh snow would cover her tracks within hours.
She slipped inside the barn and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light. At one time, hay had been delivered by horse and wagon to this level and then pitched down to the animals below. Dulcie had never seen the barn in those days. Now it was just a sad, old abandoned building, with wind whistling through the cracks between the stones. Bits of ancient hay had blown into corners and stuck there, and no hands could be spared to tidy it up.
Without purpose, Dulcie began walking around the circle, clutching herself more tightly each time she passed a crack in the wall. About halfway around, she saw an old blanket tossed against the outer wall, as if someone had made a futile attempt to heal the injured stone. She grabbed the blanket and pulled it around her shoulders, not minding the bits of hay that poked at her shoulders and back. Relief from the cold lightened her mood somewhat, and she started to walk again.
A few minutes later, she realized she was not alone. Someone must have entered at a lower level, so she’d missed seeing the footsteps in the snow. Voices drifted up to her—angry, male voices. Carefully, she peered over the edge of the hayloft walkway. Exiting the stall just below her, she saw the tops of three heads—gray, gray-black, and blond. She recognized them all. The three men were novitiates, who had expressed a desire to become covenanted Believers and were living in the village, working side by side with the Shakers, as they explored the faith.
Sewell Yates, his gray-streaked dark head bent toward the ground, kicked absently at some old hay on the barn floor. He looked downhearted, and Dulcie felt sorry for him. He was such a mild-mannered fellow, always friendly to the women, from the sisters to the hired help. Theodore hated how friendly Sewell was to her and kept muttering about how he shouldn’t be a novitiate if that’s the way he was going to behave. But whenever she looked in those sad brown eyes, Dulcie felt her heart soften.
“This barn is a useless eyesore. We ought to get rid of it, just tear it down and start fresh.” The harsh voice belonged to Johnny Jenkins, a tall, broad-shouldered man with wavy blond hair. Dulcie thought he was mean, but Julia had liked him a lot—probably because he was still legally married, and a Shaker novitiate to boot. Julia had always fancied herself a temptress. Dulcie shivered and pulled her scratchy blanket closer at the memory of Julia.
“We mustn’t do that,” Sewell said. The poor man sounded like he was pleading, Dulcie thought; you’d never know he was in charge of fixing the buildings, and Johnny was supposed to follow his orders.
“This barn is an architectural marvel. There’s nothing else quite like it anywhere. It’s our duty to preserve it,” Sewell continued. “With some work, we can bring it back, I know we can.”
“But will it ever be useful again?” asked the third man of the group, Aldon Stearn. He leaned back against a wooden pillar and crossed his arms. “Sometimes, Sewell, I wonder if you’re suited for this life. You continue to value worldly things, like buildings, over the tenets of your faith.” Though his words were cruel, his deep baritone sounded more disappointed than contemptuous.
Sewell tightened his shoulders and seemed to become even thinner.
“Our time would be better spent if we concentrated on saving the Meetinghouse,” Aldon said. “That building, at least, is central to our faith. We are here to create a heaven on earth, not to preserve Hancock Village as a monument to a glorious past. None of that matters. What we do here, now, that’s what matters. We must do what is right every minute of every day.” His voice rose, clear and insistent, up to Dulcie. It mesmerized her. She’d heard some of the sisters say that Aldon needed to study humility more deeply, but whenever he spoke of the Shaker faith, she tingled. She could still hear the preacher’s voice in him—the voice that had enthralled her all those years she’d attended his Congregationalist church in Pittsfield. At the same time, a sudden dread caught her like a blow in the chest, knocking the breath out of her.
Johnny snorted in derision. He paced in a circle, looking to Dulcie like one of those lions she’d once seen at the circus, with his blond curls burnished by a sudden appearance of the sun through the windows encircling the top of the barn. “You’re both wasting time,” he said. “If we want to keep this place going, we gotta move fast. We need money to create heaven on earth. All the talking in the world won’t do it.”
“Given the abysmal state of the world’s economy, just what do you think will bring in all this . . . lucre?” Aldon asked.
The silent Sewell had returned to kicking the dirty floor, his head bent. Dulcie wanted to run right down there and tell him to speak up, but she could never do such a bold thing. After all, she never really spoke up for herself, did she? Another wave of shame brought a painful heat to her cold cheeks.
“We gotta think big,” Johnny said, warming to his subject. “Put this place on the map. We could maybe stick concrete in the holes in these walls and turn the place into a restaurant—you know, serve good Shaker food for a fair price. We’ve still got all that kitchen equipment from when the village had lots of Believers. We could get it working again, move it in here—it would help heat the place. We’ve got lots of extra tables and chairs and dishes. Not everybody in the world is poor. We’ve had some folks come by wanting to collect Shaker furniture. I bet lots more would come to sit on Shaker ladder-back chairs and eat real Shaker food. Maybe we could get the whole Brethren’s Workshop going again, make lots of furniture and sell it to collectors. Then we could—”
“Perhaps we could even make use of all our spare beds and turn the upper stories into a brothel,” Aldon said. “We could hire more women from the world—like that shopgirl.”
Dulcie gasped despite herself, as s
he used to when Aldon had shouted about sin during a sermon. She wasn’t shocked by his reference to Julia, whose reputation was well-known. She edged closer to the drop-off. Aldon stood, stiff and straight, his hands balled into fists. Sewell shrank back, and Johnny, for once, was silent.
To Dulcie’s surprise and pleasure, it was Sewell who broke the stunned silence. “I . . . I think we’re forgetting,” he said, “that this is a barn, and we have limited resources. It’s a good barn, a special one.” Emboldened, Sewell straightened and waved his arm upward to draw attention to the structure. All three heads looked up, and Dulcie pulled back out of sight.
“I believe,” Sewell said, “that part of making a heaven on earth is preserving and using what we have, and we have this lovely barn. So that’s what we’re going to do.” His words were bolder than his voice. He turned quickly and left, as if he feared he wouldn’t be able to withstand any more argument.
Cold and hunger had replaced Dulcie’s longing for oblivion with a stronger yearning for food and the warmth of her bed. She pushed through the snow, taking a circuitous route back to the Brick Dwelling House. She had just passed the south side of the Poultry House when she found herself face-to-face with the one man she wanted most to avoid—her fiancé, Theodore Geist. It was useless to walk away, so she offered him a feeble smile.
“Dulcie, how many times have I told you, you should stay indoors in weather like this. Where did you get that filthy cloak? Give it here and take my coat.”
Dulcie realized she was still wearing the old blanket she’d found in the barn. She had no idea how to explain it, so she pulled it tighter around her shoulders and laughed. “Don’t be silly,” she said, with an attempt at lightness. “I wasn’t feeling well, so I thought a bit of fresh air would fix me up. I’m heading right back to my room now.”
She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her by the shoulders. He was far bigger and stronger, and she knew it was no use struggling. She stood immobile and stared at his muscular chest.
“I want you to stop letting these Shakers give you clothes,” Theodore said. “First you start wearing that old Shaker dress that makes you look like a fat frump, and then they give you a ratty old cloak that shouldn’t be given to a hobo. Why do you let them do this? You used to be fairly pretty, but now . . .” He looked her up and down, shaking his head.
Her cheeks burned with humiliation, and she wrenched out of his grip. “I’m tired, Theodore, just let me go back to my room.”
Theodore grabbed her elbow and yanked her around. “What have I said about talking back to me?”
Dulcie wilted. She knew what would happen if she defied Theodore—and the truth was, she didn’t want to do so. She just wanted him to take care of her. That was all she’d ever wanted, and it was the one thing she couldn’t ask of him now.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was being selfish, but I’m just so tired.”
Theodore squeezed her elbow a little too hard. “All right, then, you go back and have a short nap. Later we’d better have a talk. The police are asking questions.”
“They’ve already asked me a million questions,” Dulcie said. “What can be left?”
“They’ve been asking everyone here about you and Julia, whether you had fights or anything, and how you were getting along before she died.”
Dulcie’s knees buckled, and Theodore’s strong arms kept her from falling.
“Look, don’t worry, okay? I told them you two got along fine, and nobody’d know better than me.” Theodore gave her a shake. “I’m taking care of this, got it?”
“But Julia and me, we fought a lot,” Dulcie said. “Especially at the end, but all the time we were growing up, too. Carlotta knows that.”
A crunching sound from near the Poultry House made Theodore loosen his grip, and Dulcie pulled away.
“Is anything wrong, Dulcie?” Esther Jenkins, bundled in a heavy wool coat and high boots, crossed the snow toward them. A few feet away she stopped and glared at Theodore. “Dulcie is frail, Theodore. You know that. You shouldn’t keep her out in this weather.”
Dulcie did not appreciate the concern, nor did she care for Esther, who was always telling her what to do. Esther had a perfect oval face that always looked to Dulcie as if it belonged on one of those cameos that rich women wear. Even at her kindest, Esther sounded like she was directing the servants. You’d hardly know she was as poor as the rest of them, and even poorer once her husband, Johnny, up and joined the Shakers, leaving her with six little ones to feed. No wonder she’d shown up at the Hancock Fancy Goods Store one day, herding all six children, and said she wanted to be a novitiate.
Theodore put an arm around Dulcie’s shoulders and directed her toward the Brick Dwelling House. To Dulcie’s relief, he said nothing to challenge Esther. After all, Esther was a novitiate, and they couldn’t afford to have Theodore lose his job. It would mean they couldn’t get married, and it occurred to Dulcie that getting married soon would be the answer to her prayer. Then maybe she’d feel safe.
FIVE
AFTER A LONG AFTERNOON SPENT SITTING AND WATCHING the countryside glide by, Rose and Gennie were more than ready to head for the dining car. Their coach seats were softer than the typical Shaker ladder-back chair, but neither woman was used to being sedentary for more than a brief spell. The porter had just come through, announcing first call for dinner, but there was no need to hurry. As a Shaker, Rose was accustomed to a timely supper, to save evening time for work or worship or perhaps a Union Meeting. The other passengers, however, were of the world and showed little interest in early dining. Rose and Gennie had plenty of time to refresh themselves in the women’s washroom before joining the short line waiting to be seated in the dining car.
Rose was glad to see Gennie excited again. She’d come back from her exploration of the train looking shaken. When Rose had asked if she’d had a scare, Gennie had said only that crossing from one car to another had made her a bit nervous. Then she had turned her face toward the window and studied the scenery until her head drooped against the back of her seat.
As they stood in line, Rose noticed that Gennie’s eyes darted among the other passengers, as if looking for someone.
“Gennie, are you certain nothing is wrong?” Rose asked.
“What? Oh, no, nothing at all.” Gennie flashed a quick, confident smile. Rose sensed this wasn’t the truth, but she didn’t press. Gennie belonged to the world now. Pride had become more important to her, and it was no longer Rose’s job to wean her from it. Rose supposed her own sadness over this state of affairs must be close to what a parent feels when a child grows up and seems to forget everything she was so carefully taught. Perhaps this is a lesson for my own humility, Rose chided herself as a dining car waiter escorted them to their table. I can’t teach everyone to be a Shaker!
They sat side by side in silence, Gennie again by the window, until their soup course had been served. Though she was used to eating in silence, Rose longed to get Gennie talking. To be truthful, she felt intimidated by the nearness of a waiter, who stood at attention in front of their table, steadying himself against the wall of the dining car. Not by so much as the flicker of an eye had he betrayed any surprise at seeing Rose still in her long, loose Shaker dress and thin white cap. With his starched white jacket and his impassive face, he looked more like an ebony statue than a man, but Rose knew that if she signaled to him, he’d be there instantly. She noticed that the other diners ignored the waiters, stationed every few tables, as if they were not quite human. She could not. Shakers served one another, and they believed that all people, whatever their skin color, were equal in the eyes of God. While Rose believed fervently in such a way of life, it was making conversation awkward for her.
When it was time to remove their empty soup plates, Rose noticed that another waiter—younger and bigger—spoke briefly with their waiter, then exchanged places with him. As their new waiter swept away the soiled plates and carried them to the back of the car, Rose took a
dvantage of his absence. She touched Gennie’s arm lightly and said, “I hope you aren’t regretting your desire to come along on this trip. I know it’s far away from Grady, and from home, and—”
“Rose, I’m not scared, honest! Oh, I know I’ve been much quieter than I usually am, but I’ve just been thinking, that’s all. Now, let’s talk about how we’re going to solve this crime. What’s the plan?” She gazed at Rose with raised eyebrows over brown eyes that brimmed with confidence in Rose’s ability to figure everything out.
“Well, I guess we can talk about that now, if you wish.”
At that moment, the waiter returned carrying two plates of roast beef, potatoes, and crisp green beans. Rose was unused to so much food after so little work, and she was alarmed at the prospect of eating everything on her plate to avoid wasting it.
“Would you care for coffee now or later, miss?” The waiter asked, looking toward Gennie. Rose noticed that he did not make the same offer to her.
“After, thanks,” Gennie said, with her most charming smile. The waiter nodded and withdrew to his position in front of their table.
“So what should I be?” Gennie asked. “A novitiate maybe? I think I could pull that off without too much trouble.”
Rose shook her head and thought quickly. She wanted to keep Gennie out of danger as much as possible for both their sakes. If Gennie lived with the hired women in Hancock Village, Rose would spend half her time worrying about what sort of danger she might foolishly plunge into headlong. A boardinghouse in Pittsfield would be the safest place for her. “Nay, I’d rather you spent more of your time getting to know the hired workers,” Rose said. “You know what it’s like—we have to hire people for much of the work, especially the farming, because our brethren are too few and often too far advanced in years to do it all themselves. But then we’ve let the world into our lives, and sometimes we can’t control what happens as a result. The hired workers won’t talk to us, or sometimes they aren’t as honest or they don’t work as hard as a Shaker. Hancock has dwindled sadly; you’ll see when you get there. They have had to hire an uncomfortable number of people from the world, who live and eat and work beside them. I need you to be my eyes and ears among those workers.”
Killing Gifts Page 4