The Gifted

by Ann H. Gabhart

  He drank without protest. She left him alone then. He heard the door shut behind her. He heard no lock turn and thought to follow her out of the room to see the place he was in. But when he tried to sit up, the room began spinning. So instead he lay back on the pillow and wondered how long he could manage to hide here.

  He didn’t know who had shot at him or why. Had it been done in calculated anger or by chance? He forced himself to concentrate on what might have happened in the woods but accomplished nothing more than making his head pound even more fiercely. Whatever memory he had of that had been wiped away by the path of the bullet or perhaps the bang to the head. He gingerly felt the back of his head and winced when he touched a swelling there.

  He’d seen men in the war in Mexico lose rational thought with the guns blazing around them. He had not. Instead everything had been clearer and emblazoned on his memory with the prospect of death stalking him with each boom of the artillery or gunfire, but he was no longer on a battlefield. Nor did he have any reason to think someone had a desire to shoot him. It was surely no more than an accident or the random misfortune of being set upon by a highwayman robber. As far as he knew, he had no avowed enemies anxious to waylay him in the woods.

  Even so, until he knew that for a certainty, it might be best to take advantage of these Shaker people’s kindness. Besides, the fact he had a bullet crease in his head wasn’t the only reason he hadn’t admitted to his name. Laura Cleveland. She was the reason. She and his mother.

  His mother had met Laura the summer before at one of the popular Kentucky springs where the waters were touted to cure everything from rheumatism to melancholy. Or spinsterhood.

  Not that Laura had much chance of turning into a spinster. She was a lovely girl from a fine family. As Tristan’s mother continually reminded him, Laura would make someone a wonderful wife, but so far Tristan had no desire for that someone to be him. She had a way of twisting her mouth into an unflattering bow, and something about her eyes bothered him.

  When he made the mistake of sharing those thoughts with his mother, she got that look he spent most of his childhood trying to avoid.

  “There is nothing at all wrong with Laura Cleveland’s eyes,” she said and, after a moment’s hesitation to recall the color, added, “A refreshing pale blue, aren’t they?”

  “Very pale. More gray than blue,” Tristan said. The gray of an overcast sky in the winter.

  His mother’s brown eyes had darkened and flashed with anger. “You are in no position to reject such a favorable match as Laura Cleveland because of the color of her eyes.”

  Tristan hadn’t backed down. Not then. “It’s not the color of her eyes. It’s the lack of interest I see in them. I do not make her pulse quicken. Nor does she mine.”

  Her mouth turned up in a grim smile. “Good heavens, Tristan, I would have thought your time with the army would have divested you of such youthful romantic ideas.”

  “I have no wish to tie myself to someone I don’t love or who doesn’t love me.”

  “Love.” His mother waved her hand through the air as though dismissing the word. “The kind you’re talking about is no more than a whisper in the wind that passes through and leaves behind nothing of real worth. Best to look straight at the reality of one’s prospects.”

  “Is that what you did with Father? Made a coldhearted decision to wed and bear him children without the first consideration of love?”

  The flicker of pain that crossed her face made Tristan sorry he had allowed her to goad him into unkind words. His father had gone to war with him and carried home to Georgia the fever that had nearly killed Tristan. His father had not been strong enough to fight it off. He’d been dead nearly a year.

  Her voice softened as she answered him. “Love can grow between two people if they go into a union with a proper attitude. Our parents favored our marriage and it was advantageous to both of us. For one, you were a result of that union.” She reached over and put her hand on his cheek with affection. “You and Laura will make a lovely couple.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.” Every trace of softness left her face as she cut off his words. “Sometimes you think too much, Tristan. But if you want to think, then think on this. Your father neglected his business when he went off to fight the Mexicans and came home too ill to have any thought of the future. We are in danger of losing everything.” She stared up at him to be sure he understood her words. “Everything. Do you understand that? Our home. Our position in Atlanta society. Everything.”

  He wanted to tell her he cared nothing about any of that, but she was his mother. As her only son, it was his duty to take care of her. She had lost so much in the last two years. Her husband. Her daughter to childbirth fever and the highly anticipated grandchild with her. There had been a few times since he’d returned home that he feared she might be losing her sanity. And other times he thought it likely he might lose his if he didn’t get away from her demands. Or give in to them.

  And so he had agreed to spend the month at White Oak Springs. Courting Laura Cleveland. Perhaps that would give him time to find another way or to become more appreciative of Laura’s charms and she of his.

  He did push a warning at his mother. “You should be aware that Miss Cleveland has given absolutely no indication that my court is welcome. She may already have a beau.”

  “Nonsense,” his mother said. “She is quite unattached and I know for a fact her father likes you and will advance your cause to his daughter, who appears to dote upon him. Besides, you will have the entire summer season at White Oak Springs to convince Laura to be interested in you. You’re very charming when you set your mind to it, Tristan.”

  He had been at White Oak Springs paying court to Laura Cleveland for a whole week. The place was lovely and swarming with beautiful belles. Several of them had sought his attention and that had seemed to pique Laura’s interest. She had walked with him along the tree-lined paths. She had written his name on her dance card with a flourish. They had shared a picnic on the grounds with strands of music floating over to their spot on the grass. At the Springs, music was ever in the air, turning thoughts toward romance, and Laura appeared to be looking more favorably on a romance with him.

  The attack in the woods from whatever assailant for whatever cause couldn’t have come at a better time. A few days hidden among these odd people would give him time to think. Time to come up with a way to escape his mother’s plans. Whether she said he should be or not, he wasn’t ready to give up on the idea of meeting a girl to love. A girl who fired his imagination and the mere vision of her face caused his palms to sweat. A girl like the sister with the beautiful blue eyes. That was the kind of girl he wanted to court. Someone real and not simply a cardboard cutout of all the things a Southern belle should be.

  He wasn’t being fair, he thought, as he stared at the white ceiling over his narrow bed. He couldn’t spot even a trace of lamp soot or smoke on the ceiling or the walls that were the same clean white. The whole room was bright with light from a wide window directly across from his bed. Another bed was beside his, but its white cotton spread was undisturbed. A narrow blue board with pegs wrapped around the walls. A candleholder hung from the peg nearest the door. Oddly enough, a chair identical to the one beside his bed was hung upside down on two pegs next to the candle. No curtains filtered the light through the window. No rug was thrown on the floor to add color to the room. He saw nothing in the room to give it the look of home. But then this was a sickroom. His sickroom.

  He settled his head into the pillow as the pain began to ebb away from him. Brother Benjamin’s potions were good.

  No, he definitely wasn’t being fair to Laura Cleveland. She was more than a cardboard cutout. She was every inch a charming woman with the clout of a rich father who did, as Tristan’s mother had said, like him. Robert Cleveland was new rich, which explained his eagerness to have Tristan court his daughter. Money could buy a lot, but not a wel
come place in the established circle of Atlanta society. Tristan was already established there even with the misfortune that had hit the Cooper family in the last few months. Name was important in Atlanta. Much more important than money. Mr. Cleveland hoped to have an abundance of both by arranging a suitably advantageous marriage for his only daughter.

  At twenty she had already given her father reason for despair by refusing suitors, or so Tristan’s mother told him. Mr. Cleveland wouldn’t look fondly on a suitor turning the tables on his daughter. Perhaps that was why Tristan was in the woods. Perhaps he was running away.

  5

  “But Sister Sophrena, aren’t we instructed to help those in need?” Jessamine looked across the small desk at the older sister and hurried out more words before she could answer. “Do all the good we can all the time we can.”

  Sister Sophrena peered at Jessamine over round spectacles perched on her nose. She didn’t look exactly angry. Sister Sophrena was never brought low by unreasonable anger, but she did look distinctly perturbed. Although Jessamine had grown quite familiar with that look over the years, she nevertheless had to call up a considerable amount of self-control to keep from shifting uneasily in her chair.

  She wasn’t afraid of Sister Sophrena. She would do Jessamine no harm. She loved her. Jessamine knew that, but what made her want to squirm under the sister’s steady stare was the feeling that she wasn’t measuring up. She wasn’t being a proper Shaker sister. She was disappointing Sister Sophrena. Yet again.

  Jessamine wanted to blurt out that she was sorry, but it was as much a sin to lie as it was to be disobedient. She wasn’t sorry she had led Sister Annie so far into the woods on the pretense of finding berries. She wasn’t sorry she had helped the man. She wasn’t even sorry she had let her hand explore the feel of his cheek. Her own cheeks warmed at the thought and she hoped Sister Sophrena would think it was shame reddening her face.

  “I assume you are meaning to say do all the good you can in all the ways you can, as often as you can to all the people you can.” Sister Sophrena breathed out a small sigh as she removed her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose. “It’s best to repeat Mother Ann’s precepts with accuracy.”

  “Yea, you are right. It would be wrong to allow someone to get a wrong idea because of my careless memory.” Jessamine seized on this to move away from the worrisome topic of her sins. “I can recall many of those I learned in school from Sister Josephine word for word. Like this one. None preaches better than the ant and it says nothing.”

  Sister Sophrena twisted her mouth to the side but was unable to hide the smile sneaking into her eyes. “Are you trying to tell me something, Sister Jessamine? Would you prefer I said nothing?”

  “Nay, Sister Sophrena.” Now Jessamine’s face burned even redder. She had a way of continually speaking the wrong thing to land her in an even bigger hole. “I am ever ready to listen to your instruction.”

  Sister Sophrena’s smile disappeared as she held the spectacle handles in her hand and tapped the frames against the table. “But are you ready to heed it, my little sister? That is the question.”

  “I am ready to try,” Jessamine said in a small voice.

  “As you have been ready to try so many times before.”

  “Yea.” Jessamine stared down at her hands clutched together in her lap. She did try. Really, she did, but then something would happen to send her down a wayward path. Like Sister Abigail’s tales of parasols. Jessamine hadn’t mentioned that to Sister Sophrena, but Sister Annie would have told of how Jessamine’s desire to see parasols had led them on a wild-goose chase through the woods. But perhaps it was as God intended. Perhaps angels had led them to that place solely for the purpose of helping that poor man.

  She peeked up at Sister Sophrena, who had her eyes shut and was now pinching her lower lip instead of the bridge of her nose. It was not a good sign. She was waiting for something more from Jessamine. In her mind, Jessamine flipped back through the sins she’d confessed. Disobedience. Willfulness. Lack of proper consideration of her sisters and brothers, especially of Sister Annie. Deception in leading Sister Annie so far into the woods with no proper concern of fulfilling her assigned duty to pick raspberries.

  “Have you confessed all your sins, Sister? The unburdening of your sins is necessary in order to live the pure life of a Believer and to find favor from the Eternal Father and our Mother Ann. Unconfessed sin in your heart is like a worm inside an apple. On the outside the apple may appear fine, but inside there is ruin. Don’t let sin eat away at the insides of your heart.”

  “Nay, I’ll pray not to let such happen.” Jessamine put her hand over her bosom. She frowned slightly. “Did Sister Annie tell you some sin I may have forgotten? If so, I will gladly repent of it.”

  “Repentance isn’t merely lip service to me. It’s a changing of your will. More even than that. A surrendering of your will to that of the Lord’s will for your life.”

  “But if I can’t recognize an action as a sin, how can I know to repent of it?” It seemed a reasonable question to Jessamine, but she knew she should not have voiced it when a frown flickered across Sister Sophrena’s face.

  “The rules of a committed Believer’s behavior are drawn out in the Millennial Laws passed down from the Ministry in New Lebanon. You have but to read and apply those rules to your behavior. Obedience to the way is much to be desired if you wish to sign the Covenant when you turn twenty-one.”

  Jessamine turned her mind away from the thought of the Covenant. For months Sister Sophrena had been talking of her committing to the Shaker way when she reached twenty-one. Not just for this day, this month, but for forever. To sign a document promising to be a good and faithful Believer and never look for love other than the perfect love of the Lord and her sisters and brothers. To put behind her all thoughts of improbable fairy tales and childish stories. To set her feet on the Shaker path and look forward to years of peace and service with the reward of true salvation.

  She did want salvation. When her granny first told her about the Lord’s great love years ago, she had opened her heart to that love. And she’d been ready to do as her granny’s worn Bible said she must and love God in return and her neighbor as herself. Since, at that time, Jessamine knew no person other than her granny and the old preacher who brought them supplies, obeying that commandment had seemed as easy as breathing.

  After she’d come among the Believers, Sister Sophrena said Jessamine’s granny was right to teach about the need to love God and her neighbor, but that more was required. Proper behavior and obedience to the Ministry rules was as necessary as love and would not be burdensome once one firmly set her feet on the Shaker path.

  “I do try to be obedient and remember the rules,” Jessamine said now. “I never fail to step up on the stairs with the proper foot and kneel on the right knee to say my prayers as a dutiful Believer before and after each meal and all the other times too. I labor the songs and dance and whirl with fervor.”

  Sister Sophrena leaned across the table toward her. “But, my sister, is the fervor of your whirl because the spirit takes hold of you or merely for the joy of whirling?”

  Jessamine looked down at her hands clasped in her lap as she tried to come up with an answer that would not cause her sister increased concern while remaining truthful. She could almost feel Sister Sophrena’s eyes probing the top of her cap as she waited for an answer. Jessamine’s feet suddenly felt itchy and she considered standing up and whirling right out of the room. But that would be heeding the call of the wrong spirits.

  The truth was, she had never felt the spirit other Believers claimed made them whirl and dance and sometimes bray like donkeys. Jessamine loved meetings. She loved the singing and dancing and was always ready to join in when others of the Believers pantomimed picking and giving out imaginary fruit or a gift of sweeping fell over the assembly. She could pretend to sweep out evil with every bit as much fervor as the others in the building. She listened enraptured wh
en one of the brothers or sisters was taken over by a spirit from the beyond and spoke in tongues or sang words that had no meaning. She was ever ready to whirl, but it was never because of the spirit falling on her or rising within her. Sister Sophrena knew that.

  After a long moment, when the only noise was that of the bird in a tree outside the open window and a horse passing by on the road, Sister Sophrena spoke again. “It is easier to talk to you, Sister Jessamine, if you do not hide your eyes from me. Or your thoughts.”

  Jessamine looked up into the sister’s plain face. There was nothing remarkable about her looks, but she did have the perfect Believer’s face. One that offered love and kindness while at the same time insisting on obedience and truth. Sister Sophrena was very dear to her. She had guided Jessamine through those first months at the village when the loss of her granny was a raw wound inside her. Sister Sophrena wasn’t old the way her granny had been. Not young. Not old. In her middle years and at the peak of her ability to put her hands to work for the Lord. That’s how the Believers judged age. By one’s working ability and maturity.

  By that standard, Sister Annie was much nearer the age to sign the Covenant than Jessamine would ever be in spite of being a year younger. In fact she had told Jessamine she would sign the Covenant with gladness to leave the wickedness of the world behind if they would allow the document to be signed by one younger than twenty-one. But they would not. That too was written in the Believers’ rules.

  “Is not joy in the whirling enough?” Jessamine said.

  Sister Sophrena sat back in her chair. “I don’t know, Sister. That is something you have to determine on your own. Whether the joy comes from the spirit or not.”

  “Where else would it come from?” Jessamine asked. When Sister Sophrena didn’t answer right away, she noticed the song of the mockingbird in the tree outside the window again. “Like the mockingbird. Do you not think he sings for joy because his eggs will soon be hatching into baby birds?”