Cheryl Reavis

by The Bartered Bride

  “No,” he answered. “Lise! Mary Louise!” he abruptly called to his children. They both came immediately.

  “What, Papa?” Lise asked, breathless from the joy of running back and forth like a colt let out to pasture.

  “What, Papa?” his smaller daughter, the echo, asked.

  “I have found something in my pockets,” he said. “I think these things must be for you.” He began searching, bringing out two small paper packets from inside his coat. He handed one to each of the children.

  “Thank you, Papa,” Lise said in her quiet way.

  Mary Louise sniffed the packet. “Peppermint! Peppermint! Peppermint!” she cried, bouncing up and down. “Thank you, Papa—did you bring Aunt Caroline some, too? She needs it—didn’t you get her some, Papa? I said she would cry without it. Did you forget?”

  “No,” Frederich assured her. “I didn’t forget.”

  He brought out yet another packet and held it out to Caroline. The gesture caught her completely off guard. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone bad given her any kind of gift, and she stood looking at it, suddenly awash in an impulse to cry—precisely what the peppermint was designed to prevent.

  “It is important that you have this, Caroline,” Frederich said pointedly, still holding out the candy. She looked at him. His eyes shifted ever so slightly to the children, both of whom were waiting expectantly to witness her pleasure at receiving such a treat from their father.

  “Thank you,” she managed, finally taking it. “Thank you very much indeed.”

  She looked away across the plowed field to keep from crying.

  “I think you better eat one,” Mary Louise advised her. “I think you better eat one now.“

  “Yes, you’re right,” she said, forcing a smile. She opened the paper as the girls went running off again, realizing that she really was going to cry after all. She swallowed hard and turned away from Frederich.

  “Thank you,” she said again, incredulous that such a simple gesture could reduce her to tears.

  “It is nothing.”

  “It is to them.” She wiped at the corner of her eye with her fingertip. “And…to me.”

  She looked at him then, acutely aware of the two thoughts that suddenly filled her mind. That Frederich Graeber’s eyes were intensely blue, and that regardless of what he’d said to her that night she’d found him drinking in the dark, he perhaps had some capacity for kindness where she was concerned after all.

  “Caroline,” he said when she turned to walk back to the house. “The thing I wanted to say to you.”

  She stopped and waited, clutching the peppermint sack tightly in her hand.

  He hesitated, and she thought for a moment that he had changed his mind. But then he took a deep breath. “You don’t have to worry about Kader Gerhardt.”

  Chapter Eight

  Frederich knows.

  The thought stayed in her mind all the time. But how he could have possibly found out about Kader she couldn’t imagine. Had he simply guessed? Had she somehow given herself away? Kader would never have said anything. She was certain of that. And now, when she looked into Frederich’s eyes, the overt animosity that had been there earlier was gone. It had been replaced by something very akin to disappointment—as if he had gone against his better judgment and allowed himself to hope for the best where her strength of character was concerned—and he had been gravely disappointed. It both angered and saddened her.

  Her nerves stayed on edge in anticipation of a further discussion. She stayed out of Frederich’s way as much as possible, so much so that Beata even remarked on it. She couldn’t believe Frederich would suddenly announce that she didn’t have to worry about Kader Gerhardt and then just let it drop. And if he did ask her about him, what would she say? As her husband, she supposed he had the right to know, but how could she make anyone understand that she had thought that she loved Kader Gerhardt, that she had thought him honorable and worthy and that she, who had always prided herself on her independence, simply hadn’t known how to say no?

  “Was haben Sie?”

  Caroline looked up sharply from the button she’d been sewing on Mary Louise’s pinafore, startled because she hadn’t realized Frederich was anywhere around. She stopped and waited, as common courtesy required—courtesy and her indebtedness to him for the legitimacy of her child and for her daily bread. Even so, she refused to be put at a disadvantage because she didn’t understand the German language.

  She allowed her eyes to just meet his before she went back to sewing.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he said in English.

  She nearly laughed. Wrong? He was seemingly privy to a secret she’d intended to take to her grave, for one thing.

  “Nothing,” she said, trying to sound at ease in spite of the fact she was desperately worried now that he really would ask about Kader.

  “You are feeling well?” Frederich asked instead.

  “I am fine,” she answered, blindly jabbing the needle at the hole in the button.

  “I think you don’t eat enough,” he said.

  I don’t understand, she thought. His speaking to her in English was no more helpful than his speaking in German. Frederich Graeber did not concern himself with whether or not she ate.

  “You cannot make a baby out of nothing, Caroline. You must eat more.”

  “Frederich—”

  “I need to know if you are well because I need your help,” he said, clearly not interested in whatever remark she’d intended to make. “Are you?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation.

  “I thought I heard you last night. Walking about.”

  “You didn’t,” she said evenly, again looking him in the eye. When she locked her door, it stayed locked, she almost said. She half expected him to call her “a lying Holt” again, but he didn’t. Once again, she bent her head over the loose pinafore button to discourage further conversation. He was waiting when she glanced up.

  “Put that away. I have another job I want done.”

  “Indeed,” she said, not quite under her breath.

  “Indeed,” he assured her.

  She dutifully followed him out of the kitchen and onto the back porch, waiting where he said to wait until he’d brought a bucket and a sack of potatoes that were ready to sprout.

  “These come from the relatives in Pennsylvania,” he said as he slung the sack onto the porch. “They are very fine. I want them cut for planting on Good Friday and I want none of the eyes wasted.”

  “You can’t get all the eyes, Frederich,” she said, watching him open the sack wider.

  “Even so,” he said. “Hold out your hand.”

  “Why?” she asked pointedly.

  “So I can see what size knife is best for you to use,” he replied, just as pointedly.

  “Forgive me,” she said, thrusting out her hand and trying to ignore his rough fingers on hers. Did he seem to want to touch her more often these days or was it her imagination? She abruptly dismissed the notion as ridiculous. “I am unaccustomed to such attention to detail,” she added to annoy him.

  He glanced at her, but he made no reply. He went into the house and came back with a small knife from the kitchen. “Don’t let Beata see you with this.”

  “Oh, of course. Let’s have as much drama surrounding the potato cutting as we possibly can,” she said, taking the apparently purloined knife. He held on to it a little too long, forcing her to pull it out of his hand. She glanced up at him. The mouth wasn’t smiling, but there was something almost mischievous in his eyes.

  What are you doing? she thought. Are you teasing me? Are you being cruel?

  “I think you like drama, Caroline Holt,” he said.

  “What I like is Beata occasionally in something less than an apoplectic fit.”

  She reached into the sack and picked a potato, looked at it, then cut it into what she deemed the appropriate number of chunks to separate the maximum dumber of eyes.

&nbs
p; She was aware of Frederich’s scrutiny, but he made no comment. After the third potato, she looked at him. “Well?”

  “Too slow,” he observed. “But the cutting good enough.”

  “Oh, thank you. I was truly worried.”

  She sat down on the porch steps while she worked, surprised to find that her belly was beginning to take over her lap. She knew she was pregnant certainly, and yet she didn’t somehow. The mounting number of changes in her body were always catching her unaware. Sometimes she went for hours without thinking of the baby at all, and sometimes, when she did remember it, did notice some overt change in her body, she was completely overwhelmed. Like now. This latest discovery—that she was losing her lap—left her with the ridiculous urge to cry. She had to concentrate intently on the potatoes, swallowing hard and taking great care not to look in Frederich’s direction. She desperately wanted him to go away and attend to whatever pressing matters he surely must have if he’d allowed himself to ask her for a favor. She never wanted to give him the satisfaction of seeing her so overcome by her situation that she would weep.

  But he was mending a piece of harness, as engrossed in it as she was the potatoes.

  “Do you know about the Geburtstagstisch?” he asked after a time.

  “No,” she answered. “Yes,” she immediately amended, because she felt more in control now and because she didn’t want him to think she was totally ignorant. “It’s a German birthday custom, isn’t it? A little table with gifts on it—Ann told me about it.”

  “Yes. The birthday table. It’s Use’s birthday soon. I want to ask if you know of something she wants. There is little money to spare until the army pays for the grain—if they pay. But I want to find something for her table. Something that will make her…”

  She looked up when he didn’t go on.

  “Happy,” he concluded.

  Their eyes met; he was the one who looked abruptly away. She frowned, marveling again at this side of Frederich’s nature. If he was such a good father, why hadn’t she ever seen it when she visited Ann here? Perhaps he had been a good husband as well. She had told him the truth the other night; Ann had never complained about him.

  “I’ve only heard Lise mention one thing that she wanted—and it doesn’t cost any money,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “She wants you to play your fiddle again.”

  Frederich said nothing. His face registered nothing. For a moment, Caroline thought he hadn’t understood her.

  “I have no use for fiddling,” he said finally—and in a tone of voice she was hard-pressed to define. Angry? Annoyed? Yes, annoyed. As if she’d deliberately set out to insult him.

  “Oh, I’m sure,” she said, her own annoyance rising. She would never understand these people.

  He immediately accepted the gauntlet she’d thrown down. “What does that mean?” he asked, moving closer. “‘I’m sure.’”

  She stopped cutting and looked at him. “It means that so simple a request from a little girl who loves you with all her heart would be lost on a man like you.”

  “Ah! A man like me. A man too rough and unlearned for such a fine lady as you are?”

  “Don’t!” she said, her eyes locked with his. “We both know what I am. I accept that you think the worst of me. There is no need for your sarcasm.”

  Frederich gave a short laugh. “My sarcasm. Yes. We have a lot of trouble here if we don’t keep in hand my sarcasm.”

  She abruptly went back to cutting. Frederich could see how agitated she was. He expected her to vent her aggravation with him on the seed potatoes, but she didn’t. She was still as exact with the knife, as careful of the precious eyes, as she had been before—a marked difference between her and Beata, he realized. Beata would have ruined every potato that came to her hand—even if they all starved this winter—just to get even.

  The image of Caroline bathing before the fire rose in his mind, regardless of his resolve not to think of her in that way. He didn’t want to be thinking of her in any way—except as the disgrace she was.

  But she was sitting in a patch of sunlight, her dark hair as shiny as a raven’s wing. He fought down the intense urge to reach out and loosen it from its pins. He wanted to see it tumble down her back. He wanted to bury his face in it. He wanted to pick her up and carry her upstairs to his bed in broad daylight—

  Damn Eli for this! Damn him to hell!

  If Eli hadn’t stood in church and offered to marry her, he would never have been forced to keep the marriage pledge. Caroline Holt would be out of his life. He wouldn’t be looking for her a hundred times a day and he wouldn’t be tormented by these perpetual thoughts of ending his celibacy. Kader Gerhardt had been right. The nights were long and there was no comfort from the grave.

  “Your brother is coming,” he said abruptly, grateful for the diversion even if it were another Holt.

  Caroline looked up, expecting to see William, but Avery was coming across the field. She immediately got up to go into the house.

  “There is no need for you to run from Avery,” Frederich said.

  “I’m not running. He’s only here because he wants something. Since it isn’t in my power to give him anything, I have no desire to watch him ingratiate himself. I have things to do inside.”

  “You have things to do out here.”

  “When he’s gone,” Caroline said, going inside in spite of Frederich’s objections. And she nearly bumped into Beata as she closed the back door. To her immense surprise, Beata had been standing before the washstand mirror. Primping?

  Yes, Caroline decided. And it wasn’t the now-where-does-this-strand-of-hair belong? kind. It was the kind a woman resorted to when a particular man had unexpectedly arrived. The dour Beata Graeber had actually been primping for Avery Holt.

  Obviously startled by Caroline’s sudden entrance, Beata went immediately back into the kitchen.

  Caroline looked in the direction Beata had gone, and then through the window at Avery. As far as she was concerned, Beata Graeber was the perfect comeuppance for Avery Holt. She felt mischievous suddenly, and she threw open the back door.

  “Avery!” she called brightly. “Do come inside!”

  He and Frederich both looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  “Come on,” she coaxed, holding the door wider.

  Avery stood doubtfully, then peered past her as if he expected to find some devious trap had been laid for him. He was not far from wrong, only Caroline hadn’t done it. She glanced over her shoulder. Beata, the Spider, was waiting in her parlor—and positively beaming.

  “Come in,” Caroline coaxed further. “How is William?”

  “Fine,” Avery said warily, coming onto the porch. “What are you up to, Caroline?”

  She glanced at Frederich, who had the look of a man who might be wondering the same thing.

  “What could I be up to, Brother?” she said. “We both know I am no match for you. My,” she said, looking closely at his face. He did indeed look worse than she did—but then he had the land and the spring he’d coveted for years to console him. She, on the other hand, had nothing.

  “Beata, may I ask you this one favor?” she asked, turning in Beata’s direction. “Could we make my brother welcome? Give him some coffee? Or cake, perhaps? I know Avery loves your cooking. He’s said so so many times.”

  Avery gave her a dark look, but she felt no fear—because of Frederich, she suddenly realized. Frederich had told her she didn’t have to run and she believed him.

  “Avery is always welcome,” Beata said.

  Caroline stood back to let Beata drag him the rest of the way into the house. She smiled slightly to herself, surprised that Frederich stood with her. She went out onto the porch, looking across the field toward the woods beyond. She loved this time of year, the abrupt change to springtime and greening trees. A few more warm days and redbud and dogwoods would bloom.

  “What are you up to?” Frederich asked.

  Sh
e looked at him, but she didn’t reply. She sat down on the steps and returned to the task of potato cutting instead.

  “I want no more Holts in my family,” he said.

  Caroline took no offense. She wanted no more Graebers in hers. “Don’t worry, Frederich. Avery might seduce dear Beata if he got half the chance, but marry her? Never.”

  “You are a blunt-speaking woman, Caroline Holt,” he said.

  “I can be blunt,” she said, reaching for another potato. “I have no reputation to preserve and nothing to lose by speaking the truth. Men don’t allow women to speak the truth very often, did you know that? Our lot in life is to keep all of you flattered and cajoled and thinking everything is just fine no matter what terrible thing is going on.”

  “Beata isn’t good enough for your brother then.”

  “Beata isn’t landed enough. Avery isn’t about to marry a woman who isn’t going to inherit good farmland. Leah Steigermann is more what he has in mind.”

  “Well, he won’t manage that except over John Steigermann’s dead body.”

  Caroline glanced at him. Frederich had no idea how much Avery had already managed. If John Steigermann ever learned what had happened between Leah and Avery at the corn shucking, there would indeed be a dead body. The question was whose?

  “We all have our troubles,” she said.

  “And Leah is your friend.”

  “No, she isn’t. But she’s been kind to me—for whatever reason. Her infatuation with Avery, I suppose. I’d hardly even spoken to her before…before John Steigermann took me to stay in their house. It’s hard accepting kindness from someone you think is…”

  She didn’t go on, and Frederich made no comment. He sat down on the top step near her and looked out across the field as she had done. It struck her suddenly Leah had been right, that he really was not…unhandsome. He was in his late thirties, but he had a boyish look about him, when she looked past the beard. And he was tired. She felt a stab of guilt. Eli had run off the moment she came into the household, regardless of his fine welcome speech, and Frederich had suffered the consequences. If there was an innocent party in all this, she supposed it must be he. He had kept his marriage pledge—the sacred German Verlobung—and being cold and humorless was no sin to anyone but her. Actually, she had come to the realization that he really wasn’t cold or humorless—except toward Holts.