by Alma Boykin
The wind on her face carried a definite taste of rain. She felt no sunlight, although the bench remained warm to the touch. “Has the rain reached the valley?”
“Not yet, Miss, at least not past the bend in the river.”
Odile’s fingers found the beads still in her pocket and she began saying them in her head. The cloud-weakened sun dipped behind the mountains and the wind turned cold despite her heavy shawl. Mother will scold me for being out after dark without Bethany or Andrea or Mike as chaperone. She heard a commotion from behind her, by the tunnel mouth. “Here they come!”
“He’s hurt, make room!”
“Godown be thanked.”
“Any fatalities?”
“No. Damn that hurts. Fu—”
“Watch your tongue. There’s a woman here,” the old man barked. The curse stopped in mid-stream, and the voices quieted down a touch.
Odile heard more men pass, and then a familiar voice, a wonderful, exhausted, very tired voice demanded, “Odile Sabrina, what in the name of Godown’s grace are you doing here?”
“She got you out, Roger. She found the cross tunnel for us.”
Odile’s father scooped her up in a hug that threatened to smother her. He smelled of dust and sweat, and her fingers found a tear in the back of his jacket. “Godown bless you,” he murmured into her ear.
“Good work, Bat,” Mike, her older brother, said, patting her on the head. She hated the pet-name, but hearing his voice made up for it.
After another while, hands helped her onto the donkey and she rode down the mountain, her father and brother walking beside her. They’d already carried the injured men back to the village on litters. This time Odile used both hands to hold the donkey’s mane while her father leaned on her stick. The warm, stiff hair prickled her fingers and palms. If this is what fancy horsehair cushions feel like, I don’t want one! The path leveled out and the clops grew brighter as the animal plodded into town, off the dirt path and onto the cobbles. A cold drop of water hit her hand, then another. “Oh dear,” she said. “Mother will scold me.”
“No she won’t,” her father corrected from beside her. “But she will hug your neck, fuss, scrub your face with grit soap, and then tuck you in bed as if you were four again.”
Odile made a face, confident that no one could see it in rainy darkness.
“Right. I’m off for food,” Mike said. He lived with four other bachelor miners in part of Master Sylván’s house. “Thanks, Bat.” He patted her hand and walked away as Odile and her father continued on. Word had reached town already and the animal stopped, people crowding around it before they could reach the house. Her father pushed through the people. “Let us by,” he called. The throng parted to let him and Odile pass.
“Roger!” She heard her mother’s shriek. Odile eased off the donkey. “Thank you,” she told it. She stood still as someone led it away. Her father had her stick, and she wasn’t sure how far from the gate she was or who might be in the way. The rain sounds and crowd noise hid her usual landmarks.
“Oh, St. Sabrina’s shimmy,” Bethany complained in her ear, making her jump. “I hope we can get you cleaned up before Mother and Andrea see you. Come on.” She took Odile’s hand and guided her through the open gate and into the house.
“Good thing you’re wearing a dark blouse. I think the apron’s a loss, and I’ll hide that shawl until I can get Goody Dupuy to wash it with her special mix. Here’s water and soap.” Odile handed Bethy the apron, then her blouse and found the soap by touch. “You have earth coal smudges all over it, the blouse and shawl too, but those won’t show. And on your face, or is that just dirt?” Odile scrubbed energetically, then tipped her face up for inspection. “Just dirt.”
“Father hugged me.”
“That’ll do it.” Bethany rummaged around. “Are they…” Her voice faded as she opened the door a peek. “No. Good. Here. Untie your skirt and I’ll drop this shimmy over your head. I’ve got a cleaner skirt, too.”
Odile undid the fastenings with record speed, then held up her arms as Bethany lowered the fabric. It took a bit of wiggling, but she was decent before the door opened and her parents walked in, Andrea in tow and nattering away.
“There you are!” Her mother swooped down on her and hugged her until she squeaked. “Andrea, hush and fill the kettle with water. Your father needs warm water to wash.”
“But that’s Odile’s job.”
Oh no, don’t start whining. Odile turned and started toward the kitchen when a loud slapping sound froze her in her tracks.
“Andrea Antonia,” her mother began, her voice deadly quiet. “I gave you a job. If it weren’t for Odile, you wouldn’t have a father or brother. Now move.” Andrea snuffled but trotted past Odile. They heard fast pumping sounds. “Odile, Roger, stay here and Bethany and I’ll get you something to eat while the water heats.” Odile’s stomach growled and she blushed.
Whiteroots and sausage with bitter basil had never tasted so good. Bethany and Andrea helped her up into their sleeping loft, and she tumbled onto her pallet, asleep before she could finish her prayers.
Two days later, the news from the hall overshadowed the rescue and Bethany’s wedding. “I’m sorry, Miss Rheinhart,” Fr. Thomas said. “But we need to postpone the service for two weeks. Otherwise it will come during the mourning period for Lord deSarm.”
So Goody Dupey was wrong: Lord Geoff had been sick. Odile shifted her attention back to the task at hand. She stirred the maize pudding as quietly as she could, listening to the sound of the bubbles. She could almost tell by feel when it had gotten thick enough, but still needed to hear the right “plop” of large, slow bubbles. The fire rake leaned against her leg. As soon as she heard the sound, she’d open the door and rake the fire over, away from the pot and closer to the oven. Then Andrea would ladle the pudding into a baking pan. Odile just couldn’t get a nice, even layer of pudding over the chopped sausage and cheese covering the bottom of the pan, no matter how hard she tried. I just don’t have the touch. And Mother will make me eat the bare parts. Goody Rheinhart believed that eating your mistakes encourage fast learning.
The thick, warm pudding would taste good, especially with the beans and marrow-bone slowly simmering in their pot on the back of the stove. Already the rich scent of smoked ham and white beans tickled Odile’s nose. She knew better than to test the beans, though. They’d still be hard as little rocks.
“Plop.” She waited, stirring a little slower. “Plop.” One turnip top, two turnip top, three turnip top. “Plop.” Odile jammed her hand into the padded mitt, opened the door, and moved the coals off to the side. She shut the stove door, stirred the pudding again, and poked her head out of the kitchen.
“Excuse me. Your pardon, Father, but Andrea? Could you come, please?”
Lagging steps brought the youngest Rheinhart daughter into the kitchen. She clattered around, then set to work. “It’s not fair.”
“Bethy having to delay the wedding?” Odile kept her voice down.
“No.” Odile pumped water and poured it into the pot beside the beans to warm for washing dishes. Andrea shook the baking pan a little. “Open the door.” Odile did, and the pan scraped over the metal and into the warm space. “What wood did you use?”
“Paper bark to start, and two sticks of oak.”
Andrea sniffed. “Um, after the second bell then. No point in checking it earlier.” The oven door shut and Odile latched it. “No. What’s not fair is Goody Schellmain saying that Bart’s family should reconsider our betrothal because of you.” Pure venom dripped from the last word and Odile recoiled.
“Me?”
“Yesss,” Andrea hissed the word. She whispered into Odile’s ear, “Since Godown cursed you, the rest of us are obviously ill-fated, especially now that you’ve gone and made a spectacle of yourself up at the mine, gadding around unchaperoned with all those men.”
“She truly thinks that…”
“I don’t know, but she’s dropping hin
ts about you being in the dark tunnels with the men for so long.”
“She what?” Bethany’s outraged voice made her sisters jump. “Let me guess. Goody Schellmain carrying tales.”
Odile nodded. “Of course.”
“Bah.” Bethany put her hands on her older sister and turned her away from the stove. “Shoo. Andi and I will wash up. Go mind the other fire and finish that knitting before Mother fusses.”
“Yes mother.” Odile drooped, pretending to behave. Behind her back, she thought she heard Andi sticking her tongue out. Thppp to you too.
Truth be told, it felt good to sit by the fire and work. Knitting didn’t require as much attention as mending did, and Odile appreciated the heat. Mike had forgotten to fill the kitchen barrel, so she’d taken the yoke and topped it off. The summer storms had turned to the bitter cold, almost-autumn rain that chilled her through two shawls, a hat, and headscarf, and Odile felt tired.
She felt still more tired when her mother stormed back into the house after the noon bell. Joan Rhinehart did not slam the door, and she did not stomp across the floor in her heavy work clogs, but Odile could hear her mother’s anger even so. “How is everything?” Joan called from the door as she exchanged clogs for slippers.
“Fine so far,” came from the kitchen.
“No problems here, Mother,” Odile answered. She ran her finger back along the last row of stitching, making certain that she’d tucked the ends of the yarn in. She’d finished a ball and started on another one. Bethany wanted a shahma-wool waistcoat, and Odile knitted more evenly than the other women in the house did. Good. Nice and smooth. She counted the stitches as well, and checked the squareness of the section. This would be the back. She’d already made the sides, saving the easiest part for last.
Her mother marched into the kitchen, moved some things around, then marched back out to where Odile sat. “Odile, dear—” A knock at the door interrupted her and she went to see who it was.
“Oh good, you’re home!” Odile heard flapping and water drops hitting the inside of the door as Goody Dupuy shook out her shawl. “I just wanted to tell you that a few of us, Goody Martin, Mistress Shabanel, had a word with Fr. Thomas. Don’t worry about Schellmain’s sniping.”
“Oh. Oh dear.” Odile’s mother wrung her hands, the dry skin and work callouses making a faint scratching sound. “Ah, thank you, but—”
“You’re more than welcome. It’s time and past that someone took that harridan in hand. Don’t worry, and I’ll be on my way. Godown bless.”
“And you.”
Someone who won’t be Mr. Schellmain. He couldn’t keep her in a line if he built a row of fences. She’d just climb over them for spite. Odile knew she shouldn’t think such unkind thoughts about anyone, especially an honorable married woman, but she was so tired of Schellmain calling her lazy and mean. And now suggesting that she—Odile sat straight up and almost dropped her knitting. If I was consorting with men at the mine, that means Father knew! She’s not just insulting me, she’s saying that Father and Mike—oooooohhh, I want to give her a piece of my mind.
“I wish they hadn’t said anything,” her mother sighed from over Odile’s shoulder. “Instead of blowing over, now people will think there’s something to Schellmain’s words.”
Unfortunately, there was a large dollop of truth in her mother’s worry. “Does that mean I need to stay home?”
Her mother patted her shoulder. “No. If you stay home, people will think it’s because we’re ashamed or punishing you. And if you go out, people will watch you for the least sign of impropriety.”
“So no matter what I do, they’ll talk.” I can’t win. It’s not fair. I’m a hoyden no matter. It hurt terribly. Godown had made her as she was. There was nothing could change that, unless He decided to work a miracle, something the priests all said was long past.
“I’m afraid so, dear.” Her mother leaned over. “That’s a lovely idea! The shading adds so much to the waistcoat.”
Huh? Oh, the dye must have been running weak on the last batches and we didn’t notice when we made the yarn balls. “Andrea helped sort the yarn, Mother.”
“But you’re doing the work. Very nice, Odile.” With that she straightened up and set about her own tasks.
Everything changed three days later, on the Holy Day. Odile sat with her parents, as usual, instead of with the other unmarried women. She heard whispers and rustling as she entered the chapel and did her best to ignore them, concentrating on preparing her heart for worship. Fr. Thomas seemed to ignore the murmuring as well, at least until the meditation. Instead of the scheduled reading, about Godown sending the Landers to Colplatschki, Fr. Thomas cleared his throat. “Today’s reading is from the Words of Council, once called Proverbs. Hear the word of Godown.”
Oh dear. Odile listened to the warning about gossip and slander, ducking a little as she recalled some especially unkind things she’d repeated over the past few weeks. Then, to her surprise, and the surprise of the congregation judging by the shifting and murmurs, Fr. Thomas skipped ahead and read the entire last chapter about the virtuous woman. “This is the word of Godown. Hear and be blessed,” he concluded.
Odile bowed to the book. “Thanks be to Godown,” she repeated with the rest.
“You may be seated.” Once everyone had settled onto the benches, Fr. Thomas launched, “Baseless accusations have been made against a resident of this village. That angers me. What angers me even more is that no one has spoken up to stop them.” He continued on that theme for several minutes. “It has been said that Odile Rhinehart has failed to do her duty to her family, using devotion to Godown as an excuse. It is also said that she failed to do her duty to Godown through her conduct when assisting in the mine rescue. This stops now. Godown blesses each in different ways. He used His daughter’s infirmity to save the lives of fifteen of our husbands, sons, brothers. When called to her duty, Odile did not hesitate, risking her life to assist those in need.” Odile blushed, her face burning, and covered it with her hands. “But some would see that as a sin.” He thundered, “If it is the case, then may Godown send us more sinners!”
Odile wanted to sink into the floor. No. I did what I could, nothing more. I’m not special. Stop, please. This will just make things worse.
He didn’t stop. “If ever the deSarm lands needed an example of someone who puts her duty before self, it is now. Godown has called Lord Geoff to be with Him, as you know. Lady Marguerite has vowed to do her duty, serving as an example. Miss Odile has done the same, be it through prayer or service.”
Odile stopped listening and sat, head bowed, shoulders hunched, trying not to cry. Godown, I’m sorry. This isn’t supposed to happen. Please, Holy One, please forgive me. Please may this not cause trouble for Bethany and Andrea, for Mike, for Mother and Father, please.
If that wasn’t enough, an even greater surprise arrived on the Rhinehart doorstep two days later. A quiet, persistent tapping brought Odile’s mother to the door. “Yes?”
“Good morning, Goodwife Rhinehart. I have someone who wishes to speak to your daughter Odile.” Fr. Thomas’s voice carried, and Odile wondered who it was. Goody Schellmain apologized yesterday. She wiped her hands dry of dishwater and ventured out of the kitchen.
“Miss Odile, this is Sister Alice from the Sisters of Service convent at Martinspring.”
Odile curtsied. “Thank you, my child, but such a gesture is not necessary,” a warm, rich voice informed her. “Goodwife Rhinehart, may we come in?”
“Of course, I’m sorry. I apologize Father, Sister,” she began.
Fr. Thomas assured her, “No need to apologize, Goodwife Rhinehart. Sister Alice happened to come to town on convent business, and I decided to delay her return.”
The two clergy sat at the big table. “Please, Miss Odile, sit,” Sr. Alice invited.
Odile sank onto the bench opposite the two adults, totally confused by what might be going on.
St. Alice did not wait long to enlighten he
r. “Father Thomas, and Fr. Michael before him, have been watching you, Miss Odile. And not for that,” she chuckled before Odile could panic. “It has been almost a generation since we have heard of a young woman with such a clear vocation, you see.”
Something began blooming in Odile’s heart as the sister spoke. “Is that what I feel, Sister?”
The other woman quizzed her a little, then explained. “Yes. Odile Sabrina Rhinehart, you have a true vocation. Do you want to answer that call?”
“Oh yes!” She caught herself. “But my family needs me to work. And I’ve never saved for a dower offering.”
A strong, calloused, woman’s hand reached across the table and patted hers. “My child, we do not require a dower gift.”
“And you’d be leaving us if you marry,” her mother spoke up for the first time, leaving unsaid, as unlikely as that is.
Odile wanted to say yes, oh she wanted to say yes. Oh. But everyone knows that the sisters have to be able to read the Writ and commentaries, and to write. Odile’s heart sank. “Ah, Sister Alice, I can’t read. Or write.”
“But you have learned how much of the Writ from memory, Odile?” Fr. Thomas asked.
“From the Book of Origins to the Sayings of Grace, and half of the Sermon of James, Father.”
Sr. Alice’s rich chuckle filled the room. “My child, at least a quarter, probably a third of our sisters don’t know that much.”
“And she has the litanies, the daily offices, and every set of bead prayers by heart,” the priest added.
“Godown will show you where your exact calling within the Sisters lies,” St. Alice assured her. “Do you want to follow that calling?”
“Yes!” She added quickly, “If it is His will, of course.”
“Of course.” After a brief discussion, Fr. Thomas blessed the household and he and Sr. Alice departed, leaving Odile with a great deal to think about.
That evening her father heard the story. “I trust this will not happen tomorrow?”
“Oh no, dear,” her mother assured him. “Not until after St. Michael’s Fair at the earliest.”