Rose felt some of the tension in her shoulders relax. It was a comfort knowing that Agatha had taken drastic measures herself now and then.
“Josie, since we are discussing past times, what do you remember about a sister named Faithfull Worthington?”
Josie’s head popped up. “Goodness, what brought her to mind? She was one of my Infirmary sisters. It must be twenty years or more since she died.”
“Twenty-five,” Rose said. “Her name has come up recently. How did she die, do you know?”
“I must confess,” Josie said, “I’ve wondered a bit about that myself. I wasn’t here, you see, I was getting additional nursing training. When I returned, I found that she’d died in her sleep in the Infirmary, and one of the other Infirmary sisters at that time said it was a heart attack. I was shocked. Faithfull was not more than thirty-five and fit as they come. She worked alongside the brethren every spring and fall in the fields, loved to work outdoors. She’d spent the night in the Infirmary being watched for a cough. Then she just slipped away in her sleep.”
“Do you think she could have been murdered?”
“Murdered? Goodness gracious, where did you get such an idea?”
Rose hesitated. Josie was reliable and trustworthy, so she asked, “Do you know of any way someone could make a death look like a heart attack, something that someone here would have been able to do back in 1912?”
Josie frowned. “Back then, I think it wouldn’t have been too difficult. Just the Infirmary sisters determined how she died, and one of them was an inexperienced young sister called in to help because Faithfull was ill. I don’t think they even called the doctor from Languor after they found her dead. Nay, my guess is it was pneumonia, and they just made a mistake.” She finished putting away her newly filled tins and reached for her cloak from a wall peg.
“It’s getting late, my dear. Let’s run along to Samuel’s burial.”
Rose silently slipped on her own cloak and tied it shut around her neck, since the evening spring air had turned chilly. Samuel. Another unexpected heart attack.
Dusk shrouded the village as somber Believers left their evening chores and made their way to the cemetery for Samuel’s burial. Rose and Josie scanned the village as they left the Infirmary to join the others, but they saw only other long, dark Dorothy cloaks and work jackets. No world’s people hovering about.
The new cemetery had been in use since 1882, when the village’s first cemetery had filled. Except for its location in flat open space on the east side of North Homage, the new cemetery looked much like the old one. A slatted wood fence enclosed the square of land containing precise rows of graves. A small rounded metal marker, listing only the Believer’s name, age at death, and death date identified each grave. Simplicity and humility prevailed in death as in life.
The sweet scent of wild plum and apple blossoms blended with the moist smell of newly turned earth as Rose joined the others around Samuel’s gravesite. The plain pine coffin holding Samuel’s body lay on the ground. His grave marker, still clean and shiny, glimmered in the final rays of the setting sun.
Rose and Wilhelm moved to opposite sides of the hole dug for Samuel’s coffin. They’d agreed that each would deliver a short homily. Rose was pleased. At least for the moment, Wilhelm seemed willing to treat her more as his equal than as an upstart to be quelled. Had standing up to him earned her some respect?
As the Believers gathered, brethren in one group, sisters in another, Rose studied their faces. Eisa Pike, always vying for center stage, stood in front. She swayed dreamily, her eyes closed. Rose’s antennae for trouble tingled. Eisa was known for her tendency to fall into trembling trances whenever she had an audience. Rose would not have minded had she believed the trances were truly inspired.
Wilhelm stepped forward and led the group in prayer. As the prayer ended, he raised his arms and his face toward the darkening sky. He held his pose for several minutes, as though waiting to hear the spirits of long-dead Believers that elders and eldresses had often reported hearing at funerals. But for all his zealotry, Wilhelm admitted never hearing the voices of Mother Ann or falling into trembling trances, which he explained as his own lack of perfection. He admired anyone who had the “gifts,” even if those gifts were suspect. At every opportunity, he opened himself to receive them. As before, after a time, he lowered his arms without any sign of being blessed.
“Brethren and sisters,” he began. Rose noted his inclusion of the sisters for once. “This night we cheer the soul of our brother Samuel to the arms of our Mother and the protection of our Father, where he will flourish forever, safe from the wretched tongues of the world.”
The moon had risen in the night sky, shining its pale light on the faces of the Believers. Elsa still swayed and nodded as she listened to Wilhelm, but she seemed under control. Though she felt sad for the loss of Samuel, Rose’s mind wandered from the homily to thoughts about who might have killed him, if his death was neither natural nor a suicide. Surely one of the apostates.
Yet Sarah concerned her, too. She seemed gentle and devoted to the Society—and, true, she had been attacked. But she was the only link to the apostates, as far as Rose could tell. She always seemed to be present when an incident occurred. She disappeared at times, maybe just to meet Caleb, maybe because she played a role in the incidents. Sarah seemed nervous as she listened to Wilhelm’s powerful voice. She stood aside from the sisters, as if she didn’t feel part of the whole. Her protruding eyes darted from Elsa to Wilhelm and back to Elsa.
“. . . as we bury the body—now mere flesh and bones, soon to be dust—of our brother, we will have a moment of silent prayer.”
Rose realized she had missed most of Wilhelm’s homily and must begin her own in just a few moments. She rushed her silent prayer and pulled her thoughts together. Ending the silence, she stepped forward.
“Sisters and brethren,” she began, “Samuel was a good man, a devout Believer, and our friend. Though the world has judged him harshly, we must remember his life with us, which he filled with hard work and love, for us and for God.”
A low moan came from the sisters group. The sisters surrounding Elsa stepped away from her. Elsa’s body quivered, and clipped nonsense syllables seemed to force themselves from between her lips. She began to bob forward in a stiff nod from the waist. Her lips moved again, but this time no sound came from them. A familiar foreboding washed through Rose. She glanced sideways at Wilhelm. He watched Elsa with expectant hopefulness.
“We are all sinners,” Rose shouted, “despite lifetimes of reaching to perfect ourselves for the greater glory of God. Samuel tried, too. It is now for Mother Ann to intercede for him, and for God to judge him. And He will surely be merciful.”
Elsa released another moan, this time rising to a haunting crescendo. Her cloak shook with her convulsive trembling. Rose berated herself for not being better prepared for this. It was just like Elsa to wait until Rose was speaking to go into one of her performances. Rose knew they were performances, yet they were so well executed that she, along with everyone else, felt a thrill of anticipation as if they were real. Throughout their history, Believers had heard their dead predecessors joining them in the funeral celebrations of one of their own. They expected these messages, welcomed them, cherished them. But those voices had been real communications to Believers who were truly open to them, not skilled bids for importance from a woman who wanted more power than she deserved.
Elsa’s arms began to float upward until she had reached the same pose Wilhelm had used to listen for spirit messages. Wilhelm thrust his head forward, eager not to miss anything Elsa might say or do. He never quite gave up his belief in her apparent gifts.
Rose searched her mind for a way to interrupt what was sure to come next. A distraction, anything. She sought Josie in the group, but it was too dark to catch her eye. Finally, she took the only course she could think of—she breathed deeply and raised her voice to a volume equal to Wilhelm’s at his most powerful.
“Samuel’s worth will be reckoned by God,” she shouted. “We are here only to send him to Mother Ann’s arms with our love, not—I say again—not to judge him!”
All heads jerked toward her, including Wilhelm’s. Elsa stopped moaning, but her arms still reached skyward. Rose thought she saw a glint in those hazel eyes, but she told herself it was a trick of the moonlight.
“For we cannot know the truth of his death,” Rose continued, maintaining the power in her voice. “We know only this—that the world lies when it defiles our brother.”
She saw Elsa’s eyes glide shut again and her body begin to sway. In desperation, Rose took a chance.
“Samuel did not die gently!” For a split second, Rose wondered why that phrase had come to her mind. Then she remembered the journal page in Caleb’s room. She glanced at Sarah. Despite the dimness, she could feel Sarah’s intent stare. Each Believer now was still, even Elsa, though her eyes remained closed. Rose pushed her advantage.
“We abhor violence. Yet within our walls, violence was done to one of our own beloved brothers. Samuel did not die by his own hand—”
Rose had lowered her voice. It was a mistake. Elsa’s moan slid upward in pitch, then resolved into rapidly babbled syllables. Rose sucked in her breath to deliver another shout. As if sensing Rose’s intention, Elsa jabbered louder.
Without pausing for breath, Elsa shouted, “Mother Ann, I feel thy presence. I am thy willing vessel; speak through me.” When she sang or spoke from a trance, Elsa seemed to lose the normal coarseness in her voice and sound almost British, as Mother Ann had been. Even Rose, who was convinced of Elsa’s insincerity, could not explain this phenomenon.
“Yea, yea, I do hear thee,” Elsa said. “What is thy message? I cannot hear clearly; I cannot believe thy words, but—what? Oh, nay, nay, I do not doubt thee. I am but a weak vessel, with flawed understanding. I will do thy will, without question. I will convey thy message that . . . that Samuel is not with thee.”
Both sisters and brethren gasped. Rose held her breath.
“I hear more, but it is so faint. Samuel . . . Samuel broke his vow. He . . .” Elsa scrunched her flat features in a grimace, as if she were using all her strength to make out the words coming to her. “He . . . fornicated! Ah, Mother, can it be so? More yet? About Samuel? Oh, nay, nay.” Elsa’s face shifted to anguish. Rose swore she could see a tear glisten in the moonlight. “There . . . was . . . a . . . child!” Elsa crumpled to a heap on the ground. The sisters around her bent to help. Out of the corner of her eye, Rose saw Sarah run into the darkness.
EIGHTEEN
ROSE BARELY STOPPED HERSELF FROM SLAMMING the front door of the Trustees’ Office. How did Elsa continue to ferret out information before Rose or, apparently, anyone else? Who was her source? All right, Rose, she thought, unclench your teeth. You don’t have time to worry about Elsa right now. She lifted her long skirts and ran up the stairs directly to the records room. She ripped off her cloak and tossed it on a wall peg before scanning the shelves for the right volumes. She had to guess at 1904 to 1909, since she had no intention of questioning Elsa and being fed whatever sensational half-truth she cared to spew.
As Rose had already discovered by going through the 1910 to 1912 volumes, Fiona had sprinkled her journals with chat and gossip about the Society. Rose hoped she’d find enough information to piece together what really happened between Samuel and Faithfull.
She decided to start with 1909 and work backward. Her determined curiosity pushed her through the first volume quickly, despite her tiredness. 1909 had been an uneventful year, and 1908 turned out to have been equally uninteresting. In the third volume, 1907, Rose began to see intriguing references to Samuel and Faithfull. In a February entry, Fiona had written:
Samuel is dragging his feet about adding cities to his sales trip this spring, and I’m more than a wee bit suspicious about his reasons. He was surely willing last year, seemed he couldn’t wait to leave the village and travel for weeks on end. But now we have hundreds of extra tins of herbs and seed packages and jars of preserved fruits and vegetables, which we can’t use, Heaven knows, and Samuel doesn’t seem to care if they stay here, wasted. We have orders to fill in those cities, but Samuel wants Klaus or Caleb to go in his stead. It’s all since Faithfull came back last summer that Samuel has gone through this mysterious change. I told Agatha, but you know Agatha, dear girl that she is, she just nods solemnly and looks stern and otherworldly. Oh, I’m being churlish now, and truly, Agatha is a Heaven-sent eldress, but sometimes I do wish she’d interfere a little more!
Intrigued, Rose turned the page. The rest of the volume contained a few more references hinting at the relationship Fiona suspected between Samuel and Faithfull, but nothing new. Going backward to the 1906 volume, Rose read:
Samuel seems distracted, poor lad. It’s the winter, no doubt. He is trapped indoors, helping to package seeds and pining to be out selling again. He is my best salesman, but a trial to keep busy in the winter. Elder Obadiah asked him to be trustee, alongside me, and Heaven knows I could use a partner, but Samuel refused, as he has refused every other position offered him. Thinks he isn’t worthy or some such twaddle, and yet he is smart as any lad I’ve known, but there you are. There’s no explaining people sometimes, which is why I like numbers! We’re talking of adding Knoxville and Nashville to his sales trips to keep him better occupied. He would make quick stops in the spring to meet new customers and take orders, then deliver in the fall. It would mean harder work to ready the products, but we Shakers know how to work!
Rose skimmed quickly, eager to reach the summer entries and find some reference to Faithfull’s return. She found it in mid-July.
Sister Faithfull came back to us today. I must say I was surprised, though perhaps that’s my suspicious nature talking. She had seemed unhappy when she left to help care for her sister. I thought then she was just taking the excuse to get away from us, but now she has returned, and with what a surprise! Her sister’s baby! Now I see why her sister needed her help. One can see the family resemblance, though Heaven knows who the father is. The sister couldn’t raise the child alone, so Faithfull brought her back to us. It’s lovely to have a tiny one around again. We’ve had so few since the orphanages began taking so many of them. It brings back sweet memories of my days as a young sister, helping the deaconess in the Children’s Dwelling House. I’d be up half the night with those little ones, and I didn’t mind one bit. Those children have all grown and gone to the world now. You’re rambling, Fee, my girl! Well, perhaps little Sarah will grow into a fine young Believer.
Sarah. Rose flipped over the open journal to keep her place while she puzzled through what she’d just read. Sarah was about the right age. Baker was the surname of the woman Sarah had lived with in the world, the woman she called her mother. If Fiona’s information was correct, Sister Faithfull Worthington was Sarah’s aunt. Yet Samuel’s confession suggested that Faithfull could have become pregnant during the time before Sarah was born. What if Faithfull had left the Society not to tend to her sister, but to give birth herself? Much as Rose disliked the admission, Elsa’s self-proclaimed message from Mother Ann made sense. There was a child, Samuel and Faithfull’s child. Sister Sarah Baker.
Rose knocked on the door of Sarah’s retiring room, and it swung open. It was after 10 P.M. Sarah should have been preparing for bed, after the long day they’d all had, but a quick look around assured Rose that Sarah had not been back since Samuel’s funeral. Her curtains were open to darkness, and her bedclothes stretched smoothly across her narrow bed.
Back in the hallway, Rose listened for sounds of murmuring voices coming from any of the other rooms, but she heard only faint snoring. In any case, Sarah, though liked well enough by the other Believers, had never formed a close friendship. It was unlikely she had run to another sister for comfort this night. Rose tiptoed downstairs and checked the kitchen, which was empty.
Alarm shivered through Rose. It was not unheard
of for sisters or brethren to flee the Society under cover of night, sometimes with each other. If Sarah believed Elsa had revealed her parenthood, might she have decided to escape, perhaps meeting up with Caleb Cox? The fear of such a disaster sent Rose flying out the front door of the Center Family Dwelling House. One more place to check—the Sisters’ Shop. Sarah had been there in the early morning hours the day she was attacked. Perhaps the sewing room was her haven, her place of comfort when she felt troubled.
Rose groaned with relief as she came in sight of the Sisters’ Shop and saw the faint light through the second-story window. A shadow moved across the illuminated curtain. Rose slowed to a brisk walk and caught her breath.
Rather than frighten Sarah, Rose closed the outer door of the Sisters’ Shop with a loud click. “Sarah, it’s just me, just Rose,” she called out as she climbed the stairs. To her surprise, Sarah did not appear to greet her at the top of the staircase. The door to the sewing room was closed, so perhaps she hadn’t heard.
Without knocking, Rose pushed open the door. The single light from Sarah’s sewing desk created eerie shadows from piles of dark wool stacked nearby. Sarah was not sitting at her desk. From the doorway, Rose peered around the room but saw no one. Then she heard scuffling sounds coming from a dark corner at the other end of the room. Remembering the previous assault on Sarah, Rose hesitated only a second before tiptoeing to the large cutting table and grasping a set of shears. The thought of using the weapon was abhorrent to Rose, but she had to protect Sarah from harm. To preserve an element of surprise, she did not turn on more lights. She crept toward the sounds.
A Deadly Shaker Spring Page 15