A Simple Shaker Murder (15 page)

“Mostly I always stay with Mairin,” Nora said, “but then Betsy called me over—I'm mad at Betsy 'cause she won't play with Mairin and me, but I went over 'cause I thought maybe I could get her to come back with me, and then we could be friends again. I was only gone for a few minutes.” Nora's gaze dropped to her small hands, tightly knitted together.

“Just tell me what happened, Nora. Whatever it was, I won't blame you.”

“Betsy wouldn't come with me. When I turned back, Mairin wasn't there. I got really scared. I ran all the way around the Schoolhouse, but I couldn't find her anywhere.”

“Exactly where had you been playing?” Rose's heart hammered against her ribs as she struggled to free herself from her bed linens.

“Near that thing that burned down,” Nora said.

“The Water House? With the trees in back?” Rose winced as she threw her leg over the edge of the bed.

Nora nodded. “That's where she came out of when I got back from running around the Schoolhouse.”

Rose froze in confusion. “Mairin isn't missing?”

“Nay. I mean, she was for a while, but then she got found again. When I got back, there she was. I asked where she'd gone, and she just said, ‘The woods,' and that's all she'd say, no matter how hard I asked.”

Rose pulled her legs back under the blanket and studied Nora for a moment. “What aren't you telling me? Why were you so upset that you had to come racing over here without even telling Charlotte?”

Nora's lower lip slid out. “Because
Mairin
was so scared, that's why. She made me promise not to tell Charlotte she'd
been gone.” Nora grinned. “But she didn't say I couldn't tell you.”

“Where do you think she had gone—into the woods to climb a tree? Was she bruised or mussed up?”

Nora shook her head and shrugged. With a shiver, she snuggled back against the blanket hung over the back of the rocking chair. She pulled the corners around her shoulders. “Mairin is very brave, you know. Something really bad must have happened to her, but she won't tell me. So I decided to tell you, 'cause you're watching out for her now.” She gazed at Rose with a child's confidence that the adult in charge could fix anything, even if that adult could barely limp across the room.

“You did the right thing.” Rose spoke with calmness, to hide her confusion and fear. “I'll find out what happened. You've been a big help. Now, you'd better head back to the Schoolhouse—but on your way, stop down in the kitchen and tell Lydia I sent you to get something to eat. She always has some extra.”

Nora slid off her chair and gave Rose's hand an impulsive squeeze before running out of the room. Rose's smile faded as soon as the door closed. For the first time since finding Hugh's body, she was truly frightened. Until now, Mairin's fear had always been associated with her terror of punishment. Otherwise, even violent death did not seem to touch her emotions. Something had happened in those woods, something terrifying enough to pierce even Mairin's armor.

A
FTER A NAP AND ANOTHER POULTICE,
R
OSE COULDN
'
T BEAR
to stay in bed any longer. There was too much to be done. She poked at her knee. Its color was still ugly, but the swelling had subsided entirely, and if she was careful, she could move her leg with minimal pain. She eased to her feet and walked a few steps. With concentration, she could avoid limping.

A plan began to form in her mind as she slipped her loose work dress over her head. Mairin must stay with the Shakers, to be raised and educated and cared for in the village. Rose had not felt so determined since the day she'd realized she was being called from the world back to the Society. Life with the New-Owenites would doom the girl; the Shakers could help her.

She would talk to Celia, who was Mairin's guardian—she'd probably be glad to see her go. Rose gathered up the journals and books she'd been studying, planning to return them to the Ministry library on her way out.

She took the stairs slowly, leaning on the banister to lighten the load on her knee. Bringing along the stack of books had not been her wisest decision. Sometimes her Shaker nearness overwhelmed her common sense. At least she needn't be too worried that Wilhelm might find her and question her reading material. During the afternoon, he usually preferred active work to spiritual study.

A few steps from the bottom, the toe of her shoe caught on
the hem of her long dress. She let the books fall. She had to, it was the only way she could grab the banister with both hands and keep from tumbling down the stairs. The volumes scattered. The largest, a book of memoirs, fell open and some colorful pages slid out. Mairin's drawings. Rose must have stuffed them in a book without thinking.

Rose steadied herself and caught her breath. She tested some weight on her injured knee. No additional damage. After thanking Holy Mother Wisdom for watching over her, Rose berated herself. Now she'd have to take the drawings back upstairs. Honestly, one would think she'd fallen on her head instead of her knee.

The click of the front door startled her in mid-step. A forceful arm swept the door open to a blast of crisp air—and to Wilhelm. He saw Rose, frowned, saw the clutter of books on the floor, and frowned more deeply. Then he saw the drawings, and his expression cleared. He grabbed the pages, his wind-roughened features lit with excitement.

“I doubt these are
thy
work,” he said. “Where did they come from?”

Rose hesitated. She recognized the light in Wilhelm's eyes—the fire of zealotry. In this mood, he was capable of anything. If he learned Mairin had drawn the pictures, the child would become his tool. He would use her to further his own ends, and never mind the consequences. Her sanity would be a small price to pay.

“They are not what you think, Wilhelm.” She held out her hand for their return. “They are of no use to you.”

“On the contrary, they interest me greatly.” Wilhelm ignored Rose's hand and took the drawings into the library.

Rose followed, avoiding the books still scattered at the foot of the stairs. When she caught up to him, Wilhelm had spread the drawings across the desk and was leaning close to them.

“Where did you find these?” he demanded. “In one of those journals? They look like the work of a child; perhaps one of our own sisters was chosen as an instrument at a young age. Is there no hint as to the artist?” Wilhelm picked up the purple
tree drawing and flipped it over. A crease appeared between his bushy, white eyebrows. “This paper is new. What kind of trick is this? Is this thy notion of a proper way to pass the time during thy convalescence?”

Rose noted that it never entered his mind to wonder if she could be a chosen instrument. If it was her work, he assumed it was only time-wasting play. She sank into a chair, wishing she'd followed Josie's orders and stayed in bed.

“Unless . . .” The glint returned to Wilhelm's eyes. “That girl in thy room, that New-Owenite child. Did
she
draw these?” He ran his blunt fingertips across the surface of all three pictures.

“Perhaps,” he said, “she is not the lunatic she seemed to me. In my poor human blindness, I could not see. Chosen instruments have often been called mad by the world. Because the girl has been
of
the world, I failed to grasp the message sent so clearly by the Heavens—God has chosen her to carry out His will. She is to bring our two groups together and make us one. Only one of their own could lead the New-Owenites into the light of Mother Ann. A
child
shall lead them.”

Wilhelm was no longer aware of Rose. His eyes devoured Mairin's drawings, squinting at every detail. Rose slipped from the room. She closed the door behind her and released her breath in a long sigh.

“Are you certain this isn't too much for you?” Rose asked. “If you aren't feeling strong enough, you have only to say so.”

“Don't fret, now,” Agatha said, waving her thin hand with a flash of her old impatience. “The girls and I will have a wonderful time. Gertrude can bring us tea and some of that lovely cider cake she keeps in a tin.” Nora's and Mairin's faces lit up at the mention of cider cake.

“You know Gertrude is a terrible gossip,” Rose said.

“Not if I tell her how important silence is for protecting the children.”

“You're probably right,” Rose said. Gertrude would enjoy
keeping silent more than having a good gossip, as long as she believed it was for the higher good.

“Hand me that basket, would you, Rose?” Agatha's thin hand waved toward her desk, where a basket lay covered with a piece of scrap cloth. Rose set it on Agatha's lap.

“My dears, look what Sarah brought for you.” Agatha pulled aside the cloth and lifted out two dolls, identical except for the colors of their dresses and their hair. They were made entirely of cloth, hand-sewn, with smiling embroidered faces. Agatha handed to Nora a doll in a dark blue Shaker work dress with a white kerchief pinned over its bodice. A few strands of embroidered black hair showed beneath the doll's thin white cap. Nora squealed and held the doll to her chest.

Agatha handed the second doll to Mairin. Its dress was of fine butternut wool, also covered across the bodice with a white kerchief. One red curl had been embroidered on the doll's head, so that it peaked out from under her cap.

Mairin held the doll delicately, as if she feared it would break. She looked up at Agatha.

“Do I have to give it back?”

“Nay, child, the doll is yours forever.”

Nora had already begun telling a story with her doll. Mairin placed hers on her lap and began to rock gently.

“I suggested to Sarah that she make a doll for each of the girls,” Agatha said. “They've had so little in their lives, and it's not as if they've signed the Covenant and vowed to share everything in common. They are only children, after all.”

“The dolls are lovely,” Rose said. “Was it your idea that Mairin's should look a bit like me?”

Agatha merely smiled.

“Run along now, Rose. Do what you need to do.”

“I'll leave them in your hands, then. Nora, Mairin, do you solemnly promise me you will stay here with Agatha until I come to get you?”

Both girls nodded, and Rose left. It was the best she could do, to keep Mairin safely out of sight for a time. She hoped it was enough. But worry plagued her as she set out for the
South Family Dwelling House. When she had picked up Mairin after school, the girl had been as blank as a new ledger page—no sign of the fear Nora had reported, nor of any other emotion. She had not seemed to notice Rose's outstretched hand. Perhaps the new doll, and Agatha's influence, would bring Mairin back.

Then there was the problem of Wilhelm. Rose was fairly certain she knew what he would be planning, now that he had Mairin's drawings. He'd called a Union Meeting for that evening, and she'd had no justifiable reason to object. He had already sent word to the New-Owenites to attend, as an opportunity to learn. She knew what he would attempt to teach them. She also believed the New-Owenites would never agree to leave Mairin with the Shakers, once they saw her as a pawn for Wilhelm. She could see only one option at the moment—she had to convince the New-Owenites that she did not agree with Wilhelm, that she would support the New-Owenites in their resistance to conversion. She could start by warning them, at least indirectly, about Wilhelm's probable plans for the Union Meeting and by urging them not to attend.

The foyer, parlor, and family meeting room of the South Family Dwelling House were all empty—messy, but uninhabited. Rose heard a murmur of voices coming from upstairs, so she resisted the temptation to clean, and she climbed toward the second-floor retiring rooms, resting her knee every few steps. She looked into the first room, on her right at the top of the stairs. It had once held eight beds, and surely it had seemed less crowded than now, when it contained only two beds and three people. The air reeked of cigarette smoke and unwashed linens.

In addition to the built-in drawers, two large dressers stood along the wall, obscuring the window. Drawers hung open to show unfolded clothing piled inside. Rose counted five ladder-back chairs and two rockers, all serving as clothes hangers. The wall pegs were empty. A full-length mirror leaned against the wall facing the doorway, throwing Rose into momentary confusion. She had never seen herself in a full-length mirror,
wearing traditional Shaker garb. Only her pale, freckled face and her hands showed, in stark contrast to the other female inhabitant of the room.

Celia Griffiths sat cross-legged on an unmade bed, her feet bare and her loose trouser legs hiked up to her knees, revealing shapely calves. Her ivory silk blouse was unbuttoned about an inch below the point of modesty. She stared at Rose as she took a long drag on a cigarette and stubbed it out in an empty jam jar.

Gilbert Griffiths and Earl Weston occupied the two rockers. They, too, were smoking, and they shared, as an ashtray, one of the Society's white soup bowls perched on an ash-dusted oval candle table.