A Simple Shaker Murder (6 page)

“We've heard these things before,” Rose said. “Somehow we always survive.”

“True, but then Celia started going around to each of the sisters, one by one, spending a lot more time with the younger sisters and the older girls, asking why they weren't still in school, learning to do important work, like science.”

“You're afraid she was swaying some of the sisters away from the Society?”

“I've seen it happen,” Isabel said. “The younger ones fall in love and want families; they lose their way, listen to all sorts of nonsense. I was susceptible myself, when I was young.” Isabel was no more than thirty, but responsibility had given her purpose and self-assurance.

“Do you believe she succeeded in convincing any of the sisters?”

“I have my doubts about Lottie and Frieda. They seemed to listen intently, and they didn't question. Afterward, I noticed them whispering together. The other sisters were polite but went about their work as though Celia did not trouble them. Among the young girls, Hannah seemed most taken with Celia's arguments.”

Rose shrugged. “I've seen signs in Hannah of longing to be in the world, so I'm not surprised. She'd make a good Shaker, if she made up her mind to, but her strong will may be leading her in a different direction. As for the other girls, they so rarely sign the Covenant these days, and we can't blame Celia for that. I'll try to keep watch on Lottie and Frieda, though. Did Celia say anything else I should know about?”

Isabel squirmed on her chair. She swept over to the cauldron and gave her yarn a quick stir again. Finally she turned back
to Rose and said, “She had two more things to say, but they were so outrageous that I'm sure no one took them seriously in the least. I suppose you should know about them, though. I heard a couple of the things she said to Frieda and Lottie. I was worried, and I'm not ashamed to say I followed behind when I saw Celia go after the sisters as they went to do some weaving. I stood outside the door a bit and listened, and if Mother Ann had been there, she'd've done the same!”

Isabel squared her shoulders and looked Rose in the eyes. “Celia Griffiths told those poor sisters they were being duped by their leaders—that religion was being used to control them, not to help them become more like the angels. She said they'd become better people through education, not by being told what to think and believe. That much alone clear broke my heart, but then . . .” Isabel glanced back at her cauldron as if she'd like to jump in it herself, but with a deep breath, she continued. “Then she said that celibacy is the biggest trick of all. She said that . . . that you and Elder Wilhelm live together in the same house, with no one watching over you, and did the sisters really think you lived chastely?”

Rose felt her mouth open and heard nothing come out. Her feelings were a jumble of protests and disbelief and even some amusement. Surely no sisters would believe that she and Wilhelm . . . surely not. She became aware of Isabel watching her anxiously.

“Isabel, I assure you, these suggestions are false, completely false. I don't yet know Celia Griffiths very well, but it seems she has something in mind that she hopes to accomplish with such vile rumors. I intend to find out what it is.”

Relief flooded Isabel's face. “I was sure she couldn't be right, of course, but I'll admit I've been worried. It did seem as though some of the others were listening altogether too carefully. That's why I'd determined to speak to you privately, even if you hadn't come to me first. Sarah and I talked afterward and felt you should know. It wasn't just tale-telling on our part.”

Rose forced herself to smile with confident reassurance. “Of
course not. You did the right thing. I'll take care of this, don't worry.”

The wood bars had been removed from the door of the long-unused Carpenters' Shop, and once again the sounds of sawing wood and brethren's voices drifted from the windows. Rose approached the shop with some misgiving, since it held unpleasant memories for her. She almost turned back to follow her strong urge to have a little talk with Celia Griffiths; she looked forward to the chat with something close to pleasure. But instinct told her to find Gilbert Griffiths first. She suspected he would be easier to talk to, and she wanted to find out if the New-Owenites were hiding their true mission from North Homage.

Rose slowly pulled open the door, aware that she was entering a male domain. A brother might often be seen repairing equipment in the kitchen or the Sisters' Shop, but it was unusual for a sister, even an eldress, to visit the shops where the brethren worked.

Conversation stopped and three men turned their heads as Rose entered. Two were young brethren, Matthew and Archibald, and the third man was Gilbert Griffiths. The brothers quickly lowered their eyes to their work. Gilbert smiled broadly. His few remaining hairs were slicked back on his bony scalp, and he reminded Rose of a hawker of patent medicines.

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” Rose said, “but I was hoping to have a word with you, Mr. Griffiths. Could we walk a spell?”

“Gil, call me Gil.” He hopped off his perch on top of a maple workbench, scattering sawdust as his feet hit the floor. “At your service.” He followed her to the front door.

Matthew and Archibald paid no heed as they repaired an old apple peeler that hadn't been used in the kitchen for decades.
Another of Wilhelm's brainstorms
, Rose thought. He was forever ordering ancient equipment pulled out of storage, repaired, and put back to use. Archibald was stirring a pail of fight orange liquid; Wilhelm must have demanded the apple
peeler be stripped and returned to its original color. As if they didn't all have enough work to do already.

“What was that?” Gilbert asked, as they walked around to the backyard of the Carpenters' Shop. He pointed toward a burned patch of ground that still held pieces of an iron staircase emerging from a good-sized hole. “I thought you folks were always so quick to clean up a mess and rebuild.”

Rose clenched her teeth and silently repeated her well-worn prayer for patience before answering evenly, “That was the old Waterhouse. It burned down, and we didn't bother to rebuild, since we have a new water and sewer system.”

“Seems a mighty good location, though. You could expand the Carpenters' Shop, maybe even build a new one, right there close to the maple grove.” Gilbert eyed the land as if he owned it.

“I've had very little chance to talk with you about your plans,” Rose said. “Since it has come to my attention that your group does not see any benefit in faith and worship, I'm wondering what, precisely, you're hoping to learn from your visit to North Homage.” She strolled back toward the center of the village, away from the burned-out Waterhouse and the too-secluded maple grove. Given the rumors already flying, it would not do to be completely alone with a man from the world. Gilbert followed along beside her, a shade too close, and she edged away. He gave no hint that he noticed.

“Well, Wilhelm did mention you seem to spend more time with the women than with him, so I'll be glad to fill you in. Do you know much about our predecessors, the original Owenites?”

“Only a bit,” Rose said. “I know they lived in New Harmony, Indiana, starting somewhere in the 1820s or so, just when we were growing in strength, and I know there was some contact then between our communities.”

“Indeed. The example of the Pleasant Hill Shakers was very helpful to New Harmony when it was just getting under way, but unfortunately it wasn't enough. The Owenites lasted as a community for only a few years. They were never able to
achieve the peaceful, ordered life you all have enjoyed for well over a century. My idea is that this time we'll do it right. We've spent several years planning and obtaining resources. Now we need to study how you live and work together much more thoroughly, learn everything we can, before we plunge into trying our own utopia again. Does that answer your question?”

“It raises other questions,” Rose said. They had reached the back of the Schoolhouse. Normal life had resumed for the children, and the rhythmic murmur of voices reciting in unison drifted from a partially open window. “If religion is mere superstition to you, what can you really learn from us? Everything about our life is guided by our faith. For us, work is worship. From the time we get up in the morning, we try to live as the angels, to create a heaven on earth: How can you achieve a life like ours, yet reject its foundation in faith?”

Gilbert stared off into the distant fields belonging to the Shakers and pursed his lips several times as if practicing a response in his mind. For a moment, a small smile played on his lips, and Rose felt a prick of anxiety. What did any of them really know about this group and their plans?

The drone from the Schoolhouse window stopped, which seemed to bring Gilbert out of his silence. “You are right,” he said, “that my predecessor, Robert Owen, was quite opposed to the practice of religion, but did you know that in his later years, he became a convert to spiritualism? I believe you Shakers came under the same influence, did you not?”

It was not a period of Shaker history with which Rose was entirely comfortable, so she nodded but said nothing.

“He was open to new ideas, you see. And so are we.” His smile broadened.

Rose felt an uncomfortable lurch in her stomach, as if she had eaten a bite of meat just beyond its freshest. She had no time to analyze her reaction, though, as the back door of the Schoolhouse opened, and a small group of children burst onto the brown lawn, running around each other in circles like puppies released from a pen. The air filled with shouts and giggles.
As Rose and Gilbert turned to watch, Mairin's tiny figure emerged alone, lagging far behind the rest of the children. She stopped just outside the door and watched the others at play.

“I wasn't aware you had taken over Mairin's education,” Gilbert said, coldness hardening his voice.

“We certainly aren't ‘taking over,' ” Rose said. “Mairin seems lost and alone here. I thought she would benefit from being with other children for a while. It doesn't look as if she is used to playmates. Does she spend most of her time by herself?”

Gilbert hesitated. Rose studied his face and thought she saw irritation under the scholarly mask.

“She has come a long way,” he said. “When we took her in, she did not speak at all, did not know how to bathe, and she ate only with her hands. Celia was horrified. I think she has never really forgiven Mairin for being so like an animal at first, but really, it isn't the child's fault; it was the conditions of her upbringing. The proper environment will turn her around in time. We just have to be patient and keep working with her.”

“What is Mairin's background?”

Gilbert watched as Mairin slid to the ground, her back against the Schoolhouse. She didn't join in with the raucous, joyous play of the other children. “All we know is, she saw her parents die when she was five or so. Her mother was a Kentucky girl, Negro, I believe, and the daughter of freed slaves. Father was an Irish immigrant, so her people were uneducated. The child can't have had much of an education herself. I wish we could have taken her into our care much earlier. But there's still hope. Certainly Hugh thought so, or he wouldn't have asked Celia to tutor her.”

“And did she tutor Mairin?”

“Well, I . . . that is, I didn't keep watch over her or anything, but I assume she did.”

“Did she take care of Mairin's meals?”

“She was Hugh's wife, after all,” Gilbert said.

“I see.” What Rose did see was that Gilbert had paid no
attention to the girl so in need of the proper environment.

“Hugh was fond of Mairin?” Rose asked.

“Yes, very. At first I think he felt sorry for her, poor little orphan.”

“What happened after her parents died?”

“She has never been very clear about that. Apparently she was shunted around from relative to relative, probably starved. My guess is that she ran away at some point, though she won't admit it, and who knows how long she roamed the streets on her own before Hugh found her.”

A boy ran up to Mairin. Rose didn't know the boy by name, but he was a child of one of the farm families living near North Homage, brought daily to the village for schooling. He put his hands on his hips and seemed to be scolding the girl. Nine-year-old Nora stopped her play and watched the two. She ran toward them as the boy started wagging his finger at Mairin, who shrank back against the wall. Soon Nora and the boy were arguing, and Mairin slipped away from them, back into the Schoolhouse.

Rose picked up her skirts and ran toward the building. She could hear Gilbert hurrying behind her. The back door of the Schoolhouse led to a small storage room, then on to the schoolroom. In one corner of the storage room, behind a row of unused desks, Mairin had curled herself into a ball. Charlotte knelt beside her, but the child cowered away from her.

“Rose, what has happened?” Charlotte asked. “Mairin seems terrified, but I can't get a word out of her. Has she been hurt? I wish I'd been out there, but I had some work to do, and I thought the children would be fine on their own for a while, with the older ones watching the younger ones.”

“Don't blame yourself,” Rose said. “It looked as if one of the local boys was teasing Mairin, and she became frightened.”

“Did he hurt her? Oh dear, Wilhelm will insist we teach the boys and girls separately again, and we have no one else to help.”

“Don't worry yourself now,” Gilbert said. “It looked to me like the normal sort of nonsense little boys get into when they
haven't been trained in the proper environment.” He seemed oblivious to the sharp stares Rose and Charlotte aimed at him. “He needs civilizing, but he did no actual harm. And Mairin is a bit over-sensitive.”

“Did it occur to you she might have been hurt in the past and is easily frightened because of it?” Rose asked, not masking the irritation in her voice. She, too, knelt near Mairin and lightly stroked her hair. Mairin jumped as she felt the touch. Rose was troubled by the girl's trembling, which was severe enough to seem almost like a seizure.