The Seeker (15 page)
Charlotte did as instructed and followed the woman who appeared to be near Charlotte’s own age up the stairs stepping with her right foot first, but she couldn’t keep from asking. “Why?”
The question seemed to surprise Gemma, who paused in the middle of the flight of stairs to look around at Charlotte. “Because the Ministry decided it should be so many years ago. Long before I came to be here.”
“When was that?”
“I was eight. My father brought me here to go to school.”
“And he never came back to get you?” Charlotte thought of her own father and wondered what he would do when he got her letter. Would he come storming through the Shaker gates and demand to talk reason to her?
“Yea, he so intended. I’m sure of that. But he and my mother 131 succumbed in the cholera epidemic of ’51. My baby brother too. My uncle took in the other two boys, but it seemed to be the sensible thing for me to stay here where I could keep going to school and learn other useful occupations. The Believers have always been kind to me. And with my folks gone, it felt more like home here than anywhere else I could imagine going.” She turned to climb on up the stairs.
“So you like it here.” Charlotte made it part question, part statement of fact as she followed the sister. After all, Gemma looked happy, as if she’d found that peace Edwin talked about seeking for himself.
“I am content. There is much love between the sisters and brethren. And when the spirit comes down in meeting, I sometimes feel light as a feather with no concerns or worries. I often simply float away on the joy of the moment.” At the top of the stairs, Gemma turned to smile at Charlotte. “Sister Altha says that’s a spirit gift. Have you ever felt such a gift of the spirit in your worship times?”
“Nothing that made me think I was floating away. Joyful or not.” The only time Charlotte had felt anywhere near that way was in the garden with the artist’s lips touching hers, but that was hardly something to reveal to these odd people who considered such joy shared between a man and woman sinful.
“Spirit gifts can be much different. Many feel they receive fruit from heaven to eat and enjoy. Others are gifted with song or a gift of whirling. Some draw spirit pictures.”
“You mean a picture of a ghost?”
The girl actually laughed out loud. The sound was so unexpected after Sister Altha’s solemn attitude that Charlotte jumped a little. Gemma put her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Nay. Of a surety, nay. Have you been told ghost tales about us here? I have heard that those of the world tell many wild stories about us Believers, but I don’t think I’ve been told of any such that claim our village is haunted.” Suddenly she looked more solemn. “Of course, there are those spirits of our departed brothers and sisters who come back to deliver messages to us from Mother Ann at times.”
Charlotte looked behind her at the stairs and wondered if she should go back down them to search out her mare and ride back to Grayson. She’d done what she intended and set Mellie free. But she hadn’t accomplished her other aims. She hadn’t seen Edwin. She hadn’t given her father time to regret letting Selena push her out of Grayson. But people who got messages from spirits and ghosts might be more than she had bargained for.
Gemma tightened her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “Don’t look so concerned, my sister. It will become clear to you after you learn more of our ways. Trust me, there are no ghosts to fear. The gifts of the spirit bring joy, not fear. And so it is with the spirit drawings as well. A special gift that can bless us all. You will see in the days ahead and gain understanding of our ways.”
Gemma led the way into a room that held five narrow beds that looked hard and uncomfortable with little room for even a shift in position while sleeping. Nothing at all like Charlotte’s soft featherbed under its ruffled, white lace bedspread at Grayson. A tall narrow chest sat against the outside wall. It had many drawers but absolutely nothing upon it. No flower, no pot of cream or box for hair ribbons or combs. Not even a speck of dust. Three chairs were suspended on the blue pegs that seemed a fixture in every Shaker room.
“How do you comb and arrange your hair with no mirrors?” Charlotte asked.
“We only have the need to adjust our caps, and there is a small mirror in the bathhouses and dressing rooms for that purpose.” Gemma touched her cap and then smiled as she reached over to touch Charlotte’s curls. “Your hair looks as cheerful as a candle flame on a dreary winter night. It does seem a shame to cover it, but it is our way for the sisters to cover their hair. You will grow accustomed to the cap, and if your hair proves to be a bother Sister Melva is good at clipping it short.”
Charlotte’s hand went instinctively to her hair in a protective gesture. She had not considered submitting to a shearing. “Your hair will grow less important to you in time, but until then Sister Melva will not force her scissors upon you.” Gemma laughed again.
“That’s a relief,” Charlotte said as she lowered her hands and studied Gemma a moment. “Are more sisters like you or Sister Altha?”
Gemma looked puzzled. “I’m not sure of your meaning.”
“Sister Altha seemed so . . .” Charlotte hesitated as she searched for an acceptable word. “So solemn. I cannot imagine her laughing.”
“She has many duties and little time for frivolity,” Gemma said. “Plus it is only fitting to maintain an even and solemn countenance so one does not disturb the peaceful air around one with an overabundance of chatter or laughter. Both sins I find need to confess much too often.”
She pulled open one of the drawers in the chest and lifted out a dress and underclothing. “And now is a time for solemn attention to the task at hand so we won’t miss the midday meal.” She handed Charlotte the clothes. “If you need assistance with your collar and cap, I can supply that after I fetch you some shoes.”
“Why can’t I wear these?” Charlotte lifted her skirt to show her feet clad in the sturdy side-laced shoes she wore when riding.
“You will feel better wearing the same as all the sisters.”
“Can I keep these here in my room?”
“Nay, such would only be undesirable clutter. Those of the Ministry will store them for you if you feel an attachment to them. It is the Shaker way.” She spoke kindly, but there was no room for argument as she pointed Charlotte toward a small dressing room that opened off the sleeping room. “I will gather up your worldly clothing after you change.”
Charlotte stripped off her gray riding habit and laid it aside with some regret. She was tempted to leave on her own underclothing, but she had agreed to abide by their rules. She untied the ribbons around her waist and let her pantalettes fall to the floor in a soft cloud of silk before quickly pulling on the plain white cotton drawers with no bit of lace anywhere on them. She had not worn a corset over her camisole, and she was relieved to see there was none in the clothing Gemma had handed her. At least she’d be able to breathe while pretending to be a Shaker. She shed her camisole with its lace and ribbons and pulled the shiftlike undershirt over her head.
The fabric of the dress was sturdy but soft and faded to a light blue from many washings. It was too large for her, but once she lapped the white collar across her front and tied on the apron, it didn’t much matter that several inches of the waistline were folded under. A mirror not much bigger than her hand hung on the wall. She peered into it as she stuffed her hair up into the cap.
When she was finished, she stared at her reflection a moment longer as though staring at someone she didn’t know. Had she lost her identity so easily? Just by shedding a few clothes the way a butterfly broke out of a cocoon? But this was not a transformation to beauty. Rather in the opposite direction. From the active pursuit of beauty in every facet to plainness. There would be no party dresses she could not unbutton here. No jeweled combs in her hair. No glittering necklaces or rings. No one would care if freckles appeared on her nose or if her hair curled or hung straight. No one would see more than a glimpse of hair under the cap.
She suddenly smiled as she spoke to the reflection in the mirror. “Good morning, Sister Charlotte. I do hope I can learn to get along with you for a few weeks.”
Then she laughed softly as she thought that Adam Wade would have little desire to steal a kiss from the new Charlotte. But it wasn’t the artist she needed to think about. It was Edwin. Perhaps this plain sister would not be so intimidating to him. Perhaps he would look at her and regret the thought of giving up their plans. It was beyond her understanding how he could even consider surrendering the Hastings land to the Shakers. Land passed down from his grandparents. Whatever that Elder Logan had told Edwin, it certainly wasn’t true that Faustine Hastings would have approved of that. She was no doubt turning over in her grave.
As surely Charlotte’s own mother was. Charlotte took one last peek in the mirror and twisted her mouth to the side to hold back another smile at the glimpse of Charlotte Mayda Vance as a plain and simple Shaker sister. Not the heiress to Grayson. Not the senator’s daughter. A Shaker sister.
The thought wasn’t nearly as distressing as she might have supposed it would be. Of course it was only temporary. She ran her hands down the long white apron so like Aunt Tish’s, tucked a stray hair up into her cap, and pushed open the door just as Gemma came back in the sleeping room carrying Charlotte’s new shoes. They bore little resemblance to any dancing shoes she’d ever seen, but everyone knew the Shakers danced in worship. A dance she was prepared to learn.
“It won’t last three months. Once a few shots are fired, those Johnny Rebs in the South will see the futility of their position and come back into the Union like whipped dogs with their tails between their legs.” Sam Johnson sounded sure of his words.
Adam watched Sam pace in front of him as he spoke. Tall with a bony frame, the man was rarely still in spite of an old knee injury that caused him to limp badly. He claimed to be able to think better on his feet. The pain of movement was incidental. Actually sharpened a man’s thinking, Sam claimed. A mind lacking agility, that’s what should worry a man. Not a crippled knee. Sam had no problem carrying dozens of story ideas for
Harper’s Weekly
in his head all at once, and he often jumped between them without warning.
Something he did now—to the chagrin of his secretary whose charge it was to record whatever was said if Sam deemed it important. The only problem for the long-suffering man with the pen and paper sitting across the room at a little desk was that Sam never indicated which words he might later deem important enough to recall. So his aide found it necessary to record everything.
Sam stopped in front of the table where Adam’s sketches were spread out for his view. As he pushed them to and fro searching through them, Adam had to force himself not to lean forward to rescue them from the man’s impatient hands. Sam had summoned Adam to meet him in Washington, D.C., and hear his new assignments now that war clouds were looming on the horizon. That didn’t mean he’d forgotten Adam’s old assignments.
“Where’s that Shaker staircase? I told you we needed that.”
“You want a staircase? Now? With war breaking out?”
“Not any old staircase. The one that people say rises straight up in the air curling around the wall like it’s attached with glue or something. They say if you stand at the bottom and stare straight up that it’s a good chance you’ll get dizzy from those stairs telescoping away from you.” Sam made a telescope shape with his hands and looked through them toward the ceiling. “Up. Up. A marvel of engineering. Shaker engineering. I’ve heard people say they were almost afraid to step on the risers since they didn’t see how the whole contraption held to the wall. Didn’t trust the glue, I guess. What about you?” Sam lowered his telescoped hands to peer through them toward Adam. “Did you climb up it?”
“No, I didn’t even see it.”
“Didn’t see it? That’s why you went down there.” Sam’s voice cranked up a couple of levels as he dropped his hands and frowned at Adam.
Adam didn’t bother pointing out to Sam that he hadn’t gone to Kentucky on assignment for
Harper’s Weekly
, but on his own. The Shaker staircase had simply been a suggested side venture, but it never did to contradict Sam. Instead he mumbled, “Sorry, boss.”
Sam waved away Adam’s apology as if he no longer cared about any of it and turned his attention back to the sketches. “Whew! Guess Dickens was right if all the women look like her. He visited one of their communities in the East when he came to America, you know.” He snatched up the sketch of the old sister Adam had seen on the pathways at Harmony Hill and held it out away from him for a better look. “No feminine charms, he said. Not one. And very few red-blooded men are beyond wanting to see a few feminine charms. Right, Adam?”
“Absolutely, sir.” Adam pushed the words out quickly before Sam took off on a new tangent. The secretary scribbled frantically on his pad of paper. Adam shifted to a more comfortable position on the settee in the editor’s hotel suite. At first it had bothered him to be seated when the editor was pacing and ranting, but he’d grown used to it. Now he just listened and tried to pick out the directions the editor most wanted to travel in his weekly newspaper.
The editor turned to pin Adam to the brocaded back of the settee with his sharp eyes. “I haven’t been hearing about any female problems about you now, have I?” He didn’t wait for Adam to answer. He threw the sketch back down on the table and began pacing again. “You’ve got to keep your mind on business. No time for women. Leastways the kind who want to tie the knot and commence to having a pack of children. You’ll have to wait for that pleasure, my boy. Especially with those Secessionist states stirring the pot. Of course a little bit of war is sure to up circulation. If you find the pictures we need. People like pictures. Nothing but words bores them to tears.”
“Pictures can bring them to tears too,” Adam said.
“But those are the tears we want, my boy. Pictures that yank on their heartstrings and open up their purse strings. Open purse strings. That’s what we’re after.” He paused a moment and shot Adam a look. “That and that staircase. Didn’t you say you were within a stone’s throw of the place? There’s that atrociously ugly woman to prove it.” He threw out his arm to wave at Adam’s sketches. “And who’s the girl?”