CHAPTER 17

ONE THOUGHT PREVAILED during my stay with the Reichenbachs. One selfish, sinful thought that brought me to confession with my Savior every night in prayer, and it was this: how envious would my stepmother, Retta, be if she could see me here? The attentions of my hosts extended far beyond any reasonable expectation. Yes, I had food —more sumptuous than my imagination could ever have prepared. Every meal ended with platters of uneaten bread and meat and cheese. Even the water was flavored with fruit. And I had a bed and a roof, both beautiful in their function. The mattress was soft, covered in silk, and wide enough to share with four sisters, had it been wedged into my cell at Marienthrone. The ceiling, like the walls, painted with a pastoral scene, so that every morning I awoke to a view of tranquility matched to that of the gardens outside my window.

So, in the sense of food and a roof, yes —I had everything one could expect when given shelter. Even Abbess Margarete, should some traveler have the unfortunate chance to take shelter in her home, would provide as much. My days began and ended with the modicum of hospitality, but the hours that stretched between bloated my pride. I spent entire afternoons in the garden, sitting in the shade of one tree or another, wandering the stone paths, peering close at the buds that would someday bathe the grounds in color. How sweet it was to offer up my prayers surrounded by God’s manicured creation.

I was given all manner of fabric and thread, encouraged to stitch whatever my fancy. In the evenings, musicians played softly in the corner of the dining room, and whether we had four guests or a dozen, the hours after supper were spent dancing. I had my pick of partners —even the married men —each eager to teach me the steps to some of the newest dances coming from Italy. I went to bed every night, my stomach full of food, my lungs depleted from exercise and laughter.

The small, sinful, prideful part of my spirit claimed that this was the life I’d been meant to have. One of comfortable excess. Had my father’s family been better stewards of their land and assets, I might have grown up with memories such as these. Of sitting at my father’s feet, the way the youngest Reichenbach daughter did, with my eyes closed in sweet sleep. Already in my short stay I’d heard more laughter than in the rest of my twenty-four years combined. More music, too. More sun, more moonlight. More scent.

In my prayers, I remained faithful to praise God for his providence and to thank him for delivering me to such abundance. In my heart, and voiced into the darkness when I knelt at my bedside each night, I gave thanks for Luther —his obedience to God and his orchestration of my escape. I couldn’t imagine what art of persuasion he had used to secure me a place in a home as fine as this, for surely I’d done nothing to deserve such favor. Hour by hour I availed myself of creature comforts he would be denied. Any hope I had of sacrificial piety had disappeared the moment one of the household servants knocked on my door with hot, herb-scented towels with which to wash the road dust from my face and hands.

Somehow, though, I knew Luther would be pleased with my pleasure. The way he had entreated me to dance, to drink my beer, to enjoy all the festivities of the wedding party at Brummbär Inn. In just such a way, I knew that part of his plan included my introduction to Jerome Baumgartner.

Both of these men held precedence in my daily, nightly, sometimes hourly conversations with God Almighty. Luther, as I have said, enfolded in my gratitude. Jerome brought forth from the shadows in my confession.

I had been a guest of the Reichenbachs for nearly two weeks when it was decided that my portrait should be painted. I say it was decided because, left to my own devices, no such idea would ever have been given life. In my mind, portraits were painted of royalty, saints, and great beauties, none of which applied to me. It happened, though, that my host family had extended an invitation to a budding portraitist recently dismissed from the tutelage of the great Albrecht Dürer. Christoph, who also happened to be a cousin to Elsa Reichenbach, was younger than I, a fact made clear by the way his enthusiasm obscured his lack of talent.

“The most important thing,” he said as I sat patiently on the stool provided, “is that the canvas be stretched just right across the frame. And treated so that it neither shrinks nor stretches beneath the paint.”

“That is the most important thing?” I asked, watching him tap, frown, and tap along the edges with a tiny hammer. I’d had occasion to see some of his work hanging in the halls of the servants’ quarters and doubted his efforts would survive past the damp of winter. “Can I go, then? And leave you to this most important task? I promise to return the moment I’m needed.”

He gave a final tap and looked up in triumph. “No. Sit, straight up there. Tilt your head a bit . . . a bit less. Bring your arm up, now down. Just so.”

After countless of these minute posing manipulations, I was declared “perfect,” and Christoph disappeared behind the canvas. He intermittently muttered and hummed to himself while he sketched with charcoal, and I took care to remain perfectly still.

It was morning, not much past the ninth hour, and Christoph had commandeered the breakfast room for his studio, due to its expanse of windows with an eastern exposure. From the corner of my eye I could see the servants still engaged in clearing the dishes and Marina watching from her spot against the wall, making me feel all the more self-conscious of the artist’s attention.

“Tilt your chin,” Christoph directed. “And look toward the window; bring the light to your face.”

I obeyed, and was rewarded with the sight of a man, tall in the saddle of a glorious black horse. Jerome, bringing the beast to a stop in the yard, dismounting almost before the animal had all four hooves on the ground. He gave the reins to the boy who’d run out to greet him, handing over his leather gloves and hat as well. Aside from the afternoon of my arrival, I’d only had occasion to see him within the confines of the house —in the great dining hall, in the dining room, the front hall when it was cleared for dancing. Now, the breeze caught his hair and lifted it, and I realized it was much the same length as mine. For the portrait, Christoph had wanted me to don my discarded veil, but I refused. We had instead agreed on a length of gold silk, now fashioned in a ridiculous turban. I had been denied the opportunity to see myself in a looking glass before the sitting, but I knew the fashion was out of character, a fact confirmed by Jerome’s amused reaction when he spied me through the window.

“Don’t move!” Christoph scolded. “How else am I going to master the technique of dimension and shadow?” But too late.

“Perhaps in another sitting,” I said, distracted as I wrapped the scarf smooth over my head and twisted the length of it to fall over one shoulder.

It was vain, I suppose, to assume Jerome would have an opinion one way or another about the style of the scarf on my head, but Christoph seemed pleased enough with the result and resumed his sketching.

“Yes, yes. Quite becoming. Simplicity suits you.”

“It is my accustomed fashion,” I said, and Marina stifled a giggle behind her hand.

Though I sat in obedient stillness, bits of me raced within. My heart, for one, pounding so that I worried its palpitations could be seen in the expanse of skin revealed by the cut of my bodice. And my leg, trembling beneath the fabric of my gown. And my thoughts, calculating the distance between the place where Jerome paused in the window and the front door. Would he knock and wait for a servant to greet and grant him entrance? Or was he familiar enough with the patrons of the estate to make himself welcome? Two minutes had passed, maybe three. Surely he’d had enough time to engage in a polite exchange with Herr Reichenbach about the weather, his horse, some neighborhood gossip. Or pressing business. Such absurdity to think he’d come here to visit me, simply because we’d sat across from each other at five dinners, beside each other at two, danced no fewer than nine times, and walked the perimeters of the grand hall engaged in conversation about . . . Well, I couldn’t recall the topic. But I know I must have been witty, because I made him laugh three times.

“Turn a bit, to the left,” Christoph instructed, making me realize I had been staring intently at the door.

It might have been the better part of an hour, or perhaps a time more accurately measured in minutes, before I heard him. First, his steps, unhurried and measured. Then a cautionary clearing of his throat, and I knew he’d entered the room.

“Might I interrupt?” He spoke to Christoph directly, as I had not yet turned my head to allow him into my line of sight.

“Of course you may, sir.” Christoph’s reply carried his deference to both Jerome’s age and social standing, though he kept his artistic irritation barely concealed.

“I was hoping to entice Miss Katharina to join me on a walk in the garden today, if you can spare her.”

“Well, I’ve only just started. . . .”

Jerome walked around to where he was looking over Christoph’s shoulder and studied the sketch.

“You have a strong start there,” he said. “And it must help having so lovely a subject to capture.”

“Indeed,” Christoph said, though I doubted he shared the opinion of my beauty. It was something one said in a manner of polite flattery, nothing more, and I chose not to acknowledge the compliment.

I stood, a welcome relief to my cramped muscles, and offered a nod in greeting. “What brings you here to visit so early, Herr Baumgartner? Or has time passed so quickly it is nearly time for supper?” The other night Herr Reichenbach had made a quip about Jerome’s frequent presence at the table, and I assumed the warmth of the humor held true.

A chuckle rumbled from the depth of Jerome’s broad chest, and Christoph returned his stick of charcoal to the tray in defeat.

“Actually,” Jerome said, “I had some business to discuss with Philipp and, with it complete, hoped you could accompany me on a stroll through the garden.”

“Oh.” It was the first time he’d sought my company in particular —the first time for any man to do so —and I found myself flummoxed for an answer. Did I need to ask permission of my host? Could I trust my own counsel?

Unbeknownst to Jerome, Christoph twisted his spotted face into a knowing smirk, and I felt color rise not only to my cheeks, but also to every bit of my exposed skin. A soft clearing of a throat behind me, and I glanced back to Marina. Here, I was glad to have had a lifetime of silent communication with women, because a single glance from her —quick, hooded, away, and back —and I knew what to say. When I again looked at Jerome, he clearly had seen and understood every unspoken word.

“Of course the young Marina will accompany us, as is proper. I would not want any undue speculation about your character.”

I fingered the scarf wrapped so artlessly. “I’m afraid I’m not quite —”

Jerome bowed, dismissing my feeble protest. “I’ll wait for you. Rather, I’ll wait, for a while. I’ve no pressing errands this morning.”

A turn on his heel, and he left.

Christoph slammed down the lid of the flat wooden box that held his paints and brushes, saying, “Might as well go. Looks like clouds are moving in anyway. Losing the light.”

I looked to Marina, silently pleading. Should I go?

“Come, miss,” she said, approaching and touching the hem of my sleeve. “Let’s go up and I’ll dress your hair.”

Although Marina and I lived under the appearance that she was an attendant of sorts to me, in truth I relied on her for nearly every social move I made. Though she had never lived in a home as fine as the Reichenbachs’, she was a quick study of the human spirit and had served people from all echelons at the inn. I trusted her judgment in all things, from what and how to eat the variety of foods presented in the grand dining hall to how to spark polite conversation with the stranger at my elbow.

Now, we walked quickly through the halls, she with a step light as air, and I with a step above it. Not until we reached my room —our room —did she face me full-on, her hands full of breathless giggles.

“Oh, miss! Isn’t he the most handsome thing!”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know what to do.” Oh, how I envied her youthful mirth. Even were I a decade younger, I don’t know that I could ever have been comfortable with such blatant exuberance.

“What to do? Why, miss, what else can there be to do when a handsome man is waiting in the garden on a fine spring morning? Give me that.”

Marina took the gold silk wrap from my head, and I could feel my hair lift and stand on end from the friction. After folding the silk and putting it away, she dipped her hands in the water in the basin and ran them through my hair —still shy of meeting my shoulders —smoothing the tresses until they glistened, then fastening them with a tie at the nape of my neck.

All this I watched through my looking glass, and when I asked, “Why would he want to walk with me?” I spoke as much to myself as to Marina. She, however, had an answer.

“You’re a lovely woman. Fair of face, and smart to talk to. That would be enough, I imagine, to capture a man’s fancy.”

“You don’t find it suspicious?”

“Suspicious?”

“Or at least odd?”

“He’s a man. You’re a woman. Everything is exactly as God intended, I think. Adam and Eve met up in a garden too. Now, I’ve got something special I fashioned just for you.”

She left for a moment and came back carrying a cloth bundle, which she placed on the dressing table and unfolded.

“For your hair. To cover and yet not cover.”

It was a broad band, made up of pearlescent beads strung together, wide enough to span from my hairline to the tip of my crown. The width tapered to a point just above my ears, and a bit of fine netting stretched from one tip to the other. This, she rolled up, capturing my sad bit of hair within, but a ginger touch to the back confirmed a false sense of volume.

“How very clever,” I said. “Like a real woman.”

“Now there, miss. You’re as real a woman as ever was.” She took the lid off a small pot, and I dipped my finger in, taking a bit of the creamy substance and rubbing it into my lips. “And I’ll be right there with you. Behind you, so he’ll remember you’re a real lady, too.”

“Stay close enough to listen. So you can tell me later what I said. Let me know if I’m nearly as foolish as I fear I’ll be.”

I don’t know why I was surprised to find Jerome waiting for me in the garden, just as he said he’d be. I had no evidence that he was anything other than an honest, honorable man. I worried that perhaps we’d spent too long dressing my hair, and he’d grown impatient. Or maybe the idea of an hour in my company lost its appeal in the wake of my lackluster response to the invitation.

And yet, there he was, sitting on a stone bench right at the entrance to a path that wound through the manicured hedges of the Reichenbachs’ estate. He stood as I arrived, doffed a plumed hat, and bowed, as if we hadn’t seen each other not fifteen minutes before.

“I’m glad to see you didn’t change your dress,” he said after a suitable greeting. “It’s quite becoming.”

“Thank you.” I smoothed the flat-fronted bodice. It was the second dress with which I’d been gifted. This one, the color of poppies, embellished with black stitching, was given to me by a cousin of Elsa Reichenbach, sent with a message of her prayer that I would wear it in good health and prosperity.

We walked, our steps in sync on the fine-pebbled path. The slightest chill lingered in the air, with a promise of warmth behind it. The hedges grew waist-high, and were I walking alone, I would be skimming my hand along the top, the coarse green tickling my palm. We talked, too. Inconsequential conversation —inane observations about the weather. I would have shared the same sentences and phrases with a man twice his age, and half as handsome. I kept my wit tucked beneath my cap, having no occasion to employ it.

“Do you miss anything about the convent life?” he asked after a few steps of silence.

“What do you imagine I would miss?”

“I couldn’t say, never having lived such a life.”

“Then how could you benefit from my response?” I heard Marina make a sound, nothing of which Jerome would take account, as he had no experience with silence. I softened my tone. “I suppose, if anything, I miss not having the fear of making conversation with a gentleman.”

He laughed. “Is it such a fearsome thing?”

“Not fearsome. Just . . . unfamiliar. I lived all my life with so few surprises. Now, it seems every day I encounter something new.”

“Well, I’m afraid I intend to continue that tradition today. Tonight, actually, as I will be a guest for supper.”

“Your presence at the table is hardly surprising.” Indeed, it had become something familiar, and I found myself missing him on the few evenings when he was absent.

“Yes, but this evening I have taken it upon myself to bring two other guests besides.”

“Why do you feel the need to tell me this? I’m not the cook. Or will your guests call upon me to give up my share of the lamb?”

“I’m bringing my parents.”

“Oh.”

We’d come to the midpoint of the garden, a wide, circular space laid with smooth pink stone and a fountain at its center. He led me to a bench and, taking my hand, bade me sit with him.

“I’m bringing them specifically to meet you. They’re rather curious.”

“Are they?” I withdrew my hand. “I knew we’d be the objects of some speculation. The day we arrived, people stared as if they’d never seen a nun before. I expected such ignorant gawking from a certain class of people, but not from anyone I would presume to be as sophisticated —”

“They want to meet you, Katharina. The woman whose name has been on their son’s tongue for these past weeks. The woman whose bewitching eyes have robbed them of his company at their own supper table.”

I felt myself flush with each word, until there could be nothing to separate the hue of my dress from that of my skin. From the corner of my eye, I saw Marina take a discreet step back into hedges, and I felt no compulsion to summon her.

“You shouldn’t speak such flattery,” I said with what breath I could muster.

He glanced around and, seeming satisfied with our privacy, took my hand. “I assure you, Katharina. It is not flattery.” I felt his breath against my knuckles. Then his lips. The kiss burned —a gathering heat, with nothing but the thin layer of my skin to separate his touch from my blood. Somewhere, from the depths of that same skin, came the memory of another burning, that delivered by the priest at the moment he sensed my disobedient spirit. Those bruises had disappeared within a matter of days, but with this —the first touch of a man intent on some declaration of romantic love —I fully expected to find myself forever marked when he at last lifted his head to look into my eyes once again.

“Herr Baumgartner —”

“Jerome.” Breath wrapped itself around his name, and I was close enough to feel it.

“Jerome.”

Beyond that, I found I had nothing to say.