CHAPTER 18

“Tell me again what he said.”

Marina held the curling tong at a careful distance from my face and looked approvingly as the hair was released.

“He said —” and here she adopted a near perfect imitation of the deep hollow of Jerome’s voice —“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 didn’t need to hear it again; I’d repeated the phrases to myself in an endless chorus since the minute after he first uttered them.

“Do I really have bewitching eyes?”

Marina lifted another section of hair and wrapped it around the tongs. “All that matters is he thinks you do. You’ve bewitched him well enough.”

“That doesn’t sound like a very Christian thing to do, though, does it?”

“There’s nothing more Christian than falling in love, miss.” She said it with the deep sigh of youth.

“Do you think it’s possible, then? That he loves me?” The only people I’d ever known to be in love were Girt and Hans, and that seemed more of a gradual dawning. Strengthened and deepened after years of stolen glances and secret exchanges, as if wrung through cheesecloth. Jerome and I, on the other hand, had known each other for only a matter of weeks. Mere hours spent in each other’s company, and here I’d been caught in this deluge of professed affection.

“I don’t know a lot about the ways of men,” Marina said, studying the newest curl, “but I’ve seen the way he regards you. Like something he’s never seen before.”

“A curiosity?”

“More like a treasure.”

She ran her fingers through the new-formed curls, separating them to frame my face. The rest was tucked and pinned at the back of my head, and a soft, rounded headdress adorned the top.

“Speaking of which,” she said, stepping back with a critical eye, “I wish you had a bit of jewelry to wear tonight. Something to show you as a woman of quality. Breeding.”

I touched my locket. “This is all I need to prove that. I know who I am, Marina. And what I am is penniless. Borrowed robes, an indefinite guest. No bauble is going to change any of that. If anything, it will further disguise the truth. If I were to present myself to Jerome’s parents in all honesty, it would be in rags.”

“Shall we do that then, miss?” As before, she offered me the small pot of color for my lips. “Or we could do something along the lines of Bathsheba —set you a tub of washing water out in the courtyard and time it to Herr Baumgartner’s arrival. Make a nice, honest impression on his parents, wouldn’t that?”

“Marina!” But I laughed, both at my exaggerated humility and her ostentatious suggestion.

I touched the color to my lips, a bit more than I had earlier in the afternoon, but refused to allow Marina to dust my face with even a trace of powder. If anything, I envied her robust complexion —the healthy, almost golden glow of her skin, the perpetual pinkness of her cheeks. I knew myself to be sallow, unfashionably pale, and every moment spent with my own reflection brought further questions as to what would catch the interest of a man such as Jerome Baumgartner.

Marina walked with me through the corridor and as far as the main hall, where we parted company for the duration of the evening. I remained outside, smoothing my skirt, fingering my curls, shifting from one foot to the other, all in a nerve-driven attempt to stall my entrance.

Just walk in, I told myself. Like any other evening. By now I was more a resident than a guest, my presence no more noteworthy than if I’d been born to the house. But Jerome’s words both bundled and exposed me. Nobody had ever spoken such love to me before, making me a different woman than I’d been the last time I strode in to join the family for supper. I had a new standard to live up to, beyond simply appearing as one accustomed to society.

Then I heard Herr Reichenbach’s laugh, rich and deep. Welcoming. It meant somebody was in the middle of an amusing tale, and whoever stood gathered around the great stone fireplace would be engaged, distracted from my entrance. I might be in there for a minute or more before my host would say, Why, Katharina. There you are.

Another burst of laughter, more mirth to serve as camouflage. Men and women, so Elsa must be in attendance too, as well as Jerome’s mother. I expected to see them, glasses of wine in hand, raised in cheer. I did not, however, expect to see Luther. And yet, in the midst of them, the apparent teller of the tale, there he was.

It had been so long since I’d felt the comfort of reunion, if indeed I ever had. For a moment, all others disappeared as Luther stood, pewter mug in hand, and broke free from his central place of unofficial court by the fire to approach me, his arms open and ready to embrace.

“Elsa told me you had blossomed into a woman of noble beauty, but I had a hard time believing you could surpass the comeliness I first beheld at Easter. And yet, here you are, my Kate.”

By the time he finished speaking, he stood right before me, his empty hand gripping my sleeve, and —before I could escape or protest —his kiss on my right cheek.

“It is a welcome surprise to see you.” I suppose I should have spoken some protest at his compliment, but something very primal within me enjoyed such attention from two different men in the span of an afternoon.

The first, Jerome, had also broken away from the group gathered at the fire, and as I stepped back from Luther’s embrace, I stepped into his —far more chaste, merely a touch of his hand to my elbow.

“Fräulein von Bora, allow me to introduce you to my parents.”

He turned me, as if recapturing my attention, and I found myself facing a middle-aged couple who displayed none of their son’s good looks or charm. His mother, a small, chinless woman, had stuffed her fingers into so many rings, a metallic click accompanied her every gesture. And while his father’s disinterest was at first off-putting, I learned over the course of the evening that he maintained such a countenance whether the conversation centered on politics, fashion, or sheep.

Christoph completed our dining party that evening, sitting to my right as Luther sat to my left, with Jerome between his parents directly across from us. The Reichenbachs, of course, held their places at the head and foot of their table, and compared to other meals taken here, the number seemed almost intimate.

Luther said a lengthy blessing, thanking God for his safe passage and for the opportunity to break bread with those who were like-minded in worship. At this, I was sure I heard a disapproving sniff come from the bumpy nose of Frau Baumgartner, but dared not open my eyes to verify. He ended the prayer in the name of Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior, in whom alone we should place our faith. When I opened my eyes after making the sign of the cross, her dour expression removed any doubt of the earlier sniff.

“And so, you had no troubles on your journey, Luther?” Reichenbach spoke as if picking up the thread of an earlier conversation.

“None that I’m aware. Perhaps I myself have exaggerated my infamy.”

All seated at the table chuckled —Jerome’s parents out of politeness —as a servant went round filling our wineglasses. By now it was known that I did not indulge, and I was given water instead, a detail that would not escape Luther’s notice.

“Not even to celebrate my arrival? How you wound me.”

“My father always said that wine transforms to tears, and to drink too much is to shed too many. If I weep at the conclusion of your visit, certainly you would want me to do so from genuine sorrow, would you not?”

Luther glanced to Jerome, then to me. “I have little reason to hope that you will notice my absence any more than you will appreciate my presence.”

I, too, looked at Jerome, pleased to find his eyes resting on me. Any clever reply I might have mustered clogged in my throat, and no taste of water could dislodge it.

Frau Baumgartner also slid her eyes between the two of us, finding the path distasteful, if her expression was any clue. When our soup cups were all set before us, she picked hers up and looked at me across its surface. “Tell me, Fräulein, when will you be returning to your own family?”

She pursed her thin lips and blew a cooling stream of air onto her soup, as if my answer to her question mattered nothing at all. It was enough to establish that I didn’t belong here.

I touched my fingers to my own cup, but did not trust myself to lift it. Nor did I dare raise my eyes from the murkiness within. My cheeks burned as hot as the surface of the crockery, fueled by the shame of both my poverty and my abandonment.

“The region, I fear, is far too volatile for her return.” This from Luther, once again at my rescue. “Better she should stay here, wrapped in the protective cloak of hospitality, rather than risk bodily harm at the hordes of murderous peasants.”

“Why, Luther,” said Frau Baumgartner with a baiting insidiousness, “I would think you of all people would support those who are fighting against injustice. Why, isn’t that the mind-set that landed our little Katharina bird here among . . . us?”

Luther clucked his tongue, and as he did so, I sensed the long history of friendship with the family across the table. Ostensibly, a friendship of geography and convenience, and not necessarily a meeting of the minds. Though Luther sat beside me, I knew I was an object lobbed between them, carrying with me a set of ideals long debated.

“The gospel of Jesus Christ is not a means for social or political gain,” Luther said, his words light with confidence. “The peasants are cloaking themselves in the gospel and committing heinous acts in the name of Christ. Jesus himself instructed the Jews to obey the laws of Caesar.”

“Just so,” conceded Frau Baumgartner, and I exhaled, hoping in vain for a change of subject. “Then, might I ask, Fräulein: Your family —do they fall on the side of the peasants? Or the princes?”

“Mother.” Jerome laid his hand on her sleeve. “Katharina has been separated from her family for many years. Since she was a young girl. This is, perhaps, a painful topic of conversation for her.”

“It isn’t painful,” I said, finding my voice at last. “I’m afraid it simply isn’t interesting. I am a guest in this home; thus I hold a high responsibility not to be a dullard at the table. As I have nothing truly entertaining to offer in way of conversation, I think we should allow Luther to entertain us with his wit. And perhaps, after, with a song.”

“Cheers to that!” Reichenbach raised his glass.

Frau Baumgartner glared into her cup, and her husband studied the greenery on the table, as if none of the conversation even happened. Between them, Jerome looked at me with an expression I can only classify as approving, and I knew I had said the right thing, and passed my first test. He lifted his soup in lieu of his wine, and I did the same. We sipped, and it occurred to me that he and I were tasting the same flavor, a pleasant, warm broth.

Beside me, Luther leaned close and whispered, “Good girl,” which I hope went unheard in the volume of Reichenbach’s cheer.

On my other side, Christoph broke his petulant silence, declaring he, too, had interesting stories to tell, and indeed we sat in rapt attention as he spoke of the great ruins of Rome he’d had occasion to visit. Even Herr Baumgartner seemed engaged, and as we were served all manner of sliced cold meats and plates of boiled vegetables, conversation flowed easily between the men. Spates of laughter, moments of fierce argument and advocacy. Luther quoted Scripture, Christoph cited art, Baumgartner asked for clarification, and Reichenbach demanded the wine replenished. Jerome served as complement to all, maintaining an even temper and good humor throughout, his voice a rumbling undercurrent, thrilling me with its depth.

Dictated by our sex and status, Frau Baumgartner and I remained silent, except at times when we were specifically called upon to make a clarification or take a side. At those times, I refused, saying I desired to neither alienate my host nor offend his guest.

Jerome’s mother said, simply, nothing.

On more than one occasion, as I turned my head to appreciate a raucous tale boomed from the head of the table, I felt her eyes upon me, thinking me unaware of her study. And while this was unnerving, I dared not catch her in the act, lest the rest of the diners be called into our quarrel. To avoid her glance, however, meant to deny a chance to spy Jerome, who at one point was telling a story of a youthful indiscretion —something about a boy from his schooling days and a prank pulled on a particularly unassuming priest. Luther, more than any of us, had encouraged the tale, and while I allowed my gaze to feast on the storyteller, I could not ignore the intensity of that directed at me. This, then, another battle, but when I shifted my eyes, the shock was more unsettling than I could have imagined. Frau Baumgartner was not looking at me. She was looking at Luther, and she was looking at him with hate.

There was music after supper, but none of our party felt inclined to dance. Christoph elected to sing a mournful ballad, displaying a talent as questionable as his artistic skill, after which Reichenbach gave a coin to each musician and invited them to take their supper in the kitchen before departing.

“I suppose we must be off as well,” Herr Baumgartner said, following a massive yawn. “The hour grows late and will only grow later.”

“All the more reason to stay.” Reichenbach replenished his glass of port. “Dark is dark. It won’t be any lighter for the drive home. And we’ve plenty of room, if two of our bachelors here won’t mind sharing.”

“I’ve no objection to staying with the famous Luther,” Jerome said.

“And I believe it’s best we go home,” his mother said, but one look at her husband, now dozing with his head flung back in his chair, indicated that she stood to lose the argument.

Elsa Reichenbach clapped her hands. “Very good! The beds are made up, and I’ll let the kitchen know we’ll have three more for breakfast.”

With the promise of company in the morning, the evening appeared to be at an end. Christoph excused himself first, after wresting from me a promise to follow shortly so to be well rested for my portrait sitting. Luther followed, joking that his old man’s bones would be far gone to sleep before Jerome would put the night behind him.

“Watch who you’re calling an old man,” Elsa said, jabbing him. “If memory serves, you’re a year younger than I.”

“I speak by comparison only,” Luther said. “You, my dear, have remained ageless for as long as I’ve known you.”

“And I say it’s a good thing you were a man of the monastery at the time.” Reichenbach pulled his wife into his lap and nuzzled her against her laughing protest. “Otherwise she might have fancied you instead of me, and I’d have been doomed to spend my life alone.”

We all laughed at the saucy display, but I sensed a wistfulness behind Luther’s smile. Not for Elsa herself, or any love lost there, but for the fact that his own status had changed so little, despite his breaking free from the monastic life. In this, we held a common plight. Though at least a decade younger, my prospects for marriage were no less unlikely. Or so I’d thought until this day. Hope sparked within me, as tiny as the flecks of fire dispelled upon the hearth. Once Luther took himself away, there were six of us —three men, two wives, and me.

“Come then,” Reichenbach said, rolling Elsa from his lap, “let us show you your room, Baumgartner.” He repeated the name again, jolting Herr Baumgartner to complete wakefulness. “Let the young ones enjoy the fire.”

Jerome’s mother drew up, fortifying herself with indignation. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea.”

Jerome made no move to stand. “We are grown adults, Mother.”

“My point exactly.” She raised her thread-thin eyebrows, giving me a glimpse of how he might have been chastened as a boy.

“Well, I don’t know that I appreciate the disparaging implications of the behavior of my houseguests.” Reichenbach’s tone remained jovial, but I sensed the argument coming to an end in his favor. “Besides which, once we’re tucked in, there won’t be an empty bed in the house. Can I trust you, lad, with this woman’s honor? Think of her as a daughter under my roof, the roof of a man likely to crush your throat if I took such a mind.”

“Now, you.” Elsa jabbed him again. Then, to us, “See to it the fire burns out. And help yourself to what you will. Come on, then.”

The four left, taking two of the remaining tapers with them, plunging the great hall into something little more than darkness. Half of Jerome turned to shadow, firelight displaying his features in intervals. We sat far apart from each other; had we both stretched out our arms there’d remain a dog’s length between our touch. But for a while, the only sound was the crackling of the flames and the subtle movement as servants cleared the last of the supper dishes.

After a time, Jerome picked up the iron poker and nudged the log, splitting it to bring new life.

“Allow me to apologize for my mother’s unforgivable rudeness,” he said. “She’s not entirely in agreement with Luther’s reformation.”

“And she sees me as a product of his work?” Strange how the idea brought such comfort when held up against the idea that she merely disapproved of me as a mate for her son.

Jerome joined me in the delusion. “Yes. And I’ve never known her to bypass an opportunity to speak her full mind.”

“In that I can admire her, having lived so long without the opportunity to do the same.”

“I can’t imagine anything other than kindness coming from your mouth.”

I laughed. “All the more evidence that I’m not yet accustomed to speaking my mind.”

He, deadly serious: “You’re nothing like what I expected you to be.”

Two questions sprang to life. What had he been led to expect? And why had he been led to expect anything? I indulged the first.

“When Luther came to us —all of us, his friends —needing support for the sisters from the convent, all I could picture were the nuns I saw in church. Just this —” he brought his hands to his face, framing it as if wearing a wimple —“so I suppose I never thought of them as women.”

“I think that’s the point.”

“And when he told me about you —”

“About me?”

“ —and that you’d be a guest here. Staying in this home, our neighbors’ home. And that he hoped I’d meet you. And find you . . . pleasing.”

“He spoke of me?”

“Not spoke. A letter. Dashed off quickly, it seemed. Sent by messenger the day before you arrived. Until then he communicated only with my parents. I have no finances of my own, you see.” At this, a shadow not borne of firelight crossed his face. “So, other than my prayer and occasional standing up in a tavern brawl, I’ve had nothing to offer.”

I ran my finger through the grooves of the intricately carved arm of my chair. “And what do you have to offer him now?”

“Him? Nothing. Nothing directly. But you?”

I stared at the scrolling, madly thinking of the artist who had used such patience and control in its creating.

“Fräulein von Bora?”

Varnished to silk. Brought to shine in the firelight.

“Katharina?”

And then, he was in my line of vision, his face looking up into mine. From here, despite the darkness of the room, I could see the individual whiskers at the edge of his beard. I maintained my grip on the chair’s arm, but my other hand, listless in my lap, refused to obey. To my horror I saw my fingers, acting in utter rebellion to any other part of me, lift themselves to stroke the soft expanse. Never in my life had I encountered such a texture, and I could make no determination as to whether it was pleasant or painful. What I do know is that Jerome closed his eyes, and I saw the fringe of dark lashes against his cheek, and I wished desperately for the world to end in this moment. Then he captured my hand beneath his and turned his face to kiss the center of my palm, and I thanked God for granting me those few more seconds, not being so foolish as to listen to my previous desire.

He lowered my hand to my lap, never separating it from his own, and opened his eyes.

“We have not known each other long enough to enter into any kind of agreement. But I want you to know of my sincere affection to this point. I have enjoyed our moments together, and look forward to many more.”

I sat in a seat wide enough for two, and he took full advantage, rising and sitting beside me, his arm draped across the back. Not touching, but near. I knew I should move away, but the beautiful feat of carpentry offered no escape. He touched a finger to my chin and tipped my face to meet his.

“I’ve never thought myself a man to be entrusted with so much.”

His mouth brushed against mine. Returned to capture my lower lip, and might have come back again had the fire not suddenly become the object of my utter fascination.

“Surely Luther did not intend such a display when he wrote to you.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but I hardly think he would object.”

“Then I pray he’ll not have the opportunity to do so.” I stood, amazed at my ability to balance despite the whirlwind within me. “I’ll leave you now to tend to the fire.”

He stood too. “Leave the servants to the fire. I’ll escort you to your room.”

“No.” I moved away before he could touch me. “This is my home, temporary as it may be. I’ll find my way. Good night.”

With every step through the empty halls, I thought of my wooden shoes at Brehna. How they heralded our presence and kept us from any secret missions. I wished for such shoes now, in lieu of the silk slippers that whispered against the stones. I wanted to announce to the house that I was returning to my room, alone. Free from the scandal of the moment. To wake them all to the temptation I’d denied myself. Most of all, to bring weight to my steps, to keep me from flying back to the fire.