CHAPTER 23

THE NEXT MORNING I reclaimed my place as an honored guest, bringing to the breakfast table a stomach unhappy with my decision to forgo supper the night before. Newly resolved in love, I heaped my plate with all that was offered and sent one of the waiters at table to fetch sweet cream for my porridge.

“It’s how we made it more palatable in the convent,” I said, stirring the contents of my bowl. “Not that this isn’t delicious as is, but an acquired taste is often difficult to dislodge.”

“All kinds of things in this world are difficult to dislodge,” Elsa said, earning a disapproving huff from Herr Reichenbach.

“Which is why one should always opt to add sweetness to the taste.” I punctuated my retort with a satisfied slurp from my spoon. Marina, who had long been invited to join us at any meal that didn’t include other guests, smiled behind her hand. Later, after breakfast, she would be charged with taking my letter to the market to post. I would have done so myself, but my welcome seemed so precarious, I feared the doors might be locked against me upon my return.

“Have you not yet wearied of speaking against your life behind the walls?”

I jumped at the familiar voice, the spoonful of porridge caught in my throat, and made quite a show of forcing it to swallow.

Never one to subscribe to manners, Marina cried out, “Herr Luther!” and leapt from her place to meet him at the door, throwing her arms around his neck in an embrace fit for a daughter to her father newly returned from soldiering afar. For his part, Luther fit such an image. He was thinner than the last time I’d seen him, his complexion ruddy from the voyage on the road. His clothing still bore the dust of travel, and his eyes were red-rimmed from what I supposed to be lack of sleep. Marina had said nothing when she came to our room after supper, so he must have arrived late in the night. The forced bravery I felt at claiming my place at the table became something else with his presence. Something with weight and warmth.

Luther greeted us in turn, waiting graciously until I recovered power of speech. Elsa made a great show of bringing a plate from the sideboard and sending the cold sausages back to the kitchen to be heated through.

“And another plate?” Suddenly, this morning, there seemed a limit to her hospitality. “Is your friend going to join us?”

Again my throat closed at the thought of who his friend might be. Had Luther taken it upon himself to fetch Jerome back?

“He will not. I’m afraid Nikolaus is a greater slave to the appetite of sleep than the appetite for sustenance.”

We all offered a spatter of laughter, and I felt my pulse settle in disappointment.

“We’re just happy to see you safely returned,” I said, hoping to establish my place.

“Not as happy as I am, I assure you.” Luther spoke with a hint of levity, seemingly for the children’s sake, as he directed his countenance upon them. “And if Fräulein von Bora will give you leave of your lessons for an hour, I will tell you all of my adventures.”

“Can’t I listen too?” I said, with mock hurt.

“Of course.” He leaned close then, and whispered, “I hear we can share tales of bravery.”

“I see you still wear your ring,” Luther said. He held my hand, my palm balanced on his fingertips, as if holding some delicate work of art. “I had hoped to find another, more significant in its place upon my return.”

“You hoped no more than I did.”

We’d come to the chapel built on the far side of the Reichenbachs’ property. It had eight benches —four on each side of a narrow aisle —and a small altar. A tapestry depicting the magi offering gifts to the Christ child hung on one wall, while on the other side, four windows bathed the room in cool blue light. I sat on a back bench, Luther in front of me, his body turned to give me full attention.

“I was under the impression he was quite taken with you.”

I smiled and took my hand away. “As was I. In fact, it may be that he fooled even himself, until better sense took hold of him.”

I said nothing of the letter Marina was posting at this moment, nothing of my resolve to hear from Jerome himself about the current state of his affections.

“I always feared he was a weak-willed boy,” Luther said, crumpling his hat in his hand.

“So weak-willed I would be able to convince him to love me?”

“In your presence, dear lady, even the strongest of men could feel tempted to fall.”

I pummeled his shoulder, and he feigned great injury. “Well, then, Jerome is obviously a man of prodigious strength, for I did not tempt him in the least.”

“So, all the stories dear Elsa told me about your unaccounted-for hours away from the company of the house . . .”

“Are nothing more than gossip. I take great care with my reputation, Luther. And I hold myself accountable to God for my sins. Were you to take back your priesthood and sit on the other side of the confessional screen, I would have nothing to say to you other than the fact that my heart is tainted with dislike for Frau Baumgartner.”

“Ah, yes. The young man’s mother. Therein is the weakness I feared.”

To my utter horror, tears welled, and I turned my eyes to the window, focusing on the pattern in the glass.

“You did love him, then?” His question rang with such tenderness and truth, my ruse fell to pieces.

“I do still.”

“And he, you?”

I wiped the betrayal of my sorrow with my sleeve. “He says —said —he did. And he gave me no reason to doubt his sincerity.”

“But there was no proposal?”

I gritted my teeth and faced him. “There was, actually. We kept it a secret, of course. Even I thought it was reckless —too soon. But he very forthrightly declared his love and asked me to be his wife. He said we would announce it to our families —his family, I suppose —when he comes back at Christmastime.”

Luther brightened. “There is hope, then?”

“He also said he would write to me. And I’ve heard nothing. Two weeks passed from the last time I saw him until the day he was to leave for Nuremberg. Nothing. For all I know he has spent the last six weeks at his mother’s table. Or in her lap.”

Luther rumbled with laughter, and I found some relief in the sharpness of my wit. It always seemed such a waste on Jerome.

“What would you have me do for you, my Katie? I know of another family, another home where you would be welcomed with open arms.”

“No, not until I hear . . . something. From him.”

“Shall I speak to him? Go to him on your behalf and demand he honor his promise? That’s what any other father would do.”

“Sweet Luther.” I rested my hand on his sleeve, physically holding him back from such a rash action. “You are not my father, and I would never want such an action to further impair your friendship with these people. I fear I’ve done enough damage in that respect already.”

“I could write to him and inquire. After all, I was instrumental in the introduction —”

“And then you left.” I squeezed his arm to stay his protest. “No, I offer no criticism in that. There are, after all, events unfolding that have much graver consequences than an ill-fated romance. I only mean that you left the two of us to find each other out. To allow our feelings to materialize and grow. As much as I respect you, Luther, you could never convince me to love someone against the workings of my heart. Nor, with all of your indisputable powers of influence, can you force Jerome to own his love for me.”

“Of course I can, if he truly does.”

“If he truly does, I would hope that he can live up to his love’s demands under his own power. And if he does not . . . Well, nothing satisfying can come from a match born of such strong-armed persuasion.”

“What, then, do you propose?”

“I will wait.”

“For how long?”

“Until he has had a chance to fulfill his promise. That we would announce our engagement at Christmas. Until that has passed, he’s broken no vow to me.”

“Did he not also promise to write?”

“And implored me to do the same.”

Still I kept secret the letter I’d written today, for fear Luther would question the wisdom of it, as I myself did.

“So, you would like to stay here until Christmas?”

“If you could arrange it. I know I’ve long outlasted my welcome. But I’ve been a good teacher for the children, and I would take no shame in being considered one of the servants rather than a guest. I’ve tried always not to overstep my boundaries there.”

He shifted away, bowed his head for a moment, and I felt him searching for the right words in the silence.

“As much as it pains me to say it, my Katie, Frau Baumgartner has turned many of the well-wishers against you. She’s made you out to be some sort of a ruthless, lowborn —”

“My family is every bit as good as hers. Better, maybe, if we listed our legacies side by side. I come with a good name.”

“But no dowry.”

“The fact that I come with love and health and chastity means nothing?”

“None of those can be measured, my dear. And Jerome’s mother is one to carry a scale as easily as she carries an opinion.”

“Knowing this, why did you ever promote such a match?”

“Because I’m used to getting my way.”

We both laughed, and were brought to sobriety only by the introduction of a new voice.

“What would people think, hearing such unchecked levity coming from a former priest and a former nun in a chapel? Surely you’re not mocking the Church?”

“Surely not, my friend,” Luther said, rising. “I’ve no need to increase the bounty on my life. Let me introduce you to Miss Katharina von Bora.”

“At last.” The gentleman extended his hand, and I offered mine, accompanied by a small bow, which he returned. “I cannot tell you, Fräulein, how many miles were passed with stories about you. Your bravery, your strength. I half expected you to look like a cross between a bear and a brawler. I am pleasantly surprised.”

I suppressed the urge to chide Luther for allowing a portrayal that overlooked any measurement of my beauty. I’d already won the man over with a pleasant face; no need to slice him with the sharpness of my tongue.

“Luther is always too free with his praise,” I said. “He tends to overestimate the qualities of his friends and build up impossible expectations.”

“Dare I ask, then, what he has told you of me?”

“Not a word, sir. As yet, not even your name.”

“Nikolaus von Amsdorf,” Luther said, with the merest hint of indulgence. “A longtime friend and traveling companion. And most important, a crack shot. Good for securing food and safety.”

“Very nice to meet you, Herr von Amsdorf. And I thank you for Luther’s safe return.”

He was a handsome man, roughly Luther’s age, though he carried a touch more gray in his hair and beard. His manner of dress differed from Luther too, with an overall attention to fashion. His breeches showed no sign of wear; his vest and coat fit impeccably over what appeared to be a fine, athletic form underneath. All of this I studied in the gathering of seconds when his attention turned again to Luther.

“I apologize for interrupting your conversation. The mistress of the house said I would find you here. She’s been kind enough to have a meal prepared this late in the morning, and I’ve been sent to see if you would like to join me.”

“I would, indeed,” Luther said, as if he hadn’t eaten with me less than an hour ago. “If you would allow us a few more minutes.”

“Excellent.” Herr von Amsdorf offered another nod of his head. “So nice to have met you, Fräulein. I’m looking forward to hearing some of your stories from your own mouth, as our friend here can be prone to exaggeration.”

“And I look forward to hearing what he’s said.”

With that, Herr von Amsdorf left, my eyes following his every step until the heavy arched door closed behind him.

“What a charming man.” I spoke at first to myself, then to Luther. “Why did you not think to marry me off to him?”

Luther recoiled at the idea. “He is nearly twice your age. A good year older than me.”

“I would never deem you undesirable because of your age.” My teasing tone surprised me, and I prayed he wouldn’t ask me just what I would find undesirable, because I had no ready answer.

“Is your young man so soon forgotten, then?”

“By no means.”

“Then what would you have us do?”

“Us?”

“I feel a certain responsibility for your happiness, Katie. Or at least your settlement. I will speak and act on your behalf however you wish, but only in accordance with your command.”

“Then speak to Elsa and Herr Reichenbach. Elsa, the more pressing. Convince them to let me stay in the way that we discussed. As a governess. Just until after Christmas. Not because of Jerome —rather, she doesn’t need to know of Jerome’s promise. But because you cannot arrange for a new situation until that time.”

“But that’s not the truth. I could —”

“Then give her no reason. Jerome’s family will take great satisfaction at seeing my position diminished. I’ll move into the children’s room, if need be. I’ll send Marina back home, as a governess has no need for a lady’s maid. I simply cannot leave.”

My voice rose in the course of my plea, and by its end, tears threatened again. Luther, however, remained utterly impassive, waiting for me to say my piece.

“Very well. It is always best to wait on the Lord, and that we shall do.”

“Does that mean you’ll wait with me?” The notion hadn’t occurred to me until that very moment, but I seized upon it as if it had been my greatest desire all along. “Stay here? So I’ll have someone to talk to? Somebody who appreciates my company?”

“You believe I appreciate your company?”

He was teasing now too. “Of course you do. All the more because you’ve had so little time to experience it. Elsa and Philipp love you.”

“And the Baumgartners do not. You’ll not further your case with them if I am a constant presence here.”

“I do not wish to further my case with them. They will accept me or not, as they choose. Their son and I have pledged our love to each other, and promises were made on that pledge. I simply want to see those promises fulfilled.”

“And if they are not? My Katie, I want to spare you from hurt, but it is entirely possible that Jerome has taken the young man’s cowardly path to disentangle himself from a promise made in haste.”

Perhaps Luther forgot the power of his words, how workings of his mind and heart inflamed the Church and put his very life in danger. His words commanded attention and obedience. He changed minds and hearts. His tongue was a tool of inflammatory persuasion, his hands purveyors of unprecedented truth. So when he spoke such a sentence out loud, giving voice to all my silent fears, I swatted him away.

“Don’t say such things.”

“I only meant —”

“If, indeed, it was a promise made in haste, we should give it balance —a leisurely time for it to be fulfilled or abandoned. And I promise you, by Christmastime, I shall be equally at peace no matter the outcome.”

“You owe no promise to me.”

“Then I promise to myself. Only, be here with me?”

“It is a comfortable house, good food and warm people. I shall be proud to wrangle an invitation.”