Chapter Three
Catrina watched Eli and Gertrud assemble the loom as if it were a giant puzzle. Eli whistled as he fitted notches into grooves and strained to pop heavy shaft frames into place. Catrina hovered beside him and handed him a mallet now and then or helped steady a crossbeam. Gertrud fluttered over the project with nervous fingers, barking orders and nodding approvingly as the loom took shape.
“Thank you,” Gertrud said as Catrina stood with her hands clasped, ready to spring forward and help. “But I don’t think there’s anything more that you can do.”
“She can hand me that warp beam,” Eli said as he nodded his chin toward the component.
“This one?”
“Ja.” Eli smiled as he took the heavy beam from her. “And then the ratchet wheel.”
“I’ve taken care of that,” Gertrud said. She had gathered the remaining parts in front of her.
Eli kept the smile on his face, but Catrina thought she noticed a shift in his eyes. “Ah. Well, then.”
Catrina studied Gertrud’s expression. The woman looked focused and purposeful. Perhaps it isn’t personal. Perhaps she just wants to do it herself. I am a stranger after all, and this is their livelihood. Catrina moved her gaze to Eli. She watched his strong, steady hands. She could sense a quiet peace within him, a sense that he belonged and knew who he was. She wondered what it must feel like, to know who one was. Sometimes she felt so unsure of herself that it seemed her body might float away, across the fields and into the empty sky.
“I’ll make some refreshments,” Catrina said. That’s one thing that I can do right. “We have a good store of white sugar.”
“Dessert?” Eli’s attention shot to Catrina. “Well, doesn’t that sound perfect.”
Catrina gave a satisfied smile. “Apple pudding? It should only take a few hours.” The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, after all. Oh no. There I go again. I am not aiming for his heart. He is a friend only. No, not even that. An acquaintance. An acquaintance with a warm smile and a kind face and . . . Catrina turned away in a swirl of skirts. She brushed off her hands and rummaged through her food stores. She had memorized the recipe years ago and ran through the ingredients in her head:
Three apples, chopped
Three spoonfuls white sugar
Pinch of cinnamon
Grating of nutmeg
Pinch of cloves
Butter
No cloves or nutmeg. No cinnamon, either. Well, it couldn’t be helped. Thankfully, she had some butter stored in the springhouse. She had churned it from cream that came from Greta Miller’s milk cow. There were apples stored in a barrel. And there was the precious store of white sugar. Catrina peered into the burlap sack and sighed. Nothing was so beautiful as those sparkling crystals of pure, refined sugar. She glanced behind her to make sure no one was looking, then scooped out a pinch of sugar and dropped it in her mouth. The granules crunched beneath her teeth and exploded with sweetness. Oh yes, she could manage just fine without the spices. When one has enough sugar, anything is possible.
Catrina listened to Eli’s happy whistling as she diced the apples on the wooden, hand-hewn table. Gertrud said nothing as she worked alongside her brother, but Catrina could feel the woman’s silent, guarded presence.
“I’ll fetch the butter,” Frena said as she stepped around the assortment of loom components that littered the dirt floor.
“Thank you. It is rather muddy today and—oh never mind.” Catrina laughed, then shrugged. “But you can’t expect me to change everything about myself just because we live in the middle of the wilderness. I’ve always hated wet feet and dirty hosen and I always will.”
Frena shook her head and slipped outside. She had learned to accept her granddaughter’s ways years ago.
“I can see that,” Eli said.
Catrina didn’t realize that he had been listening. She frowned. She had the distinct feeling that her clean apron and shiny shoes irritated other people in the settlement. It made her look as if she didn’t work as hard as they did. “Oh, you’ve noticed. It’s not that I . . . well . . . I just like things to be neat and tidy.” Catrina scooped up the diced apples and dropped them into a worn wooden trencher.
“Not cut out for farming, then,” Eli said.
Catrina’s frown deepened. “No. I suppose not.” She kept her eyes on her work and felt inadequate.
“Nor am I.”
Catrina’s stomach jumped. Did he—a man on the frontier—just admit he is not cut out for farming? She glanced up and met his eyes. They looked genuine and sheepishly honest. “No?” Catrina gave a shy smile. “And yet you came here?”
Eli laughed and locked a crossbeam into place. “Why do you think I’ve brought this?” He slapped the loom affectionately, the way one might pat the warm, solid side of a favorite horse.
Catrina had never heard a better answer. She had never met a man who openly admitted he didn’t want to do the dirty, exhausting work that men were supposed to do. And she understood. Oh, how she understood! She didn’t want to do the dirty, exhausting work that women were supposed to do. She didn’t want to boil the laundry in lye soap that burned the skin from her fingertips, or clear ash from the fireplace, or muck out the chicken coop, or slog through muddy fields to catch the pigs that roamed free until autumn.
Catrina stared at Eli for a long moment, then sprinkled a handful of sugar over the apples in the trencher. She sighed. “Aren’t you the lucky one, then.”
Eli shrugged. “Ach. You don’t have to stay with farming, you know. Not if there are other things that you’re meant to do.”
Catrina’s hands stopped. They hovered over the wooden bowl. Could there be another path for me? When she left Philadelphia for the backcountry, Catrina had given up on any other way of life. She would live on a farm in the wilderness until she married a farmer and went to live on another farm in the same wilderness. She would sweep dirt floors, and sweat beneath the sun during the harvest, and scrub mud from her skirts and her menfolk’s hosen until she died. Better not to get your hopes up. She knew what happened when you pinned your dreams on something that wasn’t yours to have. “You’re a dreamer, aren’t you?” Catrina shook her head and reached for the burlap sack of wheat flour.
Eli laughed that clear, open laugh of his. “I’m a realist.”
“Are you?” Catrina poured flour into a smooth wooden bowl until it formed a cream-colored mountain, like the snowy peaks of Switzerland where some of New Canaan’s Amish settlers had been born. Others had been born in Germany’s rich Rhine Valley and fled to Philadelphia when roving soldiers threatened the peace.
“I make a living doing what I want, don’t I?” His face became serious and he gazed up at Catrina as she stood over the table. “And I’m happy, more or less.” He hesitated and ran his hand over his mouth. “Although, I’d like to find—”
“If wishes were horses then beggars would ride,” Gertrud interrupted. “My brother is a dreamer, no matter what he says. He doesn’t know what’s good for him.” Her eyes narrowed as they moved to Catrina. “That’s his problem.”
“Oh, Gertie. You and your sharp tongue.” The sentence might have sounded like a rebuke on anyone else’s lips, but Eli made the words sound playful and loving, although his face looked wistful. “Gertrud keeps us on the straight and narrow, you know. We balance each other, I suppose.”
Catrina recognized the appreciation that Eli had for his sister and admired his devotion to the widow. But, she could not help but wonder how he managed that calm, patient demeanor with her. She looks as if she’s choking on sour lemons every time I look at her! Catrina realized that there might be a reason why and suddenly regretted judging the woman. Who knows what she’s been through? Who knows what lies trapped inside her heart, crying to be heard?
Catrina wondered what Eli had been about to say when Gertrud cut him off. What would he like to find? A wife? She turned to the hearth to hide the red that flared in her cheeks at the thought. Well, that certainly is a bold thought! You’ve gone from friendly acquaintance to husband quicker than you can make an apple pudding. Won’t you ever learn your lessons, Catrina? She plucked two eggs from a basket on the dirt floor and cracked them on the edge of the wooden bowl. Frena breezed in with a slab of butter wrapped in a linen cloth.
“Perfect timing.” Catrina grinned and pushed thoughts of her future aside. Now was the time for pudding—not for silly dreams that could crumble as quickly as a poorly made pastry. Although her pastries were never poorly made. That was one thing that she did well, even in the middle of the wilderness. And Eli seemed just the sort of man to appreciate her talents in the kitchen. Oh, no you don’t! You just promised yourself to put those thoughts aside.
Catrina poured ajar of cool water into the bowl, then kneaded a pound or so of butter into the flour. She worked the sticky dough in silence. The click and thump of wood against wood filled the one-room cabin as Eli continued to piece together the loom. Smoke and embers billowed from the fireplace as Frena fed a fresh log to the flames.
Catrina glanced out the open window to check the position of the sun. Her grandfather would be back from the fields soon and she wanted the pudding ready before he returned. She scooped the ball of dough from the bowl and dropped it on the wooden tabletop in a soft thump. Her hands flew as she rolled out the dough with a wooden rolling pin, added knobs of butter to the surface, and then folded the sheet of dough into thirds. She repeated the process three times, wiped her hands on her crisp, white apron, and stretched her back.
“Finished?” Frena asked.
“Ja.” Catrina slid the diced apples onto the pastry dough and brought the edges together to form a pouch.
“Here.” Frena handed Catrina a square of white linen and a length of twine.
“Danke.” Catrina drew the cloth around the pastry and tied it closed, then dropped it into the big black cauldron that hung above the fire from an iron chain. The settlers kept water boiling in their cauldrons all day long, so there was always hot water on hand. Catrina watched the linen bag bob beneath the roiling bubbles. In an hour or two she would have a good, hot pudding sealed inside a moist, flaky crust.
“Doesn’t that smell delicious,” Eli said as he slid the loom’s warp roller into place. He turned the round piece of wood with his fingers and nodded with satisfaction. “I think that I’m going to like this arrangement.”
Catrina smiled and nearly said that she agreed. But that would have seemed much too forward. Even though she had to admit that it was true. She felt a warm sense of anticipation inside her chest as her mouth slipped into a smile. She could almost ignore the strained expression on Gertrud’s face in response to Eli’s announcement. Almost.
* * *
Eli patted his stomach and gave a long, contented sigh. “A man could get fat on her cooking. That’s for certain.” He remembered the warm, happy steam that billowed up from the apple pudding when Catrina pulled the linen bag from the cauldron, dropped it in cold water to set, and then—finally—cracked open the crust with a pewter serving spoon. Nothing had ever smelled so good as those hot, sugared apples and rich, buttered pastry.
Gertrud didn’t answer. She cut across the field alongside her brother, toward their camp. The sun had dipped behind the tree line and purple shadow-fingers crept across the tilled earth. Dark, dense woods ringed the cabin and clearing, as solid and sturdy as a wall.
“I could eat like that every day.”
“Oh, Eli, I do worry about you.” Gertrud’s voice sounded strained.
Eli laughed. “I’m not planning on getting too fat. I’ll make sure that I can still fit through a cabin door.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”
Eli sighed and his expression sobered. “I think it’s all right.”
“I’ve seen how you look at her, you know.”
Eli shrugged. “It’s all right, I said.”
“Eli, you’ve no one left to take care of you. And I’ve no one left but you. It’s my place—my duty—to keep you from harm. You do understand that.”
Eli sighed again. “You’re a good sister, Gertrud. But you worry too much.”
Gertrud grabbed Eli’s arm. Her fingers felt hard and frantic in the dim light. “There are two kinds of women, Eli. The ones who make good wives and the ones who don’t.”
“You’ve told me that before. And, if you haven’t noticed, I’m not married yet.” He rubbed his eyes in a tired gesture. “I’m not even courting anyone. I’ve never courted anyone!”
“But you’ve never had a woman like that look at you like that.”
“Wait.” Eli stopped walking and turned to stare at Gertrud. “You said she looks at me like that.” His lips curled into a slow half smile. “Does she? Does she really?”
“Don’t look so cocky, brother mine. She’s no prize.”
“Ha! She does look at me like that! She really does.”
“Eli, you’re not hearing me.”
“Oh, I’m hearing you all right!” He beamed. “You’re worked up because you think that she’s interested in me. In me!” Eli shook his head and grinned. “Imagine, a woman like that interested in a man like me.”
“Eli, I’m trying to help you. I do wish you’d listen.”
“What on earth does she see in me? I’m not exactly—”
“Eli. You said it yourself. A woman like that.”
“By that, do you mean beautiful, angelic, and the most talented baker in the colonies?”
“Eli.” Gertrud’s face looked rigid.
“I do know my name.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“Oh, Gertie. Can’t you just be happy for me? What if something comes of it? What if a woman like that really could see something in a man like me?”
“Please listen to yourself. A woman like that does not make a good wife.”
“I’ve a happy, full stomach right now that disagrees mightily.”
“Use your brains and not your belly, Eli!”
“Oh, Gertie.” Eli smiled indulgently, leaned down, and kissed the top of her head. “You’ve nothing to worry about. A woman that beautiful is not going to want a suitor such as myself. She’ll find a stout farmer who could wrestle a bear with his bare hands, shoot a deer from a thousand paces, and plant a hundred acres without breaking a sweat. Isn’t that the kind of man a woman like that wants?”
Gertrud nodded and her face softened. “Let’s hope so.”
Eli frowned. “Let’s not.”
“You’ll meet other women soon. You’ll see. There’s sure to be someone sensible here.” Gertrud made a noise in her throat. “I mean, really, Eli, of all the women you could find in the backcountry why on earth would you look twice at one who doesn’t want to dirty her hands with hard work? She won’t survive the year, I tell you. She’ll be back to Philadelphia before the snow flies again.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Have you seen her shoes? They’ve never touched mud. And her apron hasn’t a single stain. You noticed yourself. You even said so.”
Eli sighed. “Is that why you’ve set yourself against her? Because you think she hasn’t got what it takes to survive out here? You think she won’t do what it takes?”
Gertrud opened her mouth, then closed it again. She picked a fleck of mud from the front of her gray homespun bodice. “That seems evident.”
Eli cut his eyes at her. He had the feeling that Gertrud was not telling him everything she was thinking. But what could his sister possibly have against Catrina?