Chapter Four
Catrina’s fingers flew over the loom. She slid the shuttle between the rows of yarn and caught it when it reached the other side. She pulled the heavy beater bar toward her, then pushed it back again. The wood creaked and thumped back into place. She pressed the treadles with her feet to bring up one shaft—a wooden bar that held strands of unwoven yarn—and bring down another shaft. Now, she could pass the shuttle back through, between the strands of yarn, to add another layer to the cloth. The process was simple and repetitive and she loved it. The steady, hypnotic rhythm sang through her hands and reminded her that all was well, all was familiar and safe.
“You’ll have enough cloth to sew a new waistcoat for Georg in no time at all,” Frena said as she laid a warm hand on Catrina’s shoulder. “It is wonderful good to see you weave again.”
The loom clicked and shuddered as Catrina’s fingers flashed across it. “Ja.” Catrina tried to make the word sound cheerful, but she knew her tone was flat and dull.
Frena sighed. Her hand stayed on Catrina’s shoulder for a long, still moment. “I’ve wondered if we did the right thing,” she said finally.
Catrina’s hands and feet stopped and the loom shuddered to abrupt silence. The cabin felt too quiet, too static after the loud, steady movement. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”
Frena nodded. “You’ve done well, Catrina. Others don’t realize it, they don’t know what you’ve—”
“No. Don’t speak of such things.”
“What you’ve overcome, Catrina. What you’ve overcome. That’s all I was going to say.”
Catrina shook her head. “Even so.” She passed the shuttle through the rows of yarn, but slower this time. She couldn’t find her rhythm again. Her foot pressed the treadle. “You wish I hadn’t come with you?”
Frena’s breath caught in her throat. “For heaven’s sake, no. That is not what I meant. Not at all.”
Catrina shifted on the bench as the loom shuddered back to life. “I never meant to—”
“No. Of course not. And we’re not speaking of that, remember?”
“No. Of course not.”
“All I meant was . . .” Frena hesitated. She watched the blur of yarn and shafts and shuttle. “. . . Perhaps it is too much for you. Perhaps der Herr did not make you to work a backcountry farm.”
“Ach, well. Here I am. So it doesn’t matter now, anyway.”
“But it does. It most certainly does.”
“No. It doesn’t, because there is nothing to do about it now.”
Frena smiled. “I think there is.”
The loom stopped again. Catrina spun around on the bench and looked up at her grandmother. “What?”
“You should work with Eli and Gertrud.”
“But there’s only one loom and Eli will soon be here to claim it for the day. And besides, you need my help.”
“No. I’m tired of seeing you restless and unhappy. You’ll never be content sloughing through the mud to weed or plant or harvest. But you can make yourself useful in plenty of other ways if you set your mind to it.”
“I’ve tried so hard to find contentment here. And I am content . . . it’s just . . .”
“If der Herr wants you here, don’t you think he’ll use the talents he gave you instead of wasting you on work you despise?”
Catrina swallowed. She felt a tiny bubble of hope rise from her chest.
“You could dye the yarn. You know the plants to use. And you can work the loom when Eli’s not here. And there’s the spinning as well. You know how much time it takes to spin enough for a single bolt of cloth. Gertrud could never spin enough on her own. They’ll pay you, either in coin or trade goods, it matters little which.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Those two have more work than they can manage. Everyone in New Canaan is threadbare and in want of cloth. And don’t forget that Gertrud will be busy running their home. They mean to settle here, remember.”
“Ja. That’s true.” Catrina’s face brightened. “It would be almost as if we ran our own little shop. And I do love to spin and weave and create something from nothing.” Her words came quickly as she imagined a life closer to what she knew in Philadelphia— but with the simple, honest ways that she had learned among the Amish. Catrina bolted up and stood to face her grandmother. Her expression looked earnest and excited, as if Frena had just unraveled a great and wonderful secret. “Ja. That is what I will do. What I must do.”
Frena nodded, patted her granddaughter on the arm, and bustled out of the cabin to fetch water from the spring. Catrina settled into the rhythm of the loom and let the click clack swoosh fill the small, silent cabin. The treadles squeaked beneath her feet and the beater bar felt solid and familiar beneath her palms. She kept the shuttle flying between the rows of yarn until she felt a prickly feeling on the back of her neck. Someone stood behind her, watching.
Catrina’s hands stopped and the loom shuddered to an abrupt halt. She heard boots shuffle against the earth, the low cough of a man clearing his throat. Catrina recognized that nervous, self-conscious sound. She felt her stomach tighten. How long had he been hovering behind her? She felt tense and exposed. Had Eli been watching her? It did not seem like him to be so forward . . . and yet, he had been standing behind her for some time.... She did not want Eli to be like other men. She hoped he had not been watching her. But she could not shake her concern.
Catrina spun around on the bench and stared up at Eli. His tall, lean frame filled the doorway as he stood in the threshold. Sunlight poured around his silhouette and cast long yellow shapes on the dirt floor. His face looked sheepish and Catrina knew that she had caught him off guard. She reminded herself that Eli always had that sheepish, shy expression, but thoughts of the past—of another man whom she had trusted—pushed into her mind. Catrina adjusted the white neckcloth that a modest woman wore to cover the skin above the low neckline of her bodice. She felt confused. She had thought Eli was different. No, she had wanted Eli to be different.
“Oh. Hello there.”
Catrina’s brows knitted together. “How long have you been standing there?”
“A little while. A little while too long, I suppose. I was just . . .”
“You were just what?”
Eli cleared his throat again. He took off his black beaver-felt hat and ran his fingers through his red hair. “I didn’t want to come in, seeing that you’re alone. Didn’t seem proper.”
“No,” Catrina said in a crisp, tense voice. “I should think not.”
“So I was just . . .”
“Staring?”
“No.”
Catrina raised an eyebrow.
“Well, yes. Strictly speaking. But . . .”
Catrina’s eyebrow remained raised. Her face had become a calm, distant mask.
“What I mean to say is, you certainly can keep pace on a loom. You’re very fast, you know.”
“Yes. I know.”
Eli swallowed. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t . . . I just . . .” He turned his hat around in his hands. “Ach. Sorry. I’ll call again later. When your grandmother’s home.”
Catrina nodded and turned back to face the loom. “Yes. Do that.” Everything in her wanted to turn around and tell that warm, friendly, embarrassed face that it was all right, that she knew he had done nothing wrong. It was perfectly normal for a friend to linger in a doorway without announcing his presence . . . wasn’t it? Was she overreacting? She did not know anymore. She was afraid to believe Eli could be as kind and good as he seemed. She had believed in kindness and goodness before. And she had promised herself she never would again.
* * *
Eli’s throat had caught when he ducked through the open door, paused just beyond the cabin’s low threshold, and saw Catrina. Her smooth, pale skin flashed as her arms moved against the loom. The back of her neck curved in a delicate arch and he could see a whisper of silky black hair at her nape, beneath the edge of her white prayer kappe. He had stood and watched for a moment longer than he should have. The click clack swoosh, click clack swoosh of the loom mesmerized him and he couldn’t pull his eyes off the soft lines of her silhouette, the graceful pull of her fingers, the impossible straightness of her spine.
And then she had stopped and spun around. Their eyes had locked and he saw the disappointment and surprise in her face. She thought that he had been staring! Well, he had been staring, but not for the reason that she thought. Sure, he had been taken in by her beauty—any man with eyes would be—but that was not why he was staring. There was something more to her than physical beauty, and that something came to life as her hands glided over the loom in a graceful dance. She glowed with confidence and poise. Was that even possible? Could a woman glow?
Eli realized that he should have said something right away. He should have explained himself. But instead he had stood there with his hat in his hands thinking about how she had glowed. Oh what a fool I am! He wanted to sink into the ground as he slunk back across the field and retreated to his campsite. What must she think of me now? Well, she thinks that I hover in doorways and stare. That’s what she thinks! And the worst part of it was that it was true. He did hover in doorways and stare.
Wet, spring mud sucked at his boots and woolen hosen as he slogged across the tilled earth. But Eli didn’t notice. He was too busy agonizing over the fact that Catrina Witmer must think that he was just like every other man. And there was nothing that he could do to convince her otherwise. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t staring in that way. It didn’t matter one bit!
“You’re in a fine state,” Gertrud said as he stormed into their camp.
Eli kept his head down and growled as he stomped past. Wait right there, did I just growl? I am not a man who growls. What in the heavens has happened to me? First I stare? Now I growl? Whatever is next? Will I march into Catrina’s cabin, scoop her into my arms, and carry her off, straight to the altar? He realized he rather liked that idea, actually. He could imagine her laughing and her eyes shining as he set her down in front of the bishop. Her soft, warm hand wrapped in his hand . . . Now, just hold on. That’s quite enough. That’s more than enough!
“Getting to know Miss Witmer better, are we?” Gertrud looked up from the campfire and gave a smug little half smile.
Eli shook his head and began to scrape his muddy boots on a fallen log. “Well, I was trying to.”
“Ah.”
Eli pushed his boot against the log so hard that the rotten bark cracked. His foot slipped through the jagged wood, up to his ankle. He yelped and threw his hands out for balance as he struggled to stay upright on one foot. “Oh, for goodness’ sakes!”
Gertrud laughed and flicked water onto the cast-iron spider that sat atop a bed of coals raked from the campfire. The water sputtered and danced across the surface until it evaporated. “The skillet’s hot. Sit down and have a corn cake. Food always improves your mood.”
Eli pulled his foot out of the rotten log, stomped on the ground to shake off bits of bark, and slumped onto a three-legged stool by the fire. “Oh, I’m too far gone for food. I’m not even sure I’m hungry.”
Gertrud laughed again. “So dramatic! Whatever has she done to you?”
“Ach.”
Gertrud poured batter onto the cast-iron spider, then looked over at Eli with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Will I get to tell you that I told you so?”
“No, you will not.” Eli listened to the sizzle of corn-cake batter as he watched a billow of steam whisk into the evening air. He sighed, took off his hat, and threw it onto his bedroll. “It wasn’t her. It was me.”
“Now, Eli . . .”
“Don’t ‘now Eli’ me. It’s the same as always. Beautiful woman meets incompetent, ridiculous man. Incompetent, ridiculous man slinks away in shame. End of story.”
Gertrud’s voice tightened. Her face became somber. “You are not incompetent and you are not ridiculous.”
“Ach.” Eli set his elbows on his knees, slouched forward, and rested his chin in his hands. “Tell that to Catrina.”
“Mmmmmm.” Gertrud frowned and eased a spatula beneath the corn cake. “Do try to stop pouting like a child.”
“I am not pouting.” Eli scowled. “I don’t pout.”
“Of course not, dear.”
“Pouting! The very idea.”
“Ja. The very idea.” Gertrud flipped the corn cake and it landed back in the skillet with a satisfying splat. She leaned back on her heels and sighed. “Now, what were we . . . Oh, right. I was just about to tell you that, once you stop pouting, you can go to the worship service tomorrow, meet another woman, and move on. I’m sure that there’s more than one eligible woman in New Canaan.”
“What if I don’t want to meet another woman?”
“Oh, Eli. Of course you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
Gertrud set the spatula down with a clang. She turned her head to face her brother. “Really, Eli. You do.”
“No. I. Don’t.”
Gertrud narrowed her eyes. “Well, you would if you would stop pouting over that woman!”
Eli’s face darkened. “I won’t tell you again, Gertie. I am not pouting. I am a grown man and I don’t pout.”
Gertrud stared at him. “Well, you told me, didn’t you.” But the expression on her face said otherwise.
“Ja. I most certainly did!”
“Of course, if you weren’t pouting, you wouldn’t be here, brooding by the fire. You would be with Catrina right now, having a conversation with her instead of running away. Did you even try to explain yourself?”
Eli’s expression shifted. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and scowled. “All right, then. Let’s see who’s pouting now.” Eli leapt up from the three-legged stool so fast that it tumbled backward. He grabbed his black beaver-felt hat and punched it down over his brow.
Gertrud’s mouth fell open. “Wait! I didn’t mean . . .” But it was too late. Eli had already stormed out of the campsite. She made a face and slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand.
Eli thought he heard his sister call after him, but he wasn’t listening. She might have said something about being sorry and that she hadn’t meant to send him back to her, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t let this nonsense go on any longer. He would make it right. He would make Catrina understand that he wasn’t a man like that. He would never stare like that. He was Eli Webber—shy and awkward and gangly and . . . Oh dash it all! What on earth will I say to her? What on earth would she ever see in me? The shyness and the awkwardness, that’s what. Eli stopped and stood in the middle of the empty field. Darkness crept in from the woods and bruised the sky. Night would be here soon. I should give up. There’s nothing for me in the cabin ahead. It doesn’t matter if I explain myself. It doesn’t matter if I convince her that I’m a gentleman. She would never, never look at me with any affection. How could she? She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met and I’m . . . well, I’m me!
Eli hesitated in the dusk as he stared at the silhouette of the cabin. He had a strange feeling that this was a decision that could change the course of his life. He could storm up to the cabin and boldly defend himself—declare his true feelings even!—or he could slink back to the campsite and accept that he would never be a man who took control of his life or swept a woman off her feet.
Eli sighed. He swallowed hard. Gertrud had told him to march back there and tell Catrina the truth. Maybe he should take her advice, for once. But what would he say? How could he ever make Catrina understand?