Chapter Ten
Catrina flitted around the table, humming tunes from the Ausbund.
“I have never seen anyone so taken by a bag of sugar before,” Frena said with a wry smile.
“I told you that I liked that young man,” Georg said as he pulled on his black leather boots. “How about making another apple pudding today? I think that would be just about perfect.”
“You only like Eli because he gave us more sugar, right when we were about to run out.”
Georg raised an eyebrow. “Should I not like him for that?”
“Ach. Grandfather!” Catrina smiled and pressed her hand into the dough that lay on the rough wooden table. She had to finish kneading the week’s bread before she could begin the day’s spinning. Eli had several new orders and the spinning wheel would need to turn day and night to keep up with demand.
“Don’t forget your scoop,” Catrina shouted to Frena as the woman headed out to help Georg with the spring planting.
“Right. Thank you, dear. I never remember these things.” Frena plucked the straw hat from its hook on the wall, pushed it onto her head, and tied the ribbons beneath her chin. The straw bill scooped downward where the ribbons pulled it, giving the hat its distinctive name.
“That’s why Catrina has perfect skin,” Georg said. “She never forgets to wear a hat over her prayer kappe to keep out the sun.”
“Are you saying that I don’t have perfect skin, Georg Witmer?” Frena asked with a stern face.
“Ah. Well. It goes without saying that you have perfect skin, of course.”
Frena winked at Catrina and Catrina laughed. “Are you sure you don’t need me to help?” Catrina worried that her grandparents were getting too old for the heavy labor the backcountry required. “No,” Frena said. “Take care of the baking, then spend the day spinning. That’s the best way to help us all. You’ll do more good for the family working with Eli then you would in the fields with us.”
“All right. If you’re sure.”
“Of course we are sure.”
“Just make certain I get a new waistcoat,” Georg said as he loped through the threshold. “And new knee breeches,” he added. “And a new dress jacket and woolen hosen.”
“Georg!” Frena swatted him as he passed her. She turned back to Catrina and smiled wistfully. “It is what we love, you know. Being outside, working our own land. Being free.”
Catrina nodded.
“But it isn’t for everyone. It isn’t for you. We know that. You were meant for other things.”
“I worry that you work too hard,” Catrina said. When they had first arrived, she had not realized how hard her grandparents worked. She had been so overwhelmed by her new life that she could barely function. But now . . . she could see and appreciate their sacrifices. And she wished that she were more like them, more able to cope with the rigors of the frontier. They seemed truly happy to work the land.
“Don’t worry, Catrina. And don’t ever feel bad about the way der Herr made you.” It was as if Frena knew her granddaughter’s thoughts. “You were not made for the farm. You could never take to it. Georg and I, we love it. It is all we’ve ever known. We could never settle down in the city the way your mother did when she married your father.” She shrugged. “One day we will be too old to work the land. But that day has not come yet. And when it does . . . well, when it does you will do well enough with your weaving to support us all. I am sure of it. So do not doubt yourself. Get the baking done, get to your spinning, and know that you are doing the right thing. For all of us.”
* * *
Eli seemed more distracted than usual when he and Gertrud arrived to do the day’s weaving and spinning. When he smiled and nodded at Catrina, his eyes held the same twinkle, the same adoration, but his jaw was set in a most determined manner and his face dropped into seriousness too soon. He and Gertrud barely spoke. Of course, Gertrud was not one for amicable small talk, but today they did not even talk about their work. They just sat elbow to elbow without turning to look at each other. It was almost as if they were pretending not to notice each other. Which was ridiculous in a one-room cabin crammed full with Georg and Frena’s bedstead, Catrina’s pallet, a wooden table, two benches, a three-legged stool, a loom, and two spinning wheels. Not to mention the cauldron, iron spider, and sacks of foodstuffs that filled the hearth, or the dried herbs that hung from the rafters. No, it was preposterous to pretend that one could not see someone else in that crowded, dirt-floored room.
They worked with the door and shutters open so that sunlight and fresh air filled the cramped space. The weather was warm enough that Catrina had already taken down the oilcloth that covered the windows during the winter. In warm weather, the oil would soften and drip until it left greasy streaks down the log wall. Worse, oilcloth only let a soft glow of light inside the cabin and turned the outside world into a mysterious blob of color. Finally, after the long, dreary winter, she could see outside again!
Yellow light danced across the white wool as Catrina threaded it through the spindle and listened to the steady clickety clack of the spinning wheels and the click thump whoosh, click thump whoosh of the loom. The air felt fresh and new as she breathed in the smells of damp earth and wild grass that drifted inside. She almost felt content. Almost. There was that troubling furrow in Eli’s brow today and that troubling, stifling silence.
After Eli’s gift, Catrina had thought that he would have bounded into the cabin today, all smiles and boyish exuberance. She had let him know how much she had appreciated the sugar, hadn’t she? He did know that she had been taken in by it—by him, if she were completely honest. Didn’t he? There had been that scandalous hug . . . she had been giddy in his arms, positively giddy! She had felt so right, so at home in his arms . . . well, it did not deserve further thought. She must maintain some dignity.
She had thanked him, hadn’t she? She had let him know that she appreciated the thoughtfulness of the gift, and not just the gift itself. Or had she? Catrina ran through the encounter in her mind as the wool sped through her fingers and her foot pumped the treadle. She could not remember the details, only the joy she had felt when she realized that he had noticed something about her beyond her looks. And of course, she remembered the feeling of security that his strong arms had given her . . . but she had already determined not to dwell on that.
What if he was worried that she did not appreciate his thoughtfulness? What if he was worried that she did not care?
The wool twisted in her fingers and she stopped pumping the treadle. Bother, she would have to unwind that—her mind was elsewhere. Do I care about him? Do I really, truly care? She replayed her interactions with Eli as she fumbled to unwind the length of botched yarn. She remembered the way he looked at her—as if he had never seen anyone quite like her before. She was not just another woman to him. His eyes spoke the truth about that. She remembered the way he fumbled and tripped over himself whenever he felt nervous—which was every time he spoke to her. She remembered the way his face had become soft and serious when he stood outside beneath the purple evening sky and announced that he saw more to her than her beauty.
Her breath caught in her throat and she started to pump the treadle again to hide the sound of her surprise. She did care. She really, truly did. But it was more than that. She felt something deeper. Something real and lasting that she had never felt before. She was not drawn to Eli for looks, or rugged toughness, or sly, dark charm. He was good-looking—in his own boyish way—but he had no rugged toughness. And he certainly had no sly, dark charm. There was no slyness in him. No darkness. And his charm came from an honest heart, not practiced flirtations and calculated words. It was an unintentional charm—the charm of a man simply being himself. And when a man is caring, and thoughtful, and honest, there is no greater charm.
Catrina felt a stab shoot through her chest and zip all the way down to her toes. She leapt up from the spinning wheel and nearly toppled the stool. She did not just care about Eli; she loved him. She loved him! She had found him. She had finally found the man who would love her for who she was, who would never pretend to be someone other than he was, who would always appreciate her for who she was in return.
The loom shuttered to a sudden stop and Eli spun around in his seat. He looked startled and concerned. “Catrina, are you all right?”
Catrina swallowed. She stared at him and blinked. Was she all right? Was she all right? Oh, she was more than all right. She was wonderful. She had found him. And he was right here, in front of her, concerned that she was unwell. If only he knew. If only . . . well, she would have to tell him. But not now. Not in front of Gertrud . . .
“Catrina?” Eli’s brow furrowed more deeply than it had all morning. He stood up. “Are you unwell?”
Catrina realized that she was standing and staring in a most unbecoming manner. She forced herself to close her open mouth—had she really allowed it to hang open so foolishly?—and adjusted her prayer kappe. “Ja. I am fine. I . . . just realized something.”
Eli’s face remained serious and concerned, but he hesitated, unsure. After a moment, he nodded and slipped back into his place at the loom.
He does not know if he should approach me. He is not sure of how I feel about him. But he will. Oh, he most certainly will!
* * *
Eli watched Catrina as she stumbled out of the cabin and into the bright afternoon sun. He sat at the loom without moving, studying her as she stood just outside the door. The light set her crisp white prayer kappe and white apron aglow. She leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and inhaled deeply, then exhaled. She closed her eyes to the sun. Was that a faint smile on her lips?
What on earth had come over her? He had been sure that she would faint. Her face had looked shocked, as if she had had a terrible, unsettling thought. Or perhaps she had taken ill. He rubbed the back of his neck with a calloused palm. Would she be all right? His mind sped ahead to a dreadful conclusion—Catrina wasted away on her sickbed, until the life ebbed out of her. There was not a doctor closer than a three-days’ journey in any direction. And even if there were, what would he do? Bleed the poor girl until she weakened even more? Doctors were ghastly, really.
Eli frowned. Oh, for heaven’s sakes. He was not accustomed to entertaining such dramatic thinking. Catrina would be fine, of course. Why wouldn’t she be? He was the one whom he should be worried about. What on earth had come over him to make him worry so?
An overwhelming need to keep Catrina Witmer in his life, that’s what.
Eli’s frown deepened. Catrina would be fine. But he wouldn’t be. He was pining away for her—thinking about her every moment, obsessing over what he would say for hours before he spoke to her, eaten up with the need to know exactly how she felt about him.
Eli watched as Catrina drifted away from the doorway and disappeared beyond his view. The problem, if he was willing to face it, had become far more complicated than whether or not she had developed affection for him. The greater problem was that Gertrud could not be persuaded to open her heart to Catrina. She would not even entertain the idea of Catrina in his life.
He wondered if other brothers suffered at the hands of demanding sisters. No, probably not. Other brothers had not made such terrible, terrible mistakes that they now owed their sisters everything—which then forced the brother to sacrifice his own happiness.
“She’s fine, Eli,” Gertrud muttered. Her spinning wheel had not stopped turning. “Just a touch of the vapors.” The wheel clacked. “Brought on by a need for attention, if I dare to say it.”
“You don’t know that.”
Gertrud raised an eyebrow. Her hands did not slow. She did not seem distracted in the least. “That is why I introduced you to Christina. She would not succumb to a distracting episode of the vapors in hopes that you would go running to rescue her.” Gertrud sighed through her nose. “How very vexing. That wool will not spin itself.” She nodded her chin to Catrina’s spinning wheel while her hands and foot maintained their steady rhythm.
“You think she wants me to go after her? You think that she set that up for me? For attention?” A stab of hope speared through Eli’s chest. His face must have shown his feelings because Gertrud’s mouth turned downward and she shook her head. He jumped up from the loom. She wanted attention from him!
“That is not what I meant.”
Eli grinned. “But it is what you said.”
Gertrud did not speak for a few beats. Her lips stayed in a tight line. “Do as you like, Eli. But remember that I have asked you—no, pleaded with you to be cautious. If you go barreling after her right now, I . . .” For the first time that day, Gertrud’s spinning wheel slowed. The steady rhythm faltered. “I won’t be able to bear the worry. Knowing what I know.”
Eli ran his fingers through his hair. His heart pounded against his throat. Everything in him shouted that he must follow Catrina. He wanted to rush after her, scoop her into his arms, and tell her he loved her. Yes. Loved. He knew that his feelings for her had grown deeper than mere affection, and far, far deeper than a passing fancy. He had never, ever felt this way about a woman before. He would go after her. He had to.
And yet, he sat back down. Not because he wanted to. Everything in him still shouted, pleaded with him to storm outside and gallantly sweep her off her feet—he could lift her off the ground and twirl her around, her face outlined by the bright blue sky, her skirts swishing around him like the feathers of a bird—he cut off the thought. He could not rush after her. Not with Gertrud sitting beside him, pleading the opposite.
And he owed his sister a debt that he could never repay. Even sacrificing the woman he loved would not be enough to make up for what he had done. So he sat on the bench in front of the loom and made no move to leave. He stared at the threads. He swallowed. He felt as if his heart would tear from his body. His hands trembled and he laid them flat against the loom’s wooden crossbeam.
Gertrud let out a heavy breath of air. “Thank you, Eli.”
He did not answer. He just kept staring at the threads in front of him.
“You are a good brother.”
“No,” he said in a voice almost too low for his sister to hear. “You know that I am not.”
The room felt stifling. The air crackled with unspoken words. Still, Eli did not move. The spinning wheel kept turning, but more slowly, the rhythm broken and uncertain. “Today you have shown me that you are.”
Eli’s eyes shut. He wanted it to go away. All of it. The guilt, the weight of the past, the memory of Gertrud’s face the day he had told her what had happened. What he had done. He clenched his eyes harder, but it did not go away. It never did.
He wanted to tell his sister that she didn’t know anything about Catrina. No matter what she claimed to have heard. But he did not. He would not argue with her about that again. He would not make Gertie cry twice in as many days. Not when she had not shed a single tear in four long years. What was wrong with him? What kind of man makes his grieving sister cry?
And yet. In that moment he could barely manage to maintain his duty to her. In his mind, in his heart, he was outside, running toward Catrina, his arms outstretched, ready to pull her to him and tell her that he loved her.
He sighed and pushed away the dream. His hand closed around the shuttle and slid it between the threads. He pulled down the beater and pushed the treadle with his foot. He would do what Gertrud wanted. He would do his duty.
Eli told himself that it was for the best. He told himself that Catrina might not even care for him, anyway. How could she? He slid the shuttle back through the threads and pulled down the beater a little too hard. He was not a man who deserved to be loved. Especially by a woman like Catrina. She was probably just humoring a silly, clumsy, heart-struck man who dared to hope for something out of his reach. That made him love her even more. She was kind. She was thoughtful, even to him. She could not possibly feel any affection for him.
He almost believed that. Almost.