GENNIE HAD ALREADY SPENT MUCH OF HER PRECIOUS FREE hour wandering around Hancock Village, learning the layout. The number of empty, deteriorating buildings stunned and saddened her. To be truthful, she had no idea how to proceed. In North Homage, it had been easy. She knew everyone, and she knew where each person was assigned to be.
She was at the northwest end of the village, just beyond the Brick Dwelling House. She knew that the buildings just across the road were mostly unused. The old Schoolhouse hadn’t heard Shaker children’s voices for years, and it had been sold just a few years earlier. The Ministry Shop, where once the elders and eldresses had worked, was far too big and lonely for Fannie, the last remaining eldress, who chose to stay with the others in the Brick Dwelling House.
Just in front of her, Gennie saw the saddest sight of all—the abandoned Meetinghouse. It had held no dancing worship for decades, Abigail had told her, and it was due to be razed soon. The distinctive gambrel roof had been transformed at some point into gables, so the building was two stories high. Lots of room, and no one using it. Soon it would be gone. Investigations notwithstanding, Gennie would never forgive herself if she left Hancock without seeing the inside of their Meetinghouse.
As she approached the building, the effects of its abandonment became clear. The white paint was flaked and discolored in places, and several broken windows had been replaced with boards nailed to the outside. A shutter hung askew, its nails corroded through. Was this the future for Rose and the village that had raised Gennie?
Out of habit, Gennie walked through the unshoveled path to the sisters’ entrance. She tried the door, fully expecting it to be locked or nailed shut. It swung open, making a scraping sound, as if it no longer fit the frame. Tentatively, almost expecting to encounter a bevy of dancing Shaker ghosts, Gennie entered the building and stood just inside.
The ghosts were there, in the middle of the dingy pine floor, clustered in a loose circle, jumping and twirling in Shaker dancing worship. Except they were doing it all wrong. The men and the women were mixed together, weren’t they? That wasn’t right. Gennie blinked several times to clear her vision—and her feverish imagination.
“Mummy,” squealed one of the figures, “they’ve found us. Now they’ll make us stay apart, and we’ll never, ever be together again.”
“Hush, now,” said a deeper, calmer voice, which Gennie realized belonged to the only adult in the group. The other figures—five or six of them, as far as she could tell—were children of varying ages, but none older than perhaps ten years. As her eyes adapted to the poor light from the few unboarded windows, she saw two boys and four girls. All of them, including the woman, wore jackets over simple clothing reminiscent of Shaker dress.
“I don’t know who you are,” said the woman, “but you might as well come on in.”
“My name is Gennie Malone. I’m new here, just started helping out in the store.”
“You’re not a new novitiate then?” There was relief in the woman’s voice.
“No, not at all.”
A small towheaded creature attached itself to the woman’s arm. “Mummy, Mummy, she’ll tell on us. Don’t talk to her.”
“Hush, now, honey. Sarah, take everyone over to the corner and tell them a story,” the woman said to the oldest child, a serious-looking girl with blond curls and spectacles. “Run along now, go with Sarah.” With some difficulty, she detached the towhead and handed him over to a larger boy, who took his hand and dragged him off.
“I’m sorry about all the fuss. My name is Esther, Esther Jenkins. I’m a Shaker novitiate.”
“Are you a teacher?”
Esther glanced over at the children and shook her head. “These are my children,” she said. “Have you had much experience with Shakers before now?”
“I’ve heard about them,” Gennie said.
“I see.” Esther’s shoulders slumped. “Then you know that I am not supposed to be here with my children?”
“Yes, I do, but I assure you, I have no intention of giving you away. I’m not a Shaker myself, nor ever likely to become one, but someday I hope to be a mother.” She held out her left hand with shy pride. “I’m engaged to be married.”
“Then you understand,” Esther said. “I just wanted to be with my children. Giving up the care of my little ones has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. They are so precious to me, more precious than my own life.”
“I don’t understand. Why would you give them up to become a Shaker?”
Esther raised sad gray eyes to Gennie’s face. “I truly hope your marriage is a long and happy one, blessed with love and children. Mine was not. Johnny—my husband—he always had such grand plans, and six children slowed him down.”
“He left you to take care of six children by yourself?” Gennie was horrified and, to tell the truth, a little frightened.
“Worse. He decided to join the Shakers. He’s a novitiate, like me. He pressured me to join, too.”
“How could he pressure you?”
“You’d have to know my parents. I came from . . . Well, my parents were dead-set against me marrying Johnny, but I was eighteen and headstrong, and Johnny was so different from the silly boys I’d grown up with. Or so I thought. Anyway, I ran off with him. I wanted children so much. As you can see, we had quite a few.” Esther laughed, and her eyes brightened.
“And money became a problem?” Gennie guessed. “The Depression must have been very hard on such a large family.”
“I loved being a mother. But Johnny, he got more and more irritated with how much time and money children take. He was lucky enough to have a job, but he didn’t earn much. He wanted more, much more. Children got in the way, and after a while, a wife got in the way, too.” Esther stared at the floor. “Johnny said the only way he’d contribute any more to raising the children is if I’d join the Shakers, and if I refused, he’d tell my parents I’d left him. They’d come and get me, and they’d take my children away from me. I know them. They’d hire nannies and tutors, and pretty soon, I wouldn’t be their mother anymore.”
“Your parents are well-to-do?”
“Oh yea. Father never believed in banks or the stock market, so he came through the crash without a scratch. Father would say it’s because most people are gullible and stupid. You can be sure he thinks the same of me for marrying Johnny, and he would never let me forget it.”
A squeal arose from the corner of the room, as Sarah’s story apparently reached an exciting moment. Esther watched the group with tender wistfulness. “I don’t want Father and Mother raising my children,” she said. “I don’t want them to learn the ways of the rich, and I don’t want them to learn to value money above all else.”
“Then I should think the Shakers would be a good choice to raise them.”
“I want to raise my children.” Fury contorted Esther’s delicate features. “Can’t you understand that? They are my children.”
“Yes, of course I understand,” Gennie said quickly. “I’m sure no one, not even the Shakers, could do a better job. Anyway, Hancock seems not to have enough spare hands to raise and educate many children.”
“No, they don’t, but they still don’t want me spending time with my own children. They hired a tutor from Pittsfield to teach them in a room in the Brick Dwelling House. The only reason they are with me now is because the teacher and I arranged it. She could get fired if the Shakers find out.”
Esther nodded to a dark corner of the Meetinghouse. Gennie made out a figure curled up on the floor, covered with a coat. “She is their tutor,” Esther said. “I knew her back in Pittsfield. She’s a seamstress at night and teaches during the day, just to make ends meet. She pretends to take the children on an outing, but she really brings them to me, and she naps while I watch them. They are the only children here right now, so no one has reason to suspect. You’re sure you won’t tell?”
“I promise,” Gennie glanced at her watch, a gift from Grady. She had two minutes to get back to the store. For the first day, she supposed she could claim to have gotten lost, but it wasn’t the best approach to asking for room and board. “I completely understand your need to be with your children,” she said. “In fact, I feel we have a lot in common, and maybe we could be friends.”
Esther didn’t look appalled by the idea, so Gennie forged ahead. “Maybe we could talk again? I feel rather lonely out here, so far from my home.”
“I know what you mean,” Esther said. “Of course, we can talk again. I try to see the children every day about this time, though not always in the same place. Just check the abandoned buildings, you’re likely to run into us.”
“I’ll do that,” Gennie promised. “Until then . . .”
Gennie entered the store at the stroke of one o’clock, only slightly out of breath. She smiled at Abigail, who glanced up briefly from her knitting.
“You haven’t missed a thing, my dear,” Abigail said. “Not a single customer. We have so many lovely items for Mother Ann’s Birthday, and the world doesn’t seem to care in the least.”
No sooner had she spoken than a man entered the shop. From Gennie’s point of view, he was a bit old, maybe late thirties or so, but he was undeniably handsome. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his curly blond hair held only a hint of gray. He wore simple work clothes that could be Shaker or could be of the world, but they fit him well. His wool overcoat clearly came from the world; it nipped in at the waist and was far too fancy for a Shaker coat.
Unfortunately he seemed aware of his appeal. He struck a pose as he entered the door, gazing around with a critical eye as if he owned the store. His gaze paused only briefly when he saw Gennie. She had grown used to attention from men, so she wondered if pretty young girls were of little interest to him. He seemed more concerned with the contents of the room.
“Johnny, how nice of you to stop by,” Abigail said. There was a distinct chill in her voice, and she returned immediately to her knitting.
Johnny. Gennie’s ears perked up. Perhaps this was Johnny Jenkins, Esther’s erstwhile husband and father of her six blond children.
“Abigail,” he said, acknowledging her with a curt nod. “You must be the new girl.” He glanced again at Gennie, then seemed to find a display of oval boxes more enthralling. Gennie didn’t bother to answer.
“I’ll need an inventory as soon as possible,” he said to Abigail, who peered up at him over the top of her spectacles.
“Whatever for?”
“Well, naturally so we’ll know how to direct our efforts in the next few days. Mother Ann’s Birthday is nearly upon us, you know.”
A pink spot appeared on each of Abigail’s cheeks, but she held her tongue. Gennie was both amused and appalled. A novitiate daring to lecture a sister about Mother Ann’s Birthday—he was lucky Abigail was such a gentle soul. Rose would have set him straight.
“Aldon is hopeless with wood,” he said, with a sneer, “so I doubt there will be more boxes. I suppose the pulpit is the only place for him. And Sewell has his head in the clouds, as usual, planning how to restore all those old buildings.”
“Which is precisely what we asked him to do,” Abigail said.
“I know,” Johnny said. “It’s too bad no one has put more thought into what we could do with them once they are restored.”
Abigail’s knitting needles flew, and Gennie busied herself with straightening the items on the counter.
“I’ll need that inventory by tomorrow at the latest, and I also want a list of the prices you are charging. I suspect they are low.” Gennie realized he was talking to her. She looked over at Abigail, who seemed to have vanished behind the red scarf emerging from her needles. Gennie gave Johnny a faint, noncommittal smile and began to dust the counter.
“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning,” Johnny said, as if everyone had jumped at his command. With a last proprietary look around, he was gone.
“That man needs a lesson or three in humility,” Abigail muttered to her knitting.
“Must we put together an inventory of the entire store by tomorrow morning?” Gennie asked, with a hint of panic.
“Of course not. Such nonsense. Our journal is completely up-to-date; I record every item that comes in and everything we sell. If Johnny Jenkins wants an inventory, he can just copy it from the journal. Fannie assigned Johnny to work under Sewell, and it’s more than likely Sewell had nothing to do with this visit. Johnny likes to think he’s in charge. He stops by at least once a week with one of these ‘orders,’ and I give them exactly the time they are worth.”
“Will he come by tomorrow, as he said he would?”
“Possibly, if he doesn’t get distracted by some other scheme. I’ll take care of it, don’t you worry. If I’m not here, just hand him the journal and tell him to start copying. An inventory. Of all the silly wastes of time . . .”
Relieved, Gennie finished her dusting and began rearranging the boxes on an oval candle stand. When she felt she’d given Abigail enough time to recover her good temper, she broached the subject of boarding in the Brick Dwelling House.
“It would be so convenient for everyone,” she said, “not just me. I mean, if you needed anything carried over after the store closes, or if you wanted to keep the store open a little longer before Mother Ann’s Birthday, I’d be right here. You could just call me, and I’d come in a flash. Wouldn’t that be helpful?” Gennie hoped her enthusiasm wasn’t too overdone. In fact, the last thing she wanted was to spend all her time in the Fancy Goods Store.
“I think that’s a lovely idea, my dear,” Abigail said. “Perhaps you could help out elsewhere sometimes, too. The day before the celebration, they will surely need help in the kitchen.”
Oops. The kitchen was definitely not where Gennie wanted to be. But it was too late now, so she put on her happiest, most grateful smile.
“I’ll speak to Fannie directly after the evening meal,” Abigail promised. “Do stay and eat with us, and we’ll make the final arrangements before you go back to town. Sewell can drive you; he’s quite good at negotiating our slippery roads. I’ll send him to pick you up in the morning, as well, so he can carry your luggage to and from the car.”
Gennie thanked her profusely and kept her immediate thought to herself—that, as Sewell was suspected of murder, he might not be the best choice for chauffeur.