GENNIE WAS UP EARLY, NEARLY AS EARLY AS WHEN SHE’D lived with the Shakers, but her motive for doing so was less than noble. She hoped to avoid Helen Butterfield’s too-curious interest in her comings and goings. Mrs. Alexander was still sleeping off her countless glasses of sherry, so Gennie was able to tiptoe into the kitchen, break off hunks of bread and cheese for herself, and be out the door before hearing a sound from any of the other rooms in the boardinghouse.
She eased the heavy front door shut behind her and stood on the large, covered porch, nibbling her bread and cheese and wondering what on earth to do next. She had to get to Hancock Village, which she knew to be just a few miles down the road from Pittsfield. How to get there was the question.
The boardinghouse was located on a wide street lined with large Victorian houses—palaces, they seemed to Gennie—which showed no signs of life. The predawn light gave a grayish cast to the snow that covered everything in sight. Her breath froze into puffs of white smoke, and her stylish but thin wool coat, plenty warm enough for a Kentucky winter, felt no thicker than cotton flannel. She longed for a nice, heavy Shaker Dorothy cloak with a deep hood.
I’m not doing any good just standing here, Gennie lectured herself. Hanging on to the railing, she navigated the icy steps and skidded toward the sidewalk. Her smooth-soled boots had been made for Kentucky, too. With a guilty lilt of pleasure, she decided that a shopping trip was called for. Grady had made sure she had plenty of money, so the only problem would be finding the time. Perhaps she could buy what she needed from the Shakers. The Fancy Goods Store must have cloaks, at least.
Heartened by these thoughts, Gennie pulled her coat tighter around her small body and headed in the direction of the railway station. When she and Rose had arrived the day before, Rose had somehow arranged for transportation to take Gennie to the boardinghouse, so the station must be where taxis and so forth gathered. It had seemed like a short trip. Surely she could get there by foot. It did occur to her to wonder how safe she was, walking all alone before dawn on strange city streets. Was Massachusetts as safe and friendly as Languor, Kentucky?
After six blocks, Gennie decided that either she’d gone off in the wrong direction, or she’d miscalculated the distance to the railway station. Her boots were soaked through, her hands and cheeks felt raw, and she thought she’d never be warm again. However, the sun had appeared on the horizon, and the snow had begun to sparkle. She’d reached a street with small shops, in which lights were flicking on. Her spirits lifted. Surely she’d soon be able to ask directions. Maybe she wouldn’t even have to go as far as the station; maybe someone kind would offer her a ride.
As if in answer to her unspoken prayer, she heard the honk of a car horn, and a dirt-streaked, gray-and-black Model A coupe sloshed to a halt beside her. Behind the wheel sat Helen Butterfield. She wore a jaunty, brown-lacquered straw hat, which contrasted sharply with her thick fur coat. She waved and leaned over to open the passenger door. Unable to think of a reason not to, Gennie slid in beside her.
“Well, here you are, my dear. I knocked on your door this morning, thinking we might breakfast together, but when there was no answer, well, I must admit I got worried and peeked inside. Yes, I know, it was rude of me to do so, but I couldn’t bear to think of you ill and unable to answer, so I went ahead and did the rude thing.” Helen glanced sideways at her. “What on earth can you be doing out so early?”
I could ask you the same thing, Gennie thought, but was too polite to say. “Just exploring,” she said. “I’m an early riser.”
“I’ll say,” Helen said. “You must have been out walking before dawn.”
Gennie said nothing.
“As I mentioned last evening, I’m heading on out to Hancock,” Helen said. “Why not come along?”
God had a funny way of answering one’s prayers, Gennie thought. All in all, she’d have preferred a taxi. She’d have to be more specific next time.
“That would be wonderful,” Gennie said. “You said you collected Shaker things, didn’t you? Isn’t it a bit early to go rummaging through Hancock’s extra furniture?”
“Oh, just thought I’d get an early start, you know. Yes, collecting, that’s what I do; it’s my passion. Who knows, somebody else might be looking for the same items I am, so the faster I get there, the more likely I’ll be the one to get just what I want.”
“What do you want?” Gennie was torn; she appreciated the ride and the warmth, but Helen Butterfield annoyed her.
“Oh, you know, some of those wonderful ladder-back chairs, for instance.”
“Didn’t the Shakers make lots of ladder-back chairs? Can they really be so rare?”
“You’d be surprised,” Helen said. “Do you think you’ll try for a job in the Fancy Goods Store?”
“Probably.” Gennie turned her head away from Helen and stared out the window at the frozen countryside as they sped along far too fast on the snowy road.
“Whoops!” Helen said cheerfully as they skidded over a clump of ice. She straightened the car with the ease of an expert and picked up speed again.
“We’ll be there before you know it,” Helen said. “I’ll introduce you to Sister Abigail in the Fancy Goods Shop. I’ve been there before, so I know my way around. In fact, I’d be glad to give you a tour.”
“I couldn’t trouble you,” Gennie said quickly. “I’m sure I’ll find my way around in no time. I’m more interested in securing a job just now.”
“Of course,” Helen said. To Gennie’s relief, she lapsed into silence until they reached the entrance to Hancock Village.
“Well, here we are,” Helen said, as she pulled up beside an ornate, Victorian building.
“Are you sure?” Gennie asked.
“I know why you’re startled,” Helen said. “It doesn’t look much like a Shaker building, does it? Late last century, the Hancock Shakers thought they’d renovate their Trustees’ Office, which is what this building used to be.”
Gennie gazed in surprise at the porch, the bay windows, and the narrow tower that reached above the roof. “Why would they do such a thing?” she asked.
“No idea. Maybe they wanted to blend in better—you know, so folks would be more comfortable and maybe want to become Shakers. Anyway, wait until you see the Fancy Goods Store. It’s a collector’s delight. Come along, they’ll be open by now. They’re up and about early.” For a plump woman, Helen bounced out of the coupe with ease, then slammed the door. Gennie followed more slowly. She was still in shock. The buildings back in North Homage always kept their clean and simple lines, even when they were renovated.
Gennie followed Helen across the porch and through the front door. To her right, she caught a brief glimpse of a parlor that could have been in any house of the world. Helen entered a doorway to the left. Gennie found herself in an enchanting room crammed with Shaker memorabilia. The pegs encircling the room were all put to use holding everything from flat brooms to lovely Dorothy cloaks fashioned from bright red broadcloth and lined with silk. Colorful weavings hung over the ladder-back chairs, and baskets and curved wood boxes covered several round tables. A long countertop divided the room and also served to display candies and other small items, such as linen kerchiefs, fans, and bottles of rosewater.
Gennie was drawn toward the glass case on top of the counter. It looked as if it had been transported from a bakery, complete with frothy confections. She’d never seen such a display of small boxes of all shapes, lined with blue and red and violet satin. Scattered among the boxes she saw calico or satin-covered pincushions, some with shiny maple stands that could clamp to the side of a table. In the corners sat some Shaker dolls with funny, wrinkled heads. Gennie examined them more closely and realized the heads were made of dried apples. She couldn’t remember the North Homage sisters ever making such dolls.
As if guarding the goodies beneath them, several Shaker dolls with porcelain heads—the kind Gennie remembered—were propped up on top of the glass case. The women clustered on the left, and the men on the right. All were dressed as if they had just returned from Sabbathday dancing worship, the sisters in loose butternut wool dresses and dark blue cloaks, the brethren in blue trousers and surcoats. Their painted china faces smiled complacently, as though worship had left them content.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Helen gave Gennie a little push into the room and guided her toward the counter, where an elderly sister sat in a rocking chair, barely visible behind a large jar of candied sweetflag root. “Let me introduce you to Sister Abigail.”
“However did you make all these lovely things?” Gennie asked. “I thought there were so few . . . I mean . . .”
Sister Abigail grinned, creating rippling wrinkles around the corners of her mouth. “I know what you mean, child, and you are right. We are few now, but we wanted to make this a very special birthday for Mother Ann, so we’ve worked hard. And to be honest, we asked our brothers and sisters at Sabbathday Lake for help, and they sent us boxes of beautiful items from their own supply.” Abigail wore a modified version of the old-fashioned Shaker dress that Gennie was used to; it was more fitted to the sister’s spare frame, with a small shawl that buttoned over her bodice.
“So you know something about us Shakers?” Abigail asked.
“Yes, a bit.” Gennie launched into her story—which she’d perfected since the night before—that she’d wanted to go out into the world and fend for herself, and she wanted to see what it was like to live in a totally different part of the country. The story sounded weak as she recited it, but Abigail seemed to sympathize.
“As it happens,” she said, “we are in need of some help just now.” She said nothing about Julia’s death. “Can you count out change?”
“Of course. I finished school, and I’ve worked in a flower shop, so I even have some sales experience.”
“Then welcome. Have you someplace to be now, or would you like to begin?”
“I’d like to begin.”
Helen Butterfield had kept silent through the entire negotiation, and Gennie had almost forgotten her presence. Now Helen heaved herself out of a rocking chair in the corner. “What great luck,” she said. “I’ll be in and out every day to look at furniture and such, so I’ll drive you to and from. This will be such fun!”
“Fun” wasn’t the word that came to Gennie’s mind. She’d have to be clever to do her sleuthing with Helen hanging over her shoulder. Though it was selfish and Rose would disapprove, Gennie said a silent prayer for the widow Mrs. Butterfield to become totally engrossed in her hunt for collectibles and to forget Gennie’s existence. Helen, apparently unaffected by Gennie’s prayer, sank back into the rocker with a sigh of contentment.
Gennie hid her aggravation with a bright smile as a tall, middle-aged woman entered the store. The woman’s expression hardened as she stared at Gennie, who felt like slinking behind the counter.
“Honora, how nice of you to drop in,” Sister Abigail said, with a friendliness that sounded forced. To Gennie’s relief, Honora’s harsh gaze shifted away from her, and she was able to study the woman without embarrassment. She recognized the name. From what she’d gathered during Mrs. Alexander’s sherry-induced mumblings, the novitiate named Aldon had abandoned both his wife and his job as a minister to become a Believer. Honora was his wife’s name, and this Honora certainly looked bitter enough to be an abandoned wife.
“We’ve finished more cloaks,” Abigail said. “I know you were interested at one time. Shall I show you? We can always hem one to fit you.”
“No, thank you.” Honora’s voice was deep and clipped, as if she resented the suggestion. She picked up a basket, frowned as if disappointed in its quality, and dropped it back on the table. Gennie was intrigued. Honora must once have been a lovely young woman. She had high cheekbones and full lips, and her thick brown hair, lightly streaked with gray, was pulled into a bun that rested on her neck. Her clothes were at least ten years old, Gennie guessed. Her dress had the shapeless look of a 1920s style, and Gennie could see the line in the fabric where the hem had been lowered. Matted fur trimmed the neck and wrists of her wool coat, and one elbow was close to needing a patch. Gennie doubted Honora could afford the twenty-six dollars for a Shaker cloak.
“I wish to speak to the eldress,” Honora said. “Please call her here.”
Abigail paused a few moments before responding. “I’m sure Fannie would be delighted to speak with you later in the day,” she said. “Right now, I’m afraid she is busy with preparations for the celebration. You are planning to attend, aren’t you? We’d love to have you.”
“If the eldress refuses to speak with me, I will go directly to my husband.”
Abigail stiffened. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. As you know, the brethren must keep apart.”
“He isn’t one of your so-called brethren, he is my husband, and I have a right to speak with him. What kind of people are you, anyway? You are keeping a wife from her husband. I should send the police out here. This can’t be legal.”
“I’m deeply sorry,” Abigail said softly, “that Aldon’s decision to become a Believer has caused you pain, Honora, but it is his decision to make, and I can’t help but believe he was guided here. I pray that you will soften your heart toward him.”
“Look at it this way,” said Helen, from her rocking chair, “he hasn’t left you for another woman. It took God to replace you.” Helen beamed, as if she had offered the ultimate comfort. Gennie held her breath and watched, from her safe space behind the counter.
Her dark eyes crackling like fireworks, Honora turned on Helen. “Who are you, and what gives you the right to speak to me like that?” She looked Helen up and down. “You’re obviously not one of them, you’re too fat and lazy, so I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.” She turned toward the door, then suddenly swiveled around. Gennie couldn’t help shrinking back as Honora marched to the counter, grabbed a handful of candied sweetflag, glared defiantly around the room, and left.
The store was silent for several minutes after Honora’s dramatic exit. Gennie slid into a ladder-back chair and thought fondly of her nice, quiet mornings in the Languor Flower Shop, where the angriest customer she’d dealt with had complained that his roses had wilted before he could present them to his sweetheart.
“Does she visit often?” Gennie asked.
“Once or twice a week, I’m afraid,” Abigail said. She released a long sigh. “She’s very hungry, poor woman. Very hungry and very angry.”
Rose busied herself scrubbing pans, everyone’s least favorite task, and pondered the silence. Fannie had introduced her all around the kitchen, then left. Rose was the only Shaker sister in the room, and the two hired women seemed to feel too shy to talk around her. They avoided looking in her direction, so she took advantage of the situation to study them.
Both young women appeared to be about the same age, but there the similarity ended. Dulcie Masters, the dead girl’s sister, was dressed in an old, loose Shaker work dress and she wore no apron, so her figure was completely hidden. Her face was round and pale. She moved quickly and seemed intent on her task. Though no indoor cap covered her pale brown hair, she looked and acted as if she were indeed a sister.
The woman named Carlotta DiAngelo was dark and thin, all sharp angles, with the hooded eyes of a hawk. Her gray cotton work dress fitted her snugly and fell to just below her knees, as if she’d grown up wearing it. Her movements were slow, bored. Clearly, she would rather be somewhere else.
Though both women wore light sweaters, neither seemed to notice the chill, which drove Rose to keep her hands in the warm, soapy water as long as possible. The kitchen was located in the basement of the Brick Dwelling House, and the several large ovens mostly went unused, so the temperature was much lower than Rose was used to back in North Homage’s kitchen. Her wool work dress wasn’t enough to keep her shoulders warm. She’d thought about working in her cloak, but it would be awkward.
The pans finished, Rose dried her hands and decided it was time to get the two women to talk. The faster she resolved this terrible situation, the faster she could get home to her own warm, cozy kitchen.
“Fannie mentioned that you two grew up together in Pittsfield,” Rose said, as she swung a copper-bottomed pan onto a wall peg. She turned back around to find Dulcie staring wide-eyed at her as if she’d threatened them with expulsion into the cold.
“Why’d you want to talk to Fannie about us for?” Carlotta’s expression had hardened into a mask of distrust. “We ain’t important. We’re just the hired help. Although you’d hardly know it to look at Dulcie.” She grinned at Dulcie, whose cheeks reddened.
“We do not think less of you because you are not Shakers,” Rose said.
Neither woman responded. Rose suspected they did not believe her. “Is there anything the sisters could do to make you feel more welcome here? I’d be glad to help.”
Carlotta snorted softly, and Dulcie said only, “The sisters have been very kind.” She lifted a flat broom from its peg and began sweeping up crumbs from under the worktable.
Rose had hoped to earn some trust to ease her questioning, but she saw her stay in Hancock stretching into weeks if she could not find a way to loosen the tongues of these people. Fannie had said that Carlotta was a bit of a gossip, but she certainly hid it well. Back in Kentucky, Rose could always count on a gossip to be a good source of information. Maybe people were different here, more closemouthed around strangers. Agatha wasn’t there to urge her to be patient, and Rose was not one to sit on her hands. It was time to push ahead.
“Dulcie,” she said, keeping her voice gentle and friendly, “I’m so sorry about your sister’s sad death. You must be very upset. Were you close?”
Dulcie stopped in mid-sweep and looked as if she might crumple. But she said only “Thank you,” and returned to her sweeping.
Rose tried again. “Carlotta, Fannie mentioned that you and Julia were the same age. Did you go to school together?”
Carlotta laughed. “If you can call fourth grade school,” she said.
“You didn’t go to the Shaker school?”
Carlotta shrugged her bony shoulders. “For a year. It was boring. I had better ways to spend my time.” She snorted and tossed her straight dark hair, like a frustrated mare impatient for her feed. “Maybe things are different down where you come from, but around here, we have to work hard just to eat and stay warm. Julia and me, we didn’t have rich families. We had to make do.”
“You went to work young?” Rose asked.
Carlotta didn’t respond.
“I suppose you had to work also, Dulcie?”
Again, Carlotta gave her characteristic snort. It was beginning to irritate Rose. “Dulcie? No, she’s the baby sister. She got to go all the way through the Shaker school, got herself this job, and even got herself engaged, didn’t you, Dulcie?” The bitterness in Carlotta’s voice was unmistakable. She slopped a damp cloth onto the worktable as if it were responsible for her hard life.
“It’s not my fault you and Julia were so wild,” Dulcie said. Her soft voice slid into a whine. “You didn’t have to go and—”
“You mind your own affairs, Miss Dulcie Goody Two-Shoes,” Carlotta said, “and I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if you’re wilder than you let on.” She tossed her cloth in the sink and headed for the door. “You two can clean this place up by yourselves.”
Rose watched Carlotta’s thin back disappear. It seemed her questions had poked at a sore spot or two. It might be worth tracking down some information about this so-called wildness that Dulcie had attributed to both Carlotta and Julia. At this point, Rose was willing to look at anything that might help explain the girl’s death. She turned to ask Dulcie for more information, but the young woman’s cheeks had lost all color, and her chest heaved under her loose bodice. Before Rose realized what was happening, Dulcie’s eyes rolled upward, and she collapsed, crashing against a ladder-back chair as she fell.
Rose ran to her and felt her pulse, which was slow and weak. She had broken the delicate chair and scraped her forehead on a cracked slat. An alarming amount of blood ran down the side of her head. Rose grabbed a clean rag and pressed it against the wound. She decided not to raise the alarm just yet. The cut was small, surely too small to need a stitch, and she knew that even slight head wounds bled profusely. This might be her only chance to probe Dulcie’s secrets without prying ears around. She wished fervently that she could call Josie, North Homage’s Infirmary nurse, whose discretion could be counted on.
In a few minutes, the bleeding stopped. Dulcie moaned and opened her eyes. She squinted at Rose as if she couldn’t place her, then tried to scramble to her feet too quickly and tumbled down again. This time, Rose was able to catch her by her shoulders, which felt surprisingly thin.
“You’ve hurt yourself, but not too badly,” Rose said, helping Dulcie to an undamaged chair. “But I’m very concerned about this fainting spell. Have you had any before now?”
Dulcie shook her head.
“Have you been feeling unwell?”
“Just a little. It’s nothing to worry about.” Dulcie tried to stand, and Rose pushed her back down.
“A fainting spell is indeed something to worry about,” Rose said, using the firm tone she reserved for sisters who tried to avoid a much-needed confession. “You need to tell someone. If you are afraid to talk to Fannie or any of the Hancock sisters for fear of losing your job, then you’d better tell me. I can help you, and I give my word as a Believer that I will do my utmost to protect you.” She pulled over another chair and sat directly across from Dulcie. “Let me help you,” she said, more gently.
Tears spilled down Dulcie’s cheeks and diluted the track of drying blood. She wiped away the tears and swallowed hard. Her red-rimmed eyes searched Rose’s face with the hope and longing of a terrified child.
“If you tell,” she said, “my life will be over.”
Rose leaned toward her and took her cold hands. “If you don’t let someone help you, this secret, whatever it is, might make you very ill.”
Dulcie took a deep, ragged breath. “I’m not ill,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”