PART OF THE BRICK DWELLING HOUSE’S THIRD FLOOR had been set aside to house the female hired help who needed a place to live. Despite the sparse furnishings, for most of the women these were the warmest, cleanest, and most private rooms they had lived in for many years. After Dulcie’s startling revelation, Rose accompanied the young woman back to her room to extract the whole story. Since she’d become eldress, Rose had heard enough of the sisters’ confessions to know that nothing could shock her—and that the process could work miracles with a soul in desperation. It mattered little that Dulcie was not a Shaker sister.
Surrounded by her own belongings, Dulcie was calmer. Rose glanced around the room, so familiar to her because it was so similar to all other Shaker retiring rooms. Dulcie put some effort into keeping it neat. The linens on the narrow bed were as smooth as any Shaker hands could have made them. The floor was swept, and a spare Shaker work dress hung from a hanger hooked over a wall peg. However, Dulcie’s worldly sensibilities showed in the decorations she had placed wherever she could find a surface—a cluster of old photographs in cracked frames; an empty red glass vase; a bottle of cheap perfume; and an old Shaker box, in need of refinishing.
Shyly, Dulcie offered Rose the one ladder-back chair, then sat on her bed. “It was kind of you to bring me back to my room,” she said. “I’m feeling much better now, really I am. You don’t need to stay.”
“I was hoping we could talk awhile,” Rose said.
Dulcie’s puffy eyes roamed around her room, landing everywhere except on Rose. “I wish I could offer you some tea or something.”
“That isn’t necessary.” Rose pulled her chair closer to the bed. “Dulcie, I think we should talk about what you told me just now in the kitchen.”
Dulcie scooted farther back on her bed. “There’s nothing you can do,” she said. “It’s my problem.”
“Nay, it isn’t just your problem,” Rose said. “You are carrying a child, and if you do nothing to care for yourself, you and your child will both suffer.”
Dulcie nervously twirled a ring with a small red stone around her finger.
“Is that your engagement ring?” Rose asked.
“It’s a promise ring. Theodore gave it to me. He’s saving for a real engagement ring.”
Rose’s question seemed to upset Dulcie even more. “I believe that I can help you,” Rose said. “If you will let me. Have you been to a doctor?”
“I could never afford a doctor.”
“The sisters would take you, and they would pay.”
“No, they can’t know. You don’t understand. Oh, I shouldn’t have told you anything. It was so stupid of me. Theodore is right about me.” With an awkward movement that seemed to cause pain, she pulled her legs underneath her.
“Theodore is your fiancé, isn’t he? Did he warn you not to reveal your condition to anyone?”
Dulcie said nothing.
“If he values the world’s opinion over your health and the baby’s future, if he won’t take responsibility, then he is not worthy of you.” The words came out harsher than Rose had intended.
“I know the Hancock Shakers well. I can promise you that Sister Fannie will help you through this, but you must confide in her. Or let me tell her. She and I will guard your privacy as long as possible, and you will have a place to live and be cared for during the birthing.”
“No!” Dulcie flinched, as if the power of her own voice had frightened her. “You can’t tell anyone. Please. Theodore would find out. He would never stand for it. He would leave me. I can’t . . . I can’t let that happen.”
Rose’s compassion was being sorely tested. She considered tucking Dulcie into her bed, then marching right over to Fannie and telling her everything. After all, the Believers considered it helpful to air sins to the entire community. Better to get this all out in the open. Better that she hadn’t gotten involved in the first place, Rose thought. Her still evolving eldress instincts had gotten her into quagmires before. Yet on the other hand, both Dulcie and Theodore were connected with Julia, the dead girl, so Rose must inevitably involve herself with them.
“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “You won’t be able to hide your condition forever, but I won’t reveal it for as long as possible. Meanwhile, I myself will take you to a doctor.” Wilhelm wouldn’t like it, but she could have Andrew wire her sufficient funds to cover the expense of a doctor’s visit and whatever medication might be necessary.
“But then the doctor would know,” Dulcie objected. “He would tell Theodore and everyone else.”
“Doctors don’t do that. He will respect your privacy. If it will help you feel safer, I will take you to a doctor in another town. You must get medical care. You are obviously ill and in pain, and you are putting your baby in danger.”
Dulcie was silent for several moments and then raised her eyes to Rose’s face. “All right,” she said, with a steadier voice. “I’ll go with you to see a doctor. I know it may not seem like it, but I want my baby to have a good life.”
Rose sighed with her whole body. She urged Dulcie to snuggle under her covers and rest. Feeling drained herself, Rose turned out the light and closed the retiring room door behind her. Her work had just become even more complicated. Regretfully, she rejected the notion of a nap and, instead, headed out into the cold to find Brother Ricardo, who oversaw the Brick Garage, so she could arrange to borrow an automobile as soon as possible.
After the excitement of Honora Stearn’s visit, the Hancock Fancy Goods Store had settled into what was, for Gennie, frustrating boredom. Kitchen work was tedious, but at least cooking and cleaning up kept her busy. The flower shop she worked in was slow at times, but she could always immerse herself in arranging flowers and herbs. Here in the Fancy Goods Store, she had absolutely, totally nothing to do. Though it had only been a few hours, she felt as if she’d already sat for days, watching the door for any sign of an actual human being.
Sister Abigail spent her time in apparent bliss, rocking gently and knitting a red scarf at breakneck speed. She had asked nothing of Gennie, and she offered nothing in the way of conversation. Meanwhile, Gennie had wiped imaginary dust from every item in the store and rearranged the display of boxes. At Abigail’s urging, she had sampled the candied sweetflag, savoring its sweet spiciness. Now she slumped against the curved slats of a ladder-back chair and lapsed into fond thoughts of Grady and longings to be with him.
Working in the store, she decided, would net her nothing except to keep her safely away from the excitement, which she suspected was Rose’s intent all along. She should have insisted on pretending to be a novitiate. She’d be in the thick of things right now, working side by side with the murder suspects. The thought of what she was missing propelled her out of her chair so fast that it scraped the floor. Abigail started, gave her a puzzled look, then began to count her stitches.
“Sorry, I . . .” Gennie said, but Abigail was already engrossed in her knitting. With a sigh, Gennie turned to the window. A young man was approaching the store. He was dressed in simple brown work clothes, clearly Shaker in style, though not as old-fashioned as the clothing Wilhelm insisted they wear in North Homage. He must be one of the novitiates.
From what she could see, he was tall and thin and not at all bad-looking. She’d lived with the Shakers long enough to experience a twinge of guilt when she noticed an attractive man, but that didn’t stop her. He swept some snow off the steps with his feet, then whipped off his hat as he crossed the porch toward the front door. Gennie caught sight of wavy black hair, streaked with silver.
By the time he came through the inner door leading to the Fancy Goods Store, Gennie had positioned herself behind the counter. She gave him a welcoming smile as he entered. He stopped just inside the door and returned her smile, holding her gaze with his own. There was something else in those liquid brown eyes, something compelling. Now she felt genuine guilt. However, she told herself that this intriguing man was a Shaker novitiate and just being friendly to the newly hired help. Nothing to worry about. But she rearranged her face into a more businesslike demeanor.
“Sewell, how nice of you to stop by,” Abigail said, carefully pushing her knitting back on the needles and laying it on her rocking chair seat as she rose to greet him. “Let me introduce you to Miss Gennie Malone, who has come all the way up from the South to help us. Gennie, this is Sewell, soon to be one of the brethren, we hope.” Such was the pride and warmth in her voice that Abigail might have been introducing her own son.
Sewell shifted his gaze back to Gennie, tilting his head with interest. Gennie felt her cheeks flush.
“All the way from the warm South, just to help us? We are honored,” he said. He had a gentle voice, which reminded Gennie of her favorite crick, behind the herb fields at North Homage, after a spring rain. It was impossible to take offense at his teasing.
“Sewell has been such a godsend,” Abigail said. “He has architectural training, you know, and he has been developing all sorts of wonderful plans for saving our poor old buildings.”
Gennie noticed that Sewell continued to hold her eyes while Abigail extolled his virtues. “It’s work that I enjoy,” he said, with quiet modesty. “Did you know the Shakers in Kentucky?” he asked.
“I’ve heard good things about them.”
“Ah. Then perhaps you are considering becoming a Believer?”
Gennie couldn’t think of a quick answer to that, so she just shrugged.
“That was too personal a question, I’m sorry,” Sewell said. “I only wondered because you’ve come such a long way just to be with Shakers.” He shifted his gaze and his smile to Abigail.
“I’ve come with difficult news, Abigail,” he said. “I may not be able to finish those oval boxes you wanted as quickly as I’d hoped. The police want to question me again this afternoon. I suspect they may arrest me for Julia’s murder.”
Abigail dropped onto her rocking chair with a thump, ignoring the pile of knitting beneath her. “They can’t possibly think you had anything to do with that. Can they?” Her voice came out as a squeak.
Now that she was no longer the object of attention, Gennie watched Sewell carefully. She was surprised at his open admission of his fears. She noted that he was more than thin; he was gaunt, his flesh drawn tightly over long, slight bones. In the light from the windows, his cheeks were hollow caverns beneath his cheekbones. Gennie felt an urge to feed him.
Before Sewell had a chance to answer, a thin young woman, dressed in worldly work clothes and carrying a basket full of fabric items, slipped in the door just behind him. She edged around and stood too close to him. He didn’t move, but his eyes darted nervously. The young woman’s grin and one arched eyebrow conveyed both flirtation and challenge, as if she were daring him to step out of bounds.
“Hello, Carlotta,” he said. With a nod to Gennie and Abigail, he was out the door before Carlotta could formulate a response.
Carlotta turned her grin on Gennie. “Dreamy, isn’t he?” she asked. “You must be the girl who’s takin’ Julia’s place, now she’s dead.”
Gennie said nothing. As she remembered from Rose’s description, Carlotta was a hired girl, a friend of Julia’s, who worked in the kitchen, which probably explained her odd disposition. Kitchen work could make anyone cranky and rebellious.
“Are those the extra pincushions the sisters promised?” Abigail asked, with none of the warmth she’d lavished on Sewell.
“Yeah, and some of those ugly apple-head dolls.”
“I’ll take them, and you can get back to work.”
“Sure,” said Carlotta. “Also, Fannie said I should ask if you want Miss Gennie here to have a sandwich during the noon meal, like Julia used to sometimes, so you can go eat in the dining room with the others. Of course, after Julia, you may not want any more girls left alone in the shop.”
“That’ll be enough, Carlotta. No one can be sure it was Julia who took those items, so don’t go spreading stories around. The poor girl is gone; leave her be.” Abigail turned to Gennie. “Would you be willing to stay and eat here while I’m in the dining room? After I return, you can have an hour to yourself before coming back to work. Otherwise, we have to close the store during the noon hour.”
“That would be fine,” Gennie said, trying to keep her enthusiasm out of her voice. An hour on her own, to wander around the village. Then she could finally get some useful sleuthing done.
“I’ll be along in about half an hour then,” Carlotta said. “Wish I could stay for a chat, but the food won’t cook itself.”
Abigail and Gennie watched Carlotta negotiate the snowy walk toward the Brick Dwelling House. “I know that girl is a friend of Dulcie’s,” Abigail muttered, “but I’m glad she’ll only be here through Mother Ann’s Birthday. I doubt she does much work at all when no one is looking. It’s so difficult these days, with so few of us. Right now we have nearly as much hired help as we do Believers, and none of them cares about work as we do. Not even Dulcie and Theodore, though they’re the best of the lot.”
Abigail shook her head and returned to her rocking chair to resume her knitting. She seemed to have forgotten Gennie’s presence. “Imagine accusing Julia of theft, just because she worked here,” Abigail muttered under her breath as she frowned at her stitches. “Why, it could have been anyone wandering in when there was just poor Julia to watch over everything. Probably just a child wanting a toy to play with. They have so little nowadays.”