Lyn Cote Page 12

  “Resting.” The wife set the tray on the table and sat on a bench as if the action had taken the last of her strength. She bent her head into her hands. “We didn’t need this.”

  The woman’s morose tone moved Kurt. He knew how unexpected disaster dashed hope.

  Miss Thurston patted her cousin’s back. “We will manage. Gunther has offered to stay and help you. Mr. Lang will harvest your corn. I’ll come every evening to do what I can. You’re not alone, Ophelia.”

  When Kurt realized Mrs. Steward was weeping quietly, he stepped away to give her privacy. As he looked at the Steward’s cabin, Kurt had to acknowledge that though he had planned to distance himself from Miss Thurston, circumstances had thrown them together once again.

  What could this mean? Was he being tested to see if he could keep within the boundaries that separated them? What would happen if he couldn’t?

  *

  After the long day of labor at the Steward’s had been completed, once more Kurt held out his hand to help Miss Thurston onto Martin’s pony cart to take her home. He didn’t know what to say so he slapped the reins and started down the path. Darkness cloaked them, though a nearly full moon lit their way. Turmoil over sitting beside her again unsettled him.

  William lay asleep in his cradle in the back. Exhausted to his marrow, Kurt wished he could lie down and sleep, too. In addition to helping with canning what they called catsup, jars and jars of the red sauce, he’d shown Gunther how to help Martin move, and he’d brought in several bags of corn and stored it in the corn crib to dry, all after working since dawn.

  Crickets chattered, unseen. A mourning dove cooed overhead. Yet the human silence stretching between Kurt and the schoolteacher wasn’t the pleasant kind they had begun to share during Gunther’s lessons. Tension vibrated between them.

  “I can’t believe this has happened,” Miss Thurston finally said. “Right in the midst of harvest. Martin kept trying to move till you insisted he was making his condition worse, not better. Thank you.” She glanced at him sideways. “Thank you, Mr. Lang, for all you have done today.”

  “Gunther and I will get Martin’s crop in. You need not worry.”

  “I promised Ophelia I’d dig potatoes next Saturday.” She sighed, exhaustion in her voice.

  “You would dig potatoes?” he asked with surprise.

  “My mother always had a kitchen garden. I used to help her with it. I like growing things and picking things. I’ve never dug potatoes, though. But since I’ll probably be invited to eat many of the potatoes Martin has grown, I better be ready to dig some,” she added, evidently trying to lighten the mood.

  He tried to make the image of Miss Thurston digging potatoes fit, but couldn’t. “America is a strange country.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He shook his head, still baffled. “In Germany, no lady digs potatoes.”

  She glanced at him, but the low light merely cast her elegant profile in stark shadow. “I am considered a lady because I am of good reputation, nothing more. Ophelia is a lady, Mrs. Whitmore is a lady. If they can dig potatoes, why can’t I?”

  He shrugged, unable and unwilling to voice his discomfort with this idea. “I hope I am not seen as pretentious,” she added. Her tone had stiffened.

  “What does that word mean?” he asked cautiously, afraid he had offended her.

  “Pretentious describes a person who is self-important, a show-off.”

  “No, you are not pretentious,” he said, sounding out the word new to him. “But you are a lady—a fine lady.”

  She appeared to give thought to his words. “I think I see what you’re trying to say. But this is America. That very first day, when you drove me home, you and I talked about the Grants. Remember?”

  “I remember.” How could I forget that day?

  “In the past, Mrs. Grant was the wife of a man who ran a leather shop with his father. Now she is the wife of the president. Here, people aren’t constrained by society to stay in one place or one rank. We can occupy many different stations in one life. What matters is what we can do, what difference we make in this world.”

  He didn’t respond, torn between the hope that her startling words, this new idea, ignited in him, and the conviction that they did not apply to him. Maybe that is true of Americans, Miss Thurston, but they will never think of me as anything but a foreigner.

  “You are new here and people look down on you because of that.” He sensed her leaning forward a bit to see him better. “But it won’t always be that way.”

  Swinging around to face her, he voiced a sound of disbelief. “No?” Even he was surprised by the sarcasm that laced the word, trickling sourly through him.

  “No,” she repeated with emphasis, ignoring his tone. “Look at Abraham Lincoln. He was born in a log cabin, worked as a farmer, then a lawyer, then became president. So you weren’t born in this country—so what?”

  “You are kind, but that I was born in another county will never be forgotten.”

  “You are building your reputation here in this country every day, Mr. Lang,” Miss Thurston said, sitting straighter. “Don’t you see that? You’ve been given a brand-new start.”

  He’d left Germany exactly for that purpose, yet somehow, inside, he had yet to change, heal. He looked at Miss Thurston beside him, and for a brief moment, he actually considered telling her about what had happened at home, what had driven him to leave his country.

  But he knew he could not. She would never look at him the same way again.

  He faced forward again and fell silent. The hope that had been warring inside him with despair folded inward, unequal to the contest. Hope only set one up for pain.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday morning had come. Ellen’s back and arms ached from the day of making catsup. She finished dressing William in a baby shift Ophelia had made for him and looked at herself in the mirror to check that she was presentable. She felt a pang over how tired she looked, and found herself thinking of what Mr. Lang would see when he looked at her.

  She turned hastily away from the mirror and walked into the schoolroom for worship. There, she paused. She usually sat with the Stewards, and now realized everyone would notice their absence. She must be tired, or else she would have considered that already. Would she be the one to give the bad news?

  She couldn’t resist glancing toward the back to see whether Kurt and Johann had arrived this morning. Perhaps they stayed home to help Gunther with the Stewards. Or perhaps she had somehow offended Mr. Lang last night.

  She approached Noah Whitmore as he prepared for the service. “Are you aware of Martin’s accident?” she asked in a low voice. At his dismayed denial, she told him what had happened yesterday.

  Noah looked shocked. “I’ll ask for prayer. Thank you for telling me, Miss Thurston.” Then he glanced at the wall clock. “I need to begin.”

  Ellen settled down beside Sunny Whitmore, who had obviously overheard Ellen. But she said nothing to Ellen as her husband opened the worship service.

  Unhappy over Mr. Lang’s absence, Ellen let William nap on her lap. She patted him, noticing how he was becoming chubby. For a moment, her heart sang with silent thanksgiving for him. She held in all the blessing of being given this wonder, this child.

  The service progressed to the end, when at last Noah opened the time for intercessory prayer. He announced the news about Martin and a collective sound of dismay went through the congregation.

  “What can we do to help?” Gordy Osbourne, the church deacon, asked.

  “He’ll need help getting in his crop,” Noah began.

  Ellen rose. “Pastor, Kurt Lang has already volunteered to bring in Martin’s crop. Since he is the nearest neighbor, he’s the one who came to help us with Martin.”

  An odd silence followed, a prickly momentary pause as Ellen sat again. Then Gordy brought up another need. “Ophelia, that is Mrs. Steward, will need help with chores and such.”

  Ellen raised her hand, her
mood lifting. “Gunther Lang volunteered to stay with the Stewards and do Martin’s chores, as well as help with his care. I think the Langs must all be at the Steward’s now, helping my cousins. That’s most likely why they are not here this morning.”

  Another pause came, filled with some ominous meaning Ellen couldn’t read.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Noah said. “The Langs are the closest neighbors to the Stewards—”

  “But they’re foreigners,” a man in the back objected. “Do the Stewards want them around?”

  Anger ignited and blazed within Ellen, nearly consuming her, tying her throat into a knot. She was astounded. And yet, given the conversation she and Mr. Lang had had just last night, she should not have been. In fact, she should have expected this.

  Noah looked distressed, his head tilting down with disfavor. “The Langs have always been good neighbors to the Stewards and I don’t know what being foreign has to do with one Christian helping another. The Langs have never missed a Sunday at worship until today. In fact, Kurt helped build this very school that you are sitting in now,” Noah said, gesturing to the walls around them. “I think as we pray today we need to remember that in God, there is no Greek or Jew, slave or free, man or woman. To him, we are all loved and valued the same. He sees no difference between us.” He held up both hands. “Let’s pray for the Stewards and the others who can’t be with us today.”

  The fire of Ellen’s anger began to die down, thanks to Noah. She hoped his words would give the good people of Pepin something to think about. Because their words had certainly given her something to think about.

  She’d told Mr. Lang the community would come to accept him. Now she hoped she’d told him the truth.

  *

  Sitting at the Ashford’s table for Sunday dinner, Ellen tried to keep her mind from wondering how Ophelia and Martin were faring today. After the meal, she intended to walk out and see for herself. Maybe Amanda would watch William for her. Right now her little one lay on a blanket nearby, trying to roll over.

  Mrs. Ashford finished loading the table with dishes and removed her apron. The delicious aromas of bacon in the green beans and butter melting on corn bread started Ellen’s mouth watering. Mr. Ashford said grace, and then his wife motioned for him to start passing the bowls. She glanced at Ellen.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about Martin’s unfortunate accident. But I was surprised to hear the Stewards had become thick with the Dutch.”

  Ellen’s fork stilled as she stared at the storekeeper’s wife.

  “Miss Thurston, I’m glad you told everyone about Gunther volunteering to help the Stewards,” Amanda said, glancing sideways at each parent in turn. “People are so mean to him just because he wasn’t born here. What does that matter?”

  Both Amanda’s parents reacted with deep disapproving frowns. Mrs. Ashford shook her head, her nose elevated. Something snapped inside Ellen.

  “Yes, Amanda, and they’re mean to Mr. Lang and Johann, too. Why? Just because they speak with an accent?”

  Mrs. Ashford replied stiffly, “It’s because they aren’t Americans.”

  “Gunther is going to become an American citizen,” Amanda piped up. “He’s studying with Miss Thurston so he’ll be ready to take the test to be a citizen.”

  Both her parents looked at Amanda with startled disapproval.

  Ellen’s heart beat faster for the girl. To distract the parents, Ellen rushed on, “My great-grandfather, Patrick, came from Ireland as an indentured servant just before the Revolution. I’m sure he faced the same prejudice as immigrants now. But we are not ashamed of him.”

  “You’re part Irish?” Mrs. Ashford said, sounding surprised. The unchanging prejudice against the Irish was particularly sharp.

  “Yes, I am.” Ellen had lost her appetite but she forced herself to begin eating.

  “But he was your great-grandfather,” Mr. Ashford pointed out. “That’s a long time ago.”

  Ellen sighed inwardly. Maybe she had indeed misinformed Mr. Lang last night when she suggested that the people of Pepin would come to accept him. Would these people ever give Mr. Lang or Gunther or Johann a chance, or would the Langs carry the burden of this unreasonable bias for the rest of their lives?

  She wanted nothing more than to find a way to help the community see how sweet Johann was, and how Gunther was growing into a fine young man…

  …and what a wonderful, generous person Mr. Kurt Lang was. As she thought of him, his handsome face came to mind, wearing one of his endearing smiles. She thought of how when she’d walked through town with William recently, people hadn’t frowned at her as before but they hadn’t come up and cooed over him like they did over the other babies in town. But Mr. Lang always greeted her and tickled William’s chin to make him grin. His kind nature always came through to her.

  Mr. Lang and his family didn’t deserve the shoddy treatment they usually received. Perhaps it was time she came up with a plan.

  *

  Several days later, Ellen stood at the front of the schoolroom, a tad buoyant. She had some good news for her students that she couldn’t wait to share.

  “Children, do you remember when I told you about my desire to have a spelling bee in the spring? Well, I have received a letter from the school at Bear Lake.” She held it up. “The teacher writes that their school will participate in our spelling bee.”

  The children applauded, and their excitement cheered her.

  “Since we now have one school committed to the spring spelling bee, today we will formally begin practicing. To prepare us for competition, we will form two teams and spell against each other. Starting with Amanda, count off by twos, please.”

  Amanda announced, “One!”

  The boy beside her counted off, “Two.” The separating count ended with the first row where Johann sat among the first graders.

  “Now number ones go to my right and number twos go to my left. Stand against the opposite walls.” She motioned with her hands. As the children went to their places, Ellen overheard one boy say to another. “Bad luck. We got the Dutch kid on our team. You watch. We’ll lose.”

  The words hit her and she experienced the strange feeling of being drawn back like stone in a slingshot. She opened her mouth to reprimand the boy, but telling people how they should think or feel never worked well. A better idea quickly came to mind, which would send a strong message without her having to say a word to him.

  “The captain of team one will be Amanda Ashford. The captain of team two will be Johann Lang.”

  A few members of team two groaned. She cast them a wordless scold and they lowered their chins, and then gazed directly at the boy who had made the rude comment about Johann. He, too, looked at the floor.

  She opened her copy of Webster’s American Spelling Book as she explained the rules. “If a team member misspells a word, he or she will sit down. The team with the last person standing wins. I’ll begin with team one. Amanda, step forward, repeat the word I give you, then spell it, and repeat the word, please. Your word is zeal.”

  Amanda stepped forward, standing very straight. “Zeal. Z-e-a-l. Zeal.”

  “Correct! You may shift to the end of your row.” Ellen smiled and tried to look cheerful and not too serious. This should be fun, too. She turned to Johann. “Your first word is kin.”

  Johann chewed his lower lip. Finally the girl standing next to him shoved him forward. “Kin,” Johann parroted, staring at the floor. “K…i…n. Kin.”

  Ellen’s heart lifted with pride as well as relief. Johann’s face beamed. “Correct! Please move as Amanda did,” she said, trying to sound as neutral as possible.

  She noticed that many in Johann’s row looked startled. We’ll show them, Johann. How she wished Kurt—Mr. Lang—were here to see his nephew’s victory. She could practically hear his deep musical voice congratulating Johann.

  Unable to stop from smiling, she turned to the next student in team one and pronounced the next word as she wondered if
perhaps this spelling bee had even more potential than she realized.

  *

  On Saturday, Kurt paused where he stood on Martin’s land, listening to the voices around him. Miss Thurston had indeed come to dig potatoes. Since just after noon, he had been picking Martin’s corn and stewing over what he must say to Miss Thurston.

  Nearby, Johann and Mrs. Steward also dug potatoes. The storekeeper’s daughter had brought lunch and then stayed to care for the children. She sat on a blanket with the babies in the shade, close to where Gunther was picking corn. Kurt hadn’t missed their frequent exchange of glances. Or the girl’s innocent blushes.

  Fleetingly he recalled being a child, so carefree, so unaware of tragedy. An innocent time in life. Or it should be. He thought of Johann, who faced challenges here that Kurt had never had to face. And he was concerned that Johann being captain of a spelling bee team was only going to make things harder for him.

  Kurt had hoped for a few moments to speak to Miss Thurston but no opportunity had presented itself. He twisted off another rough cob of corn and dropped it in his nearly full sack. When could he get her to himself for a moment?

  Then his wish was granted. Gunther excused himself to go check on Martin. When Mrs. Steward rose to go along with him, Amanda called Johann to watch the children while she prepared a bottle for William. Johann ran to the shady spot, eager to play. Kurt saw his opportunity and forced himself to walk over to Miss Thurston.

  She sat back on her heels and looked up. “Mr. Lang, what can I do for you?”

  She had a smudge of dirt on her nose and across one cheek. In spite of this, and though wearing an old dress and apron, she appeared as elegant as ever. He wrapped up all his foolish feelings and put them away.

  “Miss Thurston, I am glad you choose Johann to be captain, but…”

  “But?” she prompted.

  “Maybe people will not like this and make trouble for Johann.”

  She rose to face him, a militant gleam in her eye. “What kind of trouble?”