Charles was designing a Lutheran church sited at Wayland’s Corner.
“I think not. It will arrive. It always does. Remember how Mother and Bettina would have a robin party when they saw the first robin?”
Rachel leaned back. “I find myself looking back more now, especially since the children came. I wish Mother were here to see them.”
“I wish Mother were here to help!” Catherine laughed.
“Which reminds me, where is JohnJohn?”
“With his father. My husband is like your husband. He rose, dressed, ate breakfast, then hurried to pick up JohnJohn, his little shadow. That boy wants to do everything that John does. Poor little fellow gets in the way, but eventually he falls asleep and John carries him back down to Ruth. If it breathes, Ruth loves it. I think she’d mother frogs if she could. If it’s warm, she puts him under a tree or in a wagon.”
The two smiled for Ruth, in her early thirties, who loved young things and showed a real gift for children. They took to her and she knew when and what they were ready to learn, whether it was how to build a box or their ABCs. If a woman, slave or free, couldn’t handle or understand a child, usually that woman found her way to Ruth, including powerful mistresses from other estates.
“He’s going to be the spitting image of John.” Rachel again looked out the window, and it was snowing harder. “I’ve discovered I like working with Charles, like the drawings, like the walking over building sites. I could never understand how you could sit and go over business plans with Father. Now I do. When something fills your mind, best to learn and do.”
“We’d both die fiddling with needlepoint. Which reminds me. Father told me that Maureen Selisse is having great success with the foundry, but here’s the odd part, she is allowing Sheba to advertise and sell fabrics and needlepoint.”
“What? Since when did that holy horror ever evidence any flair for texture, color, much less needlepoint design? All Sheba can do is make other people’s lives miserable,” Rachel remarked with feeling.
Catherine shrugged. “The real story is Maureen is keeping her lady-in-waiting happy.”
“Curious.” Rachel tapped her fingers on the smooth wooden tabletop.
“Indeed. Sheba knows what really happened when Francisco was stabbed to death. I don’t believe their story about Moses killing him. Never did.”
Francisco was Maureen’s husband, who bedeviled and violated regularly a gorgeous slave woman, Ailee. The story told by mistress and lady-in-waiting was that Moses, Ailee’s true love, killed Francisco. The two slaves fled, never to be found by the authorities.
Rachel, usually quiet in groups, easily chatted with her sister and all the people on Cloverfields. “But why fabrics?”
“Maureen imports all those expensive silks and brocades. Maybe there’s money in it?” Catherine wondered.
“I think Sheba and Maureen will use this to gather information. Who is losing money? Who is making money? Who is having an illicit affair with whom? Women will come and a bit of sherry here and there, tongues will loosen.”
“Rachel, I would never have thought of that,” Catherine honestly replied.
“No good will come of this.”
“Not to us, but probably to them.” Catherine sighed.
October 23, 2016 Sunday
Soft October light bathed St. Luke’s Lutheran Church in spun gold. The gray fieldstone seemed warmer, the slate roof glistened deep gray. The midday sun glowed on the hand-blown windowpanes. St. Luke’s boasted many windows, quite an expense back in the late eighteenth century when it was built. The parishioners exhibited pride and success—but not too much. This was and remains Virginia, after all.
The Very Reverend Herbert Jones, service over, having bid the congregants goodbye, stood with Harry and Fair, a slight breeze touching his robes and hand-embroidered vestments. As they walked to the back quad, the three Lutheran cats, Cazenovia, Lucy Fur, and Elocution, followed them.
Reds, golds, orange, yellow, deep scarlet leaves still clung to the trees, but their days were numbered.
The human and feline group stopped at the first quad and turned to inspect the back of the beautiful church with its two matching arcades, the arches graceful and sturdy, having held up for centuries.
The sun shone to their left, just slightly west, as it was about one o’clock. The service had run a bit over, with the choir director indulging a fit of too many choruses of “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God,” written by Luther himself.
Harry, elected to the vestry board, in charge of buildings and grounds, pointed to the back roofline. “See.”
The Reverend shaded his eyes. “No.”
“It is a little difficult, but the weather stripping is cracking at the back second-story window, where you put the old desk and file cabinets. Who uses that room?”
“I do. I move files up there every two years. When I was young there wasn’t so much paperwork. Now it’s an avalanche, and not just from local and state and federal authorities. The diocese feels compelled to inundate us. My job is to serve my parishioners, not fill out forms.”
“Amen,” Fair uttered with solemnity.
The Reverend turned to him, smiling. “You probably have as much, if not more, than I do.”
“Veterinary medicine is on an arc to catch up with human medicine. Just give it a little time. We will soon be operating with a lawyer at our elbow.”
“What’s the most expensive horse upon which you’ve operated?” Herb had never thought of the money involved.
“One and a half million dollars,” Fair promptly replied.
“I am grateful our Lord has not put a price on me.” The genial pastor laughed.
“Incalculable.” Harry reached for his hand.
She and everyone dearly loved this man, who had been a captain in Vietnam, survived, and dedicated his life to God, to being the best pastor he could be. He thought sometimes that the seminary took as much thought and preparation as battle, although it was far more pleasant.
Fair looked up. “See what you mean.”
“Well, let me jump on it this week.” Harry addressed the Reverend. “It’s that time of year. You never know when the weather is going to turn and I don’t want water to leak into the window frame or, worse, the roof, then freeze and thaw.”
“Fine with me, but you aren’t getting on that roof.” The Very Reverend, average size but still bigger than Harry, looked down at her.
“Oh, don’t start that again.” She fussed because years back she had part of the slate replaced and Herb pitched a fit when he found her on the roof. “I don’t need to get on the roof. I just need a tall ladder to reach the window.”
Elocution rubbed against Herb’s leg. “Poppy, you’ll set her off.”
“I’ll hire a glazier or a roofer and he can climb up there.”
“Actually, I’m the one who hires anyone for buildings and grounds with your permission, and you can’t keep treating me like a hothouse flower. I can fix that in a skinny minute. I have the tools, just need to dig out the old flashing and lay in new. It’s easy unless I find more damage, but I sure hope I won’t. Anything involving a roof, plumbing, or electricity is expensive.”
“Now, listen here. I have known you since you were tiny. I’m not having you on a two-story ladder. We went through this before.” He looked to Harry’s husband. “You talk to her.”
“Why did you let me get elected to buildings and grounds if you won’t let me do my job?”
“Harry, you do a great job, you do the mowing, the trimming, repairing stone walls if need be. You do just about everything, but I don’t want you up there.” He held up his hand. “I am an old man, so chalk this up to a generational difference, but I don’t think women should do some things. That’s what men are for.”