Fields of Grace (34 page)

Eli’s gut clutched. Her thoughts had been on another man while lying with him?

“I loved Reinhardt, Eli, and I know he loved me. We married when we were very young, we were together for many years, and our union created three healthy sons. We shared much.”

With effort, Eli maintained a calm demeanor, although his pulse galloped like a runaway horse.

“For a while, I wrestled guilt. Was loving you a betrayal of Reinhardt’s memory? Especially when . . . with you . . . the loving was so sweet, so sincere . . .” Her gaze skittered away again, the pink blush deepening to a fiery red. Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Although Reinhardt and I shared much, somehow— with you—all of me reaches out. Even the deep, hidden parts of me. Nothing is withheld.”

Eli swallowed, unable to respond.

She turned her head slowly until her clear blue eyes met his. “What we have is beautiful, Eli—and full. I have often prayed for God to ease my conscience, to allow me to move without reservation into a future with you.” A leftover tear that had quivered on her lower lashes broke free and ran past her smile. “And I know now I am ready. If I can reach into this trunk and make use of these things that Reinhardt will never use again on this earth, then I know I have said my final good-bye.”

She drew in a shuddering breath, her sweet face expressing an acceptance and confidence that put a lump in Eli’s throat. “Nothing—no bitter memory, no misplaced guilt, no whispers of used-to-be—stands in the way. I am fully yours.”

Overwhelmed with emotion, Eli could not speak. Tenderly, he gathered Lillian close, pressing his cheek to her warm hair. If memories of Reinhardt could not tug her heart from him, surely nothing ever would.

29

L
illian crossed her finger over the calendar box that represented the last day of December 1872 and released a sigh. So quickly the year had flown . . . and so much
life
had been packed into twelve scant months.

LThis same calendar had hung on the wall of her house in Gnadenfeld. It had traveled across the ocean to be placed on a wire hook and used to count the days lived in a new country. For a moment she considered leaving it—no other pictures or ornaments decorated the sod walls—but practicality won. The year was complete. The calendar should come down.

She plucked the calendar from the wire and held it in both hands. As she stared down at the blocks that signified days spent, tears pricked behind her nose. Although she had considered carrying it to the outhouse where it could serve a useful purpose, she decided to put the calendar in one of the trunks. 1872 had been a year of many challenges and changes. This calendar would help her remember all they had faced . . . and weathered.

Joseph looked up as she crossed the floor and opened her trunk. “You are keeping the old calendar?”

“Jo.”
Lillian tucked it into the bottom of the trunk, beneath her clothes. Although she knew Joseph wondered why she would choose to save something that had always been discarded in the past, she offered no explanation.

After a moment, Joseph returned his focus to the arithmetic book opened on the trunk top, and Lillian moved to the fireplace to check the pot hanging over the fire. The lard bubbled, sending up a rich aroma. Her stomach growled as she anticipated biting into a fresh
Portselkje
. The fried fritters, laden with raisins, had always comprised their New Year’s Eve supper in Russia. Lillian was determined the tradition would be carried over in their new country.

The door opened, and Eli entered with Henrik close on his heels. A blast of cold air accompanied them. Lillian crisscrossed her arms over her chest. “
Ach
, it feels like
schnee
! Close the door
f lucks
!”

Eli latched the door quickly, as commanded, and removed his hat and scarf. He shook his head. “It is high time for snow. Not more than a spatter of snowflakes have we seen—and my wheat needs a blanket.”

Lillian scurried across the short expanse of floor and tucked herself along his side. Cold seeped from his jacket, causing her to shiver, but she made no effort to retreat. Eli’s arms had become her favorite refuge.

Henrik sent Eli a worried look. “Will the wheat die if snow doesn’t come?”

Eli tugged Lillian closer. “It has been cold enough to put the seeds to sleep. We have time yet for snow. Besides . . .” He raised one eyebrow and smiled down at Lillian. “The sky is heavy with clouds and very gray. We might get our first snow at the beginning of a new year. Would that not be perfect?”

Henrik stepped toward the trunk where Joseph sat. “Have you not finished those problems yet?”

Joseph rolled his eyes. “I am finished. Do you want to see?”

“Later.” Henrik gestured to his blotchy trousers. “I got my pants wet when I watered the animals. I am going to change.” He disappeared down the hallway.

Eli nuzzled Lillian’s neck with his cold nose. “Mmm, you smell good.”

She wriggled until his soft whiskers met her neck. “I smell like hot lard. I am preparing to cook
Portselkje
.”

Eli jolted back, clamping his hands over her shoulders and straightening his arms. “For sure?”

“For sure, just like the ones in Molotschna—no substitutes.” She removed herself from his grasp and returned to the fireplace. The bowl of dough sat on a rough shelf pressed into the wall. She stuck her finger in the mixture, then popped the dough into her mouth. “We had to celebrate Christmas with fried rabbit instead of our traditional pork roast, and our
Plümekjielke
contained dried venison instead of ham. But we will have
Portselkje
for New Year’s Eve, just like always.”

“The rabbit went down all right with lots of sauerkraut,” Eli said. Lillian appreciated that he never complained about the food she put on the table, even though many of their familiar recipes had taken on new flavors and textures with her modified ingredients. He shrugged out of his jacket and dropped it on Joseph’s head as he passed the boy. With a giggle, Joseph flopped the jacket over the trunk and followed his stepfather to the bowl of dough. Both Eli and Joseph pinched out a bit and tasted it.

“Mmm!
Goot
, Ma!” Joseph proclaimed.

“As good as the
Plümekjielke
at Christmas,” Eli added.

Lillian sighed. It heartened her to know the hearty prune, noodle, and meat dish she prepared for their Christmas breakfast had been appreciated, yet she longed for pork instead of the dried deer meat and wild game that filled their bellies. Her mouth watered at the thought of smoked ham, sausage, and spare ribs. Then she chided herself. She shouldn’t complain—God was good to meet their needs for food. Yet a part of her hungered for the foods of her homeland.

Tipping her head, she looked up at Eli. “Will you raise a piglet or two in the spring so we can butcher them and have ham in our
Plümekjielke
next year?”

Joseph’s bright eyes bounced back and forth between his mother and stepfather. “And we can build a
Meagrope
to render our own lard—then we will have cracklings!”

Lillian nearly groaned with pleasure at the thought of the crisp bits of meat found in the bottom of the rendering tub when the lard was removed.

Eli laughed and flicked Lillian’s chin with his index finger. “I will see what I can do. Maybe when I go to sell the calf, I will buy a couple of fat piglets.”

She would have preferred a sure response, but Lillian had learned Eli wouldn’t make a promise unless he could keep it. She must be satisfied for now. If he said he would try, he would do so. Glancing at the trunk that served as their dining table, she said, “Joseph, please hang your pa’s coat on the hook and put away your books. Now that we are all here, we will eat soon.”

“
Jo
, Ma.”

Lillian spooned out a dollop of dough and eased it into the grease. A sizzle rose, and the fritter bounced in the boiling fat.

Eli crowded close, sticking his nose over the pot. “Why was Joseph studying today? New Year’s Eve should be a holiday.”

Lillian gently pushed Eli aside and flipped the fritter with a wooden spoon. “Henrik insisted. He said Joseph spent too many study days fishing, so now that the creek is frozen, he must spend his days studying.”

Eli clicked his tongue against his teeth. “A hard taskmaster Henrik will be when he has a classroom of students to supervise.”

Lillian lifted the browned fritter from the grease with the slotted wooden spoon. Eli’s gaze followed it, and she caught him licking his lips. She laughed, shaking her head. “You are no better than a little boy! You may have the first New Year’s cookie.”

His grin gave her all the thanks she needed. She rolled the hot fritter in a pan of granulated sugar. The moment she turned from the pan, Eli lifted the oblong fritter between his thumb and finger. He hissed,
“Sea heet!”
He tossed the fritter from hand to hand, sending a tiny shower of sugar across the floor.

“Eli! You make a mess!” Lillian ground the sugar granules into the dirt floor.

After blowing on the fritter, Eli took a big bite. He waggled his brows at her, signifying his enjoyment. With a laugh, Lillian set to work frying the remaining dough. The aroma made her mouth water, but she diligently waited between batches for the lard to boil. She wanted her
Portselkje
to be perfect.

Soon her serving bowl mounded with golden brown, sugarcoated fritters. She set the bowl on the trunk and smiled at Eli, who eyed the traditional treats from his stool at the table. “Call the boys and we will eat.”

The fritters disappeared quickly amidst reflections on the past year and plans for 1873. Tears twinkled in everyone’s eyes when they spoke of Reinhardt and Jakob, but Lillian appreciated the freedom to mention the names without experiencing stabbing pain or deep remorse.

Joseph snagged the last fritter from the bowl and then paused, sighing contentedly. “These are good, Ma, but it seems strange eating them all ourselves instead of sharing them with neighbors.”

Lillian nodded, remembering the knocks at the door, the boisterous cries of
“Froo Niejoa!”
ringing on the night air, and the laughter of friends and family who crowded into the house to eat a fritter before setting off to the next house.

“But think,” Eli said, “by next New Year, we will be part of a village. The others will come next spring, build their houses just as we have, and we will knock on their doors and wish them a Happy New Year.”

Joseph grinned. “I know on which door Henrik wants to knock—the Friesens’ door.”

“Joseph,” Henrik warned, but Joseph laughed and popped the last of the fritter into his mouth.

Lillian, determined to avoid an argument on the final day of the year, said, “Do you really think they will come by next spring?”

“For sure they will.” Eli’s confident tone dispelled Lillian’s worry. “The explorers will have returned to Gnadenfeld by now. I believe our neighbors are making their plans to come to America, just as we made our plans at the beginning of this year. Now see where we are, and all we have accomplished?” He rested his elbows on the edge of the trunk. “Our God has been good to us, and He will bring the others to us.”

A hint of the old rebellion surfaced in Henrik’s eyes. “How can you be sure they will come here?”

Recently, despite Lillian’s happiness with Eli, she had glimpsed moments of defiance in her oldest son’s behavior. She suspected he struggled with allowing Eli to usurp Reinhardt’s place in her life and heart, yet she refused to apologize for unreservedly loving Eli. He was a good man, devoted to her and her children, and Henrik would eventually grow up enough to realize Eli was a special gift to them.

A complacent smile crinkled Eli’s eyes. “Did you not send a letter to Susie Friesen and her family and tell them where we are and how rich the land?”

Henrik offered a slow nod.

“Well, then, think of that.” Eli’s voice held no animosity. “Besides, I pray daily for our friends and neighbors to find safe transport to this wonderful land. God has good plans for our people here, and He will see those plans through.” Eli lightly bounced his fist off of Henrik’s forearm. “Trust Him, Henrik. You will see—our God does not fail.”

Lillian washed the dishes with Joseph’s help, and then she and her family spent the evening singing hymns, reading from the Bible, and playing
Hinkspiel,
a hopping game. By the end of the hour-long game, they were giggling so hard they could barely stand, let alone hop on one foot. Eli frequently flipped his pocket watch open to monitor the time, and at midnight, they joined hands and bowed their heads for prayer.

Eli cleared his throat. “Our loving Father God, as we say farewell to one year and enter another, we thank You for Your steadfast presence in our lives. We praise You for bringing us to this land. It is a good land, God—” His voice cracked, and Lillian squeezed his hand. She heard him swallow, and then he continued. “May You find us worthy of Your blessings. Protect and guide us. May we bring joy to You as we follow Your ways. Amen.”

“Amen,” Lillian echoed. She embraced her boys by turn, whispering,
“Froo Niejoa”
to both of them. After returning the greeting, Joseph and Henrik headed to bed. Lillian then turned into Eli’s arms. “
Froo Niejoa
, Eli.”