More Than Words (18 page)

His voice trailed off, but the reminder had been enough to set his wife on edge. She stiffened, and beads of perspiration soon dotted her forehead. Spotting the fan her husband had used to help revive her, Mrs. Lofton plucked it from his hand. With a flick of her wrist, the fan snapped open, and she waved it with a vengeance.

“Those ghastly vagabonds. I hope your people don’t encourage them to camp around your towns. They steal children, you know. They took my little—” her voice caught, and she covered her lips with her fingers—“my little Cecile, and we’ve never been able to find her.” She reached for her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Such a beautiful child, isn’t she, Emory?” Her words slurred as she tipped her head to look up at her husband.

“Indeed. Just like her mother, sweet and lovely.” Once again Mr. Lofton patted his wife on the shoulder. “Perhaps …” He glanced back and forth between his wife and me. “Do you think someone could show me where the Gypsies are camped so I could check to see if they have our little Cecile—or know of her whereabouts?”

My thoughts jumbled as I attempted to form the proper answer. I didn’t want to admit I’d been to the camp. Before I could answer, Mrs. Lofton began to weep. “Please don’t go there, Emory. What if they kill you? Then I’d be without both you and Cecile. I can’t bear the thought.”

Mrs. Lofton’s head lolled from side to side. I wasn’t certain if it was the wine or fear of losing her husband, but I was afraid she might swoon again. “Given your wife’s concern, it might be best if you refrained from visiting the Gypsy camp. I may be able to gather some information for you. I’ll do my best.”

Mr. Lofton nodded his agreement. “Thank you, Miss Kohler. You are most kind.”

A group of customers entered the store, but when I noticed my grandmother still holding the wine bottle in one hand, I hurried to her side. “No more wine for Mrs. Lofton. Please go and help the customers. I’ll see to Mrs. Lofton.”

“Ach! The wine, it helps her. Look at the color in her face.” Before she turned and marched away, Oma pointed a spindly finger at Mrs. Lofton’s bright pink cheeks.

If my grandmother thought her terse remark or Mrs. Lofton’s pink cheeks were proof the swooning woman needed another glass of wine, she was sorely mistaken. The opposite was true, confirming Mr. Lofton’s assertion that his wife did not imbibe. I doubted the woman could stand without assistance. Stepping close to Mr. Lofton’s side, I quietly said, “I do believe it would be best for your wife to rest in our parlor. Even though a wagon will take you to the villages, a good deal of walking is required.”

“I’m fine,” Mrs. Lofton said. “Just look.” She pushed up from the chair. Her body swayed like a tree branch on a windy day, but she appeared completely unaware of her condition. Had her husband not grabbed her around the waist, she would have dropped to the floor. “What time do we depart?”

Mrs. Lofton’s knees buckled, and her husband gathered the woman into his arms. “I believe we will need the use of your parlor, Miss Kohler.”

I directed the way and pointed to the divan. “Why don’t you let your wife rest there? I’m sure the effects of the wine will wear off soon.” At least I hoped so. Mr. Lofton’s wife was no more alert than when he’d stepped inside the store. “As I mentioned earlier, my grandmother sometimes is overly zealous in her efforts to help.”

“She meant no harm, and who can say? Maybe the wine will help my wife forget she ever saw those Gypsies.” When he pinched the bridge of his nose, I wondered if he was thinking of his lost child.

“Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. There is no one here to disturb you.” I glanced toward the door leading into the store. “Unless my grandmother decides to come in and check on your wife’s progress. However, I’ll do my best to keep her busy.”

He dropped to a nearby chair. “Do those Gypsies come here each year, Miss Kohler?”

I folded my hands in a tight knot. “Not those particular Gypsies, but we frequently have groups who camp in the area during the summer months. Sometimes they camp near another village, sometimes near ours, but they generally don’t stay the entire summer. We never know how long they will remain.”

“But you don’t try to make them leave?”

“No. We try our best to be hospitable to all people, Gypsies and hobos included. Some make it easier than others. The Gypsies tend to do a little stealing from time to time, and the hobos would rather we didn’t require them to chop wood or pull weeds for their food, but the Bible teaches we should share with those in need.” I could see the concern in Mr. Lofton’s eyes. “This latest group of Gypsies hasn’t caused trouble like some who have been here in years past.”

He hunched forward to look at his wife. “I know all about the trouble they can cause.” Then he looked at me, but his eyes had glazed as if he were in a trance. In a monotone voice, he told me that he and his wife had been on a picnic in a park a short distance from their home when out of nowhere they’d been approached by two Gypsy men and a woman. The men asked for money and the woman stooped down and admired Cecile. He’d given them what money he had in his pocket, but they’d been dissatisfied. Then the Gypsy woman had insisted upon Mrs. Lofton’s cameo, but she refused to give it up.

Mr. Lofton rested his chin in his palm, agony twisting his features as he told me the Gypsies warned them they’d be sorry they hadn’t cooperated. Even though the Loftons didn’t believe anything further would happen, their outing had been ruined, so they decided to pack up their picnic basket and return home. They’d gone only a short distance when Mrs. Lofton remembered they’d left their daughter’s doll under the tree where they’d spread their blanket.

Mr. Lofton raised his head, his eyes filled with tears. “I ran back to retrieve the doll, and in those few short minutes, they rushed in and grabbed our beautiful Cecile from my wife.” He dropped his face between his hands. “At night I think of how my daughter must cry for us. I know it’s wrong of me, but I hate all of those people.”

My throat constricted, and I struggled to keep my tears in check. “I can’t imagine the pain you and your wife have suffered.”
Hate
was a strong word, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mr. Lofton he shouldn’t hate the people who had stolen his daughter. “I doubt this group of Gypsies is in any way connected to those who took your daughter. I know that probably won’t ease your wife’s misgivings—or yours, for that matter—but the chances of …”

He waved me to silence with a firm nod. “I know. But it doesn’t change my feelings about the entire group of them. Our little Cecile was only five years old when they took her.” His voice cracked with emotion. “It was a year ago this very week. That’s one of the reasons I planned this trip. As summer approached, my wife became more despondent.” He locked his fingers together in a prayerlike fashion. “She sees children outdoors playing, families on picnics, mothers in the park with their daughters, and it all comes back to haunt her.”

The child would now be six years old.
Lalah
. The girl’s name popped into my head and wouldn’t depart. She’d said she was seven, but she didn’t look seven. Though I should have returned to the store, I remained and asked for more details about the Loftons’ daughter. Had she a fair complexion? Did she have dark hair or light? What of her eyes? Were they as blue as the sky or dark gray like the fabric of his suit?

He didn’t seem to mind my questions. In fact, his eyes shown with delight as he told me Cecile was fair like her mother with light brown hair and eyes the color of walnuts. “If she’d had blue eyes, I don’t think she would have appeared so fair. But those large dark eyes—they were beautiful.” He trembled, as if shaking himself from a distant dream. “I’m sure you have work that needs your attention. I’ll sit here with my wife until she rouses, and then I’ll take her to the hotel. We have rooms there.”

“If your wife is feeling well enough, there is a tour later this afternoon. If not, there is a restaurant in the hotel or you can join us at our Küche, where we eat our meals. You would be most welcome.” I was pleased to know Mr. Lofton had taken a room at the hotel, for I didn’t think his wife would be well enough to sit in a bumpy wagon for the remainder of the day. In fact, I wondered if she would awaken before suppertime.

I returned to the store with thoughts of Lalah heavy on my mind. I wanted to see her again. Perhaps with a gentle nudge, she would remember something about her early years. Although I doubted she was the Loftons’ child, I didn’t believe she belonged to Loyco. And I wanted to know the truth.

CHAPTER 15

Mr. and Mrs. Lofton hadn’t joined us for supper. In fact, they’d departed the following morning. Mr. Lofton stopped by the store to thank me for my kindness and to say he thought his wife would fare much better if they returned home. Given her fragile condition, he didn’t believe it would be wise to stay any longer. I concurred, for who could say when a group of the Gypsies might appear at the store or in one of the villages.

I had hoped to have an opportunity to speak with Lalah prior to the Loftons’ departure. In my heart I was certain the child was not their Cecile, but I’d held a somewhat selfish hope that I could have been the one to reunite the couple with their daughter.

Mr. Lofton had given me his address in case we gathered any information from the Gypsies. And he’d shown me a picture of the three of them, one he carried in the case of his pocket watch. His daughter had been only two years old at the time of the photograph. He smiled and pointed to her hair. “She has a dark birthmark on her head that makes one patch of her light brown hair appear darker than the rest.” As if to seal away the memory, he snapped the metal case together and shoved the watch back into his pocket. I doubted I’d ever see Mr. and Mrs. Lofton again, but I doubted I’d ever forget them, either.

That night after I’d gone into my room, I prayed for Mr. and Mrs. Lofton and Cecile. Perhaps God would reunite this family. If not, I prayed He would grant the child safety and her parents the peace they needed to continue their lives without her.

After completing my prayers, I gathered my writing paper and pen. Ever since Conrad had spoken to my father about courting me, there had been little time for writing. For the past week I’d been delaying going to bed so that I could complete my latest story. Tomorrow I hoped to have two more stories to send Mr. Finley. I’d expected his return before now, but my father had received two letters explaining why he’d been detained. His uncle hadn’t yet returned to Chicago, and his aunt had taken another turn for the worse, thereby requiring that he remain in Chicago until she exhibited definite signs of recovery.

Both letters had contained assurances that Mr. Finley remained eager to return and learn more about the colonies. He even asked my father to explain his circumstances to the Bruderrat and express his continuing desire to join the community. When Father read those portions of Mr. Finley’s letters to me, my heart had taken wing. To explain my excitement would have been impossible. Conrad had implied on more than one occasion that he thought I was fond of Mr. Finley. Even though I denied such feelings, Conrad couldn’t understand my admiration for the man. Now I refrained from speaking of him—at least I did my best.

My lamp burned late into the night while I worked to complete the latest tale. I wanted everyone who read my stories to understand that neither our people nor our ways were so different from those of our ancestors who had come from Germany. Although we lived communally and did our best to live righteous lives, we still held fast to the ways of our ancestors. Like them, we simply wanted to live and worship our Lord without condemnation for our beliefs. We continued to live frugal lives and make good use of everything the Lord entrusted to us—even nature’s provisions.

Our grapevines clung to trellis supports on the east, west, and south sides of our homes to help keep them cool in the summer. Like most things in Amana, the grapevines served a dual purpose. In addition to shielding us against the summer heat, they provided fruit for jams, jellies, and a few bottles of wine. Our communal wines were made from the grapes harvested from our vast vineyards. When the grapes were ripe, the winemaker sent word to the village that the harvest would begin the following day. Schools closed down, mills ceased their work, and shops closed. The harvest was hard work but also gave us much pleasure.

I chuckled as I wrote how we fought off the bees and wasps in the vineyards. The insects were determined to have their fill of the juicy ripe grapes and would sting anyone who got between them and the fruit. It took more than one or two swinging bonnets to keep them away from the grapes. Mostly the men and women worked on opposite sides of a row. Last year I worked opposite Conrad. We would snip the clusters and, with a gentle hand, settle them in wicker baskets. With the difference in our height, he saw clusters I would miss, and I would see some that he had missed. The system worked well for us. But with forty thousand pounds of grapes being picked throughout the colonies during a single harvest, many older folks suffered backaches, while the younger members took pleasure in the task and didn’t seem to suffer at all.