The Gifted (53 page)

“I couldn’t.” Tristan pulled back his hand.

“Consider it a loan from a friend.” She reached around him and shoved the money into the case on the bed. “I was quite taken with Jessamine. Make her happy, Tristan. Do that for me.” She tiptoed up and brushed her lips against his cheek before she turned on her heel and pulled open the door. She looked back at him before she closed the door behind her. “Don’t delay. Go after her.”

When the bell tolled for meeting Sunday morning, Jessamine lined up with her sisters to march to the meetinghouse. On the outside it looked as if she had never left, that she was one with her sisters. On the inside it was a different matter. On the inside she could not stop weeping.

Tears that didn’t show, but that her father had seen. And yet he had left her alone in the world. She could not make her way in the world alone. But here in the village she was not alone. Sister Sophrena had welcomed her back with open arms and heart. Eldress Frieda had greeted her with a smile when she had climbed down from Brother Hector’s vegetable delivering wagon. Her waywardness had been forgiven. At least the waywardness she had confessed. It had been easy to shed some of the sins of the world. She did not miss the lacy dresses, the soft bed, or the noisy dinner tables. She felt comfort in the familiar clothes and surroundings and was more than ready once again to embrace the simple gift of silence.

Sister Sophrena warned her that the improper silence of not speaking sins was as wrong as the clanging noise of words spoken merely to tickle the ears of those listening. Even so, Jessamine had not confessed her sin of clinging to the memory of worldly love. She could not bear the thought of purging her heart and mind of Tristan completely, as she knew Sister Sophrena would tell her she must. That she would be unable to do. He was there in her mind, a glowing ember that the memory of his words of love kept bright.

In time, she would have to confess that sin. She would have to pick up her cross of denial and block memories of him from her mind in order to regain the proper communion with her fellow believers. But not yet. For a bit longer, she wanted to cherish thoughts of him. To treasure his words of love and hide them in her heart. She had more than a year before she would turn twenty-one and be expected to sign the Covenant of Belief. Time enough for the Lord to help her stop looking back toward the world with regret and find a gift of peace. Time for the Lord to show her that this place among her sisters and brothers was where she ought to be.

In the meetinghouse, it was the same as any other Sunday. The Believers sang and marched, whirled and trembled. Jessamine marched with the others and hoped she would appear to be in harmony with her sisters even though she was not. Her every movement felt wrong.

Upon her return to the village, she had gone to the gardens willingly to pick the beans. There during the busy daylight hours, she felt useful and part of the Believers’ family. At night the sound of her sisters breathing in the beds around her cushioned her with familiarity. But singing of love falling down on them and going forth to exercise the songs that were to show her love for the Lord seemed to tear away her pretense.

She had promised the Lord she would live for him. He would not want a sad sham of belief. He deserved joy. A verse her granny taught her years ago came to mind.
Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope.

She did not stop dancing. She continued to move her feet through the well-known exercises even as a prayer rose up inside her. For another sign. She felt like Gideon in the Old Testament who had put out his fleece once, and even though he got his answer, he nevertheless put it out again. The Lord had not denied Gideon that sign. He would not deny her the sign she needed.

The singers suddenly changed from their marching song to one about chasing away the devil. The dancers began stomping and pushing down with their hands. Jessamine stopped moving in their very midst and looked around to see what had brought on the warring dance. And there in the doorway was Tristan. Her love. Her sign. Her gift.

He was watching her, waiting for her to see him. When she looked his way, he held out his hand toward her. A simple gesture, but one that made her heart leap with joy. Her prince had come.

Shouts of woe began sounding around her, but she paid them no mind as she moved toward him as though drawn by some unseen force. Her sisters grabbed her arms and dress, but she shook them off and kept walking. Her feet seemed to almost be floating above the floor.

She put her hand in his and the woes grew louder, but in spite of the noise, his words were clear in her ears. “Will you come with me?”

“I will.”

Joy flooded through her, burning away even the memory of her tears as she followed him out of the meetinghouse. Whatever happened, her father was right. Love was worth it.

Sister Sophrena caught up with them before they reached Tristan’s horse out by the road.

“You don’t have to listen to her,” Tristan said.

Before Jessamine could say anything, Sister Sophrena glanced at Tristan and then settled her eyes on Jessamine as she spoke. “Worry not, my brother. My words will not take her from you.”

“I must go with him.” Jessamine appealed to Sister Sophrena for understanding. She did not want their parting words to be woeful.

“I know.” Tears shone in Sister Sophrena’s eyes as she reached out to pull Jessamine close. Her words were a whisper in Jessamine’s ear that none around them could hear. “I love you, Jessamine. As a mother loves her daughter, I love you. Go and find happiness.”

She stepped back from Jessamine and smiled. A smile that buried itself in Jessamine’s heart and one she returned in kind.

Tristan mounted the horse and then pulled Jessamine up in front of him and wrapped his arm around her. The sound of singing followed them as they rode out of the village. The woes had stopped to be replaced by the song Jessamine had hoped they would sing that morning in meeting.

’Tis the gift to be simple,

’Tis the gift to be free,

’Tis the gift to come down

Where we ought to be.

Jessamine did not look back. She did not need to. She was carrying away with her everything she needed.

The sound of the song faded away behind them as they rode out of the village. When they could no longer hear even an echo of the Shaker song, Tristan leaned down close to speak into her ear. “Will you marry me, Jessamine Brady?”

“Yea.” She started to change the Shaker word, but then she didn’t. The Shakers were part of her just as her granny was and also her father. And now Tristan was part of her too. A wondrous, joyous part. She turned her face up toward his and said, “Yea, I will.”

He bent his head down to touch his lips to hers even as the horse kept walking, taking them toward their future.

Journal Entry

Harmony Hill Village

Entered on this 1st day of July in the year 1849

by Sister Sophrena Prescott

Sunday—a day of rest and worship. I should be sad this night, but I am not. Our Sister Jessamine left us again. This time, barring a tragedy in her life, I do not believe she will ever be back. I feel no sorrow for that truth. Instead it brings me peace.

The stranger from the woods came for her. Caused a disturbance during our morning meeting as he stood at the door and beckoned to her. Before he came, I was watching her, mourning her deadened movements as she went forth to pretend an exercise of worship. She was not the sister I knew and loved, and my heart was as heavy as her feet. I lifted my hands up in the air and silently asked our Eternal Father what could be done about Sister Jessamine. I beseeched him to restore her joy.

The words no sooner went from my mind toward heaven than the man appeared in the doorway, his shadow falling across me where I stood. While my prayer was not answered as I had expected, it was answered when Sister Jessamine turned toward him. A brother—Brother Andrew, I think it might have been—began a warring-against-the-flesh song at the sight of the man from the woods. Woes and stomping began to shake our meetinghouse.

But there was no woe on Sister Jessamine. The heavy cloud of sorrow that had enveloped her every moment of the day since she returned to us vanished like mist in the heat of summer sunlight. Joy lit up her face and the sister I loved, that I do even now love, was back.

And I was glad. I ran after her to give her my blessing. I did not want her to look back with sorrow on her time with us, but to remember the times of joy she knew here at Harmony Hill.

Eldress Frieda will think I sinned. Perhaps I did. I fear every word I write here adds to my sin. With that in mind, in a moment I will hold the corner of this paper to the flame of my lamp. These words are not for others’ eyes, but I had need to write them. After I brush away the ashes, I will turn to a fresh page in my journal and report without emotion the leaving of our sister. I will write of the songs we sang, how her brethren and sisters tried to keep her among us. Then I will write of the duties of the morrow. I will not record how it gladdened my heart when she took the hand of the man from the world and found joy.

It was as it was meant to be. All cannot be Shakers.

Acknowledgments

As an author, each story I am given is a gift, but once the story is written and I’m ready to share my story gift, then it takes many other hands to wrap it in the best possible package to present to readers. I am blessed with a wonderful editor, Lonnie Hull DuPont, who reads my stories with enthusiasm but also with her editor’s eyes wide open to see ways to make the finished story stronger. I can always count on Barb Barnes to show me places to polish and smooth to help make my words disappear and the story shine.

A book needs a great cover, and I’m grateful to Cheryl Van Andel and all those who work to make my book covers bright, colorful, and so appealing to the eye. I also appreciate the marketing and publicity teams who find ways to get my books before readers.

I am always thankful for each and every one of you readers who pick up my books and give my stories a chance. It takes both our imaginations—mine while writing and yours while reading—to make my characters fully come to life and live their stories.

I very much appreciate my agent, Wendy Lawton, for her encouragement and help as she guides me through the business side of writing and keeps me thinking about the stories to come.

I am mightily blessed with a wonderful family, and I treasure their loving support. I especially appreciate my husband who puts up with me disappearing into the past for hours every day while I’m writing.

Most of all, I thank the Lord for giving me the gift of one more story to tell. His story is the greatest story ever told, and I feel blessed beyond measure each time a bit of his story shines out of my books.

Ann H. Gabhart
and her husband live on a farm just over the hill from where she grew up in central Kentucky. She enjoys reading, being a grandmother, and taking walks with her dogs. Ann is the author of more than twenty novels for adults and young adults. Her first Shaker novel,
The Outsider
, was a finalist for the 2009 Christian Book Awards in the fiction category.
Angel Sister
was a nominee for inspirational novel of 2011 by RT Book Reviews Magazine.

Visit Ann’s website at
www.annhgabhart.com
.

Books by Ann H. Gabhart

The Scent of Lilacs

Orchard of Hope

Summer of Joy

———

Angel Sister