The Endless Forest
Page 6
Mrs. Kummer squinted at the point on her quill, decided it would have to do, and wrote down one last figure.
“There. Now watch nobody tries to sneak off before I settle with them. Keep an especial sharp eye on the folks up under the eaves, those Bonners. I don’t know why I ever let them talk me into renting to them. I hardly slept a wink, worrying.”
Herlinde might have said how clever Mrs. Kummer was; how many people could snore so loudly while wide awake? Instead she vowed to watch and report immediately if someone tried to cheat her mistress of her rent.
Mrs. Kummer thumped her coffee cup on the table, and Herlinde came over to fill it.
“Those Bonners are odd, every one. Now in some cases you can see clear enough where it comes from. He was brought up wild, like an Indian, but her?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Mrs. Bonner is an English lady brought up grand with maids to serve her, but what does she do? She comes over here to teach school in a godforsaken place like Paradise, and then she runs off with a backwoodsman and ends up with a whole houseful of brats.”
Herlinde made a sound in her throat to show that she was listening. Mrs. Kummer did not like to be ignored.
“Nathaniel Bonner of all people,” her mistress said. “And him with a half-Mohawk daughter.”
Herlinde decided to chance a question. “Would that be the woman doctor?”
Mrs. Kummer drew in a noisy breath. “You’ve heard of her, I see. She does indeed call herself a doctor. I wouldn’t believe it myself but for I saw Samson Vanderstaay with my own eyes. Went up to Paradise to see if she could do something about his belly gripe and came home right as rain. And he’s not the only one.” She waved both hands in the air as if to encompass all of Johnstown.
“For my part I wouldn’t let a half-breed woman come close enough to touch me. But that’s Paradise for you. Quakers and Indians and Africans living side by side. In the meetinghouse and classroom too. But then the schoolteacher is another Bonner.”
Herlinde had come from Germany only six months ago, and sometimes her English couldn’t keep up with Mrs. Kummer. “Mrs. Bonner does not teach school?”
“Oh, she did,” Mrs. Kummer said, her whole face twitching in disapproval. “For years. But her oldest boy took it over, so she can write editorials. For newspapers. And what does a woman know of politics, I ask you, and who cares what she has to say? It’s not what the good Lord gave us to do.”
Herlinde tried to look disapproving, but in fact she was more curious. She had come to America with high hopes and now here she was, still working in Mrs. Kummer’s kitchen. She liked stories of women who managed to do what they set out to do.
“And on top of all that,” Mrs. Kummer said, “she calls herself a rationalist. Fancy word for heathens, you ask me.” Her bright eyes cut suddenly toward the milk pail Herlinde had lifted to the table.
“You take the cream off and water that milk down proper before you start the porridge.” She paused to pick the last of the bacon from the platter on the table. She tucked into her cheek like a squirrel. “Tonight half my rooms will stand empty. I’m not made of money, you know.”
It was something she told Herlinde many times every day: I’m not made of money. Often Herlinde had had an urge, almost irresistible, to ask this woman who owned a house and a farm and ate meat every day exactly what she was made of. Mrs. Kummer’s reaction would be swift. Pack your things and get out.
Herlinde had seen Mrs. Kummer put four girls out on the street in the last six months, and so she held her tongue. Work was hard to come by these days, and it wasn’t as though she could ask Mrs. Elizabeth Bonner if she needed another house servant. As poor as her post was here in Johnstown, no one ever asked Herlinde Metzler to do for Africans, and certainly not for Indians. The very idea must give any Christian girl nightmares.
Chapter V
Just twelve days after their ship docked in New-York harbor and still many miles from home, Lily Bonner Ballentyne woke from a light sleep and tried to make sense of her surroundings.
A small room on the very top floor of a boardinghouse on the outskirts of Johnstown. A narrow bed that she was sharing, not with her husband, but with her good-sister Jennet. On a trundle jammed into the space between bed and wall, Jennet’s daughters were still asleep. Sweet little girls, but busy and unsettled sleepers.
It was a small blessing to be the first to wake, one Lily was glad of. As much as she had missed her family, she now missed the solitude she had come to love. She thought of the small house in Rome, with its thick walls and deep shadows, the lemon and olive trees and the grape arbor in the garden where she spent so much of her time. The sound of bees, and the smells. Often she would go for hours without seeing or talking to anyone, drawing and reading and sleeping in the sun.
One of the twins twitched in her sleep. Lily was almost sure it was Isabel, but the girls were very much alike, and especially so like this, their faces relaxed in rest. Everything about them was round: chins and soft cheeks and the curls that tumbled around their faces. They had been born while Lily was away, but they were so much like their mother they seemed immediately familiar.
As much as her nieces amused and entertained her, Lily held her breath until the little girl settled again. In another half hour the tumult would begin, a party of adults and four lively young children on the last stage of a journey that had been fraught with delays and complications every step of the way. They should have been in Paradise days ago, and instead they were stuck here in Johnstown.
“There. Now watch nobody tries to sneak off before I settle with them. Keep an especial sharp eye on the folks up under the eaves, those Bonners. I don’t know why I ever let them talk me into renting to them. I hardly slept a wink, worrying.”
Herlinde might have said how clever Mrs. Kummer was; how many people could snore so loudly while wide awake? Instead she vowed to watch and report immediately if someone tried to cheat her mistress of her rent.
Mrs. Kummer thumped her coffee cup on the table, and Herlinde came over to fill it.
“Those Bonners are odd, every one. Now in some cases you can see clear enough where it comes from. He was brought up wild, like an Indian, but her?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Mrs. Bonner is an English lady brought up grand with maids to serve her, but what does she do? She comes over here to teach school in a godforsaken place like Paradise, and then she runs off with a backwoodsman and ends up with a whole houseful of brats.”
Herlinde made a sound in her throat to show that she was listening. Mrs. Kummer did not like to be ignored.
“Nathaniel Bonner of all people,” her mistress said. “And him with a half-Mohawk daughter.”
Herlinde decided to chance a question. “Would that be the woman doctor?”
Mrs. Kummer drew in a noisy breath. “You’ve heard of her, I see. She does indeed call herself a doctor. I wouldn’t believe it myself but for I saw Samson Vanderstaay with my own eyes. Went up to Paradise to see if she could do something about his belly gripe and came home right as rain. And he’s not the only one.” She waved both hands in the air as if to encompass all of Johnstown.
“For my part I wouldn’t let a half-breed woman come close enough to touch me. But that’s Paradise for you. Quakers and Indians and Africans living side by side. In the meetinghouse and classroom too. But then the schoolteacher is another Bonner.”
Herlinde had come from Germany only six months ago, and sometimes her English couldn’t keep up with Mrs. Kummer. “Mrs. Bonner does not teach school?”
“Oh, she did,” Mrs. Kummer said, her whole face twitching in disapproval. “For years. But her oldest boy took it over, so she can write editorials. For newspapers. And what does a woman know of politics, I ask you, and who cares what she has to say? It’s not what the good Lord gave us to do.”
Herlinde tried to look disapproving, but in fact she was more curious. She had come to America with high hopes and now here she was, still working in Mrs. Kummer’s kitchen. She liked stories of women who managed to do what they set out to do.
“And on top of all that,” Mrs. Kummer said, “she calls herself a rationalist. Fancy word for heathens, you ask me.” Her bright eyes cut suddenly toward the milk pail Herlinde had lifted to the table.
“You take the cream off and water that milk down proper before you start the porridge.” She paused to pick the last of the bacon from the platter on the table. She tucked into her cheek like a squirrel. “Tonight half my rooms will stand empty. I’m not made of money, you know.”
It was something she told Herlinde many times every day: I’m not made of money. Often Herlinde had had an urge, almost irresistible, to ask this woman who owned a house and a farm and ate meat every day exactly what she was made of. Mrs. Kummer’s reaction would be swift. Pack your things and get out.
Herlinde had seen Mrs. Kummer put four girls out on the street in the last six months, and so she held her tongue. Work was hard to come by these days, and it wasn’t as though she could ask Mrs. Elizabeth Bonner if she needed another house servant. As poor as her post was here in Johnstown, no one ever asked Herlinde Metzler to do for Africans, and certainly not for Indians. The very idea must give any Christian girl nightmares.
Chapter V
Just twelve days after their ship docked in New-York harbor and still many miles from home, Lily Bonner Ballentyne woke from a light sleep and tried to make sense of her surroundings.
A small room on the very top floor of a boardinghouse on the outskirts of Johnstown. A narrow bed that she was sharing, not with her husband, but with her good-sister Jennet. On a trundle jammed into the space between bed and wall, Jennet’s daughters were still asleep. Sweet little girls, but busy and unsettled sleepers.
It was a small blessing to be the first to wake, one Lily was glad of. As much as she had missed her family, she now missed the solitude she had come to love. She thought of the small house in Rome, with its thick walls and deep shadows, the lemon and olive trees and the grape arbor in the garden where she spent so much of her time. The sound of bees, and the smells. Often she would go for hours without seeing or talking to anyone, drawing and reading and sleeping in the sun.
One of the twins twitched in her sleep. Lily was almost sure it was Isabel, but the girls were very much alike, and especially so like this, their faces relaxed in rest. Everything about them was round: chins and soft cheeks and the curls that tumbled around their faces. They had been born while Lily was away, but they were so much like their mother they seemed immediately familiar.
As much as her nieces amused and entertained her, Lily held her breath until the little girl settled again. In another half hour the tumult would begin, a party of adults and four lively young children on the last stage of a journey that had been fraught with delays and complications every step of the way. They should have been in Paradise days ago, and instead they were stuck here in Johnstown.
