have a new girl, Magda? An apprentice?” He put his hand on my arm as though I were not a person but a possession.
Magda stepped between us and deftly ushered me toward the back door. “She’s a friend, Lars Holmstrom, and none of your business. You can keep your clumsy hands off her. Get along, now,” she said to me as she pushed me out the door. “Perhaps I will see you again next week.” And before I knew it I was standing in a pile of dead leaves, fallen branches crackling under my feet, the plank door shut tight in my face as Magda went about her business, the price of her independence. I crashed through the underbrush and onto the path, running back to the congregation hall as parishioners were spilling out into the sunlight. There would be hell to pay with Father this time, but I calculated it was worth it; Magda was the custodian of the mysteries of life and I sensed that whatever it took to continue learning at her knee was worth it.
SIX
One summer afternoon in my fifteenth year, the entire town gathered in the McDougals’ pasture to hear a traveling preacher speak. I can still see my neighbors making their way to the golden field, tall grass glinting in the sun, plumes of dust rising from the winding trail. By foot, horseback, and wagon nearly everyone in St. Andrew made their way to the McDougals’ that day, though not from any excess feelings of piety, I assure you. Even itinerant preachers were a rarity in our neck of the woods; we would take what entertainment we could get to fill the dreariness of a long summer day in that desolate place.
This particular preacher had come from out of nowhere, apparently, and in a few short years had built a following, as well as a reputation for fiery speech and rebellious talk. There were rumors he’d divided churchgoers in the nearest town-Fort Kent, a day’s ride to the north-setting traditional Congregationalists against a new wave of reformists. There was also talk of Maine becoming a state and freeing itself from Massachusetts’s proprietorship, so there was a frisson in the air-religious and political-pointing to possible revolt against the religion the settlers had brought with them from Massachusetts.
It was my mother who’d convinced my father to come, though she would brook no notion of converting from Catholicism: she’d only wanted an afternoon out of the kitchen. She spread a blanket on the ground and waited for the preaching to commence. My father took the spot next to her, hanging his head with a suspicious air, glancing about to see who else might be there. My sisters remained close to my mother, tucking their skirts primly under their legs, while Nevin had taken off almost as soon as the wagon came to a halt, eager to find the boys who lived on the farms neighboring ours.
I stood, shielding my eyes against the strong sunlight with one hand, surveying the crowd. Everyone in town was there, some with blankets, like my mother, some with dinner packed in baskets. I was looking for Jonathan, as usual, but he didn’t seem to be there. His absence was no surprise; his mother was probably the most hardened Congregationalist in town, and Ruth Bennet St. Andrew’s family would have no part of this reformist nonsense.
But then I spied a shimmer of black hide between the trees-yes, Jonathan, skirting the edge of the field on his distinctive stallion. I wasn’t the only one to see him; a palpable ripple went through parts of the crowd. What must it be like to know dozens of people are watching you raptly, eyes following the line of your long leg against the horse’s flank, your strong hands holding the reins. So much suppressed lust smoldering in the bosom of many a female in that dry field that day, it’s a wonder the grass didn’t catch on fire.
He rode up to me, and kicking free of the stirrups, vaulted from the saddle. He smelled of leather and sun- baked earth and I longed to touch him. “What’s going on?” he asked, taking off his hat and running a sleeve along his brow.
“You don’t know? A visiting preacher’s come to town. You haven’t come to listen?”
Jonathan looked over my head, assessing the crowd. “No. I’ve been out surveying the next plot we’re to harvest. Old Charles doesn’t trust the new surveyor. Thinks he drinks too much.” He squinted, all the better to see which girls were looking his way. “Is my family here?”
“No, and I doubt your mother would approve of your being here, either. The preacher has a terrible reputation. You could go to hell just for listening to him.”
Jonathan grinned at me. “Is that why you’re here? You have a desire to go to hell? You know there are much more pleasant paths to damnation than listening to devious preachers.”
There was a message in the glimmer in his deep brown eyes, but one I couldn’t interpret. Before I could ask him to explain, he laughed and said, “Every soul in town looks to be here. More’s the pity that I won’t be staying, but as you say, there’ll be hell to pay if my mother finds out.” He steadied the stirrup and swung back into the saddle but then leaned over me, protectively. “What about you, Lanny? You’ve never been one for preaching. Why are you here? Are you hoping to find someone here, a particular boy? Has some young man caught your fancy?”
That was a complete surprise-the coy tone, the probing look. He’d never given the slightest indication that he cared if I was interested in another. “No,” I said, breathless, barely able to stammer out a response.
He took up the reins slowly, seemingly weighing them as he might weigh his words. “I know the day will come when I’ll see you with another boy, my Lanny with another boy, and I won’t like it. But it’s only fair.” Before I could recover from shock and tell him it was within his power to prevent that-surely he knew!-he had turned the horse and cantered into the woods, leaving me to stare after him in confusion yet again. He was an enigma. For the most part he treated me as a favorite friend, his attitude toward me platonic, but then there were times I thought I saw an invitation in the way he looked at me or a wisp of-dare I hope?-desire in his restlessness. Now that he’d ridden away, I couldn’t dwell on it or I’d go crazy.
I leaned against a tree and watched the preacher make his way to the center of a small clearing in front of the crowd. He was younger than I had expected-Gilbert was the only pastor I’d ever known and had arrived in St. Andrew already white-haired and crotchety-and walked ramrod straight, assured that both God and righteousness were on his side. He was good-looking in a way that was unexpected and even uncomfortable to see in a preacher, and the women sitting closest to him twittered like birds when he gave them a broad, white smile. And yet, watching as he gazed over the crowd, preparing to begin (as confident as though he
He began speaking in a loud, clear voice, recalling his visits throughout the Maine territory and describing what he’d found there. The territory was becoming a copy of Massachusetts, with its elitist ways. A handful of wealthy men controlled the destiny of their neighbors. And what had this brought for the average man? Hard times. Common folk falling behind on their accounts. Honest men, fathers and husbands, jailed and land sold out from under the wives and children. I was surprised to see heads nod in the crowd.
What people wanted-what Americans wanted, he stressed, waving his Bible in the air-was freedom. We hadn’t fought the British only to have new masters take the king’s place. The landowners in Boston and the merchants who sold goods to the settlers were no more than robbers, demanding outrageous usury fees, and the law was their lapdog. His eyes glimmered as he surveyed the crowd, encouraged by their murmuring assent, and he paced within his circle of well-trod grass. I wasn’t used to hearing dissent spoken aloud, in public, and I felt vaguely alarmed by the preacher’s success.
Suddenly, Nevin was beside me, studying our neighbors’ upturned faces. “Look at ’em, slack-jawed mopes…,” he said, derisively. There was no doubting that he’d gotten his critical temperament from our father. He folded his arms across his chest and snorted.
“They seem interested enough in what he has to say,” I observed.
“Do you have the slightest idea what he’s talking about?” Nevin squinted at me. “You don’t know, do you? Of course not, you’re just a stupid girl. You don’t understand nothing.”
I frowned but didn’t reply because Nevin was right in one respect: I had no idea what the man was really talking about. I was ignorant of what went on in the world at large.
He pointed to a group of men standing to the side of the crowded field. “See them men?” he asked, indicating Tobey Ostergaard, Daniel Daughtery, and Olaf Olmstrom. The three were among the poorer men in town,
