Page 33

C lara pushed down cookie dough with a rolling pin, relishing the scent of sweet cinnamon. She rubbed her hands across the smooth surface. “Hand me a cookie cutter, Jenny.”

“Yes, Miz Clara.”

She scoped the shape with her fingers. A star, six points.

“You made that dough turn out right fine.”

“I did no such thing, though it is good of you to let me help.”

“I ain’t yo master, Miz Clara. You do as you wish.”

“Not really, but I won’t argue with you.” She paused. “Jenny, do you like working for Father and Mother?”

“I never give it no thought.”

“Don’t you? Where did they get you?”

“At the auction, when your mamma was a bride.”

“I’m glad you were chosen.”

“The Stanton farm be a far better place than the last.”

Clara wondered at those words, after all she’d seen—and heard—of Father...

She pressed the cookie cutter into the dough and finger-measured each cut. “Where did you grow up?”

“Here and there.”

“I meant to ask, where did your parents live?”

“I was took from the leg of my mamma when I was seven. Don’t know where she be or where we lived.”

Clara paused. Sold away from her mother at such a tender age .

“You done good, now let me get those in the oven.”

“Are you happy here, Jenny?”

“I be happy when Morrie survives this child-bearin’.”

“Morrie? Are you here?”

“She upstairs, cleanin’.”

She dared a question. “Did my father...ever...”

“Miz Clara, I gots to go get that chicken afore it’s too late.”

Clara wiped her hands on her apron. Weeks had passed. Reverend Merrick only made brief appearances, but Francine kept her promise to teach her to knit, though Clara was suspicious. How much did her brother share of their discussions?

She tossed her apron aside and stepped twenty-two slow paces to the parlor. Question after question swirled in her mind.

Father still had not responded. Not a single word. She grew sick at her stomach. Did you really do those things? I can’t bear it. I just can’t bear it. I thought being blind was bad, but this! This is far worse!

If he was guilty, then she never wanted to see him again.

Or be near him. Ever. In any way. They’d never been very close—but as a child she’d savored his doting, his gentle pats on her head.

Now, his misdeeds assaulted her thoughts, she gave it up to God—what else might she do?

She couldn’t carry the nasty truth alone.

Neither could she bear to be in Morrie’s presence—the quiet girl who carried Clara’s brother or sister. Silence surrounded her like fog. Clara never knew if she was in the room, so soft was her tread. What did she do with the hurt? How did she step through each dark day?

Clara’s eyes stung. Never had she cried over a slave.

She touched the points on the edible Star-of-David.

The children of Israel had been slaves in Egypt.

God sent Moses. And they were free. Images of a child’s picture Bible floated through her memory.

..a baby in a basket...Egypt overcome by the plagues.

..the Red Sea spilt open, Moses’ staff raised toward heaven.

Did every slave long to be free? Clara certainly longed to escape .

Mrs. Ramshaw answered a knock at the door and came back bearing a basket of fruit from Dr. Rosenthal.

“Morrie needs some of this for the baby,” Mrs. Ramshaw said.

“Yes, of course. Take it all, if you wish.”

“Here is an orange, my dear. It is the brightest orange I have seen in a year.” The cool fruit had been pushed into her hands and Clara held it as if sunshine. She lifted it to her nose. The fresh, citrus scent mixed with baking cookies. “Smells like Christmas.”

“We shall have a regular party if everyone is well enough. Reverend Merrick and Francine will be joining us, of course.” Her words carried a wisp of joy.

Clara plunged a fingernail into her orange and juice sprayed across her lips. If joy had a scent...

Little by little, her inner naggings pulsed into fear.

Choices and consequences. No matter which way she turned, someone would get hurt.

Some sort of sacrifice was involved. If she left them cold, they’d be hurt—frightened.

And focus on finding her. She had no protector out there.

Her protectors were here. In Mrs. Ramshaw and Daniel.

The only solid option was to stay, blindly obedient to Mrs. Ramshaw. But what had Daniel said about the difference between obedience and compliance?

“What does the doctor’s message say?”

“Yuletide greetings and hopes you are still considering his offer. Posh.” The woman’s opinion was clear.

Clara dropped a peeling on the table. “It isn’t posh if the surgery works.” She considered an idea. “May I travel to Louisville and visit his office, at least? Learn more information about it...then perhaps later...”

Hands dropped about her shoulders in a quiet, thoughtful hug. “I see no reason why not, if you’re only asking questions.”

“Thank you.”

CHRISTMAS DAY DAWNED . At least she supposed it did. Was the sun pale or was the sky lit up with red glory? Snow had crept through her boot, leaving her toes wiggling wet within her stockings. She inhaled the cold air and rubbed gloved hands together.

Every time she left the house, she felt as if she were a clown with a board and barrel, everyone watching her to see which way she might fall and embarrass herself. Why did it matter to them? More importantly, should it matter to her?

Mrs. Ramshaw took her arm. “The Christmas service is my favorite.”

Clara nodded. This service had been a duty before her family could exchange gifts. A good kind of duty. She had always liked the story of the baby king...the wise men...

Wonderful smells filled the air as they walked toward the church. Her stomach rumbled. They had eaten only oatmeal with the high expectation of fabulous food later. Jenny sang loudly from the kitchen that morning—as she had all the years on the Stanton farm. Even Morrie hummed along.

Morrie...thoughts of the slim, dark girl vaguely filled her mind.

She had never paid much attention to her.

Clara adequately filled the position of eldest daughter, trained to flatter society.

And ride horses well. Morrie also had a job to do, but no fancy tea cakes or new gowns to lighten the load.

Oh, Mrs. Ramshaw, Reverend Merrick. If my life wasn’t already changed enough...my beliefs about everything are swirling in a vortex!

Hands pressed into hers in greeting, hushed “ Merry Christmases ” floated around the church. The organ softly played What Child is This? as she and Mrs. Ramshaw found their pew.

What were the words? She wished she’d memorized more. Carefully she listened.

Reverend Merrick preached the story in gritty detail, nothing of the fanciful fairy tale she’d always known. How often the story stopped at singing angels. He spoke of a people, under oppression, a family, on the run.

Her heart thumped. This was real to him.

The love of a God who would send a baby.

..born to heal, born to die? Unfathomable.

His love, she understood even less. Yet it filled a hungry place within her.

Her eyes suddenly opened even as she gripped the binding of a Bible she couldn’t read.

He’d also been born to live. So that the glory of God may be made manifest. Whatever the cost to Him. ..

“WAIT RIGHT HERE, PLEASE .” Daniel’s hand brushed her shoulder as she sat useless by the fire. Mrs. Ramshaw and Francine were completing the feast. “The kitchen could be a dangerous place for the likes of you, dear.”

Honestly, when she could see she didn’t know how to cook.

Jenny always took care of that. Took care of most things.

Daniel rustled by the front door and returned.

He’d been so kind after her terrible offer.

He lived out forgiveness and gave her hope when she’d been on the brink of falling into a deeper darkness.

Her cheeks warmed at his nearness. Christian had kissed her many times, but the one, soft caress Daniel had left on her lips had made her feel cherished. He probably lived with the regret and she couldn’t blame him. She’d not hold him to any obligation. No matter how her heart might wish it.

“What did you think of my sermon?”

“You might better ask me how I felt about your sermon. I’m not sure that my thinking is what it ought to be.”

His laugh was warm and low. “Okay, then. How did you feel about it?”

She rubbed her hand across her empty engagement finger. Strange, how it no longer hurt to feel the empty space. “I felt...” At a loss for words, she reached deep for something real to say. “I...” Words caught in her throat. “I never felt the pain of Christmas before now.”

“Ah.” She heard his expectant silence.

“Nor the goodness that came from the pain either. I felt as though awakened from a dream. For the first time, these stories, these beliefs I’m supposed to have, mean something.

” She pulled her Bible from her lap and held it up.

“Like a sunrise, I can’t see these words for myself anymore. But I long for them.” Her voice broke.

“Clara.” He wiped a tear away from her face with the back of his hand. “Your feelings are the most beautiful I’ve ever heard about any of my sermons. If only others might feel what you do.”

“Others can see. How much I miss!”

“Yet they can’t begin to see what you’ve glimpsed.”

What did he mean? Laughter echoed from the kitchen to the dining table. Joy hovered near.

“Hold out your hands, I’ve a present for you.”

“Reverend...” With a strange hope, she set her Bible aside—ready. A length, solid and thin weighed in her hands. She felt the satin-smooth wood, and the intricate carving at the top of the walking stick.

“I took the liberty of making this for you, after the old one met its end.”

“You made this?” She couldn’t keep from smiling.

“I hiked into the woods until I found the right branch and yes, I made this especially for you.”