“Maybe. That be her own accord, now.”
“I was just thinking, if she chose to buy me to wait upon her, Master and Mistress Hasken could have money to get Christine to a leech.”
“We don’t believe in leeching and spells, and Miss Christine has all the caring anybody could want. The Great Physician will cure her when He’s ready.”
I curled up my knees. I didn’t know how to answer that one. “Mistress Johansen must be worried about her sister.”
“Not likely. More worried about keeping the reverend close to her bed.”
“Would Mistress sell me to her?”
“Sell you? Mary, you was give to me.”
“Would you sell me to her?”
Birgitta looked stunned. “Whatever for?”
“She might be a lady, more fine, with her own maid.”
Birgitta grunted and rolled away from me, facing the wall. “And I don’t need help here? What with all these to see to and all that’s left of me goats? Well. You can’t—”
“I meant to please you. I thought you might want her to be a fine lady and all, since she is the eldest.”
“You want to get out of work, since she is alone and you’d have no chores at all.”
The family took their places at pallets on the floor. I leaned upon one elbow toward Birgitta, forcing myself not to shrink from her growing anger, as if I felt no concern about that but merely wished to please. I whispered as softly as a breath, “I do not want to be lazy. I would never want to leave you. I could only be happy there if you came, too.”
Birgitta sat up then, staring at the fireplace stones as if there were some answer printed on them. After a bit, she lay down and muttered, “Well, there’s no place to keep the goats at their house,” and soon began to snore.
The new church house was going up, but all that existed now were rows of logs high as my waist. On Sundays the community gathered there with their slaves and made worship, with the wood chips of the coming church house perfuming the air. Rough logs made for seats and the sap from them soaked into people’s clothes. They sang and prayed and Reverend Johansen talked and read from his Bible. During the hours of worship, some children ran and played, and those who needed one thing or another got up and came back at will. I was not allowed to run and play, nor to sit with Patience, for I had to mind Lonnie all the time.
Reverend Johansen opened his text and spoke in a somber voice that came from some unearthly plain. It echoed against the trees around us and raised my heart with angel’s wings. “Psalm Sixty-two.” He began to read. After each verse he spoke at great length. I stared at his features as he told each phrase, as if he could divine the various natures of my sin. Lies and deceiving, these were my wickedness. By the time his speech was finished and he said “Amen,” tears slithered down my face with abandon.
We picnicked on the planks of the new church floor. Christine leaned against a pillar sitting upon the ground. I covered her with a blanket and sat nearby where I could watch Lonnie prattling with a wooden spoon, and using an old, rounded knife, I nibbled at my portion of corn pudding.
A shadow darkened the air about me so that I looked up. Reverend Johansen stood over me the way Rafe MacAlister had once done. I tried to smile but did not speak. “Mary?” he began, “You seem touched by God’s word. Was it the Spirit moved you?”
“I know not, sir. I feel it may have been something like it.”
“Is that all you have in your bowl? Just corn pudding? Have you no meat?”
I bowed my head, afraid lest he be trying to have me say aught against the master. Even as I did I wondered if I would know a deceit or a true question, since my own heart was tangled in lies and conniving. “Mistress provides all I need, your lordship.”
“I’m not a lord, Mary. You mustn’t call me that. Call me ‘Reverend’ or ‘Parson’ or ‘Brother Johansen.’ Now. Would you have some meat if I gave it to you?”
“Yes, Parson. Gladly.” He lifted half his portion of stewed meat into my porringer. I gasped. “Thank you, Reverend Johansen.”
“There,” he said. “That will help you grow up well and strong.”
“Reverend, should I confess my sins to you? I have been exceedingly wicked.”
“No, Mary. You confess only to God. Believe me, He has already forgiven you.”