Rebecca's Promise (7 page)

Reuben swung his feet out and onto the hardwood floor. Finding a match, he lit the kerosene lamp, carefully replacing the chimney, and then looked across the bed. “Why are you on the floor?” he asked.

She still said nothing, lying motionless and in pain.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, coming around the bed. He rubbed his sleepy eyes, trying to bring her into focus in the dancing light of the kerosene lamp.

She waited until he was close, then rolled onto her side to get up. “No,” she said, “the rug slipped.”

“You should be more careful,” he said, his deacon voice vibrating low in the morning stillness.

She rubbed her head. “I was trying to shut off that terrible racket.”

“It’s a little noisy,” he allowed, “but if we got something quieter, then how would we wake up?”

“You don’t shut it off anyway,” she said.

He turned around to look at her, then changed his mind, shaking his head and reaching for his clothing on the floor. “I’ll be a little early for breakfast. I did some of the chores last night.”

“Okay,” she said quietly, “I’ll get Luke up.”

After Reuben dressed and left the room, Rachel began her own preparations for the day. As the lamplight played softly on the wall, she remembered why she felt so tired. The grandfather clock. She had heard it chime at two o’clock.

Oh yes. The money. Now it was coming back. The money problem and the lawyer coming out to Emma’s place. Or was it a lawyer? That was the rumor, but was it true? Someone would have to find out and find out soon. Maybe it was the doctor visiting about her health.

Clearly Reuben would be no good. If she raised the subject with him, he would just lecture her about interfering with other people’s lives and the fleetingness of money, its corrupting power, and how no one could take it with them. Well, that might all be true, but one could use it while one was here. Surely that was not a sin, especially if the money was rightfully yours.

And it was hers, was it not?
Yes,
she assured herself,
it was.
Then it was also up to her to see that the wrong was made right. Walking downstairs, she lit the other gas lantern and hung it on the hook in the kitchen ceiling.

Soon the lantern’s hiss was joined by the sound of sizzling bacon in the large skillet. Glancing out the window into the darkness, Rachel saw snowflakes bouncing off the glass.

Turning to her task at hand, she made her plans regarding Emma. She and Luke would have to do this, and that was all there was to it. All the hard work, all the hard thinking that would be involved—it would all lie on their shoulders.

Luke would help, of this she was certain. He was willing. He would listen to her and be sympathetic. He would also keep his mouth shut. He might even have a helpful idea or two.

Yes, she would speak to Luke as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Together, tragedy might well be turned around, lest her father’s error keep on bearing its bitter fruit. After the night spent thinking of what needed to be done, she was certain now.

R
ebecca needed no alarm clock to awaken by—the soft creak of the floorboards in the kitchen directly under her room was usually sufficient. Her mother would be up, stirring batter for biscuits and laying the bacon pan out on the stove. The sound of wood clunking against the sides of the cooking stove’s metal box added to the morning’s sounds. The final sound to pull her from bed would be her mother softly calling her name up the stairs lest the younger children be awakened.

It was Rebecca’s responsibility to help milk in the morning. Matthew was almost old enough to help, but his trial attempts had consisted of evening chores so far. Slowly she slid out from under the covers, conscious of the rush of cold in her room.

The temperature had surely dropped overnight. Her feet touched the floor and quickly found her slippers. Reaching one foot out, she found the damper to the register directly above the kitchen stove and slid it open. Warm air rose around her, its comfort welcome now that she was awake. Sleeping was meant to be done in the cold, but getting up was another matter.

She stepped to the window, her attention drawn to the snowflakes drifting by. The English had been right—it was snowing. Great flakes drifted by, swirling when the wind moved them sideways by the pane. Conscious that she needed to be downstairs soon, she moved over to the register to dress.

The morning chill caused a shiver even when she was fully dressed. A heavy homemade coat hanging in the downstairs closet and boots from Wal-Mart would complete the attire and hopefully supply the
needed warmth. This morning’s chill seemed more than just due to the weather. Memories of last night and the ring came back with a rush.

Why have I kept the thing?
She asked herself, dimly thinking she knew the answer but still unsure.
A promise is a promise,
a voice sounded in her head, its voice as solemn and fatal as Bishop Martin when he pronounced prayers over the communion bread and wine cup.

You promised Atlee.

She shivered again.

Why didn’t I just throw it away when we moved here?

To that question, she didn’t have an answer.

We were young,
she told herself again.
We have moved away now, and that was a long time ago. Why is this bothering me?

Rebecca pulled her dress around her tightly, longing for the heavy coat downstairs. Opening the door to her bedroom, she stepped out into the hall and found the steps in the dark. By memory, she went down without stumbling.

Knowing her mother would be busy in the kitchen, Rebecca simply walked past her, heading for the utility closet by the front door. Mother, of course, would hear her footsteps and realize that she was up and on her way to the barn.

The living room had no light in it, but the kerosene lamps from the kitchen cast a faint glow halfway to the closet. It was sufficient for Rebecca’s purposes, guided by habit and memory.

Expecting a blast of cold when she opened the front door to step out, she was surprised instead by the softness of the snow. A nip was in the air, but blunted by the glory all around her. Each flake that she could see lit by that hushed light from the gas lantern in the kitchen, swirled past her.

She paused for a moment, her own troubles with the ring forgotten in the effect of the moment. Snow instantly began to gather on her scarf and coat sleeves. Standing without moving, she watched with wonder as the snowflakes balanced one on top of the other.

Then she thought of the ring again…and the fear, the uncertainty. Yes, something wonderful had happened yesterday in John’s proposal, but with his promise of love, the memories of an earlier promise to Atlee came to her mind…and the ring…and her approaching birthday.

Surely I wouldn’t want to go back? What reason would I have? I love John. Why am I afraid? I should have left the ring in Milroy,
she told herself.
Maybe then I would have forgotten all about Atlee.

No, that wouldn’t have solved the problem,
the voice in her head told her.
You still promised him. You loved Atlee. You promised him you would meet him at the bridge in Milroy.
A chill spread deep throughout her body. Startled, she came out of her thoughts so quickly that every snowflake slid off of her sleeves as she started abruptly toward the barn.

Dad will be wondering where I am,
she told herself. Her heart leaped in her chest as the knowledge of last night came back with force. John had walked this very ground with his eyes on her. She had walked in front of him, enjoying every sensation.
What happened with Atlee in Milroy is nothing,
she told herself.

Then horror filled her.
Do I have to tell John? Surely not, I haven’t done anything wrong. But if I tell him, surely he’ll understand.
That thought brought a little comfort until the voice inside her head reminded her,
John’s a man of strict moral values. You know what kind of wife he wants. Are you sure he’ll understand?

The obvious answer chilled her. She pulled the coat around her to ward it off but without success.
Atlee told you to keep it,
the voice inside said,
and you said you would. You promised.

Her thoughts became a snowstorm of their own, falling too quickly to keep track of. Instead of cold snow, they fell like white fire, piercing her heart. Tears formed and fell, getting themselves lost in the ground around her. The rosy day of yesterday had descended into depths she would never have thought possible. The innocence of yesterday had returned not as sweetness and light but as a memory that threatened.

It’s not really serious,
she told herself firmly.
I can tell John about the ring and Atlee, and he will understand.

Reaching out through the snowflakes, she found the doorknob to the milking parlor. Around her, the morning’s dull glow had increased slightly, but she hardly noticed, shutting the door firmly behind her.

The heat of the milking parlor hit her—its warmth coming from the cows as much as the heater burning in the corner. Two gas lanterns hung from the ceiling, one on each end. The cows closest to the door, their necks in the stanchions, turned in her direction with only mild interest. The rest ignored her, their minds and mouths on the feed in front of their noses.

Her father already had a milker going and was ready to step away from the cow. Rebecca reached for the other milker that was hanging by its straps from the ceiling. She shook the snow off her coat before bringing the milker down.

“Good morning,” her father said, keeping his eyes on the milker he had just attached, which was making strange noises under the cow’s udder.

“Good morning,” she replied, without much enthusiasm.

“There’s something wrong with this milker,” he commented. “You notice anything last night?”

“No,” she said, “it was working fine then.”

“That’s how things go,” he muttered. “A snowy morning. Just the time for equipment to act up. Harder to get into town. Harder for everything.”

Rebecca made no reply, the comment making perfect sense to her. It did seem like that was the way things went.
Like me and John,
she thought.

She suddenly became conscious of her father’s eyes upon her. He was standing beside the cow, the milker now ceasing from its strange noises.

“How are you and John getting along?” he asked. “Takes an interested young man to help a girl with choring.”

“Okay,” Rebecca told him, not looking up.

“Sure?” he asked her. “You seem troubled this morning. Last night too.”

“I’m okay,” Rebecca insisted, still not raising her eyes from the floor as she headed toward a cow with the milker in both hands.

“You’re not misbehaving?” Lester asked, with concern in his voice. “You know the church rules.”

“Of course we do.” Rebecca smiled at the thought, raising her eyes to meet his, a picture of proper John flashing in her mind. “He’s a stickler for the rules.”

“That’s good,” her father allowed, “but sometimes that’s not enough. We need convictions of our own.”

“John’s got convictions. Don’t worry. We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“Have
you
?” he asked, his voice serious. “Convictions, I mean.”

“I try to,” she said, raising her eyes to look at him. “I really do.”

“Yes, I imagine you do,” he replied, sounding satisfied. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing well. John’s a nice boy.”

Rebecca nodded her head in thanks. “I like him too.”

“All right then,” her father said, moving along to the next cow.