Wilhelm was enjoying his Sunday
off. He had just spent two hours in the
stables and now was going to the church for morning services. The path led him beside a small orchard of
crabapples.
“Ow! Damnation!” The sound of
ripped cloth accompanied the oath.
Wilhelm stopped and peered up into
the tree. “Pettigrew?”
“Bloody hell, keep your voice down,
Willy, or Somersby will find us.”
Another sound of ripping and then the boughs danced.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m stealing apples.”
“You shouldn’t do that. They belong to the Reverend.”
“That’s why it’s called stealing.”
The teen stuck his head out and grinned.
“Come up and help me.”
“No!”
“Willy, I need your help. My sleeve’s caught on a branch.”
“Oh.” Wilhelm climbed over the
stone fence and reached for a low branch.
“Quiet! Someone’s coming!”
“Quick! Get up here!”
The boy scrambled up and joined
his friend.
The blonde hair and pink dress of
their tag-a-long appeared as she climbed over the wall. “I see you.”
“Go away, Gertrude,” Pettigrew
hissed.
“I’m not! I want to steal apples, too.”
“They are crabapples, Trudy. Very bitter.
Sour.” Wilhelm tried to dissuade her.
“They are sweet at the top of the
tree.” She began to climb.
“No, Gertrude, you’ll fall and get
hurt. The branches are thin up there!”
The German reached for her in
response to the panic in Pettigrew’s voice.
“I can do it. I’m light.”
She passed by the boys and reached out for the bright red fruit.
Distracted by Gertrude, the boys
had forgotten to watch out for the Reverend.
His voice boomed up at them, “I know you’re up there. Come down at once!”
The three children obeyed.
“Pettigrew! And Willy! Not you, too, Gertrude!” He stood with his
hands on his hips towering over them. “Just
what did you think you were doing?”
Gertrude grinned, “We were
stealing your apples!”
“Stealing?” He roared, “Thou shall
not steal!”
Wilhelm stepped forward, sheltering
the other two behind him. “That’s in the
Bible, sir.”
“Of course it’s in the Bible!”
“Pettigrew taught me to read the
Bible. Well, some of it. And I read that part out loud last night.”
“You should have taken it to
heart, boy.”
“Willy wasn’t stealing,
Reverend. He was only helping me get my
shirt unstuck.”
Wilhelm pointed to Pettigrew’s
shoulder.
“You’re bleeding.” The Reverend’s
face clouded with concern.
“Are you going to die?” Gertrude
grabbed his hand. “Are you going to die
like our momma?”
“Be silent, Trudy,” Willy
scolded. “Of course he is not going to
die.”
“Promise? Promise me, Willy?”
“Gertrude, enough.” To the boys,
the Reverend stated, “I need two altar boys this morning. We’ll clean your wound and bandage you up
before putting on your robes.”
Pettigrew opened his mouth to
protest but was overrun by Willy’s excitement, “I can be an altar boy? Wirklich? You’ll let me march down the aisle and light
the candles?”
Somersby smiled.
“And we’ll get to wear robes,”
Pettigrew supported Willy’s enthusiasm.
“I want to be an altar boy, too!”
“You can’t be an altar boy,” Willy
argued. “You’re a girl.”
“Girls should get to be altar boys,”
she insisted as they all walked up to the church.
“Heaven forbid,” Somersby
laughed. “Next you’ll be telling me you
want to be a priest.”
“You could be a nun,” Willy
suggested.
“We’re not Catholic,” Pettigrew
corrected him.
“Well, you could sing in the
choir, then.”
She liked that idea so much, she
serenaded them into the church.
#
“How is the headmaster?” Luther
and Karl stood as Delamair settled their coffee tray.
“He’s over the worst. We’re sending him to his brother’s next week,
once he can travel.”
“Next week?” Karl’s voice
deepened.
“The doctor has a car; he’ll be
able to come Friday morning and transport him and help him settle in.”
“You’re not going?” Luther asked.
“I’m needed here. The doctor will be staying with him at the
manor.”
“Oh,” Luther didn’t hide his
disgust. Karl looked questioningly
between the two. She was pale, Luther
was red-faced. With a sudden clarity,
Karl despised the headmaster.
Luther took a cup from her. “So, you will be very busy this week. Don’t forget to find a refuge for
yourself. You and the Old Man used to
sit out in the garden. Do you still
visit it?”
She glanced at Karl and replied,
“Yes. It’s my second favorite place.”
His eyes twinkled.
#
They sat together in the garden
and talked long into the night, but they discussed nothing of a personal
nature. They bantered jokes and debated politics,
brushed on religion. He walked her to
the base of the stairs and took her hand in both of his. He drew it to his mouth and kissed it. He turned it over and pressed his lips into
her palm.
He whispered, “Tomorrow night?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her hand again and
watched her ascend the stairs.
The next night, he brought a
bottle of wine and two glasses and they discussed Wagner and Da Vince; impressionists
versus romantics. She had never been to
Paris, so he described the wonders of the Louvre.
The third night, she brought a
basket of blackberries she’d gathered that morning. They took turns feeding each other until he
could bare it no longer. He began
licking her fingers, nibbling them as she laughed. He kissed her then, while she was still
laughing and released her before his passion grew too intense.
He stood and clicked his
heels. “Until tomorrow night, my Vor.” It
took all his will power, but he left her still sitting on the bench.
She was late the next night and
found him pacing.
“I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I was packing for Thomas but he
doesn’t understand why he has to go. He
kept taking his clothes out of the case.
I finally got him settled.”
“Why do you have separate beds?”
She stood before him and stared up
at the sky.
“Delamair,” he stepped
closer. “Does he make love to you?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Never?” He leaned in.
“Never.”
“How can you bear it? To never be touched. To never know that special bond between man
and wife?”
She shrugged.
“You knew it once. Your child-“
She stepped back as if he had
slapped her.
“I think your husband is either a
pervert or a fool. What kind of husband
is he to ignore your needs?”
“What kind of husband are you, to
want to make love to me?”
It was he who felt slapped.
“Good night, Colonel.”
He continued pacing after she
walked away.
Excerpt from
The
Island Remains
© Evelyn Rainey
Whiskey Creek Publishing
ISBN tba June 2014
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