More Than Words Page 13

  He grabbed my hand and lifted it to his lips. “So now I can come and visit with you after prayer service each evening, and on Sunday afternoons we can go for picnics and fishing. Maybe I can ask your Vater to arrange for a buggy one Sunday afternoon, and we can take a ride in the country—or to one of the other villages. Your Vater is gut friends with the farm Baas. I think he could convince Brother Heinrich that we would take gut care of the horse and buggy.”

  “But still we would need a chaperone,” I said.

  “Ja. Maybe your grandmother would like to go and see friends in one of the villages. She sometimes talks about someone who lives in High.”

  I nodded. “Sister Margaret Whaley. She died years ago. When Oma’s not in her right mind, she forgets some of her friends have already gone to be with the Lord.”

  Conrad continued to hold my hand in a firm grasp as we strolled toward the back door. “Then we will take her to visit some of her other friends.” His eyes shone with delight. “I plan to be with you during all of your free time.”

  His comment hit me with an unexpected jolt. If I was in Conrad’s company for all of my free time, how would I find time to write?

  CHAPTER 14

  “Help! We need water and a damp cloth, please. Hurry!”

  At the sound of the shouted demand, I snapped to attention and rushed to the front of the store. I had neither water nor a damp cloth when I reached the man’s side, but after one look at his traveling companion, I grabbed a chair from behind the counter. The well-dressed man was struggling under the weight of a lady, and I shoved the chair behind her.

  “Sit her down,” I said, returning to the counter to obtain a cloth. I dampened several clean rags with a dipper of water and ignored the excess that dribbled on the floor. It would dry soon enough. I didn’t take time to fetch a glass of water. The woman didn’t appear able to open her eyes, much less swallow.

  Taking giant strides, I returned to the woman’s side and applied a cloth to her forehead and daubed her cheeks with another. The man knelt beside her and attempted to fan her with his hand. I pointed to one of the racks. “There are fans on the second shelf. I believe one of those would do more good.” Remaining on one knee, he stretched his body until I thought it would break in two. But to my amazement, he reached one of the fans and picked it up without losing his balance. He snapped it open and flapped it in front of the woman’s face.

  “Winifred! Can you hear me, my dear?” The man glanced in my direction. “She doesn’t faint often, but when she does, it can sometimes take a while to bring her around.”

  “I could obtain some spirits of ammonia if you—”

  “No! Absolutely not,” he shouted loud enough to alarm anyone within earshot. “Smelling salts cause her to become violently ill.”

  “Very well,” I said in my most soothing voice. “Is there anything else I can do that might help?”

  He fixed a hard glare on the front door. “Make sure none of those filthy Gypsies come anywhere within sight.”

  My stomach lurched. “The Gypsies accosted your wife?” I leaned close, not wanting to miss a word of his story.

  “No. Not now. Not this very minute. I mean not since we’ve been in town.” He stumbled over his words like some of the hobos when they’d had too much beer. He sighed. For a moment he ceased fanning his wife and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. “It happened a year ago. Gypsies came to Springfield and stole our daughter. My wife hasn’t fully recovered from the incident. The mere sight of Gypsies when we stepped off the train caused her to become lightheaded—and now she’s fainted.”

  I swallowed the yelp that lodged in my throat and inhaled a deep cleansing breath. When the woman stirred, I touched the cloth to her cheek. “I’ll fetch a glass of water and refresh this cloth with cooler water.”

  “I appreciate your help.” He looked up at me and then rose to a half stand. “I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself. I am Emory Lofton.” He looked down at the woman. “And this is my wife, Winifred.”

  “I am pleased to meet you. I am Gretchen Kohler. I help my Vater operate the store for our village.” I took a backward step and raised the cloth in the air. “I’ll take care of this and be right back.”

  Oma, obviously roused by all the commotion, tottered into the store. With her attention fixed upon Mrs. Lofton, she leaned close to me and whispered, “What’s wrong with that woman?”

  “She had a fright and fainted. I’m trying to help her husband bring her around, but we’re not having much success.” While I explained to Oma, Mr. Lofton continued to urge his wife to open her eyes and speak to him.

  “Smelling salts,” Oma hissed. “Works every time.”

  She started for the wooden box where we stored medical supplies, but I grasped her thin wrist and shook my head. “Mr. Lofton says they make his wife very ill. We can’t use them.”

  Oma massaged her forehead. “How long she has been like this?”

  I shrugged. “A short time. The damp cloth and fan don’t seem to have much effect.”

  “Wait here.” Oma marched to the far side of the room and gathered a piece of oilcloth. She waved a finger in the air. “Bring that glass of water.”

  I wasn’t certain what she planned to do, but she appeared to be in her right mind, so I followed her instruction. She pushed Mr. Lofton aside and, in one sweeping motion, draped the oilcloth over the front of Mrs. Lofton’s fancy blue gown. Before I realized what was happening, she snatched the glass of water from my hand and pitched the contents onto Mrs. Lofton’s face.

  I gasped, Mr. Lofton bellowed, Oma jumped backward, and Mrs. Lofton sputtered and came to life. “Emory! Whatever are you doing throwing water in my face?” As the water-spattered oilcloth slid to the floor, I hastened forward and offered the damp cloth I’d used only a short time ago. Mrs. Lofton frowned. “I believe a dry cloth would prove more beneficial.”

  After shooting my grandmother an annoyed look, I hurried and grabbed a dry rag from beneath the counter and handed it to Mrs. Lofton. It wasn’t until she’d swiped her face that I realized I’d grabbed Oma’s dustrag. The woman’s face was smudged a murky shade of gray. Without thought to proper manners, I grabbed the rag from her hand and hurried to find a clean one.

  Poor Mrs. Lofton appeared completely bewildered when I returned and slapped another rag in her hand. “I do believe this one is better. The other one was, well, it was …”

  “My dustrag,” Oma said. “You got smudges right here.” She pointed to Mrs. Lofton’s forehead and cheek. When the woman didn’t hit the right spot, Oma snatched the cloth from her hand and wiped her face. “There! That is gut. All clean now. And wide awake, too.” Oma squared her shoulders and stared down at Mrs. Lofton as though she’d done her a great favor by tossing water in her face.

  No apology could erase the distress the poor woman had endured since arriving in town. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Lofton. Your husband explained you couldn’t use smelling salts. When my grandmother saw that you weren’t regaining consciousness, she wanted to assist. Please forgive her. In her desire to help, she sometimes goes too far.”

  Mrs. Lofton patted the fringe of damp, curly bangs that now clung to her forehead. “I accept your apology and thank you for coming to my aid. I would have preferred a bit less exuberance from your grandmother. Still, I thank you both.”

  My face burned with embarrassment, and when I saw Oma returning with another glass of water, I jumped between the two women. However, my movement didn’t deter my grandmother. She sidestepped me and extended the glass toward the disheveled woman. “Drink this.” Mrs. Lofton accepted the glass and stared at the purple liquid in the glass. Oma pushed the woman’s hand closer to her lips. “Drink. It is gut medicine. We make it here in Amana. Drink it down. Like this.” Oma pretended to toss back the contents of the glass in one giant gulp, and Mrs. Lofton followed suit.

  “That didn’t taste so bad,” Mrs. Lofton said. “Indeed, it was quite good.”

&nbs
p; Oma bobbed her head. “Ja, I told you. We make gut wine. You want some more?”

  “Wine?” Mr. Lofton grabbed the glass from his wife’s hand.

  I shuddered when I saw his forehead furrow with concern. He undoubtedly thought Oma had offered his wife a medicinal cure rather than a simple glass of wine.

  “My wife isn’t accustomed to imbibing strong drink of any sort. Wine will only serve to inhibit her recovery.”

  My grandmother, who obviously didn’t agree with Mr. Lofton’s decision, took the glass and turned on her heel. I lightly grasped her wrist. “No more wine, Oma.”

  She grunted and stalked off. I turned my attention back to Mrs. Lofton. “If you need to rest, I can offer you a more comfortable chair in our parlor.” I pointed toward the door leading to our private rooms.

  Mr. Lofton patted his wife’s shoulder. “If you have no objection, we’ll just remain here until Winifred feels strong enough to continue.”

  The two of them were stationed in the center aisle of the store, but I couldn’t ask them to move, not with Mrs. Lofton in a fragile state. “Did you come to take a tour of the villages, or are you here on business, Mr. Lofton?”

  “We have friends who visited here, and they suggested we might benefit from the change of scenery. My wife isn’t fond of traveling, but she couldn’t resist making the journey after hearing of their enjoyment. Unfortunately …”

  His voice trailed off, but the reminder had been enough to set his wife on edge. She stiffened, and beads of perspiration soon dotted her forehead. Spotting the fan her husband had used to help revive her, Mrs. Lofton plucked it from his hand. With a flick of her wrist, the fan snapped open, and she waved it with a vengeance.

  “Those ghastly vagabonds. I hope your people don’t encourage them to camp around your towns. They steal children, you know. They took my little—” her voice caught, and she covered her lips with her fingers—“my little Cecile, and we’ve never been able to find her.” She reached for her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “Such a beautiful child, isn’t she, Emory?” Her words slurred as she tipped her head to look up at her husband.

  “Indeed. Just like her mother, sweet and lovely.” Once again Mr. Lofton patted his wife on the shoulder. “Perhaps …” He glanced back and forth between his wife and me. “Do you think someone could show me where the Gypsies are camped so I could check to see if they have our little Cecile—or know of her whereabouts?”

  My thoughts jumbled as I attempted to form the proper answer. I didn’t want to admit I’d been to the camp. Before I could answer, Mrs. Lofton began to weep. “Please don’t go there, Emory. What if they kill you? Then I’d be without both you and Cecile. I can’t bear the thought.”

  Mrs. Lofton’s head lolled from side to side. I wasn’t certain if it was the wine or fear of losing her husband, but I was afraid she might swoon again. “Given your wife’s concern, it might be best if you refrained from visiting the Gypsy camp. I may be able to gather some information for you. I’ll do my best.”

  Mr. Lofton nodded his agreement. “Thank you, Miss Kohler. You are most kind.”

  A group of customers entered the store, but when I noticed my grandmother still holding the wine bottle in one hand, I hurried to her side. “No more wine for Mrs. Lofton. Please go and help the customers. I’ll see to Mrs. Lofton.”

  “Ach! The wine, it helps her. Look at the color in her face.” Before she turned and marched away, Oma pointed a spindly finger at Mrs. Lofton’s bright pink cheeks.

  If my grandmother thought her terse remark or Mrs. Lofton’s pink cheeks were proof the swooning woman needed another glass of wine, she was sorely mistaken. The opposite was true, confirming Mr. Lofton’s assertion that his wife did not imbibe. I doubted the woman could stand without assistance. Stepping close to Mr. Lofton’s side, I quietly said, “I do believe it would be best for your wife to rest in our parlor. Even though a wagon will take you to the villages, a good deal of walking is required.”

  “I’m fine,” Mrs. Lofton said. “Just look.” She pushed up from the chair. Her body swayed like a tree branch on a windy day, but she appeared completely unaware of her condition. Had her husband not grabbed her around the waist, she would have dropped to the floor. “What time do we depart?”

  Mrs. Lofton’s knees buckled, and her husband gathered the woman into his arms. “I believe we will need the use of your parlor, Miss Kohler.”

  I directed the way and pointed to the divan. “Why don’t you let your wife rest there? I’m sure the effects of the wine will wear off soon.” At least I hoped so. Mr. Lofton’s wife was no more alert than when he’d stepped inside the store. “As I mentioned earlier, my grandmother sometimes is overly zealous in her efforts to help.”

  “She meant no harm, and who can say? Maybe the wine will help my wife forget she ever saw those Gypsies.” When he pinched the bridge of his nose, I wondered if he was thinking of his lost child.

  “Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. There is no one here to disturb you.” I glanced toward the door leading into the store. “Unless my grandmother decides to come in and check on your wife’s progress. However, I’ll do my best to keep her busy.”

  He dropped to a nearby chair. “Do those Gypsies come here each year, Miss Kohler?”

  I folded my hands in a tight knot. “Not those particular Gypsies, but we frequently have groups who camp in the area during the summer months. Sometimes they camp near another village, sometimes near ours, but they generally don’t stay the entire summer. We never know how long they will remain.”

  “But you don’t try to make them leave?”

  “No. We try our best to be hospitable to all people, Gypsies and hobos included. Some make it easier than others. The Gypsies tend to do a little stealing from time to time, and the hobos would rather we didn’t require them to chop wood or pull weeds for their food, but the Bible teaches we should share with those in need.” I could see the concern in Mr. Lofton’s eyes. “This latest group of Gypsies hasn’t caused trouble like some who have been here in years past.”

  He hunched forward to look at his wife. “I know all about the trouble they can cause.” Then he looked at me, but his eyes had glazed as if he were in a trance. In a monotone voice, he told me that he and his wife had been on a picnic in a park a short distance from their home when out of nowhere they’d been approached by two Gypsy men and a woman. The men asked for money and the woman stooped down and admired Cecile. He’d given them what money he had in his pocket, but they’d been dissatisfied. Then the Gypsy woman had insisted upon Mrs. Lofton’s cameo, but she refused to give it up.

  Mr. Lofton rested his chin in his palm, agony twisting his features as he told me the Gypsies warned them they’d be sorry they hadn’t cooperated. Even though the Loftons didn’t believe anything further would happen, their outing had been ruined, so they decided to pack up their picnic basket and return home. They’d gone only a short distance when Mrs. Lofton remembered they’d left their daughter’s doll under the tree where they’d spread their blanket.

  Mr. Lofton raised his head, his eyes filled with tears. “I ran back to retrieve the doll, and in those few short minutes, they rushed in and grabbed our beautiful Cecile from my wife.” He dropped his face between his hands. “At night I think of how my daughter must cry for us. I know it’s wrong of me, but I hate all of those people.”

  My throat constricted, and I struggled to keep my tears in check. “I can’t imagine the pain you and your wife have suffered.” Hate was a strong word, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell Mr. Lofton he shouldn’t hate the people who had stolen his daughter. “I doubt this group of Gypsies is in any way connected to those who took your daughter. I know that probably won’t ease your wife’s misgivings—or yours, for that matter—but the chances of …”

  He waved me to silence with a firm nod. “I know. But it doesn’t change my feelings about the entire group of them. Our little Cecile was only five years old when they took her.” His
voice cracked with emotion. “It was a year ago this very week. That’s one of the reasons I planned this trip. As summer approached, my wife became more despondent.” He locked his fingers together in a prayerlike fashion. “She sees children outdoors playing, families on picnics, mothers in the park with their daughters, and it all comes back to haunt her.”

  The child would now be six years old. Lalah. The girl’s name popped into my head and wouldn’t depart. She’d said she was seven, but she didn’t look seven. Though I should have returned to the store, I remained and asked for more details about the Loftons’ daughter. Had she a fair complexion? Did she have dark hair or light? What of her eyes? Were they as blue as the sky or dark gray like the fabric of his suit?

  He didn’t seem to mind my questions. In fact, his eyes shown with delight as he told me Cecile was fair like her mother with light brown hair and eyes the color of walnuts. “If she’d had blue eyes, I don’t think she would have appeared so fair. But those large dark eyes—they were beautiful.” He trembled, as if shaking himself from a distant dream. “I’m sure you have work that needs your attention. I’ll sit here with my wife until she rouses, and then I’ll take her to the hotel. We have rooms there.”

  “If your wife is feeling well enough, there is a tour later this afternoon. If not, there is a restaurant in the hotel or you can join us at our Küche, where we eat our meals. You would be most welcome.” I was pleased to know Mr. Lofton had taken a room at the hotel, for I didn’t think his wife would be well enough to sit in a bumpy wagon for the remainder of the day. In fact, I wondered if she would awaken before suppertime.

  I returned to the store with thoughts of Lalah heavy on my mind. I wanted to see her again. Perhaps with a gentle nudge, she would remember something about her early years. Although I doubted she was the Loftons’ child, I didn’t believe she belonged to Loyco. And I wanted to know the truth.