An Offering: The Tale of Therese

By Allison Pittman

1504, Brunnendorf, Germany
Eight year-old Therese longs for a home. Fatherless and living in one, small room with her mother, Therese is sent to visit her grandparents in the next town when men come to visit. She’s hoping this man will be the one who marries her mother and gives them a home.

But on this day, while heading to her grandparents, she stops to pick up vegetables that have fallen off a passing wagon and is accused of being a beggar and attacked with stones. Rescued by a nun from the local convent, she brings Therese to the church, where she is cared for. In the loving arms of the nun, Therese wishes she could stay.

Leaving the convent for her grandparent’s house, Therese is welcomed in for the first time. Again, she longs to make this her home along with her mother, but realizes that grace and forgiveness don’t come easy. What must be sacrificed to see her dream come true?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers
• Release date: Jul 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781496423924

Book preview

An Offering

Visit Tyndale online at tyndale.com.

Visit Allison Pittman at allisonkpittman.com.

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An Offering: The Tale of Therese

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Pittman. All rights reserved.

Cover illustration of frame copyright © Ozerina Anna/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

Designed by Julie Chen

Edited by Sarah Mason Rische

Published in association with William K. Jensen Literary Agency, 119 Bampton Court, Eugene, Oregon 97404.

Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.

An Offering: The Tale of Therese is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

ISBN 978-1-4694-2391-7 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4694-2392-4 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4964-2393-1 (Apple)

Build: 2021-04-21 22:32:27 EPUB 3.0

"We must beg God to be our wall,

and send His angels to help us."

Martin Luther in a letter written to Frederick Myconius

NOVEMBER 7, 1529

The author wonders if, perhaps, Luther had heard this tale. . . .

Contents

Brunnendorf, Germany

Brehna

About the Author

Preview of Loving Luther

Preview of The Seamstress

Brunnendorf, Germany

SPRING 1504

In the center of the village of Brunnendorf stood a fountain, the sole remaining structure of the lavish home of a Roman general. Every bit of architecture, all the defining walls and arches, had crumbled and been carted away, save for the tiles that once made up the courtyard over which the fountain presided. When she was a very little girl, Therese had to stand high on her toes just to peek into the water, ever fresh from the spouts shaped like four howling wolves’ heads. Long ago, these may have looked fierce and frightening, but just as Therese had grown to be a big girl of eight years old, time had softened the fountain’s features, save for one wolf—the largest, whose snout remained sharp and detailed. Every day when Therese came with the pewter pitcher to fill, she looked up into the empty eyes of the wolf and said, Thank you for the water, before walking home—carefully, so she wouldn’t slosh a drop.

On this morning, she’d gone out earlier than usual, just past the time when the sun peeked into the alley where she and her mother lived in a single, small room at the back of a tailor’s shop. It was to be a big day, for she was going to visit her Oma and Opa in the next village, going all alone like a big girl.

Before that, though, she needed to fetch the water. Mutti didn’t like to venture out to the fountain in the square. Not in the daytime, anyway, and certainly not in the early hours of morning. She’d still been abed when Therese left, which made it all the more surprising when she stood at the door at her return. Not just at the door, but in the doorway, blocking any way for Therese to get back inside.

Go, Mutti said, taking the pitcher from her hands.

Now? But— Therese wanted to say that she was hungry, but surely Mutti knew that. There’d been nothing in the bread box that morning, and she’d hoped to have a few coppers to take to the baker for breakfast.

If you hurry, you might be there in time for dinner.

But what will you—?

Never mind. There’s a bit of bread left in the box, and if it’s not enough, I’ll go to the baker to see what he has left from the window.

It was a lie, of course. Therese always knew when Mutti was lying, even when she didn’t have the evidence of an empty bread box to prove it. Like now, when she wouldn’t look straight into Therese’s eyes. Instead, she looked past her, tracking a man heading straight for their door.

Stay until dark, if you want. See if you can get a nice supper.

If they—

Mutti was nudging her, but Therese felt her bare feet grip the stone—a long-forgotten remnant of the Roman general’s mansion—outside the door.

On with you, girl.

And you’re sure you can’t come with me, Mutti?

Don’t be silly. No, of course not. Already she was backing away, closing the door, but not completely. You know how things are. Plus, there’s much to be done here, and I’ll see if the baker doesn’t have a bit of something sweet for our breakfast tomorrow. Now go.

This last word was delivered with a waving motion, as if Mutti intended to sweep Therese off the street, out of the path of the man who slowed his steps and divided his gaze between the mother and the daughter with unabashed curiosity.

You remember the way, don’t you, my darling? The sudden level of sweet concern was undoubtedly intended for the new arrival. Another lie.

I–I think so, Therese said, apparently satisfying her mother’s unease. They both backed away from the doorway then, leaving it a few inches ajar. Enough for a man’s foot to step through.

Therese stood, immobile, staring at that very foot. The shoe was made of sturdy but worn leather, with uneven stitching that showed a multitude of repairs. A poor man’s shoe, to be sure, but then Therese spent the better part of every day running through the streets of Brunnendorf, eyes downcast. Every shoe she’d ever seen had the same air of dilapidation.

"Sieh mich an, Schätzchen." His voice invited her to look up, past the dirty woolen breeches and the long, stained tunic. But she would not. Friendly as the voice might be—alluring, even—Therese knew if she looked at him, if she saw his face, it would haunt her for the rest of the day. And days to come. She would look for it again and again as she wandered through the market, or delivered a bit of sewing work, or stood in line at the Bierfass with her mother’s battered pewter stein. The small speck of hope now nestled deep in her stomach would turn over and over upon itself, stretching out with questions:

Will you love my mother?

Will you be the one to give us a home?

Because that’s what Mutti always said about the men who came to visit. That someday a man would take them from this place—her and her beautiful daughter. To a cottage with a goat in the yard and fresh milk every day. And a garden and a window with a patch of sunshine where they could have a cat purring softly on a cushion.

But not this one. He smelled of sour beer and something else Therese couldn’t name. The feet she stared at seemed unstable, and she began to feel dizzy with the focus.

Tell me your name, he said, and a black-stained hand came into her field of vision. Before he could touch her, she backed one step away.

Don’t touch her. Mutti was back, the door open wide enough now to show her face. She’d taken off the dirty kerchief and splashed her face with the cold water in the basin. It still shone pink and damp, a sweet contrast to the hardness in her eyes.

I only asked the child’s name.

The child’s name is not your concern. Mutti fixed her gaze on Therese. Go.

The single word landed like a slap. Therese put her hand to her cheek to soothe the imagined sting.

Therese stepped away, moving backward at first, waiting for Mutti to change her mind and send the strange man away. Sweep him from the stone. By the time she reached the corner, though, she gave up hope and made the first turn into the square proper. It was the hour Brunnendorf came to life. Vendors set up their wares and shopkeepers hung out their shingles. She spied one farmer’s cart, late in its lumbering through the narrow streets. Lashed to its high walls, baskets brimming with green-topped vegetables swayed with each turn of the wheels. It was only a matter of time before something fell out, and everyone knew that once a piece of food hit the street, a child—or anybody, really—could snatch it up and not be accused of stealing.

She followed, quickening her steps to keep pace with the wagon, hoping the farm goods were something sweet, like a carrot, or even a beet—though that would need to be cooked later in the day. The carrot she could have now, as a kind of breakfast, or even a late substitution for last night’s missed supper.

To her advantage, the wagon turned to Firma Street, a better class of neighborhood than where she and Mutti lived. Less chance that some other hungry child would join in her pursuit. Still, a fat man in a stained apron stood in his doorway and yelled, Beggar’s at your back wheel! Around her, the sound of jeering rose. Thin at first, the occasional shout of a shrew, echoed by some bratty child more fortunate than herself. A smattering of dirt struck her cheek, and she thought