The Thousandth Telling

By Nancy VanArsdall

Spanning nearly a century, The Thousandth Telling is the story of three generations of women each of whom must navigate the prevailing social norms as she strives to live an authentic life. The story begins with Anna who seeks to balance mothering her six children while supporting her demanding husband in a deteriorating marriage. Desiring a better future for her four daughters, she dedicates herself to women’s suffrage.
Ruth, Anna's youngest and willful daughter, returns home after a year's banishment to South Carolina to find her town in the throes of the Ku Klux Klan. Initially captivated by the drama of the Klan, she joins the WKKK until the increasing reign of terror becomes personal.
Dianna, who introduces each woman's story, marries her college sweetheart. When their life is tragically derailed by the unimaginable, Dianna is challenged to regain her equilibrium. Inspired by her grandmother, Dianna is drawn into another struggle for equal rights for women. But, has the price been too high?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Apr 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781483489476

Book preview

The Thousandth Telling

Nancy VanArsdall

Copyright © 2018 Nancy VanArsdall.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

Cover art, Down the Tracks Looking East—Irvington and the B&O Rails,

by Martha Lindenborg Vaught. Mlvaught.com

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-8946-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-8947-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018909147

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the American Standard Version of the Bible.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 10/2/2018

For

MGWIL

Yesterday, today, tomorrow and all of our lifetimes.

And to my daughters.

In gratitude to Associate Justice of the Supreme Court Ruth Bader Ginsberg

Healing Comes with the Thousandth Telling

NATIVE AMERICAN PROVERB

The Lineage

40556.png

Forbidden Fragments

I absolutely forbid it! She took aim and fired her words across the spotless tea table. Like a brass tipped long-nosed bullet from a 22-rifle, her voice exploded into the heart of my enthusiasm. Something broke loose and spilled onto the thick white carpet. I peered down at the floor, checking for a messy puddle. Did broken dreams leave stains to remind us of what was, what might have been? I gasped, feeling pain riddle through my body and, willing breath back into my passion, I choked, But, I only want to…

It was 1976. On my way to the completion of a degree in psychology, I’d awakened, I’d become political. I’d become a feminist—committed (some would say obsessed) to the struggle for women’s rights. I’d changed my focus to Sociology, the most radical edge of a conservative university. Every course of study focused on the reclamation of woman. The Changing Perspective of Women in Literature. The Sociology of Women. The Evolving Role of Woman. For Women in History, I’d been set afire with determination to reclaim my own herstory. I would explore the story of my mother’s mother, Anna Ashby Dietrick.

No! She slammed her palm onto the table.

Another shot, this one rattling the gleaming china cup against its saucer. Tea rippled from rim to rim, the volley creating turbulent waves in the delicate Havilland cup.

But, Mother, it’s for a term paper. I was willing to plead, but I would not surrender, not this time.

Her menacing dark eyes narrowed, threatening another shot. Another wound. I crumpled and was still. Silenced.

The air cleared. Maybe she’d returned the rifle to its place alongside the antique muzzle-loader and the shotguns, stocks thoroughly polished, double barrels carefully oiled, all standing at attention in the cherry and glass cabinet. Before I could fully recover, however, more words came at me, now floating sweetly. More tea? and her long well manicured fingers curled around the handle of the delicate pot. I’m a little teapot, short and stout. Lyrics of the childhood rhyme rang incongruously in my ears.

I was a four-year old again, a sweet, obedient child. Such a good girl, she’d say. Perfect, in fact. Raised by the book. Except when my childish wonder-filled, insatiable curiosity, that yearning to know, to ask, to explore tore at the perfect canvas she’d painted. What was your daddy like? Why can’t we play cards when Grandmother visits on Sundays? Tell me about when you were a little girl? Did your mama read stories to you? Why don’t I have a grandfather? Hush, child, she’d scold as her eyes hardened like onyx marbles on a Chinese checkerboard. You ask too many questions. Or, I just don’t remember. What had I said now to evoke her rage? Here is my handle, here is my spout.

Frantically, I gathered frayed threads, patched the scorched hole of shame in my gut. I must have confused myself. That familiar tone in her voice simply distorted my perception. Of course, Mother didn’t own a gun. All the guns were my husband’s, safely locked behind glass doors in the library of our home.

I pasted an appropriate expression upon my thirty-seven year-old face—not smiling, certainly not self-assured, just placid enough—and let my gaze wander past her dark curly head, backlit by the flames that warmed us from the hearth on that November afternoon.

Your grandmother was a suffragist, my father had told me one afternoon long ago. Anticipating a visit from her, he ceremoniously tucked away the bottles of Gilbey’s gin and Maker’s Mark into a locked cabinet high above the deep sink between the avocado Maytag washer and dryer in the laundry room. Suffragist. I don’t know how I knew the word back then, but I knew it had to be about those bottles. I’d already learned not to question, greedily gathering information as it came. Daddy was a good source. She can be real cantankerous, he’d say. Must be why she divorced her husband, he told me. Took her two youngest and left in the dark of night. He took pride in being the keeper of Mother’s family secrets, doling them out in bits and pieces.

Divorced? I thought grandfather died when Mother was little. I knew I was pushing my luck, even with Daddy’s love of gossip.

Yep, he died when she was about fourteen, I think. Maybe she was sixteen…I’m not sure. He settled into what little bit of the story he knew. But they were divorced when your mother was ten or eleven. The amber bottle of scotch clinked into place as he carefully arranged his stash. He turned, looking down at me from atop the aluminum step stool. A shock of his strawberry blond hair had fallen across his brow. He dropped one last morsel. I bet you didn’t know she was a friend to President Harrison.

I didn’t have a place to put this information. A suffragist and a president’s friend. And divorced! It had to have been in 1918 or 1919. Women didn’t leave their husbands in those days! And to divorce was unthinkable, certainly unacceptable and not respected. Even I knew that. How did she support herself and her children? What was so terrible that she’d leave her marriage—and in the middle of the night? The image of my grandmother took on a whole new aura. She became a picture of courage and even intrigue! But this collided with the woman I remembered whose hardened edges could frighten me, caustic judgments slipping from a mouth held tight and pursed. Like mine when Daddy teased me into tasting the kumquats that arrived every Christmas time in a shiny red box with a huge white bow. However inviting, the bitter fruit always made the inside of my jaws crinkle and my lips pucker like pink grosgrain ribbon.

I still have difficulty stitching the story rations into a picture of a woman who fought for a cause she must have believed in with great passion. But by the time I knew her, she had no home of her own—had broken up housekeeping, Mother said—to work as a companion—a practical nurse, Mother said—for widows who were ill or lonely. Until she was well into her eighties, she moved from one place to another, sometimes staying for a few months, other times longer. For several years, she lived with Mrs. Clarkson on North Meridian Street in an enormous limestone house that, I was sure at age seven, must have been a castle. I remember my Maryjane patent leather shoes echoing loudly across the grand two-story foyer on the few occasions we visited. I can still see my grandmother standing at the top of the staircase that wound up to the forbidden second floor. Hands on her wide hips, she hushed me to silence. No one could convince me that in the room behind the dark oak door at the head of those stairs there wasn’t a collection of bones or maybe a crazy old woman locked away.

Clearer memories of Grandmother are of an elderly woman in the house on Forty-second Street that belonged to my favorite aunt, Rebekah. I see her few remaining possessions crowded into the small upstairs room. Opposite the single spool bed, on which a faded quilt lay carefully folded, was a dark walnut dresser. Beneath the mirror the mantle clock sat, its delicate chime reminding her of the passing of time. On top of the clock was a placard of a skull and cross bones, beneath which were the words, Liquor Kills. Carefully placed on the marble top of the small washstand alongside her bed was her well-worn Bible.

She would sit for hours at a cloth-covered card table by the single window overlooking the street below. Small scissors held carefully in gnarled, liver-splotched hands, she’d trim old greeting cards, the blades cutting around pictures of pretty bouquets of flowers, small, whimsical animals, and colorful birds whose open beaks presumably sang a happy song. Inverting the rubber tipped jar of thick brown glue onto the backside of each, she’d place the picture into a scrapbook.

What are you doing, Gran? I dared to ask. For reasons unknown to me, I alone, of all her grandchildren, was allowed to call her Gran. As long as I can remember, she was Grandmother, or Gran to me. No one dared call Anna Ashby Dietrick Maamaw, or even Grandma, and certainly not Mimi or Nana.

My grandmother peered at me through round wire-rimmed glasses and answered grimly, I’m making a Cheer Book for sick people in the hospital. I doubt the irony was lost on me even then. And yet, we had a connection, my grandmother and I…a bond that came not from stories she might have told, but from a fount of wisdom and a guiding hand.

Through her final years, her days were obscured in paranoid accusations of her great-grandchildren stealing her meager belongings, and losing her way to the church she’d founded some fifty years before. Eventually she became lost in the shadows of distorted memories, unable to recognize even her youngest daughter, my mother.

The tattered threads of stories of a woman of passion, of courage, and perseverance, are sadly hidden away in secret places, gone to those of us who would weave them into our own history, strengthening the tapestry of our lives.

I’m still curious; I still yearn to know her story. To know why she stole away in the dark of night. To know if she marched the streets around the State Capitol with a cardboard sign that read WOMEN DESERVE THE VOTE while wearing a white ribbon-pin with the letters, WCTU. To know if she loved and lived a passion I can only imagine.

Anna

Chapter One

S he’d awakened that morning in a pool of summer’s sunlight bathing her slender body. Slowly, sensuously, she stretched, enjoying the feeling of the sun-dried sheets on her body. On this day she gave herself rare permission to luxuriate in the breezes and sounds floating in through the open dormer window. For this was not a day like any other. This was her wedding day.

Propping herself against the headboard of the maple four-poster rope bed, gleaming red-orange like the glow of the sun setting over the meadow beyond the house, Anna granted herself a few moments to let her eyes scan the sparsely furnished room of her childhood, seeing it as if for the first time. The grid of ropes squeaked one against the other as she nestled into the feather mattress.

Crisp white curtains danced elegantly in the morning breeze. Beneath the window stood a marble-top washstand, one of the few possessions of her mother’s and now a part of her dowry. Centered upon the washstand was a large white bowl and matching pitcher, tiny blue forget-me-knots encircling both. These things—to be transported to her new home in Indianapolis—would be her bridge into a new life. And what, she mused, would be her path?

In the corner across from the bed was a small oak rocker. She could almost remember the sound of her mother’s voice, like miniature bells, humming a wordless lullaby while she rocked her tiny daughter to sleep. She yearned to sharpen the focus of that blurry image.

Beside the door sat a wooden box her father had made to hold her toys, so many years ago. It was now filled to overflowing with the books she would take with her into her new life. Idly, she wondered if she could have the same vibrant discussions with Robert that she’d had with Father who’d challenged her thoughts and encouraged her opinions…whether it might be imagining Thoreau’s Walden or discussing an obscure phrase of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s.

On top of the box was her well-read copy of Little Women. Curiously, she felt a tang of sadness—or was it grief—for abandoning Jo March. From her first reading, it was Jo, the second of the March girls who had captured her imagination. Perhaps she was grieving her own independence fostered not only by Jo March—but also by writers of other books in the box—Emerson, Thoreau, and of course, Jane Austen.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle knocking on the door. Thank goodness! she thought. She was becoming alarmed by these thoughts of independence. She was about to be a married woman!

Come in.

Mary stood in the doorway. I just want to see how you are this morning.

I’m fine, Anna lied. She had been fine until Jo March insinuated herself into her thoughts.

Not nervous? Mary asked shyly.

Noooo. She hung onto the disclaimer hoping to reassure herself.

"Can I get you anything? Your morning tea, perhaps? Some toast?

Anna patted the bed. Come sit with me awhile…please.

Unaccustomed as she was to her stepdaughter’s intimacies, Mary perched herself on the edge of the bed.

Sometime in the night, Anna had thrown aside the patchwork coverlet Mary had sewn several years before. She pulled it to her now. It seemed important, somehow, that she tell her stepmother something, but she couldn’t quite reach the words.

Mary, she began slowly. I just want you to know how much I love this quilt. You’ve sewn together so much of my life.

Both women ran their fingers over the many textured pieces, touching, caressing, every square, tying each one to a memory.

I remember this white organdy from the dress you made for my confirmation. Oh, I felt so…elegant.

Did you? Mary’s brows lifted and her eyes shone.

And this blue calico? Where did it come from?

Oh, that, Mary laughed. That came from the dress you wore to school your first day. You were the prettiest little girl in first grade, even though your eyes were puffy from all that crying. I thought your father would never get you through those doors.

I don’t remember that. She chuckled. But, I don’t know how, I do remember this. The ruby in her engagement ring glittered in the spot of sun falling upon a triangle of emerald green velvet. This was a dress my mother loved, wasn’t it?

Yes, dear, it was. Your father had it made for her shortly after you were born.

Silence filled the room.

Thank you, Mary. I’ve never told you before, but this is such a gift—one I will always treasure.

She paused, then reaching for her stepmother’s hand she said, This quilt is filled with love. Indeed, in the quilt, Mary had honored both the woman who’d birthed Anna and the one who had navigated her through childhood. She knew she would often revisit this quilt, reminding herself that it was a thread into and through her adult life. Perhaps, she mused, it will go to my daughter and her’s.

Pulling a handkerchief from the sleeve of the grey linen dress she wore, Mary brushed away a tear rolling down her soft cheek.

I must go get your tea, dear. She fled from the room.

Anna stared at the closed bedroom door for several long moments digesting, wondering about what had just happened.

The noisy bickering of two crows in the north woods interrupted her thoughts. Finally, Anna crawled from between the sheets and stood for a moment before the mirror. Anna Ashby, she whispered to the reflection. In a few hours, she would be Mrs. Robert Dietrick. How strange to simply cast aside Anna Ashby. What will happen to me, she wondered. Who will I become as Robert’s wife and a mother.

Although she would never have said so, even to herself, the Anna Ashby looking back was a pretty young woman. Her delicate fine-boned face, the dark brown eyes rimmed with long thick lashes and her chestnut brown hair that fell in waves to the middle of her back affirmed that, if not beautiful, Anna was uncommonly pretty and promised to age gently into a handsome old woman.

Anna Dietrick, she said aloud into the reflection. For the hundredth time, she tried on the name as she might a new cloak, reassuring herself of the fit. Would she ever become accustomed to being Mrs. Robert Dietrick?

Silent and alone, Anna waited in a small room behind the sanctuary of the Wesleyan Church. Trying to ease the trembling in her belly, she gazed out the single window across the bright green lawn of clover. Through the creaky iron gate, a shadowy cemetery lay tucked beneath ancient oak trees, gnarly arms holding the stories of those who’d been laid to rest. Her heart knew the way amidst the headstones to the one that read simply

Grace Smythe Ashby

1851-1878

From the adjoining sanctuary of the small white clapboard church on Kennard Road, muffled voices of those who were beginning to gather interrupted her musings. The women of the Methodist church had devoted an entire week in preparation for this day. High windows overlooking meadows of timothy and fields of corn had been washed until they glistened. The pegged oak floors gleamed. An altar cloth of white satin, mended and carefully pressed lay upon the altar. And bouquets of daisies, roses, and coneflowers had been cut and arranged around the room. Soon the pianist would begin to play the Mozart composition she’d selected to accompany Father and her down the center aisle between rows of pine benches filled with neighbors, longtime friends, and families who’d come to celebrate the bride and groom.

Mary would be seated on the front bench, nervously folding and unfolding the handkerchief Anna had embroidered for her. Such events were difficult for a woman as unworldly as her stepmother who had never left Henry County. She had always been shy with outsiders.

Seated across the aisle, Robert’s father no doubt would be curiously studying his surroundings, a slight smile softening his face. His dour wife would, most certainly, be seated stiffly at his side, dressed in her customary costume of black, disdaining all she observed.

Anna retrieved a gold locket that hung on a simple chain around her long neck. It lay between her small breasts, beneath the simple ecru muslin gown. Her fingers caressed the familiar clasp and hinge, the engraved filigree nearly worn smooth. Slipping a thumbnail into the clasp, she opened the tiny locket revealing an opaque image of an oval-faced woman, not yet thirty years old, sad eyes, brave smile, gazing into the world. Ah, Mama, Anna whispered, how I wish you were here with me today. She spoke into the small photograph, Oh, I know you’re with me, but on this day, I want to hear your reassurance, your wise words. The only way she knew to make sense of her mother’s sudden death, Anna had continued to talk with her mother, never doubting Mama’s presence in her life. Others, especially Mary, seemed to misunderstand the conversations with Mama, so eventually she turned her talks into prayers not just at bedtime.

Tending to the needs of his spirited four-year-old daughter had required more energy than the grief-stricken Edward Ashby was able to garner. So, rescuing the plain-spoken Mary Wolfe from spinsterhood, he had taken her as his wife barely a year after the sudden death of his beloved Grace.

In spite of herself, Mary’s kind spirit softened the edges of the stern, sometimes harsh, persona she maintained, and Anna grew quite fond of her. But she clearly had limitations, and her inability to understand Anna’s need to attend to her own mother was one of those. Although Father had been very clear when he told her, God needs your mother home with Him more than we need her, it had taken a very long time for Anna to stop being angry with God. Finally, she struck a bargain with Him: She’d forgive Him as long as He’d allow her conversations with Mama.

The music nudged her into the present and she placed the locket carefully upon the bodice of the simple gown she’d sewn for her wedding day. A high ruffled collar, edges artfully embroidered, encircled her smooth neck and framed her fair, oval face—a reflection of the one in the gold locket. Long fitted sleeves eased into embroidered ruffles, the only conciliation to an otherwise plain dress that fell in soft folds to the floor. Anna entwined a garland of white baby’s breath into her long brown hair, carefully coiled and secured with an ivory hairpin just below the crown of her head. A brief glimpse into a cloudy mirror on the wall satisfied her, and the rising crescendo of the Mozart Minuet told her it was time to meet Father in the small vestibule. Her hands trembled slightly as she took a small bouquet of white daisies and baby’s breath she’d gathered while the dew still lay upon the blooms in her stepmother’s garden.

Her father’s warm smile reassured her as he tucked her lace-gloved hand into the crook of his arm. She smiled, exhaled slowly, willing the release of all lingering doubts.

Ready? he asked. Let’s see, aren’t you supposed to have something old? Something new? Something borrowed and something blue?

Oh, Father, she laughed. She was too sensible for such nonsense. Would the man waiting for her at the altar be as kind and lovable as this man who walked with her. Anna kissed him quickly on his wrinkled cheek, tanned and weathered. She blinked away the tears that suddenly moistened her long lashes.

Anna could never have imagined the challenges she would encounter. It was 1893. She was nineteen years old. A bright woman with an eager mind and a serious heart, she thought she knew what to anticipate as she smiled at the handsome dark-haired man who awaited her at the simple altar. His black eyes twinkled beneath heavy brows and his thin lips curved into a loving smile beneath the full mustache that filled the space between his large nose and straight white teeth then drooped alongside each corner of his wide mouth. Anna thought her heart would burst at any moment as she greeted her beloved Robert.

She had no knowledge then, as she pledged to honor and obey to death they do part, that nearly fifty years before, five of her foremothers had organized a Women’s Rights Convention in which some three hundred women and forty men met in a Wesleyan Chapel in Seneca Falls, New York—not unlike the very one in which she was making her vows. Those women had met to discuss the social, civil, and religious rights of woman, but she would soon learn how that event would transform her dream of being the perfect wife to Robert Dietrick and the most loving mother, God willing, to four healthy children.

When Robert had pledged his troth to Anna, slipping the small ruby ring onto her trembling finger, he’d told her it had been his grandmother’s. She turned it on her finger now while he searched in his pocket for the simple gold band that symbolized their infinite bond.

The pastor’s words seemed to come from a very faraway place. Robert do you take… to honor and obey… Anna Grace Dietrick, do you…? She roused as though from a dream. Robert smiling expectantly down at her, the pastor’s mouth forming words…obey…sickness and in health…this man…he’s standing before her, staring, waiting. A great silence had enveloped the sanctuary. A rustling sound, murmurs, swept through the congregation, until Anna softly replied, I do.

Anna’s cheeks turned a soft shade of pink as Pastor Holmes said to Robert, You may kiss your bride.

Chapter Two

S he wanted to remember their wedding night…always. Their tender lovemaking had cooled through the past months. Yet she still blushed at the memory of the first time he’d held her in his arms as she lay beside him in their wedding bed. Despite her hesitation and her fears, he’d been so gentle, his mouth brushing over her face, whispering his love into her body. His hands spoke his passion, caressing her body with his eyes. He’d kissed her eyes, one at a time, saying, This one is tenderness, and this one is desire. He’d kissed her mouth as gently as a butterfly wing and said, And you, my dearest love, you are beauty. And then his hands had fluttered so easily, so lovingly between her legs, drawing her to him, surrendering himself into her, so that she simply responded giving herself completely into his body as he spilled into hers. And they were one. Yes, she wanted to remember. She brushed a tear from her cheek and whispered to herself, What have I done…or not done?

Anna’s body quickened with a visceral knowing she was as yet unwilling to name to anyone. The vague nausea that gripped her belly from the moment of awakening out of a dream-filled sleep until she fell into exhausted unconsciousness at night told her she was with child. She placed her hand upon her belly. Tentatively. She was unused to touching her body at all, but she wanted to make more real the daughter—intuitively, she knew the child to be a daughter—within her womb. Her breasts had already become as tender as her feelings. She was no longer capable of containing the tears that sprang to her soft brown eyes, tears drawn up from a deepening well of confusion.

She glanced at the clock on the mantle, a wedding gift from Robert’s parents. It chimed four times. Usually comforted by the steady sounds of the clock with its Roman numerals and gold filigree, at this moment she was alarmed. She had let the afternoon slip away. Now there was little time to prepare supper for Robert who insisted on being served promptly at 6 o’clock. Tonight would have to be a simple meal.

I’ll make soup from what’s left over from Sunday dinner’s chicken, she told the mantle clock. And there’s the bread I baked on Saturday. Then she realized she’d forgotten anything for dessert, which her husband insisted upon. Wearily, she rose from the table she had yet to set, hoping the apples in the cellar would be good enough for baking.

No matter what she did, Robert seemed never to be satisfied with her efforts. Flinging harsh words at her, he’d bombard her with blame when his supper was served minutes past the decreed time. Battering her with insults when his collars where either too stiff or not starched enough. Shaming her when her housekeeping failed his scrutinizing white glove test. She feared he’d complain about today’s dinner as having no imagination, but if she experimented, he’d find reason to laugh at her uppity ways. Yet, as quickly as the tirades erupted, his rage would quiet. Inevitably, he’d rush at her, take her in his arms, cover her face with remorseful kisses and fill her ears with pleas for forgiveness.

She wanted to believe his promises. She wanted to deny the doubts that troubled her, to ignore her own truth. But she could not. Not now. The independent spirit that had guided her young life must shift to include a child. Circumstances were changing. She could no longer consider just herself.

Robert didn’t intend to be harsh or thoughtless. In fact, he thought of himself as a kind man, and truth be told, a romantic. He was, after all, his father’s son, a devotee of the finer, more aesthetic values and, with his father, Kurt, shared a passion for German composers, Richard Wagner and van Beethoven. Their amiable arguments could fill an afternoon’s tea time. But Father, you have to admire how Wagner’s blending of power and art far exceeds the romanticism of Beethoven.

Ah, perhaps, but you’ll never convince me that there is a more profoundly passionate piece of music than ‘Moonlight Sonata’. His fingers played upon his thighs as though remembering the music through his body.

Like his mother, Robert was proud of his German heritage. Gerte Mueller’s parents, wealthy landowners in the north of the Vaterland, had provided their only daughter with strict values and strong opinions which often alienated her from her peers. When she’d met Kurt Dietrick while traveling to America, she’d surprised herself by falling in love with this man who was unlike anyone she’d known at home in Worfelden. It was, after all, time she married. Her mother had hinted, no, urged her to seek a wealthy German-American with whom she could begin a less provincial life. And she’d chosen well.

Kurt Dietrick was both skillful and lucky in business, which made for a fine entrepreneur. Owner of one of the city’s most successful foundries, he was dedicated to the men who worked for him, manufacturing implements for farmers in what was becoming the bread basket of the country. Kurt enjoyed nothing more than calling on the men in the fields who bought, or perhaps would buy, his well-built equipment. Dietrick and Son read the signage on their wagon. From the time Robert could toddle along with him, father and son walked the fields from tilling to planting to harvesting.

Where is that boy? Kurt was looking over Tom Belton’s hay field. He took in a deep breath of the fragrance of new mown hay which foretold the coming of autumn.

Last time I seen him, he was over yonder ‘neath that big ol’ oak tree.

Oh, yes, now I see him, Kurt sighed.

He gazed across the aromatic field and watched his son idling in the shade of the oak, sketchbook and pencils in hand. Beside him lay a collection of intricately made baubles—no doubt a necklace for his mother and bracelets for each of his little sisters. He would have gathered all manner of grasses, berries, stalks of barley and greying heather from which he’d create his gifts.

Here, Muter, I’ve made this just for you, he would say, while Father and I were working, his fine, slender hands delicately presenting her with his gift.

When Robert announced to his parents his intention to marry Anna, Kurt, had come to accept the inevitable, that his son had lost interest in farming and business. It was becoming clear that his eldest child and only son would not be inheriting the family business, nor, of course, would his daughters, Marte or Margrite. That had never been a consideration.

And just how do you intend to support your wife….and family?

Now, Kurt, don’t be harsh with the boy, Gerte protested.

I’m not being harsh, he insisted. Just realistic.

Robert sat across from his father nervously wringing his slender hands.

The truth is, Kurt continued, I’m worried for Anna. What will she do if you have no money, no business, he paused, "and what will you do?"

But, Father, I thought…, his words trailed off into the dusky evening.

You thought? You thought I would support you?

Robert’s head bowed, caught in his own truth.

Regaining his composure, Kurt inhaled deeply, then said, "So, Robert, what do you want to do?"

His son was silent for several moments, then murmured, I want to be a jeweler.

Anna fell heavily into the chair beside the round oak kitchen table, telling herself she shouldn’t take time away from the many tasks she needed to accomplish on this spring day. Yet, the morning sun pouring through the east window warmed her body as well as her spirits. She’d intended to clean up the herb garden and rake away the dregs of winter. But tilling the earth and preparing for planting seemed just too enormous a job for now, even though she had those seedlings of chamomile, basil, and rosemary in the kitchen window. The seeds had come from Mary’s garden and next weekend, she and Robert were to go out to Father’s so she might spend time with her step-mother performing their spring ritual. From Mary’s garden that lay to the east of the large house on the edge of Knightstown, they’d separate young plants of parsley, thyme, lovage and oregano for cooking. The pungent tansy and comfrey, lungwort and yarrow she’d have for healing. She wished for some lemon balm at this moment to ease the queasiness in her belly.

I just don’t have an ounce of energy, she admitted to the spots of sun gleaming on the table. Usually, she was tireless, moving efficiently from one activity to another, but today, weari-ness threatened to pull her into the depths of a dark hole.

The aroma of dried chamomile leaves momentarily soothed her nagging worries. But in spite of herself, the too familiar, too frequent argument began in her head. Admonishments, resembling the tightly wound tone of Mother Dietrick, who most certainly would be peering from behind lace curtains from a window in the house next door, saying, Now, be patient, Anna, he has so much pressure from the new business. Her own voice would plead, Just be kind…please while another whined in fear, I just can’t do this.

Surely a child would soothe Robert’s brooding. And wouldn’t their child give a deeper purpose to her life? It just wasn’t enough to be Robert’s wife, she had to admit. She stared into the teacup as though the chamomile leaves lazily sinking to the bottom of the cup could give her the answers she sought. Oh Mama, tell me. Have I lost my way? In an effort to shake off the uncharacteristic cold, wet fog of gloom engulfing her, she turned her thoughts to happier, less complicated times.

Certainly there had been some very tender moments in this their first year of marriage. She gazed through the spacious kitchen into the dining room where the glass front cabinet stood. She’d tell their daughter, or son, that the child’s grandfather had built the cabinet as a wedding gift. It was such a symbol of her father’s love. Often, as now, she was drawn to the cabinet, her hands stroking the leaded glass panes that enclosed the top three shelves. Running her fingers along the two drawers onto which Father had carved a delicate design, duplicated precisely into the doors that encased the lower shelves, she smiled, remembering Father’s grand presentation of his gift on the eve of her wedding. Of course he was satisfied with the exquisite craftsmanship, but even more, to have completed the project in secret. And, she whispered to the tiny being forming in her womb, soon he will be making a cradle for you. Tonight, she resolved, I must tell Robert about our baby.

Yes, there had been loving times. Their house, completed in perfect time—her father had seen to that—was furnished with the warm familiarity of pieces she’d brought from her childhood home. Absently, she moved around the parlor, then stepped out onto the porch that stretched from one side of the house to the other. She sat in one of the two rockers, and suddenly remembered that autumn day when Robert had raced into the house, a bouquet of late-blooming roses clutched in his hand.

I’ve just made my first sale, he’d exclaimed… and isn’t this the nineteenth? Our three month anniversary! Anna had laughed. This was the Robert she loved so deeply.

Which piece? Her husband’s exuberance was catching. My bracelet? she teased.

Anna had never been one to wear jewelry, but the gold chain of small circles set with sapphires in the center three circles was so delicate, even she’d secretly wished for it.

Yes, that one, but Clinton Smith said he just had to have it for his wife, Robert laughed, and how could I deny our bank president anything? This would be a most significant connection. For while Robert Dietrick was indeed a talented artist, he was still developing his reputation in the city as a gifted jeweler. He had every right to celebrate.

His dark eyes shining, his laughter filling the house, he literally swept her off her feet, twirling her around the room, her skirts flying, his shoes sliding, until they were both dizzy and breathless with joy.

That is the man I fell in love with. And she retrieved another treasured early memory…the beginning of it all. She sighed and surrendered to it.

Father had invited her for a visit to the city. He’d been staying in a boarding house on the outskirts of Indianapolis in the village of Irvington while completing construction of three houses. The Dietrick family, having acquired a sizable tract of land adjoining their property on Market Street, wanted to build a home for their son and each of their daughters. Edward Ashby, known widely for his craftsmanship, agreed to undertake the project.

Anna boarded a train from Knightstown despite worried protests from Mary.

A young woman traveling alone for the two hour trip is just too dangerous, Anna, Mary had argued.

But, Mary, you read Father’s letter. He’s promised an adventure, she laughed, and he’ll be at Union Station to meet me.

Hmmmpf was all Mary could reply.

As soon as she settled on the train, her hands trembled as she pulled the letter from her traveling bag. It had been posted the week before and she had practically memorized every word. He had promised a night at the theater, a carriage ride to the Denison Hotel where they were to call upon his old friend, Mr. Riley, the Hoosier Poet. He’d suggested they visit the campus of Butler College which was located a short walk from his lodgings on Audubon Road.

While we haven’t talked much about the possibility, I want you to be thinking about furthering your education. I know that most universities, I’m sad to say, continue to discourage the inclusion of women students. However, Butler College, right here in Irvington, has from its beginning, insisted that females be admitted on an equal footing with male students.

Please, dear Anna, you are a very bright young woman, and I’d like you to consider the possibility of an education at the college.

The thought of attending college was both intriguing and terrifying. She had to admit, though, that she’d always enjoyed school, and had been a very good student. But that was in Knightstown, not Butler College. All of her friends were preparing to marry and have children. She had never considered other options…that is until she’d read Emma. As the train moved through the villages of Cambridge, then Greenfield, James Whitcomb Riley’s home, she recalled some of the books she’d read. Oh, how she loved to read, especially stories by Jane Austen. A copy of Pride and Prejudice was one of the few possessions she had of her mother’s. She nearly blushed at the mere thought of Mr. Darcy. Sitting in her mother’s rocking chair, she’d pretend her own voice was her mother’s reading to her. And how many times had she read The Scarlet Letter? She trembled at the mere thought of Hester Prynne’s fate.

She gazed out the window as the western bound train slowed through the village of Cumberland, then resumed speed across the now brown fields of corn toward Indianapolis. She felt her belly churn with anticipation…even college? Of course, she had no way of knowing how the upcoming events would lead her down an unexpected path.

The theater was ablaze with lights and elegance. One by one, tidy coachmen, clean-shaven and scrubbed, carefully propelled their horse-drawn coaches around the Circle, the center of the young city, before depositing their fares on the northwest quadrant. How grown up Anna felt descending from the carriage, a hired cabriolet, before the magnificent English Opera House.

Freshly curried horses snorted their greetings, casting clouds of mist into the autumn night air. Ladies dressed in long gowns, hair swept up beneath brilliant plumes, gloved hands resting lightly on the arms of men wearing waistcoats and dark woolen capes, promenaded through the massive entrance and into the grand lobby of the theater. Great gas chandeliers hung from the high ceiling casting radiant light upon the intricately carved woodwork, creating an exciting luminosity throughout the theater.

Anna, too exhilarated to be intimidated by the splendor of the evening’s event, was completely unselfconscious in her simple gown of finely woven pale grey wool. Perhaps it was her guilelessness that charmed Robert Dietrick so completely when, at the intermission of Much Ado About Nothing, he found his way through the crowd to elicit an introduction to Edward Ashby’s lovely companion.

And perhaps it was the moment his lips gently touched her gloved hand that Anna knew her life would never be quite as it was before this evening of magic. To this day, she could not recall their conversation—had they chatted about Mr. Shakespeare’s unique gift to articulate the absurd or the exquisite portrayal of Claudio by the young actor, a hometown boy, who was, indeed, making a name for himself? All she could remember were his onyx eyes glistening from beneath thick brows that seemed to pour warm liquid into her heart.

You will join Mother and me for dinner, then, he’d insisted when told they’d be unavailable for afternoon tea.

Not bothering to even glance at Father for affirmation, Anna replied, Why, yes, Mr. Dietrick. We’d be delighted, wouldn’t we, Father? She ignored her father’s look of dismay…and amusement, although she knew he must be shocked by her uncharacteristic boldness.

So, tomorrow you’re off to have tea with the poet, eh? Was that scorn she’d heard in his deep baritone? He’s quite a scoundrel, I hear, Robert warned.

Her tea had grown cold while her thoughts meandered through pleasant memories. But it was good to remember. Remembering quelled the fears that curled the edges of her heart.

Yet, she could easily recall Robert’s gentle, almost shy touch. His soft chuckle. His eager stories, as though there would never be enough time to tell her all his secrets. His gentle encouragement called to her to reveal the depths of her to him. They had savored their sweet courtship. Bicycling together along the canal from Broad Ripple Village to Riverside. The romantic sleigh ride out to Irvington then sledding down Brown’s Hill. Long walks in the bursting springtime. Longer talks before a fire. Yes, it was very good to remember.

Anna was too practical to consider premonitions as anything other than foolish notions. She wanted to deny the doubts that troubled her, to ignore her own truth. But she could not. Not now.

While she felt happy about the baby, she knew she was not ready. Barely twenty, she’d wanted to wait…wait for what, she could not say. Of course she wished for her child all good things, but just what kind of life could she provide. Anna could feel the stirrings of anger when she thought of how limited her daughter’s life could be, and she made a silent, yet firm commitment to continue attending the meetings, no matter how weary she felt. Nor, she vowed, would she let the unspoken disapproval from Robert and his mother deter her. There was important work to be done. She’d become convinced of that in the few times she and Lottie had attended events at the Propylaeum.

Chapter Three

A nna’s first act of rebellion was seeking an alternative to the Lutheran Church where the Dietrick family had attended for as long as anyone could remember.

I just don’t feel welcomed in their church. She sought Robert’s understanding before affiliating with the evolving congregation which would eventually become, not without Anna’s own contribution, the newly established Fletcher Avenue Methodist Church. I really need to meet women who are closer to my age, she’d insisted. When her husband’s brow deepened into an increasingly familiar scowl of disapproval and his eyes darkened with anger, she left unspoken how miserable she’d been at the one Ladies’ Sewing Circle she attended with her mother-in-law. The women seemed to fit an identical mold of humorless piety. She had seen not one woman smile all that day. Neither of Robert’s sisters attended the Sewing Circle; why should she? Had marriage altered the rules? She had vowed to obey, but did that mean she’d given up all her own choices? Had Jo March been right not to marry?

Anna glanced out the south kitchen window, sure she’d catch Robert’s mother spying from the house next door. Truth was, their relationship had warmed very little from their first meeting.

How well she remembered that day, remembered the first glimpse of the fine brick house, a cupola perched smartly upon the roof. The carriage she and Father had taken for their dinner engagement was just slowing to a stop on the cobblestone street, when Robert emerged from the house and crossed the wide expanse of lawn in a few long strides. She smiled at the memory. Unable to contain his exuberance, he leapt over the gate of the iron fence, long slender legs flying. He was opening the carriage door, taking her hand, all the while welcoming her with an exciting rush of words. His chatter continued non-stop as he escorted her and Father across the broad porch and into the home on Market Street.

The house, although spacious, seemed lifeless. As her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she struggled to breathe. The presence of Gerte Dietrick loomed before her. Like royalty holding court, Mrs. Dietrick sat amidst a pile of pillows on an upholstered divan. The black taffeta dress, relieved not at all by the narrow bit of white lace on the high collar, rustled as the older woman offered her hand to Anna. She moved slowly as if with great reluctance to extend herself. She exuded an odd scent of musty lavender nearly causing Anna to sneeze.

The younger woman stood like a beacon in the darkened room. Anna wore an emerald green shirtwaist, its long, ankle-length gored skirt lightly brushed over her light-toned high button shoes. The dress highlighted her chestnut hair which she’d tucked beneath a wide-brimmed, plumed hat of matching green.

The two women, each a contrast to the other, gazed for a brief moment in appraisal of one another before Mrs. Dietrick spoke.

Are you a God-fearing girl? The older woman’s words were spoken with deliberate precision.

Anna took only a long second to recover from the shock of the curt greeting.

I attend church regularly, she answered.

I see. Gerte Dietrick paused. And what else do you do?

I read. She hesitated, determined not to allow this woman whose face appeared pinched, perhaps from that tight collar, Anna thought irreverently. And I garden. An infusion of borage and rosemary and a bit of lemon balm would lift your spirits, she wanted to say, but didn’t.

Do you cook?

Yes, ma’am.

Do you sew?

Yes I do.

Embroider? Tat? Hemstitch?

Why, I’m being interviewed! Questioned as though I’m applying for a position on the household staff.

At that moment, someone, not her Father—she felt his comforting presence just behind her—cleared his throat. For the first time since entering the dimly lit room, she noticed a man, an older, muted version of Robert standing by the fireplace. His son quietly moved to stand beside his father, whose wan smile did not quite reach his dark eyes.

As though she, too, had just taken notice of her husband, Gerte nodded in his direction and said, Miss Ashby, Ann, this is Mr. Dietrick. And, of course, Kurt, you know Edward Ashby. The men shook hands.

Anna smiled saying, I’m honored to meet you. And, please, call me Anna. She held onto the second syllable, suspecting an intentional mispronunciation of her name.

Oh, my, she thought, there is so little life here, but Mr. Dietrick’s sudden smile warmed her with relief.

A servant appeared at the parlor door, announcing dinner. Anna stepped aside, allowing Robert’s mother to lead the procession across the foyer. The dining room was brightly lit by an abundance of candles, flames dancing in rhythm with the arriving entourage. The table, covered with a fine linen cloth, was set with gleaming sterling silver flatware, delicate crystal goblets, and splendid china dinnerware. Robert offered his arm and led Anna to the chair at the right of his father, while Edward was seated beside Mrs. Dietrick. Robert took the chair beside Anna, to his mother’s left.

My daughters were unable to join us, their hostess announced. Such short notice, she added. Anna wondered if somehow she was to blame for their absence.

Throughout the lavish dinner of vichyssoise, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, our cook is from New England. Kurt Dietrick warmly engaged Anna in conversation.

I understand you had a visit with our esteemed Hoosier Poet.

Edward Ashby grinned at his daughter from across the table.

Did he behave himself? Robert asked.

Yes, he did, Anna replied, smiling directly into his eyes. I’m not so sure he’d say the same about me, however, she teased. She was warming to the occasion. The men laughed.

Mrs. Dietrick peered over her round steel-rimmed glasses.

Mr. Dietrick said, Sounds like there’s a story to be told. His smile encouraged her to proceed. Ignoring the dark silence at the opposite end of the long table, Anna related the afternoon’s event.

Edward Ashby and James Whitcomb Riley had become acquainted when Riley lived in Greenfield, a town midway between Indianapolis and Knightstown. During a brief stint as editor for the local newspaper, Riley had shared some of his verses with Edward when he had occasion to do business at the newspaper office. A strong friendship developed between the unlikely pair. While Anna had never met Mr. Riley until that afternoon, throughout her childhood her father had read Riley’s poems to her, often bringing a charming verse the poet had written for his daughter during their meeting.

"I can still recite all of Little Orphan Annie…but I’ll spare you that," she laughed.

Although none of his poetry tackled any great social or political themes, Riley’s homespun verses had become vastly popular around the country. Yet he was clearly the Hoosier Poet and Indianapolis was the stage on which the former actor, now famous poet, played.

Utterly charmed by his lovely guest, Robert asked, So, what do you think of him? Is he the scoundrel he’s reputed to be?

Anna attempted to draw her eyes away from the intensity of Robert’s, but in the end, she surrendered to his evocative grin. With some effort, she continued.

"We were to have met him at the elegant Denison Hotel where he lives now that he’s become so successful.

Rather, on our way to the hotel, we encountered him sitting in a sunny spot on The Circle, captivated by the playful antics of a couple of children on the nearby green.

I must admit that while I find much of his poetry too sentimental for my taste, Edward interjected, his portraits of children are quite fine. Watching him today was like looking at one of his poems come alive.

I agree, said Kurt Dietrick. No one can capture the spirit or their wide-eyed awe quite like Jim Riley. He chuckled, then added, but I hear he has a real affection for the old demon rum. He resorted to the familiar prohibitionist term.

Gerte Dietrick coughed into a white lace handkerchief, then glowered in her husband’s direction.

Good thing he’s a confirmed bachelor, Robert said. He leaned toward Anna, his thigh just brushing her skirt. Please go on with your story.

He’s quite dapper, actually. There he was, perched on a bench in the midday sun, and he’s dressed immaculately, wearing a white waistcoat and a flower in the buttonhole of his lapel. Anna laughed appreciatively. "And those pince-nez glasses!

I asked him if he knew Emily Dickinson’s poems. Without intending to, I’m afraid I may have insulted him. He just replied by quoting one of his own verses. She laughed. "I didn’t tell him how very much I admire her poetry.

Then suddenly, he asked if I favored women getting the vote. And when I told him that, of course I did and that I can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t, he just patted my arm and told me he’d like to introduce me to a friend of his.

And who might that be? Mrs. Dietrick broke her long silence.

I believe her name to be Miss Sewall. Anna thought for a moment. Yes, May Wright Sewall, that’s it! Do you know her, Mrs. Dietrick?

Yes, Ann, I know her.

As though a curtain had been dropped onto the stage, it was clear the conversation was ended.

Anna had had little experience with someone so dark, and she had no idea how to negotiate such an oppressive presence. Her response, intentionally or not, was to maintain as much distance as possible from the woman who was to become her mother-in-law. Neither Marte nor Margrite were much help, although the younger of Robert’s two sisters held more promise for a future relationship. Anna hoped for some connection since she had no sisters of her own. Marte seemed to hold herself apart from the rest of the family, maintaining her independence by attending only the events that intrigued her, spending most of her time alone or in her garden, reading and writing in what appeared to be a diary of sorts. Anna vowed to follow Marte’s lead as she observed the ways in which the younger woman seemed to be present with the others and aloof at the same time.

Anna’s view of life was more optimistic than not, more hopeful than despairing. Some may have thought her to be naïve, even simple. Rather, she considered herself to be unworldly, yes, but more, uncomplicated. She preferred an organized life, one of simplicity. And in a world where she saw more good than evil, she had no context for one such as Gerte Dietrick. Intentional or not, dismissing her as irrelevant seemed the best option. But that could not be.

Chapter Four

L ottie and Anna disembarked the trolley in front of the Methodist Church at the intersection of Fletcher and Virginia Avenues. A growing congregation, it was housed in a modest red brick building. Even now, it had become a lifeline for Anna. She had joined the Altar Guild, attended a weekly Bible study group, and assisted her friend, Lottie Hilliard, with the children’s Sunday School.

They had met when they’d joined a group of women whose mission was to replace the tattered altar cloths for Easter services. At their second meeting, Lottie proclaimed, I feel as though I’ve known you forever. Anna wasn’t accustomed to having a friend who shared her insights so honestly, but she soon decided she could, in fact, learn a lot from this woman. Indeed, they would become fast friends.

You enjoy sewing, don’t you? Lottie struggled with her plump fingers to thread her needle again.

I guess I do. Anna was becoming a bit more comfortable with Lottie’s observations. She had a way of speaking her mind that was both disconcerting and admirable. Their friendship, although young, had deepened quickly.

I have just always done this—without thinking much about it, she added. That was the thing about Lottie. She made Anna think.

I wish I liked sewing. I guess I might as well admit that I just don’t. Lottie knotted the thread and frowned at the tail at the end of the knot. I’m just all thumbs!

Sewing just takes patience, Anna reassured her friend. Here, let’s trade. She handed Lottie the piece of white muslin she’d been working on. You just pull the threads that I’ve started, and then together we can do the hemstitching. Anna had begun by pulling out a number of parallel threads about three-quarters of an inch above the finished edge of what would be an altar cloth. When you’ve finished removing as many threads as you like, maybe, oh, six or seven, depending on how wide you want it, then together we’ll do the fun part.

You’ll teach me? Always eager to learn something new, Lottie even surprised herself. She might actually like doing needle work.

Yes. Anna threaded her own needle with pink thread. We’ll take three or four, depending on what we like, of the perpendicular threads, bundle them together w/embroidery thread. For Easter, we might choose purple, or white on white might be nice as well. Anna watched Lottie gather four vertical threads as she struggled to weave pale green embroidery floss around them. Her first attempts were frustrating, but by the third bundle, she held the piece of cloth away and exclaimed, There, I did it!

I knew you would. Your work is perfect.

Lottie smiled proudly. She valued her new friend’s opinion and her ability to remain unruffled as much as Anna appreciated Lottie’s more urbane worldliness. Anna secretly envied that she was well-bred enough to walk comfortably on the edge of outrageousness.

Do you enjoy art? Lottie’s tongue escaped to the corner of her full mouth as she concentrated on carefully pulling a thread from the muslin.

Why, yes, I suppose I do, although I don’t know much about it. She held her piece of fabric at arm’s length, examining it critically. Why do you ask?

I’d like for you to go with me to the Propylaeum’s Annual Art Exhibition on Wednesday afternoon.

I’m awfully ignorant, I’m afraid.

Oh, don’t worry. I’ll tell you what you need to know, Lottie laughed, then added, which isn’t much. The most interesting part of the exhibition is the people.

The people? Anna was intrigued.

Oh, lots of people—women mostly.

Well, yes…yes, I’d love to join you. She’d have to find a way to tell Robert. But how would she explain where she would be on Wednesday.

Sleep did not come easily that night as she struggled to decide what to tell Robert. Intuitively, she knew that whatever she said would set a pattern for what she hoped would be more such activities. Determined as she was, she was amused but not surprised when the image of Jo Marsh floated into her mind. Yes, this could be a first step in declaring a bit of independence for myself.

It was then she knew what she would do. What she would not do was ask his permission to go. Rather, after the event, and when the time was right,