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Authors: Alexis Henderson
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sighed. There was no help to be had for it. She certainly couldn’t wear her Sabbath attire. It was far too informal for such an important occasion. But then she remembered the drawing of her mother she’d found in the back of the journal a few days prior. The sketch of her standing in front of the forbidden woods.
Immanuelle dropped to her knees in front of the hope chest and rifled through her belongings. Most were just keepsakes, quilts and bits of ribbon, dried bouquets and other tokens she’d collected over the passing years. Nothing as important as the journal, nothing forbidden. But at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in parchment paper, was her mother’s dress, the same one she had worn in the portrait.
It was nothing special like the gown Leah would wear to her cutting, but it was a well-sewn Sabbath dress, wine red with copper buttons at the throat. On the odd occasion when Immanuellewore it—in her attic bedroom when all of the others had fallen asleep—she felt perfectly presentable, pretty even, like the girls she often saw wandering the shops of the market with their gloves and silken shawls.
She stripped out of her nightgown and slipped into the dress. It wasn’t a perfect fit, the waist was cut too wide and the hips were perhaps a little tighter than what Martha would deem wholesome, but it was a better fit than Anna’s hand-me-downs and much finer. Plus, its hem fell low to the floor so it would easily cover the tops of her boots, which were too scuffed to be suitable for any occasion more formal than a romp across the pastures.
Once dressed, Immanuelle took a wreath of wildflowers from the top of her wardrobe. The blossoms had dried nicely in the week after she’d picked them with Leah, and the band of the crown—a twisted web-work of braided stems—held fast. Gingerly, she set it atop her head, pinned it in place, and turned to peer at her reflection in the bedroom window.
She couldn’t call herself a vision; her lip was still badly split and bruised from her tussle with Judas days before. But she thought that, alongside Judith and Leah and the rest of the girls who would attend the cutting, she wouldn’t look so out of place. The color of the dress complemented the rich tan of her skin and pulled the color from her eyes, and with the flowers in her hair, her curls looked rather nice.
Immanuelle slipped into the hallway, her skirts rustling around her ankles. She took the stairs slowly and entered the kitchen. Honor was dressed in a dusk-colored smock, her plump feet stuffed into tiny leather boots. She was the first to spot Immanuelle, and she shrieked with glee at the sight of her.
“Let me wear the crown!” she pleaded, laughing and clawing at the air. With a wry smile, Immanuelle obliged her, balancing the wreath atop the child’s ginger curls.
“That’s Miriam’s dress.” Martha stood at the threshold, grasping a damp dishrag.
Immanuelle couldn’t remember the last time Martha had said her daughter’s name. It sounded strange in her mouth, foreign.
Immanuelle took the wreath off Honor’s head and placed it on her own again, quickly adjusting the pins. “I found it at the bottom of my hope chest. I thought I might wear it to the cutting, if you think it fitting.”
“Fitting?” Martha’s lips twisted. “Aye, it is that.”
Immanuelle stalled, unsure of what to say and wondering if she ought to return to her bedroom and put on the dress Anna had laid out for her. But she couldn’t bring herself to move.
To her surprise, Martha’s gaze softened, not with affection, but with what Immanuelle could only describe as resignation. “You wear it like your mother,” she said.
----
THE MOORE BROOD took the buggy to the cathedral, the mule dragging the lot of them across the plains. It was a bright day. The sun was a hot kiss on the back of Immanuelle’s neck and the air smelled of summer, all sweat and honey and apple blooms.
As they rode, she was careful to keep her
Immanuelle dropped to her knees in front of the hope chest and rifled through her belongings. Most were just keepsakes, quilts and bits of ribbon, dried bouquets and other tokens she’d collected over the passing years. Nothing as important as the journal, nothing forbidden. But at the bottom of the chest, wrapped in parchment paper, was her mother’s dress, the same one she had worn in the portrait.
It was nothing special like the gown Leah would wear to her cutting, but it was a well-sewn Sabbath dress, wine red with copper buttons at the throat. On the odd occasion when Immanuellewore it—in her attic bedroom when all of the others had fallen asleep—she felt perfectly presentable, pretty even, like the girls she often saw wandering the shops of the market with their gloves and silken shawls.
She stripped out of her nightgown and slipped into the dress. It wasn’t a perfect fit, the waist was cut too wide and the hips were perhaps a little tighter than what Martha would deem wholesome, but it was a better fit than Anna’s hand-me-downs and much finer. Plus, its hem fell low to the floor so it would easily cover the tops of her boots, which were too scuffed to be suitable for any occasion more formal than a romp across the pastures.
Once dressed, Immanuelle took a wreath of wildflowers from the top of her wardrobe. The blossoms had dried nicely in the week after she’d picked them with Leah, and the band of the crown—a twisted web-work of braided stems—held fast. Gingerly, she set it atop her head, pinned it in place, and turned to peer at her reflection in the bedroom window.
She couldn’t call herself a vision; her lip was still badly split and bruised from her tussle with Judas days before. But she thought that, alongside Judith and Leah and the rest of the girls who would attend the cutting, she wouldn’t look so out of place. The color of the dress complemented the rich tan of her skin and pulled the color from her eyes, and with the flowers in her hair, her curls looked rather nice.
Immanuelle slipped into the hallway, her skirts rustling around her ankles. She took the stairs slowly and entered the kitchen. Honor was dressed in a dusk-colored smock, her plump feet stuffed into tiny leather boots. She was the first to spot Immanuelle, and she shrieked with glee at the sight of her.
“Let me wear the crown!” she pleaded, laughing and clawing at the air. With a wry smile, Immanuelle obliged her, balancing the wreath atop the child’s ginger curls.
“That’s Miriam’s dress.” Martha stood at the threshold, grasping a damp dishrag.
Immanuelle couldn’t remember the last time Martha had said her daughter’s name. It sounded strange in her mouth, foreign.
Immanuelle took the wreath off Honor’s head and placed it on her own again, quickly adjusting the pins. “I found it at the bottom of my hope chest. I thought I might wear it to the cutting, if you think it fitting.”
“Fitting?” Martha’s lips twisted. “Aye, it is that.”
Immanuelle stalled, unsure of what to say and wondering if she ought to return to her bedroom and put on the dress Anna had laid out for her. But she couldn’t bring herself to move.
To her surprise, Martha’s gaze softened, not with affection, but with what Immanuelle could only describe as resignation. “You wear it like your mother,” she said.
----
THE MOORE BROOD took the buggy to the cathedral, the mule dragging the lot of them across the plains. It was a bright day. The sun was a hot kiss on the back of Immanuelle’s neck and the air smelled of summer, all sweat and honey and apple blooms.
As they rode, she was careful to keep her
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