The Amish Nanny (38 page)

“Zed sent me an email about it,” she said. “It sounds as though it was quite the trip to Oregon.”

I wondered what else Zed had told her. I couldn't imagine him sharing too many details. I couldn't tell if she was happy that Lexie and I knew each other now, but instead of asking her, I said it was a blessing to me to get to know my sister after all these years.

She sighed. “I wasn't surprised that Klara never told you that you were adopted or that you had a sister. I thought maybe someone else would—maybe Alexander—but I suppose the fact no one did shows how much control Klara still has.”

There was an awkward pause, and then I said, “She's better than she used to be.”

Giselle wrinkled her nose. Then she said, “What do you want from me?”

Her question caught me off guard.

“You're not after my side of the story? Or an apology?” Her voice was harsh.

“No,” I said, my heart sinking. Of course I didn't want an apology—it's not as though she could have kept me. And I'd had a good life. Any speculation of what my life might have been like, whether here or back home, was foolishness on my part. And I didn't need her side of the story. Just an acknowledgement that she cared about me would be nice. My expression must have given my emotions away.

“There's a lot I don't remember,” she said. “I remember Alexandra as a baby and toddler, but that's about all. Everything else is a blur.”

Desperate for anything she could tell me, I asked about Lexie, about what she was like as a baby. Giselle gave me an exasperated look.

I pushed ahead anyway. “You know, was she colicky, did she sleep well, when did she first smile, first talk, first walk? Can you at least tell me something about back then?”

Eyes filling with tears, Giselle shook her head. “Actually, I can't.” Swiping at her cheeks, she turned quickly away and walked out of the room. I sat there, waiting for her to return, but she didn't. When Morgan finally came out of the bathroom, I gave up hope. Gathering the novel and blanket, I said goodnight to my friend, made sure she had everything she needed, and then retreated back to the office to slide into bed.

Mammi
wanted me to speak to Giselle about spiritual things, but how could I do that when she hardly wanted to speak with me at all?

I woke before dawn, and when I couldn't get back to sleep I picked up Lexie's box and decided to carry it out to the window seat so I could go through Christy's schoolwork there. We hadn't done any lessons since we'd arrived in Switzerland and most likely wouldn't get to any more because the trip was coming to an end much sooner than we had anticipated. I'd decided to make a record of the lessons we had managed to cover so Leah would know where Christy stood once she returned to school.

A few minutes later, Giselle wandered into the room, yawning, and cinching up her bathrobe.

“Good morning,” I said.

Startled, she jumped and then said, “Oh, it's you.” She filled the kettle with water and then put it on the stove. “Would you like some tea?”

I said I would, and when she looked at me again she saw the box. “Oh, good. You found Elsbeth's letters after all. Where were they?”

“Oh, this isn't the box you had,” I answered. “This is Lexie's.
Mammi
sent it with her when she went to Oregon all those years ago.”

Giselle stepped forward and I handed it to her. “It looks a lot like the one I had here, though I think the carving was of something else.” She set the box down on the table.

“Do you remember anything about the letters that were inside, about what they said?”

She shrugged. “I never read them. Herr Lauten kept pushing them on me, trying to get me interested. He wove this fascinating tale about how Elsbeth Sommers was a governess who fell in love with the father of her charges, but the man happened to be Mennonite, which forced them to have to go to America in search of religious freedom, blah, blah, blah. He thought I would care. He didn't have a clue.”

Her words were harsh, but I reminded myself that at the time she'd been depressed, alone, and far from the only home she'd ever known. She'd lost whom she thought was her true love and left her two children behind to be raised by others. I could well understand how a box of old letters about Mennonites and religious persecution were the last thing on her mind. No wonder she'd misplaced them.

The water came to a boil, and as she made the tea, I decided to tell her about Lexie's box instead. Trying to use a pleasant, nonthreatening tone, I described how Lexie's adoptive father had hidden the box for many years but had finally told her about it on his deathbed just last winter.

Shifting from the window seat to the table to have my tea, I described how Lexie had retrieved the box from where her father had hidden it and inside had found a letter from Abraham Sommers to his daughter Elsbeth and two locks of hair.

“Lexie thought the hair belonged to you and her, but it turned out to be you and me. The second lock was mine, not hers. Marta had clipped it off right after I was born. She tried to cut—”

“Alexandra's too,” Giselle interrupted nodding. “But Alexandra wouldn't let her.” She stared down at the box. “I do remember that. She wasn't having any of it.”

My hands began to shake, so I set down my mug. “We used the hair for a DNA test. That's how we found out we were full sisters.”

Giselle leaned against the table, picked up the box again, and cradled it in her hands. Her expression was so distant, I wasn't even sure she was listening anymore.

“This carving,” she said finally. “It's Amielbach. That's why
Mamm
gave it to Alexandra. She wanted her to know where I was.”

I nodded, aware that no one had thought to give me any clues to my origins. “I'm assuming Abraham Sommers carved it? That's why Lexie sent it with me. She hoped the craftsman could be identified.”

Giselle nodded, setting the box back down on the table. “Oh, that's his work all right. No question.”

“I thought so.”

Without saying anything more, Giselle busied herself at the sink, pouring out the tea she'd only half finished and washing the mug. As she worked, all I could think of was this: She remembered the day I was born after all.

A
fter I finished my tea, I dressed and then walked up to Amielbach, leaving a note for Christy and Morgan in case they woke up before I returned. I wanted to check in with Daniel about the letters and go over the schedule for the rest of the day, including the hearing in Langnau. I expected he would be up already, and I was right. He was coming down the staircase, the box and a dictionary in his arms.

“Hi,” he called out. “I was just going to check in with Herr Lauten. He said he'd be in his library by seven.”

The library was at the end of the dark hallway that veered off from the great room to the right of the floor-to-ceiling carving. As we walked, Daniel explained that he'd finished going through all of the letters last night, to no avail. While the letters had painted a fascinating picture of the past, he'd seen one mention of the Kessler family but otherwise nothing whatsoever that might help us straighten out the property issue or find the missing agreement. My heart sank, but I had to trust that God knew what He was doing.

Daniel knocked on the door and from faraway a voice called out, “
Hereinkommen!
”

I followed Daniel through the doorway. The room was lined with shelves that were stuffed with books, and woven carpets covered the hardwood floor. High windows were above the shelves, letting in streams of sunlight. The ceiling was divided in sections, like boxes, with wood molding separating each.

Herr Lauten was at the back of the room, behind a desk, struggling to stand to greet us, leaning against his cane.

“Don't get up,” I called out to him, hurrying across the room. I greeted him, expecting Daniel to be right behind me. He wasn't.

He was at the tallest bookcase, gawking. “Where did you get all of these? They're ancient.”

Herr Lauten settled back down his chair. “Most of them belonged to the father-in-law of Abraham Sommers. The rest are mine.”

“What did his father-in-law do?”

“Franz Amiel? He was a scholar. He was from Germany and inherited a large sum of money. He retreated here, built Amielbach, married a local woman, and had a daughter, Tresa, who married Abraham.” Herr Lauten motioned to the vast collection of books. “My grandfather was illiterate, but thankfully he valued the books and cared for them. You're welcome to browse around in here later.”

Daniel thanked him and joined us. We both sat down in chairs facing Herr Lauten.

Without missing a beat, he continued with what he'd been saying about Abraham. “Tresa died when Elsbeth was a young girl, leaving Abraham the property.”

Herr Lauten was struggling to stand again, and I quickly jumped up to help him, holding on to his elbow as the old man tottered. “I just want to grab the journals.” He pointed to two volumes on a table beyond his desk. Daniel retrieved them, and after I helped Herr Lauten back down, he handed them over.

“As I told you two before, Abraham kept several business ledgers through the years, but the last two were more like journals.” Lifting one of the books, he added, “This is the first of those. I tried to give it to Giselle and am now so thankful she didn't want it. I regret giving her the letters. If I hadn't, we'd still have them now.” He held up the second book. “Then I found this second journal. It's the one that has some information I think may prove useful.” Herr Lauten handed it to me. “He's your ancestor, Miss Rupp. Technically it belongs to you,” he said. Then, looking at Daniel he added, “Plus I'd like a second set of eyes to read it. To see if I've missed anything.”

I opened the book, its leather cover worn with age. On the first page was the date, April 4, 1894. That would have been seventeen years after Elsbeth had left Switzerland. Under that was a list of numbers and a few lines written in old-fashioned script. From what I could tell, it was in regular German and not Swiss German, which I figured might be more of a spoken language. I could make out some of the words, such as
Holz
, which was “wood,” and
Werk
, which was “work.” But the ink was faint and the handwriting hard to read, so it wasn't easy to decipher. I turned the page to see a similar entry. I flipped ahead a little and made out the year 1895.

Daniel was peering over my shoulder. “He's written that he hired someone to help him manage the property.” Daniel looked at Herr Lauten. “Your grandfather, Caspar Lauten.”

The old man nodded, saying that when Caspar Lauten first came to Amielbach to serve as the property manager, that was the beginning of the Lauten family's connection to the estate.

“I'm afraid you'll have to translate this too,” I said to Daniel.

“It'll be my pleasure.”

I knew it would, and I was very thankful for his knowledge.

Next Daniel opened the carved box and took out the letters for Herr Lauten. “I skimmed these last night,” he said. “You should look too, but I couldn't find anything about the missing agreement. In the very last letter, Abraham wrote that he had some important information for Elsbeth and he would send it soon.”

“Important information?” Herr Lauten and I asked in unison.

“Yes, that's what he said. But then that's it. So we have no way of knowing what that information could have been.”

“Oh, dear,” Herr Lauten said. “That doesn't sound very promising does it? Is there anything else that might help us?”

“The only mention of the Kesslers is when he asked Elsbeth if she still kept in touch with Marie,” Daniel explained. Glancing at me, he explained that Marie was Ulrich Kessler's youngest child and only daughter, and that she and Elsbeth had been friends. “Abraham knew Marie's brothers and father had all died, but he assumed she was still alive.”

“But he didn't say why he wanted to know? Nothing about the agreement?”

“Nothing at all.”