honey when the time comes. As to the others, they will settle with me and not you.”
Heat spread through Marta’s limbs, surging up her neck into her cheeks and burning there like lava beneath pale earth. “Am I to receive nothing, Papa? nothing at all?”
“You receive a roof over your head and food on your plate. You receive clothes on your back. As long as you live in my house, whatever you make rightfully belongs to me.” He turned his head away. “Anna!” he shouted at Mama. “Are you done with that dress for Frau Keller yet?”
“I’m working on it now, Johann.”
Scowling, Papa shouted again. “She expects delivery by the end of the week! If you don’t have it ready by then, she’ll take her business to another dressmaker!” Papa jerked his head. “Go help your mother.”
Marta joined Mama by the fire. She had a box of colored threads on the table at her side and black wool partially embroidered spread across her lap. She coughed violently into a cloth, folded and tucked it in her apron pocket before taking up her sewing again. Anyone could see by her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes that Mama wasn’t well again. Mama had weak lungs. Tonight, her lips had a faint bluish tint. “Help your sister, Marta. She’s developing another headache.”
Elise had spent all evening on her sampler, brow furrowed over every stitch in pained concentration. Marta had helped her until Papa returned. About the only thing Elise could do well was hem, leaving Mama and Marta to do the fine embroidery work. Elise struggled as much as Hermann in school, though not for the same reasons. At ten, Elise could barely read and write. However, what she lacked in intellect and dexterity was overlooked because of her rare and delicate beauty. Mama’s greatest pleasure took place every morning when she brushed and braided Elise’s waist-length white-blonde hair. She had flawless alabaster skin and wide, angelic blue eyes. Papa asked nothing of her, taking pride in her beauty, acting sometimes as though he owned a priceless piece of art.
Marta worried about her sister. Papa might be right about suitors, but he didn’t understand Elise’s deep-seated fears. She had an almost-desperate dependence upon Mama and became hysterical when Papa went into one of his rages, though never in Elise’s life had a hand been laid on her in anger. Papa would have an eye out for a settled man with money and position for Elise.
Marta prayed nightly that God would bless her sister with a husband who would cherish and protect her—and be rich enough to hire others to cook, clean, and raise the children! Elise would never be able to carry out such responsibilities.
Marta lifted a stool and set it beside her mother’s chair. “Frau Keller always wants things done yesterday.”
“She’s a good customer.” Mama laid a section of skirt carefully over Marta’s lap so they could work on it together.
“Good is not a word I would use, Mama. The woman is a tyrant.”
“It’s not wrong to know what you want.”
“If you’re willing to pay for it.” Marta fumed. Yes, Papa would ask Frau Keller to pay for the additional work, but Frau Keller would refuse. If Papa pressed, Frau Keller would become indignant “at such treatment” and threaten to take her business “to someone more appreciative of my generosity.” She would remind Papa that she ordered six dresses a year, and he should be thankful for her business in these hard times. Papa would apologize profusely, then add what he could to the amount Herr Keller owed for the suits Papa made him. And Papa often had to wait six months for even partial payment. No wonder the Kellers were rich. They clung to their money like lichen to rock. “If I were Papa, I’d demand a portion of the money before beginning the work, and full payment before any garment left the shop.”
Mama laughed softly. “So much fire from a twelve-year-old girl.”
Marta wondered how Mama would ever finish the skirt on time. She threaded a needle with pink silk and set to work on flower petals. “Papa has hired me out, Mama.”
Mama sighed. “I know, Liebling.” She quickly drew the cloth from her apron pocket to cover her mouth. When the spasm passed, she fought for breath as she pushed the cloth back into its hiding place.
“Your cough is getting worse.”
“I know. It comes from the years I worked in the cigar factory. It’ll get better when