It was no wonder that all the boys in the village had gotten the idea that Joost didn’t want them paying court to his daughters. The way he looked at any boy who came calling stopped most of them from ever coming a second time.
Ruth went to the table and opened the drawer to fetch out the little mirror she kept there. When she held it out at arm’s length, she could see her whole face in it. She was a beauty, and she knew it. She and her sisters had all inherited their mother’s fine, even features, and their mother had been an exceptionally beautiful woman.
Ruth heaved a sigh and put the mirror back in the drawer again. What good did it do her to look in the mirror and see a pretty face? Would a man ever kiss her on the lips? Would anyone ever tell her that her eyes shone like amber? That her skin was as clear as a spring morning? If Joost had his way, all three of them would die old maids.
The only man who regularly came to call was their neighbor Peter Maienbaum. Ever since his parents had died a few years ago, one soon after the other, Joost had looked on him as a son, never thinking that he too might turn into a skirt chaser. But judging from the way he gazed at Johanna, Ruth was quite sure that Peter had had his eye on her for some time now. Nobody else seemed to have noticed though, least of all Johanna. Ruth sighed again—more deeply this time. If a man ever looked at her like that, she would certainly notice.
“Johanna’s barging about the house again like a bear with a sore head! When she finally makes it out of bed, she spends the rest of the day giving us orders,” Marie said, slipping onto the edge of the bench. She was so slim that she didn’t even need to push the table away as she sat down. Though Ruth was quite slim too, she envied her sister’s figure. Many of the village women were funny-looking creatures with dangling bosoms and great pillows of flesh on them, but the sisters could thank the Lord that they were tall and slender, with smooth healthy skin and chestnut hair that shone like silk without needing anything more than a hundred strokes of the brush each day. Marie was smaller than the other two, more delicate and fragile looking—like a costly porcelain doll.
“At least she’s made it downstairs. I was afraid I’d have to go up to wake her again,” Ruth answered dryly.
Ever since their mother had died, they used the laundry shed next door for their morning wash. Joost went out there too, rather than washing in the kitchen. This way they could all have a bit of privacy, which the girls needed as much as Joost did.
“Where’s Father, anyway?”
“I don’t know. He got home later than usual last night. He made such a din coming up the stairs that I woke up. I couldn’t fall asleep again for ages,” Marie said, making a face. “I hope he’s not sleeping off a hangover.”
Ruth shrugged. “You know as well as I do that he doesn’t drink all that much,” she said indulgently, though there was no real need to spring to Joost’s defense. He went to the local tavern, the Black Eagle, for a couple of hours every evening like all the other men in the village, but unlike some of them, he rarely drank more than was good for him.
The potatoes were nicely crisped and brown. Ruth picked up a slice with her fingers and popped it into her mouth. Hot! Then she poured herself a cup of the chicory coffee, and one for Marie as well. The hearty brew was just the thing for a sunny morning like this. They had a word for these sunny days after the end of summer but before fall had come; they called them “plum-cake days.” All summer long the songbirds had trilled in the pear tree outside the kitchen window, but they were gone now. The only sound these days was that of a blackbird chirruping or the high piping of a lark, and soon the mists would fall and silence even these. Ruth held her cup to her nose and breathed in deeply. She hated it when the year turned cold.
“Not long now and we’ll have to light the lamps in the morning,” Marie said, as though reading her sister’s thoughts. The sisters often found that they could chime in and speak aloud what the other was thinking.
After Anna Steinmann had died, they had found a way to cope—both with life and with their work. Of course they were always shorthanded—the Steinmann family ran as good a business as any of the other glassblowers in the village. Not bad for a household where the women “ruled the roost.” They were used to friendly teasing, and to ill will as well. They specialized in pharmacy jars and test tubes, and they made them well. First-class goods. The family did every step of the work—from grinding the stoppers to size to incising the words into each jar, writing out the labels, and packing every consignment for delivery—all without outside help. It was a great advantage.