Seeing the look that now came to Anse's face, Mike and Becky laughed out loud. Even Frank Jackson grinned.
"She's an accountant—and she's planning to become a nun!" Anse protested.
Becky waggled her hand. "Maybe yes, maybe no, as to the last part. She hasn't decided, I don't believe. But she's very smart, and"—again, that sharp look at Jackson—"unlike some people, she's actually studied the situation."
Orders were orders. Anse made only one last minimal objection. "What's her cover story? I mean, I can't very well . . ."
Finally, Becky's usually serene countenance made its appearance. "Do not be concerned. I have managed the thing."
On his way back—none too cheerfully—Anse contemplated his new assignment.
There were too many damn layers involved, was the main thought that came to him.
Gustavus Adolphus, Mike, Kagg, Noelle, von Dantz, the garrison commander, the Suhl city council, their militia captain.
And him.
Years ago, his wife Jo had taken him to a party where the hostess served something called an "eight layer chocolate dessert." He'd only taken a sliver, but even so. Cake layers, tied together with chocolate whipped cream, with some kind of chocolate-raspberry jelly, with some kind of chocolate-and-cream-cheese spread. One layer oozing into the next. Worst heartburn of his life. He'd never run into anything like it again.
At least, not until he had started to try to figure out who was in charge of what in these New United States. The overlapping layers of authority for this project gave him a mental indigestion at least as bad as the physical indigestion that incredible cake had caused.
It had some kind of a German name, too, now that he thought about it.
January 16, 1633
Anse looked over the party gathered in Henry Johnson's living room. Jochen Rau was seated near the door with his pack by his feet. Benno Toeffel had stopped by for any final instructions and was standing talking quietly with Rau. Henry himself and Ursula Eckhardt, Pat's fiancée, were bustling around carrying packs of food for the trip from the kitchen. The combined Schultz and Eckhardt children were carrying the food out to the wagon. The only one missing was Wili Schultz. He and his wife Dora had wandered upstairs to say goodbye.
"Uncle Anse," Suse Eckhardt called from the door. "There are two women outside and they're asking for you."
Going out on the porch, Anse found a woman in her late thirties standing with another woman, somewhere in her early or mid-twenties. Behind them was a handcart being pushed by a man Anse didn't know, but thought was a down-timer. The handcart seemed full of what looked like luggage.
Anse recognized the younger woman. She was Noelle Murphy.
"Are you Anse Hatfield?" asked the older woman.
When he admitted he was, she continued. "I'm Gaylynn Reardon. I heard you were going to Suhl and since my husband Gary works for Pat Johnson I'd like to tag along. My friend Noelle here agreed to come along with me. So, Mr. Hatfield, have you got room in your wagon?"
Normally, Anse would have been inclined to refuse. But. whether or not Gaylynn Reardon's reason for traveling to Suhl made any sense—or was even genuine—he knew perfectly well that Becky Stearns was using it as an excuse to quietly insert Noelle Murphy into the expedition.
"We're ready to pull out as soon as we finish loading the wagon. I hope you've packed properly, Mrs. Reardon. It's a pretty rough road once we get past Badenburg, until we hit the trade route, and we're traveling in winter."
"I'm already packed, and so's Noelle." She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, pointing to the handcart. "Our stuff's in there, ready to go. Everyone knows you're leaving today. I spent four years in the West Virginia National Guard and winter maneuvers were no challenge."
She glanced at her younger friend, and smiled. "As for Noelle, she's a lot tougher than she looks."
Anse did his best not to let his skepticism show. Leaving aside Noelle Murphy's maybe-aspirations to become a nun, there was nothing about the young woman's appearance to suggest she was any sort of sturdy frontier type. Noelle wasn't frail. But she was of average height, rather slender, and her sandy blonde hair and moderately good looks fit a lady accountant a lot better than they did a reincarnation of Calamity Jane.
But it was a done deal, so Anse didn't argue the matter. "Come on into the house, then," he said, "and get something hot to drink. We'll leave within the hour."
He turned to Wili's older son, who was tending the horses. "Wendel, help these ladies pack their stuff on the wagon."