Magnificent Devices 01 - Lady of Devices

even know if I wanted to. Then what—
    “Gabriel Langford helped your father and brothers with the planting yesterday,” she began with a “this isn’t important but I thought I’d pass it on” kind of tone.
    “That was kind of him,” I said, “though I’m sure he has plenty to do in Jean-Baptiste LeBrun’s fields.”
    “He does. Which is why it meant something, Sophie, for him to finish there and then do nearly a full day’s work here.”
    “Why would he do that? Does Jean-Baptiste think that if he works him to death, he’ll be less likely to want to join church?”
    “That boy’s capacity for work puts even your father to shame,” Maman said. “Not to mention his willingness to try his hand at anything, from planting to construction.”
    “Have the men got a competition going to see who can wear him out first?” I was only half joking. My friends and I complained to each other that even if Gabriel Langford was the one we most wanted to bump into, with him it was the least likely to happen. He worked from dawn till dark, and when he wasn’t working, he was taking French lessons with Elder Duvalle, or history lessons from one of the other elders about the Brethren from way back in the 1600s, when our French Huguenot ancestors fled to America to avoid religious persecution. When he wasn’t doing any of those things, he was in meeting. Head bowed, glossy black hair combed, clothes spotless, he occupied his bench in a way that made heads turn.
    Well, the heads of all the girls in my circle, anyway. I never would have believed it would be so hard to keep one’s gaze facing front and not let it slide to the men’s side of the meetinghouse during worship. To ignore those long-lashed eyes and beautiful cheekbones turned up toward the preaching. To pretend not to see the sunlight make its way through a curtain or a window and light up that skin. A blemish would never dare appear on his face. What an awful thought.
    Some of the boys—cornfed nobodies who had the mistaken idea they were somebody—had tried to pick a fight with him when he first came last winter, calling him “Gabrielle” and telling people he wrote poetry. That had lasted about five minutes. The boys said that Adam Berger had broken his collarbone falling out of the haymow, but his sister Katrine (who, as her best friend, I call Katie), told me the truth. After that no one accused anyone of writing poetry. Those boys kept their mouths shut and tried to look friendly when Jean-Baptiste hired Gabriel out to their fathers’ farms.
    “There’s no competition that I know of.” My mother gave me a look. “A hard worker he might be, but he’s still an Outsider, and no daughter of ours will be thinking thoughts about him.”
    She’d brought him up, not me. “I’m not thinking thoughts.” Was that a lie? Just in case, I sent up a breath of a prayer for forgiveness. “I just wondered if he planned to become a Brother. Have you heard anything?”
    “I haven’t heard a word about his plans, nor do I want to,” Maman said with disregard for the life of any Outsider, which from her tone of voice, had nothing to do with hers, now or in the hereafter. Even though the alfalfa Gabriel had put in our fields would go to feed our cows and make the milk we sold to the cooperative every week. “Plans are nothing. When he actually kneels in front of the elders and gives his life to God, then his plans will have some substance. In the meantime, you’re not to behave as if he’s a Brother. No talking with him among les jeunes after chanson , no accepting a ride on a rainy day, nothing. Understood?”
    “Can I say bonjour if I pass him on the road?”
    Narrow eyes examined my face to see if I was talking back. Maybe I was. Or maybe I honestly wanted to know. The words had just popped out and it was too late to unsay them.
    “Just good day,” Maman said at last, evidently not finding what she was looking for. “Nothing more than you would say to any Outsider in town. A Sister is always modest and polite, especially to people outside the church.”
    I don’t think my lips moved in unison with hers, but they could have. I’d heard those words approximately ten thousand, five hundred and eighty times during the course of my life.
    “And why are we discussing Gabriel Langford anyway?” Maman asked. “I wanted to talk about something else.”
    Thank goodness . “What?”
    “After meeting on Sunday, David Martin asked your father for