Gladden the Heart

by Olivia Newport

  Patsy’s eyes went murky. Susanna reached for her friend’s hand.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “Did I hurt your feelings with my hasty words?”

  Patsy shook her head. “The world is changing. It’s not the same as it was a hundred years ago when your people—or mine—came to Pennsylvania.”

  “God does not change,” Susanna said. “His ways are higher than our ways.”

  “But He might change our understanding of Him,” Patsy said. “Perhaps we are the ones who must change.”

  Susanna shifted her basket to the other arm and squinted between the tent flaps again. “Is that what the preacher is trying to say with all his talk of repentance?”

  “Your church believes in repentance. I know you do.”

  “Of course. God calls us to Himself by repentance.”

  “Then what is so wrong with other churches that also preach repentance?”

  Susanna shrugged. “’Tis hard to explain.”

  “Maybe it shouldn’t be.”

  Susanna did not seek a quarrel. After the day she first saw Patsy over the fence and the two had shyly grinned at each other, they never knew when they might see each other. As they grew older, they managed more frequent visits. Their parents knew each other by brief acquaintance but lived in separate worlds. Somehow the Methodist circuit preacher ended up living amid Amish farms—or rather, Patsy and her mother did. Charles Baxton was home only a few days at a time, long enough to check in with the hired hand who kept his farm running sufficiently to at least provide food for his wife and daughter. When Susanna, as a fourteen-year-old, began teaching herself to create dyes, collecting supplies and selling dyes and cloth gave her increasing freedom to leave the Hooley farm.

  “Why don’t you come inside?” Patsy said.

  “Inside the tent?” Susanna’s heart lurched.

  “Yes, of course, inside the tent. We’re standing right here. Other Amish people are here.”

  “I could not do this.” Susanna took two steps back from the tent.

  Another hymn had begun with a clear tenor somewhere inside. “Arise, my soul, arise; shake off thy guilty fears. The bleeding sacrifice in my behalf appears.”

  Susanna pulled against the tune tugging her toward the tent. This was not the first time Patsy’s father had organized a revival meeting and not the first time Patsy had urged her to attend. But this was the first time Susanna had gotten close enough to see inside, even if only through a slit in the tent, or to try to make out the words of an English hymn.

  “We could just stand in the back,” Patsy said, “just inside the tent. Is that so different than standing just outside the tent?”

  Susanna stepped back another two paces. Patsy was right. Like a line drawn in dry dust and scuffed over by many steps, this line would also disappear if Susanna were not careful.

  “My mamm,” Susanna said. Whatever choices the other Amish made were on their consciences. But if she went inside, they would see her, and word would reach Veronica before supper. Her mother loved her children and sacrificed every day for them. Susanna saw no reason to crack open her mother’s heart for the sake of curiosity.

  “Never mind,” Patsy said. “It’s enough that your mother finds me a dangerous influence. If you came to our meeting, I would be a true villain.”

  Susanna stifled a sigh. She loved Patsy. But Patsy was outside the church—the Amish church—and she would never understand what it was like to be inside, any more than Susanna could understand the Methodist hymns.

  “Shouldn’t you go back in?” Susanna asked.

  Patsy waved off the immediacy. “I have been here nearly three hours already.” But she turned her head and began to hum as voices within joined the song.

  “Sing the words.” Susanna had not meant the thought to find voice, but Patsy complied.

  “The Father hears him pray, His dear anointed one; He cannot turn away the presence of His Son: His Spirit answers to the blood, and tells me I am born of God.”

  “’Tis pretty.” The tune moved and pitched toward joy, without the somber tempo of the hymns Susanna was used to singing in church. “Thank you.”

  “I will sing as many hymns for you as you like.”

  “This one will do for now,” Susanna said. His Spirit answers to the blood, and tells me I am born of God.

  “Do you think Adam would come to a meeting?” Patsy asked.

  Susanna’s gaze snapped up. “Adam? Is he in there?”

  “No. I only meant to inquire if you thought he would ever consider it.”

  “No, I do not believe so.”

  Patsy nodded. “Another reason you will not come in.”

  “Adam does not tell me what to think.”

  “No one tells you what to think,” Patsy said. “But you do not like to make people unhappy.”

  “’Tis nothing wrong with a charitable spirit.”

  “Certainly not. But if you are to marry Adam …”

  Susanna raised a hand to her warming face. “You must not let anyone hear us speak of this.”

  “Sometimes you do not have to speak to know something is true.” Patsy’s voice lilted, teasing.

  “Adam and I have not known each other long enough.”

  “Two years!”

  “He is from another district, and he will want to go back someday.”

  “With a bride. And you have known his uncle and aunt all your life. Is it not a fitting recommendation that they would take him into their home?”

  Susanna seized at the opportunity to change the subject. “Niklaus Zug is one of our ministers, you know.”

  “I do know. My father knew him when they were young men.”

  “Of course. My point is that Mr. Zug is quite an accomplished preacher. You might enjoy coming to one of our church services to hear him.”

  Patsy laughed. “What deftness you have used to turn the conversation around.”

  “’Tis only an invitation. Visitors are welcome.”

  “Do you and Adam stare at each other across the aisle?”

  “Certainly not!” Susanna at least tried to focus her attention in church. “Hardly ever.”

  The dance in Patsy’s eyes matched her smile. “I have seen the two of you out looking for berries. He cannot keep his eyes off you.”

  “Now you are being silly.”

  “Am I?”

  Adam let the wagon come to rest. The clearing was a flat space, and if he could not get the horses going again uphill, he would turn them downhill to gather momentum anew and keep them moving. For now a few minutes reprieve for the horses would benefit the remaining journey, and he could do with a gulp from his jug of well-water kept cool out of the sun under a blanket beneath the wagon bench. He retrieved the jug and swallowed a long draught.

  To his relief, Susanna had stepped a couple of yards away from the revival tent. Yet she was talking with Patsy Baxton, so it was premature to think she had dismissed the possibility of going inside. Adam tilted his head back and judged the sun in the early phases of its descent. Perhaps the meeting would be over soon, and the question of whether Susanna might attend an English tent meeting could be put off. After another day, the revival would conclude, and the questions that it posed would dissipate. She was not curious about the Lutherans or Presbyterians and their established churches. All of this would pass.

  Methodist tent meetings might confuse Adam, but his feelings for Susanna did not. His affection for her was a certain and true north. Adam plugged the jug again, stowed it safely where it would not roll around, and dropped from the bench to the ground. The team could have a few more minutes. With a firm grip on the reins, he led them to a spot of shade and tied them to a tree. Then he pivoted toward the private huddle between Susanna and Patsy. Being so near to Susanna, if he did not make himself known, he would regret the missed opportunity in all the hours before he dropped off to sleep that night, and she would overflow his dreams more than ever. Patsy’s presence was no impediment. She was always p
leasant toward him—though scheming with Susanna over something unspoken.

  Adam waved, and Susanna’s black bonnet bobbed above an inviting smile. Patsy’s smile was slyer. Even Adam, with his limited experience with women, knew that unmarried women confided to each other about men.

  “I was driving by and saw you,” he said, his eyes fixed on Susanna.

  “You two are always happening by,” Patsy said. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

  “You are not in the way,” Susanna said.

  But Patsy had already pivoted to slip through the flaps of the tent, and Adam had no urge to stop her. What Patsy said was true. If he and Susanna did not conspire in their malingering, they might never see one another. At least not alone.

  “’Tis a warm afternoon,” Adam said.

  “Yes. ’Tis.”

  “The wagon will save you the heat,” he said. “Might I drive you home?”

  “’Tis out of your way,” she said. “And you have a load.”

  “Lumber will not spoil. Surely your mamm would be glad to have you home in time for supper.”

  “And your aunti?” Susanna’s dark eyes glimmered in that way that made Adam want to take her face in his hands. He had once, and he did not dare again.

  “Ah,” he said, “there is a difference between an aunti and a mamm.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Morning sun bore down with the pledge of summer heat the next afternoon. Niklaus Zug had never liked heat. Keeping cool was too absorbing a task when there was always much to do. But the fields needed the sun at this time of year. Jonas was already out in the fields looking for signs of blight or infestation, which they had not suffered for years. The corn had achieved sufficient height to reassure that the ground carried adequate water and nutrients, and the wheat would yield plenty to grind and keep his wife in bread through the winter. Deborah’s vegetable garden overflowed with squash and beans. Adam stood in the farmyard throwing slop to the chickens. This had always been Deborah’s task, but Adam was a helpful soul and picked up the bucket more mornings than not. Whatever irritation made Adam’s father send him to Niklaus was of no consequence now. Niklaus was glad to have him. Despite the heat, Niklaus whispered a prayer of thanks for a bountiful life. But Adam needed more than a warm welcome from his uncle. He needed to find his place with skills more challenging that feeding kitchen scraps to the chickens or in the fields doing only what he was told. Niklaus had just the project in mind.

  “Adam!” Niklaus called from the open barn door. “Come help me with the hay.”

  Adam’s head rose from his task and rotated toward Niklaus before he dumped the remains of the bucket and walked to the back porch to leave it for Deborah’s convenience. Beyond Adam a horse neighed and snorted. Its rider urged a brief, dramatic gallop that churned the dirt in the yard and sent the chickens into a burst of unaccustomed flight.

  “Charles Baxton.” Niklaus leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms over his chest. “A man who spends as much time on a horse as you do ought to know better.”

  “What would you know?” Charles dropped off his horse. “You ride only of necessity and close your heart to the sheer joy of it.”

  Niklaus laughed. “Nice to see you, Charles.”

  “The friends of our youth are the most tightly bound.” Charles tied his horse to a hook in the side of the barn.

  “You are speaking proverbs now?” Niklaus said. “I should write that down.”

  Charles’s words lacked no merit. Niklaus had met Charles a quarter of a century earlier, when he had briefly worked for an English lumber company to fund the purchase of the land he stood on now. Charles was foundering, wrestling with his call to ministry, when he had already given his heart to Mercy, though he was years from offering her a life. Charles showed no aptitude for cutting lumber, but Niklaus inspired him to stay at it long enough to put money down on a small plot of land in the Kish Valley. If he proposed to marry yet also become a Methodist circuit rider, he could at least offer his bride a place to call home. And Niklaus would live within easy riding range to keep an eye on things.

  “Patsy tells me she saw your nephew driving a wagonload of lumber yesterday,” Charles said.

  Niklaus nodded.

  “Getting ready to build something?”

  “I thought I might plant it. With enough care, an oak plank will grow a tree, will it not?”

  Charles lifted his black hat off his head and scratched his hairline. “Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you.”

  “Seems to me you are always galloping away.” Niklaus curled his fingers to beckon. “Let me show you what I have in mind.”

  “Does this have something to do with Jonas?”

  “Might be so.” Jonas was not yet officially betrothed. There would be plenty of time to spread the news once he was.

  They strode around to the back of the house.

  Was he supposed to follow? Or should he work on the hay by himself? Adam was not sure. It could not hurt to work on throwing one bale down to the barn floor on his own.

  Adam did not dislike Charles Baxton any more than he disliked his daughter. The Baxtons were genial and hospitable, but they made him nervous. He never had a friend outside his own church or a neighboring district. That his uncle and Susanna, both of whom Adam adored, had deep and abiding friendships with an English family befuddled him.

  Adam had thrown down two bales of hay from the barn loft and was descending the ladder to the floor when a wagon rattled into the yard. Unsure whether the temperature was rising faster inside the barn or outside, Adam dragged an arm across his sweaty forehead, dampening his shirtsleeve, and looked out the barn door. Bishop Hertzberger was securing his wagon and glancing around.

  “Gut mariye, Bishop Hertzberger,” Adam said, moving into the farmyard. “My onkel is—”

  Coming across the yard, Niklaus interrupted him. “Shem! Thank you for coming.”

  Uncle Niklaus got along with everyone. Adam had never seen him less than glad to welcome a guest, and no matter his schedule, he paused to offer a greeting in the middle of the road. Now Niklaus stood between Charles Baxton, Methodist minister, and Shem Hertzberger, Amish bishop. Niklaus himself was a minister in the Amish congregation. Adam thought he ought to withdraw and stepped a few feet away.

  “Is my arrival ill-timed?” Shem asked Niklaus. “Did we not agree I would come today to look at the wood?”

  “You are right on time,” Niklaus said.

  “It is I who has come without prior arrangement,” Charles said. “Niklaus tells me you will be working on his project.”

  Shem nodded. “And young Adam will assist me.”

  “By God’s grace,” Niklaus said, “I am a competent farmer, but by His will, I am no builder. My wife would rather do without the extra room than live with the mess I would make of it.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true,” Charles said.

  “Adam will learn far more about carpentry from Shem than he would from me,” Niklaus said.

  Adam watched three faces. Niklaus’s bore the smile it always did. Charles’s eyebrows were raised slightly as he looked at Shem. The bishop was not an unkind man, but at this moment his eyes narrowed slightly as he took stock of the Methodist minister.

  Niklaus rubbed his hands together. “The wood is still in my wagon. We can have a look, and if it is not sufficient for the trim and shelves and bed board, I will send Adam back on Monday.”

  “I will leave you to it,” Charles said. “Perhaps the next time I am home, I will come and inspect the progress.”

  Susanna had not expected a gathering in the Zug farmyard. Her open cart, pulled by the smallest and oldest mare in the Hooley stables, carried fifteen yards of cotton dyed especially for Deborah Zug and neatly folded and protected by a clean flour sack. Some of the Amish women were delighted simply to have a small jar of Susanna’s dye to use on their own. Others welcomed Susanna’s service to dye their cloth and return it to them ready to be cut and stitc
hed into garments. Deborah belonged to a third category, those who had particular preferences for colors and would gladly pay handsomely—though in barter—for someone who could match the hues of their imagination. Of course Susanna would make a polite visit out of the excursion to deliver finished cloth, but she had not anticipated any of the men would be in the yard in the middle of the day. Adam and Niklaus stood with feet braced and hands on their hips—Adam was more like his uncle all the time—and Reverend Baxton and Bishop Hertzberger leaned slightly away from one another.

  Adam’s head was the first to turn in the gesture that warmed Susanna now as much as it had two years ago. One side of her mouth twitched up before she caught herself. It would not do to appear overeager in front of the others.

  “Susanna!” Adam’s clarion voice sounded, and the others looked in her direction now as well.

  Susanna guided the cart to an easy stop. “Gut mariye.”

  “That means ‘good morning,’ doesn’t it?” Reverend Baxton said.

  Niklaus clapped his old friend on the back. “I may yet persuade you that our language is the language of heaven.”

  “If that is Gottes wille,” Reverend Baxton said. “Perhaps I should pray for a special gift of the Holy Ghost, for I fear languages are not my strength.”

  Susanna offered the smile that seemed appropriate when Patsy’s father smiled at her. He had always been amiable, but he was only home a few days at a time between his circuits, and Susanna generally did not see him. When she did, he made her feel glad. The glint in his green eyes was irresistible, and it explained the shine Susanna often saw in Patsy’s.

  “’Tis nice to see you, Reverend Baxton,” she said.

  “Likewise,” he said, “but I must be on my way and let these men get about their work.”

  As soon as Reverend Baxton was on his horse, the bishop glanced across the yard to Niklaus’s laden wagon. “Your friend is right. We must get to work.”

  Niklaus and the bishop matched forward strides toward the wagon. Adam only shifted his weight from one foot to the other.