Ruth laid a pair of wool trousers in the new box. “I wonder about our ancestor Jakob Byler. Growing up in the church, I heard stories about his son Christian, who is my ancestor. But now you discovered Jakob had a second family—your family. What made him choose as he did?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy.” Annie went into the closet and came back with a load of dresses on hangers. “I believe he arrived in Philadelphia an Amish man with a wife and five children. Then his wife died. There he was, in a new land—not even a country yet—with five children and a plan to homestead with a few other Amish families. It had to be tough. We have to put ourselves in his place and imagine the rest.”
“And choose the best we can, just the way Jakob did.”
Annie nodded. “I think so.”
They folded clothes without speaking for a few minutes and filled two more boxes.
“So when are you going to talk to your mother?” Ruth asked.
Annie looked up and caught Ruth’s eye. “Tomorrow. And then we’ll go to the valley, and you’ll talk to yours.”
Forty-Two
December 1750
One more day,” Christian said to Lizzie Yoder, “and you’ll be stuck with me forever.”
“I don’t want to be stuck with anyone else.” Lizzie shivered under her shawl.
They sat in separate straight-back chairs next to each other on the Yoders’ front porch. Early December sun looked brighter than it felt to Christian. It was probably selfish to keep Lizzie out in the cold, but it was the only place they could have a private moment. They were in plain view, but members of the large Yoder family thoughtfully managed to be occupied elsewhere.
“What a blessing to be ready to marry just when Bishop Hertzner has come to stay.” Christian set his jaw in satisfaction. “Our children will grow up going to church every other Sunday, and not just when a visiting minister comes through.”
“Christian, do you hope that God gives us a baby right away?” Lizzie looked at him shyly out of the sides of her eyes.
He reached over and patted her hand briefly. “We will be grateful for whatever God gives us. His will is certain.”
Lizzie nodded. “Ours is the last wedding. All the fuss of the last few weeks will be over.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t be first instead of the last of five,” Christian said. “If only I had spoken to the bishop when he first arrived.”
“It would have been prideful to insist on being first. Besides, what difference does a few weeks make when we have our whole lives before us?”
Christian twisted his hands together. “I wish I had finished our house. I didn’t know we would have such difficulty getting the harvest in this year.” He brightened. “But now we have our own land just a few miles away. Next year we’ll have our own harvest.”
“Do you really think so? Can we get enough acres cleared by spring?”
“I will chop down trees in the middle of a blizzard if I have to.”
“I keep telling you I can help.”
Christian shook his head. “You will be busy visiting and gathering the things we need for the house. We will spend a few weeks here with your family, then with the Kauffmanns and the Troyers and the Zooks. Before you know it, we’ll be in our own home.”
“I cannot wait.”
Christian considered his bride-to-be. He had no doubt she was the prettiest of the Yoder sisters, but her devotion to the church had won his heart.
A wagon rattled into view and hurtled toward the house.
“Why is he driving so fast?” Lizzie rose abruptly, clutching her shawl against the wind, and moved to the edge of the porch. “My uncle! Something must be wrong—it may be my aunt.”
She stepped to the front door, pushed it open, and screamed for her family. The answer came in a thunder of footsteps from every direction. When the wagon came to a halt only a few feet from the porch, Christian was there to grab the reins and steady the horses. Yoders swarmed around the wagon.
“Miriam!” Lizzie’s mother pushed past and clambered into the wagon. Her sister looked nearly unconscious. “Adam, how long has she been like this?”
“Three days.” Adam jumped from his seat into the back of the wagon. “She cannot hold anything down, Martha. She was determined to be well enough for the wedding tomorrow, but I am worried today. I could not wait any longer.”
“Is she with child again?”
“She did not tell me,” Adam answered. “But she must be. It is the only time she gets like this.”
“Take her in the house. The room at the top of the stairs is ready.”
Christian caught Lizzie’s eyes. The room at the top of the stairs had been readied for them. He had not yet seen the preparations for where they would begin married life.
A tangle of arms lifted Miriam’s limp form, cradling her as they transported her into the house. Stair-stepped small children climbed out of the pit of the wagon and raced each other around the house, oblivious to their mother’s plight.
Christian was left holding the reins and stroking the horse’s neck. Lizzie was frozen in place.
“I suppose I should put the horses in the barn.” Christian found the horses’ lead. “I’m sure they’ll stay the night for the wedding tomorrow.”
“Christian,” Lizzie said, her face blanched, “they will stay far longer than that.”
“Your aunt seems quite ill, but with your mother’s care—”
Lizzie was shaking her head, her lips pressed together. “You don’t understand. Miriam is with child. This happens to her every time. It lasts until she is at least four months along. With the twins, it was even worse. She’ll be in bed for weeks. My mother will have to spoon-feed her. My uncle will have a terrible time keeping up with the cousins, so the little ones will stay here, too.”
Christian considered these facts. “You mean, she will be in bed here for weeks?”
Lizzie nodded.
“She will be in … our bed … for weeks.”
Lizzie nodded again. “Christian, where will we live after our wedding?”
Elizabeth used a long, thin washing bat to lift Jakob’s shirts out of the barrel where she had left them in lye to soak out the stains. One at a time she plopped four identical white cotton shirts into a basket then bundled up assorted children’s clothing and tossed them on top of the load. Lisbet was fourteen now, more than old enough to look after the children while Elizabeth sought creekside refuge. Elizabeth took her warmest cloak off the hook in the kitchen and arranged it around her shoulders.
“But it is cold out there.” Sarah, nine, poked at the load with one finger. “Why are you washing clothes in January? Why not wait for spring?”
“Your daed’s shirts are dirty now.” Elizabeth hefted her basket.
“Is Lizzie going with you?”
“No. This is Lizzie’s baking day.” Elizabeth’s answer was quick. Lizzie was the reason she had decided to do laundry in the middle of January in the first place. Lizzie’s second batch of buckwheat loaves sat on the table, rising in the warmth from the oven.
Outside, the slap of brisk air was welcome. Elizabeth started down the path to the creek. The water had frozen solid a couple of weeks earlier, but temperatures had risen again, and the creek yielded a sluggish flow.
A sluggish creek was good enough for Elizabeth.
It was not that Elizabeth disliked Lizzie. She was a perfectly lovely girl and well suited in temperament to Christian. Elizabeth was genuinely happy for the young couple. But Lizzie had been sheltered all her life from anyone who was not Amish and didn’t seem to know what to do with Elizabeth, or Jakob, or Christian’s half siblings. Over the years, Elizabeth certainly did not intentionally offend her neighbors. Most of them would speak to her in friendly ways. Mrs. Zimmerman helped her birth five babies, and Mrs. Stehley enjoyed borrowing Elizabeth’s books. Elizabeth had learned to sew clothing for her Amish stepchildren, and mothers with younger children happily accepted her garments as serviceable ha
nd-me-downs. Though Jakob repeatedly offered to bring her whatever she wanted from Philadelphia, in many ways Elizabeth lived as plain as her neighbors.
Lizzie did not say most of what she thought—Elizabeth was certain of that. It was Jakob whom Lizzie wordlessly condemned. Elizabeth was merely an unenlightened outsider. Jakob was the one who left the church when he married her. He was the one who put his children in the difficult position of choosing between him and the church. How does he bear it? Elizabeth sometimes wondered.
Christian was the third of the Byler children to marry into the extended Yoder family. The truth that their mother had been a Yoder was never far from Elizabeth’s mind, nor, she suspected, from theirs. Newly married, Christian and Lizzie lived as separately as they could while sleeping under the same roof with Jakob and Elizabeth.
And now the bishop was here to stay. For the first time, the Amish families of Northkill and Irish Creek had an authority living among them permanently. Jakob seemed unconcerned, but Elizabeth wondered if the presence of a bishop would disturb the careful balance of their life together. Only a few hours ago, Elizabeth overheard Lizzie murmuring to Christian that the bishop should talk to Jakob. It would be best for everyone, Lizzie had said, if Jakob came back to the church and brought his family with him. If he repented publicly, no one would withhold forgiveness. It would be against Ordnung not to forgive.
At that moment, Elizabeth had knocked a pot against the table with particular swiftness, announcing her presence. She was not something to be repented of.
Elizabeth reached the creek and set down the basket. Closer to the water, the air was even more biting, but she did not care. Below a thin layer of ice, the water was moving. Elizabeth gripped her washing bat and broke the ice in one strike, creating an opening where she could rinse the clothes. One at a time, she swirled shirts and dresses and trousers in the frigid water and watched the dirt break free and flow downstream.
If only life were that simple, she thought. She picked up a shirt and wrenched the excess creek water from it.
By the time Elizabeth returned to the house, her hands were red and raw, but her nerves were settled. The aroma of Lizzie’s baking efforts filled the kitchen, though the room was unoccupied. The trouble with Lizzie using the kitchen all day to bake was that Elizabeth could not feed her family more than cold meat and cellar fruit. Her own bread shelf did not offer much at the moment. Tomorrow would be her turn to beat and knead her bread dough and slide the loaves into an oven that took three hours to heat sufficiently.
For now, Elizabeth picked up the limp end of a rope and attached it to the nail on the opposite wall. If she left her laundry on the bushes outside, it would freeze before it would dry, so she hung it in front of the kitchen fire. Then she went in search of her children, wanting nothing more than to fill her arms with them while she dried off and warmed up.
As she passed the broad table, Elizabeth saw the mound wrapped in a dish towel. Laying her hand on top of it, she absorbed the rising warmth. She sensed someone was watching her and looked up. Lizzie leaned against the door frame leading to the main room.
“I thought you might enjoy some bread with your supper,” Lizzie said. “I made plenty.”
Elizabeth’s breath caught. She was so cold, and she craved the heat of the fresh bread, even just a bite. “Thank you, Lizzie. It smells delicious.”
“Mrs. Byler, I feel convicted that I have made you feel unwelcome in your own home. I hope you can forgive me.”
Elizabeth hardly knew what to say. “Thank you, Lizzie.”
“I promise to be more mindful of my actions,” Lizzie said. “I do not want to appear ungrateful for your hospitality.”
“You are Christian’s wife. Of course you are welcome in his family home.”
“The Kauffmanns will soon be ready for us. Christian says we are to move in three days.”
Elizabeth shivered, and not entirely from the cold. Relief would come soon.
“Jacobli has built a wonderful fire in the other room,” Lizzie said. “Come and warm up away from the wet clothes.”
“Yes, I shall do that.”
Lizzie moved out of the way, and Elizabeth stepped into the main room. The beauty of what she saw swelled and lodged in her throat. Lisbetli sat on a large rag rug with Joseph on one side and David on the other, the three of them with their heads bent together over a book Rachel Treadway had sent from Philadelphia. Sarah sat on her favorite window seat and stared out, just as Anna often had done in the cabin ten years ago. John and Jacobli were on their knees in front of the fire, poking at it with sticks and laughing about things that only brothers shared. The moment was worth every hardship they had endured.
“Mamm, come and get warm.” Jacobli waved her over with a hand.
Elizabeth suddenly noticed how tall his form had become. Even folded up before the fire, his height announced itself. He was eleven, but she saw the man he would be soon enough. She perched on a low footstool in front of the fire, close enough to stroke Jacobli’s head, and welcomed the flickering heat.
“Mamm,” Jacobli said. “I think I want to meet the new bishop.”
Her hand rested at the base of his neck now, trembling. “Have you spoken to your father?”
“Not yet. I wanted to tell you first. Lizzie says I would like him. He is very friendly, she says.”
Lizzie. Of course she would be in league with Christian over the children’s faith.
“We have always told you that when you were old enough, you could choose for yourself, according to your own conscience.”
“Am I old enough?”
“What do you think?” Her heart pounded.
“I think I want to meet the bishop.” Jacobli stabbed the fire with his stick.
He might as well have stabbed his mother’s heart.
Forty-Three
Can we park down here?” Ruth asked when Annie turned the car into the long Beiler driveway. “I’d like to walk up. She’s probably in the garden.”
Annie pulled to one side of the lane and turned off the car. “I’ll give you a head start then see if you need anything.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Ruth got out of the car and glanced back at Annie, the only friend who knew her in both worlds and felt the pull of both for herself. Then she drew a deep breath, puffed her cheeks in an exhale, and turned her steps toward the garden. Her mother was there, just as she had thought. Lydia and Sophie were supposed to look after the vegetables, but Ruth knew her mother did not regard the patch as a chore but as a place of solace. The Beiler children had learned long ago not to disturb Franey when she knelt there. She was as likely to be praying as weeding. On her knees now in the far end, Franey was picking out bits of growth that did not belong in the ordered rows and tossing them in an old basket. Remembering when that basket was new, so long ago, Ruth watched her mother for a few minutes.
“Mamm?” Ruth finally said.
Franey shifted her weight, putting one hand down on the ground to support the turn, and raised her face to her daughter. “Your brother is doing well. There’s no need for you to go to all this trouble to check on him.”
“That’s not why I came.” Ruth stepped forward. “I came for you.”
“What does that mean, Ruth?” Franey stood now and brushed her hands together. Loose crumbs of black dirt tumbled to the ground, not back to where they came from, but to the new place where they belonged now.
“You’re my mudder. I need you in my life.”
Franey stooped to pick up her basket and the hand shovel she had used as long as Ruth could remember. She simply waited.
“I want to explain.” Ruth moved closer, her toes at the edge of the garden now. “It might not change anything, but at least you will know.”
She wished her mother would suggest sharing tea or sitting on the porch, but Franey was planted in the earth with her basket of weeds in one hand and her shovel in the other. Franey had done nothing wrong that day. Ruth was the one to deceive
and disappoint.
Annie waited a few minutes before starting up the lane on foot. Instead of following to the garden, though, Annie took the path that forked toward Rufus’s woodworking shop. The gray, brooding sky almost certainly held a torrent to unleash on the valley.
Annie pulled open the shop door and breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re here.”
Rufus looked up from his bench, where he was working on a hinge. “Why is it you never say good afternoon?”
“Sorry. Good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon. I’m surprised to see you.” He raised his eyes to her and straightened the front of his shirt.
Annie stepped closer to the workbench. “Actually, I’m moving into the house in town.”
“Will you be coming down every weekend, then?” Rufus blew the dust off a hinge. He gripped a screwdriver in one hand, his eyes on her.
“I’m going to live here full-time.” It wasn’t the color of his eyes that transfixed her now, but the grasping that swirled in them.
“That sounds like a rash decision.” Rufus set down the screwdriver and unrolled one sleeve toward his wrist, then the other.
“You’re not the only one who thinks I’ve gone around the bend, but I’m sure it’s what I am supposed to do.” Annie put both hands on the workbench and leaned in.
“I suppose your technology allows you to run your business from here. You’ve been doing that already.” Rufus gently lifted one cabinet and moved it to the end of the bench then put a new one, still looking raw, in the space in front of him.
“I sold it.”
He looked at her. “The business?”
She had his attention now. “I sold it, and I’m not keeping the money.”
Rufus stilled. “How will you support yourself?”
“I can live simply.” Saying it, she believed it.
“And why are you doing this?”
“I know you don’t believe me, but I want a different life.”
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