With a small pang of regret, he was tempted to turn back . . . to say something to smooth things over, if that was even possible.
What good would it do? He stopped for a moment, then resumed his pace.
Grace Byler slipped into her cozy gray slippers and put on her white cotton bathrobe. Having awakened before the alarm, she lit the gas lantern on her dresser and set about redding up the room. She made her bed, then plumped her pale green and white crocheted pillows on the settee in the corner, where she liked to sit and read a psalm or two before dressing. Her favorite way to start the day.
She counted two clean dresses and matching aprons left for the weekend, each garment on its hanger on the wooden pegs along one wall. Going to sit on the settee, she reached for the Good Book.
When she finished reading, she dressed, weaving the straight pins sideways on the front of her loose-fitting bodice, hungry for a good breakfast. Last evening’s supper seemed far too long ago as she brushed her blond hair away from her face and wound its thickness into the customary bun. She set her Kapp on her head, letting its ties dangle free.
That done, she glanced in the dresser mirror and straightened her brown cape dress. Soon it would be time to sew up some new dresses. She yawned as she moved to the window and peered out at the rising sun. Her father stood at the end of the driveway, waving down a van. Must be he’s traveling farther than usual today. Typically their family preferred to use the horse and carriage for transportation—the team—although Dat frequently used an English driver for longer distances.
Stepping away from the window, Grace was curious to know where he was headed so early, but her father rarely shared his comings and goings. She paused to smooth the lightweight bed quilt, made from an antique pattern they’d copied from Dat’s mother. Grace recalled the fun she’d had piecing it together several years ago with Mamma, Mandy, and Mammi Adah.
Sweet memories.
On her way to the door, she eyed the braided rug between her bed and the dresser and decided it needed a good beating. She’d do that after breakfast, before Mamma and she took the horse and buggy into town to her job at Eli’s. Mamma planned to stop at the general store.
Downstairs, she found her mother frying up eggs and sausage. “Mornin’, Mamma,” she said, surprised at her mother’s already soiled black apron and unkempt hair. Stray strands of blond-gray hair were wispy at her neck, nothing like the neat bun Grace was used to seeing. “How’d ya sleep?” she asked.
“All right, I guess. You?”
“I’ve had better nights.”
“Oh?” Mamma kept her eyes low, but she couldn’t disguise their puffy redness.
Grace drew in a breath. Something was terribly wrong.
“You work so hard over at Eli’s,” her mother said. “You really need your rest, Gracie.”
“We all do,” she whispered. Then, going to the utensil drawer, she said, “I’ll be home later than usual today, but I’ll get a ride. You won’t have to bother pickin’ me up.”
“ ’Tis never a bother.” Mamma adjusted the flame under a pot of stew for the noon meal. Quickly, she returned to kneading a mass of bread dough, her lips drawn in a taut line.
Oh, but Grace wanted to throw her arms around Mamma and tell her that everyone knew she was troubled, no matter how much she pretended otherwise. “I saw Dat out early, waitin’ for a driver,” she said, making small talk.
“Jah, and he was mighty hungry at breakfast.” Mamma raised the lid on the pot filled with stew meat and vegetables, and a gust of steam rose out of the top.
“Dat sure enjoys your cooking.” Grace was thankful for the gas that powered the range and oven, and the refrigerator and water heater, as well. The bishop had declared it acceptable to sell the old cookstove and icebox before she was born. That must have been a wonderful-good day for Mamma, who enjoyed working in the kitchen, whipping up one delicious meal after another. All the womenfolk had benefited in scores of ways.
She assumed someone had coaxed Dat to replace their kitchen appliances back then. Most likely her maternal grandmother, Mammi Adah, had stepped in to plead Mamma’s case. To this day an unspoken tension over such things continued between her standoffish father and outspoken grandmother.
Grace placed the knives, forks, and spoons around the table, glancing at her tired mother, still so pretty nearly everyone looked at her twice upon first meeting her. The milky blue of Mamma’s eyes was remarkable, and sometimes Grace wondered if her mother knew just how striking she really was.
When Grace had poured the juice and milk, she called up the stairs to Mandy, their only sleepyhead. “Hurry, sister . . . breakfast is nearly ready.”
At this hour Adam and Joe were out watering the sheep and looking after the newborn lambs, with more wee lambs on the way. Any minute, though, they would be in, hungry as ever, unless they’d eaten earlier with Dat.
“Your sister’s ev’ry bit a slowpoke, just as she was as a schoolgirl,” Mamma said while pouring coffee. “She’s goin’ to need more prodding, I daresay.”
Grace wiped the counter and agreed. “Mandy’s a good help, though, once the sleep’s washed out of her eyes.”
“Well, she’s not near the worker you are.”
Grace’s breath caught in her throat. She stepped closer. “Ach, Mamma,” she said, embarrassed.
Her mother offered a hint of her old warm smile and a good-natured wink. She carried her coffee cup over and sat at her regular spot next to the head of the table. “Best be callin’ your brothers.”
Heartened by the shift in Mamma’s mood, Grace obliged and made her way out to the wide hallway, where pairs of shoes were neatly lined up on low wooden shelves. More of Mammi Adah’s doing.
Along one wall of the entryway, Dat had positioned pegs for work coats, as well as sweaters, an equal distance apart. The sight of Dat’s empty coat peg sobered her, and she wished she might brush away the heaviness she sensed in Mamma. If only Grace could manage the way her father somehow did, letting her mother’s sadness slide off him. Letting everything slide off, really.
chapter
two
Out of sheer habit, Judah hailed the driver when the van was still a good ways down the road. Martin Puckett often came to pick him up, so there was sure to be a comfortable familiarity during the drive to Brownstown today.
Bending down, Judah picked up a pebble and turned it over in his hand, remembering last night. He hadn’t known how to tell his firstborn that he had no answers. This is just how things are. . . .
He’d done what he did best, sinking within himself, where his son’s thorny question vanished away. Where he daydreamed about raising sheep and providing a peaceful place for his family to live and enjoy the good fellowship of the People. Of growing old someday with grandchildren and greats, too, on his knee, all of them resembling beautiful Lettie.
My wife. Things would straighten out as a matter of course. In time, Lettie would return to some semblance of normalcy, just as she eventually had after the death of her sister Naomi. Naomi had never shared Lettie’s tendency to moodiness, always behaving like a typical wife. He hoped young Grace, who was the picture of health—both physically and emotionally—favored her aunt in that respect. Especially if she’s headed for marriage.
The van slowed to a stop. Judah opened the front door and greeted the driver, “Wie geht’s!”
Martin comically replied with a rather garbled line of Pennsylvania Dutch mixed with English—something about feeling as good as he ought to but not as good as he wished.
Judah reached for the seat belt and managed to offer a cheerful hello over his shoulder to the two middle-aged Amishwomen behind him.
Martin glanced his way. “Pretty soon, I’ll have to start hiring you to take me on errands,” he said, a grin on his ruddy cheeks. “Gas prices and all.”
“So I hear.” Judah liked Martin’s frank way of speaking his mind, his spontaneous sense of humor, too. Martin’s jovial nature was one reason Judah conta
cted the sixty-three-year-old first for transportation, before other drivers on his list. Anymore, the highways were unsafe for horses and carriages with so many impatient motorists rushing along the roads.
Martin shook his head. “Talk has it we’ll be paying four dollars a gallon or more by summer.”
“Guess you’ll have to raise your fee per mile then, too.” Judah hoped not. The price of feed and seed and just about everything else made for plenty of worrisome talk at suppertime.
“We’ll just have to see.” Martin glanced at his rearview mirror. “Where you heading to, ladies?” He tilted his head slightly.
“You can drop us off at market,” one of them said.
“Well, I’ve never dropped anyone anywhere,” Martin joked.
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” the other woman said, laughing.
Judah joined in the frivolity. It felt surprisingly good to laugh again, especially with Martin. An imposing man in girth and stature, Martin had an enormous personality to match, and he had a handshake suggestive of a bear’s paw. Talkative, too, he was a teller of often inspiring tales, and one of only a few English folk Judah enjoyed communicating with.
Looking out the window, Judah trained his sights on the splendor of the season on Beechdale Road. He noticed white rose arbors boasting their first coat of paint, accenting soon-to- be colorful flower beds along front and back porches and near small springhouses.
How Lettie loves her roses, he thought suddenly, wondering if their beauty might put a smile on her pretty face once again.
The way he was feeling, he didn’t much care what Lettie did with her roses come June. They were her business, after all. But lest Judah allow his aggravation to make a nesting place in his soul, he pushed aside the leftover frustration. He’d had plenty of practice doing so over the past few weeks—no, nearly all their married life. What was another day?
He returned his attention to the road. Presently he would simply appreciate the speed with which he could get to his destination this morning, just as he enjoyed riding by car up to visit his older brother Potato John, near Akron. At less busy times of year, he also made trips south to Bart to see dozens of his father’s Stoltzfus cousins. A quick and effortless way to escape concerns about Lettie.
Judah mustn’t be gone too long today, however, with lambing well under way, though he was glad for a good excuse to clear his head for a few hours. He was headed to a private animal auction, hoping to purchase another driving horse. The sale would be held in the barn of a Mennonite farmer in Brownstown who’d advertised in Die Botschaft, the weekly newspaper for the Plain community. Judah had attended the Mud Sales in Gordonville in mid-March—the fire department–sponsored horse auction—looking for just the right driving horse. He’d come up empty-handed. He knew what he wanted but wouldn’t pay top dollar, not with feed prices going through the roof.
Hopefully I’ll see something today. With marriage around the corner, it wouldn’t be many more months before son Adam would need spirited Sassy, his sorrel, as well as another horse for himself. And their favorite driving horse, Willow—a gentle and big-eyed chestnut mare who was practically a family pet—was getting on in years and soon wouldn’t be able to pull her weight around the farm. Or on the road. Judah had often observed Grace in the horse stable, grooming her, feeding her a carrot or apple, and talking up a storm.
Too bad she has to converse with a horse, he thought, wondering if Lettie might ever feel the need to resort to the same.
Gripping the banister, Adah moved slowly up the back stairs to Jakob. She’d cooked a hot breakfast—poached eggs and sausage patties, toast and apple butter—and it was all laid out, waiting for her husband to take his place at the head of the table. He was slower than usual this morning and, since Jakob’s hearing had dimmed, she decided to go and find him.
The creaking staircase reminded her of the peculiar talking she had heard in the wee hours. Startled awake, she’d heard someone downstairs on their side of the house . . . jumbled-up words mixed with weeping. She’d sat up in bed, straining to hear. Was it Lettie?
Curious, she’d crept down these steps, their squeaks more pronounced in the dead of night. She had stood in her large kitchen amidst strands of moonbeams, looking past the newfangled stove she’d talked Judah into installing, identical to the one in Lettie’s own kitchen. Standing before the front room window, her daughter had been hunched over as if she might be ill. A black silhouette against the white radiance of the night.
Not wanting to make her presence known, Adah had stayed put, not moving and scarcely breathing. A test of her willpower—her muscles, too. She did not want to risk the stairs creaking again. So Lettie was up and restless. Didn’t all womenfolk have the sniffles about something at least once during the month?
Surely that’s all it was.
“All I hope it is. . . .”
Making her way into their bedroom, she tapped Jakob lightly on the knee as he read from his old, tattered German Bible. “Breakfast is on the table,” she said.
He looked up, a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t have to ask a hungry man twice.” He heaved himself out of his chair and followed her to the stairs.
When they were seated and the silent blessing had been offered, she looked out the window and noticed Adam and Joe—the tall and the short of it—moseying toward the house. No doubt they had been bottle-feeding some of the weaker lambs, those rejected by the ewes. Since Judah had left the house so early, the care of the most recent newborns had fallen to the boys—at least for now.
“Our grandsons are plenty capable of lookin’ after things.” Jakob grinned at her. He’d caught her gawking and probably looking a bit worried, too. “Word has it Judah’s Adam is soon goin’ to have himself a farm of his own to look after.”
“Oh?” This was news. “But the Stahls don’t have land to spare, do they?”
Jakob shook his head, smacking his lips. “I didn’t say they did.”
So was Priscilla’s father handing over the big farm to his son-in-law-to-be? If so, did Lettie have any inkling of this?
Lettie and Susannah Stahl had been friends since childhood, but Adah hadn’t heard Lettie mention her much in recent years. Not since Naomi’s sudden passing, when Lettie had become hopelessly withdrawn, despite Adah’s efforts to get her out to quilting and canning bees.
“The way I heard it, the Stahl farm’s bein’ divided up again,” Jakob explained, shaking pepper on his eggs. “Won’t be much of it left if they keep on, but nobody asked me.”
“Well, a Mennonite farmer down the way is sellin’ off a small section of his land, Marian Riehl says. Four acres or so.”
“A small plot like that makes no sense.” Jakob shook his head.
“You’d think they’d want to pass it along to family . . . like you say Rudy Stahl’s doin’ with our Adam and his bride-to-be.”
“Well, that’s a good thirty acres, though. More than enough for a nice truck farm.”
“A wonderful-gut wedding gift, I’ll say.”
Jakob chuckled. “Whoever thought a fella could keep his weddin’ plans a secret till the time of bein’ published never had womenfolk lookin’ over his shoulder, ain’t?”
They laughed until Jakob had to pull a blue kerchief out of his pocket to wipe his blue-gray eyes.
“I’m guessin’ Judah has to know somethin’,” Adah said.
“If we know, then how on earth wouldn’t he and Lettie know, or at least suspect it?”
“Seems to me Lettie has more on her mind than a weddin’ dowry.” Adah rose to get more sausage, still warming on the skillet. Jakob liked his meat plenty hot.
“You must’ve heard her last night, too.” Jakob had never been one to beat around the bush, one of the reasons she’d liked him from the very start of their courtship, fifty-some years ago.
Adah stroked the top of his callused hand. “It’s just not like her . . . not anymore, at least.”
Jakob’s eyes searched hers. “Puh! She’s a wo
man, ain’t she?”
“Oh, go on with ya, Jakob Esh!” She tugged at his cuff.
“Sure hope it ain’t something cropping up ’tween her and Judah.”
Adah’s shoulders tensed. “Well, but . . . who’s to say?”
“Ain’t our business.” He paused. “And it never was.”
She nodded slowly. “The past is over and done with, thank the dear Lord.”
At a loss for how to comfort her daughter, Adah decided to bake a loaf of fresh bread, then take it over to Lettie. Poor thing. A nice warm slice of buttered toast with some brown sugar and cinnamon would surely cheer her up right quick.
While she was still carrying breakfast dishes to the sink, Grace heard the side door open. Turning, she saw Becky Riehl standing there, a big smile on her rosy face, her dark hair pulled tight at the middle part. “Ach, hullo. So good to see ya!”
Becky glanced about the room, a joyful light evident in her soft brown eyes. “Are we alone?” she whispered.
Laughing, Grace said, “Sure looks like it.” She put down the pile of dishes and went to her friend.
“You’ll never believe this, Gracie.”
“Jah?”
Becky looked about the room, as if confirming they were indeed by themselves. Then she said, “Yonnie Bontrager asked me to go walkin’ with him after the next Singing!”
Grace wasn’t at all surprised. “That’s just wonderful-gut, Becky.”
“Do you really think so?” Becky blew out a breath. “Do ya think I should go along? I mean . . . that makes me, what . . . the eighth girl he’s asked?”
Grace suppressed a laugh. According to Yonnie’s sister Mary Liz, her brother had made some sort of list of eligible girls from their church district, hoping to get acquainted with each one before deciding whom to seriously court.
“I think you should accept,” Grace said.
“Honestly?”
Becky’s dark eyes widened as Grace revealed what she’d heard from Mary Liz. “He made a list?” she exclaimed. “That’s lots different than the way we do things here, jah? Do you suppose he got that idea from where he grew up in Indiana?”
Secret, The Page 2
