by Linda Byler
“All right. That means ‘Hi.’ Do you speak Dutch?”
Again, the nod of her head.
“I’m William.”
When the singing began again, it was easier to look at him. She felt as if the guests were watching their hymnbooks and not her, so she lifted her head, turned it slightly to the left, and opened her eyes. Her lips parted in a soft smile. Gladness rose in her dark eyes, and she said, simply “Hester.”
He could not answer. He had not thought this feeling possible. The welling of unexpected emotion that rose in his chest brought tears to his eyes. All his life he had prayed. When he reached his twenty-sixth birthday, he stopped asking God for a woman he could love. He fought bitterness, sure that God had forgotten him.
Thinking she had been too bold, Hester bent her head, misery suffusing her face.
“Esther?” he asked, finally.
“No, I am Hester.”
“Hester.”
“Hans Zug is my father.”
“The groom?”
“Yes.”
“Forgive me, but are you his daughter?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“I am a full-blooded Indian.” She turned her head, and he drank in her beauty—the glow of her caramel-colored skin, the perfection of her nose, her mouth. Her eyes were sad, too old. She couldn’t be more than eighteen. Perhaps he had no chance.
“Why are you Amish?”
“They found me as an infant. Kate did.”
“Kate?”
“My mother. The one that died.”
“Oh.”
The sweet treats that were offered, the cider that was served in redware cups, turned to sawdust and vinegar for Hester. She could not eat or drink, for she had been held captive by kinder eyes than she had ever thought possible. She wanted to hold his eyes with her own, drain all the caring from them, and hold it in her heart forever. She wanted to keep that gentleness so that she was rooted to something, no longer floating between the fractured family she belonged to and the distant calling of the old woman’s heritage.
“How old are you?” he asked, when he was able to speak.
“I am fifteen.”
The disappointment was so heavy, it left him speechless, yet again. Too old. Too old. You’re twenty-six. The words in his head mocked and shamed him. He could not rise above it.
“Ach, you’re a slip of a girl. I’m twenty-six.”
From the weight of his letdown, his spirits soared to unnamed heights when she shrugged her perfect shoulders.
“What does that mean?” he dared.
Anything she said would be too bold, so she remained silent. While she knew she was risking straying out of her rightful place, she desperately wanted to reassure him that twenty-six was perfectly acceptable. Sometimes she felt older than that. So she looked at him. She looked into his dark brown eyes, realized the perfection of the contours of his face, the rightness of it, and let her eyes tell him what she could not say.
How could they leave this hallowed place that was only a hard church bench?
Quickly, he told her he was from Lancaster County. A group of Amish had migrated there from Chester County. His name was William King. His father was a brother to Annie. He was the youngest of ten children, four of them dead from smallpox. He had just bought one hundred acres of land.
She listened, nodded, then whispered, “I am nobody.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I am. I don’t know where I belong.”
You belong with me, his heart cried out. How to let her know? In answer, he reached over, gently pulled her left hand away from her right, and held it in his own.
No one else would have to know, just them.
Unbelievably, he felt her fingers slip into his own like a trusting child. If he had no more from her for the rest of his life, this was enough. The moment would be etched into his mind forever, a gift of God to the end of his days.
Seeye, der bräutigam kommet
Gehet ihm entgegen.
The words of the German wedding song rolled through the house, its joy rising to the rafters, the house filled with goodwill and forbearance. For the lonely widower had found a wife, the children had a mother, and that oldest daughter would have her workload taken from her.
God was in his heaven, and all was good in the fledgling Berks County Amish settlement.
William looked down at Hester, trying to absorb the blue-black of her hair, the perfect part in the middle, the white, white cap, like an angel. He memorized the way her black lashes fell heavily on her glowing brown cheeks, the high cheekbones tinged with the whisper of a blush. Her lips were more than he could ever hope of touching, but he could remember them.
He shuddered, thinking of his Aunt Annie and her family, the ragged tear that was so desperately hidden, the pride, the blatant lies.
He couldn’t stay quiet. Bending his head, he leaned his shoulder solidly against her.
“Hester.”
“Yes.”
“Promise me if things don’t go well, you’ll let me know.”
“What are you saying?” Frightened, she lifted large dark eyes to his.
He drew in his breath. “If Annie proves to be less than, well, how can I say this without disappointing you? I’ll just say, if Annie is hard to get along with, if she hurts you, will you let me know?”
“I can’t. I don’t know your address.”
“I’ll give it to you before the day is over.”
“I think Annie will be kind. She seems nice. I just want a mother and not a stepmother.”
William nodded. “Do your best.”
How could they explain the agonizing loss at leaving a hard wooden bench, their time together? Years stretched before them, she too young, he too old. How many young men would want her first? And him so far away. He almost wished he’d never settled for the one hundred acres. But he had, and he would remain true. He could not let an Indian girl’s beauty derail him like this.
The remainder of the day was nightmarish. He only wanted to be with her. He couldn’t find her. He thought she’d gone home. Beside himself with fear, he rose a head above the crowd, his eyes searching anxiously, but she was nowhere to be seen. He left the wedding heartsick.
He stayed at his uncle’s house for the night. He was tempted to ask for a horse and ride out to Hans Zug’s house, but he thought better of it and decided to let his fate rest in God’s hands.
Alarmed at the feeling of losing her, of never seeing her, he felt the memory of her like torture now, an agonized longing that threatened to send him into despair. What color was her dress? He didn’t know.
All he knew was that he understood, at long last, what it meant to be in love. That secret no one could fully express made young men do silly things, made them forget the ordinary daily world and dwell on utterly useless things.
Ah, but it was priceless to be able to savor this once in his life. He could wait, placing his trust in the One above.
A cold fear gripped his heart as his Uncle Dan yelled at his wife, then followed his words with a quick fling of a shovel in her general direction, leaving her scuttling for the house and muttering to herself. When William came to talk to Dan, he gave a quick start. A smile spread across his lean face, his blue eyes crinkled in pleasure, and he said jovially, “Da Villie!” his favorite nickname.
William kept his manners, held them in front of himself like a shield, but a foreboding gripped his spirit. He wanted to ride to Hans Zug’s, grab Hester, and ride away with her, a knight in armor.
CHAPTER 17
HESTER AWOKE ON THE FIRST MORNING AFTER THE wedding and remembered William, her new mother, and the fact that neither of them seemed to mind that she was an Indian.
She stretched, luxuriating in this new and astounding discovery. She had never imagined being accepted in this way. Every word they spoke, their every touch, were like drops of pure gold, covering her whole being with grace and love.
She rolled over, buried her face in the pillow, and allowed the happiness to overtake her. She would never again have to wonder where she belonged. It was here with her family and her sweet new mother, whom she would learn to love in time. When she was old enough, she would marry William King, her newfound beau.
She got up, dressed, and went to the dry sink to wash her face.
“Hester!” The sharp word caused her to jump instantly.
She stopped, water dripping from her face. She lowered her hands slowly to the edges of the dry sink and gripped it tightly.
“Hester!”
“Yes?”
“Do not! I repeat—do not ever let me catch you washing your face in the dry sink again!”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, shocked into a low voice.
“Just so you know.”
Unsure what to do, Hester turned to the right slowly, afraid the sight of her dripping face would only inflame Annie further. She sidestepped like a crab out of her eyesight, then rubbed her face dry with her apron.
Unsure of exactly what was expected of her, she turned, meaning to ask Annie what she should do to help.
A stack of plates came crashing down in front of her. “Wipe these.”
Hester looked at the clean plates, the shelf they had rested on, and then Annie’s face.
“What? Weren’t they washed?”
“Of course. But an open shelf? Think of the dust.”
Nodding, as if it was perfectly understandable, Hester began wiping, placing the dishes on a stack. Then she went to the pantry to retrieve the tablecloth that they always used two or three times before washing it.
Instantly, Annie was by her side, fingering the tablecloth, then whisking it out of her hands. “No. It’s dirty. Always use a clean one.”
Hester obeyed, quietly placing the plates on the clean tablecloth. Then she stood uncertainly at the corner of the table, one hand placed over the other.
“Don’t you milk?”
“I do in the spring. Four cows are dry now, so Noah and Isaac milk.”
“That’s a girl’s job. You should be at the barn.”
“I can go if you want me to.”
“Yes. Go.”
Uncertainly, Hester entered the barn, meeting Noah and Isaac, who were letting the cows out to pasture. When they asked what she had come for, she said that Annie thought she should be milking, not them.
Hans walked in on their little huddle, his face set grimly, boding no good for any of them.
“What?” That was his way of greeting.
“Annie told Hester she should be the one milking, not us boys.”
Hans eyed Hester, shrugged his shoulders, and said it was all right with him. “If Annie wants to make breakfast by herself, that’s all right with me.”
The first meal together was a lesson in Annie’s way of life. Everything was perfect. The eggs were cooked just right; the ponhaus (scrapple), cut not too thick and not too thin, was fried crisp. The tea was hot and sweetened with honey, the milk cold, the water chilled as well.
Annie was an expert housekeeper, but she avoided Hans’s intense eyes. Her conversation to him was civil although a bit stiff, containing none of Kate’s closeness. Hester reasoned that a marriage was not created in one day.
But the minute Hans was out the door, Annie turned on Hester, berating her for not setting the water on to boil so she could properly wash the dishes. Had Hans not taught her the ways of a household?
Hester thought Annie had already heated the water. She figured if she told her that, she’d not accept it as a valid answer, so she simply bowed her head, set about filling the water pot, and swung it over the flames of the log fire.
By the time the children were off to school again, they were glad to go. Annie was trying to be a good mother, but she was a new one, one they were not yet comfortable with. School was their refuge, a place familiar, old, and dependable, like Theodore Crane, the schoolmaster, and his helper, Lissie Hershberger.
They loved school, every one of them. They loved the order of their days, the hard work, the lessons they learned. Lissie enjoyed the lower-graders immensely, especially the little Zug children. Poor motherless babies. That Annie Troyer was like a scarecrow, she thought. Good for nothing except scaring away birds. Whatever ailed that Hans she’d never know, but she kept her thoughts to herself, knowing gossip did no one any good.
She watched Lissie closely. Her face was like an open book, revealing everything that was on her mind. She asked her questions when she thought Solomon or John or Daniel looked white-faced and peaked. And she confided in Theodore, who had become quite accustomed to her solid, comfortable presence. He concluded that she wasn’t after him at all. She simply enjoyed cooking and baking, which was a profound relief.
Today she offered him a pie, saying she would enjoy a slice with him, bringing out two pewter plates, two forks, and two cups. Had he ever eaten her pumpkin pies? No, he shook his head, no, never.
She cut him a high, wide slice, then served it shivering and custardy on his plate. He cut into the very tip with the side of his fork, brought it to his mouth, and chewed with his eyes closed as he savored every creamy, spicy bit of it.
She leaned forward, her eyes expectantly on his face, then clapped her hands high in the air, a child’s yelp of glee following. “Yessirree! Yessir!”
Theodore was not known to burst into spontaneous laughter, being a solemn man and not given to any emotion, but at the sight of Lissie’s unabashed delight, he burst into an unusual croak of loud laughter.
He ate the entire slice of pumpkin pie, then another. He became quite talkative, bolstered by the energizing pie, and told Lissie where he lived and why he lived alone. He’d had a sweetheart once, but she had died before they made it to the altar, and his vow to remain single was still as sincere as the day he made it.
“Ach, yes, yes,” Lissie answered. “But you know, Theodore, you don’t know what you’re missing, living alone like that. You have no one to eat with, no one to laugh with, no one to wash your clothes.”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
“Who?”
“Some old Indian woman, who comes to the trading post.”
“Piffle.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just piffle, I guess.”
He almost laughed again but caught himself and remained decorous.
“Well, I guess if you enjoy living by yourself, that’s none of my business. I guess you’ve been on your own long enough to know what you want. And look at that Hans Zug and his children. You’d never know it, but mark my words, those children have a hard taskmaster now. I’m afraid Hans was swayed by that Rebecca and his own loneliness.”
Theodore nodded wisely. “Indeed. Indeed.”
Outside, the leaves began rustling dryly as black clouds piled up to the north. The door swung back, groaning on its hinges as it was swept outward. Theodore got up to close it and latched it firmly, leaving them together in the confines of the classroom.
The room darkened as the sun slid behind the bank of clouds, and Lissie heaved herself to her feet, gathered up the plates and the remainder of the pie, and put it all in her cloth bag.
Stopping, she held her head to the side, considered, and yanked the pie back out of the bag. “Yes, I will have another piece.” Expertly, she slid her fingers beneath the wedge of pie, brought it to her mouth, and ate half of it in one hearty chomp. She chewed reflectively, then asked if he liked fried cabbage.
Yes, he certainly did.
Well, why didn’t he drop by on Sunday, and she’d make him fried cabbage.
“I go to church on Sunday.”
“So do I. After church.”
Theodore thought of his dusty old Sundays, when his bones ached as he got out of bed, padded around his cluttery, cobwebbed little rooms, made his eggs, and ate them with salt and pepper. He listened to the minister, helped sing a few songs, and went back to his disorderly home to eat boiled cornmeal mush.
Dinner with Lissie seemed like a bright possibility, but he eyed her warily and said he slept a lot on Sunday afternoon, which did not deter her in the least. She informed him quickly that he could eat at her table and then take a long afternoon nap.
Theodore considered this, but in the end, he declined. What great juicy fodder for gossip would that be? Lissie getting company on a Sunday afternoon and the schoolmaster asleep in her bed! Well, he would be every bit as bad off as that poor fellow who was caught by the old maid when he was stealing her valuables, and she cried out, “At last I have a man.”
So Lissie drove home beneath the gathering storm clouds, but she did not despair. She was making progress. She couldn’t wait till the time came when she could call him Ted. Or Teddy. She chuckled and then slapped the old horse with the heavy leather reins, whose only response was the flicking of his left ear.
The storm lashed Berks County with unprecedented fury, driving a cold, slanted rain from the north, battering every structure with high winds that bent the trees of the forest, laying flat the ones that were not deeply rooted.
Lissie barely made it home before the rain sluiced against the log barn. It was cold and wet against her face as she hurried to the house, her flat hat slapping her face. She was glad to enter her cozy kitchen, the fire burning low on the hearth, the white linen tablecloth a welcoming beacon.
She lit a betty lamp to ease the darkness away from the corners, then put the pot on the flames for a cup of spearmint tea. She thought she still had enough bacon to fry up with some dried string beans, brown bread, and apple butter.
Theodore arrived home well ahead of the storm, the fire out and mice munching the crumbs on his table. He whacked at them with his broom, then went out through the wind to cut kindling, shivering as the icy rain blasted straight through his trouser legs.
He bet someone like Lissie could make the winter nights quite comfortable, then was overtaken by an awful attack of coughing, so that he choked and had to go to the pump for a drink of water.
The Zug house was warm in the middle where the leaping flames from the fireplace gave out a steady glow, but the corners were drafty. Hester reached for a small shawl to wrap around her shoulders, then sank into a rocking chair. She pulled Emma onto her lap and cuddled her beneath the warm folds, bending to kiss the top of her fair head.
