by B. J. Hoff
The man had a strange lilt to his speech, a rhythmic way of talking that was completely strange to Rachel, like music spilling off his tongue.
“I—I’ll go and make you some breakfast,” she said, hurrying from the room before he could say anything more.
As soon as she reached the kitchen, Rachel realized she had no idea what to feed the Englischer. She wished she’d thought to ask Dr. Sebastian the day before what he might have.
Well, he had to eat something. She set about heating water for tea and decided to cook some thin oatmeal.
She drew a sigh of relief when Gideon showed up. Rachel immediately hustled him off to the bedroom to see to Gant’s needs. In the meantime, she added a spoonful of molasses to the oatmeal and sliced off a small piece of bread. She set the oatmeal and bread on the wooden tray Eli had made for her and waited for the tea.
A few minutes later, her brother walked into the kitchen. “You can go in now,” he said, starting for the door. “I have to go. Mamma has a list of things she wants done before I leave for work. I’ll be back tonight, though.”
When Rachel carried the food into the bedroom, she found that Gideon had elevated Gant’s head slightly with another pillow. He still looked awfully pale, but brighter-eyed than earlier.
He cast a dubious look at the food Rachel placed beside him on the bed.
“I don’t know if I’m…ready for that just yet,” he said.
Rachel saw that his hands were trembling. Peculiar, it seemed, to see such a big man in such a weak state.
“You have to eat, Captain Gant.”
She tried her best to sound matter-of-fact like her mother when she was being kind but meant to tolerate no opposition. “I’ll help you.”
Without meeting his eyes—though she felt his gaze hard upon her—Rachel tucked a freshly laundered napkin about his neck and then sat down on the side of the bed to feed him. “So you met my brother, ja?”
“Gideon, aye. He seems a good lad.”
Rachel had to steel herself to keep her own hands from shaking as she spooned the oatmeal to his mouth and helped him with the tea.
“Oh, Gideon will be fine, once he gets his running-around foolishness out of his system and settles down to be responsible.”
“Running around?”
Rachel nodded but didn’t explain about the rumspringa. This Englisch stranger would have no interest in the Plain way of doing things. Besides, she wasn’t all that comfortable carrying on a conversation with him. She knew little of his kind and their worldly ways and had no desire to encourage contact with him beyond aiding in his recovery. The sooner he recuperated, the sooner he would be out of her house. And her life.
She almost sighed in anticipation of returning to normal, to the life she had known that was quiet and content and safe.
“I expect I’ve caused a bit of trouble for you.” Gant’s words snapped Rachel out of her musing. She looked at him, uncertain as to how to reply.
“I don’t know much about Amish ways,” he said, “but I do know you like to keep to yourselves, that you have little use for the outside world. Or its people.”
Making no reply, Rachel lifted another spoon of oatmeal toward him, but he shook his head. “No more, “ he said. His voice had weakened and turned hoarse. “Another sip of tea, though, if you would.
“That’s fine tea,” he said after swallowing. “In any case, Rachel Brenneman, I apologize for the intrusion.”
“I suppose—it couldn’t be helped,” Rachel said, awkward in the face of both the compliment and the apology.
She offered him another drink of tea, but he lifted a hand in a limp gesture and then closed his eyes.
Rachel could see him fading. In another moment he was asleep. She stood, carefully removing the napkin from about his neck and taking the wooden tray with his dishes from the room.
Just as she reached the kitchen, Fannie opened the door, came bounding in, and plopped her books and papers on the table. Rachel put a finger to her lips to warn her to be quiet and then went to close the curtain between them and the bedroom.
“Is the Englischer still alive?” Fannie whispered.
“Yes, but he’s very weak. He’s sleeping now, so we’ll have to work quietly on your lessons. Keep your coat, though. I’ll get mine, and we’ll go feed the chickens and gather the eggs before we start with your books.”
Rachel didn’t share her little sister’s sense of fun when it came to taking care of the chickens. Truth was, if she didn’t use so many eggs for cooking and baking, she would have been only too happy to get rid of the smelly, noisy creatures. The chicken house never failed to make her sneeze, and their squawking and cackling always made her think of demanding, quarrelsome old women.
She had kept only the two cows and a few hens after Eli died. Mamma insisted—and it was so—that the family farm provided far more in the way of produce and crops than they needed, and so they freely shared with her. Because Rachel had no great love for farming— and because the leaders of their community frowned upon women doing men’s work—she managed just fine by keeping a modest garden, a few chickens, and the two cows. She also garnered a small income by selling her baked goods and cheese to the Riverhaven Market.
In addition, Rachel’s custom-made birdhouses had sparked a real enthusiasm in Denley Snider, the proprietor of a general store in Marietta. He and Rachel had an arrangement whereby she agreed to furnish him at least four houses a month. Apparently a number of the ladies in town were the main buyers.
Rachel thoroughly enjoyed making the birdhouses, giving each one at least a slightly different design. Not only did she relish the process itself, but it helped her to maintain a kind of closeness with Eli. He was the one who had taught her how to build the birdhouses in the first place. She used the tools that had belonged to him, followed the instructions as he had directed, and all but felt his guiding touch on her arm as she worked.
Of course not everyone was as enthusiastic about her handiwork as Mr. Snider. Bishop Graber and Samuel, too, had discussed the matter with her as soon as they got wind of her growing business. But Rachel stood her ground, insisting that it was only right for her to make some contribution to the family income, given how much her mother and Gideon did for her. Finally, with Gideon agreeing to take her birdhouses into Marietta each month, thus sparing Rachel any unseemly contact with a worldly male businessman, the bishop had relented, and Samuel grudgingly followed suit.
Only Rachel and her mother knew that Gideon had been the one responsible for the birdhouses coming to Mr. Snider’s attention in the first place. Her brother had coaxed Rachel into giving him one of the little houses to give to a girl—an Englisch girl—he’d been seeing at the time. The girl happened to be Mr. Snider’s niece, and after seeing this example of Rachel’s workmanship, he’d driven out to talk with her, placing his first “order” that same day.
Watching Fannie laugh as the chickens scattered and chased after their breakfast, Rachel smiled a little at the thought that her brother’s foray into the outside world had actually brought a blessing her way. At least it seemed a blessing to her.
Far more important than the payment she received for the birdhouses or even the enjoyment of the craft was the way it helped to keep Eli’s memory close. He had been a master craftsman, Eli had. She turned and glanced back at the house, her heart warming even as it ached at the sight of the home her husband had built for them before their marriage, with help from the other men in the community.
And it was a fine house too. Rachel was careful to avoid forbidden pride, but there was no denying the stamp of excellence on any work from Eli’s hand. Their home was no exception. He had built it with love and careful attention to detail.
“My gift to you, my Rachel,” he had whispered to her when she praised his efforts upon completion.
After Eli’s death, Rachel had been urged by her friends and her mother, as well, to sell the house and move back to the family home. Mamma, especially, didn�
��t like her living alone and saw no reason for it. But Rachel couldn’t bring herself to leave the place where she had found the deepest happiness of her life. She would never leave her home, not unless the Lord God Himself beckoned her away.
She drew a shaky breath, fighting to hold back the familiar pall of loneliness and heart pain that sometimes accompanied her memories. Leaving Fannie to gather the eggs, she went back inside.
An hour or so later, Fannie, who had been standing at the kitchen window while waiting for Rachel to check her arithmetic lesson, turned around. “Someone’s coming, Rachel! I think it’s Deacon Samuel.”
Rachel looked up, pressing the tip of the pencil on the paper hard enough that it broke. “Are you sure?”
“Uh-huh. That’s who it is, all right. Deacon Samuel. Want me to go and sit with the Englischer while you visit?”
“No!” Rachel hadn’t meant to snap, but the last thing she wanted was to be alone with Samuel right now. She was going to be chastised, for sure and for certain. She’d known it was coming but had hoped to avoid it as long as possible.
“Captain Gant is still asleep, Fannie. You can stay right here in the kitchen with us. I’m sure Samuel won’t be staying long at this time of day.”
Fannie came to stand beside her at the table, her brown eyes watchful. “Do you like him a lot, Deacon Samuel?”
Rachel stood and walked to the window, avoiding Fannie’s scrutinizing gaze. Sometimes her little sister seemed too old for her nine years. “Of course, I…like him. He’s an old friend.”
“But do you like him more than as a friend? Like he does you?”
Rachel whipped around. “What?”
“Are you going to marry him?”
“Marry him? Samuel? No! Why would you even ask such a thing?”
Fannie shrugged. “Everyone thinks you’re going to. Even Mamma says you might. Some day.”
“I don’t know who ‘everyone’ is, sister, but they don’t know what they’re talking about. I’m not thinking of marrying anyone.” Rachel paused. “Mamma said that? That I might marry Samuel?”
“I heard her tell friend Phoebe.”
“It’s rude to listen in on other people’s conversations, Fannie.” Rachel waited another second and then added, “What exactly did Mamma tell Phoebe?”
Again her sister gave a little shrug. “Just that Deacon Samuel would like to court you, but you weren’t ready to let him yet. But maybe some day he’d win you over and you’d get married. Will you?”
“Not likely,” Rachel said, irritated. “And I wish folks wouldn’t go speculating about what I might or might not do.”
“Mamma didn’t mean anything. She just worries about you being alone.”
Rachel sighed, regretting her sharpness. “I know she does. But she needn’t. I’m fine.”
At the knock on the door, Rachel secured her kapp a little more snugly on her head, only too aware that today she would be facing Deacon Samuel rather than her old friend Samuel.
9
A DEACON COMES CALLING
A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong;
Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense
Of service which thou renderest.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
Rachel held her breath as she opened the door, trying for a pleasant expression, even though she sensed this would be no friendly social call.
“Samuel. This is an early visit for you.”
He stood straight, his gaze studying, his broad-brimmed hat framing his sand-colored hair and strongly molded features. At first glance his expression was stern. But when Rachel offered a smile of greeting, he seemed to soften and finally met her smile with one of his own.
“You have time for a visit, then, do you, Rachel?”
“Of course. Come in out of the cold.” Rachel stepped aside so he could enter. “Here, I’ll hang up your coat.”
But Samuel went to hang it up himself, hitching it on the wall peg beside the door before removing his hat and hooking it over his coat.
He then nodded at Fannie, who sat at the table watching him and Rachel with interest.
“Would you like a cup of tea, Samuel?”
Samuel disliked coffee, but like the Englischer, seemed partial to
Rachel’s tea.
He shook his head, standing in the middle of the kitchen, looking big and awkward as though he wasn’t sure why he’d come. But after another second or two, his expression cleared and returned to the sober, dignified set he’d been wearing when Rachel first opened the door.
Deacon Beiler had returned.
In that instant Rachel changed her mind about having Fannie stay in the room. “Sister, why don’t you go up to the bedroom and work on your lessons? I’ll help you with them later.”
Fannie stuck out her lower lip in the beginning of a pout but did as she was told.
Rachel waited until her sister had left the room and then indicated that Samuel should sit down.
Instead, he remained standing. “Where is he—the Englischer?” he said, looking around the room. He spoke to her in the Deitsch of the People, as he almost always did.
Rachel glanced toward the closed curtain. “In there,” she said softly.
“In your bedroom, Rachel?”
Rachel felt the heat sear her face but refused to wither under his probing gaze. “My extra bedroom.”
“I want to see him.”
“He’s sleeping, Samuel. He sleeps almost all the time.”
He studied her. “What have you done, Rachel?”
The rebuke in his gaze and his voice could not have been clearer. Rachel suddenly felt like a disobedient child, but she refused to be quelled by Samuel’s disapproval.
“What have I done?” she echoed. “I took in a dying stranger and gave him shelter and what medical care I could, Samuel. What would you have done?”
He blinked, and a small muscle beside one eye twitched, as if Rachel’s reply had surprised him.
But Samuel, being Samuel, recovered quickly. “From what I’ve been told, the man will live, not die.”
“That would seem to be true, thanks to Mamma and Dr. Sebastian.”
Some rebellious strain in Rachel made her refuse to speak the Deitsch with him. To her shame, she realized her stubbornness was partly due to the fact that it would put Samuel at a disadvantage. Even though the Plain People learned English in their childhood, his command of their language wasn’t as good as hers.
Rachel had deliberately studied the English language until she became fluent in it. From childhood she had wanted the ability to communicate with those outside the Amish community as well as with her own people and had taken the necessary steps to become as comfortable with their second language as the Deitsch.
Samuel looked annoyed but did his best to match her English with his own. “You had the doctor for him?”
“Well, of course, we had the doctor. The man had been shot. He was unconscious. Dying, we thought. Mamma and I did everything we knew to do, but there wasn’t much we could do. The Englischer would almost certainly have died if Dr. Sebastian hadn’t seen to him.”
His mouth hardened still more. “So you let two worldly outsiders into your home, and you a woman alone.”
“Dr. Sebastian has been doctoring our people for years, Samuel. He’s delivered our babies and watched over the dying. You know him as well as you know your neighbors.” She paused. “And there were three men, not two.”
Rachel was just impatient enough with him by now to be reckless. “You seem to know everything else that’s happened. Didn’t you also hear that Captain Gant was accompanied by his friend—a man of color?”
His mouth thinned still more, and he lapsed back into the language of their people. “Oh, I heard, Rachel. Hard as it is for me to believe you would be so foolish, I see now that what I heard was true.”
“What should I have done, Samuel? Let a man die on my doorstep? Keep him and his companion standing out in the mi
ddle of the night in a rainstorm?”
“You could have sent for help.”
“I did send for help! Fannie went for Gideon and Mamma right away, and we also sent for Dr. Sebastian. But I couldn’t leave a wounded man outside my front door to die before the doctor even got here, could I?”
For a moment he seemed confused, uncertain as to how to respond. But Samuel was never without words for long. “No, I suppose not. You have a good and kindly heart, Rachel. But now what? Now that these men have brought the world into your home, how do you plan to manage? You’re a woman alone—a widow with no husband to protect you, no children, no one to help with this outsider’s care—”
He broke off but only for an instant. “And do you even know how—or why—this man was shot, Rachel? He may be a criminal, a deceitful man. You’ve put yourself at great risk, perhaps endangered your friends and neighbors as well.”
The silence in the room hung heavy between them. Rachel felt anger flame up in her. Anger because Samuel had so little regard for her common sense and ability to manage and assumed he had the right to rebuke her for doing the only thing she’d known to do, the only thing that seemed right at the time.
And yet, he did have the right to question her actions. He was one of the leaders of their community. He was also a friend, and in spite of all the little things about Samuel that tended to annoy her, Rachel didn’t begin to doubt his concern for her well-being and safety. Besides, the anger that had risen toward him was wrong, and she already regretted allowing it any place in her emotions.
If only he would sit down at the table and talk to her as a friend instead of a deacon—or an adversary. But even if he did, how could she hope to convince him that the wounded stranger in her house wasn’t putting her at risk? She had to believe Gant wasn’t a threat. Would a dangerous man—a bad man—endanger himself by helping slaves escape to freedom? And would such a man pose a threat to a harmless woman? She had to believe that turning him away would have been the real sin, not the breaking of a rule or an ordinance.
