by Emma Miller
“Marshall, we’re not dating.” She shook her head. “You asked the new girl in town to ride home with you. I did. Your curiosity is satisfied, and now we can both let this go.”
“Oh, no. My curiosity is in no way satisfied.” They followed a brick walk around the corner of the house, toward the side porch that opened into the big country kitchen that Benjamin had remodeled with all new cabinets when they moved in. “In fact,” Marshall told her, “I’m all the more intrigued by you. Would you like to go for ice cream Thursday? Maybe we’ll have supper first, then ice cream. Or the other way around, if you like. You can bring Jesse. I’ll bring my grandmother. That way we’ll have two chaperones.” He cut his eyes at her. “I have to tell you, Lovey. That was smart of you to bring Jesse with us on our first date. Because had he not been sitting between us, I would have tried to hold your hand.”
She looked at him, not sure if she was flattered or shocked that he would say such a thing. Where she came from, couples were encouraged not to hold hands or to hug. Kissing was most definitely frowned upon. Courting was intended to be a way for couples to get to know each other, to find out how compatible they were. But unlike in the English world, in the Amish community, physical contact between a man and a woman was meant for a husband and wife only.
He stepped in so close to her that she could feel his warm breath on her face. “Oh, Lovey, don’t tell me you were thinking the same thing? Is that why you brought Jesse along, so you wouldn’t be tempted to hold my hand on our first date?”
She gave a little laugh. She’d never met anyone who said such ridiculous things. At least not to her. “I certainly was not going to hold your hand,” she told him indignantly.
“Good, because I think we should wait a few dates. No need to rush things. Well...not in that way.” He started walking again, then stopped. “Which, in a roundabout way, brings me to what I wanted to ask you.”
The propane light beside the door on the side porch flared and Lovage caught a glimpse of Ginger slipping back into the house.
“I should go in,” Lovage said, suddenly feeling nervous. “We have family prayer at ten before Benjamin and Mam say goodnight.” She pressed her lips together. She didn’t really want to say good-night, but that was girlish folly. She’d had a good time, but it was best she and Marshall parted now. For whatever reason he’d asked to take her home, surely he was content now. She’d be kidding herself to think he really wanted to take her for ice cream, even if it was with his grandmother.
“Marshall, my family—”
“Lovey.” He caught her hand. His grip was firm and warm. “Will you marry me?”
“What?” She shook her head. “Ne— What—” She was so flabbergasted she didn’t even know what to say.
It wasn’t until he squeezed her hand that she realized he was still holding it. She pulled her hand from his. “No, I won’t m—” She stopped and started again. “Marshall Byler, what would possess you to ask me to marry you?” she demanded, feeling embarrassed, angry and a little giddy at the same time. What kind of game was he playing that he would say such a thing?
“What would possess me?” He looked at her earnestly. “I asked because I want to marry. I’m in love with you, Lovey.”
“How can you be in love with me?” She opened her arms wide. “You don’t even know me.”
“Which is why you should go get ice cream with me Thursday.” He said it with such sincerity that she half believed he meant what he was saying.
Motion in a different parlor window than before caught her eyes. She grabbed the hem of his sleeve and tugged, moving them out of the line of vision of whoever was spying on her. “I have to go inside,” she whispered loudly.
“So Thursday is good for you?” he asked.
“Ya...” She pressed her hand to her forehead. He had her so flustered. “Ne, Marshall. You don’t want to— I don’t want to—”
“You don’t like ice cream?” He took a step back, clutching both hands to his heart, looking as if he was heartbroken.
She closed her eyes, shaking her head, then opened them again. “Of course I like ice cream.”
“Good.” They reached the steps that led up to the kitchen porch. “When I see you tomorrow afternoon, we can make plans. I know you said hello to my grandmother when everyone was making introductions before we ate tonight, but it’s important to me that you two get to know each other before you and I are married.”
Lovage felt as if she was on a merry-go-round at the state fair. She threw her hands up in the air. “Now we’re talking about marriage again?” she asked incredulously.
“Ne.” He held his hand up, palm out. “We’re not. It’s okay. No need to answer me tonight. You’re right. No need to be in any hurry.” He took a step back. “Thank you for such a wonderful evening, Lovey. I’ll see you tomorrow when we make the rounds in the neighborhood. My grandmother loves visiting Sundays.”
Lovage watched him walk away, trying to think of something to holler to him. But she didn’t know what to say. Except maybe to ask him if he’d lost his mind, asking a woman he didn’t know to marry him.
Just as he reached his buggy, he turned back. “Tell your mam three o’clock is fine for us. And we’ll bring the lemonade,” he added.
“Not funny,” she called after him, trying not to laugh.
Lovage stood on the steps watching Marshall until he turned his buggy around in the barnyard and headed back down the driveway. He waved as he went by and she felt a strange sense of light-headedness.
When she couldn’t hear hoofbeats any longer, she reached for the kitchen door, only to have it pulled out of her hand.
“I can’t believe you actually did it!” Ginger said, filling the doorway.
Lovage walked past her. “Close the door or you’ll let the bugs in. One week of dishes. You owe one week.”
“How was it? How was he?” Ginger followed her into the big country kitchen, which was dominated by two tables that could seat all thirteen members of their new family, as well as three or four guests, without even putting the leaves in them. The room smelled fresh and clean, no doubt thanks to her mother’s little bundle of freshly cut mint on the windowsill. “I couldn’t believe it when mam told me you took Jesse with you.”
“He was my chaperone. A girl is better off to take a chaperone with her. Then no tongues can wag.” Lovage reached the sink and turned to her sister, holding up her finger. “You’re not getting out of doing my dishes. You didn’t say I had to ride home alone with him.” She reached for a pint-size Ball jar and filled it with water.
Ginger stood with one hand on her hip, staring at Lovage, making her feel uncomfortable.
Her younger sister crossed her arms. “Don’t feel bad if he doesn’t offer to take you home again. I heard from mam, who heard from old Grace Swartzentruber, that Lynita was just saying last week that Marshall wants to start dating again. Since his father’s passing. It will probably be a different girl every week.”
Lovage tipped the jar, taking a long drink of the cool, sweet well water. Benjamin had told her that he’d had a new well put in when he purchased the property. It was a deep well, which he was told would bring up the best water in the county, and she had to agree he may have been right. The water certainly was good, not like the water they’d had back in New York that sometimes tasted brackish.
“There’s a singing Thursday night.” Ginger swayed her hips, deep in thought. “I wonder if he’ll ask me to go.”
“Doubt it,” Lovage said.
Ginger frowned. “What? You don’t think he’ll ask me because you didn’t suit him? You think he thinks all the Stutzman girls are alike, do you?”
“I don’t think he’ll ask you to the singing because he’s busy Thursday.” Lovage took another sip of water, not knowing what had gotten into her.
Ginger pouted. “I don’t understand.”<
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“He won’t be asking you to the singing because he asked to take me to get ice cream.”
Ginger stood there in the kitchen, her mouth agape, as Lovage rinsed the glass, put it in the drain and then headed into the parlor to join the family for evening prayers.
Chapter Five
“I can’t believe I’m making baby clouts and gowns again,” Rosemary remarked, the straight pins in her mouth muddling her words.
Head down, Lovage pumped the treadle on her mother’s sewing machine with both feet, easing the seam of a baby gown through the foot. It had turned out to be a rainy day, and while her sisters were busy giving the kitchen and mudroom a good scrub top to bottom, their mother had asked Lovage to join her in her sewing room to help with some baby clothing she had cut out but hadn’t had time to stitch.
Most of the rooms in the new house looked very different than the ones in their old farmhouse in New York. And Lovage understood why her mother would do that, because this was Benjamin’s and her house; a new house, a new husband, a new life. There was even a new baby on the way. But her mam’s sewing room was almost identical to the one she’d left behind. Lovage wondered if it was an acknowledgment to her father? Maybe to the life Mam once had?
A battered antique pine table under the window held a pile of fabric meant for baby clothing, as well as cut and pinned lengths of cloth that, once stitched together, looked like it would be a pink everyday dress for someone. Lovage guessed it might be for her sister Tarragon. About to turn eighteen, Tara had had a sudden growth spurt in the spring and had been making do with her sisters’ dresses, according to a letter she had sent to Lovage while she was still in New York. Lovage knew her sister, the youngest of the five girls, would be pleased to have a brand-new dress of her own, especially since she often wore hand-me-downs.
Lovage lifted the foot on the old Singer sewing machine to cut the thread, and gazed around the room, feeling nostalgic for the old farmhouse where she and her siblings had been born. Nearly square, with two large windows, this sewing room, like the old one, was painted a pale blue, with a blue-white-and-yellow rag rug in the middle of the floor. There were two rocking chairs placed side by side where sisters, or mother and daughter, could sit and knit. One wall boasted an oversize walnut cabinet rescued from a twentieth-century millinery shop, and open drawers revealed an assortment of various sizes of thread, needles, scissors and paper patterns. A small knotty-pine table with turned legs stood between the windows, a big terra-cotta planter filled with fresh herbs and flowers in its center.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” her mother went on. “That’s what Benjamin says. That we should accept His gifts without question, but I have to admit there are times...”
Rosemary went on with her musings, but Lovage was lost in her own thoughts. And all she could think about was Marshall. True to his word, he had brought his grandmother and brother on Sunday to visit with her family. Just as in her community in New York, the Old Order Amish churches in Kent County held church in someone’s home every other Sunday. On the other Sundays, visiting Sundays, they spent time with family and friends. Like church Sundays, visiting Sunday was a day of rest and prayer. No work was done, except what was required to care for the animals in the barns. There was no gardening, no cleaning of stalls, no repairs made. Most families didn’t even cook, but instead, particularly in the summer months, relied for sustenance on salads and sliced meats prepared on Saturday.
It had been a picture-perfect day for visiting, and Lovage’s family had spent hours at picnic tables under the giant hickory trees in their side yard. There, they’d chatted with neighbors and spent time reconnecting with each other after a busy week. When Marshall and his family arrived, Rosemary was just serving an afternoon snack. Marshall had brought not only lemonade, but also fresh chicken salad, made with pimento and cheddar cheese of all things, and tiny croissant rolls that Lynita had baked herself. The snack turned into an early supper, and they had eaten the chicken sandwiches with an assortment of cold salads, including German potato, Waldorf and macaroni. There were also bowls of pickled cucumbers, a five-bean succotash-and-pepper slaw. And then, when the two families thought they could eat no more. Benjamin produced trays of huge slices of watermelon he’d chilled in the well house.
After the meal, Marshall had asked Lovage if she wanted to go for a walk with him in the garden. He had teased that he wanted to see if the herbs she had planted the previous week had survived. She had hesitated, but then Ginger had piped up, “I’ll go,” and popped off the bench she’d been sitting on under the trees.
So Lovage, Marshall and Ginger had taken a walk through the fenced-in garden and then around the farm, and Marshall and Ginger had chatted. Mostly, Ginger had talked. At first, Lovage was annoyed that her sister was monopolizing the conversation, but then she’d realized it was probably just as well, because her sister was so good at conversation and she wasn’t. Marshall would certainly enjoy Ginger’s banter more than any awkward exchange she and he would have. So Lovage had stayed mostly quiet, only speaking when Marshall had asked her something directly. And then, when they’d joined the others under the hickory trees again, Lynita had been ready to leave, as they were expected at her great-niece’s house. Marshall had said goodbye without mentioning going for ice cream with him Thursday, and Lovage decided she was okay with that. Whatever reason he had asked her out in the first place had run its course. For all she knew, when Ginger was talking to him alone just before he left, they could have decided to go to the singing at the schoolhouse on Thursday instead. And she couldn’t blame Marshall. He and Ginger had gotten along well. They had seemed so at ease together that she wouldn’t be surprised if they were soon walking out.
“Lovey, are you listening to me? You’re a million miles away.”
Lovage blinked, glanced down at the unfinished seam of the baby gown, and then back at her mother. “I’m sorry, Mam. Gathering wool again, I suppose.” She chuckled and began to pump the treadle that would turn the needle.
“I was saying that Benjamin and I were impressed Sunday with your young man. He’s a little older than you are, but your father was ten years older than I was and it was never a problem. Lynita said he’s thirty. Thirty-one on Christmas Eve. Not too old for you at all.”
“He’s not my young man,” Lovage said over the rhythmic sound of the sewing machine.
Her mother set down the baby cap she’d pinned together and planted her hands on her broad hips. “Hannah Lovage Stutzman. A week ago, you were telling me you didn’t want to talk about marriage because no man would ever be interested in you.” She gestured with one hand. “Now a possible suitor—a handsome one, I have to say—pays you some mind and you’re going to turn your nose up at him?”
“I think he likes Ginger.” Lovage tried not to pout.
“Everyone likes Ginger. That doesn’t mean everyone wants to marry her. And Marshall Byler didn’t come to see Ginger on Sunday. He came to see you. And he took you home from the softball game. I think he’s smitten with you.”
Lovage felt her cheeks grow warm. “He is most definitely not—” She stopped peddling, realizing she was sewing the seam crooked. “He’s not smitten with me.” She kept her head down as she pulled the baby gown out from the foot of the sewing machine and reached for her seam ripper. “Why would he be?”
“Atch, kuche.” Rosemary sighed. “I was afraid of this.”
“Afraid of what?” Still Lovage didn’t look at her mother. She didn’t look at her for fear she’d tear up. Because as much as she wanted to say she wasn’t interested in Marshall Byler, it would be a lie—to her mam and herself. Because the truth was, the more time she spent with Marshall, the more she liked him. He was smart and funny and kind, and he seemed to enjoy each moment of the day to its fullest. The hours she’d spent with him were the best she could remember in a very long time. Maybe even ever.
“You know, d
ochtah, you did the right thing, not agreeing to marry Ishmael Slabaugh.”
Lovage set her jaw and tugged at the errant stitches with the sharp seam ripper with a force that wasn’t necessary. “I know that, Mam.”
“He wasn’t the right man for you.” She made a sound between her teeth. “To tell you he was asking for your hand because Betsy Miller turned him down? Shame on him. Shame—”
“Mam, please,” Lovage interrupted. “I don’t want to talk about this. The past is the past. Forget what is behind and strain toward what is ahead. Isn’t that what Preacher Clyde said in his sermon last time you visited me in New York? I think it’s from Philippians.”
“It was wrong of Ishmael to ask that way, to tell you about Betsy Miller turning him down, but, daughter, it was wrong of you to think it meant you weren’t good enough for him. That you aren’t good enough for—”
“Ouch!” Lovage cried, dropping the seam ripper. She watched blood bubble up from her index finger and then put her injured finger into her mouth with a groan. She’d slipped and poked herself, and now there was a tiny spot of blood on the new baby gown. “I’m sorry,” she said, surprisingly close to tears. “I’ve gotten blood on the fabric.”
Rosemary slipped the tiny piece of clothing out from under her fingers and studied it. “Ach, nothing that a drop of peroxide won’t fix. Now listen to me, daughter.” She took Lovage’s chin with her free hand and tilted it upward, forcing Lovey to look at her.
“Ishmael wasn’t the husband for you. He never was. And him asking you that way, you telling him no, doesn’t make you less worthy a bride to another man. In fact, it makes you worthier.” She met her daughter’s gaze with steady green eyes.
Lovage lowered her own. She wanted to believe what her mother said was true, and logically, she knew it was so. But that didn’t keep her from sometimes wondering if it wouldn’t have been smarter to accept Ishmael’s proposal. “Mam, please.”
