The Amish Spinster's Courtship

by Emma Miller

  Lovage laughed at Sam’s cleverness. And she was impressed that Marshall would let his brother convince him to try such a thing, because it certainly did look silly, three fruit trees in a diagonal line, with brown paper bags hanging from the branches. Marshall’s recognition of Sam’s innovation made her like him all the more.

  “There he is! Come tell him what you brought. Applesauce cake is Marshall’s favorite,” called a commanding, feminine voice.

  Lovage looked over her shoulder to see Marshall’s grandmother, the tiny Lynita Byler, practically dragging a young woman across the yard and into the orchard.

  “Marshall! She’s here,” Lynita called to her grandson. “Faith’s here. She and her parents.”

  Faith King, a pretty, petite blonde who looked to be between Tara’s and Ginger’s age was flushing with embarrassment, Lovage suspected. And Lovage was immediately sympathetic. To be put on display in front of a single man at such a public gathering had to be mortifying. Mainly since it was clear that Lynita fancied the girl in the pale pink dress as a possible match for her grandson.

  “Faith. Good to see you.” Marshall reached over his head to replace the paper bag over the pear he’d just shown Lovage.

  “Faith made your favorite, sohn. Blitzkuchen.” Lynita pushed the girl ahead of her, surprisingly strong for such a petite woman. “Tell him, Faith.” She beamed at her grandson. “I had her wrap a couple of pieces of the cake and put them inside the house. In case it’s all eaten before you get a slice,” she explained.

  Lovage looked at Faith and smiled, her heart going out to the young girl, who had now broken out in a sweat. It was every mother’s and grandmother’s dream to see her children happily wed, but sometimes families pushed it too far. Lovage was instantly thankful that while Mam had expressed interested in Lovage at least considering Marshall’s attention, she wasn’t pushing her. “Gudar daag, Faith.”

  “Goot afternoon,” Faith said, looking down at her small feet in pristine white canvas sneakers.

  Lovage couldn’t help but look down at her own feet. Size ten in black sneakers so scuffed that she could see her big toe through the threads. She pulled her foot back so it was under her skirt. This was supposed to be a casual birthday dinner; she hadn’t expected the entire church district to be here. No one wore their fancy shoes. She looked at the girl’s Plain, pink dress with a starched white apron over it. Or their best dress.

  Then Lovage felt guilty for being so critical. It was obvious the girl wasn’t comfortable with the way Lynita was touting her lightning cake. And she herself had worn a new dress. She stepped forward. “Good to see you, Lynita.” She looked at Faith. “I’m Lovage Stutzman. We said hello at church on Sunday, but we didn’t get a chance to talk. I’ve just moved here. My mother is Rosemary Miller. Married to Benjamin, who has the new harness shop.”

  Faith offered a shy smile, seeming relieved to have someone to speak to her rather than about her.

  “Faith’s been helping her mother establish a new orchard. They lost most of their trees in that blight last year,” Lynita told Marshall. “Why don’t you take Faith through your orchard and show her what you’re doing.”

  When Marshall looked down at his grandmother, he dropped the piece of string he’d been trying to use to fasten the paper bag onto the pear.

  Lovage leaned over immediately and picked it up. When she held it out to him, he met her gaze. It was clear to her that Lynita wanted him to spend time alone with Faith. And it was clear Lynita favored Faith over her. Suddenly Lovage felt less confident in her budding relationship with Marshall. Faith was small and pretty and young, all the things Lovage wasn’t.

  “You should go,” she said quietly to Marshall.

  And she meant it because if he wanted to be with Faith, she didn’t want him here with her. But at that moment, she hoped—no, prayed—he wouldn’t go.

  Chapter Seven

  Marshall met Lovage’s green-eyed gaze and held it a moment, wondering when he had fallen in love with her. He knew it didn’t make sense. He’d known her such a short time and they barely knew each other. She hadn’t even agreed to walk out with him, not officially. But sometime in the last two weeks, his feelings for her had changed, gotten stronger. This revelation and the distress he saw on her face made him realize that all he wanted was to protect her and care for her. It was all he could do not to throw his arms around her and whisper in her ear that she had nothing to fear from Faith King. That they had known each other since Faith was a toddler on lead strings and that even though his grandmother might think he and Faith would make a good match, the only woman he had eyes for was Lovey.

  Marshall turned to his grandmother. “Grossmammi, is that Eunice Gruber going into the house?” He pointed in the direction of the house and grimaced. “I’m sure she’s just looking for a serving spoon or something, but I know how you are about people in your kitchen. About Eunice in your kitchen.”

  Lynita spun around so quickly that her tiny round sunglasses slid down the bridge of her nose. She puckered her mouth. “Plenty of serving spoons out on the porch. That Eunice, she better not be checking to see if I’ve left crumbs in my pie safe. Just because she thinks she has the cleanest kitchen in Hickory Grove, she thinks it’s her business to nose in ours. She needs to mind her own mending!” With that, she strode off toward the kitchen at a remarkable speed, head down, arms pumping, prayer kapp strings flying behind her.

  Grinning, Marshall glanced down at Faith, who looked much like a startled calf as she watched Lynita race across the green lawn. “I really am glad to see you, Faith,” he said gently. “I apologize for anything my grandmother may have said to you or will say to you the rest of her life.” He looked to Lovey. “My grandmother has been trying to arrange a marriage between us since Faith was a schoolgirl,” he explained. Then he hooked his thumb in Lovey’s direction. “So, you’ve met Lovage. Have you met her mother, Rosemary? She’s a gardener, too, like you. Not just vegetables, but herbs.” He leaned over and whispered in Faith’s ear, “She’s Jacob Miller’s stepmother, you know.”

  Faith turned crimson and looked Rosemary’s way.

  Marshall had heard through Will that Faith and Jacob had spent most of the last singing at the Fishers with their heads together and that he had given her a ride home. Although, apparently, she had Jacob let her off at the end of her driveway. So her parents wouldn’t know she’d ridden home with him. At twenty-two, Faith had the right in their community to spend time with whomever she pleased, within reason. But that didn’t keep parents of an only child from thinking they should have more control over their daughter and her future than they did.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Rosemary smiled up at Faith from her seat in the lawn chair under the pear tree. She was fanning herself with a little cardboard paddle on a stick that one of the other women sitting under the trees had given her. On one side of the old-fashioned church fan was a depiction of the Lord Jesus, and on the other side, the name of a local Mennonite church. “Come sit with me a minute and tell me everything about you that I should know, Faith King.” She patted the chair beside her.

  Marshall flashed Rosemary a grin, guessing she knew exactly what had just transpired. He didn’t know her well, but suspected she would be kind to Faith and chat with her, putting her at ease, allowing her embarrassment to fade. If she knew the gossip on Faith and her stepson, Rosemary might even arrange things so the two could bump into each other.

  With Faith occupied, Marshall turned to Lovage, who was moving away from the group of women under his pear trees. “So about that walk in my orchard. Now or after we play horseshoes?”

  “I didn’t know we were taking a walk in your orchard.”

  “Well, you know now, Lovey. I’ve been trying my hand at grafting, and I want you to see my trees with peaches and plums on the same tree.”

  The most beautiful, shy smile played on her lips. “Hor
seshoes first. Then I imagine it will be time to eat. So if it’s after dark when we take that walk, Jesse will have to go with us.”

  He headed toward the area on the far side of the farmhouse where he could hear horseshoes hitting a metal post and young men and women talking and laughing. Occasionally, one of the guys would give a hoot when he made a good throw. The whole gang of unmarried men in Hickory Grove would be there, trying to show off for their girls, or maybe hoping to impress a particular one he was sweet on.

  “Need a chaperone, do we?” he asked Lovey.

  “Ya. Where I come from, it’s the way we do things. Unmarried men and women do things together in groups, or take a sibling with them. It protects everyone’s reputation.”

  “We walked home alone together last Sunday,” he pointed out.

  “That was a Sunday,” she exclaimed, as if there needed to be no further explanation.

  Marshall was tempted to tease her about her naivete. Did she really think that young people who were inclined to kiss or get into worse trouble wouldn’t do so on Sundays? But he decided against saying anything because she was in such a good mood, he didn’t want to risk riling her. Besides, he liked her innocence. It was refreshing in a world where it was sometimes difficult to remain Plain and try to follow God’s word each and every day by word and deed.

  Instead, he asked, “What about once they’re betrothed?” He swept off his straw hat, pushed back his hair and replaced it. “Once the banns are read, can we take a stroll through an orchard after dark?” He leaned closer, knowing he ought to behave himself and not tease her. The truth was, he would never risk her reputation or his own. He might tease, but his behavior would be nothing but acceptable to every parent in the county and their bishop, too. “How about if I promise I won’t try to kiss you?”

  Her face flushed. “Marshall Byler, we’re not even walking out together. You keep talking like that and...”

  “And what?” he said, nodding to two friends of his grandmother’s who were standing in the shade of a hickory tree, their black kapps together, watching them, twittering like a pair of old birds on a branch.

  Lovey exhaled in exasperation. “I...I...” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  Then they both laughed and he wished they were alone, because then at least he could hold her hand. “Would this be a good time for me to ask you to marry me?”

  “It would not.” She sounded indignant. No, she sounded as if she was trying to sound indignant.

  “Fine.” He threw up his hands as he led her around the house.

  “Fine what?” She looked at him suspiciously.

  “Fine, when we go for our walk through my orchard, you can have your chaperone.” He gestured with one hand. “Pick your chaperone. Jesse, Faith, you can even bring my grandmother if you like.”

  “How about Ginger?” Lovey said, her tone teasing. “She seems fond of you.”

  “Ya. Bring anyone you like. Everyone from our church district and the next.” He gestured in the direction of the orchard, which was now behind him.

  She was giggling as they met each other’s gazes, but something in the way she looked at him made him think she was finally beginning to take him seriously.

  * * *

  “Mam, how many times do we have to tell you, let us do the heavy lifting,” Lovage said, setting down a pair of long-handled tongs to take a wooden case of empty Ball jars from her mother’s arms.

  “Ya,” Tara said, from where she stood at the gas stove stirring a pot of boiling water.

  For the second day in a row, they were canning tomatoes from their garden, which involved an all-day process of washing the tomatoes, blanching them, peeling them, cutting them up, putting them in jars and then running them through the pressure cooker. Rosemary and four of her daughters had been working since breakfast and they still had two bushel baskets of Big Boy and Roma tomatoes to process before it was time to put out dinner for the family. The good thing was that the women had been putting up tomatoes this way since they were little and had worked out a process over the years. Stations were set up for washing the jars and sterilizing them, cleaning and blanching the tomatoes, and pouring the hot tomatoes and juices into the jars. Each woman had a job and they moved gracefully in the kitchen, working together to preserve food for the coming year.

  The only one missing that morning was Nettie, and that was because she was at the harness shop completing a special order for an Englisher. Nettie, who was an artist, was painting flowers and vines with acrylic paint on a dog leash, of all things. They had all chuckled over the idea of decorating a leather leash, but also agreed that if the buyer was willing to pay for the custom work, Nettie should do it.

  “Didn’t Benjamin tell you this morning, this was why the good Lord gave you daughters?” Tara asked. “So you wouldn’t have to put up tomatoes by yourself.”

  Rosemary gave a huff, but she let Lovage take the wooden box from her. “I’ll warn you. We’re going to need at least two dozen more jars. They’re stacked in the last room in the cellar.”

  “Sit,” Lovage ordered, pulling a chair out from the end of the kitchen table with one bare foot. Then, realizing she sounded awfully bossy, she softened her tone. “Please, Mam. Sit and have a sip of iced tea. You’ve been on your feet since dawn.”

  “I worry about you girls,” Rosemary said, lowering herself into the chair, her hand on her round belly. “If you think having a baby is an illness, your first will be hard.”

  Lovage decided not to bite on her mother’s line of conversation. That morning, Benjamin had pulled her aside and told her he was worried that she was working too hard, not resting enough. With the August heat, he worried his Rosemary was wilting. He was also concerned for the welfare of their child, though he hadn’t come out and said so directly. The Amish were funny about the way they dealt with pregnancy. It was all around them all the time. Most husbands and wives welcomed as many children as the Lord blessed them with, and families of twelve or even fifteen weren’t uncommon. But it still wasn’t a subject discussed between men and women, even a stepfather and his stepdaughter.

  “I added ice to your tea. You should drink it. Benjamin went all the way to Byler’s to get more ice this morning. His feelings will be hurt if you don’t have a cold drink,” Lovage said.

  “I’ll have a glass of tea with ice if you’re pouring,” Bay Laurel, Ginger’s twin, volunteered as she walked out of the kitchen carrying a case of canned tomatoes, the lids still popping as they sealed. “Going down to the cellar.”

  “Get more jars,” their mother called after her. Then she turned back to Lovage. “Fiddle,” she remarked, reaching for the tall, sweaty glass in front of her. “Benjamin made the excuse of going for ice before it got too hot, but really he went for cookie dough ice cream. Those boys of his ate the last two half gallons after we went to bed last night.”

  “I think Jesse was eating it, too,” Lovage admitted.

  “This pot is ready for more tomatoes,” Tara called.

  “I’ll get the next batch of clean ones from the sink,” Rosemary said, starting to rise from her chair.

  Lovage set the jars down on the counter next to the big double farm sink and reached over to rest her hand on her mother’s shoulder. “You’re getting ahead of us, Mam.” She chuckled, trying to make a joke of it. “And wearing us all out in this heat. Will said the thermometer down at the barn was reading ninety degrees at eleven in this morning.”

  Rosemary eased back into her chair and reached for a copy of The Budget, a national newspaper written for and by Amish and Mennonite men and women. Benjamin had been reading the current news of friends and family back in New York that morning at breakfast. The family had laughed together about the story of one of their elderly neighbors, Emma Petersheim, in the yard without her glasses, mistaking a deer on her lawn for one of her pet goats and trying to herd it back into t
he barn. The funniest part, they unanimously agreed, was that she had written into the paper to tell on herself.

  Rosemary fanned the paper in front of her face. “Do you think someone should run more iced tea out for the men? I hate to see them working so hard in the sun on a day like this. I’m thrilled Benjamin and his boys are building me a greenhouse, but I told him it could wait until fall when this heat lets up.”

  Lovage tucked a lock of damp hair beneath the scarf she wore over her hair and tied at the back of her neck. They were all dressed for working in hot weather in their oldest dresses, bare feet and kerchiefs instead of prayer kapps. While women were expected to cover their hair with prayer kapps in public, at home among family and friends the rules were less strict. The same went for their state of dress. Lovage was wearing an old dress of Ginger’s that was baggy and so short on her that it barely fell to her calves.

  “Ginger went out to refill their glasses,” Lovage told her mother. Then suddenly suspicious, she glanced at the battery-operated wall clock that looked like a shiny red apple. “But she’s been gone at least twenty minutes.” She picked up the considerable colander of fresh tomatoes from the food side of the sink and carried it to Tara.

  Tara grabbed a big, juicy tomato from the top of the colander and eased it into the boiling water. “I know where she is,” she said, glancing over Lovage’s shoulder. She dropped another tomato into the pot and pointed with the long metal tongs toward the window over the kitchen sink. “Out there chatting up Marshall Byler again.”

  Lovage whipped around to look out the kitchen window. Sure enough, there stood Ginger, barefoot, the hem of her skirt tucked into her apron, flirting with Marshall. “I’ll be right back,” she said, setting the colander down on the counter beside the stove.