Last Bride, The (Home to Hickory Hollow Book #5) (6 page)

St. Michael’s Day came on October eleventh, and the People fasted and prayed prior to their communion Sunday, when they had their biannual foot washing service, followed by the common meal.

Truth be known, Tessie was weary of silently marking time and living at home. She also felt dreadfully convicted during the Sunday service, not sure she should have even attended. And then there was Mamma, who seemed to think Tessie had been going to youth activities here lately.

Tessie felt guilty at the remembrance of the ecru-colored doily Mamma was crocheting for Tessie’s hope chest. And there was talk of Dawdi Dave’s interest in making her a corner cupboard, as well.

“Tell me what you love,”
Marcus had asked the last time she’d been with him in his house, a night of thunderstorms and torrential rain. She’d felt so out of sorts she hadn’t said much. It wasn’t at all like their courting days, when they’d ridden blissfully together under the moon for hours on end. Her patience was all but gone.

Marcus had sensed something amiss. She let him hold her while she cried, and he kissed her wet cheeks over and over again.

After Marcus saw Tessie home to her father’s house, following yet another too brief visit, he pulled out his journal and began to write.

Monday, October 14

I fully understand Tessie’s frustration, wanting to live here with me and wondering when I’ll speak up to see where the chips fall. She is patient, though, and has not questioned my lead in this.

This afternoon, while at the blacksmith’s shop, I tried again to speak with Tessie’s father, only to be rebuffed once more. I was so tempted to blurt out to him that I’m married to his daughter, but I refrained. And all Ammon would say to my request to work with him was that he has all the help he needs at his place. So that’s that . . . for today, anyway.

If only I could work beside him, I believe I could gain his trust. If that’s what he’s looking for. With such a man, it’s awful hard to know, really.

Truth is, I’m becoming as irritated with this peculiar situation as my precious bride is. I’m praying even more earnestly for the Lord God to make a way where there seems to be none . . . just a never-ending barricade.

M
andy searched all over for Cousin Emmalyn before the work frolic got under way the following Thursday morning at the bishop’s place. Twenty-five women from the church district had gathered there to tie colorful warm comforters to be sent to Christian Aid Ministries in Berlin, Ohio, which distributed items to the poor all over the world.

There was excited chatter about the big two-story barn that had burned to the ground just north of Harristown Road, struck by lightning during the recent storm. Plans were under way to raise a new barn before too long, once beams were cut and the foundation walls repaired.

At around eleven-thirty, after working diligently, Mandy spotted Cousin Emmalyn clear on the other side of the front room and waved at her, hoping she might join her for the dinnertime break. Mary Beiler offered up the most delicious Busy Day stew, along with homemade wheat rolls and rhubarb and strawberry jam. There was also the peanut-butter spread
made with marshmallow cream, and Cousin Emmalyn had brought jars of mouthwatering homemade cheese spread to share. Naturally, there were desserts, too—shoofly pie and pumpkin torte, as well as various types of cookies: pineapple, pumpkin, and dropped sugar.

“I wondered if you’ve given any more thought to our, uh, joint project,” Mandy whispered when they were seated at the long table.

“Interesting you asked—I just made a deposit on the rent for that space in Bird-in-Hand,” said Emmalyn, her pale blue eyes shining. “The tiny shop we discussed, and perfect for what we need. Oh, and we can start setting up tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“You moved on it awful quick.” Mandy couldn’t believe her ears. “And without me.”

“I thought you were ready to move ahead. Besides, I have so many embroidered and quilted things to sell now. Time’s a-wastin’—the fall tourist season is already in full swing, ya know.”

Emmalyn was right. Still, Mandy hoped it was wise for her to have said yes to this venture without asking Sylvan first. What if he hit the roof about the news? Oh, she hoped Sylvan would come around eventually.
And I’ve
never given Emmalyn any reason to think I can’t.
“All right, then. Count me in.”

Emmalyn squealed her glee. “I could just hug the stuffin’ out of you!” And she attempted to do just that, right there at the table with many sets of eyes observing them. “Meet me at my house first thing tomorrow, and bring all of your own goods to sell.”

Giddy as Mandy felt at the prospect of having their very
own shop, she wondered how to transport all the dozens of quilted potholders and toaster covers, and embroidered linens, too, from the house without raising Sylvan’s suspicions.

But then she had the perfect idea. Why not simply load up the buggy prior to hitching up tomorrow? Sylvan would be busy in the barns, and he didn’t need to know, not just yet.

At the shop’s opening, two days later, oodles of tourists seemed eager to plunk down money for Mandy’s and Emmalyn’s homemade items. Mandy had told Sylvan she was going visiting and that Tessie would be over to cook the noon meal that day. Mandy was fairly certain he understood her need to get away sometimes, possibly even felt sorry for her, if he stopped to think about it—her staying home alone all the time and all. And though he hadn’t said as much, she assumed he was happy she was getting out.

But . . . going visiting.
She felt wicked and knew she must come clean—and mighty soon, too.

Yet Mandy soon forgot her guilt in the day’s busy pace. She loved working with her outgoing cousin and felt truly invigorated while talking with people from all over the country, as well as quite a number from England, some who made an annual trip to Lancaster County to enjoy the harvest. The customers were cordial and curious, eager to stop in and chat for a while and describe the local inns where they were staying or make over the goods, laughing here and there. Many guest homes were owned by Mennonites, and some by Amish families whose bishops allowed them to have
electricity on the side of the house where their paying guests stayed. All of it was giving Mandy wonderful-
gut
ideas . . . ways not to feel so isolated at home. At least till her babies started coming.
O Lord, may
it happen soon,
she thought, beginning to fear she might be infertile. She dreaded the thought as she took her time organizing a display of Cousin Emmalyn’s crocheted baby booties in pale green, yellow, and pink.

“Ah, I see you’ve got your eye on something . . . for the future?” Emmalyn came over, smiling broadly, in a moment when there were no customers. She leaned her head close to Mandy’s. “Are ya keepin’ a secret, cousin?”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll be one of the first to know. After Sylvan, of course.”

Emmalyn turned her around, holding on to her wrists. “Look me in the eye and say you don’t want a whole batch of little ones.” She waited, a frown creeping onto her face as she searched Mandy’s face. “Honey? You all right?”

Mandy didn’t feel the need to spill her heart out, especially not today, when she’d been enjoying herself so. “Sure, I want oodles of children, like every other young woman.”

Her cousin nodded. “When
I’m
married I want at least eight, maybe more.”

“See?” Mandy smiled, relieved. Far better for Emmalyn to talk about herself. “Girls or boys?”

“Oh, four or five boys to start with, then some little dishwashers, ya know.”

“You must be thinkin’ your husband will need workers.” She considered that, wondering why she hadn’t really pondered Sylvan’s own need before.

“I honestly hope I marry a farmer.” Emmalyn’s face was all dreamy. “But there’s so little farmland left round here.”

“Is there someone special, maybe?”

“Oh, jah . . . but I’ll let you know how that goes.” Emmalyn’s eyes twinkled.

“Okay, then.”

And they both laughed as another cluster of patrons headed up the walkway into the shop.

Mandy had yet to ask Emmalyn about the rent amount, but when closing time rolled around, they were both exhausted. Hurrying off to catch her ride home with a paid driver, Mandy had a gnawing feeling in her stomach. Even though she’d managed to pull the wool over Sylvan’s eyes, she felt uneasy, leading a double life. But after the fun she’d had today, she didn’t want to give up the shop now.

Tessie was glad to cook for her brother-in-law and the handful of other workers at his and Mandy’s place—it helped to keep her mind off missing Marcus. Yet how odd that Mandy had pleaded with her to cover for her, not saying where she was headed in such a big hurry that morning. It did seem peculiar, Tessie’s own longing to be cooking and keeping house for Marcus while Mandy ran off to parts unknown, shirking her own duty.

Tessie hardly knew what to think of the situation her sister had placed her in. Besides that, now that the vineyard was dormant for the season, Marcus was kept busy at the Hostetler farm, and there were fewer opportunities for the two of them
to be alone discreetly. She did not like feeling so cut off from her own husband, yet what could be done?

Lately she’d started to wonder if their wonderful-
gut
plan to force her father into accepting the marriage wasn’t fraught with problems. What if she were to simply announce she was married and move in with Marcus? Would her father disown her?

Her discouraged state only served to compound her tetchiness, which made it hard for her to be as pleasant to her husband as she longed to be. Here it was already almost a month since they’d wed, and there was still no indication from Marcus of when they could openly be together. Could it be Marcus had come to realize the same thing . . . that they might have made a mistake in thinking they could force her father to accept their union?

Weary of pondering her discouraging circumstance and glad to be back home once again, Tessie set about cleaning Mamma’s sitting room, where they entertained Sunday afternoon visitors—mostly grandparents and cousins. She caught a whiff of her chocolate cake baking for dessert after supper—Midnight Cake, she liked to call it. Focused on the promise of the scrumptious dessert that evening, she moved toward her father’s rolltop desk, which was especially dusty, though she’d given it a thorough going over just last week.

Sliding it open, she noticed a couple of sticky notes—reminders for the vet’s visit to administer the horses’ routine shots. There was also a black folder lying out with the words
Family Charts
written on a yellow tab. Curious, she opened it and found a listing of Hickory Hollow families: Stoltzfus, Fisher, and Beiler/Byler . . . She’d heard of such genetic charts being kept quietly by the older patriarchs and some ministers
in other church districts, but never in Hickory Hollow, where Bishop John had forbidden it. The People believed the health of their children was up to God’s will, when all was said and done. So she was shocked to see her own father kept such a list.

She looked more closely: The surname King seemed to jump off the page. Tessie read on and was stunned to discover that Marcus’s father, Lloyd King, was actually a third cousin to her own father . . . which made her and Marcus third cousins once removed. Distant enough to marry legally, but a potentially alarming mix in their closely related community.

Scanning the charts, Tessie realized her father must have painstakingly created these lists of families that, for genetic reasons, he considered off-limits to his daughters—he’d taken care to note some of the diseases each family had encountered in recent generations. Clearly, his concern was for high-risk genetic disorders like mental retardation, dwarfism, autism, cerebral palsy, sudden infant death, and others.

Tessie had seen more than a handful of Lancaster County farmhouses glowing nightly with steady blue lights in the bedrooms of Amish and Mennonite children who suffered from Crigler-Najjar syndrome, a condition that resulted in severe jaundice and brain damage, even possible death. New genetic diseases due to close intermarriage were being identified all the time.

Tessie was horror-struck. To think
this
was likely the primary reason her parents opposed a marriage to Marcus.

Leaning heavily on the desk, she considered the implications.

What have
we done?

She caught her breath as she recalled that one of Marcus’s older sisters had given birth to a baby with a fatal genetic disorder just in the past year. And now that she thought of it, Marcus’s aunt Suzy had lost a toddler boy to the same disease not long ago.

The bleak reality plagued her.

She moaned. “Could it be that Dat only wanted to spare me heartache?” Turning, Tessie stared out the window. From this distance, the meadow beyond the corncrib looked pea green and, in some places near the mule roads, almost as if a giant foot had flattened it.

The truth was more dreadful than she’d imagined, and her legs went as limp as slack ropes. She tumbled into the willow chair near the desk and raised her hands to her face, murmuring, “Why didn’t they just tell me?” She began to weep. “Why?”