Amanda Weds a Good Man (14 page)

Wyman's lips quirked. “Jah, I can do that for you.”

Their faces brightened with relief and their sudden hugs made Wyman tingle with an overwhelming love. Alice Ann crowded in, too, and the four of them enjoyed a moment of rare sweetness—a blessing he wouldn't have known had he not married Amanda.

Wyman sighed as he gave his girls one more squeeze. “How about if Alice Ann and I gather the eggs,” he said as he stood up, “while you twins empty the bucket in the outhouse and ask your mamm for some bleach so we can disinfect it? Then we'll fill the chickens' watering tanks and be done here.”

Dora and Cora scampered off with the bucket, eventually to have their mamm ask them why it needed a special cleaning. Wyman smiled at the way this little incident had played out. Perhaps it would be a reason for Amanda to chuckle with him this evening when they reviewed the day's events.

He took an egg basket from its hook on the wall, smiling at Alice Ann. “How about if you find the eggs and I carry them? There's a job to fit every hand, ain't so?”

Alice Ann's laughter rang around the ceiling beams as she hurried toward the nearest nesting boxes on her short legs. While the chickens were gathered around their feeders near the doorway, she pointed eagerly to the eggs in the lower row of nesting boxes, gazing up at him with irresistible eyes. Viola's eyes.

No, they're Alice Ann's eyes. She's my child and Amanda's now.

It was a startling thought. And a little later, as Wyman walked across the road to the grain elevator to begin his workday, he felt subtle inner shiftings that signaled major changes—for himself and for his family.

A
manda settled on the crowded pew bench Sunday morning and let out a sigh. Not yet eight o'clock in the morning and she was exhausted . . . frustrated . . . feeling anything but worshipful. It was a blessing to have Cora and Dora on either side of her, for she hadn't met many of the Clearwater women yet. And here in Bishop Uriah Schmucker's home, she felt all eyes were on her and her children as the newcomers—the grafted-on family that would be closely observed to see if they followed the faith the way folks in this district did.

“I'm Mildred Schmucker, married to Bishop Uriah,” the woman to her left murmured. “You must be Wyman's new wife. And who are these girls in the
pink
dresses?”

“This is Dora and Cora.” Amanda sensed Mildred was about to say something else about the girls' attire, so she kept talking. “Nice to meet you, Mildred. I'm Amanda, and my daughter Lizzie is sitting farther back. At thirteen, she's in her final year of school.”

“Jah, Lizzie. I've heard about her, too.”

A hush fell over the houseful of people. The bishop, the deacon, and the two preachers strode to the center of the huge, crowded room. Amanda took the twins' hands, the signal that they were to quit wiggling and whispering. Was it her imagination, or had the women on all sides of her looked at her girls as though they disapproved of them? How could two quiet, well-behaved four-year-olds possibly be cause for such downturned mouths?

Amanda prayed for the patience, wisdom, and strength to adjust to this new district full of strangers and different ways. She asked God for a solution to having one main bathroom, and for Jemima's inability to get out of it in a timely manner. She petitioned for restful nights and restoration of the friendship Lizzie and Vera had enjoyed before they shared a room as sisters. She had so many concerns that she was just getting warmed up, ready to pray for Wyman's sons—
her
sons now—when a man on the far side of the room sang out the beginning note of the first hymn.

The familiar words should have soothed her, for Amanda had sung this slow, steady song all her life, yet doubts pricked at her as though cockleburs had crept into her clothing. When Preacher Isaac Yoder began the first sermon, Amanda immediately missed Lamar Lapp and the ministers who served her congregation in Bloomingdale. She recalled how Sam Lambright and Vernon Gingerich had so lovingly preached her wedding service, too.

Isaac's low monotone sounded less than inspiring as he preached about absolute obedience to God. Amanda tried to focus on his message, but the room was too warm . . . the minister droned on and on. . . .

She sat up with a gasp. Had someone pinched her arm? Amanda looked over to find Mildred glaring at her.
My stars, I fell asleep—and with church not even half over.

She rubbed her forehead, putting on a smile when Cora and Dora gazed at her with such endearing expressions. She was glad Vera was tending Alice Ann while Simon sat with his dat. Amanda wondered if Lizzie was being stared at by the girls with whom she was sitting, but she didn't dare turn around to find her daughter's face.

Going to her knees for prayer brought Amanda's attention back to the service, and singing another hymn kept her awake. But when the bishop stood to deliver the second, longer sermon, she felt as though Uriah Schmucker had singled her out for a lecture.

“‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord,'” he quoted from the book of Ephesians. “‘For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church . . . Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands
in every thing
.'” Uriah then gazed right at her with his piercing eyes.

Amanda soon realized that the bishop intended to concentrate on those verses alone, rather than include the following verses about how husbands should love their wives as Christ loved the church. Hadn't the deacon read to them about how a man that loved his wife loved himself? The ministers in Bloomingdale had often preached on this passage from Ephesians, but they had held husbands as responsible as wives in keeping the faith as Christ had intended.

Oh, but this bishop and this district were going to test her before she found a way to fit in. . . .

When at last the service ended, Amanda rose with the rest of the women. The twins stood on the pew bench to hug her as they waited for the women behind them to disperse into the kitchen, and Amanda's heart thrummed gratefully. Such a blessing it was, to have little girls of this age, this innocence.

“I'm hungry, Mamma!”

“Jah, me, too! Church just went on and on and
on
today!”

Amanda almost chuckled—until a woman in the row behind them plucked at Dora's dress.

“You're not from around here, are you?” she demanded.

Amanda blinked, startled by her tone. “Matter of fact, I married Wyman Brubaker just a week and a half ago—”

“Your girls shouldn't be seen in this color. Pink's too bright and showy—”

“Jah, and in
church
, no less,” Mildred joined in with a shake of her finger. “You'd best be sewing up
appropriate
clothes for them. And your Lizzie ought not to be wearing her dresses so short, either, or showing so much hair in front of her kapps,” she went on in a sharp voice. “My daughter is Teacher Elsie, you see. She's instructed your girl about these matters, yet Lizzie refuses to obey her. That'll lead to trouble down the road. Just you wait and see.”

Cora's chin was quivering. “But Mamma says we look perky in pink, like the zinnias in her garden.”

“And Lizzie's my sister,” Dora spoke up boldly. “We love her, and you should, too!”

The women around them could have flown to the ceiling, the way their eyebrows arched up like wings. “Ach, but that's no way for you girls to talk,” Mildred chided, again shaking her finger at them.

Amanda nearly grabbed that accusing finger, even if it belonged to the bishop's wife. “They're four, you know,” she replied in a strained voice. “We're adjusting to a new home, and new siblings, and—”

“As the branch is bent, so grows the tree,” another woman behind them warned.

Something inside Amanda snapped. Had there ever been an unfriendlier bunch than these biddy hens who pecked at her precious daughters? She helped Cora and Dora hop off the bench into the aisle and then steered them out the kitchen door, thinking some fresh air and quiet time would be the only thing that got her through the common meal.

And there stood Lizzie. While the other young people buddied up beneath the red and gold maple trees, her daughter leaned against the house by herself, the picture of misery. As Amanda strode closer, she saw the wet tracks streaming down Lizzie's cheeks. Would they ever reach a time when this girl stopped crying?

“So, they've been picking at you, too?” Amanda murmured. The twins grabbed Lizzie and hugged her between them. “I hear the teacher's told you to wear your kapp farther forward—”

“That's just the half of it,” Lizzie rasped. “Seems my dresses are too short—even though they're below my knees. It's not like we've had time to buy fabric or sew anything, even if I knew where the sewing machine was! I've
had
it, Mamm! My stomach's in such a knot I'm going to throw up—and this
stink
isn't helping.”

“Well, we can't have you getting sick.” Amanda knew exactly how distraught her daughter felt, and there was no ignoring the aroma from the bishop's hog houses as she searched the crowd for her husband. When Wyman emerged from the other end of the house with the men, she slipped her arm around Lizzie's shoulders. “Come on, girls. We can't do this ever again, but we're heading home to deal with what these women are saying.”

Amanda nodded at Vera, who was chatting with her friends, and walked on by without an explanation. “Wyman,” Amanda said when they reached him, “Lizzie's got a stomach bug, it seems. If you'll hitch up one of our rigs, please, you and Vera and the boys can stay for the meal.”

Aware that the other men were observing how he handled this situation, Wyman looked ready to challenge her—especially considering today's topic of a wife's submission. When Lizzie clutched her stomach, however, Amanda marched the girls on toward the stable and the corral. Wouldn't be the first time she'd hitched up a buggy, after all.

Her husband caught up to them, keeping his voice low. “What's this about, Amanda? I saw how upset you looked when a couple of the women were—”

“
Upset
doesn't nearly cover it,” she replied tersely. “Seems we newcomers don't measure up to your district's standards. Seems I have a lot of rethinking—and sewing—and
praying
to do before the next preaching service.”

Wyman's eyes widened but he said no more. He called Dottie from among the dozens of horses and then hitched the mare to the smaller of the Brubaker rigs. When she heard a peculiar sound behind them, Amanda turned to see Jemima lurching toward them, favoring a leg.

“Grabbed your coat and mine,” the older woman huffed. “Don't even
think
about leaving me here. Lord a-mercy, I'd rather be dead on the road for the buzzards to pick at.”

Wyman scowled. “I can see we have some things to talk about when I get home,” he murmured. “I had no idea . . . Viola never let on about these women being difficult—”

“Well, I'm not Viola.
Obviously
,” Amanda retorted more vehemently than she intended. “Denki for not making us stay. We won't ask you to do this again.”

Wyman helped Jemima into the back of the buggy while Amanda grabbed the reins. As the mare clip-clopped down the Schmuckers' long lane, she felt the other members' curious stares . . . sensed that she and her girls and Jemima would be discussed during the common meal.

But she had no control over what these people said about her and her family. Vera and the boys would have a full report when they returned home, but for the next few hours Amanda just wanted to regroup—to bind herself, her girls, and Atlee's mamm together with love so they could move forward in this difficult new district.

Once they got home, she and Lizzie unhitched the rig while Jemima took the twins inside to find something for dinner. Amanda thought glumly about the big bowl of chowchow and the sliced ham she'd left in Mildred Schmucker's refrigerator . . . nothing fancy, but with laundry to catch up on yesterday, she hadn't had time to cook anything but their three regular meals. Would she ever reach a point where mothering this huge family felt normal?

Amanda slung her arm around Lizzie. “I had to bite my tongue when the women around me insisted the twins' pink dresses were inappropriate,” she muttered. “And when Mildred Schmucker said Teacher Elsie was her daughter—”

“Oh, jah, I've been warned we'd be getting a visit from the bishop if I didn't
cover
myself with my kapps and dresses,” Lizzie interrupted. “You'd've thought I wasn't wearing anything at all.”

Amanda steered her daughter around to the front of the house. Why was it that on such a glorious autumn day, the five of them who'd lived in peace in Bloomingdale now felt so attacked? And so at odds with the world?

“This place looks lived in and loved,” Amanda remarked as she gazed at the tall white house with its additions sticking out both sides. “It's been painted and kept up so well, anyone would realize that generations of Brubakers have lived gut lives here. Surely there's a way for us to make it our home, too. When Wyman and the rest of them get back, we need to talk about . . .”

Amanda blinked. She walked closer, focused on the screened porch as another wave of dismay washed over her. “Where's Mamm's china hutch? And the chairs Uncle Lester built? And—”

“The sewing machine!” Lizzie blurted. “How am I supposed to make new dresses if— And I don't
want
to use Viola's machine!”

“Well, those pieces have to be here somewhere. They'd
better
be!” Amanda stalked toward the machine shed, her heart throbbing uncomfortably.
Why would Wyman do this without telling me? Or is it another one of the boys' tricks? Do they despise me already?

Into the shadowy shed she went, with Lizzie on her heels. It smelled of the kerosene stored there. The stench of filthy rags tossed into a corner made her wrinkle up her nose, as well. Along the wall, a row of uneven shapes lurked beneath an assortment of old tarps. Lizzie gasped as a mouse scurried past them and out the open door.

Amanda yanked at the nearest tarp. As dust flew around her head, she beheld the dresser and headboard of a bedroom set Atlee had made from bird's-eye maple, the first year they were married.

She burst into tears. How was she supposed to talk to Wyman about moving her pieces into his household—
her
home now—if she had no words for yet another disappointment that cut right through to her soul?