Brightest and Best (34 page)

I
t’s late. You must stay the night,” Margaret said after Mr. Eggar left her bungalow with two sheets of notes recording Ella’s account.

Ella shook her head. “Miriam and James and Rachel—they’ll all worry that something happened to me as well.”

“I’ll drive you, then,” Margaret said.

Again Ella shook her head. “James’s wagon is already stranded in town. I can’t leave Gideon’s buggy here all night. We’ll need it in the morning—and what would we do with the horse?”

Ella was just being practical. She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and thanked Margaret again before stepping out into the darkness. On most evenings, Amish farms would have quieted by now, lanterns turned low for one last look at sleeping children before parents retired themselves. Morning light would soon enough usher in the labor of another day of farm chores.

On this night, though, the lanterns would burn deep into the darkness, beacons of hope for what the new day might bring.

James, Miriam, and Rachel had hardly moved from where Ella left them hours earlier, though Rachel said she had been out to milk the cows for the night. The Hilty cows were long past their evening milking, so Ella spoke rapidly. There had been little Percival Eggar could do with state and legal offices closed for the evening. He promised to give his full attention when the business day began and to find out where the children had been taken. It was sure to be one of the state orphanages, he said. The men would be in the county courthouse in Chardon, and he would bargain for their release. In the meantime, Mr. Eggar suggested, they should all hope and pray for a firm legal outcome in their favor.

Hope and pray.
After milking the Hiltys’ cows—a task Seth normally assumed—Ella dragged herself back into the house, where she sat on her bed to sort out which came first—hope or prayer. Did she pray because she had hope for the answer she sought, or did she hope because of the comfort of prayer?

In the morning, the women descended on the Hilty farm before Ella cleared away the dishes of Rachel’s uneaten breakfast. At last Ella had her answer about how many fathers had been arrested and how many children were deemed neglected.

Gideon Wittmer; two girls, one boy.

Jed Hilty; one boy.

Cristof Byler; one girl, three boys.

John Hershberger; three girls, one boy.

Isaiah Borntrager; two girls, three boys.

Chester Mast; two boys.

Six men and nineteen children. How the women had known to come to Ella, she did not know. Perhaps they had found each other one by one because they knew the men who chose to send their children to Ella to teach.

“Mr. Eggar is working hard for us,” Ella assured the circle of anxious mothers.

“When will we know where our children are?” Mrs. Hershberger jiggled her restless infant on one knee.

Ella swallowed a lump of impossible words. “Most likely, they are at an orphanage.”

“But they are not orphans!” came the nearly unanimous response.

“My Ezra was not at home when they came,” Mrs. Borntrager said. “Will they come back for him?”

“They’ll be back,” Mrs. Byler said. “They’ll accuse us of neglecting the little ones as well.”

“They’ll take my baby.” Mrs. Hershberger held the child tightly to her chest.

“They could come for David,” Mrs. Byler said, looking at Rachel.

“David goes to school,” Rachel said.

“But they’ll wonder what neglect caused him to run away from home.”

“We’ll have to hide the
kinner
still with us,” Mrs. Hershberger said. “The
English
cannot steal children they cannot find.”

Ella put up her hands, palms out. “Let’s not jump ahead of ourselves. We have God on our side, and we have Mr. Eggar. He will come to the schoolhouse at three this afternoon to tell us what he knows.”

Everyone’s eyes moved to the clock on the mantel, ready to count down seven and a half excruciating hours.

“I have to take James into Seabury to fetch his horse and wagon,” Ella said. “And we must care for the animals. Let us not be afraid to ask for help when we need it.”

She wanted to add,
I’m sure they’ll all be home soon.
This was the prayer of her heart. But could she sustain hope if the prayer went unanswered?

The Wayfarers Home for Children. That was the name Percival Eggar uncovered in the legal documents he had demanded. At least—as far as they could tell—all of the children had been taken to the same location. They might have been scattered around eastern Ohio. For now they were together.

It was Saturday. Margaret owed no time to the Seabury Consolidated School District.

Three days after their arrests, the Amish fathers were still in jail in Chardon, and their children were still temporary wards of the state.

It was unconscionable.

Margaret had heard nothing from Gray since Wednesday evening, nor did she expect to. He had wanted her for his wife. Margaret had no doubt of this. He was courting in polite stages, and Margaret had given him every encouragement.

Until this. Until the Amish mystification.

The pressure in her chest waxed and waned through the days and nights. Seeing Gray around town would stir up visions of what might have been.

It was better to find out now, she told herself.

The children were what mattered. The Wayfarers Home for Children was thirty miles from Seabury. Margaret supposed few of the Amish families ever had reason to be thirty miles from their own farms. Had the sheriff’s department done this on purpose—taken the children beyond reasonable reach of their mothers?

Margaret owned a car and could afford the gasoline. The least she could do was drive thirty miles and ascertain the welfare of the children.

She found the building without trouble. A blockish brick structure, it was set back from an entrance arched in wrought iron. Despite the expansive lawns calling for tumbles and giggles, Margaret saw no sign of children. She scowled at the thought that residents of the Wayfarers Home for Children attended classrooms even on Saturday. The driveway wound toward the building, and Margaret saw no reason not to park as close to the front door as possible.

At a reception desk a few minutes later, Margaret politely explained the nature of her visit. She wanted only to take assurance to the mothers of the Amish children of their well-being.

“The children are being suitably looked after,” said the graying woman behind a narrow desk, “which is a great advancement beyond the actions of their parents, as I understand it.”

Margaret bit her tongue. “I would like to see them. Many of them will recognize me from their days at the Seabury school where I teach.”

“This is an unorthodox request. I would have to consult the director.”

“Please do.” Margaret seated herself on the edge of a wooden chair that rocked on one uneven leg. “I will wait.”

“He may be engaged.” The woman pushed spectacles up her nose.

Margaret smiled. “I teach six-year-olds, so I am well acquainted with patience.”

The woman’s chair scraped the tile floor, and her buttoned shoes dragged down the hall. Margaret’s investment paid its return in the arrival of a man who was perhaps forty years old.

“I understand you want to see the Amish children,” he said.

Margaret stood. “That’s correct.”

“I’m afraid children are not allowed visitors so soon after their arrival,” he said. “We find it only distresses their adjustment.”

“Surely they won’t be here long enough to have to adjust,” Margaret said.

“We have our policies.” He gave a tight smile.

Margaret’s blood raced. “You don’t mean to tell me you would withhold them from their own mothers.”

“The policies are quite clear on this matter. The children are here because they were neglected. Any visit would have to be closely supervised.”

A supervised visit would be better than no visit.

“So if I return with the mothers on another day,” Margaret said, “have I your word that they would be permitted to see their children?”

“Briefly,” he said, reluctant. “No more than one hour, and only if I have adequate staff available to meet the supervision standards.”

Margaret met his eyes and held them hard. “I will be back.”

Getting there had been easier than James imagined it would be. The first glimmer of opportunity came when Miriam insisted on going with Ella to a meeting with the women, leaving James alone in the
dawdihaus
with his bruised forehead. Regardless of what he might look like, he was not seriously hurt. Without Tobias and Gideon, the farm chores had fallen to him. If he could handle that work, he was fit enough for what he had in mind.

In the unexpected solitude, James scribbled a note and left it in the middle of the table, where Miriam would find it easily. He would not be home for supper. Only the fingers of one hand would be required to count the number of times he was not home for supper with his wife in the last forty-four years.

Once he heard Margaret’s news, James wanted to see for himself. But thirty miles was a long way to take a horse and buggy. James might find a train for part of the way, but he would be tied to schedules he did not know. David’s method seemed more direct and efficient. If
English
drivers would stop for David when he sought a ride into Seabury, why would they not stop for James as well?

He had changed automobiles twice, but here he stood in a gently descending expanse of shadows behind the Wayfarers Home for Children. One by one, lights flickered on inside the building as late afternoon slid into evening. James suspected an approach to the rear of the building held more potential for his goal.

James waited under the spreading barren branches of an elm tree, breathing in and out with care and surveying the ground-floor exits.

A door opened. A woman came out, her arms filled with a basket of undetermined contents, and followed a path toward the corner of the building. It mattered not what she carried, only that she had left the door ajar. In a stealth moment, James found himself in a small pantry.

He stood still and listened for movement in the adjoining room, which he reasoned must be a kitchen, large enough to prepare food for hundreds of children and staff. Hearing nothing, he padded out of the pantry and across the kitchen. Voices came to him now. Children’s voices. One lilted above the others.

James had known that voice when it was nothing but the babble of a
boppli.
A half inch at a time, he pushed open the door that separated him from Gideon’s children—at least Gertie.

He almost did not recognize her. Gone was her prayer kapp. Rather than braids coiled against her head, her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders. A pink ribbon at the top of her head matched the pink dress she wore with a splash of lace down the front.

The children’s voices settled as a woman at the front of the room clapped for their attention. Rows and rows of children. As his eyes adjusted to the reality of looking for Amish faces above
English
clothing, James spotted them one by one. Savilla and Tobias—with his hair trimmed in
English
fashion—and Seth Kaufman beside him. The Hershberger girls and their brother, Isaiah Borntrager’s children, the Bylers, the Masts. They were all there, but separated, each of them seated with other children their own age rather than with their siblings.

The woman explained the next day’s schedule. A Presbyterian minister would come in to hold a morning church service. Children assigned to set up and clear after meals should be prompt. In the afternoon, if the weather was fine, there might be organized outdoor games before the evening prayer meeting.

James settled his gaze again on Gertie, who sat at the end of a row. Her eyes began to wander, and she turned her head toward him. When her blue orbs widened, her lips also parted and she drew in breath as if to speak.

James put a finger to his lips. Gertie clamped her mouth closed. He stepped back into the kitchen, determined to find a way to get the children back. For now it was enough to see that they were unharmed—except for the silly clothes and hair arrangements.

“Who’s there?” a voice called. The weight of a box thumped against a butcher block table.