More Than Words (17 page)

He smiled down at me, his familiar blue eyes searching my own. “Please say you are not angry with me for speaking to your Vater. I wrestled with what I should do first: Should I speak to Brother George before I speak to Gretchen, or should I speak to Gretchen before I speak to Brother George.” With his palms toward heaven, he moved his arms up and down as if testing the weight of his options. He did his best to appear confident, but his voice failed him and trembled. He lifted his hand to the side of my face. “Please tell me you are not angry.”

It hadn’t been so long ago that we’d had to resolve our differences because he’d been discussing Mr. Finley’s behavior with Mina. After an hour or more of talking, we’d finally settled the matter, but I could see the concern in his eyes. He feared he’d stepped into trouble again.

“I am not angry, but I am somewhat distressed by your decision. I understand the rules and your obligation to speak to my Vater, but we have known each other all our lives. I never thought you would go to him before you spoke to me. If we are ever to be married, I want you to make decisions
with
me—not
for
me.”

“We would first look to God for help with our decisions, ja?”

I leaned back against the tree. “And is that what you did this time? Did you first ask God and then ask my Vater?”

“I did. But from now on, I will first ask God, and then we will talk. This is gut?”

His answer satisfied me, and I nodded my agreement. The Bible taught, and I believed, a husband should be the head of his household. If we should marry, I would abide by Conrad’s decisions, but I wanted assurance he would listen to my opinions. Besides, he still didn’t have the agreement of the Grossebruderrat. Without their agreement it didn’t matter what any of us decided.

Taking a step closer, he bent forward and brushed a kiss on my cheek. “Maybe I should ask permission from the elders right away so our year of waiting will begin immediately. What do you think?”

Conrad was a good and loyal man, one who had always kept my confidence, and the one I’d repeatedly relied upon in difficult circumstances. “Since you asked my Vater for permission to court me, I think you should first court me, and then we will see if our love runs true.”

His head jerked as if I’d slapped him. “After twenty-two years, I would think you would know if your love for me runs true.” He touched his finger to the shirt pocket that rested over his heart. “I love you, Gretchen. I have known for all my life that I loved you and wanted you for my wife. I thought you felt the same.”

He’d never before said he loved me, and my heart welcomed the words like rain after a long drought. Not since my Mutter died had anyone spoken of their love for me. My father thought such endearments between family members unnecessary. When I asked Father why he never spoke of love, he’d merely said, “Actions speak louder than words.”

I wanted to tell him that actions were nice, but most people longed to hear the words, as well. But I hadn’t. Maybe because I feared he’d ask me for proof of my claim, and I had none. I wanted to believe most people were like me, but I couldn’t be certain.

“Our love for each other has been tempered by our beliefs. Now that we have Vater’s permission, we will have time to explore the depth of our true feelings for each other. I am sure that time will only deepen our love.”

His smile faded and disappointment tugged at his lips. “This is not what I hoped to hear, but it is sound thinking. We will wait, and I will court you, but my heart tells me that it will not be long before you ask me to speak to the elders.”

I knew Conrad’s boast was no more than an attempt to hide his disappointment, so I didn’t challenge his comment. Besides, he probably was correct. I grinned and tugged on his sleeve. “We’d better go inside before Oma or Vater comes looking for us.”

He grabbed my hand and lifted it to his lips. “So now I can come and visit with you after prayer service each evening, and on Sunday afternoons we can go for picnics and fishing. Maybe I can ask your Vater to arrange for a buggy one Sunday afternoon, and we can take a ride in the country—or to one of the other villages. Your Vater is gut friends with the farm Baas. I think he could convince Brother Heinrich that we would take gut care of the horse and buggy.”

“But still we would need a chaperone,” I said.

“Ja. Maybe your grandmother would like to go and see friends in one of the villages. She sometimes talks about someone who lives in High.”

I nodded. “Sister Margaret Whaley. She died years ago. When Oma’s not in her right mind, she forgets some of her friends have already gone to be with the Lord.”

Conrad continued to hold my hand in a firm grasp as we strolled toward the back door. “Then we will take her to visit some of her other friends.” His eyes shone with delight. “I plan to be with you during all of your free time.”

His comment hit me with an unexpected jolt. If I was in Conrad’s company for all of my free time, how would I find time to write?

CHAPTER 14

“Help! We need water and a damp cloth, please. Hurry!”

At the sound of the shouted demand, I snapped to attention and rushed to the front of the store. I had neither water nor a damp cloth when I reached the man’s side, but after one look at his traveling companion, I grabbed a chair from behind the counter. The well-dressed man was struggling under the weight of a lady, and I shoved the chair behind her.

“Sit her down,” I said, returning to the counter to obtain a cloth. I dampened several clean rags with a dipper of water and ignored the excess that dribbled on the floor. It would dry soon enough. I didn’t take time to fetch a glass of water. The woman didn’t appear able to open her eyes, much less swallow.

Taking giant strides, I returned to the woman’s side and applied a cloth to her forehead and daubed her cheeks with another. The man knelt beside her and attempted to fan her with his hand. I pointed to one of the racks. “There are fans on the second shelf. I believe one of those would do more good.” Remaining on one knee, he stretched his body until I thought it would break in two. But to my amazement, he reached one of the fans and picked it up without losing his balance. He snapped it open and flapped it in front of the woman’s face.

“Winifred! Can you hear me, my dear?” The man glanced in my direction. “She doesn’t faint often, but when she does, it can sometimes take a while to bring her around.”

“I could obtain some spirits of ammonia if you—”

“No! Absolutely not,” he shouted loud enough to alarm anyone within earshot. “Smelling salts cause her to become violently ill.”

“Very well,” I said in my most soothing voice. “Is there anything else I can do that might help?”

He fixed a hard glare on the front door. “Make sure none of those filthy Gypsies come anywhere within sight.”

My stomach lurched. “The Gypsies accosted your wife?” I leaned close, not wanting to miss a word of his story.

“No. Not now. Not this very minute. I mean not since we’ve been in town.” He stumbled over his words like some of the hobos when they’d had too much beer. He sighed. For a moment he ceased fanning his wife and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. “It happened a year ago. Gypsies came to Springfield and stole our daughter. My wife hasn’t fully recovered from the incident. The mere sight of Gypsies when we stepped off the train caused her to become lightheaded—and now she’s fainted.”

I swallowed the yelp that lodged in my throat and inhaled a deep cleansing breath. When the woman stirred, I touched the cloth to her cheek. “I’ll fetch a glass of water and refresh this cloth with cooler water.”

“I appreciate your help.” He looked up at me and then rose to a half stand. “I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself. I am Emory Lofton.” He looked down at the woman. “And this is my wife, Winifred.”

“I am pleased to meet you. I am Gretchen Kohler. I help my Vater operate the store for our village.” I took a backward step and raised the cloth in the air. “I’ll take care of this and be right back.”

Oma, obviously roused by all the commotion, tottered into the store. With her attention fixed upon Mrs. Lofton, she leaned close to me and whispered, “What’s wrong with that woman?”

“She had a fright and fainted. I’m trying to help her husband bring her around, but we’re not having much success.” While I explained to Oma, Mr. Lofton continued to urge his wife to open her eyes and speak to him.

“Smelling salts,” Oma hissed. “Works every time.”

She started for the wooden box where we stored medical supplies, but I grasped her thin wrist and shook my head. “Mr. Lofton says they make his wife very ill. We can’t use them.”

Oma massaged her forehead. “How long she has been like this?”

I shrugged. “A short time. The damp cloth and fan don’t seem to have much effect.”

“Wait here.” Oma marched to the far side of the room and gathered a piece of oilcloth. She waved a finger in the air. “Bring that glass of water.”

I wasn’t certain what she planned to do, but she appeared to be in her right mind, so I followed her instruction. She pushed Mr. Lofton aside and, in one sweeping motion, draped the oilcloth over the front of Mrs. Lofton’s fancy blue gown. Before I realized what was happening, she snatched the glass of water from my hand and pitched the contents onto Mrs. Lofton’s face.

I gasped, Mr. Lofton bellowed, Oma jumped backward, and Mrs. Lofton sputtered and came to life. “Emory! Whatever are you doing throwing water in my face?” As the water-spattered oilcloth slid to the floor, I hastened forward and offered the damp cloth I’d used only a short time ago. Mrs. Lofton frowned. “I believe a dry cloth would prove more beneficial.”

After shooting my grandmother an annoyed look, I hurried and grabbed a dry rag from beneath the counter and handed it to Mrs. Lofton. It wasn’t until she’d swiped her face that I realized I’d grabbed Oma’s dustrag. The woman’s face was smudged a murky shade of gray. Without thought to proper manners, I grabbed the rag from her hand and hurried to find a clean one.

Poor Mrs. Lofton appeared completely bewildered when I returned and slapped another rag in her hand. “I do believe this one is better. The other one was, well, it was …”

“My dustrag,” Oma said. “You got smudges right here.” She pointed to Mrs. Lofton’s forehead and cheek. When the woman didn’t hit the right spot, Oma snatched the cloth from her hand and wiped her face. “There! That is gut. All clean now. And wide awake, too.” Oma squared her shoulders and stared down at Mrs. Lofton as though she’d done her a great favor by tossing water in her face.

No apology could erase the distress the poor woman had endured since arriving in town. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Lofton. Your husband explained you couldn’t use smelling salts. When my grandmother saw that you weren’t regaining consciousness, she wanted to assist. Please forgive her. In her desire to help, she sometimes goes too far.”

Mrs. Lofton patted the fringe of damp, curly bangs that now clung to her forehead. “I accept your apology and thank you for coming to my aid. I would have preferred a bit less exuberance from your grandmother. Still, I thank you both.”

My face burned with embarrassment, and when I saw Oma returning with another glass of water, I jumped between the two women. However, my movement didn’t deter my grandmother. She sidestepped me and extended the glass toward the disheveled woman. “Drink this.” Mrs. Lofton accepted the glass and stared at the purple liquid in the glass. Oma pushed the woman’s hand closer to her lips. “Drink. It is gut medicine. We make it here in Amana. Drink it down. Like this.” Oma pretended to toss back the contents of the glass in one giant gulp, and Mrs. Lofton followed suit.

“That didn’t taste so bad,” Mrs. Lofton said. “Indeed, it was quite good.”

Oma bobbed her head. “Ja, I told you. We make gut wine. You want some more?”

“Wine?” Mr. Lofton grabbed the glass from his wife’s hand.

I shuddered when I saw his forehead furrow with concern. He undoubtedly thought Oma had offered his wife a medicinal cure rather than a simple glass of wine.

“My wife isn’t accustomed to imbibing strong drink of any sort. Wine will only serve to inhibit her recovery.”

My grandmother, who obviously didn’t agree with Mr. Lofton’s decision, took the glass and turned on her heel. I lightly grasped her wrist. “No more wine, Oma.”

She grunted and stalked off. I turned my attention back to Mrs. Lofton. “If you need to rest, I can offer you a more comfortable chair in our parlor.” I pointed toward the door leading to our private rooms.

Mr. Lofton patted his wife’s shoulder. “If you have no objection, we’ll just remain here until Winifred feels strong enough to continue.”

The two of them were stationed in the center aisle of the store, but I couldn’t ask them to move, not with Mrs. Lofton in a fragile state. “Did you come to take a tour of the villages, or are you here on business, Mr. Lofton?”

“We have friends who visited here, and they suggested we might benefit from the change of scenery. My wife isn’t fond of traveling, but she couldn’t resist making the journey after hearing of their enjoyment. Unfortunately …”