Shadows of Lancaster County (23 page)

“What’s been happening?”

“Caleb,” she said, using the same frustrated tone of voice Lydia had used last night. “The longer he stays on
rumspringa,
the more
agasinish
he becomes. He went out last night, which is fine. It was a Friday. But now here we are on Saturday morning with cows that need milking and a wagon that needs repairing and stalls that need mucking, and where is Caleb? Who knows? He chose not to come home last night.”

My eyes widened.

“You mean he disappeared?”

“No, he did not disappear. I know exactly where he is. He is running
around with his friends who have jobs in town and have the weekends off. Those boys may have a lot of extra money and time to get themselves in trouble, but Caleb’s work is here on the farm, with Nathaniel, even on Saturdays. Because Caleb is not here, Rebecca and Ezra had to do his chores this morning on top of their own. We are all
feraikled
with him.”

“So when does he usually show back up?”

“Oh, we will probably see him at tomorrow night’s hymn sing, charming all the girls and making everyone laugh and acting like he did not abandon his work and his family for the entire weekend.”

I took a final bite of my breakfast, thinking about the difficult road life had handed to Grete. To be saddled with an entire family at such a young age had to have been overwhelming, even with such extensive support from the community. To my mind, she was being far too hard on herself, obviously seeing Caleb’s behavior as a result of something she and her husband had done or didn’t do. I couldn’t say as much to her, but as far as I was concerned, considering the loss they all had suffered at such an early age, if these kids made it to adulthood as good, healthy, well-adjusted individuals who loved God and each other, then Grete had more than done her job, whether they ended up Amish or not.

“Don’t beat yourself up about a little rebellion,” I said. “God can soften even the hardest heart, but in His time, of course.”

“Of course.”

With a nod and a smile, Grete turned her attention to the inside of the pantry. Taking advantage of the moment, I carried my plate to the trash can and quickly dumped my leftovers before she could notice how very little I had eaten. Bringing my plate and glass to the sink, I gave them a good washing and rinsing, and then I dried them and put them away.

As I admired the handmade cabinets, I noticed the ticking clock over the stove, which reminded me I needed to get moving. I kept thinking about that jar, but Grete wasn’t likely to leave the room until I was out of there.

“I feel bad that I just keep showing up for meals and then leaving,” I said, “but I really need to run. I have so much to do that I probably won’t be back until tonight. If there’s no snow, I probably won’t even make it back for dinner.”

“Please, you go. Find my sister’s husband. We are here if you need us.”

I thanked her, taking a moment to look out the front window, toward the road.

“I’m assuming that with the blinds up and the kids outside, that means there aren’t any reporters or photographers out there today?”

“Not yet anyway.”

“This is a good time to make an exit, then,” I said, thanking Grete again for the breakfast and the hospitality.

She waved away my thanks and started shooing me out the door, so I bundled up in my coat and scarf, grabbed my bags, and left. Outside, from somewhere in the distance, I could hear the squeals of the children. I put everything into the car, but before I got in I headed toward the squeals to let Lydia know I was leaving.

What I saw as I rounded the corner of the washhouse warmed my heart, a cozy scene of a young mother and her son and niece running up a tiny hill, piling onto various “vehicles,” and sliding down on them in the mushy snow, an endeavor that was more comical than successful. Tresa, dressed in her black Amish cape, was using a wagon of some sort, though in the place of the wheels were blades that looked like snow skis. Isaac, wearing jeans and a ski jacket, had a brightly colored store-bought plastic sled, the kind Bobby and I always liked best when we were kids.

My smile dimmed just a bit when I spotted the bodyguard standing nearby, because his presence reminded me of the situation we were currently in. With that in mind, I gave Lydia a quick wave and called out that I would be in touch later. She waved back, and I headed to my car and took off, thinking as I did so how easy it was to be lulled into the peace and calm of an Amish household. Where everything had felt so urgent before, after one night with this family, I had already begun to feel as though I had all the time in the world, that no problem was too big for God and time to handle.

While that was true, I knew it wouldn’t hurt to get my game back on and get busy finding my brother.

July 21, 1812

I have discovered a confection so enticing that certainly its very existence must be a sin: tiny, individual apple pastries that Priscilla calls schnitz pie. When I passed her in the fields today as I made my rounds, she shyly offered up a basket of this delicacy. One bite and I was convinced I have tasted heaven here on earth. I have asked for the recipe to give to the palace chefs, but she claims it was simply learned from her mother without thought to measure or timing. I asked how she came to make apple pastries in July, well before the fall apple harvest, and she explained that schnitz pie is made from dried apples, not fresh.

As I know I will see her again, I asked that she prepare more of these in the future, though not so often as to make me grow even heavier than this child in my womb is already making me. Between myself, my attendant, Priscilla, her toddler Francis, and Priscilla’s shy husband, Samuel, we finished the whole basket of delights. Next time, I will save at least one to bring back to the chef, in the hopes he could take that sample and approximate it in his kitchen.

July 30, 1812

I continue to be refreshed and delighted by my walks, strengthened by the physical exertion, and much reassured by my daily encounters with Priscilla. I do believe we have formed a genuine friendship, and I will be sad to see this friendship come to an end once my child is born. Perhaps it is for the best, as propriety would never allow the wife of the Duke and the wife of a tenant farmer, an Amisch woman no less, to meet under any other circumstance.

August 5, 1812

Today while visiting with Pricilla, I expressed my deep regret at having to terminate our friendship once our respective children are born. Certainly, she understood why our relationship must end, though she did offer up some hope by reminding me that my husband’s family has shown great kindness to her people in the past. In particular, she spoke of how just eleven years ago my husband’s grandfather, the reigning Duke at that time, abolished many of the old, unfair laws that had caused so much grief and hardship to the local Amisch community. Because of his kind actions, Priscilla said, her family had moved here to the fertile land of Baden to become tenant farmers, where they had thrived and multiplied. Surely, she said, the grandson of a man so tolerant of her religion might see fit to allow his wife such a minor daily social interaction as I have found on these walks.

I reminded her that it was my own husband who reinstated one of those old, abolished laws just last month, when he removed the exemption of her community’s males from the military.

She agreed and we were both downcast for a while until she suggested that we each continue to pray that my husband, Karl, would grow into the role of a benevolent ruler more in keeping with his grandfather’s rein—and that the men in her community would not be forced to take
up arms when their religion so strictly forbids it. I added that my most fervent prayers would be for the continuance of our friendship and the opportunity to persist with these daily walks even when I no longer had pregnancy and doctor’s orders as my excuse.

With all the trips I had made to Haley’s mother’s house as a teenager, I had no trouble finding it now. Technically, Melody lived in a neighborhood, though her driveway began where the road ended, curving completely out of sight behind a stand of trees so thick that the house could not be seen from the street, even now in the winter, when many of the limbs were bare. I turned onto the winding driveway, glad that the snow had already turned to slush, and took it all in as I went, surprised at how much of the property she had allowed to grow wild in the years since I had been here. Deep woods seemed to encroach on all sides, and though there was a tidy row of bushes along the front of the house, otherwise it didn’t seem as if she had done any pruning or neatening of any kind to the various forms of vegetation that had once graced the yard.

The cottage itself was small but cozy, with two bedrooms and a single bathroom. I parked the car, grabbed my stuff, and headed to the front door. Melody greeted me with a warm hug, and as we pulled apart, I couldn’t help but notice the view of the backyard, visible through the center hallway that led to the living room.