The Amish Bride of Ice Mountain (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

The following day, as they pulled into the wide circular sweep of the drive, Jude hoped in desperation that it would be Bas, the butler, who opened the door to them. He needed a little time before the confrontation he’d only begun to consider in detail since they took the exit for Marietta.

He glanced at Mary, her head bent in her white
kapp
, as they mounted the great stone steps to the front door of his family’s home. He noticed her white-tipped fingers against Bear’s lead.

“Hey,” he whispered, squeezing her other hand tighter. “It’s going to be all right.”
All right. All right. It’s going to be all right if only . . .
He wet his lips when she nodded. Then he rang the bell.

It was dinnertime, and probably everyone was in the dining room—or maybe they were out. Out would be good.

The door opened and his mother stood there, looking poised and beautiful—not a blond hair out of place.

“Mother . . . I—we’re home.”

He had to give it to Mrs. Lydia Lyons—her Southern graciousness was equal to the moment, and he and Mary were ushered in with a beautiful welcome, Bear and all.
But wait . . .

“Jude, dear . . . you should have called. And you’ve brought a girl? Amish, am I right? Your skin is flawless . . .”

“Thank you,” Mary whispered.

His mother stretched elegant fingers to Mary to touch the blue sleeve of her dress as if touching an exhibit at a museum.

Jude cleared his throat. “Mother, this is Mary Ki—Mary Lyons, my wife.”
For a time. Only for a time
. He felt depressed.
I’m tired, that’s all
. . .

Lydia Lyons rose to the occasion, though he knew that his mother and Carol were close friends.

“Your—wife? Jude, you must be joking.” She laughed with faint nervousness.

Jude frowned and muttered under his breath as his father came into the large, elegant foyer. Ted Lyons looked younger than his sixty-three years, except when he was irritated and his strong-boned face flushed red, as it did now.

“Lydia, the second course is waiting. What are you . . . Jude, you’re home. Get that smelly dog out of here.”

Jude accepted the older man’s embrace even as he barked orders, because he knew it was the right thing to do. But inside, he simmered as the familiar smells of expensive aftershave and woodsy cigar smoke enveloped him in negative memories.

“Ted, dear . . . Jude’s just been playing a joke, and at this lovely Amish girl’s expense too.” Lydia’s voice fluttered like a butterfly drifting toward the glass ceiling.

“Hmm? A joke? Ha! You’ve brought your so-called work home with you, son? And a fine piece of work she is . . .” His father made to capture Mary’s hands in his own and Jude pulled her back, instinctively protective. His father was a consumer—of companies, goods, people—and Mary was not up for swallowing. Jude slid his hands to her shoulders and felt the reverberation of Bear’s growl against his leg.

His father frowned at him. “Jude, what is going on?”

“My wife, sir. Mary Lyons.”

It was not the first time that he’d thought his father might strike him, but it was the most recent. Mary must have sensed his father’s anger too, and the fine bones of her shoulders straightened beneath his hands as she tensed in reaction and Bear whined.

“You have a fiancée who happens to be dining in the next room, and this . . . joke . . . is in poor taste,” his father hissed.

Jude clenched his teeth. “Again—my wife, and I’d better introduce her to Carol.”

“Have you been drinking, Jude?” his mother whispered in a discreet aside. “Or is your sugar low?”

He suppressed a groan, then looked up as the ominous click of high heels sounded on the marble floor. Carol appeared in the foyer, looking sleek and coldly beautiful. He felt a sudden headache begin to pound at his temples as he prepared to make one of the most interesting introductions of his life.

 

 

Mary studied the tall, blond-haired young woman with a sinking sensation in her chest. Here was the one the professor was to have married; she was sure of it. And for the first time in her life, she felt the sting of covetousness as she took in the fern green dress made of sleek fabric that seemed to cling in every flattering way it might to the other girl’s body.

What must he really think of my way of dress?
Mary tried to dismiss the absurd thought and then forced herself to concentrate on the Scripture passage that reminded a woman to “Not let it be the outward adornment” that mattered but “that of the heart.”

“Jude, darling!”

The green blur had brushed Mary aside, and her long arms draped around the professor’s neck. Mary felt her face flame and dropped her eyes, clutching her hand in her apron as she listened to her husband’s voice. She felt Bear’s increasing agitation.

“Caro, please. I know it’s going to hurt, but I must introduce my wife to you.”

“What?”

Mary looked up to find narrowed blue eyes riveted on her with deadly compulsion. “What have you done, you little Amish troll?” The woman drew a step nearer and Mary resisted the urge to move back, pressing against Bear’s side.

“Carol,” Jude interrupted, moving to place a firm arm around Mary’s shoulders. “I have wronged you—it’s true. So do what you want to me, say what you need, but don’t ever, ever lay so much as a finger on Mary’s head. She is innocent in all of this.”

Carol flicked a narrow fingernail at Mary’s loose
kapp
string and exhaled with slow, visible effort. “Innocent? Somehow I doubt that. Is she pregnant?”

Mary felt herself flush against her will as the other woman regarded her with disdain and then dismissal.

“I can overlook it,” Carol bit out. “Send her and her brat away to some godforsaken Amish place and no one need ever know of your—indiscretion.”

“Carol, I’m warning you—” Jude broke off as a sudden low purr of a sound entered the room. Mary saw an old man with Jude’s bright blue eyes enter in some sort of mechanized wheelchair.

The
grossdaedi
. Ach, the shame of being seen and met like this . . . Perhaps I should have stayed on the mountain, insisted against any wedding or role as a bride . . .

But everyone stood silent and still as the old man moved closer to her, finally coming to a stop in front of her and Jude.

“You come bearing gifts, Jude?” The wise eyes stared up into hers, though he spoke to his grandson.

“Yes, Grandfather—my wife, Mary Lyons.”

She couldn’t help but hear the relief that laced his tone and hoped that his world respected the old as much as hers, that his presence might bring about some peace for the moment.

“She wears no wedding ring,” Carol observed with bitterness, flashing a ring with a heavy stone in the light.

“The Amish do not wear jewelry,” Mary whispered, trying to find some balance in the shift and tension of the talk. The sight of the ring that the other woman wore was enough to make her feel dizzy when she realized that it was her husband who had surely placed it on the hand of her would-be enemy. He must love Carol or he would never have asked her to marry him—and Mary understood that she herself was the interloper, and there was no escaping that knowledge now.

 

 

Jude closed the door of one of the guest suites behind him with a sigh
. I should have kept my lousy apartment or we should have gone to another hotel . . .

But to his great surprise, Mary had accepted his mother’s offer to stay at the mansion, as she’d told him she wanted to do, even in the face of obvious discomfort.

“Are you sure about this?” he’d demanded in an undertone while his family and Carol stood nearby, visibly listening.

“
Ach, jah
. I would so like the chance to stay here—your family is important.”

He’d conceded with a frown. Of course Mary would think that family mattered above all. She was
Amisch
and had left her own home. But if she thought to find a loving
mamm
in his mother, he knew she was sadly mistaken. His mother was many things and he loved her dearly, but she oftentimes appeared to him as frivolous as a warbling bird.

So here he was, trapped in a bedroom suite with an untouchable wife, a smelly wolf dog, and an ex-fiancée down the hall who’d love to kill him.
Women!

Of course, Carol would decide that she had nowhere else to go. Her parents were in Europe and she’d been staying at his family home having linens embroidered for the wedding. He should have known better than to ever think Carol might fly off offended to some spa to lick her wounds. No, she’d fight until the bitter end.

But he also knew his marriage had come as a shock, and Carol deserved some time to recoup so long as it didn’t involve hurting Mary.

“I’m sorry, Jude.”

His wife’s gentle voice broke into his thoughts, and he realized she was staring at him, looking dismayed.

“What for?”

Mary gestured with a vague hand. “I didn’t know about all of this . . . and Carol, well, she’s beautiful—a girl to come home to maybe.”

He chuckled and eased off the door to edge close to her. He trailed a gentle finger down her pink cheek. “I told you once, you saved me from a life of desperation. You have yet to see Carol at her worst.”

“Then why did you ask her to marry you?”

The innocent question provoked him somehow.
Not because I made out with her, if that’s what you’re thinking . . .

He shrugged and turned away. “I was drunk.”

She said nothing in reply and he couldn’t resist sneaking a peek at her over his shoulder. He knew how much she disliked alcohol as a Mountain
Amischer
where moonshine was a disreputable and dangerous route to fast money.

She was petting Bear with careful strokes, her small hand disappearing and reappearing in the dense black fur. Jude met the dog’s eyes with a sour look; even the beast looked appalled at his admitted behavior.

“Well,” he asked after a moment. “What have you got to say about that? I know you’re thinking something.” His words came out rougher than he’d intended, and he regretted his irritation.

“You were drinking,” she whispered. “Like Isaac Mast was?”

Jude never would have thought that she would link his casual words to the horror of being attacked, but he understood. “Mary, I’m sorry. I never thought how the truth might hurt you or resurrect those thoughts about Mast. But, yes, I was drinking, and I did make a poor decision.”

“Have you told Carol that?”

“No,” he admitted, dropping his gaze. “No, she’d take me any way she could. She’s wanted to marry for years—I did not.”

There was a long pause, and then her voice came sweet and serious. “I’m not sure then which is the more . . . difficult . . . situation, being drunk or unconscious. It seems we women will take advantage in either case.”

“Mary,” he groaned. “I didn’t say that.”

“
Nee
, I said it, and I suppose I don’t sound very wifely at that.”

“The
Amisch
are forthright and gentle, ‘speaking the truth in love’ as instructed.” He mimicked a professor’s tone and had to smile when she caught his eye. He turned and came nearer to where she stood, conscious of Bear forming an effective barrier in front of her.

“Are you joking about me?” she asked.

“The joke’s on me, sweetheart. It’s tough to be a petty man when such honesty comes from a mouth as beautiful as yours.”

He was pleased to see her blush but also knew he was letting himself dance a thin line between his plans of annulment and intimacy. For once, he was glad of the dog.

“All right then, Mary Lyons.” He clapped his hands in a brisk motion. “This is Lydia Lyons’s second-best guest suite—Carol’s got number one, but here we are and here we’ll stay even if it’ll probably drive me out of my mind. I understand, though, that family matters to you, and I will stick it out.” He put up a hand at her wide smile. “But only for a little while, please, Mary. Then we’ll get an apartment and I can wrap up the book.”

“
Jah
, Jude.” She gave him a demure look and he found himself wondering exactly how long they would be staying if she had her way.

Chapter Twelve

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?”

Mary turned from the bedroom window in the Saturday-morning light and stared blankly at Mrs. Bas, who’d been introduced as the housekeeper. The older woman was tall and spare, but her blue eyes twinkled with a warmth that Mary appreciated.

“
Ach
, please don’t call me ma’am . . . Mary will be fine.”

Mrs. Bas gave her a brief smile. “I had the joy of bouncing Mr. Jude on my knee when he was little. It’s my pleasure to take care of his new wife. And if you Amish don’t mind a bit of gossip, I think you’re a fair sight more right for him than that other down the hall. She wanted to have me and the mister retire, don’t you know?”

“But wouldn’t that be up to Mr. and Mrs. Lyons?” Mary asked, too flustered to acknowledge the compliment mixed with the bit about Carol.

“Ha! That young miss has got her hands dipped in every pot around her, and I’ll warn you, she’ll not be fair going either.”

“What—what do you mean?”

Mrs. Bas took a step nearer and leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner. “I mean that she’s like to try every trick in the book to steal away Mr. Jude—and that means showing a bit of leg too.”

Mary puzzled over this for a moment and the older woman laughed. “Never mind, honey. Your innocence shines as bright as day and is alluring enough in itself, I’m sure. Now, I’ve put your things in the wardrobe here and I must say that you’ve as fine a stitching as I’ve ever known.”

Mary flushed with pleasure. “
Ach, danki
. . . I mean thank you. We’re not to take pride in such things, but I do love to sew whenever I have the chance to find a bit of fabric.”

Mrs. Bas reached out to pat her hand. “You wait, Mr. Jude’s always generous to those he loves. He’ll take you shopping.”

“He bought me two pairs of shoes. I don’t need anything else.”

Mrs. Bas chuckled to herself as if at some private joke. “It’s a wise woman who asks for little—she’s bound to get more in the long run. You keep being yourself, honey, and everything will be fine. Now, please excuse me.”

When the housekeeper had gone, Mary used the small set of stairs and climbed with a ginger tread into the high four-poster bed that had been hers since the previous night. Jude’s room was adjacent, but his door was shut and she knew that he was probably working on his lessons. He’d told her that he was to start back to teaching classes in a few days and she didn’t want to be a bother, but she felt lonely and tired.

She bounced a little on the thick luxury of the duvet cover, and a desire to pray rose within her
. Dearest Lord, you made marriage. You know what it’s supposed to look and feel like to the heart, mind, and body. Please create intimacy between Jude and me, not only of the flesh but of the spirit also, and help me to have wisdom in this,
O Gott
, Amen
.

Then she lay back against the pillows and allowed herself to rest for a few moments even though she’d slept the night through.

 

 

“Jude . . . um, do you have any clean cloths about?”

He turned in his desk chair to look at his wife. She stood in the doorway of the guest room and appeared a bit pale and troubled.

“Cloths? I don’t know. What about towels? What do you need them for?”

She bit her lip and her beautiful face was suffused with color. She rubbed absently at her abdomen. “I—it’s that time.”

He tilted his head, puzzled. “That time?” And then it hit him hard.

What is my problem? Am I so dense that I can’t even discern when my wife is painfully trying to tell me that she has her period?
He exhaled and rose from the desk chair.

“Mary, come in, will you? And close the door, please.”

She obeyed slowly and he wondered now if she had pain with her periods. He knew it was common—before he’d decided on Amish studies, he’d taken a few premed courses and was infinitely glad for it at the moment.

She came to stand before him, her thick lashes downcast. “Jude—I’m sorry. I should have asked someone else but I didn’t know . . . back home I just washed my cloths out in the creek each month, but here . . . Well, I need more for later today.”

She trailed off and he remembered studying hygiene on the mountain and knew this was a common practice among the women.

“Sweetheart, you don’t ever have to be embarrassed around me—about anything.” He swallowed, then went on, reaching to catch her hand. “Come here. Sit on my lap.” He sat in the desk chair and the old wood creaked with a comfortable sound as he pulled her down to rest against his chest.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, resting his chin on top of her
kapp
and trailing a hand down around her belly, rubbing softly.

“Only a bit.” But he heard the discomfort in her voice and increased the pressure of his hand, feeling her relax a bit more against his chest.

“Mary, I am such a lout. Look, I’ll take you to the store, all right?”

“Again?” Her voice dropped in dismay. “Besides the shoes?”

He had to chuckle. “Yes, again. And we’ll get you fixed up for everything for your—uh—that time of the month, okay? Trust me?”

She turned her face into his shirt and nodded and he closed his eyes against the wash of emotion he felt at her vulnerability. He’d never been so needed or felt so helpless. He wished, for a vague moment, that there was such a thing as God and that His power would care for him personally as he cared for his wife.
My temporary wife
. . . His hand stilled against her at the thought. He needed to keep a rein on his thoughts . . . a few months . . . that was all.
That’s all.

 

 

Mary squirmed in her chair at the Lyons’s elaborate luncheon table as she thought of their shopping expedition to the drugstore. She glanced at her husband across the table while he spoke with his grandfather, but then had to look away when he returned her gaze with a raised brow. At the store, he’d been calm and knowing, slanting her his oh-so-handsome, you-need-my-help grin, and she’d felt a curious tightening in her chest as he’d explained the various feminine products available in what she’d come to think of as his “professor voice.” She wondered, as she played with a heavy silver fork, how he managed to know so much about women.

But she soon pushed thoughts of Jude aside as she tried to focus on having a genuine conversation with her new mother-in-law, who was seated to her left.

“Of course, he’s always had a fascination with the Amish, even though Ted’s tried to dissuade him.” Mrs. Lyons spoke in an undertone with a glance down the long table at her husband, who was talking with Carol. “But you certainly are beautiful . . . and Jude was always affectionate when he was young. Will you be staying for the holidays? They’re coming up fast and I must see about a new decorating firm for December. Do the Amish have trees at Christmas? Wherever did you find that wolf? Will you have more salad? Bas, serve her more salad.”

Mary blinked into the carefully made-up blue eyes of her hostess and struggled for a foothold to answer. The process made her head ache and she realized she’d never heard a person speak so much in one breath, not even Old John Beider—who was known on the mountain to be able to talk a man to sleep.

Bas was filling her plate with the mixture of greens, pecans, and orange slices, and only when she shook her head did the older man murmur and step back. She stared in dismay at the pile of salad, worried how she could possibly eat it all. At home, everyone served themselves when she brought food to the table.

Jude’s mother was still eyeing her with a quizzical expression, and Mary put her fork down with a shaky hand. “I—we—yes, we have Christmas trees but we make the decorations.”

“Lovely, I’m sure.” Mrs. Lyons smiled. “Did you put that in your book, Jude? Handmade decorations . . . I don’t know that I could manage. What do you think, Ted?”

Mary watched Jude’s father cast his eyes over the table, clearly used to his wife’s manner of speaking. “Oh, I don’t know, Lydia. I am surprised that Jude has enough information for a book. Aren’t your people private by nature?”

He didn’t address her by name but tipped his crystal glass in Mary’s direction with a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

There was a sudden silence around the table as Mary lifted her chin to reply.
I must speak well—this is Jude’s
dat
. Please,
Gott
, give me words to say to this man who doesn’t want
Amisch
for his son . . .
“Yes, usually private. Jude was the first one who Bishop Umble allowed to stay on the mountain. I think he got a lot of facts for his book and that it will be good.”

She looked across the table at her husband to find him watching her with something sad and steady in his eyes.

But Mr. Lyons shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you, honey. If your people are so private, won’t a book about them destroy that privacy? Won’t it bring the whole world to your—mountain? How wise a decision was it to allow Jude in—I mean by your bishop, of course.”

“Dad.”

There was a warning note in Jude’s voice as he spoke and Mary understood that there was more to the conversation than she knew, not plain speaking but an undercurrent of dangerous anger. And she felt herself infected by the anger at the suggestion that Bishop Umble was less than wise, but she knew that she must not respond to the feeling
.What had Jude said—that here, people live by their feelings? I have been raised to control my emotions and my tongue, as
Derr Herr
instructs . . .

“Come on, Jude,” his father continued in a mild voice. “If you married her, she’s got to be bright. No offense meant, Carol darling. But, son, let the girl answer a few questions. She must know that what you’re doing is exploiting her culture, and for what, a better position and more—”

“That’s enough,” Jude said with quiet determination. He rose from his chair and Mary watched him squeeze his grandfather’s shoulder before he came around the table and held out his hand to her. “Mother, please excuse us.”

Mary put her hand in his and followed him from the room, but she couldn’t resist a glance back at the table. She saw the looks of satisfaction on the faces of Carol and Jude’s father. It was an image she would not forget.