Rebecca's Choice (The Adams County Trilogy 3) Page 12

  “See?” The deacon’s eyes were big. “I said so.”

  “We really must not be too harsh,” Isaac said. In his mind he saw John and Rebecca’s faces. “They are speaking the truth.”

  “That may be as it is,” Martin said, “but we have to deal with how things look until we have evidence otherwise.”

  “True,” the deacon grunted. “We ought to require Rebecca to give the inheritance up.”

  “Yes.” Henry’s face brightened at the thought.

  “I already thought of that,” Martin told him. “Doesn’t work. From what I understand of the rules—wills and all—this one states she has to marry before she gets the money. Rebecca can’t give away the money until she has it.”

  “I’m sure she’d be willing to promise that,” Isaac said.

  “I don’t know,” Henry said.

  “I don’t either,” the deacon agreed. “Perhaps we could take the chance. But what about the ring? If Rebecca can break the rules like that, she could break this promise too.”

  “Money can make people do strange things,” Henry said, making his opinion clear.

  “Then it’s decided,” Bishop Martin said. “Rebecca will be asked to abstain. That will keep things in place until we know more, okay?”

  Everyone nodded except Isaac, but they didn’t check with him.

  “Who will tell her?” the deacon asked.

  “Isaac,” Martin said.

  The deacon nodded his assent.

  The bishop pulled his watch out of his trouser pocket, checked the time, and rushed through the rest of the proceedings. They trouped downstairs, all in a straight line. Isaac was in second place because he had the main sermon.

  Henry had the first sermon, and the deacon read the Scriptures during the break. Isaac got up without any idea about what he was going to say. Usually preaching came easily for him. The words flowed from his heart.

  People whispered to one another about how easy it was to stay awake while Isaac preached. Isaac didn’t harbor those words in his heart or ever speak about them, even to Miriam, lest pride rear its ugly head.

  Isaac clasped his hands on his chest, his white beard brushing his fingers. He was an old man, he thought, too old and tired for this. Slowly he turned to face first the living room where the men were seated, then the dining room and kitchen where the women sat.

  He said nothing. He just let his gaze flow over the congregation, and no one thought it strange. A few eyes met his. Others focused on the floor. Some were definitely distracted. This was the start of the second sermon with at least an hour yet to go.

  “We must comfort ourselves in this hour,” he said, as he found his voice. “King David said in his psalm, ‘The Lord is gracious, and full of compassion; slow to anger, and of great mercy.’”

  Isaac cleared his throat and allowed the thoughts to come. “Our Lord, when He came down from heaven to walk on this earth, how great must have been the sorrow He felt at our condition. Here we are, so full of sin and evil. He had come from heaven where all is only joy and perfection.”

  Isaac’s hand’s were now by his side. “Jesus came with the heart of His Father beating in His chest. He told us a story about a man who had two sons. One left with his father’s inheritance. When all the money was spent, the son found himself in the pigpen. In sorrow he repented and returned, expected simply to be a servant in his father’s house.

  “Instead the father welcomes the son home, gets him a new change of clothing, cleans him up, and makes a great supper. That is how much God loves His children who have gone astray.”

  Isaac paused. He had caught sight of Rebecca in the kitchen. It threw his concentration off. Surely she wouldn’t think he was preaching at her. He didn’t think of her as a prodigal, one who had to repent from the pigpen and come home to a great feast.

  It flustered him, and he wished Rebecca and John didn’t know their fates had been discussed that morning, but they did. It wasn’t something he had gone out of his way to say. John had asked the simple question, and the rest had come from a knowledge of how Amish things worked.

  Isaac’s mind found another story. He cleared his throat. “Our Lord also spoke of a shepherd who had a hundred sheep and lost one. The shepherd didn’t stay at home that night tending to his own needs or warming himself by the fire. No, he got out of his house, maybe even left his supper, and went to look for the sheep he had lost.

  “Out on the mountains, he found the sheep. The shepherd carried it back, wrapped its wounds, and placed it once again amongst the others.”

  The thought flashed through Isaac’s mind that perhaps this was a good lesson for the deacon, who now sat with his head bowed. Instantly he rebuked himself for such unholy imaginations. He told himself the deacon had a good heart and was just trying to do his job.

  Somehow he got through the sermon, his usual ease lost, and asked for testimonies. He didn’t really listen when those were given. There was hardly anything to find wrong, he figured because he hadn’t really said anything worth saying.

  His spirits were low as he closed the service. Even at the meal afterward, the lively conversation did little to cheer him up.

  Miriam asked him on the way home, “Why are you in the dumps?”

  “I have to talk with John and Rebecca again,” he told her.

  “Not good news,” she concluded.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  John must have known too because he brought Rebecca home with him after the service. Isaac thought Rebecca’s eyes looked red, as if she had been crying. John led the way to the couch, and they both sat down.

  Isaac got right to the point, thinking that would be the least painful way. “There was a decision made. It’s being asked that Rebecca abstain from communion.”

  “From communion,” John half rose off the couch. “She’s not doing anything wrong.”

  “There was quite an uproar. It couldn’t be ignored,” Isaac said.

  “You didn’t agree with this,” John stated, hoping it was a true statement.

  Isaac shook his head. “It was the ring story. If not for that…”

  “The ring,” Rebecca spoke up, “I don’t have it anymore.”

  “You had it, though, while being a member,” Isaac said, his voice gentle. “It’s as I said. It was decided. I hope you can find it in your hearts to submit. In the end it may all work out for the good. Da Hah is like that.”

  “But communion,” John said, “that’s serious.”

  “I know.” Isaac nodded. “There is no other way, though. Maybe things will calm down later if nothing else comes up.”

  “Then I’m not taking communion either,” John said, his jaw taut.

  “But you must,” Rebecca said, grabbing his arm, her fingers digging in.

  “It will only make things worse,” Isaac agreed. “It will make you look stubborn.”

  “I’m not,” John said, “whether it looks stubborn or not.”

  Isaac saw the tears begin and then run in streams down Rebecca’s face. Miriam jumped up and rushed out to the kitchen for something. He wasn’t sure what, wasn’t sure if she knew what.

  Miriam came back with two handkerchiefs, using one to dab her own eyes and giving the other one to Rebecca to do the same. How she found two in the kitchen, Isaac had no idea.

  “It will work out for the best,” he said, but his words didn’t stop the tears or ease the painful look on his son’s face.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Rebecca knew her parents needed to be told she must abstain from communion. She had stayed at John’s place for the afternoon and later attended the hymn singing with him. Lester and Mattie were in bed by the time John brought her home. In a way Rebecca was glad. It gave her a chance to have a good cry, unhindered by anyone sympathizing with her.

  The morning, warm enough to open her window before she went downstairs, held the hope of a pleasant day. Rebecca had heard Matthew’s footsteps earlier and had decided to join him in the barn for chor
es. He could handle things well enough himself but never complained when she showed up to help.

  Mattie hollered from the kitchen as Rebecca went past the door, “I could use some help in here.”

  “Yes,” Rebecca told her. She knew what her mother meant. Apparently Mattie was planning to serve a large breakfast this morning. The routine varied, based on her mother’s mood.

  Outside the morning air felt fresh on her skin. The sun was not up yet, but the eastern sky showed the first streaks of color. So new, she thought, so filled with new beginnings. How unlike my life.

  The tears stung her eyes. Last night was enough, she figured, but the fresh emotion caught her by surprise. Apparently the emotion wouldn’t be over for a while yet.

  John, how precious he had been yesterday. He stood with me, she thought, and will at communion time too. What a sacrifice. But is it to no avail? The thought chilled her, and the tears dried up. What if this is all for nothing. Skipping communion for me would leave a mark on John’s record. People will remember. Is there any way around this problem?

  John had spoken at length about it last night. She had said little because she didn’t know what to say. One of John’s solutions had been to move the wedding date up. Right out of the blue, he had suggested it, which warmed her heart and scared her at the same time. It all seemed a little desperate to her and not likely to work.

  Bishop Martin would see right through the maneuver as an attempt to beat the fall communion date. Marrying John that soon could allow things to go fairly smoothly for a while, but after that even Isaac would be hard pressed to protect them if another communion was missed.

  “We can’t,” she had told John and managed to smile in spite of the pain in their discussion. “You’re a dear to be willing. Of course I’d marry you,” she had told him, “but don’t you see? It wouldn’t work.”

  “Why not?” John had demanded, obviously determined his plan would work.

  “First of all there is the planning of the wedding. You can’t just do it suddenly. We would have to start now. Even that’s a little too late, really. I can’t do that to Mother. In fact she mentioned something about that the other day.”

  “So you have thought about moving the date up?” John asked.

  “Not for this reason,” she had told him. “I didn’t know this was going to happen.”

  “All the better,” he said. “It all works in the plans.”

  “It won’t,” she had told him. “Bishop will know why we’re doing it, and it makes it look even more suspicious—like maybe you are involved too.”

  “Sure. I want all that money,” he had said.

  “Maybe you do,” she told him and had to smile at the look on his face, even while her heart hurt.

  John had gone into pretend mode. He tried to cheer her up by prancing around the room, looking like a high-rolling Englisha—whatever that looked like—but she knew what John aimed at.

  “Money!” he had said, his head in the air. “I want servants—one for the upstairs, two for the barn, one for each buggy, and three for the kitchen. Come, is it not dinnertime, my dear? And is the ship ready to sail? Have we not a long voyage to make? The club will just have to wait.”

  She had laughed heartily for their one moment of levity that evening. Anyone who saw them then would never have imagined what lay beneath the surface.

  “There’s just one little problem,” she had teased. “I have to marry Amish. For all this to come my way.”

  “Of course,” John said and walked the floor. “Let us be married then.”

  “No,” she said shaking her head, “I will not be married under such a cloud. This has to clear up first.”

  The alarm showed on his face. “But that may never happen. We can just be glad if they let us marry. You are out of this communion. I’m out of this communion. Have you forgotten? Do you know what that means?”

  “I do,” she said nodding. “How well I do.”

  “Then we must marry in the fall.”

  “I can’t. John, I can’t.” She had felt the tears come again. “It’s too much to ask even if it could work.”

  He had taken her hand and held it until she could smile again. “I will do what is necessary,” he said. “We’ll make it together.”

  John had left then not just because it was time to go, but because Rebecca knew she needed to be alone and assumed John did too. These were not things they could fully share yet. The gulf, to be bridged only by the sacred vows of matrimony, still existed between them. The way across such a chasm had not been discovered. She felt like a deer that had come to the edge of a cliff, the hounds close behind, the hunters’ approach sure, and the other side too far away to leap across.

  Matthew grinned when she walked into the barn. “Sleepyhead, wake up,” he commented.

  The reasons were plenty for why she should look so, but she just grinned at him. She didn’t want Matthew to know any of this yet. At twelve years of age, he would find out soon enough. When she and John didn’t go along for communion, he would learn that something was wrong. Before that she didn’t want him burdened with the matter.

  She knew this was a defense tactic, not totally justified, and about as effective as the deer that stomped its hooves at the hounds. It felt good, as if she had some control.

  “You shouldn’t stay up so late,” Matthew said, his tone admonishing her. “Children who can’t get up should be in bed by ten.”

  She made a face at him, not able to help it, which just encouraged Matthew.

  “I can make you some soup, but I don’t think it will cure love sickness. When are you and that songbird going to tie the knot?”

  “His name is John,” she said, as if Matthew didn’t know.

  “John…John,” he sang in a singsong voice, holding a milker on one arm and using the other to push against a cow to bring it into position. “My sweet John, my darling lovey-love, why don’t you marry me?”

  “You are despicable,” she said, knowing she shouldn’t let him get under her skin.

  “In the morning I see your face,” he crooned. “In the evening I hear your name. Won’t you be my lovey-love, my darling teddy bear?”

  “You are worse than despicable,” she said. His teasing finally got to her. The urge to laugh at him came in spite of her mood.

  Matthew laughed with her good naturedly. At the moment he seemed to be much older than his twelve years.

  “Where did you hear that song?” she asked, suspicion in her voice.

  “I just made it up,” he said with a straight face.

  She glared at him.

  “Well…” He turned a little red in the face. “I heard it playing on the radio in town the other day when Dad took me in. It sounded something like that. I can’t remember, really. I made most of it up. Seeing your face made me do it.”

  “I don’t look that bad, surely.”

  “Not really—just sad.”

  This caught Rebecca off balance because it came from Matthew. The stinging tears returned.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “for whatever it is.” He then went back to placing the milker on the cow.

  “I have to help with breakfast,” she said a moment later. Already she had taken longer in the barn than planned. Mattie might well be ready for her help in the kitchen.

  Matthew seemed to understand. He nodded his head, as she slipped out the barn door. In the kitchen Mattie didn’t take long before she asked Rebecca to tell her about yesterday. Rebecca knew there was no time for a long quiet conversation, so she let her troubles slip out while mixing pancake batter and warming the pan.

  Mattie listened quietly, busying herself with the bacon and eggs. When Rebecca finished she simply said, “Your father needs to be told, the sooner the better.”

  “I know, but he can’t do anything anyway.”

  “Sounds like you need all the help you can get. Who would have ever thought, you—of all people—could get this deep in trouble.”

  “It’s
not my fault,” Rebecca wailed.

  “You haven’t done much to help,” Mattie said kindly enough. “That much I know. Why did you hide that ring for all these years—in the house, to boot, and right under our noses? What were you thinking? That no one would find out?”

  “I hid it well. You never did find it.”

  Mattie glanced at her. “See? That’s what I mean. You have a record. Can’t you see for yourself? You can blame the bishop or the deacon. I know how he is. He doubts everyone. In this case I have sympathies.”

  “I didn’t lie,” Rebecca insisted.

  “I believe you on that. But now you have a mess to deal with. Go get the girls up for breakfast.”

  Rebecca went upstairs and made certain her sisters were awake and actually dressing themselves before she returned to the kitchen. She set the last plate on the table, as they came in sleepy eyed.

  “It’s time you started helping me in the mornings too,” Mattie told the oldest, Katie. “Rebecca’s not going to be around forever.”

  “Where’s she going?” Katie wanted to know, as she slid along the back bench. “Is Leona having another baby?”

  “She’s growing up, just as you are,” Mattie said. “Next spring the wedding will happen.”

  “Oh that.” Katie made a face. “I suppose so.”

  Rebecca’s heart skipped a beat. She hung onto her mother’s words. Next spring. So her mother did believe there would still be a wedding in spite of all this. The hope soothed her soul.

  After breakfast Lester announced he needed to drive into town right away. One of the plow blades loosened yesterday, and he had broken the bolt trying to tighten it. Matthew would have to get the horse ready for school on his own.

  Rebecca thought her mother would protest, but she didn’t. For the rest of the day, Rebecca had no chance to tell her father about the troubling news. After dinner it appeared as if Rebecca was going to have a chance, but she must have decided not to broach the subject with Matthew around. Not till after eight, when the children were in bed and Matthew was upstairs, did the chance come.