Amanda Weds a Good Man (15 page)

“S
o why are the Schmuckers following us home?” Eddie murmured as the buggy rolled out of the bishop's lane and onto the blacktop.

Wyman reconsidered an answer Simon would repeat at exactly the wrong moment. “Most likely he and Mildred are . . .
concerned
about Lizzie and your mamm leaving before the meal was served,” he replied carefully. He glanced at Pete and Vera in the backseat. “What can you two tell me about how Lizzie's doing? Why is she so upset all the time?”

Brother and sister exchanged a glance, neither wanting to respond first. Alice Ann, the only cheerful one among them, wiggled her fingers at him from where she sat on Vera's lap.

“I warned her that Teacher Elsie would call her out for her short dresses,” Vera replied in a tight voice. “And Lizzie wants so much time to herself in the room, and— Well, it's my room, too! Even though she apologized for reading my diary, she still sniffles and looks out the window as though she'd rather be anywhere except with me!”

Pete let out a rueful laugh. “She doesn't earn any points with Teacher Elsie when she rants about how her dresses and kapps were just
fine
in Bloomingdale—and how much nicer the kids were,” he said. “Lizzie doesn't come out and say so, but she liked her other teacher a lot better, too.”

Wyman didn't doubt that. Elsie took after her mamm, pointing out
improvements
other people should make. Most folks speculated that Elsie had been chosen over other girls qualified for the teacher's post because she was the bishop's daughter. It seemed the young men weren't eager to court her, either, so she might remain the teacher in Clearwater for many years.

“Jah, Lizzie's a bawl-baby, all right,” Simon murmured. “Doesn't like
anything
we—”

“Enough, son. That's not helpful,” Wyman warned. How could he explain Lizzie's situation without seeming to condone her attitude or favor her? “Lizzie's in a difficult position. Everything in her life changed this week—her home, her school, her church, her friends,” he pointed out. “And frankly, I hadn't noticed that her hemlines are any higher than yours, Vera.”

Truth be told, he liked it that Amanda wore her dresses slightly shorter than Viola had. He loved her energy and admired the way she had overcome so many obstacles as a woman alone supporting a family, too. His new wife had been extremely upset when she'd left church, however, and he longed for some time alone with her before Uriah and Mildred arrived.

But there was no negotiating when the bishop of Clearwater tended his flock, and Wyman had a feeling that a few of the newer sheep were about to be chastised. He could only hope that during their time at home, Amanda, Jemima, and the girls had settled their ruffled feathers and that Lizzie wasn't sick to her stomach anymore . . . if indeed she had been physically ill. Girls that age were hard to figure out. He decided not to remind Vera of her own moods and complaints about Teacher Elsie when she'd been thirteen.

As they turned in at the lane, Uriah's rig was only twenty feet behind them. Wyman would have no time to prepare Amanda for guests. . . . He recalled with a sigh that the kitchen sink had been piled high with their breakfast dishes when they'd left home, because Jemima's lengthy stint in the bathroom had made them late.

“I'd appreciate it if you boys would tend the horse and rig, and the evening chores,” he said as they pulled to a halt by the barn. “And Simon, this would be a gut time to stay outside and run off Wags's energy, all right?”

“Jah, he's always ready to romp after being in his pen so long.” The boy sprang down from the buggy and ran full tilt toward the backyard.

“Vera, do we have anything to offer the Schmuckers if they stay to supper?” Wyman asked.

His daughter's horrified expression confirmed his fears. “I'll try to scare something up while they're visiting with Amanda.” She glanced toward the couple that was climbing down from the rig parked alongside the house. “Since we're not to be working on the Sabbath, calling for pizza delivery seems like a real gut idea. But I won't do that, of course.”

Wyman laughed in spite of his misgivings about this visit. There had been times after Viola died when they'd relied upon the sub and pizza place down the road for hot meals. “We'll believe that the Lord will provide,” he murmured. “And we'll pray for His help with Uriah and Mildred, as well.”

This was no time to mention the murmurings among some of the members, about how difficult and unyielding their bishop was compared to Vernon Gingerich and the leaders of other nearby settlements. Over the past few years, while they were delivering their corn crop, a few fellows had confided that they were looking for land elsewhere—and some had moved—because Uriah had lit into them about one problem or another.

Be with us, Lord,
Wyman prayed as he waited on the porch for the bishop and his wife.
After all, You caused the lot to fall upon this man, choosing him to be our leader. It's not my place to defy Your will
.

As he held the door, he saw Vera running hot water to wash the dishes. “It was a hectic morning. The eleven of us are still figuring out our get-ready-for-church routine,” he explained as their guests entered the kitchen.

“You should assign everyone a time to be dressed and at the table, to avoid rushing around. Especially on Sunday,” Mildred stated as she scowled at the messy kitchen. “And now that you have more women here, there's no excuse for chores to go undone at the last minute. Amanda—and you, as the man of the family—need to set your house in order, Wyman.”

Wyman remained silent. He felt badly for Vera, who hunched over her work at the sink. Had Abby or anyone else from Cedar Creek been visiting, they would have grabbed towels and helped his daughter rather than finding fault—but pointing that out to Mildred wouldn't improve her disposition.

“Seems mighty quiet,” the bishop remarked as he peered into the front room.

“Could be that Amanda and the others are napping, as none of them were feeling well this morning,” Wyman replied. “It
is
a day of rest, after all—and they didn't know you folks would be visiting.”

When Uriah raised one shaggy eyebrow, Wyman realized his reply might have sounded flippant. It
was
highly unusual that the house seemed deserted at this hour, and except for the swishing of dishes in the rinse water, the only sound was Alice Ann banging together two pots she'd grabbed from the open cabinet beside the stove.

“Not now, sweet pea,” Wyman murmured as he pried the pan handles from his daughter's tiny fists. “How about if you find your dolls—or stay here to help Vera—while Dat talks to Bishop Uriah?”

As he put away the pans, Wyman desperately hoped Alice Ann's screwed-up face didn't turn into a crying fit. Where
was
everyone? Surely Amanda had heard them coming inside—

A loud
crash
downstairs, followed by his wife's voice saying, “Fine! Just fall on the floor and break, then!” answered his question about her whereabouts.

Mildred made a beeline for the basement stairs. “That didn't sound like an empty Mason jar hitting the floor—or a full one, for that matter,” she remarked. “We should be sure your wife's all right, what with that broken glass to contend with.”

Wyman closed his eyes. He could guess what Amanda was doing, just as he knew she would be anything but all right when the Schmuckers descended upon her. But there was nothing to do except follow the bishop and his wife into the corner of the basement where he had set her potter's wheel and the shelves for her ceramics.

“And what would these paints be for? These pots and pie plates?” Mildred demanded in a shrill voice.

“Didn't I see some of these items for sale in the Cedar Creek Mercantile?” Uriah demanded. “Couldn't believe Sam Lambright would carry such gaudy pieces in his store, and him a Plain preacher, too.”

Wyman's heart sank as he caught Amanda's eye from the bottom of the stairs.
I'm sorry
, he mouthed, shrugging and shaking his head behind the Schmuckers.

Amanda stopped sweeping the colorful shards of the piece she had dropped. She gripped the broom handle, a determined expression on her face. “And gut afternoon to you, too,” she said in a strained voice. “Before I married Wyman, I supported myself and my three girls by selling my pottery in shops around Bloomingdale. My first husband's lingering illness and death drained all our cash reserves.”

Uriah picked up a pitcher that was painted bright red with yellow and white flowers on it. “Gut thing the Lord led you to Wyman, then,” he remarked archly. “You'll have no reason to continue with this
artwork
, which is far too fancy for those of the Old Order.”

“Colorful to the point of being sinful.” Mildred turned to address Wyman. “Didn't Viola make a kneeling confession about her painting? Note cards and framed likenesses, as I recall.”

Wyman felt his temperature rising with his temper. Why were the Schmuckers being so rude and hardhearted? “She did.”

“You should have instructed Amanda to dispose of her paints and pots before she moved them—and their worldly influence—into your home,” the bishop said sharply. “I feared you were straying from the path when you married in Cedar Creek rather than in your home district, Wyman. It seems I was right. Never mind that I felt slighted when you chose Vernon Gingerich to conduct your vows.”

Wyman nearly bit his tongue, keeping his retort to himself. Wasn't Uriah expressing his pride, his envy? “Preacher Sam offered us his home as—”

“And you listened to him rather than consult your own bishop?” Uriah turned sharply to glare at Amanda again. “And
you
are yet another example of how progressive ideas slither into our lives just as the serpent—the Devil—beguiled Eve in the garden. You know better than to be unpacking on the Sabbath, Amanda.”

Amanda stood still, not even breathing. Her knuckles turned white on her broomstick. “You're absolutely right, bishop,” she murmured. “Will you please forgive me?”

The silence in the basement nearly smothered Wyman as the seconds ticked into minutes, marked by the clock on the wall. He wasn't sure how his wife was holding her composure, but he had never loved her more or felt so in awe of her inner strength. He wanted to suggest that they all go upstairs to talk, but until the bishop responded to Amanda's plea, it wasn't anyone else's place to speak.

“Consider yourself warned, Amanda,” Uriah finally stated. “Mildred and Elsie have pointed up other shortcomings concerning your daughters' clothing, I believe.”

“Jah.”

Mildred's eyebrows shot up, as though she expected Amanda to go down on her knees, thanking her for such constructive criticism. Amanda, however, said nothing more.

Uriah cleared his throat loudly. “We'll be watching for the recommended improvements, as a sign of your sincere effort to cleanse your soul from the influences of sin—and as the assurance that you, Wyman, are steering your wife toward her salvation, and that she has submitted to your guidance.”

Wyman merely nodded, to keep from spewing out his true feelings. While he knew he should welcome the bishop's correction, it galled him that the Schmuckers had treated Amanda so harshly on her first Sunday in a new church district. “Shall we go upstairs, then?” he asked when it seemed Mildred was looking around the cellar for something more to criticize. “Maybe you'd like some coffee—”

“We wouldn't want to keep you from praying on these matters as a family,” Uriah insisted, “so you can amend your attitudes and rectify these matters immediately. Next time I'm in the Cedar Creek Mercantile, I hope to see that Amanda's pottery has been removed from the shelves, as well.”

Again Wyman nodded, and then followed Mildred and the bishop upstairs. It was only proper to see the Schmuckers to the door, but he wasn't surprised Amanda didn't accompany him. He stood on the porch as they stepped up into their buggy, waving briefly as they pulled away. When he entered the kitchen again, Vera was drying the last of the dishes, a distressed expression on her face.

“Well, at least it's over and they're gone,” she murmured.

“And they didn't tell Amanda to make a confession next preaching Sunday,” Wyman said.

“Yet,”
his daughter replied. “Remember how it was with Mamm? They told her to put away her paints, and not two days later Uriah was back to inform her she'd be on her knees at a members' meeting.”

“I'd forgotten that part. He came when I was at the elevator.” Wyman sighed, feeling drained and exhausted, but there was a lot of talking to do yet. “We Brubakers will have to pull together. Can you help Lizzie make some new dresses in the next couple days? And lend her some of yours in the meantime? Tall as you are, your dresses should be long enough, ain't so?”

“I can do that, jah. Should have thought of it myself.” Vera draped the wet dish towel over the drying rack. “I'll go upstairs and have her try some on.”

“Denki, Vera. I appreciate your help.”

She held his gaze for a moment, looking so much like her mother that it clutched at his heart. “If we put Jemima's pie safe over on that far wall, can we leave the rest of the kitchen as it is?”

While he was pleased his daughter wanted to prevent any further injuries, Wyman knew a loaded question when he heard one. “That's between you and Amanda. You three cooks need to figure out where things will go,” he said. “As long as gut meals are put on and the room's set to rights afterward, I'm satisfied.”

Vera nodded, not entirely happy but accepting his answer.

“After you help Lizzie try on dresses, get together with the boys and call in an order for pizza and some hot subs,” he suggested. “We've got a lot to discuss, and having food delivered means none of us has to
work
, jah?”