The More the Merrier

by Linda Byler

  Who would fell the trees and chop the wood? Who would shovel the snow and manhandle the milk cans, feed the horses and chickens and pay the bills, clothe the children and put shoes on their feet before they turned red and calloused by the cold? She would, she supposed. With Suvilla and Enos.

  And so she put the letter out of sight, out of mind. For a few days she mulled over how to reject his request kindly, but then the busyness of her days and exhaustion of the evenings took over and she realized a week had passed, and then a month, and by then it seemed less rude just to let it go unanswered. Likely he’d started pursuing someone else by then, anyway, she figured.

  Daniel Beiler waited and waited, eagerly checking the mailbox, only to be disappointed time after time. When the heat of summer was blown away by the winds of early autumn, the frost covered the low places like a veil of diamonds, and the pumpkins turned huge and orange on the vine, he sat down at his desk and wrote her another.

  She read the letter, sighed, stared off into the distance before looking at the calendar. Six days before a year had passed.

  Ach, Mam. Would it be so awful if he simply paid me a visit?

  It had been a tough day—the three youngest spent the bulk of the morning arguing over a corn husk doll, Suvilla was beginning to develop a disrespectful attitude that Annie didn’t understand and didn’t have time to address, two of the cows seemed to be sick, and there was still the matter of chopping enough firewood for the quickly approaching winter. Without the time or energy to obsess over what to do with the letter, she made a quick decision. She wrote a letter in her fine hand, with blue ink on a scrap of paper from her black composition book. Yes, he could pay her a visit on the fifteenth of November. She felt bold, strong. She was a grown woman and could make her own decisions. Look at everything else she was handling on her own!

  But she spent the night without sleep, stumbled into the cow stable long after Suvilla and Ephraim had started milking, and began to cry into her bucket of milk before stumbling back into the house, saying she had a stomachache. She sat in a kitchen chair staring at the opposite wall until Suvilla came in, glancing at her mother with something far too close to disgust, and then set to work preparing breakfast, waking Annie from her exhausted reverie.

  Chapter Four

  WHEN HE SHOWED UP AT HER DOOR ON THAT November evening, there was a raw wind driving icy rain against the north side of the house. It dripped off the edge of the roof, sloshed into low places in the yard, banged loose shutters, and created a sea of slick, half-frozen mud.

  The knock was slight—so soft, in fact, that she couldn’t be sure she had heard it at all—but when she opened the door, he was there, dressed in the heavy black-capped overcoat, the wide-brimmed woolen hat dripping water. She stepped back, told him to come in. He towered above her, all wet wool and formidable height and width. He shook her hand and held it a fraction too long. She lifted her huge green eyes to his kind ones and he was seized by a sense of belonging, a sense of rightness that could only be described as coming home. He felt himself letting go of the immense loneliness that had been his constant companion for too many years.

  She had baked molasses cookies and brewed a pot of spearmint tea. She showed him into the kitchen, wishing she’d had time to scrub the floor. They spoke in soft voices so as not to wake the children sleeping upstairs. He was gentle, relaxed, kind—a combination that was in surprising contrast to his physical height and strength. It was hugely attractive. She didn’t try to resist the pull of his gentle voice, but instead allowed it to sustain her, carry her along as the evening unfolded.

  He had six children, the oldest being twelve years old. Four were in various grades in the elementary school they attended in Leacock Township, and the two youngest, Joel and John, were at home with him and the maud.

  “Who is your maud?” Annie asked.

  He sighed, waved a hand in resignation. “Whoever I can get for the week or the month. It’s really hard to find a dedicated girl, although a few of them have stayed longer than that. John was only six months old when Sarah died, so he doesn’t remember his mother. Joel says he remembers her, but I doubt it.”

  “It must be hard.”

  “Probably not harder for me than it is for you.”

  “That’s very kind, but my children have me in the house providing their needs, whereas for you . . .”

  Her voice fell away, suddenly quite shy. She hadn’t meant to insinuate, to suggest.

  His soft laugh put her immediately at ease.

  “Look, we may as well be honest. I need a wife, and have not found anyone suitable in three and a half years. Then I followed my horse to your burning barn, and you were overcome by smoke, remember?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “I have not forgotten that day. The barn raising was a huge disappointment . . . I had so hoped to see you. But I couldn’t exactly walk to the house and boldly ask the women, so I let it go. Except I couldn’t really let it go . . .”

  Annie didn’t know what to say, so she sat in silence, suddenly feeling awkward.

  “Your new barn looks good,” he said, bringing the conversation back to a safe topic.

  Annie shook her head wryly. The lamplight cast a soft gleam on her thick brown hair, created contours beneath her lovely green eyes.

  His heart thudded, thinking how tired she appeared, the drooping of her heavy lids over the gorgeous green eyes. He wanted to smooth the hair away from her forehead, erase the dark circles below her eyes with his kisses.

  It had been so long.

  “Yes, the church has been more than sufficient. I will never be able to repay, if I live to be a hundred years old. The alms I have given this year would barely pay for one door. No, the hinges on that door.”

  He nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. “Times are hard,” he murmured.

  “Do you think things will get worse?” she asked.

  “I think the worst is over.”

  “Really?”

  He forced himself to continue the small talk. “It will be slow, the return of people’s trust in government and the large banks. We will remain fearful for a good many years. But with our land and the ability to raise crops, we should be all right. The cities are much worse off than we are.”

  She nodded, suddenly grateful for every jar down cellar, every potato and onion, the covered cabbages and the celery that remained in the garden, banked with good soil and horse manure.

  She took a deep breath, then smiled a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you for reminding me I have so much.”

  He nodded, then let the silence linger for a few moments.

  “What was your first husband like?” he asked abruptly.

  “Eli? Oh, he was a good husband and father. Good to the children, a good provider. I had nothing to complain about. We had a good marriage, one I have never regretted.”

  “So you had a bad time dealing with his death?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “So if you were to marry again, would that second husband always be compared to the perfection in Eli?”

  Annie shook her head. “No, no.” Should she tell him about his stormy moods, his angry outbursts? She considered it, but then he was speaking again.

  “For me it was quite different. Sarah was . . . well, let’s just say she was not always stable. She fell when she was a baby, they say. Her relatives said she had a fractured skull but they never took her to a doctor, so she bled in her brain. I think she was afflicted with a mental condition, but since I am not a doctor, I couldn’t say for sure. She was extremely happy and noisy one day, and sunk into a deep sadness the next. Having her babies was always a difficult time, but she loved the little ones, so they kept coming. I washed a lot of dishes and clothes, changed diapers and packed lunches for the school children. Sometimes it was tough, but I had to keep going for her sake. Her mother helped out, and her sisters, but most of it fell on me. But you know how we promise to care for each other, in sickness and in healt
h, so I tried to do my best.”

  His voice trailed off, infinitely weary.

  They spoke more freely after that confession. She told him of the times when Eli was demanding, putting his needs ahead of her own, although she felt bad, even now, mentioning something so trivial.

  He saw the good in her, the willingness to submit to a loving husband, while she saw the amazing supporter he had been to a wife that might have been afflicted with a disease of the mind.

  “Bad nerves,” they called it. Many were institutionalized, incarcerated under unthinkable conditions, so he had done all he could to prevent that.

  “Her pneumonia? She ran away in an icy storm, hid in a neighbor’s shed till the following day, and almost froze to death after a long and tortuous emotional battle she fought after John was born. I blamed myself for years, but finally found peace in the forgiveness of our Savior.”

  His voice broke.

  “The children never knew. They carried on when their mother had the blues, sang with her on the good days. There was harmony in our house as far as anyone could tell. They thought it normal to see Dat doing the washing or the dishes. For that I am grateful.”

  Annie felt a great empathy, then. She was in awe of this kind and gentle man who had lived with so much pain and disappointment without complaint.

  “Why did she run away?”

  “She said I didn’t love her, which was what she often said when she fell into depression. I did love her, Annie. The best I could.”

  “I believe you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Their eyes met and held. Love was exchanged that night with unspoken communication and mutual admiration.

  Rain continued its cold lashing against the north side of the house, replenishing the water table below the rich soil, filling the streams and ponds. Dark clouds railed against an inky night sky, hiding the face of the moon and the stars, but inside the widow’s house, a soft warm glow of love and understanding began to flourish.

  Lonely hearts were fertile ground for the sowing of love, and the night had already turned toward morning when he silently crept out of the house and drove his horse slowly and without the benefit of lantern light until he was safely out of sight.

  “Someone was here last night,” Suvilla announced at the breakfast table.

  Annie had her back turned, making tea at the stove, so she stayed there until she felt the color leave her face. Then she turned slowly but didn’t meet their questioning eyes.

  “Well?” Suvilla queried again.

  Enos shrugged his shoulders. Ephraim said she was dreaming. Ida cut her corn mush and ignored them all.

  “It sounded like a man’s voice, Mam. You were talking, too.”

  Suvilla was old enough to know, and to speak her mind, so Annie slowly lifted a finger to her lips, drew down her eyebrows to mimic the “sh.” Suvilla’s eyes widened, but she closed her mouth and said nothing more.

  When they were alone, Annie told her, haltingly.

  “What? Who is he? Does he have children?”

  Suvilla drew back, staring open mouthed at her mother in disbelief. Annie stumbled over her words, but answered her questions honestly, trying not to show embarrassment. She explained that he was the one who helped her on the day of the fire, that he had six children, that he had requested that they start a friendship.

  “Six children?”

  Annie nodded. Suvilla shot her a look of disbelief, but swallowed any other comments. Children were expected to obey their parents in the Lord. Annie ended the conversation and went about the chores, knowing that if she were apologetic or dragged the discussion on it would only give Suvilla opportunity to voice rebellion. No, it was better to maintain her role as parent—to be loving but firm, not to burden Suvilla with decision-making responsibility beyond her years. It was better for children to have clear boundaries, to follow the Ten Commandments, which included respecting their parents. It gave them a sense of security, even in their teenage years.

  After Suvilla found out, she lay awake listening every time Daniel Beiler visited. She resisted the urge to wake Ida, who lay beside her, the cold beginning to creep across the floor and through the uninsulated walls. She couldn’t make out most of the words, but she heard the drone of Daniel’s voice, the soft answer in her mother’s, and imagined how her mother must feel. She was old enough to know the shy glances of young men, to dream of “going steady” someday. But it was odd to know her own mother was possibly falling in love.

  It was toward the end of November when he asked her to marry him. Still, only the oldest children were told, and none of their friends or extended family. The marriage would have to wait till March, as they had to sort through logistics such as the sale of the farm.

  Annie walked with a new spring in her step, a new light in her eyes. Daniel was everything to her now. His proposal had been so kind, so gentle, so full of promise. He was concerned about her welfare, the immense responsibility of the combination of their families. “Fourteen kids,” he said wryly, and she giggled softly. He took her small capable hand in his and asked her if she was really ready for that kind of challenge.

  “With your help, yes. I am.”

  He would never forget the immensity of those words.

  Annie butchered the fattest chicken for Christmas dinner. She made traditional roasht with it, roasting the chicken until the meat could easily be pulled off the bones, then mixing it with bread cubes, celery, onion, eggs, salt and pepper. The skin of the chicken was put through the meat grinder, for added richness of flavor. The liver, heart, and gizzard were all ground as well, minced into the other ingredients until it all came together in a savory stuffing dotted with pieces of dark and white chicken, returned to the oven to bake until it was golden brown. There were plenty of potatoes that had been dug in the good, dark earth and then carried carefully into the cellar to be stored in the bin. So Annie peeled and cut a plentiful amount and put them on the back of the cook stove to boil while she used the chicken broth to make gravy. The cabbage had been shredded, mixed with what sugar could be spared, salt, and vinegar, and set in a cool place. There were sliced turnips, lima beans cooked with salt and butter, tiny sweet pickles and dark red beets pickled in a brine with their own juice.

  She made two pumpkin pies using molasses and maple syrup for sweetener, and put a sprig of holly on top of each. It wasn’t the Amish way to adorn their homes with Christmas trees or wreaths, but the children decided that Christmas that they would take their mam’s pies over any fancy English decorations. Each child got one wedge of the smooth, creamy pie, and they savored every bite.

  The woodstove crackled and burned, giving the warmth that spread cheer throughout the house. They heaped their plates with the fragrant roasht and the mounds of buttery potatoes and thick, rich gravy. Dan had tried to give her money to buy the children gifts, but she had declined, said it wouldn’t be proper—especially before they were married. They had never done gifts for Christmas anyway—it wasn’t a tradition she had grown up with, her mother having thought gifts distracted from the true meaning of Christmas, the celebration of the Christ child. So there were no gifts on that cozy evening, but the children felt as if it was the best Christmas ever.

  Chapter Five

  ALL ACROSS LANCASTER COUNTY THE SNOW blew in from the northeast, tiny particles that made a swishing sound as it was driven across metal roofs, hard-packed frozen earth, and ponds. The wind moaned in the pine trees, whistled around the eaves of the house, and threw particles of frozen snow against window panes like sand. The atmosphere was heavy, gray, with a yellowish cast that seemed ominous.

  Annie lifted her face to the sky as she made her way to the barn, the driven snow like pellets against it. This was a real January blizzard, and she was prepared, reveled in it. She loved the snow, the purity of winter scenery, when weeds and mud and unsightly puddles were all hidden under the beauty of white, white snow, with blue shadows in hollows and beneath
trees that made the whole world seem magical somehow.

  And now she was so happy. Her future had changed from the gray of care and responsibility to a wonderful life with a man she loved beyond reason. He was everything she had ever imagined any man could be—kind, caring, soft-spoken, and so pleasant to look at. She loved his eyes, the straight, fine nose, the mouth that curved into a beautiful smile when he arrived in the evenings.

  She lifted her arms and gave herself up to the joy that coursed through her veins, skipped a few steps, then reined herself in to a sedate walk. Oh, but it felt wonderful to experience joy again. To feel loved and desired.

  Two more months till her wedding day.

  It was sobering, thinking of these six children she had never met, but she would love them to the best of her ability. As he would love her own.

  The breakfast table held the hum of anticipation as the children looked forward to the snow and all the sledding and sleigh rides. The boiled cornmeal was served with molasses and milk, the bread toasted in the huge cast iron pan on top of the stove. The coffee was steaming hot and so good laced with plenty of cream.

  There was firewood in the woodshed, staples in the pantry, enough to keep the hunger away. Annie felt blessed beyond measure, filled with an appreciation for God’s kindness, the love he bestowed on them, the richness of life.

  On Saturday evening Daniel handed her twenty dollars and told her to buy fabric or shoes, whatever they needed for the wedding.

  Annie told him she couldn’t take it. “No, no. It’s too much. I have a good Sunday dress. It’s blue.”

  She didn’t tell him it was eight or nine years old, had been sponged and pressed numerous times, worn thin at the underarms.

  “No, Annie. Take it. I want you to have a wedding dress.”

  She blushed, a gentle rose color that spread like a rose across her cheeks. This time she accepted, not wanting to disappoint him.