Last Bride, The (Home to Hickory Hollow Book #5)

by Beverly Lewis

  Gently tugging Tessie’s hand, Ella Mae whispered to her, “I’ve been known to make some tasty peppermint tea. ’Tis gut for the soul . . . when the heart needs a listening ear.”

  “Denki,” whispered Tessie, tears welling up at the feel of the older woman’s cool little hand in hers. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Chapter 12

  The first hard frost came, nipping the hardy hosta leaves and hushing the locusts, katydids, and crickets for the season. Morning glory vines and other formerly thriving greenery withdrew into curled creepers and turned into cracked brown leaves. And the wind howled at night, making it hard to sleep.

  Three weeks dragged like they were thirty years. Tessie helped Mamma cook and clean, their usual daily schedule. Occasionally, she went walking out along the road, especially grateful for the late autumn haze that allowed her to fall into the depths of her sadness and seemingly blend in with the bleak landscape. And on nights when she did not relive her darling’s terrible fall and subsequent death, she escaped her sorrow in sleep.

  Tessie went through the motions of attending quilting bees and charity functions, where they made various items to donate to the Mennonite Disaster Service, as well as the Disaster Response Services, an organization created by an alliance of Amish and conservative Mennonites. She went over to help her expectant sister Molly scour the house for an upcoming Preaching service a month away. But her heart was all bound up in her memories of Marcus.

  When she had a spare moment, she visited the Amish cemetery just up the road. Unlike some folks who’d lost spouses and shied away from going to the grave after the burial service, Tessie actually felt closer to her husband there. Once, before the ground had gotten so cold, she’d even sat in the yellowing grass near his feet and vowed her constant love, crying and wishing . . . hoping she’d wake up from this dreadful dream and find that Marcus hadn’t gone to the barn raising that fateful day after all.

  His headstone was small and white, consistent with all the other simple markers in the square-shaped cemetery. The only real difference between his grave and the others was the uneven raised patch of grass that had been cut away to lay his body to rest.

  Time tramped forward and people’s lives seemed to resume to normal. Tessie marveled at how swiftly their world seemed to right itself when she still felt nearly oblivious to everything around her, even toward herself. But her ongoing fatigue troubled her, and one solemn December day, she realized she had missed her second menstrual cycle. Can it simply be the stress of my great loss? she wondered, willing her suspicion away.

  But it only intensified the following week, when a wave of severe nausea caught her by surprise one morning . . . then the next. Until Tessie could no longer dismiss what she suspected.

  I must be pregnant.

  Such mixed emotions came with this realization. Oh, the blessing of carrying her beloved’s baby, yet the awful anxiety that she might deliver a disabled or deformed child—even stillborn. And she fretted, torn between terror and love for her child . . . and what the bishop and the People would do to her when they learned of her condition.

  Mamma was kind and helpful, assuring Tessie the stomach upset was merely due to something she’d eaten, “that’s all.” But Tessie assumed differently, and the reality of this new and shocking predicament kept her awake at night. Was she bearing the punishment for her willful behavior, eloping as she had with Marcus? Not only had her husband died, but now, if what she suspected was true, she could very well be carrying his impaired child, too. A special child.

  She felt sad that she could no longer keep her legal union with Marcus private in this precious and secret world she’d created from her lovely memories of their few weeks as a married couple. Eventually, it would be impossible to deny that she’d conceived. And unless I admit to our elopement, everyone will assume it was out of wedlock. Both were sinful in the sight of the church.

  I should have told the bishop right after Marcus’s death, she thought, dismayed. Wouldn’t admitting the marriage now seem like an attempt at an excuse? Yet it still behooved her to come clean before the bishop.

  Tears veiled her eyes as she stood before her wall calendar, counting the weeks. As best as she could calculate before consulting a doctor, her baby would come sometime between early to mid-July of next year.

  Panic-stricken though she was, Tessie wondered how soon she should see a doctor, especially to share what she’d seen in her father’s file. Or should she slip off to Mattie Beiler, the hollow’s midwife, and confide in her?

  Tessie muttered her woes to the chickens while she tossed feed to them, especially to Obadiah and Strawberry, the two with the most personality. “Have ya ever heard the expression ‘Your goose is cooked’?” she found herself asking.

  I’ll have to continue living under Dat’s roof . . . become an alt Maidel, she mused, knowing Amishwomen were born to marry and have children, lots of them. She wondered if she’d be ousted by her father once he found out she was expecting a baby, and trembled at the thought.

  Each night, Tessie placed her hands on her stomach, praying the Lord’s Prayer, repeating the phrase “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”

  Yet, as hard as her shame would be in the months ahead—unmarried as she was in the eyes of the People—Tessie felt somewhat cheered by the knowledge that Marcus’s tiny babe nestled beneath her heart. She could only hope this child would be strong and healthy and kind and fun loving . . . like Marcus always was.

  Or were her father’s charts a frightful prediction? she wondered more times than she could count. Will our little one be born deformed or suffer a terrible disease? Will he or she even live past birth?

  The nights were the worst, Mandy thought, or so they were becoming. Was her working at the shop still a problem for Sylvan? But Mandy guessed there was more to the distance between them—her little shop merely a symbol of what was really wrong.

  When will I ever be with child?

  It was a week before Christmas Day, and Mandy lay very still in bed next to Sylvan, his back to her. She could hear him breathing deeply and realized he must be asleep already, although it was scarcely nine o’clock. Both were tired from the long day’s work. Tessie had come over to cook the noon meal, making it possible for Mandy to hurry off to Bird-in-Hand right after breakfast and stay late, closing up for Cousin Emmalyn. She’d pled with Sylvan to understand her need to get away from the too-quiet house. Even though she knew it went against the teachings of the church to engage in outside work while hoping for a family.

  Sylvan had been kind and listened, encouraging her, or so it seemed, to enjoy the one day a week at the shop. But only one? She wondered if he shared her growing disappointment at their empty nest. Sylvan was working longer hours than ever before, caught up in his own doings with winter imminent. He rarely referred to his duties or to the partnership with her father, hinting once, when she attempted to ask, that she would find such conversation tedious, even uninteresting. He must prefer she not be in the know about the family business.

  One more thing we don’t talk about.

  Several days later, on Christmas Eve morning, Sylvan surprised Mandy at breakfast by being almost talkative as they sat there, the kitchen filled with momentary sunlight. He mentioned casually that some of the men traded to the Indiana church district were coming home to Hickory Hollow for the season. “Norman Byler is one of them.”

  “Who told ya?” she asked, surprised.

  “Norm’s father. Saw James over at the Fishers’ auction a few days ago.”

  She wondered why Sylvan hadn’t told her till now and wished he hadn’t brought it up at all; they’d never really discussed her former beau.

  “Norm may be comin’ to work for his sister Hallie’s husband.”

  Her heart sank. “He’s movin’ back to stay, then?”

  “Guess he wants to introduce his fiancée to the family, have her stay round for the holidays—see if she likes it here enough to settle down.�
��

  “Oh.” She let the woeful word slip before thinking.

  “You all right, love?” He narrowed his gaze. “Mandy?”

  “It’s just strange to hear he’s returning.”

  He looked at her kindly. “But none of it matters now, does it?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all.” She thought suddenly of the box of Norm’s letters and cards she’d saved from their courtship and wondered why she’d kept them even this long. For what purpose?

  Sylvan was silent for a time and then pushed back from the table. “So we’ll leave it right there.” He headed across the kitchen to the back door. “I’ll be in the barn workin’ late,” he said over his shoulder and left.

  Surely Sylvan’s not jealous, she thought, leaning her face into her hands. O Lord, grant us Thy great wisdom, she prayed silently.

  Chapter 13

  Tessie dutifully helped her mother extend the kitchen table with three wide leaves following breakfast on Christmas morning. Earlier, while drying dishes, she’d caught Mamma studying her surreptitiously. Tessie cringed at what a shambles this special day might become—and their upcoming family gathering—if Mamma were to inquire about Tessie’s sudden food aversions and nausea. In just a few hours, her sisters Marta and Molly and their respective husbands, Seth and Ben, were expected to arrive with their children. Tessie’s nephews and nieces, three-year-old identical twin boys, Manny and Matthew, and one-year-old Mimi, named after Tessie’s oldest sister, Miriam, would keep her very busy, as would Molly’s two angel-haired girls, Mae and Marian, four and two. Molly was expecting her third child after the first of the year.

  She’d once overheard Miriam, in hushed tones, telling Ella Mae Zook that Mamma had been surprised to discover that she was expecting another baby. Was that why I wasn’t given an M name like Mamma and my sisters? she wondered. Tessie had been named for her father’s favorite aunt, Tessie Ann, who passed away unexpectedly back when Dat was only seventeen and counting the days till he could make his baptismal vow and join church.

  “I was hopin’ you’d wear something more colorful today,” Mamma said as they went to get the best china from the sitting-room hutch. “It’s been two months now. . . .”

  Tessie felt ill again at this mention.

  Mamma glanced at her, handing down a pile of sparkling white dessert plates first, and suddenly backpedaled. “But, of course, you and Marcus were . . . close friends.”

  If she only knew, Tessie thought, loath to spoil their family celebration. Despite that, she was fairly sure Mamma suspected something.

  They carried stacks of plates into the kitchen, and eventually, Mamma changed the subject, asking Tessie which set of glassware she liked better for the table—the clear glass tumblers or the golden-tinted set passed down from Mamma’s own grandmother years before.

  One way for Mamma to recover the conversation, most likely, she thought, choosing the gold-tinted ones.

  Mandy and Sylvan walked single file on the pebbled path that led next door to his great-aunt’s, taking with them a gift of dark almond bark, Great-Aunt Elaine’s very favorite. The stooped woman welcomed them inside from the cold, beaming with delight, and they sat and visited with her for more than an hour that Christmas morning. Earlier they had invited her to come along with them for the day, but Elaine had declined and insisted she was expecting some of her immediate family members to drop by around noon for the meal. “Well, if you’re sure you’ll have some company,” Mandy said with a glance at Sylvan.

  “We don’t want you alone on Christmas Day,” he added.

  Aunt Elaine nodded, looking a bit peaked despite her pretty burgundy dress and matching apron, and assured them she’d be just fine. Then she said, “I ain’t cookin’ a big meal for just myself, ya know . . . yous go on an’ have yourselves a real nice time at your folks’, Sylvan. Don’t ya worry none, hear?”

  Mandy gave the independent little woman a gentle hug before they left, and declined accepting one of the chocolates for the second time. “Denki, but they’re all for you,” she said, smiling.

  Later, after hitching up, they rode up Hickory Lane, Mandy sitting on Sylvan’s left on the way to his parents’ home. The peaceful rural landscape with its dusting of snow relaxed her, making her forget time and space—and the undertow of tension between them.

  When they drove past the deacon’s herd of dairy cattle, Mandy recalled hearing that the deacon’s wife had insisted on naming three of their cows—Polly, Gentle, and Frieda—just as Tessie Ann had named her two favorite chickens. This made Mandy smile. Such a playful sister.

  A while later, they passed one of Marcus King’s married sisters, Arie Ann Esh, and her husband, Noah, nephew to the late Benuel Esh, and their three little tykes all piled in the back of the buggy. Arie Ann was Marcus’s only brunette sister out of his blond siblings. She looked as somber as Tessie had all this time, dressed completely in black, including her outer bonnet.

  Waving and waiting till the buggy passed, Sylvan asked Mandy, “Why on earth do ya think Tessie’s still in mourning?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does it wonder you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Sylvan was quiet for a while. Then he said more firmly, “Seems mighty strange she should wear black garb for this long. Or at all.”

  “She must have her reasons,” Mandy said quietly. Surely Sylvan guessed at Tessie’s love for Marcus. Few among the People hadn’t witnessed her reaction the day of his death and the change in her afterward.

  Mandy was relieved when nothing more was said about Tessie’s dreary clothing. Neither was anything else shared on the way to her in-laws’ place. Mandy didn’t actually dread the day ahead, but given a say, she’d much preferred to have gone to her parents’ home for Christmas dinner, to be near Tessie Ann. Two of their married sisters were also going over there to fellowship around Mamm’s bountiful table. Thus far, she and Sylvan had taken turns with her parents and his, going every other Christmas, as most couples did.

  When Sylvan pulled into the tree-lined drive, four enclosed gray buggies were already parked in the side yard. Mandy wondered who else might be coming for dinner, very glad she’d made extra helpings of everything—especially her cherry and pecan pies.

  Sylvan helped her carry the food into the big farmhouse, where they greeted his cordial gray-haired mother before Mandy hurried back out to their carriage to get the box of small gifts she’d brought for Sylvan’s parents and the youngest nieces and nephews.

  Looking up just then, she was shocked to see Norman Byler walking this way. She thought she must be seeing things as he made the turn into the driveway, his long stride ever so familiar.

  Unable to budge, she just stood and gawked. What was he doing there?

  “Guder Mariye, Mandy Miller,” he called, apparently forgetting her married name as he quickened his pace.

  “En hallicher Grischtdaag,” she said, wishing him a happy Christmas.

  Seeing his determined countenance—the glow of winter’s sun on his vibrant face, his wavy wheat-colored hair—felt utterly wrong in every way. She was thoroughly married now.

  He reached her side and offered to help with her box.

  “Ain’t heavy, really,” she insisted.

  “Well, I’m here, so let me do this for ya.”

  She couldn’t imagine the looks from everyone in the house if she walked into her mother-in-law’s kitchen side by side with Norman. It was not the best way to start this Christmas gathering. “Are ya . . .” She stopped, unable to go on.

  “Jah, my parents are comin’ in the buggy with Glenice in a few minutes,” Norm said, perceiving her thoughts as he took the box.

  What sort of fancy name is that?

  “There wasn’t room for all of us in Dat’s single-seater.”

  “Oh . . . well, I’m sure.”

  “I’m awful glad you and Sylvan will be at the meal, too,” Norm said so casually it stunned her. How could he just show up like this
and nearly take up where they’d left off, at least with his informal manner?

  “Well, we’re related to the hosts,” she reminded him.

  He laughed nervously, or so it seemed. She really wanted to ask why he and his family, and Glenice from Indiana, were intruding on their family feast, but she knew it would be ungracious.

  Yet Norman must have guessed what was winding around in her head, since he began to explain that Sylvan’s parents knew he was in town. “They invited my parents and me and Glenice to spend part of the day here when they found out most of my married siblings are in Mount Hope, Ohio, for Christmas, visiting cousins.”

  They must not know Norm and I were once practically engaged, she thought, flabbergasted that she and Sylvan would have to spend a good portion of the holiday together with Norm and his bride-to-be.

  Norm glanced at the sky, beautifully free of clouds. “I forgot how much I’ve missed Hickory Hollow.”

  She pondered his nearness, his remarkable friendliness. Like always.

  “What is it, Mandy?”

  “Nothin’.” She sighed. “I’m just surprised to see ya. And on Christmas, yet.”

  He smiled down at her as he carried the lightweight box, his black felt hat tilted off center, like he’d always worn it during Rumschpringe. He glanced into the box and said, “Unfortunately, we have no gifts for you and your family. Glenice isn’t accustomed to gift givin’ at Christmas, being from out in the Midwest, ya know. She comes from a mighty strict Gmay.”

  “Understandable,” Mandy said, thinking how awkward this conversation was.

  Glenice . . .

  He matched his stride to hers. “Seein’ you, well, like this, is mighty unexpected,” he admitted. “But it’s nice for two old friends to get caught up a little.”

  She made no reply.

  “Glenice Lehman and I will be wed the Tuesday after New Year’s,” he said just then. “Her family will come here for the wedding.”