by Emma Miller
“My mule will do fine,” Salome assured her. “You sit now and let those girls of yours tend to you. Annie, make certain she minds me. I’ll be back in the morning, but if there’s any change with you or the twins, you send someone to fetch me. I’ll come no matter the hour.”
Fortunately, buggies, with their high wheels and light construction, were well equipped for snow, and the mule’s strong and steady disposition kept them from bogging down in the ever-increasing drifts or sliding off the wooded lane. The temperature was cold but not dangerously so, and the swirling snow frosted the trees and hollows with white.
“Those precious babies,” Rachel said, breaking the silence as they rolled along. “It’s such a miracle that they were born so perfect and Irma delivered them so easily.”
“New life is always a miracle,” the midwife said softly. “And Irma’s body is doing exactly what God intended it to do. Childbirth is a natural thing, like breathing. It doesn’t always go like that, but Irma is sensible and surrounded by the people and place she loves most. And the twins were not much above six pounds. Her last little boy was much bigger.” Salome patted Rachel’s arm with a gloved hand. “You did well. You have common sense and compassion. You would have made a halfway decent midwife if you’d started training younger in life.”
“Instead of in my dotage as I am now?” Rachel laughed. And then, after a moment, she said, “You know why I came with you today. And it wasn’t to start training as your assistant.”
The older woman sighed. “I know, and I’ve been thinking over what you said to me when you came to my house before. But you must understand how important it is to me that I keep every woman’s secrets.”
“Every woman’s, but not every man’s, and not a man who hurts one of your patients.” Rachel reined in the mule and turned to face Salome. “I’ve reason to believe that Daniel abused Mary Rose and that might have been the reason for his death. She wasn’t his first wife. He was married twice before. The first marriage ended in his pregnant wife’s death due to a tragic accident. His second wife brought criminal charges against him for abuse and left the Amish church to get a divorce.”
“Are you suggesting that Mary Rose might have shot Daniel because he was hurting her?” Salome asked, the shock plain on her face.
“One of her family, but maybe Mary Rose. I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out. Maybe Moses really did kill him. But maybe he didn’t. And if Mary Rose did it, Daniel’s behavior toward her would make all the difference to her defense. If she feared for her life or the safety of her baby—”
“Daniel’s judgment is in God’s hands now.”
“But Moses or Mary Rose or even the neighbor Rosh might be judged by court of law.”
“Drive on,” Salome said. “He’ll get stiff if he stands still in this wind. We aren’t far from his stable and a warm oat mash for him and hot chocolate for us.”
Rachel sat there, the reins in her hand. “Please, Salome. I told Alma I’d get to the bottom of this.”
“Very well.” The midwife sighed. “I will say this one time and only one time and if called to the police or court or whatever, I will not speak of it.” She paused and then went on. “I cannot tell you anything for certain, but I had my suspicions. Bruises. Falls. Accidents, according to Mary Rose. And once, I treated her for a badly sprained wrist. She said she fell down the cellar stairs. Her husband always seemed caring. He drove her to her checkups with me and waited while I examined her. She seemed to me like any young bride who cared for her husband.”
“But you suspected that Daniel was beating her?”
The midwife nodded. “There was something in the anxious way she looked at him, and once . . .” She puckered her mouth and grimaced. “This could be an old woman’s idle mind, but someone was behaving badly in that household. More than once I saw Lemuel with black eyes or swollen lips. And he avoided his brother-in-law as much as possible.” Salome threw up her hands. “There you have it. No proof. Simply suspicion. And suspicion never caught the cat that was stealing the cream.”
“No,” Rachel agreed, shifting her gaze to the snowy road. “But it would tell us that there was a good explanation for how the cream was vanishing.”
* * *
Rachel dropped two bags of groceries on the kitchen counter. Ada paused in rolling out biscuit dough and looked at her. “Did you remember the stick cinnamon? And the nutmeg? We’re almost out of nutmeg.”
“Ya,” Rachel replied in the same dialect. Ada always spoke to her in Deitsch although her English was perfect. Her housekeeper didn’t even have the heavy accent that many of Rachel’s Amish friends and relatives did. “I’ll bring them right in.”
Ada shook her head. “Ne. I’ll send one of the girls. Mary Aaron needs you. She’s in your office.”
Delicious smells were seeping from the oven. Rachel wanted to peek and see what Ada was baking, but Ada said that opening the oven door spoiled the temperature and ruined the baked goods. Rachel spied a stuffed chicken sitting in a Dutch oven on top of the gas stove and guessed that would be tonight’s supper. “Have I told you how much I love you, Ada?” she teased.
The housekeeper grunted and returned to her biscuit dough.
“Don’t forget the groceries. The milk will freeze if it stays out there long,” Rachel reminded her and made hasty retreat from Ada’s domain.
“Lydie!” Ada called. “I need you in the kitchen.” Lydie was a sixteen-year-old granddaughter who’d finished school in the spring and now was in training with Ada. Fortunately, her grandmother seemed to approve of her, and Lydie was quick and hardworking. Rachel was imminently glad that she wasn’t one of Ada’s charges, although, at times, she wasn’t certain who was working for whom.
Rachel snatched up Bishop, who was stretched out in the hallway, hung her ski jacket in the hall closet, and stroked the big cat as she made her way to the office. “Ada said you wanted me,” she said to her cousin.
Mary Aaron glanced up, hastily shut down Facebook, and spun around in the high-backed office chair. “Babs called twice this morning. From the dress shop in State College.”
“I know where it is,” Rachel reminded her gently.
“Apparently, you were supposed to pick up your wedding gown?”
Rachel made a face. “Forgot.” Her inquiries into Daniel’s death were going nowhere. And she had so much to do before the wedding and honeymoon. She’d be away more than a week, and . . . Rachel rolled her eyes. Why had she agreed to go away with Evan next week? Wouldn’t it have been better to wait a few weeks or even a few months until this was settled with Moses and things had calmed down from the wedding? As much as she was looking forward to being Evan’s wife, she just wished all this fuss could be over with.
Mary Aaron stood up, and Rachel got a good look at her. Her outfits lately had been interesting when she’d been experimenting with English clothing, but this was a bit much. Her cousin was wearing a short plaid wool skirt, almost a kilt, with a big kilt pin, blue-and-yellow-striped tights, and a pink, fuzzy, oversized sweater with a cartoon snowman on it. The pièce de résistance was the high, fake-leather army boots, also pink, which had seen better days. “Have you been shopping at Second Chance again?” Rachel asked. “Are you planning on getting your ears pierced next? I saw some cute rhinestone cat earrings in the window this morning.”
“I’m not getting holes punched in my ears,” Mary Aaron responded tartly.
“Good, that’s one thing I don’t have to worry about. But if you change your mind, I can always do it for you with a needle and a potato. It’s the way I pierced mine.”
Mary Aaron looked hesitant, which was difficult to do with the upswept ponytail on the left side of her head. Unconsciously, she began to worry the corner of her thumbnail with her teeth, something she only did when she was under stress. “Actually, Rae-Rae, there’s someone waiting in the little parlor.”
“Guests?” She tried to think if she was expecting anyone. And why had Mary
Aaron put them in the private parlor? They rarely used that for their guests.
“Not guests, exactly. But I suppose you could say guests of a guest.”
Rachel put the cat down. “Why the mystery? Who is it?”
“Dr. Morris and his family.”
“Who?”
“Ssshh,” Mary Aaron cautioned. “Do you want them to hear you? It’s Mrs. Morris’s son and his family. They’ve come to see her.”
“Why, that’s wonderful.”
Mary Aaron shook her head. “It is except that Mrs. Morris isn’t down here. I think . . . that is . . . I thought you could talk to them . . . explain.”
“Explain what? Why isn’t Mrs. Morris here with them? Is she ill again?”
Mary Aaron tucked her hands behind her back.
“Maybe our minister was able to convince her to contact her son,” Rachel mused. “She must have called him. Oh, I’m so relieved.”
Mary Aaron shook her head. “Ne, she didn’t call her son. I did.”
Rachel stared at her. “You did?”
“I felt so bad because of what you said. That . . .” Her cousin lowered her voice to a whisper. “That she was dying and alone. So I tracked down her son and I called him.”
“How did you find him?”
Mary Aaron shrugged. “I Googled him. You can find anybody, especially a doctor. They’re both doctors. Did you know that? Bruce and his wife. They have a practice in Phoenix.”
Rachel couldn’t believe that Mary Aaron had the nerve to do what she hadn’t. “And you told him that his mother was dying?”
Rachel’s cousin shrugged. “Someone had to, didn’t they?”
Chapter 16
Rachel was momentarily stunned. This was out of character for her cousin; this was more her own MO. “I’m sure you only wanted to help, but . . .” She hesitated and then went on. “Mary Aaron, Mrs. Morris told me about her cancer in confidence.”
“And you told me,” Mary Aaron countered. “You must have known that I might do something about it. We talked about what a shame it was.”
“Mary Aaron,” Rachel said gently. “We don’t have the right to interfere in her life. It’s not how . . . Englishers don’t take well to interference from strangers.”
Mary Aaron looked as though she was about to cry. “I don’t understand. If one of our neighbors was fighting with her sister and not speaking to her and she became critically ill, my mother would call or write to the sister. Even the bishop would let the neighbor’s relatives know she needed them. Everyone has disagreements, but family is always there for family.”
“Maybe in the Amish world, but not in the English.” Rachel dropped into the second chair and leaned forward, trying to figure out how to make her cousin understand the cultural differences. “Lots of English families are alienated from each other. People die and no one goes to their funerals.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Mary Aaron protested. “How could they? We are all human. None of us is perfect, but who is so bad that they don’t deserve loving arms around them when they pass out of this world? Doesn’t the Bible teach us to forgive? Aren’t we supposed to return harsh words with gentle ones?”
“Ya.” Unconsciously, Rachel slipped into Deitsch. “But not everyone lives by our faith.”
Mary Aaron rose. “Well, what’s done is done. I found Mrs. Morris’s son and I called his office, and he called me back. He didn’t even know where his mother was. Apparently, he has someone at her apartment building who watches over her for him even though she doesn’t know it. She told him that his mother went away again, but he didn’t know she was coming here. I told the son that she was ill and that she said she doesn’t have very long to live. The son and his wife and their children got on a plane and came at once. They’re here.”
“Have you told her that they are here?” Rachel asked. She wondered what Mrs. Morris would think. She might be angry. And she, herself, was certainly to blame for sharing a confidence with Mary Aaron. But at the same time, she couldn’t help admiring her cousin for doing what she believed was right, no matter the cost.
Mary Aaron hesitated. “Ya, I told her they were here.”
“Then why hasn’t Mrs. Morris come down to meet them?”
Mary Aaron rubbed her hands together and then bit at the ragged sliver of fingernail again. “That’s why I need you. She won’t come down.”
Rachel looked at Mary Aaron. This was getting better by the moment. “She won’t come down?”
“She’s locked her door, and she told me to tell them to go away.” Tears filled Mary Aaron’s eyes. “It’s so sad. That nice man and lady and those two little boys. They’ve come all this way to see her, and now she won’t budge from her room.”
“Do you know why she doesn’t want to talk to them?”
Mary Aaron shook her head. “I suppose she’s still angry with them.”
Rachel sighed and glanced away, thinking. “How long have they been waiting?”
“An hour,” Mary Aaron said, wiping her teary eyes. “I’m so sorry. I just wanted to help, and I think I’ve made everything worse.”
Rachel nodded. “It’s all right. I’ll see what I can do. Go to Ada and ask her to make up a tray for Bruce and his wife and children. Go to them and see what you can do to make them comfortable: toys for the little boys, crayons, and coloring books. If the children are tired after their journey, show the family to the yellow room. It’s empty and the Matthewses aren’t expected for another day. Just try and keep them all happy until I can convince Mrs. Morris to see them.”
“I can do that,” Mary Aaron promised and she quickly made her escape.
Rachel looked at her cat, which had wandered into the room. “Any brilliant ideas of how I’m going to clean up this mess?”
The big Siamese closed his eyes and turned his head away, his trick whenever he wanted to ignore her. Apparently, Bishop thought that if he couldn’t see her, she couldn’t see him, either. And there were times when he preferred to be invisible.
Which, right about now, didn’t seem like a bad idea. Invisible, or anywhere but here, would have been nice. She wished she were in State College picking up her wedding dress. Or even at the Studer farm having the hard conversation she needed to have with Mary Rose. Then Mary Aaron would have had to deal with the Morris family and their dysfunction.
As soon as those thoughts went through Rachel’s head, she was overwhelmed by her own selfishness. How could she be thinking of her own inconvenience or embarrassment when her guest was upstairs dying alone? What was wrong with her that she had forgotten compassion? She might not be able to help Alma save her son from spending the rest of his life in prison, but she could take the time to try and help Mrs. Morris bridge the gap between her and her son. She’d opened this home to guests knowing full well that part of her job would be to welcome them and make their lives easier while they were with her. And if she didn’t continue to do her best, regardless of her own inconvenience, then she’d chosen the wrong career.
Taking a deep breath, Rachel forced herself to go up to Mrs. Morris’s room and knock on the door. “Mrs. Morris, it’s Rachel. Could I come in?” she called. She knocked again when there was no response. “Mrs. Morris?”
“Go away. I told the hippie Amish girl. I don’t want to talk to anyone,” came a small voice.
Rachel hesitated, then checked the doorknob. It was locked. Common courtesy said that Mrs. Morris deserved her privacy. But Rachel’s Amish upbringing wouldn’t stand for that. Instead of walking away, Rachel slid aside a painting on the hall wall and removed a ring of keys. “Mrs. Morris,” she called again. “I’m coming in.” And, knowing that it was a terrible idea for multiple reasons, including probably breaking some law, she unlocked the door anyway.
Her guest was standing at a window with her back to Rachel, and it was clear from her body posture that she was in distress. Rachel went to her at once and put her arm around the older woman. Mrs. Morris’s stoic posture crumbled and she
turned and clung to her, weeping.
Rachel rocked her against her chest and patted her shoulder. “There, there, shhh. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Are you in pain?” She led her to the bed and patted the coverlet. “Why don’t you sit down. Catch your breath.”
Obediently, but still sobbing, Mrs. Morris eased onto the bed.
“Are you hurting?” Rachel asked again. “Should I call the doctor?”
Mrs. Morris shook her head. “No, no, it’s just . . .”
“Just what?” Rachel urged, supporting the woman with an arm around her shoulders. “Can I get your pain medication for you?”
Mrs. Morris shook her head and raised tear-swollen eyes to meet Rachel’s gaze.
Rachel walked to a dresser and plucked several tissues from a box and handed them to her guest. “Can you tell me why you won’t come down and visit with your family? They’ve come so far to be with you.”
Mrs. Morris accepted the tissues and wiped her eyes.
Rachel pressed her lips together, searching for the right words, and then went on. “Mrs. Morris, don’t you think it’s time to let go of old grievances? To forgive your son for the past?”
“No, no, that’s not it. I just . . .”
A fresh wave of tears overcame Mrs. Morris and Rachel’s heart ached for her. “I don’t understand then. Why won’t you come down and see your son?”
“Because . . . because I’m afraid,” she murmured. “So afraid.”
“Oh, Mrs. Morris.” Rachel stroked her arm. “What are you afraid of?”
She wiped at her eyes with a tissue again. “To . . . to see him. My son . . . and his wife. I don’t want their pity. I know they hate me and—”
“No, you don’t know that. How could they hate you?”
“How?” She sniffed and looked up at Rachel. “Because I’ve been a wicked, selfish, bitter old woman. I wouldn’t speak to my only son. I returned his letters unopened. And I’ve never seen his wife or my own grandchildren. What kind of mother does such a thing?”