by Sarah Price
No sooner had they arrived than Elijah disappeared with Benjamin and Julia seemed to float in the direction of her friends. With no one to talk to—or, rather, no one she wanted to talk to—Fanny had moved to the back of the room, waiting for the right moment to slip out the door and walk home. She planned on hiding away in the barn until she saw the kitchen light extinguished and could sneak into the house, safely avoiding any questions from Timothy.
But Henry must have spotted her and, unbeknownst to Fanny, snuck up behind her as she sat alone at the gathering.
“I must talk with you.” His voice was low and sounded unfamiliar. Gone was the overly confident young man, so full of mischief and flirtation. “I confess that I have thought of nothing else but you, Fanny Price.”
She caught her breath. Oh, those words. She had longed to hear them spoken but not from the lips of Henry Coblentz.
“I’m sure that is not true,” she said.
“Oh, but it is!” Henry gave her a warm smile, the likes of which she had never seen from him. “When Timothy talked to me after our visit, his words of encouragement . . . ”
Fanny interrupted him. “Words of encouragement!” She had suspected that Timothy had gone to the Yoders’ house; he had disappeared the following day with no one offering an explanation as to his absence. Later that evening, when he returned, he spoke to Fanny with more kindness than she could have expected. Now it made sense. Her uncle had met with Henry and received encouragement that the young man was still inclined to pursue Fanny.
He continued speaking as if he hadn’t heard her. “I simply had not considered the fact that your modesty would compel you to deny that which I offered. But I can assure you that your propensity for such self-effacing behavior makes you even more alluring.”
“That is not my intention, I can assure you.”
“Your humility . . . ”
His persistence was unbecoming, especially for a man who amused himself by flirting only to disclaim interest when a woman responded to his ploys. She was relieved when the conversation was interrupted by a call to gather for the singing.
To her dismay she could find no way to extricate herself from Henry without causing a scene. And so, an hour later, she found herself seated next to Henry Coblentz in his uncle’s open-topped buggy, the last place on earth she wanted to be.
“Are you warm enough?” he asked as he started driving the horse and buggy down the road.
She nodded her head, knowing that he could barely see her in the dim light from the buggy’s battery-operated lights. He sat far too close to her and his tone with her was far too familiar.
Unaware of her discomfort, Henry began to talk to her as one would talk to a close friend. He told her about his plans for the Yoder property and how he was interested more in animal husbandry than crops, although he planned on planting several fields of hay.
Her resentment toward Henry built anew. She simply could not understand why he continued to pursue her when she had made it perfectly clear that she had no interest in marrying him.
While she understood that Timothy had gone out of his way to encourage the relationship, what Fanny could not understand was why? Was the idea that she might never get married and stay at the farm so distasteful to the Bontragers? She felt a mixture of distress and anger at that thought. She had certainly gone over and above as far as carrying her weight. Not once had she given anyone reason to criticize her for not working, never mind shirking her responsibilities. And while she knew that many couples married without being in love, she didn’t know too many that married when one so clearly disliked the other.
When she returned home, Fanny found it surprising that Timothy, Martha, and Naomi were still awake. From the look on Timothy’s face Fanny suspected that they were waiting for her. He watched her as she came into the kitchen, an eagerness in his eyes that Fanny suspected came from anticipation of an announcement of an engagement.
She took her time removing her black coat and hanging it on a hook.
“Well?”
Fanny’s feet stopped moving. Frozen, she quickly weighed her options. Clearly Timothy had believed that she was, indeed, being modest. But could he truly believe that in one buggy ride she would have changed her mind, even if she could be so inclined?
Her silence gave Timothy his answer.
“This is mind boggling,” he said, jumping to his feet. He began pacing, his hands behind his back and his eyes on the floor as if deep in thought. “You have no idea what you are doing, Fanny. What you are throwing away!”
“I think that I do.” Her voice, soft and almost inaudible, surprised even her. Had she truly just spoken back to Timothy? “I do not want to marry Henry Coblentz.”
Martha sighed and, for the first time, spoke up. “Fanny, you really should reconsider.”
Her contribution startled Fanny. For so long Martha’s mental faculties had deteriorated, the overbearing nature of her older sister simply wearing her down. Now, of all times, Martha suddenly expressed an opinion, and one that clearly showed no understanding Fanny’s character.
“Do you so want to get rid of me?” Fanny cried out at last. “Has it truly been so awful that I have been in your care? Aendi Martha, would you not miss me and the help that I provide?”
“There are some things more important, Fanny,” Martha said, choosing her words sparingly. “And we will not always be here to care for you. It really is about your future that all of us are so worried.”
Naomi took a short, sharp breath. “Ungrateful girl.”
Timothy shut his eyes. “Impossible,” he grumbled as he continued pacing. “Just impossible.”
For a long moment Fanny stood there, waiting in the silence. She knew that Timothy was not finished with her. She suspected that his disappointment in her refusal of Henry as a husband disturbed Timothy for different reasons than Martha vocalized. It wasn’t her future that Timothy cared about, but his reputation in the community. Had he promised Henry that Fanny would marry him? Was he looking for more esteem in the eyes of the bishop? Clearly Timothy was more concerned about himself than Fanny’s care.
Finally he stopped pacing. A thought seemed to occur to him and he turned to look at her. “Fanny, you have become far too comfortable,” Timothy proclaimed. “It’s time for you to gain a finer appreciation of what has been given to you.”
“I do appreciate—”
He raised his hand to stop her. “Silence!”
Startled by his booming voice, Fanny ceased talking, her mouth still partially opened from her unfinished sentence. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a movement in the mudroom. Elijah. He must have just returned from spending time with Mary. She glanced in his direction and saw that he stood there, not hidden but not entirely out in the open, listening to the exchange between Fanny and his father.
“After all this time,” Timothy said, struggling to maintain his composure, “I had hoped you might have gained a finer sense of righteousness. Clearly, the change in your environment—even after eight years!—had no impact. It was always our hope, Fanny, that bringing you to Ohio would give you that opportunity to transform into a virtuous person, an opportunity you never would have had in Colorado living in that . . . ” He paused as if looking for the word to express the contempt that his facial expression displayed. “ . . . that settlement your parents moved to.”
Naomi clucked her tongue. “You’d think she might have learned from the example of Miriam and Julia.”
Timothy glanced at his sister-in-law, contemplating her words. He pointed at her as he turned back to Fanny. “She’s right. You’ve never quite integrated yourself into the social circle which we afforded you! Why! You barely attend singings or even work outside of the house! What contribution do you bring to this family?”
Fanny stood there, in the center of the room, the color drained from her face. Contribution? How many times had she fulfilled orders for baskets, took on Miriam’s chores, or tended to Martha? “If I had integrate
d myself into Miriam and Julia’s circles,” she said in a small voice, “I would never have received an offer from such a man as Henry Coblentz.”
Timothy gasped. “You dare to question the morality of my daughters?”
“Nee,” Fanny said, lifting her chin and forcing herself to meet his gaze. “But I do question Henry’s. He is a man who wants the challenge of acquiring that which is not easily obtained. And for that reason—and that reason alone!—he has decided to make such an offer, an offer that I could never accept. The only thing worse than being forced to be someone you are not is being with someone who pretends to be someone else entirely!”
The sudden look of anger that flashed in Timothy’s eyes frightened her. “You!” He shook his finger at her. “You will learn! You will learn what we have given you. What we saved you from! You will return to your family, see what you came from! I don’t care if it takes one week, one month, or one year! But you will not return to Mount Hope unless you accept the marriage offer from this virtuous young man. You will learn the one thing I have apparently failed to teach you, Fanny Price!” He glared at her. “Humility!”
“Uncle, please!”
He shook his finger at her. “Nee, you are not my family, Fanny Price. But where you belong is with your family. You have forgotten why you came here, why your parents cast you aside, and why we opened our doors to you. But as God is my witness, you shall be reminded!”
Fanny trembled, not fully understanding where this rage was coming from. Just because she had denied Henry’s offer of marriage? She saw Elijah step forward, concern etched in his forehead. He started to approach his father, to speak out on Fanny’s behalf, but his father ignored his son’s protective gesture.
Instead Timothy rose to his full height. Straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin, he pointed to the stairs and in a stern, booming voice gave his final instruction to her.
“Go pack your things, Fanny! You will be returning to Colorado to see exactly what we have sacrificed in order to give you such wonderful opportunities. Mayhaps then you will see that Henry Coblentz has presented an offer to you that could provide a future you would have never had elsewhere! Perhaps then you will realize how selfish a creature you truly are!”
Chapter 16
AS THE DRIVER approached the long, flat road that led toward a small house, Fanny felt a rush of anxiety. The house sat in the middle of a valley, nothing around it but other scattered houses. The property was outlined with post and wire fencing, separating it from the neighbors. No one had pretty white fences or large white farmhouses. Some of the houses were made of logs, while others seemed built haphazardly from different material.
Eight years had passed since she had seen her parents. Eight long years that confined her relationship with her family to sporadic letters written in her mother’s shaky hand and with words that sounded more like a school child. She hadn’t heard much about her siblings, only that her father was still struggling. With the property surrounded by Englischers, it was a lonely life for the Price family in Westcliffe, Colorado.
Colorado.
Fanny tried to remember something, anything, of the dry, vast-looking land where her parents’ farmhouse broke the horizon. She knew that her father had a mere thirty-two acres, but it looked much smaller. There were no trees to break the line of vision, no rivers or rolling hills to guide her eyes to look somewhere else. Just small farms that sat in the shadow of a mountain range already tipped with snow.
The car came to a stop in front of the log house. Three young children watched curiously from the porch, the smallest one looking about five years of age. An older girl, dressed in a dark brown dress that was almost similar in style to what young girls wore in Holmes County, motioned to the three children to go inside. She stayed, however, and stared at the van.
Fanny opened the passenger door and hesitantly got out. Her legs ached and her ankles were swollen from sitting so long, first in the bus and then in the car. But her eyes could only stare at the familiar face that watched her from that porch.
“Susan?” Fanny finally said. “Is that you?”
Her sister started to nod her head but, as if thinking better of it, stopped. Susan had been no more than eight years old when Fanny had been sent to Holmes County. Now at sixteen she looked like a young woman, yet her shyness suggested that her lack of exposure to the outside world kept her trapped in a child’s mind.
The door opened to the house and an older version of her mother walked outside. Her thin, gray hair was pulled back under her stiff but worn kapp. Her face looked aged and weathered. It took a moment for Fanny to realize that the woman standing before her was, indeed, her mother.
“Maem?”
There was a coldness to her mother’s expression. Fanny hadn’t expected a warm reunion, but she hadn’t expected indifference.
“Heard they were sending you back.” Her mother’s eyes did a quick assessment of Fanny, taking in her pretty green dress and buffed black shoes. Fanny couldn’t tell if the cold look on her mother’s face was from discomfort over her own shabby dress and bare feet or complete disappointment that her daughter had returned to burden them with her care. “Best come in, then. You can help with supper.”
Eight years and that was her greeting? Fanny sighed, realizing that Timothy had known exactly what he was doing when he had sent her back to Westcliffe. He might never have been to Colorado, but he had somehow known that Mount Hope, Ohio, was much more modern and full of conveniences that even she, a simple Amish woman, would miss. The message was clear: a life with Henry or a life of misery. But Timothy didn’t understand that, to Fanny, a life with Henry would have been just as bad, if not worse, than a life of misery in Colorado.
She took her bag from the driver, thanking him but avoiding his eyes. He had witnessed the chilly greeting from her family and seemed as uncomfortable as Fanny felt. Inside the house Fanny took a moment, standing in the doorway and looking around the large room. Only it wasn’t large. It was small.
And dirty. Cobwebs hung inside the corners of the windows and the floor was covered in a fine layer of dust. One of the kitchen cabinets was broken and hung in a haphazard manner, the hinge having been twisted in an odd manner. And there were remnants of flour and dirt caked in the crevice where the counter met the wall.
Only vaguely did Fanny remember anything about the house: not the black wood-burning stove in the corner or the small kitchen table that certainly could not house the entire family in one sitting. The only thing that she did recall was the one thing that was missing: the scent of pine from the soap that her mother used to clean the hardwood floors and cabinets.
“Oh, my,” she whispered.
“Take her to her room,” her mother said in an emotionless voice to Susan, who leaned against the wall, her big eyes staring at her older sister. “Best be getting changed, Fanny. No sense ruining such a fine dress.”
Obediently Susan pressed off from the wall and led Fanny down a small hallway to the two bedrooms shared by the children.
Fanny took her bags and followed her, on her way catching a glimpse of her parents’ bedroom through their open door. Unlike the kitchen, it wasn’t as messy. Clothes hung from the pegs on the wall and a faded quilt covered the bed. The contrast between the two rooms startled Fanny. Was her mother sending a message to the rest of the family? That her own space was worth keeping neat and tidy but her children didn’t deserve such consideration? The bedroom was small with two bunk beds built into the walls. It was familiar to Fanny and she set down her bag as she reached out her hand to touch the wood. Fanny remembered sleeping in this room, sometimes spending more time in here than in the kitchen, especially during the cold, dark winter months. Her eyes drifted to the very bunk, the top one on the right, where she used to sleep. Unlike her parents’ room, the four beds were mussed, not having been made yet, even though it was three in the afternoon.
“Which one?” Fanny asked.
“The little ones sleep here
now. Daed built a lean-to when Joseph was born. Jerome and Peter still sleep in the other room because Daed wants them well rested to help him on the farm. The little ones wake them up sometimes. So you’ll sleep in the lean-to with Ruth and me,” Susan said in a quiet voice and then walked toward a door that Fanny hadn’t noticed.
It was made of rough-hewn vertical boards, four to be exact, with two smaller boards nailed horizontally to keep them in place. Unlike the wood for the rest of the house which was sanded and covered with a thick protective layer of shiny polyurethane, this wood looked like it must have been found in the old barn. When Susan opened the door, Fanny took a step back, seeing nothing but darkness on the other side.
“Kum.” Susan beckoned to Fanny. “Sometimes Caren sleeps here too but Maem said she needs to stay in the bunk room.” She jerked her thumb toward the first bedroom. “At least until her cold gets better.”
When Fanny looked at the small beds in the lean-to, she noticed that the quilts that lay in crumpled heaps were thin, not like the thick quilts at the Bontrager farm. Already it was cold in the lean-to room, which was probably why their father had not put in a window. With only a wood-burning stove to heat the house, it was bound to get even colder in the wintertime. Fanny didn’t remember being cold as a child, but she felt it now.
“What’s it like?”
Fanny looked up. “Hmm?”
“Ohio.” Susan scratched her ankle with her other foot. “What’s it like there?”
“Oh, ja, Ohio.” Fanny set down her bag, and now that her eyes had adjusted to what little light spilled in from the other room, she looked at her sister. “It’s nice, I reckon. The houses are bigger and brighter.” As soon as she said those words, Fanny regretted it. She hadn’t intended to make a comparison, especially one that sounded as if Ohio was superior to Colorado. “I mean they’re just different, that’s all.”
Susan almost smiled, and Fanny wondered if that was a rare reaction for her sister. “There are bigger and brighter houses out here too,” Susan said lightly. “But we’re just poor.”