by BJ Hoff
Gant said nothing.
“You have thought this through, haven’t you? I mean, you’ve told me more than once that you’re convinced you can do this, that you want to do it—”
“What I want isn’t actually the point now, is it?” Gant broke in. “It’s what the Amish want. And clearly they don’t want me.”
“So you’re giving up?”
Short on patience and growing increasingly irritable with his friend’s questions, Gant struggled to keep an even tone. “You know Bishop Graber better than I do. Am I missing something? His ‘no’ seemed pretty final to me.”
“Surely he held out some hope for a later time.”
“He held out nothing. He was civil, wished me well, and made it very clear I was to stay away from Rachel.”
“Does she know about this yet?”
Gant shook his head.
“When did you find out?”
“Couple of weeks ago.”
“A couple of weeks ago? And you still haven’t told Rachel?”
By now Gant was grinding his teeth. “Just how am I to tell Rachel anything? I’m not supposed to go near her. I’m not supposed to talk to her or expose her to my worldly influence. How exactly am I supposed to let her know what’s going on when I’m such bad business for her?”
“It’s not like that, and you know it.”
Doc shuffled his feet and made ready for one of his defenses of the Plain People, but Gant wasn’t having any of it. Not today.
“But it is like that. It’s manipulation, pure and simple.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake. Put a lid on that Irish temper of yours and listen to me!”
Gant reared back in his chair staring at him. There wasn’t another man this side of Ireland who could talk to him like that and get away with it. Only with an effort did he manage to hold his tongue.
Looking around, Doc pulled up a chair—a chair that Miss Penelope Marsh had already bought and paid for. He sat down, facing Gant across the table.
“You need to understand that the bishop isn’t trying to shut you out because he’s afraid you’ll be a bad influence on Rachel.”
“Is that so?” Gant made no attempt to soften the thick sarcasm of his tone.
“Yes, it is so. It’s just that you represent the outside world to them, don’t you see? It has nothing to do with your character or you as a person. You’re simply an auslander. An outsider. It’s a part of their faith to live separate from the world. They’re committed to that.”
Gant’s face felt frozen in a scowl. “They’ve accepted you.”
“But don’t forget how long they’ve known me. I’ve been their physician for years. I’ve become their friend. They’ve finally grown to trust me, and—”
Gant waved off his explanations. “I know, I know,” he said, finally managing to damp his irritation, albeit grudgingly. He met his friend’s gaze straight on. “More to the point, you’re their kind of person. I told you once before, it doesn’t stretch the imagination to see you as Amish. You’re already a lot like them. On the other hand, I’m not so blind that I can’t see the distance between them and myself.”
Doc regarded him with what appeared to be sympathy. His eyes were gentle—David Sebastian was a kind man—but his expression was solemn to the extreme. “Listen, my friend. I know you believe you can do this, but I have to ask: Is it possible that the bishop is right? Because if Rachel is your only motivation for wanting to join the Amish, it could well cause trouble for both of you eventually. And I know you care too much for her to hurt her.”
Gant raked a hand down his neck. “Don’t you think I’ve asked myself that a hundred times or more? I’m not stupid, Doc. Of course I don’t want to hurt her. I’d do anything not to hurt her. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure but what Rachel isn’t my only reason to wanting to convert.”
He drew a long breath, then continued. “I thought there was more to it. I honestly did. But I’m beginning to wonder. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe if it weren’t for Rachel, I would never have thought about turning. But right now, I’m more concerned about what it’s going to do to Rachel if I don’t turn. The last time we talked, it seemed to me she’d convinced herself that things were going to work out fine, that I’d be accepted, and other than maybe having to wait for a long time, everything would eventually fall into place.”
He leaned forward a little. “How is she going to feel when she finds out I’ve been flat-out rejected? That we can’t be together—not now, perhaps not ever?”
Doc sighed. “She’ll be terribly hurt, of course. I hate to think how difficult this will be for her.” He waited, then said, “There must be something to be done, some way to change the leadership’s mind.”
Gant wanted to believe his friend was right, yet didn’t want to set himself up for another disappointment. “Well, you’d likely know more about that than I do. But right now, from where I stand, it looks pretty hopeless. And I have to tell you, I don’t think this is right. No church ought to have this much control over their members, that they can tell them who they can talk to, who they can spend time with—who they can marry.”
Doc was studying him as if trying to figure out what to say next.
“It’s not a question of what’s right,” Doc said. “It’s just the way it is, the way it’s always been with the Plain People. At the heart of their faith and their culture is the belief that God wants them to separate themselves from the world, to live apart and be a community in and of themselves. For hundreds of years now, they’ve followed that belief, and they’re not going to change.”
He drummed his fingers on the table. “You already know the Amish have been persecuted for their faith here in the States. But it was much worse for them in Europe. They were martyred there. Persecuted, jailed, driven out—and often killed—for their beliefs. If they didn’t turn away from their faith in the midst of that sort of terror, then you can be sure they’re not going to change now.” He paused. “And if you’ve any thought of trying to persuade Rachel to leave the People for you, you’d best forget it.”
“I wouldn’t ask that of her,” Gant said.
Wouldn’t he?
More to the point, was his unwillingness to ask due to the unfairness of expecting such a sacrifice of her…or because he already knew her answer would be no?
“Don’t take offense,” Doc said. “You know, sometimes we’re so convinced of a thing, so sure of it we can’t help but believe it’s God’s will. Then when it doesn’t work out, we get angry with Him. We even feel that He might have misled us. But God never misleads us. No matter how much it hurts, a disappointment is often simply His way of guiding us from the wrong path to the right.”
He stopped, his gaze level but gentle. “This is a step of such importance, my friend, that you must be absolutely certain you take it for the right reasons.”
“Well, apparently I’ll not be taking it all,” Gant muttered. He waited before going on. “But what about you? You’re converting so you can marry Susan. Don’t try to tell me it’s anything else.”
His charge didn’t seem to faze Doc. “My desire to marry Susan is what finally gave me the shove I needed, that’s true. But it’s also what you said—I’m actually a lot like the Amish—at least I want to be like them. Being their physician and finally their friend after so many years has enabled me to get to know the people and their way of life well enough to realize that I want what they have. I want the peace, the simplicity, the abandonment to God in all things. I can live their way because I want to, not only because of Susan.” He paused. “Is that how it is for you?”
Gant met his gaze for a long, silent moment before looking away. “I don’t know how it is for me. That’s as close to the truth as I can come right now.”
“Well…I confess I wouldn’t take you for a quitter. If and when you decide you’re looking to make this change for the right reasons, I hope you won’t take Bishop Graber’s refusal as final. I don’t know that you should.”
“Is there something you’re not saying?” Gant said, with a sour look.
Doc simply gave a half shrug. “No, I believe I’ve said enough. If you’re in a better mood tonight, stop by for a game.”
“You still allowed checkers, are you?” Gant grumbled.
“Oh, I’ll still be beating you at checkers after I make my vows. As far as I know, checkers is approved as wholesome entertainment, even for the Amish.”
With that, Doc said his goodbyes and headed toward the door, leaving Gant to nurture his bad mood by himself.
Thing was, Doc’s words had left a mark on him. He’d have to think about what he’d said. Especially the part about not taking him as a “quitter.” He wasn’t. At least he never had been. Maybe… just maybe…Doc was right, that he shouldn’t necessarily consider the bishop’s decision as final.
He didn’t want to, that much was certain.
For starters, though, he needed to shake this foul mood. Then he’d give Doc’s little lecture some more thought.
2
WHEN HOPE FADES
Be strong, O Heart of mine,
Look toward the light!
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER
Rachel shook the last few drops out of the watering can. At the sound of a horse approaching, she turned and shaded her eyes, her hand trembling when she saw who was coming up the road.
Jeremiah.
The evening sun had begun to fade, but there was still enough light to frame his tall, erect form as he turned into the lane leading up to her house. He wore no coat—the day had been typically hot and humid for August—but what her sister, Fannie, called his “captain’s cap” was pulled low over his forehead.
Rachel set the watering can on the garden bench but made no move to go and meet him. It had been nearly two weeks since she had last seen him, and even though she knew she shouldn’t be seeing him at all—they had no business being together because he was an outsider and she, a widow alone—his absence had hurt and disturbed her.
The sight of him disturbed her even more.
She watched him ease off the horse he’d given the peculiar name of Flann, then reach for his cane before tethering the big ginger-red gelding to the fencepost. As he started up the path toward Rachel, his limp was obvious, though it had been several months since he’d been shot.
Doc Sebastian had warned him that he would always be lame but hinted that he might be able to do away with the cane eventually. The sight of his slow progress up the pathway tugged at Rachel’s heart. He was so tall, so rugged in appearance and seemingly fit in all ways except for the stiffness and hesitancy of his gait. He still had pain too—she had seen him wince more than once at an awkward movement or unexpected stumble.
No matter how she tried to steel herself against feeling sorry for him—for Jeremiah was a proud man and would brook no pity if he were aware of it—she never failed to ache for what had been done to him.
His eyes locked with hers as he drew closer, his gaze steady but gentle when he reached her.
“Rachel,” he said in the soft way he had of saying her name. Not quite a whisper but almost a sigh.
She couldn’t find her voice, so she merely nodded.
For a moment he simply stood looking at her, his gaze as warm as a touch on her face, though his expression was unusually solemn. “We need to talk.”
Instinctively Rachel glanced around.
His mouth tightened. “Surely you can’t be faulted for standing outside with me. It’s still daylight.”
“I don’t think—”
“It’s important, Rachel.”
He held her gaze, and Rachel knew with a sudden twist of dread that whatever he meant to tell her would not be anything she wanted to hear.
Surely it would be best to go inside so they wouldn’t be seen together. But if anyone saw his horse, they would know who was here. No one else among the People owned such a brightly colored and fierce looking animal, so it was no secret who he belonged to.
“I know you’d rather not be seen with me—”
“It’s not that—”
But it was exactly that. Jeremiah was forbidden to her. He was an auslander. An outsider. There was no acceptable reason for them to be together. Even standing here, in the golden light of evening, she would be risking her reputation, inviting censure or worse by keeping company with a stranger.
But Jeremiah was no stranger. She had cared for him in her home, helped nurse him back to health. He was her friend…No, much more than a friend. He was the man she had grown to love.
A love that could have her shunned, torn apart from her family, her friends, her church.
As if he could see the conflict of her emotions, he made the decision for her. “Let me just take Flann around back,” he said, “and we’ll talk inside.”
Of course, anyone facing the rear of her property could still see the horse. Still, she decided it would be best to go inside. “All right,” she said, her voice unsteady. “But you can’t stay long.”
There was no missing the irritation that crossed his strong features, but he said nothing, merely turned to go and get the horse.
Inside, the kitchen was already growing dim with the day’s waning light, but Rachel made no effort to light the oil lamp, resolved to keep his visit to only a few moments at most.
He doffed his cap upon entering. When Rachel made no indication that he should sit down, he gestured to one of the chairs at the table. “May I?”
She hesitated but finally nodded. It went against everything she’d been taught not to offer him something to eat or at least a cup of coffee, but he seemed no more inclined toward a social visit than she did. To the contrary, she knew him well enough to recognize the drawn expression of his features. It occurred to her again that whatever he had to tell her wasn’t going to be pleasant.
He waited until she sat down, then hooked his cane on the back of the chair across from her, and lowered himself to it.
She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. They sat not speaking until the silence became awkward.
“I’ve missed you, Rachel,” he finally said, watching her, obviously waiting for a reply.
At last Rachel looked at him but said nothing. “How are you keeping, then?”
By now she knew that this was his peculiar way—perhaps an Irish way—of asking how she had been. “I’m…well. And you?”
How foolish they sounded. How formal and stiff and—unfamiliar. Like strangers, they were.
He gave a thin smile and shrugged.
Although Jeremiah usually was one to come right to the point, he seemed to be having a difficult time of it today. “Have you seen Gideon lately? You might want to know that he’s a fine worker, a real help to me at the shop.”
“I’m glad,” Rachel said. “He enjoys his work.”
He gave an idle nod, lacing his hands together on top of the table.
Again silence overtook them.
Watching him, Rachel’s throat felt as if she’d swallowed dust. “You said you wanted to talk with me.” For some reason she couldn’t manage to say his name. Perhaps because for so long she had loved saying it. It made her think of music. Even more it made her feel close to him.
At this moment, however, she sensed it would be foolish, even treacherous, to allow that feeling of closeness.
He looked up from his hands, his mouth bracketed by hard lines, his eyes shadowed. “I should have come sooner, I know.”
Rachel felt his eyes on her, but she was unable to look at him, unwilling to hear what he had to say. Somehow she knew that his words would break her heart.
3
LEAVING RACHEL
Withered is the early flower…
GERALD GRIFFIN
She could at least look at him.
Clearly she wasn’t about to help him through this. He hadn’t expected such coldness from her. That she might be piqued with him or even hurt because he’d stayed away for so long—that wouldn’t have surp
rised him. But he hadn’t expected this distance from her. It was as if she scarcely knew him.
Gant wanted to reach for her, to take her hand, but he sensed that any such move on his part would meet only with rejection. So he swallowed, cleared his throat, and began.
“I met with Bishop Graber.”
Still she kept her eyes averted. One hand rested in her lap, the other on top of the table. When he saw her fingers tremble, Gant’s instinct to touch her was renewed.
“Rachel?”
Finally she looked at him. The pain that slipped past the guarded gaze warned him that she knew what he was about to say.
“He won’t agree to my conversion.”
Saying nothing, she stared at the table, then gave a small nod.
“He doesn’t trust my motives. He thinks the only reason I want to join the church is so you and I can marry.”
Her head came up, her eyes questioning.
“I wasn’t able to convince him otherwise.”
Now Gant found himself unable to meet her gaze. He knew the question that he would encounter in her eyes, and he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her. As he’d told Doc, he no longer trusted his own conviction. Maybe Rachel was his only reason for wanting to convert. He couldn’t be sure. But wasn’t it enough that he would convert, that he would change his entire way of life to marry her? What if that was his only reason or, at least, the most important reason? Why couldn’t that be enough?
“Then he also told you to stay away from me, didn’t he?”
As always her voice was quiet, level, and controlled. But her eyes pierced his so intensely Gant felt as if she were cutting through to his very soul.
Even if he were tempted to lie to her—and he was, just for a moment—what good would it do? She would find out the truth soon enough. Besides, she deserved to hear it from him, not the bishop or someone else.
“Yes. He said we’re not to see each other. At least not alone.”
“Like this,” she said quietly.
He made a gesture of frustration with one hand. “I don’t accept his decision, Rachel. I can’t. There has to be a way.”