The Forbidden

by Beverly Lewis

  The Forbidden

  BEVERLY

  LEWIS

  The Forbidden

  The Forbidden

  Copyright © 2008

  Beverly M. Lewis

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Koechel Peterson & Associates

  Scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lewis, Beverly.

  The forbidden / Beverly Lewis.

  p. cm. — (The courtship of Nellie Fisher ; bk. 2)

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0521-7 (alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-7642-0311-4 (pbk.) —

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0522-4 (large-print pbk.) 1. Amish—Fiction. 2. Lancaster County

  (Pa.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.E9383F67 2008

  813'.54—dc22

  2008000985

  * * *

  DEDICATION:

  To John and Ada Reba Bachman,

  my dear uncle and aunt.

  With love and greatest gratitude.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  BY BEVERLY LEWIS

  ABRAM’S DAUGHTERS

  The Covenant • The Betrayal

  The Sacrifice • The Prodigal

  The Revelation

  THE HERITAGE OF LANCASTER COUNTY

  The Shunning • The Confession • The Reckoning

  ANNIE’S PEOPLE

  The Preacher’s Daughter

  The Englisher • The Brethren

  THE COURTSHIPOF NELLIE FISHER

  The Parting

  The Forbidden

  The Postcard • The Crossroad

  The Redemption of Sarah Cain

  October Song • Sanctuary* • The Sunroom

  The Beverly Lewis Amish Heritage Cookbook

  www.beverlylewis.com

  *with David Lewis

  BEVERLY LEWIS, born in the heart of Pennsylvania Dutch country, fondly recalls her growing-up years. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain family heritage has inspired Beverly to set many of her popular stories in Amish country, beginning with her inaugural novel, The Shunning.

  A former schoolteacher and accomplished pianist, Beverly has written over eighty books for adults and children. Her novels regularly appear on The New York Times and USA Today bestseller lists, and The Brethren won a 2007 Christy Award.

  Beverly and her husband, David, make their home in Colorado, where they enjoy hiking, biking, reading, writing, making music, and spending time with their three grandchildren.

  PROLOGUE

  Winter 1967

  I dreamed of Suzy last night. In the dream, it was deep winter and heavy snow fell as we walked to the barn to feed the calvies . . . little sisters once again. The whistle of a distant train, its sad, haunting sound, hung in the dense, cold air as it echoed through our cornfield. Yet why was the corn still tall and thriving in the dead of January?

  All of this was crammed into a dream that lasted only a few minutes at most. My friend Rosanna King says dreams are like that, tantalizing you with a mixture of puzzling things that don’t make a whit of sense.

  Even so, I awakened with the knowledge that I must be moving beyond my initial grief. Jah, I long to see Suzy again, to talk with her and feel her gentle breath on my hair as she sleeps, sharing our old childhood bed. Sharing our lives, too. But something has changed in me. Maybe it helps to know that Dat and Mamma believe Suzy’s in heaven, even though she died before she could join church. So terribly bewildering, as this idea goes against the grain of everything we’ve always believed.

  Following her death, I didn’t dream very often of my sister, though I’d wanted to. Now it’s like going from a drought to a torrential rain. The floodgates have opened and she and I are together nearly every night as young girls . . . as if the Lord God is permitting a divine comforter to fall over me.

  I daresay it is a comfort I sorely need, what with the six-month anniversary of Suzy’s death having come and gone— December ninth, which my oldest sister, Rhoda, says was not long after Pearl Harbor Day. Another sad anniversary—the start of a world war decades ago. Ach, such strife between our country and another, and now a terrible clash is going on in a place called Vietnam, according to Rhoda.

  She brings up the oddest things relating to the modern world. I see the look of surprise in Mamma’s eyes nearly every night at supper. Dat is more stoic, slowly running his fingers up and down his black suspenders as he quietly takes in Rhoda’s remarks. My sister Nan’s disapproval is evident in the jut of her chin and the way her blue eyes dim as Rhoda chatters about the foreign things she’s learning while working for the Kraybills, our English neighbors who live half a mile away on the narrow, wooded section of Beaver Dam Road. She works every weekday, snow or not, and sometimes on Saturdays. At times I wonder if she’d be willing to work Sundays, too, given the chance.

  Rhoda’s not the only one working extra hard these days. Dat has been busy, as well. The bakery shop—called Nellie’s Simple Sweets—will soon be home to three cozy sets of tables and chairs, about the size of those in the ice-cream parlors Englischers frequent. Three customers will be able to sit at each round table, and if some want to squeeze in, then four. Oh, such gossip that will fly. I must be careful lest I hear things not meant for my ears, especially from fancy customers.

  Mamma’s returned to working with me just recently. Nan still helps some, too, but only when things get real busy. Otherwise, it is my mother and me tending the store and, oh, the interesting tales she tells of bygone days—like a tomato-growing contest she won as a girl by supporting the tomato with a hammock of netting, and raising pigs with her younger brother. Like Mammi Hannah Fisher, Mamma has a knack for describing past doings.

  My beau, Caleb Yoder, has only dropped by the bakery once, but he won’t be doing that at all now—not if he wants to receive his inheritance of nearly a hundred acres of farmland. His father has forbidden him to court me, but Caleb has promised we’ll see each other secretly . . . somehow.

  Already three weeks have passed since he revealed the startling news and we held each other before parting ways. Ach,
but it feels like forever. There was no word from him during Christmas, so he’s abiding by his father’s wishes. No matter this temporary silence, I trust him to know what to do to gain his Daed’s approval of me. Surely word has reached David Yoder’s ear that I have not gone to Preacher Manny’s church a second time—nor do I intend to. I’m not walking the “saved” path that has enticed a good many families in our church district already.

  My staying put has caused an awful rift in the house, especially on Preaching Sundays when my family and I go our separate ways. I to the old church, and my parents and Rhoda and Nan to the new.

  Plenty of folk are at odds on this issue. There is even a growing division amongst those in the new church—some have still stronger leanings toward the world, desiring electricity and cars, of all things. My parents won’t hear of that, so we continue to drive horse and buggy and bring out the gas lamps and lanterns at dusk.

  There’s a hankering for light on both sides of the fence. For some this breaking away has required a quick decision, as Uncle Bishop has decreed a ninety-day grace period on excommunication and shunning for folk who want to leave the old church and join the new. The incentive is mighty strong for those already baptized into the Old Order church, since there are only a few short weeks to decide for or against the tradition of our ancestors. A right sobering thought.

  Knowing that this new way was Suzy’s belief makes it strangely appealing. But as curious as I am, I won’t risk my future with Caleb Yoder, even though I am still in Rumschpringe—a running-around time sanctioned by the People. The old church is where I belong, with my beau. Dear Dat and Mamma don’t realize I’ve already decided against embracing their faith—Caleb and I would stand no chance if I were to be baptized into the New Order. How can I think of doing so, when marrying him is my very best hope for happiness?

  The smallest seed of faith is better than the

  largest fruit of happiness.

  —HENRY DAVID THOREAU

  CHAPTER 1

  Nellie Mae Fisher loaded her newly baked goods onto the long sleigh and covered them with a lightweight tarp before tying everything down securely. She slipped her outer bonnet over her Kapp and breathed lightly as she pulled the sleigh through the backyard, toward the bakery shop behind her father’s farmhouse. The January air was frosty, and she pushed the woolen scarf into place to protect her nose.

  The expanse of land beyond Nellie’s Simple Sweets lay buried beneath a blanket of snow, the unfruitful cornfield of last summer now as white and perfect as any neighboring field. A ridge of tall trees to the west stood stark and forklike against the sky, and only a handful of stray leaves still clung to the maples near the barnyard. Closer in, a few scraggly remnants of cornstalks remained, their reedy stems silhouetted brown against the snow.

  Our first Christmas and New Year’s . . . without Suzy.

  Nellie Mae sighed, struck by the way the sky seemed to hold back the daylight behind a barricade of gray-white clouds, hoarding it away, depriving the earth of direct sunlight. She’d heard her father compare the icy ground to iron, telling Mamma quietly that even death itself was not as hard as a field of frozen ground. With recent heavy snows and continuous arctic air, Nellie was certainly glad to have rescued Suzy’s diary from the earth well before this cold, long month.

  There had been times as children when she and Suzy would wade through waist-deep snow, unbeknownst to Mamma, who would’ve had a thing or two to say about it had she known. They’d longed for summer’s glow during the dark months of the year, just as Rhoda and Nan had.

  All four sisters had used this selfsame sleigh over the years, pushing through the snow on foot, in search of spring’s greenery. Even the sight of dull green lichen on a tree trunk gave cause for rejoicing.

  Oh, for spring to hurry!

  Nellie opened the door to the snug shop and began unloading the sleigh of the day’s inventory of goodies. Immediately, though, she sensed something was amiss, and when she moved behind the counter, there was nineteen-year-old Nan crouched with her best friend, Rebekah Yoder, Caleb’s older sister. They rose, streaks of tears on each girl’s face, and Nan quickly sputtered, “Ach, but it’s just so unfair.”

  Confused, Nellie shook her head. “What is?”

  “Rebekah’s father . . . well . . .” Nan glanced at her friend, who was clearly as upset as she.

  Instantly Nellie knew why the pair had been hiding.

  Rebekah dabbed her face with a handkerchief. “I’m not supposed to be here,” she admitted and sighed loudly. “What with the split between the People, my father’s not in favor of certain friendships.”

  Certain friendships?

  Unable to divulge her own predicament, Nellie simply nodded as Rebekah revealed that her plight was “all the family’s, truly.” She didn’t go on to explain what that meant, but Nellie presumed she was speaking for herself and her brother Caleb, as well as Rebekah’s mother, who until these past few months had often given Nellie’s mamma rides to and from quilting bees.

  Nan suddenly reached for Nellie’s hand. “Would it be all right, do ya think, if Rebekah and I met here sometimes to visit?” Nan’s eyes were pleading.

  Nellie forced a smile. Will I get myself in further trouble with David Yoder, harboring Caleb’s sister?

  Nan groaned. “Oh, I don’t understand why this has to be.”

  Rebekah’s face was taut with worry. “Me neither.”

  “Even the bishop said no one’s to be shunned for followin’ Preacher Manny and the new church,” Nan reminded.

  “Well, you don’t know my father, then,” Rebekah said. “He’ll shun if he wants to.”

  Nellie’s spirits sank like a fallen cake.

  “Come.” Nan reached for Rebekah’s hand and led her toward the door.

  Nellie watched them go, not knowing who had her sympathy more—Nan and Rebekah, who were most likely scheming about future ways to visit—or her beau, Caleb.

  She turned on the gas-run space heater in the far corner and then removed her coat, scarf, and mittens. Rubbing her hands together, she waited for heat to fill the place. As she did, she walked to the window and stared out at the wintry landscape. Why didn’t Caleb send word during Christmas?

  “How much longer till he gets his father to see the light?” she blurted into the stillness.

  Deep within her, she feared Caleb’s longing for his birthright. One hundred acres of fine farmland was nothing to sneeze at, and his father’s land was ever so important to him. To her, as well, for it would provide their livelihood as Caleb cared for her needs and those of their future children. He had worried something awful about this when they’d met unexpectedly at the millstream—their last time together. She’d heard in his voice then the hunger for his inheritance. Soon she would know where things stood. After all, Caleb was a man of his word. He’d asked her to marry him and she had happily agreed, but that was before his father had demanded they part ways.

  Why should David Yoder keep Rebekah and Nan apart, too?

  Having witnessed Rebekah’s misery, she worried that David Yoder had more sway over his son and daughter than she’d first believed. What with Rebekah busy working as a mother’s helper for another Amish family, she had less opportunity to be influenced by the world than Nellie’s sister Rhoda did working at the Kraybills’ fancy house. No, Rebekah would most likely join the old church and stay in the fold, just as Nellie would when the time came. Doing so meant Rebekah would also eventually comply with her father’s wishes and choose a different best friend, which would hurt Nan terribly.

  Turning, Nellie took visual inventory of her baked goods—an ample supply of cookies, cakes, pies, and sticky buns. The bleak reality was that there had been few customers willing to brave the temperatures this week. She’d thought of asking Dat if she ought to close up during the coldest weeks as some shops did in Intercourse Village, although many of those were not Amish owned. Yet Nellie had hesitated to ask—her family needed the extra income from the
bakery more than ever this year, due to last summer’s drought.

  “Right now we look as good as closed,” she murmured, eyeing the road and the lack of customers. It was safe to head to the barn to see how Dat’s new tables and chairs were coming along.

  On her way, she noticed Nan and Rebekah now walking side by side toward Beaver Dam Road, Rebekah’s hands gesturing as she talked spiritedly.

  Rebekah knows her own mind. At twenty, she would be marrying before long—if not next fall, then the following year. As far as Nellie knew, Rebekah had no serious beau, though, of course, that didn’t mean anything. Courting was done secretly, and most couples kept mum.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she looked back again at Caleb’s sister, graceful and tall even next to willowy Nan. Nellie couldn’t help but wonder what the two girls were cooking up, the way they leaned toward each other. For now, at least, their tears had turned to laughter.

  Nellie opened the barn door and headed to the area opposite the stable. Her father had carved out a corner there for his business records and occasional woodworking handiwork.

  His back was to her as he appeared to scrutinize one of the chair legs, his nose nearly touching the oak. “Hullo, Dat,” she said quietly so as not to startle him.

  He turned quickly. “Nellie Mae?”

  “Not many customers yet . . . well, none at all, really. Thought I’d drop in.” She paused, aware of his pleasant smile. “Just curious to have a look-see.” She pointed at the unfinished chair.

  “Two tables are done, but, well, I’m a bit behind on the chairs, as you see.” He set the chair down. “You discouraged ’bout the winter months, with so few customers?”

  “The pies sit, is all.”