“And meanwhile, at the schoolhouse, Tim and Julia were telling us the very same story,” Jeremiah put in matter-of-factly. Lydianne’s face had paled, and she seemed at a loss for words, so he hoped his explanation would nip the Hartzlers’ curiosity in the bud. As two of the most influential members of their church, they might well determine how convincing—and how successful—he and the Nissleys would be at extinguishing this blazing-hot news about Teacher Lydianne.
Jeremiah gestured toward the kitchen. “Come sit down. I’m sure you have questions.”
“Oh, jah—questions. That doesn’t begin to cover it,” Saul said as he studied Lydianne’s facial features.
Jeremiah was grateful that Martha Maude was heading toward the table, so her son would follow her. He prayed fervently that God would give him words to convince the Hartzlers to stop this story in its tracks . . . even if he had to lie a little to protect Lydianne and the Nissley family. “Let me start by saying that Lydianne and I were talking at her desk after school on Monday, about a lot of different things—”
“And we didn’t realize that Ella had come in,” Lydianne added in a voice that shook with emotion.
“Our best guess is that she overheard just enough of our conversation to piece things together as only an imaginative six-year-old can,” Jeremiah continued valiantly. “Like a lot of first-year scholars, Ella has become so attached to Teacher Lydianne—the first woman after her mamm to be her teacher—that she’s gotten it in her head that Lydianne could be her mother because she wants her to be.”
He watched the reactions play over their guests’ faces as they took the other two seats at the table. Martha Maude’s hawk-sharp mind could cut unerringly through fibs and smoke screens, and she never hesitated to state her opinions. Saul tended to reserve judgment—to keep track of loopholes and discrepancies on his mental tally sheet—until he’d heard enough to say that the particulars of a story didn’t add up.
“Don’t you recall that kind of attachment, Saul?” Jeremiah continued earnestly. “I was so in love with my teacher, I was telling everyone I intended to marry her—and I was quite a bit older than Ella when I was spreading this tale.”
The deacon’s lips lifted. “Jah, I recall having such a crush, but everybody knew the story wasn’t true—chalked it up to little-boy talk,” he countered. “In this case, Lydianne is certainly old enough to have had a child—back before she came to Morning Star. And the resemblance is impossible to miss, once you start looking.”
Resisting the urge to grasp Lydianne’s hand, Jeremiah persisted with his argument. “But—even though we adults know that the Nissleys adopted Ella as a newborn—she could certainly be Tim and Julia’s biological child if you compare her features and complexion to theirs,” he said earnestly. “My mamm has always said I’m the spitting image of my dat, yet other people tell me they see her features all over my face.”
Martha Maude had been following the conversation closely, her forehead furrowed with thought. “Jah, beauty’s in the eye of the beholder,” she quipped. “Saul would’ve been better off if he’d inherited more of my features, don’t you think?”
As her son scowled at her off-hand remark, she sat back in her chair. “I’ll never forget the day—I was a first-year scholar just like Ella—when I slipped up and called my teacher Mamm, right in front of my mother. As you’ve said, Jeremiah, first-year scholars form a close attachment to their teachers because they spend all day with them instead of with their mamms, drinking in every word they say.”
Jeremiah let her statement stand, hoping Saul would follow her logic.
“I also recall knowing a few kids who were adopted, as well as daydreaming that I might’ve had different parents, too,” Martha Maude continued softly. “It’s a phase a lot of kids go through, I think. I didn’t quiz Ella too closely about her story, because I don’t believe she knows that Tim and Julia adopted her as a newborn.”
“That’s right—they haven’t told her,” Jeremiah chimed in, grateful for the opening Martha Maude had given him. “They want to discuss Ella’s adoption with her when she’s older and better able to understand. Even as we speak, they’re instructing Ella not to repeat what she overheard because she might’ve gotten it wrong—and because eavesdropping on adults’ conversations isn’t proper behavior.”
Saul’s eyes narrowed as he considered this. “But if Lydianne really is Ella’s mother—”
“This matter is not up for discussion.” Jeremiah leaned toward the deacon, holding his gaze. “As the bishop, I have chosen to honor the Nissleys’ request to keep this matter conf idential—to preserve the privacy of all involved. God already knows the details, after all.”
Saul scowled. “But if Lydianne really is—you can’t just sweep her situation under the rug as though—”
“Jah, he can—and for gut reason,” Martha Maude interrupted as she, too, held Saul’s gaze. “Think of the unfortunate consequences for Tim and Julia and Ella—and for the other scholars and their parents—if we were to pursue this matter the way you’re thinking we should, son. You don’t always have to be right.”
Saul’s eyes widened. When he opened his mouth to argue, his mother kept talking so he wouldn’t have the chance.
“God chose Jeremiah as our bishop,” Martha Maude said firmly. “We should accept his decisions about family matters and allow this situation to play out in its own gut time, the way the Nissleys have requested. I have all faith that Jeremiah has crossed the t’s and dotted the i’s, as far as Old Order beliefs about confession are concerned.”
Saul shook his head vehemently. “But we need to at least inform the preachers—”
“My lips are sealed,” his mother shot back, making a zipper motion with her fingers across her mouth. “I intend to tell anyone who repeats Ella’s story that she’s a little girl and she got it wrong. If other folks whip this situation into a frenzy, demanding a Members Meeting and Lydianne’s confession, we’ll know who told them to do that, won’t we, Saul?”
The kitchen rang with silence. Only when the deacon’s shoulders fell as a sign of his resigned acceptance did Jeremiah allow himself to breathe again. “Denki for your vote of confidence and your compassionate understanding, Martha Maude,” he murmured.
“Jah, I—and the Nissleys—appreciate it more than you know,” Lydianne whispered hoarsely.
Martha Maude reached over to grasp Lydianne’s shoulder. “Every one of us has a secret or two we’ve tucked into our hearts, because some things really are best kept between us and our Lord,” she said gently. “Bless you for all the gut work you’ve done with our scholars, Lydianne. We’ll go now and leave you to finish your dinner.”
Saul didn’t appear entirely satisfied with the outcome of their conversation, but he knew it was over because his mother had declared that it was. With a nod at Jeremiah, he followed Martha Maude out of the kitchen.
Jeremiah and Lydianne escorted them to the front door with a minimum of small talk. Only when the Hartzler buggy was on the road did the bishop slip his arm around her shoulders. “That conversation certainly could’ve ended differently.”
Lydianne let out a strained laugh. “I had no idea Martha Maude would take our side—or that she’d stand up to her son,” she said. “In most districts, the deacon’s opinion would’ve overruled anyone else’s—except the bishop’s.”
Jeremiah gently turned her toward the kitchen again. “Martha Maude calls a spade a spade, no matter who’s holding it,” he remarked, “but I was grateful that she realized the consequences of bringing this matter to a Members Meeting. I wish I’d done a better job of keeping your identity as Ella’s mother out of it, but I didn’t want to tell Saul an outright lie.”
“I would never expect you to lie for me, Jeremiah,” Lydianne murmured as she sank wearily into her chair at the table. “As it was, I was too nervous to give you much help. If you hadn’t stood up for me and the Nissleys, my reputation would be toast. I’d have to start packing.”
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“We don’t know that. The congregation might accept you back into the fold after your shunning—”
“But the damage would’ve been done, and Ella would know that Julia and Tim aren’t her birth parents,” Lydianne insisted. “Thank gutness Martha Maude believes the Nissleys should handle that information as they see fit, instead of making it a matter for public discussion.”
As Jeremiah glanced at the remainder of their cold pizza and the salad that had gotten soggy, he didn’t have much appetite for it. “I suspect you need time to process what’s happened today, and to prepare for your classes tomorrow, so I’ll be on my way,” he said softly. Then he chuckled. “I also suspect that Mamm wonders why I’ve not come home for the supper she’s fixed. At least she’ll be pleased that I was with you, even though I won’t reveal what we’ve been dealing with.”
“Margaret will get some ideas about our supper, jah—and I won’t be surprised if the Hartzlers mention to folks that they found us together, as well.” Lydianne’s eyebrows arched. “Some news is just too interesting to keep quiet about, ain’t so?”
Jeremiah was pleased to see hints of happiness in her expression, considering the times she’d turned him away. “When you’re the bishop, you live in a fishbowl, Sunshine. I hope you won’t mind it that folks in the congregation will be paying very close attention to our comings and goings now.”
She shrugged. “If they’re talking about us and our potential future, they’re leaving other topics alone, right? At least I hope they will,” she added with a sigh. “A lot of the more conservative church members would believe I’m not fit company for you if they knew I had Ella out of wedlock.”
“Phooey on that.” He clasped her small, sturdy hand between his. “We’re adults. We’ll decide what’s best for us regardless of what other folks might say. Are you with me on that, Lydianne?”
When she held his gaze and nodded, Jeremiah felt something wonderfully satisfying lock into place, as though his heart was a jigsaw puzzle and he’d finally found the missing piece he’d been searching for.
Chapter Twenty-Three
As Jo watched the Wengerds’ horse-drawn wagon pull off the road to come down the lane, excitement tickled her all over. After four and a half months of having Michael and Nelson stay in their dawdi haus each Friday night and then spend Saturdays working at The Marketplace, her life had fallen into a pleasant, predictable rhythm—and had taken a turn for the better. Although she knew nothing serious or permanent could come of her friendship with Michael, she enjoyed his company immensely. Even Mamm seemed happier these days because—though she didn’t admit it—she looked forward to sharing Friday night’s supper with Nelson and his son.
“The Wengerds must be coming,” her mother remarked from the stove, where she was stirring a big pot of venison stew. “If you were a dog, your tail would be wagging a mile a minute, twitchy as you are.”
Twitchy? Jo turned from the window to finish setting the table with four places. “You enjoy them, too, Mamm,” she challenged. “Back in June when they first began coming, I never would’ve guessed you’d invite them to join us for supper each week.”
“Puh! It’s the only polite thing to do, considering they arrive around five o’clock,” Mamm countered. “And it seems only right to feed them, as a return for all the odd jobs and maintenance they do around this place without my asking them.”
Jo was removing a pan of fresh dinner rolls from the oven when one of their guests knocked on the door. “Come on in!” she called out as she hurried through the front room to greet them.
When the door opened, she saw a huge pot of bright yellow mums that appeared to have sprouted two legs in broadfall trousers. “Special delivery for Miss Josephine Fussner,” Michael teased before peaking around his armful of flowers. “Dat has another plant for your mother. Where would you like us to put them?”
“What a nice surprise—and so pretty!” Jo exclaimed. “Is there room for a pot on either side of the porch steps? They’ll get some nice sunshine there.”
“That would be my choice of locations, jah,” Nelson replied from the doorway. His handsome face creased with a smile. “After selling out of our mums at the auctions, it’s a gut thing we saved these two back for you ladies. It’s our way of thanking you for your hospitality—and a way to celebrate how profitable it’s been for us to sell our flowers and vegetables in Morning Star.”
“I—I’m glad it’s worked out so well for you, considering the drive you make each week to get here,” Jo remarked. “All of our businesses do better because customers come to The Marketplace for your produce, pumpkins, and mums.”
She watched the two men position the big pots in their new spots, pleased with the pop of color the mums added to the shrubbery growing there. When the Wengerds returned to their wagon, Nelson carried their duffel bags to the dawdi haus while Michael returned to the front door carrying a large sack of apples and a plastic jug.
“For this weekend, we brought some baskets of apples and some pressed cider from a neighbor who has an orchard,” Michael explained as he rejoined Jo. “Folks out in the countryside don’t get the amount of customer traffic at their roadside stands that we see here at The Marketplace, so we offered to sell some of his crop tomorrow. For you!” he added, offering her the sack and the jug.
“Oh, these apples look so shiny and fresh—and it’s been an age since we had cider,” Jo remarked happily. “Come on in—the stew’s ready.”
“Happy to bring you ladies a little something,” Nelson put in as he came up the steps and into the front room. “It’s the least we can do, considering that your hospitality goes above and beyond what we’d originally agreed upon.”
“Come get your supper!” Mamm said. She’d been waiting for them in the kitchen doorway, more eager to see the Wengerds than she would ever let on. “Then you can tell me whether you’ll keep coming here all winter, or whether you’re staying in Queen City to put your feet up until spring.”
Michael and Nelson’s laughter filled the kitchen. “Funny you should ask that question, Drusilla,” Nelson teased. “If you could visit the new greenhouses we built over the summer, and see what’s growing in them—”
“You’d know we’re not going to take a lot of time off,” Michael chimed in. “At least not until after Christmas.”
As the men washed their hands at the sink, Jo set the cider and apples on the side counter. She filled a basket with warm rolls and put it on the table as Michael and Nelson took their usual seats at the table.
“You’ve hinted that you might be expanding, or trying something new, but you’ve kept us guessing about what you’re doing,” Jo said. She noticed the curiosity that lit Mamm’s eyes as she carried a steaming bowl of stew to the table.
“Poinsettias!” Michael blurted with a boyish smile.
“Thousands of poinsettias,” Nelson clarified. “We’ve always done well supplying the grocery stores, florists, and other outlets around Queen City and Kirksville each Christmas season, but when we realized how much business we were doing here with our other products, we decided to go all in. We used to raise around five thousand potted poinsettias in a season, but we now have eight thousand of them—”
“And we’re hoping you gals who manage The Marketplace will agree to advertise an open house or some other special event to help us sell them all!” Michael looked from Jo to her mother, and then his gaze lingered on Jo. “Of course, we figured on supplying some of those plants as decorations for the shops and the refreshment area, come December—”
“But that still leaves you with a lot of flowers to sell before Christmas,” Jo put in with a laugh. “Eight thousand poinsettias! I can’t imagine how colorful your greenhouses will look when they’re all in bloom!”
Michael and his dat shared a furtive glance. “Maybe you ladies should come and see for yourselves sometime in early December. We—we could show you around our gardens and greenhouses, and—”
“You could st
ay at our place,” Nelson added matter-of-factly. “So, it would be a nice little outing that wouldn’t cost you anything but a day or two of your—”
“Why would we want to do that?” Mamm demanded. Her earlier happiness dissipated like the steam from the stew bowl. “That’s a long trip. And we wouldn’t have the foggiest notion of how to get there, or—”
“That’s why we figured you could ride back to Queen City with us some Saturday night after The Marketplace closes,” Nelson said smoothly. “And Michael could drive you home whenever you’re ready.”
“Oh, but that would be fun!” Jo murmured wistfully.
“No, it wouldn’t!” Mamm shot back at her. “You know how cranky and sore I get when I have to sit in a rig more than ten or fifteen minutes.”
Sighing, Jo glanced apologetically at Michael. After all the time he and his dat had spent here, they knew Mamm could get cranky about the least little suggestion that might vary her routine—even if it didn’t involve a buggy ride.
Michael winked at Jo. “Well, it was only an idea.”
“Just something to think about,” Nelson agreed cordially. “Let’s bow our heads before this gut-smelling stew gets cold, shall we?”
Jo closed her eyes, but her thoughts were far from prayerful. Lord, why can’t my mother ever be happy? Michael and his dat are being so nice, inviting us to see their greenhouses, and—well, if there’s any way at all You can bring us a positive outcome, please bless us with Your assistance.
After the grace, as they were passing the food, Nelson looked at Mamm. “Drusilla, is it inconvenient—or a disruption to your rental business—if Michael and I continue to stay in your dawdi haus through the holidays?” he asked. “If it is, we’ll find other Friday night lodging—”
“Don’t even think about it!” Jo blurted. “You’ve been a steady source of income for us all summer, and we’ve still taken in other guests on weeknights. And besides that,” she added when Mamm appeared ready to object, “we don’t get nearly as many reservations during the winter months. We’d be delighted to have you.”
First Light in Morning Star Page 20