Secret, The

by Beverly Lewis

  the Secret

  the Secret

  BEVERLY

  LEWIS

  The Secret

  Copyright © 2009

  Beverly M. Lewis

  Art direction by Paul Higdon

  Cover design by Dan Thornberg, Design Source Creative Services

  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 secret / Beverly Lewis.

  p. cm. — (Seasons of grace ; 1)

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0680-1 (alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-7642-0571-2 (pbk.) —ISBN 978-0-7642-0681-8 (large-print pbk.)

  1. Amish—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3562.E9383S43 2009

  813'.54—dc22

  2008051051

  _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

  For

  Judith Lovold,

  devoted reader and friend.

  By Beverly Lewis

  THE HERITAGE OF LANCASTER COUNTY

  The Shunning • The Confession • The Reckoning

  ABRAM’S DAUGHTERS

  The Covenant • The Betrayal • The Sacrific

  The Prodigal • The Revelation

  ANNIE’S PEOPLE

  The Preacher’s Daughter • The Englisher • The Brethren

  THE COURTSHIP OF NELLIE FISHER

  The Parting • The Forbidden • The Longing

  SEASONS OF GRACE

  The Secret

  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, is The New York Times bestselling author of more than eighty books. Her stories have been published in nine languages worldwide. A keen interest in her mother’s Plain heritage has inspired Beverly to write many Amish-related novels, beginning with The Shunning, which has sold more than one million copies. The Brethren was honored with a 2007 Christy Award.

  Beverly lives with her husband, David, in Colorado.

  Contents

  Prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  chapter thirty-three

  chapter thirty-four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  SPRING

  Honestly, I thought the worst was past.

  A full month has come and gone since the day of that chilly barn raising southeast of Strasburg. Mamma and I had traveled all that way, taking a hamper of food to help feed the men building the new barn. The plea to lend a hand had traveled along the Amish grapevine, which some said spread word faster than radio news.

  There we were, sitting at the table with the other womenfolk, when Mamma let out a little gasp, jumped up, and rushed over to greet a woman I’d never seen in my life.

  Then if she and that stranger didn’t go off walking together for the longest time, just up and left without a word to me or anyone.

  From then on my mother seemed preoccupied . . . even ferhoodled. Most worrisome of all, she began rising and wandering outside in the middle of the night. Sometimes I would see her cutting through the cornfield, always going in the same direction until she disappeared from view. She leaned forward as if shouldering the weight of the world.

  Here lately, though—in the past few days—she had begun to settle down some, cooking and cleaning and doing a bit of needlework. I’d even noticed her wearing an occasional smile, a sweet softness in her face once again.

  But lo and behold, last night, when talk of my twenty-first birthday came up, silent tears streamed down her ivory face while she rinsed and stacked the dishes. My heart sank like a stone. “Mamma . . . what is it?”

  She merely shrugged and I kept drying, squelching the flood of questions throbbing in my head.

  Then today, while carrying a thermos of cold lemonade out to the sheep barn, I saw my older brother, Adam, over in the birthing stall with Dat. I heard Adam say in a low and serious voice, “Something’s botherin’ Mamm, ain’t so?” My soon-to-be-wed brother must’ve assumed he was on equal footing, or about to be, to dare utter such a question to our father. Either that or he felt it safe to stick his neck out and speak man-to-man out there, surrounded by the musky, earthy smells, with only the sheep as witness.

  I held my breath and kept myself hidden from view. A man of few words, Dat gave no immediate reply. I waited, hoping he might offer a reason for Mamma’s behavior. Surely it was something connected to the stranger at the March barn raising. For as long as I remember, Mamma has always been somewhat moody, but I was just certain something had gone off-kilter that day. She kept to herself more and more—even staying away twice from Sunday Preaching. Jah, there was much for me to ponder about my mother. And ponder I did.

  Now, as I waited stubbornly for my father to acknowledge Adam’s question, the only sound I heard was the laboring cry of the miserable ewe, her bleats signaling a difficult delivery. I swallowed my disappointment. But I shouldn’t have been surprised that Dat made no response whatsoever. This was his way when cornered. Dat’s way in general, especially with women.

  I continued to stand motionless there in the stuffy sheep barn, observing my father’s serious face, his down-turned mouth. Adam, blond and lean, knelt in the deep straw as he waited to assist the struggling ewe deliver the next wee lamb—a twin to the first one already wobbling onto its feet within moments of birth. Tenderness for my blue-eyed brother tugged at my heart. In no time, we’d be saying our good-byes, once Adam tied the knot with Henry Stahl’s sister, nineteen-year-old Priscilla. I’d happened upon them the other evening while walking to visit my good friend Becky Riehl. Of course, I’m not supposed to know they are engaged till they are “published” in the fall, several Sundays before the wedding. Frankly I cringed when I saw Priscilla riding with Adam, and I wondered how my sensible brother had fallen for the biggest Schnuffelbox in all of Lancaster County. E
veryone knew what a busybody she was.

  Now I backed away from the barn door, still gripping the thermos. Perturbed by Dat’s steadfast silence, I fled the sheep barn for the house.

  Adam’s obvious apprehension—and his unanswered question—plagued me long into the night as I pitched back and forth in bed, my cotton gown all bunched up in knots. In vain, I tried to fall asleep, wanting to be wide awake for work tomorrow. After all, it would be a shame if I didn’t preserve my reputation as an industrious part-time employee at Eli’s Natural Foods. I might be especially glad for this job if I ended up a Maidel.

  Being single was a concern for any young Amishwoman. But I supposed it wasn’t the worst thing not to have a husband, even though I’d cared for Henry quite a while already. Sometimes it was just hard to tell if the feelings were mutual, perhaps because he was reticent by nature. In spite of that, he was a kind and faithful companion, and mighty gut at playing volleyball, too. If nothing more, I knew I could count on quiet Henry to be a devoted friend. He was as dependable as the daybreak.

  Too restless to sleep, I rose and walked the length of the hallway. The dim glow from the full moon cast an eerie light at the end of the house, down where the dormers jutted out at the east end. From the window, I stared at the deserted yard below, looking for any sign of Mamma. But the road and yard were empty.

  Downstairs the day clock began to chime, as if on cue. Mamma had stilled the pendulum, stopping the clock on the hour she learned her beloved sister Naomi had passed away, leaving it unwound for months. Now the brassy sound traveled up the steep staircase to my ears—twelve lingering chimes. Something about the marking of hours in the deep of night disturbed me.

  I paced the hall, scooting past the narrow stairs leading to the third story, where Adam and Joe slept in two small rooms. Safely out of earshot of Mamma’s mysterious comings and goings.

  Was Dat such a sound sleeper that he didn’t hear Mamma’s footsteps?

  What would cause her to be so restless? I’d asked myself a dozen times. Yet, as much as I longed to be privy to my mother’s secrets, something told me I might come to wish I never knew.

  The holiest of all holidays are those

  Kept by ourselves in silence and apart;

  The secret anniversaries of the heart.

  —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  chapter

  one

  April in Bird-in-Hand was heralded by brilliant sunrises and brisk, tingling evenings. Every thicket was alive with new greenery, and streams ran swift and clear.

  Known for its fertile soil, the idyllic town nestled between the city of Lancaster on the west and the village of Intercourse to the east. In spite of the encroachment of town homes and newly developed subdivisions on nearly all sides, the fertile farmland remained as appealing to outsiders as it did to Judah Byler and his farming neighbors.

  Judah’s big white clapboard house was newer than most of the farmhouses in the area. Its double chimney and sweeping gables lent an air of style to the otherwise ordinary siding and black-shuttered windows. He’d drawn up the plans twenty-some years before, situating the house on a piece of property divided from a vast parcel of pastureland owned by his father. Judah took great care to locate an ideal sloping spot on which to pour the foundation, since the house would be situated on a floodplain. Together he and his Daed planted a windbreak of trees and erected several martin birdhouses in the yard. His married brothers, father, and uncles had all pitched in and built the large ten-bedroom house. A house that, if cut in two, was identical on both sides.

  Just after breaking ground, Judah took as his bride Lettie Esh, the prettiest girl in the church district. They’d lived with relatives for the first few months of their marriage, receiving numerous wedding gifts as they visited, until the house was completed.

  Eyeing the place now, Judah was pleased the exterior paint was still good from three summers ago. He could put all of his energies into lambing this spring. It was still coat weather, and he breathed in the peppery scent of black earth this morning as he went to check on his new lambs again. He had risen numerous times in the night to make sure the ewes were nursing their babies. A newborn lamb was encouraged to nurse at will, at least as frequently as six to eight times in a twenty-four hour period.

  Two plump robins strutted on the sidewalk, but Judah paid them little mind as he walked to the sheep barn, groggily recalling the day he’d carried Lettie’s things up the stairs to the second floor. To the room that was to become their own. As husband and wife, he thought wryly.

  Momentarily he considered Lettie’s current dejected state, wondering if he shouldn’t stay put today. But on second thought, he could not endure more questions from Adam or furtive glances from Grace. His eldest daughter had slipped into the barn last night and tried to hide in the shadows, as if wanting to inquire about Lettie, too. Grace is as perceptive as her big brother is bold.

  At twenty-two Adam was the oldest of their four, and then Grace, followed by nineteen-year-old Amanda—their Mandy—and fifteen-year-old Joseph, whom they called Joe. All of them still at home and mighty Plain clear down to their toes. Adam had joined church two years ago and Grace last September, along with Mandy, who’d always wanted to be baptized with her only sister. He was thankful indeed for his God-fearing offspring, having been privy to some of the fiery trials other parents suffered.

  Is Lettie still grieving Naomi? Her sister had died in her sleep several years earlier, within days of Gracie’s birthday, as he recalled. A heart attack, he’d heard it was. Poor Lettie had worn black for a full year to show her respect, twice as long as the expected time. There had been other signs, too, that she was locked up in sorrow for longer than most siblings might mourn. Lettie couldn’t bring herself to speak of Naomi, which worried her parents, Jakob and Adah, who lived across the wide middle hall on their own side of Judah’s house.

  Presently Judah looked in on the ewe and her twin lambs, certain that Adam and Joe, with a little help from their grandfather Jakob, could tend to the newly birthed lambs, at least for today. When he was finished checking, he hurried back to the house. He’d seen Lettie stirring up eggs and milk for scrambling as he’d rushed past her to the side door. Disheveled and still in her bathrobe, her fair hair quickly pulled into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, she’d said nary a word.

  Returning now, he made his way to the sink to wash up for the meal. Drying his hands, he moseyed over to the table, avoiding Lettie’s solemn gaze as she set the table for his solitary early morning breakfast.

  “S’pose we ought to have us a talk.” Her big blue eyes nearly stared a hole in him.

  “Well, I’ll be leavin’ soon for the animal auction up yonder,” he replied.

  She grimaced and placed two cups and saucers on the table before preparing to pour the coffee. “It shouldn’t take much of your time.”

  His stomach tensed up and he motioned for her to sit. They bowed their heads for the silent prayer of blessing, which concluded when he uttered a quick amen. Judah reached for the eggs and generously salted them, then spread Lettie’s raspberry jam on two pieces of toast. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed his wife’s occasional glance. She was scarcely eating.

  When Lettie didn’t say what was on her mind, he mentioned wanting to buy another mare for road driving. “I’ll know for certain when I see what’s up for auction this morning. We’ll need another horse with Adam most likely marryin’ come fall.”

  “Can’t we rely on his horse later on?” she asked, her voice a thin, sad thread.

  “A young man needs his own mare.”

  “Well, driving horses ain’t on my mind today.” She sighed loudly. “Judah . . . I need to tell you something.”

  He braced himself. “What is it?”

  A long pause ensued as she attempted to gather herself. He wondered what had caused his wife to go from periodic moodiness to whatever this was. “You ain’t sick, are ya, Lettie?”

  “Ach no.”

/>   “Des gut.” Yet the tension hung in the air, nearly visible. Neither food nor drink eased the lingering silence.

  “I truly do not know how . . . or where . . . to begin.” She did not raise her eyes to meet his as she drank her coffee, not until Judah was done eating and wiping his face on his sleeve. She glanced out the window, eyes glistening. “It’s awful hard, really. . . .”

  He folded his hands near his plate, waiting. Would she finally tell him what was bothering her—let down this everlasting barrier?

  She opened her mouth to speak, lips parted as she turned to look at him. Then slowly she shook her head. “Perhaps it’s better this way.”

  Better what way? Though she’d never before seemed as upset as she had these last few weeks, he’d tried before to pull answers from her but he scarcely ever knew what to say. Truth be known, he’d given up attempting conversation over the years—least where anything sticky was concerned. Nor did he have hope that things would change.

  “Ach, you’ve got yourself a full day,” she said again.

  He leaned over the table, baffled by her deep sadness. “Keep yourself busy, won’t ya?”

  She looked his way and nodded. “Jah, we’ve both got our work. . . .”

  He reached for his coffee, taking a slow swallow, and Lettie moved the sugar bowl closer to him. Suddenly, her cool hand was covering his, her eyes pleading. He tensed and withdrew his hand.

  “Are you displeased, Judah?”

  He saw the deep lines in her sallow face. “Displeased?”

  “With me.” She leaned her head into her hands.

  He reached for the sugar bowl, at a loss for words. Then she was on her feet and clearing the table, her face grim as she reached for his dirty plate.

  Judah pushed back his chair. “Well, I s’pose I should be goin’.” He made his way to the side door, still alert to her presence.

  Taking the few steps gingerly, he was conscious of a painful gnawing in his stomach as he headed down the lane past the martin birdhouses. It was then that he realized he hadn’t said good-bye.