by Sarah Price
What transpires when you blend Jane Austen’s memorable characters with Sarah Price’s distinctive Amish voice? A classic retelling of Sense and Sensibility is born—a truly captivating but heartbreaking tale of two sisters who learn the hard way that the road to love is sometimes incredibly rocky and that appearances can often be painfully deceptive. Sarah Price has splendidly brought my favorite Jane Austen tale back to life—a modern-day masterpiece for sure and certain!
—DIANA FLOWERS
SENIOR REVIEWER, OVERCOMING WITH GOD BLOG
If you think you already know the story line and every twist and turn in Sense and Sensibility, guess again! Sarah Price expertly weaves biblical truths throughout the text—something lacking (gasp!) from Jane Austen’s original work! I was amazed that I found myself flipping through the pages as if I had never read Sense and Sensibility. Brilliantly executed, Sarah Price!
—SUSAN FERRELL
BLOGGER
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SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Sarah Price
Published by Realms
Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group
600 Rinehart Road
Lake Mary, Florida 32746
www.charismahouse.com
This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, Modern English Version. Copyright © 2014 by Military Bible Association. Used by permission. All rights reserved. The New Revised Standard Version of the Bible. Copyright © 1989 by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the USA. Used by permission.
Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Price
All rights reserved
Cover design by Justin Evans
Visit the author’s website at www.sarahpriceauthor.com.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
An application to register this book for cataloging has been submitted to the Library of Congress.
International Standard Book Number: 978-1-62998-659-3
E-book ISBN: 978-1-62998-660-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and lean
not on your own understanding; in all your ways
acknowledge Him, and He will direct your paths.
—PROVERBS 3:5–6, MEV
This book is dedicated to my two children,
Alexander and Catherine, for tolerating
my endless hours of isolation in my office.
In many ways they are very similar to
Eleanor and Mary Ann. Like the Detweiler
sisters, my two children are so similar in
many ways while different at the same
time. Alex’s serious and subdued nature
topped with a dry wit is countered by Cat’s
vivacious appetite for adventure. They
balance my life and keep me grounded
with their sense and sensibility. No mother
could love her children more than I love
these two amazing young people.
Contents
A Note About Vocabulary
Foreword
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
Epilogue
Prologue
Glossary
Other Books by Sarah Price
About Sarah Price
A Note About Vocabulary
THE AMISH SPEAK Pennsylvania Dutch (also called Amish German or Amish Dutch). This is a verbal language with variations in spelling among communities throughout the United States. In some regions, a grandfather is grossdaadi, while in other regions he is known as grossdawdi.
In addition, words such as mayhaps, the use of the word then at the end of sentences, and, my favorite, for sure and certain, are not necessarily from the Pennsylvania Dutch language/dialect but are unique to the Amish.
The use of these words comes from my own experience living among the Amish in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
Foreword
THE IDEA FOR this series was a long time in coming. I started to read quite early in life, and my taste for books transcended the typical chunky books that preschoolers are made to read. I confess that my first love was Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books, which I devoured practically on a daily basis. To say I was a bookworm would be putting it mildly. Children would take bets on whether I could finish a book in a day, a challenge I won easily on most days.
So my transition to classic literature came at an early age, with my favorites being Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, Emily Brontë, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, and especially Victor Hugo. Christmas was fairly predictable in my house. Just one leather-bound book always made it the “bestest Christmas ever.”
In writing Amish Christian romances, something I have been doing for twenty-five years, I have always tried to explore new angles to the stories. I base most of my stories on my own experiences, having lived on Amish farms and in Amish homes over the years. I have come to know these amazingly strong and devout people in a way that I am constantly pinching myself as to why I have been able to do so. I must confess that, on more than one occasion, I have heard the same from them: “We aren’t quite sure what it is, Sarah, but . . . there’s something deeply special about you.”
Besides adoring my Amish friends and “family,” I also adore my readers. Many of you know I spend countless hours using social media to individually connect with as many readers as I can. I found some of my “bestest friends” online, and despite living in Virginia or Hawaii or Nebraska or Australia, they are as dear to me as the ones who live two miles down the road.
Well, something clicked when I combined my love of literature with my adoration of my readers and respect of the Amish. I hope that by my creating this literary triad, my readers will experience the Amish in a new way—that they will experience authentic Amish culture and religion based on my experiences of having lived among the Amish and my exposure to the masterpieces of literary greats from years past.
It’s amazing to think that a love of God and passion for reading can be combined in such a manner as to touch so many people. I hope that you, too, are touched, and I truly welcome your e-mail messages, letters, and postings.
BLESSINGS,
SARAH PRICE
[email protected]
http://www.sarahpriceauthor.com
http://www.facebook.com/fansofsarahprice
Twitter/Pinterest: @SarahPriceAuthr
Instagram: @SarahPriceAuthor
Prologue
WITH THE HEAVY green shades pulled down to cover the windows, a darkness shrouded the room like a thick and faded woolen blanket. A thin streak of June sunlight, pierced through a small tear in one of the shades and cast a beam of light on the edge of the ageless pine dresser against one wall. The smell of sickness and death permeated the room, adding to the gloomy atmosphere and announcing that the end was inexorably approaching.
A man sat in a ladder-back chair by the bed. His weathered face and somber demeanor added years to his biological age. He was dressed in a plain white wrinkled shirt haphazardly tucked into black trousers held up by old leather suspenders. The room was warm and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. With the back of his hand he wiped at them and sighed.
For a moment it appeared as if his father’s breath slowed, so much so that his chest stopped rising and falling. The son leaned over to listen to the labored breathing of his ailing father, who slept in the bed with his head propped up by two pillows.
A look of concern crossed the son’s face, his eyebrows knit together as he watched his father and waited. When nothing happened, the chest remaining still for too long, the son bent down and the edge of his graying beard brushed against his father’s face, prompting a reaction from the older man. His father gasped for air, and the son sat back in the chair and sighed softly.
Tapping his fingers against the arms of the chair, the son looked away from the bed. His eyes, dark brown in color, scanned the room. The bare walls held nothing of interest to look at: no mirror, pictures, or even a calendar. Even the small square nightstand by the bed was almost empty, the only items gracing it being an unlit kerosene lantern and a tattered black Bible.
“John?”
The man in the chair sat upright. “I’m here, Daed,” he said softly as he reached out his hand to lightly touch his father’s arm. “Right here.”
His father moistened his dry, cracked lips before trying to open his eyes. His eyelids appeared heavy, and he struggled to lift them. “Where are you, John?” He raised a shaky hand and reached in the direction of his son.
The chair creaked as John leaned even closer, his weight shifting on the seat. His father reached out for him, unaware of the hand on his shoulder. As John positioned himself over his father, he took ahold of his hand with both of his, grasping it tightly so that his father could feel his touch.
“I’m going home, John.” The words came out in a raspy, strained voice.
John glanced away from his father. “Don’t say such things, Daed.”
“Nee, ’tis true. God’s calling me home.” This time his voice sounded more forceful.
He had always seemed fierce and strong, much different from the shell of a man who lay dying in the bedroom that he had shared with not one wife, but two. John, however, only remembered the second. “Rest, Daed. You need your strength.”
“For what? The journey to heaven?” The obvious reality of the situation could not be denied by father or by son. The end was near, and denying it was futile. What should have been a solemn moment, a moment to share the end of his earthly life and ask his son for prayer, suddenly changed. As if realizing something, the father tried to smile. “Just think, John, I’ll see your maem again. And my bruder, ja?”
Shifting his weight, the intensity of his father’s words feeling heavy on his shoulders, John cleared his throat. He didn’t like this responsibility of sitting bedside in what everyone presumed was the last day his father would spend with them. But his father had requested that he, as the only son, sit with him for a while. Uncertain what else to say, John merely repeated what he had said before.
“You need to sleep, Daed.”
“What I need to do, John, is speak to you,” his father managed to say in a determined voice. “I may be leaving soon. But you”—he squeezed John’s hand with a surprising amount of intensity and tried to maintain his grip as he continued speaking—“you, John, will be left behind to tend to things.”
At this announcement John froze in the chair and stared at his father. “What do you mean, Daed?”
“This place . . . this farm. It’s yours. It has been in the Detweiler family for generations.” He paused and moistened his lips. John reached for the half-filled glass of water on the nightstand to hand to his father, who took it with trembling hands. A few sips seemed to quench his thirst, and he handed the glass back to his son. “But on one condition.” He pulled John closer so that his son had no choice but to lean over him and look into his face. “You must promise to do one thing for me. One thing is all that I ask of you for inheriting this farm and all that I have.”
John frowned. “Ja, of course, Daed. Anything.”
The old man shut his eyes and this time successfully smiled, his dry lips closing as he did so. “Gut, that’s what I wanted to hear.”
Silence.
When his father made no attempt to continue the discussion, John remained seated. He knew his father was far more contemplative than the rest of the family. It was a trait that had been long admired by the men and women in the g’may. When two preachers died within six years of each other, his father had been nominated to accept the position if the lot fell to him. Neither time did his father select the Bible with the white slip of paper in it, the paper that would have been the deciding factor, that would have made him a preacher for the rest of his life. Yet the nominations by his fellow Amish men and women spoke of their high regard for his discipline and righteousness.
Unfortunately, as hard as he tried to emulate his father, John never quite seemed to succeed.
On the other side of the first-floor bedroom door, while he waited for his father to speak about the one promise he wanted from him, John heard someone walking across the kitchen floor. There was a brief pause, as if the person stopped just outside the room to listen, the light from the hallway casting a shadow under the door.
John cleared his throat, hoping the noise would keep whoever was out there from interrupting this private meeting with his father. He suspected that his father had requested him to sit there for this very purpose: to discuss his final wishes. It was a discussion John dreaded but could not deny, for he knew it was important, and he sensed that, most likely, it would be their last.
“John, as my only living son, you inherit everything,” his father went on. “But I ask that you take care of my fraa and dochders.”
Straightening his back, John frowned. His . . . half sisters?
His father opened his eyes and stared at him. “Provide for them so they live comfortably. All of them.” He coughed, a racking noise that came from deep within his chest. After a few seconds, he settled back into the pillow, taking deep breaths as if trying to find the energy to continue speaking. “All my money has gone into this farm, John. My savings . . . it isn’t enough for them to live on.” His eyes widened and he stared directly at his son. “Do you hear me, John?”
“Ja, ja, I hear you, Daed.” He wasn’t certain of how he was supposed to respond. “Of course I’ll provide for them. That’s what family does.”
He didn’t miss his father’s slightly raised eyebrow.
“I mean, they are my family too,” John added, stumbling over his words. “They’ll never want for anything. I promise.”
The older man, content with his son’s pledge at last, shut his eyes one more time and released his son’s hand. He spoke no further words as, exhausted from just that short exchange, he fell into a restless sleep, his legs twitching under the white sheets and one of his hands trembling just a touch as it rested on the mattress by his side.
John sat back and watched his father take what appeared to be his last sleep. The labored breathing caused his chest to rise and fall, a continuous movement until he struggled to catch his breath. Each time he hesitated, his son lean
ed forward, wondering if that breath would be his father’s last. As routine set in, John settled down for what promised to be a long afternoon, his mind wandering away from his father and into the lush fields that spread out as far as the eye could see, just beyond the outer wall of that very room.
Chapter One
JOHN WAITED FOR Fanny to help little Henry step down from the buggy, his son clambering over the folded front seat and stumbling out the open door. His wife didn’t catch the child in time, and the four-year-old fell to the ground, rolling onto his back so that dust covered his black pants and white shirt.
“My goodness, Henry!” Fanny shrieked. Grabbing his arm, she yanked him to his feet and began to swat at his clothes in a swift, furious fashion. “What were you thinking, child? Now you are a complete mess.”
“He’s fine, Fanny,” John said in a calm voice.
His wife glared at him, her dark, calculating eyes piercing. “I imagine that’s easy for you to say. You won’t be the one washing his white shirt, nor will you be the one mending holes in his pants.” Returning her attention to the child, she reprimanded him again. “You must be more careful, Henry. And patient! I was standing right here to help you!”
The small boy, his chubby cheeks red and his pudgy hands fighting her swats, looked around at the farm. “Grossdaadi’s farm is yucky.”
Fanny took a step back, keeping a firm hold on Henry’s hand, and followed her son’s gaze. Those dark eyes scanned the barn and fencing with a critical eye. “Ja, vell, this is home now.” Her tone spoke of her disapproval just as much as her downturned mouth and wrinkled forehead. “And I reckon it’s better than that horrid house we were living in!”
Rolling his eyes, John clicked his tongue and slapped the reins on the horse’s back, urging the horse to move ahead and toward the barn so he could unhitch the horse. As the buggy lurched forward, Fanny jumped back, dragging Henry with her.
From the porch, two young women sat on a bench, a wooden crate of corn between them. Both wore black dresses and white, heart-shaped prayer kapps that covered most of their brown hair, neatly groomed and pulled back into small buns at the napes of their necks. The older of the two glanced at her sister and noticed the look of disdain in her blue eyes.