by Megan Besing
Amos loosened his grip as the wagon clattered down the road and turned slightly toward her, almost as if he felt her pain and was about to reach out and take her hand in his again. Last night while trying to sleep, she contemplated Amos’ actions during supper, and she’d settled on him only holding and kissing her hand because Margaret and William were watching, encouraging their courtship. After all, William was on the board, too. The amount of people to impress seemed a heavier burden today, especially when she’d arrived thinking Amos was the only one needed to approve of her.
She laced her fingers, resting them on her lap, and blocked out thoughts of the past. God had wiped all that clean, and had given her a safe future with Amos. Hadn’t He? Words from Amos’ first letter floated in her mind.
I need a God-fearing bride as soon as possible. Marriage will affirm my level of commitment to the church and will show that my maturity is beyond that of my youthful appearance.
Amos undoubtedly had received dozens of responses to his ad, but he’d written back to her. Pastor T had said God would always provide for her, and He had. Sophie couldn’t lose this chance at a better future with an amiable, Christian man. God would help her through everything that would be required of her as a wife.
Lord, make me into a good pastor’s wife. Give me wisdom.
But she must focus her sight on the first hurdle: keeping those at Hilltop Chapel happy, especially before the vote.
Amos finished his share of the lemonade Margaret had packed. Their morning milk delivery had been productive in two ways: the deliveries were complete, and Sophie had shown desirable qualities for a preacher’s wife. She’d hopped off the wagon at each and every house without complaint. Her smile never drooped, and everyone seemed receptive of her. He wished Eugene delivered to more of the elders’ houses. If only they could see their future pastor’s wife in action. God had indeed chosen the perfect bride and helpmate for him.
Yes, everything had gone smoothly, except the one thing he’d hoped to accomplish hadn’t happened—alone time with Sophie. Someone was always catching a ride on their wagon during their route, stealing the conversation. He should be grateful for the warm welcome Sophie was receiving. However, why did she feel the need to invite the Fleming children to their picnic? Was she not wanting to get to know him as much as he wanted to get to know her? Would they ever be alone enough to talk through what kind of marriage they each wanted?
The willow tree’s branches danced around them. The smallest Fleming boy snuggled on Sophie’s lap. His two older sisters, who had all followed them for their picnic stop, were squished up beside Sophie. The older boy sat right in front with his legs stretched, leaning in for Sophie’s Bible story.
The blanket Margaret sent would have been the right size for the two of them; however, with it being shared by five, it left Amos resting against the tree trunk. Despite the scratchy bark digging into his back, it was the perfect spot to watch Sophie’s eyes light up, shining like fresh coffee. Her dainty fingers swirled through the air as she relayed the story of Jonah and the whale.
She explained it to the children in a way that he wouldn’t—couldn’t— have. After spending two weeks studying the short book at seminary, he wasn’t sure he would have left out all the fine details, details that would have passed over the children’s heads, especially since the Fleming family hadn’t attended a single service the past year. Or so Eugene had said after he’d pounded on the parsonage’s door, waking Amos at four this morning. He claimed that going on the milk delivery would provide Amos a chance to grow his flock.
Amos scratched the stubble on his chin. Eugene had been right. It had been a good opportunity to show kindness, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to do it every morning—the getting up at four part anyway.
The older Fleming boy scoffed. “That won’t ever happen to me.” He rubbed his palm against his ear. A bug crawled toward his thin legs, and he flicked it away. “There’s no fish big enough around here to swallow me.”
The youngest boy shook his head. His featherlight hair stood tall with the breeze. “Yeah–huh. Samuel said his brother caught one this big down on the river.” He held his arms wide, looking from one end of his finger tips to the other.
“He also said you’s was a baby when we’s went frogging last night, and you’s stayed home.”
The youngest boy crossed his arms. His lip pushed out. “I wasn’t no baby. Momma said I wasn’t to go.”
“ ’Cause you scared of the dark.”
“No, huh. Am not.”
“Baa–bee. Tommy’s a baby.” He covered his eyes then shoved his hands wide. “Boo!”
The youngest shuddered in Sophie’s arms.
Sophie clicked her tongue. “George, whether there is a fish large enough to swallow you or not isn’t the point of the story.”
Amos pushed off the ground and stood. He should have paid more attention to the children. He hadn’t caught any of their names, but Sophie had. God knew he needed help with names. Hopefully Sophie was good at remembering faces, too.
“I know.” The girl with the braids raised her hand, stretching taller. “It’s that we’re supposed to listen and obey. Like how you’re supposed to listen to Momma when she tells you to stop picking on Tommy.”
The other girl stuck out her tongue. “Yeah, George.”
“I wasn’t picking on him. I was telling the truth.”
“God wants us to listen even when it’s hard and even when we don’t want to.” Sophie patted George’s knee. A wisp of dust from his dirty pants floated into the air.
George sprang up. “Time to go. Like her said.” He tipped his chin at Sophie. “We gots to obey, and Pa said we gots chores.”
Before running off, the three older children grabbed the food Sophie held out, pieces of bread, an apple, and something else wrapped inside a piece of cloth. Unlike his siblings, Tommy rested his head on Sophie’s shoulder, not appearing to be going anywhere anytime soon.
“I wanna ’nother stor–wey.”
Sophie gave the boy a squeeze. “I would be glad to tell you another. Maybe one about a lion?”
The boy nodded and swatted at his cotton hair, sending it away from his bright blue eyes.
“But, like Jonah should have done the first time, you need to obey, too. We’ll do the lion story soon.” She tapped the end of his rounded nose.
“You’s promise?”
“I do. But you know even if I forget my promise—”
“I won’t let you’s forget.”
Sophie hadn’t laughed much, but Amos needed to make sure she did it more because it looked good on her. As did her holding a child. She’d want children, right? He wanted to be a father…eventually.
“Even if I do break my promise, there’s someone who never breaks a promise. Someone we can always trust.”
“The one from the whale stor–wey?”
“Yes, God. And He loves us very much.”
Tommy’s eyebrows pulled together. “He’s real?”
“So very real.” She placed her hand over her heart. “He—”
“Tom–mey!” One of the girls called. “Pa says you gots to do the fishing for supper.” Tommy snatched the apple left lying on the blanket. “Sees you soon, Mrs. Sophie.” He took a bite from the apple, talking around his chewing. “I gots to obey. Don’t want the real God to swallow me at the creek.”
When he’d dashed away, Sophie’s shoulders hunched. “That wasn’t actually what I was getting at.”
Amos parted some branches like curtains, finally getting his chance to be near. “You planted a seed. God’s the one who grows and waters.” He made sure to avoid the muddy footprints left on the blanket.
“You were great with them.” Here might be the best opportunity to discuss future children of their own. He hoped his words wouldn’t offend, but if Pauline’s dismissal had taught him anything, it was never to assume, no matter how things appeared on the surface.
He ran his knuckles across his cheek.
His face plumb itched. It’d been years since he hadn’t shaved first thing in the morning. “Do you…” He tucked his long legs underneath him. “Since…” Why was his throat dry? He drank half the container of lemonade. Must be that stupid tie. He yanked at the tight knot, but it didn’t budge.
“May I?” Her fingers touched his, and he stilled. “Why do you wear this all the time if you don’t like it? It’s plain to see that your tie and you aren’t the best of friends.”
He rolled the silken material into a circle. He didn’t hate it exactly. Ma had made it for him when he first announced he wanted to become a preacher. Pa had thumped him on the back and said how proud he was.
“We had to wear them at seminary. Thought it would help show the Hilltop members…” He shrugged. “To look the part.” To make the best impression. Ever since they’d funded his hometown church’s rebuilding after a fire, he was determined to show his gratitude and become their pastor one day. And that day was now.
“Like how you needed a wife. To act the part of a good pastor?”
Not good, per say, for scripture says that no one was good, but capable, yes. He wanted to appear to be a capable preacher, because he was.
He should go ahead and ask if she wanted children. Even preachers wanted…well, husband rights and all that. They needed to discuss those topics before they wed, but above all, he desired to remove that look of disappointment. Like the idea of marrying her was as uncomfortable as wearing his constricting tie. It wasn’t in the least.
Hanson had stated Amos didn’t even look old enough to get married. To prove he was ready for such a responsibility as shepherding a large congregation and to keep Hanson happy, Amos placed the mail-order bride ad like many of the elders had suggested. Yet Amos was also getting married because he wanted to.
He may appear younger than his twenty-two years, but with his training and love for Christ, he was ready for Hilltop. Plus, watching his folks had embedded the longing for a loving, built-in friendship. They made marriage look easy.
She lifted the edge of his tie only inches from where his fingers had once rested. “Pastor T didn’t wear one every day. When we met, he was covered in dirt from head to toe. His appearance didn’t hinder God from using him. It probably helped.”
She was right, of course. What he wore shouldn’t matter, but his mind was already off in another direction. She had mentioned so little about herself, he was eager for more. The letter she’d sent after her first reply had been but half a page and had only really answered the questions he had for her in his previous letter. “Pastor T? You were quite close to him?” Was this preacher a younger man? Had she had feelings for him at one point?
A wrinkle appeared on her forehead and something like hurt flashed in her eyes. She nodded and picked at a string on the blanket. “He saved my life.”
Chapter 4
Sophie held her yellow dress up to her neck. A loose thread on its hem danced along the floor. She shook her head. Her flowered calico would have to do. One couldn’t wear anything in need of actual stitching to meet those in the quilting circle.
A knock sounded, but as always, Margaret didn’t wait for Sophie’s response. The door swung open, thumping against the dresser. A different hat, with a feather twice the size of the one from Sunday, completed Margaret’s navy skirt and buttoned blouse. “You look darling. Everything’s all packed for the day, only waiting on you.” She wrinkled her nose. Never a good sign.
“Should I wear something else?” Not that she had many other options. Would Amos be embarrassed if she wore the same dress twice in a row to see the ladies of the church? She bit the edge of her thumbnail and glanced at her carpetbag. No help would be found hiding in there. If only she’d gotten to bring Momma’s trunk. There would have been a few salvageable pieces. An apron at least. Perhaps she’d been too hasty about burning her favorite skirt the week before. That stain would have washed. The rip mendable…
Heat flushed her body and the room tilted to the side. Sophie leaned into the dresser for balance. Her vision darkened even though her eyes were open.
A cool glass was pushed into her hand. Sophie blinked away the stars. She focused on the water trembling inside the cup.
“Child, you’re shaking.” Margaret helped bring the glass to her lips. “That’s a girl. Drink. Go on.”
The water seeped down her throat, extinguishing the dryness, but not the flamed memory. She thought God had healed her completely. Especially after she’d felt so comfortable in Amos’ presence, and her dreams had been pleasant since she’d arrived.
Moisture on the outside of the glass pooled together. Much like how she needed to compose herself. No more thoughts about Momma’s things or her old clothing. What was done was done. There could be no more remembering that night and what it had cost.
“Maybe you need to stay home?” Margaret felt Sophie’s forehead then held both cheeks in her palms.
Sophie forced a smile and ended her silent plea with God for His continual assistance. She had to meet the church ladies. She had to earn their votes, or rather their husband’s votes. Becoming a preacher’s wife had to work. She couldn’t go back and stay with Pastor and Mrs. T now that their daughter and grandchildren were coming back home. And the saloon wasn’t an option. What if Junior decided she hadn’t paid enough and came looking for her a second time….
The room tilted again.
She unlocked her knees. “I–I’m fine. Promise.” Or she would be with God’s help. And Amos’. She was a new woman. Pastor T had assured her, and she knew it to be true. All because of the cost paid on the cross.
Sophie swallowed another sip of water and set down the glass. “Is this dress all right? I wasn’t sure what to wear.”
“Didn’t you hear me earlier? You look darling. But with your figure you could wear a flour sack, and it’d still manage to bring out those beautiful brown eyes.” Margaret covered her mouth. “Goodness. That didn’t sound proper. There’s nothing wrong with wearing clothes made from flour sacks. Not at all. We even make them for the orphans.” She shook her head, the giant feather bouncing along for the ride. “Margaret Luella Olmstead.” She grunted at the ceiling. “Forgive me, Lord.”
Margaret’s cold hand wrapped around Sophie’s wrist. “We shouldn’t keep the circle waiting. They’re already fit to be tied because I’ve fed and housed you, and all some of them got was a quick introduction after service.” She stopped. The feather on her hat drifted back, tickling Sophie’s nose. “Unless you are truly unwell?”
Sophie waited for the urge to sneeze to pass. “I’m sure it’s only nerves.”
“There’s nothing to be nervous about. These are some of the finest ladies around. And Mrs. Grouse is sure to bring her apple dumplings. They plum melt in your mouth, and that ain’t no lie.”
With the sewing kit and the leftover apricot fritters from last night in hand, the walk to the boardinghouse was shorter than Sophie remembered. Two quilt frames were set up on the large porch. A pair of oaks shaded a semicircle of mismatched chairs that faced the steps. Only two seats were available, and they weren’t side by side.
Margaret hooked her arm around Sophie’s. It seemed half the church was here, and all the ladies watched her and Margaret arrive. “Good morning. As most of you know, this here is our Sophie.”
The ladies near threw down their needles and rushed over. Sophie hadn’t been involved in such a commotion since she’d snuck down the stairs two years ago and witnessed the saloon owner, Clyde, kick out the spirited King brothers for sabotaging a round of Faro.
As Sophie was ushered into a chair, the tray of fritters disappeared from her grip, and instead a plate of cookies appeared on her lap.
“—and that’s how I became famous for my…”
“You can’t be famous for something as simple as cookies.” Another voice near shouted.
Sophie hugged her fingers around the beautiful porcelain plate, afraid the quilting circle would crush them both.
Eleanor? The one with the hard-as-rock biscuits? When Sophie had stayed at the boardinghouse she’d skipped the breakfast to make it to church on time, and it had been an elderly man who had shown her to a room. Was Eleanor the one in the green or flower-patterned dress?
“Ladies. We’re here to quilt.” Sophie heard Margaret, but her short stature left her lost in the swarm.
“Quite right, and to get to know our new pastor’s wife, who you’ve been hogging.”
Seated on the ground under the nearest tree, a redheaded girl, not much younger than Sophie, crossed her arms. A smug look on her face. “Do you play the piano?”
“Oh.” Sophie covered her mouth as a crumb of cookie landed on the ground. The bite may have been soft, but it didn’t seem to want to go down. Everyone stopped their elbowing and turned their eyes on her. Even the heated breeze quieted for Sophie’s response.
The correct answer was written all over the ladies’ faces, and Sophie wanted desperately to speak a lie. Why hadn’t Sophie thought about how Mrs. T played at service every week? Why did she think she could become a preacher’s wife? “I don’t. I’m terribly sorry.” How long would it take her to learn?
A tall woman clumped down the steps with a pitcher of lemonade in her hands. “Wait. What did I miss?” The crowd parted and meandered back to their original chairs. But not a soul looked prepared to return to their stitching anytime soon. The younger girl stormed toward the boardinghouse. She sent one more glare over her shoulder before disappearing inside.
The button-nosed lady seated across the circle patted her chest and scowled at Sophie. “She doesn’t play the piano.”
The lemonade woman’s eyes widened. “No.” How she made such a small word draw out into three syllables, Sophie hadn’t the slightest. And apparently, the woman lost the ability to shut her mouth. “Surely, as a preacher’s wife, you can indeed play the piano?”