Hester and Fannie both fell sound asleep almost the minute their heads touched the pillows, the distant hum of the activity in the tavern below only a minor distraction.
The rain beat steadily on the good, sturdy roof as the storm stayed above the ridges and hills bordering Berks County. The moisture seeped into the soil, boosting the corn and hay crops, the gardens, and surrounding creeks and ponds. Frogs chugged in the bulrushes, the voice of the crickets stilled on this rainy night. When the storm passed, a thin half-moon shone weakly through the clouds, its silver light illuminating the darkness of the quiet inn tucked beneath the trees.
Hester was awakened by a soft mewling sound, piercing her senses with the force of a scream. At first she thought a kitten may have found its way into the room. She got fully awake when she realized that Fannie was crying soft, muffled sobs, restrained by a hand across her mouth. She had drawn her knees up to her chin, a thin coil of humanity, obviously suffering some pain or loss, and perhaps both.
Hester rolled over and gathered Fannie into her arms, holding her as she smoothed her hands down the back of her linen nightgown.
“Fannie, please don’t cry. What is wrong? Shh. Don’t cry.” The sobs increased until the small body shook so violently, that her teeth chattered.
“Can you tell me?” Hester urged.
When no words came, Hester began to hum, keeping up the soft stroking. Almost immediately the shaking subsided and the sobbing slowed, then stopped. An occasional sniff, a whimper, and then Fannie’s deep breathing continued. Her coiled body relaxed as sleep overcame her, as if nothing had happened.
Hester released her, sighed, burrowed into the pillow, and fell into the sleep of a child, untroubled, resting completely.
In the morning, Fannie was bright-eyed, fully awake, eager to get on with the day.
When Hester inquired about her misery during the night, Fannie’s large brown eyes met hers, deadpan, owl-like. She spoke with the same wisdom she had displayed before. “I was crying because thinking of Ammon gave me an ache in my throat. He would have liked to have one of my sausages.”
Quickly, Hester was at her side, hunkered down, looking into her eyes as Fannie sat on a stool, tying her apron. “Fannie, we want you to be truthful. If you want to return, we’ll take you back. You know that.”
Fannie held very still, her head tilted to one side. “No, I can’t go back. There’s no room for me there. They don’t always have enough to eat.”
She stopped and spread her hands, palms up. “And my mam doesn’t care for me much.”
Instantly, Hester assured her of her mother’s love, but was stopped halfway by Fannie’s quiet, “Stop that. You know it’s not true. I’m eleven years old. I should know by now.”
Then she paused, before deciding to continue. “What would be the difference, do you think? A mother finding you at a spring, or a maud asking to have a half-grown girl?”
“Oh, Fannie,” Hester cried, throwing her arms around the small frame and holding her close. “None. There is no difference. If you want me to be your mother, then that is exactly who I will be. I will take you as my own foundling, just as Kate took me.”
Fannie sighed, then pulled back to look into Hester’s eyes with a direct gaze. “Well, then. Now I will never cry at night again.”
But Hester cried then, while she combed her hair and braided Fannie’s. A fountain of tears welled up and ran over, a seemingly unstoppable flow, like an artesian well of more minute volume. Quietly she wiped them away, and quietly they continued to fall.
Noah was alarmed at the emotional display of tears, but Hester whispered to him on tiptoe, close to his ear, that she was quite all right and that she would tell him the reason for her tears when they were alone. His arm gathered her close for a stolen instant and he left, satisfied with her answer.
Hester decided that morning that Fannie was sent into their lives for a purpose. Perhaps it was for a small reason, if providing a home, love, stability were small things. God directed lives for a reason, and here was the miracle of Kate’s large heart, with her never-ending kindness passed to her son, the love of her little foundling’s life, and now a haven for one unwanted little girl. Love was the chain that threaded through the generations. Each link added was a golden one, enriching the lives of families like a beautiful gem, passed on to the next generation.
The morning was what Hester imagined a portion of paradise to be. The air was achingly clear. Freshly washed grasses and leaves held drops of diamonds glittering on their backs. The woods were alive with a choir of birds, trilling the jubilance of the morning, glad to welcome the arrival of a brand new day.
In the early evening, Hester had recognized landmarks, forests, the rolling of the land. In the golden light, they entered the Amish settlement by way of Berksville. They passed the school and then Amos Ebersole’s farm.
Hester gripped the seat. Her throat worked.
The horses trotted gaily, the harnesses tapping out a rhythm. Every hoofbeat was the echo of her heartbeat, timing the minutes. She had forgotten the blue of the mountain, the vibrant green of the ridges, how rolling and magnificent the undulating landscape.
There was the grove of birch trees. There, the great white sycamore. The ache of coming home was a weight in her chest. She put up a hand to still the tumult there, as if she could quiet the emotion that threatened to spill over.
Noah watched her face. “Another mile and we’ll be home.”
Hester nodded as her throat constricted.
The road had been packed down, graded, and widened, becoming a good serviceable one. Hester noted the new fields, where someone—maybe Hans?—had cleared more of the forest.
And then the farm itself came into view as they rounded the final bend.
The house had not changed, the stone still as she remembered it. The barn, however, was painted white, with a new addition, judging by the still-yellow lumber. There was a new corncrib and a wagon shed.
The pasture was dotted with black and white Holsteins, the cows she could remember milking. The fences were in good repair, the maple trees, one on each side of the house, trimmed and healthy. So Hans and Annie had continued to prosper. The children who remained at home were taught well in the ways of farm management.
This was home, Hester thought. This farm is my home. Why, then, did the surrounding hills and forests bring more emotion than this homestead? Too many thoughts fought for control. Too many bad memories suppressed what she might have felt—true happiness upon returning to this childhood home.
When the horses came to a stop, real fear pervaded her soul. She was rooted to the seat, her eyes wild with the rush of all she recalled.
Noah’s eyes questioned her. “Would you rather go with me to the barn first?” he asked.
Hester nodded. It was all she could do to keep her teeth from clacking against each other. She folded her hands in her lap to still their trembling.
“No one seems to be home,” he stated.
She searched his face for signs of the anxiety she was experiencing, but if he felt any, he did not give himself away. He merely sat solidly, his eyes searching for signs of life from within before telling the horses to go, heading them to the barn.
They came to a stop at the forebay, the wide empty area containing the stone trough and harness racks. Noah leaped down, threw the reins across the horses’ backs, and was turning to help Hester down, when a door banged open. Footsteps pounded across the yard, and a grown man, whom Hester could not name, came running, out of breath, his face wreathed in welcoming smiles, clearly delighted to see his big brother Noah.
“Noah!”
“Solomon! Sollie, old boy!”
Hester grimaced as she watched the energetic pumping of their handshake.
“How are you, old chap? Eye due lieva, mon, you’re riding in style.” Solomon gave a low whistle as he circled the black horses, his practiced eye taking in the horses’ deep chests, their long muscular legs, the fact that they
were barely out of breath after their long run.
“Let me help you wash them down.”
He noticed Hester and Fannie then, and stopped in his tracks, a comical expression crossing his face.
“Who do you have with you? Are you? Wait a minute. It’s Hester. Hester, is it really you?”
Noah helped her down and Hester stood, her knees so weak she was afraid she would crumble onto the hard packed dirt.
“It’s me,” was all she was capable of saying.
Solomon came to Hester, his eyes as blue as Noah’s, and bent over her hand, shaking it warmly in the old traditional manner. “Welcome home, Hester, welcome back to Berks County. But I don’t understand. How did Noah find you? And who is this?”
Hester introduced Fannie Stoltzfus, an au-gnomma Kind.
Solomon nodded, then reached up to help her down. Fannie came to Hester’s side immediately, shrinking against her when Hester reached to draw her close.
“How is Dat? And Annie?” Noah asked.
“Oh, they are both poorly. You heard, didn’t you? Isn’t that why you came?”
“We know nothing about our parents.”
“You don’t? I find that rather hard to believe.”
Solomon kept talking as he helped Noah unhitch, telling them of Hans losing his strength, his weight plummeting, his being wracked by constant stomach pain. Annie was stronger but a victim of the palsy, the only thing the doctors could find to explain her constant shaking.
“Where is everyone?”
“Oh, they don’t live here. My wife, Magdalena, and I and our two children have taken over the farm.”
“Where are our parents?”
“They live about half a mile out the road. Only Barbara, Menno, and Emma are at home. Daniel is newly married and moved to his wife’s brother’s farm, and John, well, John ran off with an Englischer. He was always the wild one. Lissie’s married.”
“And what’s Emma doing?” Hester asked.
“She’s at home and going to school.”
“What about Theodore and Lissie?” she asked.
“They’re both well. Still living in Lissie’s house and tutoring pupils. She quilts, helping out whenever there’s a need, but she’s aging. They’re both a great influence on the community with their unselfish ways.”
The horses were stabled and fed a good portion of oats and hay. Noah put his hand on Hester’s elbow, and together they went to the house, where they were greeted by a tall, thin, young woman with a friendly smile of welcome, her face round and pleasant, with interested brown eyes that held no suspicion or animosity.
Hester held her hand warmly, glad to meet her first sister-in-law. She followed Magdalena through the house, guided by her memories, the house so much the way she remembered and yet so different.
The kitchen was the same, large and pleasant, the crackling fire on the hearth absent, the fireplace cleaned, brushed, and scrubbed, waiting for the cool nights of autumn. Most of the cooking was done on the stove now, although in summer they’d sometimes build a quick fire just for mealtimes.
Magdalena’s furniture took the place of Hans and Annie’s well-built cupboards and rocking chairs, making the place appear new. The walls had been whitewashed recently. There were new curtains in the windows. Rag rugs in brilliant colors added sunshine to the otherwise dull floors.
It was a good, substantial house, the house Hans, Noah, and Isaac had built, the product of months of backbreaking labor. It was a monument of hard work, good management, planning, and forethought—the closets, the wall space with hidden nooks that were used for storage, the root cellar, the well-built fireplace that rose all the way through the second story to the roof, with an enclave that housed red-hot coals to help heat the upstairs bedrooms in winter.
As Hester moved through the rooms of the house, she was wrapped snugly in nostalgia, a warmth of memories that flooded her soul. Here was where they sat to eat as a family, such as it was, after Kate’s death. But it was home, and here is where she had felt secure, if not always loved. Home was a haven with a repetition of comforting daily duties, the days measured by their required tasks.
She suddenly recalled the routine of milking cows, the creamy milk directed into the tin pail, the froth building up the sides as the pail was filled, the handkerchief tied firmly across her forehead as she rested it on the cow’s flank.
Breakfast was served on old homespun tablecloths of various hues. The menu was porridge, fried mush, and eggs in spring when they were plentiful. There was always good hot tea, freshly churned butter and bread, the family gathered together, their heads bowed in silent prayer, both before and after the meal.
Washing, bread-making, butter-churning, scouring, scrubbing, and cleaning filled the days. But there was always time to stop and soak up the birdsong, allowing it to elevate your spirits while pegging white sheets and tablecloths, and grabbing toddling little Menno by his suspenders and sitting him in the clothes basket made of reeds that Kate had woven together.
In the afternoon, when the weather was fine and Hans allowed it, Noah, Isaac, and Hester would race pell-mell to the creek with their homemade fishing poles and a can of fat, juicy earthworms they dug from the base of the manure pile. Yelling, racing each other, and sliding down the steep bank at the edges of the water, they’d dig around, come up with a round, wriggling worm, impale it on the cruel hook, then fling it out into the water, knowing where the fat, sleepy bass lay under a fallen log or tree root.
Hester could smell the filet of bass rolled in egg and cornmeal, then fried in sizzling lard in the two cast-iron skillets, sprinkled with salt, and fried to a golden crispy goodness. Hans always praised their ability to supply these wonderful portions for the dinner table. Or, he mostly praised Hester, the boys turning their faces to him, eager to absorb a few crumbs that might fall from the loaf he shared with his eyes on Hester’s face. That was simply the way it was.
She had to give herself a mental shake, now, to pay attention to Magdalena’s words as they moved from room to room. She had been nodding absently, her eyes taking in what she was showing her, but her thoughts lagged ten years behind.
“So, that’s it,” Magdalena was saying. “Oh, and you can just call me Lena. Everyone does.”
She bent to pick up the baby from the large oak cradle, who yawned and stretched contentedly, his pink cheeks like patches of cherry blossoms.
“This is Hans,” she said proudly.
“Oh, you’ve given him a namesake. That’s nice.”
“Yes, it is. He was pleased. That was one thing I told Solomon we should do, as it doesn’t appear as if he will be gaining in health.”
“Really?”
“He’s not well. I’m afraid you will hardly recognize him.”
Hester said nothing, her stomach immediately in knots of anxiety. She could not tell this loving woman about the fear that lay in her stomach like bile, the sour taste Hans brought to her mouth, the plague that sickened her soul. Tomorrow she would have to face him, look into his eyes, and wish him well.
Magdalena watched Hester’s face with curiosity and benevolence, but no suspicion. How would she even understand? She could not know anything about the past, the unforgiven, the unforgivable sins of the fathers.
Hester froze when Magdalena said, unexpectedly, “Solomon told me about your leaving. He remembers the argument. He remembers Annie being cruel and threatening to burn your book. He told me much about your life here, Hester.”
Hester kept her back turned as she fought to control her anger. She felt a soft hand on her shoulder and heard the words Magdalena said. They were kind words, encouraging ones, but they rained about her head with all the consolation of fiery darts.
Hester whirled and faced her sister-in-law, her eyes black with fury. Magdalena stepped back, clutching her baby tightly to her chest, her eyes wide with alarm.
“Yes, well, it’s good of you to say all the right things. It’s good of you to give Hans a namesake. But you did
n’t live through any of his slimy deceit, his lies. You were never splattered with the mud of his hypocrisy. You have no idea what I have to face tomorrow, so don’t give me a package of smooth words,” she hissed. Then, with a strangled cry, she disappeared through the back door of the kitchen, moving like a wraith across the backyard and into the woods.
CHAPTER 22
THE HEAT OF THE DAY CLUNG TO THE PALLID LEAVES, THE briars sagged with the weight of their own untrimmed growth, the earth was damp and verdant. Hester’s steps were hampered by loose soil and the clawing of the thorns on the raspberry stems.
She swung her hands beside her skirt, raking back the briars, sliding back one step for every several steps she went forward. She had no idea where she was going; she was simply filled with the blind urge to get away from prying eyes and people who knew and remembered.
How could he? How could Solomon have told his wife? How many people had she told? Hester had always thought that her past, that pit of despair, the smudge of shame that lay on her face like a birthmark, was hers only. Not even Noah knew who he should blame nor could he comprehend her feeling of having been sullied, even if she never was physically.
Sobbing harsh sounds that ripped from her throat as she climbed up the ridges, her breath came in ragged gasps. She knew nothing but an urge to hide, to remain hidden. She could not face tomorrow.
The cliff was too high. Her strength to scale it was gone, taken away by remembering Hans.
Crowding out her sudden weakness was her desperate recognition that she had allowed herself to fall in love with Noah, when she should have known it could only turn out badly. He would forgive his father out of reverence for him. Noah was so good. He was kind like Kate. And here she was, born an Indian, with the proud blood of the Lenapes flowing through her veins. She would not bow to that man Hans, even if he was on his deathbed.
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