The Amish Bride

by Mindy Starns Clark

  Somehow I managed to catch them both and put them on the table in front of me.

  “Explain yourself,” he said.

  I shrugged. I wasn’t about to tell him about having to walk Eddie home or any of that.

  “The kitchen was hotter than I anticipated.”

  “What were you using? A woodstove?” He smirked. “And let me guess, no central air, oui?”

  “Oui,” I whispered.

  “Pardon?”

  “Oui!” I didn’t mean to shout. What kind of Plain woman was I that I couldn’t bake a decent loaf of bread?

  Next up was Penny. Her loaves were perfect. She received four and half points, nonetheless.

  “I never give a five,” Pierre explained.

  Inwardly, I groaned.

  By the time we were on the way home, Penny had forgotten about my humiliating experience, or perhaps it hadn’t registered with her in the first place. She gushed about Pierre.

  “Isn’t he amazing?” She beamed as she spoke. “I feel so privileged to be taking this course. And to think I never would have done it if I hadn’t met you. If you hadn’t lived with me for that short time.”

  I nodded encouragingly. I could see how God had worked that out. I was happy for her—but not so happy for me.

  “And you’re more comfortable with your own people. Right?” She gave me a quick glance.

  I wasn’t sure how to explain that the Amish weren’t my people, because in some ways they were, but in others they really weren’t.

  “It’s a little hard getting used to not having electricity.”

  “And using a woodstove. I thought your bread turned out great, considering. And to think of the things you all make in that bakery!”

  I laughed. “Actually, we have a regular oven.” Although it wasn’t very consistent. Rosalee needed to look into buying a new one.

  “Oh,” she said. “But I thought…”

  “Pierre’s the one who mentioned the woodstove.”

  “That’s right.”

  We rode in silence for a few minutes.

  “I’ve been thinking about taking Elizabeth’s cooking class next session.” Penny slowed for a tractor that hugged the shoulder ahead of us. “Want to join me?”

  “I’ll be back home by next session,” I said. “But thanks anyway.”

  “Ah, so you and your boyfriend are still an item?”

  “Pretty much,” I said briefly. I didn’t want to talk about Ezra.

  She zipped around the tractor and a field of foot-high corn came into view. In no time we were speeding down the highway toward Nappanee again. But I was wishing I were speeding toward Lancaster County instead.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The next day, Eddie wasn’t his usually bouncy self, but at least he wasn’t running a fever. We thought he’d become overheated, so we had him drink more water and rest during the hottest part of the day. Millie continued to seem short with him, but I figured that was because of all the responsibilities she had.

  On Sunday, because it was an off week from church, Rosalee visited with a widow in the next district, while I stayed at the Home Place. I had run out of spots to look for Sarah’s artwork, but I did go through her recipe book again, taking out my magnifying glass and rereading the section about her second husband, Dr. Clive Chapman, starting with when she moved to Indianapolis to go to nursing school.

  August 29, 1915—Now that I’m away from Alvin, I’m free from that tedious code. I’m living in a boarding house with a bathroom down the hall and dinner every night. Once I start doing my rotations, I’ll have to pay for dinner at the hospital or take a sandwich. I hope I’m doing the right thing. The program will take two years—and then I’ll have to decide whether to go back to the Home Place or not. I’ve tried to talk to God about it, but don’t think He’s listening. Of course, Mother and Father weren’t happy with me and neither was Alvin. In fact, he was quite adamant that I should stay and was very loud about it.

  Later, Mother and I were talking and she said Alvin can’t always help himself, which I disagreed with. She said she’s surprised I haven’t realized that he isn’t “quite right.” She told me she’s afraid it’s her fault, going on to say when he was newly born she was quite sick and the neighbor woman cared for Alvin for a stretch of time. She said that by the time she recovered and Alvin came back he wasn’t like her other children had been at that age. And he’d been slow ever since.

  I thought of the hunting accident when Gus was killed and wondered if Alvin’s disability had contributed to that.

  I think Mother is feeling needlessly guilty. Perhaps whatever made her so sick impacted Alvin too, although she thinks it was exhaustion from a mixture of the flu, caring for such a large family, and childbirth in her early forties.

  The next entry was about Dr. Chapman, who had asked her on a date for the third time. He’s English and he wears glasses. He’s as different from Gus as could be. I do enjoy talking about medicine with him. He’s inquisitive and always learning, and I can tell he cares about his patients. She went on to say he was concerned about the war in Europe that had been going on for more than a year. I hope it will end soon. Honestly, I don’t like to hear about it. It makes me miss home and our nonresistant ways.

  On March 10, 1916, she wrote: Dr. Chapman—although he insists I call him Clive—took me to the Art Association today. It was splendid. Drawings, paintings, sculptures. I showed him some of my work afterward. He said he wonders at my wanting to become a nurse. I told him I think it’s all related. It’s all nurturing either the body, mind, or soul. Nursing, cooking, baking, making remedies, singing, drawing, painting, listening. None are more important than the other. I feel that all of these things are about beauty, about sharing God’s creation. It’s a form of worship.

  I stopped and considered Sarah’s philosophy. Plain people were known for being purposeful, but she took it beyond that. I wondered if my baking was a way of worshipping God.

  I kept reading.

  April 29, 1916—Clive is talking of returning to England and joining up with the Red Cross to take care of soldiers. He says it’s his duty, and that we shouldn’t expect young men to sacrifice their lives if we’re not willing to care for them.

  In the next entry, Sarah wrote that Clive had asked her to marry him. I can’t give him an answer yet. He thinks it’s because he’s Episcopalian. That’s not it. I know he worships the same God I do. We believe mostly the same, except when it comes to war.

  The next set of recipes were quite interesting, as they were for all English foods: marmalade, trifle, scones, Irish soda bread, Scottish oat cakes, rock cakes, Yorkshire curd tart, English summer pudding, and shepherd’s pie. More entries followed.

  May 23, 1916—Clive challenges me in a way I never dreamed possible. I saw that today as we hiked. He knows so much about nature and a person’s whole being. He presents it all as one. I’ve never felt so full. I drew an owl with Clive’s eyes today. Then I told him I would marry him. It will be at the courthouse, just him and me. I’ll write to Mother, Father, and Alvin afterward.

  On June 10, 1916, she wrote: I’m now Mrs. Clive Chapman. He doesn’t want me to finish nursing school, but unless I’m blessed with a baby before he leaves, I will.

  Then on July 17, 1916: Clive left yesterday on the train to New York. He’ll board the first ship he can and go straight to France. Oh, how I hope this war ends soon.

  Wow. Looking back at the date of the previous entry, I realized they had only been living as husband and wife for a little more than a month before he went away. How awful! I couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been to tell each other goodbye. I continued reading.

  July 30, 1916—No new role as mother hen for me—not now. I am overwhelmed by loneliness. Thank goodness I didn’t quit the program. I must press on and learn all I can.

  September 25, 1916—I had a letter from Clive. He is in northern France, near Flanders. That was all he could say, except that he loves me very much a
nd dreams of me every night.

  November 10, 1916—From the Scripture I read today: “The beast of the field shall honour me, the dragons and the owls: because I give waters in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert, to give drink to my people, my chosen” (Isaiah 43:30).

  That is my prayer, that the Lord provides for Clive in this wasteland of war…

  May 28, 1917—I finished my program and have been awarded my cap and pin. I’ve decided to stay on at the hospital, even though Mother and Father have asked me to come home. Alvin has taken over the farm, but Mother said they could use my help around the house. I wrote back and said I would stay put and hope my husband returns soon.

  March 10, 1918—Clive’s letters are few and far between. I believe, from what he writes, that many have never reached me. Also, many of mine apparently don’t reach him. He said trench fever is rampant, and he’s had to send several soldiers back because of shell shock. They have also had an epidemic of typhoid fever. I’m praying he doesn’t get it. He says the sanitation is horrible.

  On August 7, 1918, she wrote that a letter arrived from Clive saying he’d been treating soldiers for the Spanish flu. He said he’s never seen anything like it, and it’s spreading fast. Worse than typhoid. Oh, how I wish I could have gone with him. I don’t think it’s too late. He wouldn’t allow it if he knew, but perhaps if I just show up? I’m contacting the Red Cross tomorrow.

  August 8, 1918—I filled out my application with the Red Cross. Why didn’t I do this as soon as we married? I could have been by my husband’s side all along.

  Then again, by tending to the wounds of war, will that make me a proponent of war? Of violence? These thoughts trouble me, and yet how could God, who indeed hates war, not want His precious children tended to in their pain, regardless of what brought them to that state? These are questions I will put to prayer as I wait to hear back about my application.

  Even though I knew what was coming, I tensed as I read the next entry.

  August 22, 1918—Clive has passed on, taken by the flu pandemic, somewhere on the western front. He was buried in France. A Red Cross worker came to the hospital today to tell me. I thought he had come to give me an assignment.

  September 9, 1918—The Red Cross has put a hold on my application. The rumor is the war will end soon. It turns out Clive left a sizable bank account. I will not have to worry about money—although I feel as if I have been robbed.

  October 20, 1918—The flu pandemic has reached Indiana. I am working long shifts, nearly around the clock. This is what God has for me, for now. The war continues on…I’ve been reading in the book of Isaiah: “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid; and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.” I long for that day.

  November 11, 1918—Armistice Day. Thank God this horrid war has ended.

  In January 1919 she wrote that the flu pandemic had returned with a vengeance.

  Many say it’s worse than the bubonic plague. How much more must we suffer? I’ve heard predictions that more will die from the flu than in the war.

  April 12, 1919—I am worn out. I’ve been in Chicago for the last month, working at the Marine Hospital, taking care of veterans. Amputees, mustard gas wounds, and those with shell shock. One could drown in this sorrow.

  The sound of the city grates on my nerves. I do not want another person to bump into me on the busy streets. I despise the factory whistles and the smoke pouring from the chimneys. I long for the country.

  April 23, 1919—I am going home and never leaving again. I’ve lost two husbands—Gus, my adventuresome first love, and Clive, my intellectual match. I’ll never love again, I know.

  And because I’m going back and Alvin still hasn’t found a wife and, according to Mother, he seems more out of sorts than ever, I’ll write again in code.

  I felt wrung out from the pain of her story, again. I couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t quite imagine her loving someone more than Gus to start with, but then to have a second husband die too. And one who was so smart and daring, so well traveled and educated. I could see why she thought she would never love again.

  No wonder she wanted to return to the Home Place, but to think she went from being married to someone who was so dashing to marrying a Plain man like David Berg. I was baffled. Did she love him? Enough to join the Amish? Oh, how I wished I could break the code and find the answer, but it was looking less and less likely.

  The next week I worked in Plain Treats, did all the cooking, weeded the garden, baked more bread, and was ridiculed two more times by Pierre. On Sunday I went to church with Rosalee again, this time at the home of a family about two miles away. The two of us rode in her buggy.

  The Klines were already there when we arrived, and I noticed Millie talking with a tall young man beside a brand-new buggy. Judging by the way they were looking at each other, I had a feeling that not only did Millie have the responsibility of taking care of her family, but she was also courting. I wondered who would take care of the Klines after she married.

  Jacob preached again, this time from First John 4:8. I listened closely as he read the Scripture in German. Thankfully, he followed with the English, “Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.”

  Rosalee began translating for me, so quietly I had to really concentrate to hear her. Jacob talked about a father’s love, and how if one didn’t have a loving father, it was sometimes harder to comprehend God’s love. He said he wanted to make sure we understood what the perfect love of a father was. It wasn’t someone waiting with a switch, ready to strike when we did something wrong. It wasn’t someone who was always disappointed in us.

  “Our Father God delights in His children.” Jacob repeated this in English, perhaps just for me. “There are times when He must discipline His children, but He’s thrilled with all they learn, all they create, all the relationships they forge. God longs to keep leading us, long after we are adults. Long after our earthly fathers have released us. God created us—and He wants to relate with us.”

  It reminded me of Sarah’s writings about worshipping God through her work and art. I wondered if she felt she worshipped God through the work she put into her relationships too, although besides Alvin she didn’t seem to have much conflict in her life, at least not the way I did.

  TWENTY-THREE

  My lessons of l’art du pain ended with baguettes, which I thought turned out perfectly. Pierre said they tasted like straw and asked if I’d used it as filler. He was the type of teacher who seemed to need to choose one student to target. I was the one with the bull’s-eye on my forehead—or maybe on the top of my prayer covering. He threw darts during every class, sometimes lobbing them in my direction and sometimes sending zingers that caught me by surprise.

  The truth was that I was learning much more from Rosalee than from Pierre, and my bread at the bakery always turned out beautifully, whether white, whole wheat, or French. So did my muffins, scones, pretzels, and biscuits at home.

  On Monday of the first week of the pastry-making course, I decided to ride my bike into town again with business cards for Plain Treats, thinking I’d give it one more try, this time taking soft pretzels, which packed better. I stopped at all the same places I’d been to, including the café. I dropped off two pretzels for Wes and Kendra. They were happy to see me, and before I left, Wes said he’d decided to order a few pies and told me which ones they wanted. I was ecstatic. As I left, Wes winked at Kendra. I couldn’t see her expression, but I was pretty sure she was smiling. I didn’t care if she’d talked him into it. I loved to see them together and couldn’t wait until Ezra and I could work someday the way they did, sharing inside jokes and knowing looks.

  With Penny’s help, I dropped off the pies the next day on the way to South Bend, hoping the delivery was the beginning of a profitable future for Rosalee and Plain Treats.

  On Friday afternoon I noticed the corner of a piece of pape
r sticking out of Eddie’s pocket.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Oh, something I found.”

  “May I see it?”

  He handed it to me. It was folded in fourths and looked fragile.

  I unfolded it carefully. It was a picture of a kitten and obviously drawn by Sarah. “Where did you find this?”

  He blushed.

  “It’s okay, Eddie.”

  He hung his head. “There’s a metal box in the floor of my room. It has a bunch of squares of paper. I like to play with them. It’s like a game.”

  “Game?”

  He nodded. “Kind of. I’ll show you.”

  “I’d like that,” I said, doing my hardest not to sound too eager. “After you nap and I close the bakery.”

  By the time Eddie woke up, the day had grown overcast and cool for June. Walking through the woods and then veering around the slash pile on the edge of the pasture that was growing larger from Darryl and Tom’s logging, I rehearsed what I would say to Millie. It sounded so ludicrous. “I think the other half of a game my great-grandmother made years ago is hidden in Eddie’s floor.” That sounded ridiculous. And even if it was true, that didn’t mean I had a right to it. It was their property. And their house.

  Thankfully, Millie was at the house alone. Cora had gone to a quilting frolic. Eddie scampered ahead and up the stairs as I explained to her what was going on.

  “I’ll need to talk to Daed,” she said. “I’ll have to see what he says.”

  “I think Eddie’s getting it right now. Is it okay if I have a look?”

  “I suppose that wouldn’t hurt.”

  Eddie hurried into the kitchen, a grin on his face, but it dissipated when he saw Millie’s serious expression.

  He handed me the box. It was also a cookie tin. I pried open the lid. The squares of paper were all loose. I estimated there weren’t as many as I had, but that made sense. Children had been in charge of this one. There were the birds and household items and trees and a baby and herbs, just like the other set Sarah had done.