Penny tapped her carry-on. “Everything’s in here.”
Brad took over towing the bag. Myra had one arm around Penny’s shoulder as they stepped side by side onto the escalator that went down to the exit. Annie pulled up the rear, feasting her eyes on this family she loved. Her throat thickened with the thought that her choices might well separate her from them.
Sumptuous. That was the only word Annie could think of to describe dinner at the downtown restaurant. In the candlelight, her mother’s face lit with the bliss of having her family together. Myra had raised two daughters to be independent and take care of themselves. When she shared a table with them once again, though, a newness flushed across her face. Sitting across from Myra, Annie realized how much she loved seeing her mother look this way.
“I have presents,” Penny said as soon as they passed, satiated, through the front door of their home.
Annie smiled. Penny never came home without gifts. Annie used to think it was because Penny felt guilty for living so far away. Over the years, though, she came to see that generosity spilled out of most of what Penny did. Why she had not realized this as a child, Annie did not know. she supposed she was too busy being the competitive little sister.
Penny unzipped a front pocket of her bag and extracted several small packages. To her father she presented a soft leather e-reader cover case.
“We both know you want it,” Penny said.
While Brad turned the cover over in his hands, Penny handed Myra a small bottle of perfume.
Annie knew the bottle had not come cheap. She used to buy the same scent herself. Myra raised her eyebrows and flashed Penny a smile.
Then Penny turned to Annie. “I saw this and thought of you. You’re the only one I know who has the figure for this dress.”
Annie gulped. A dress? She had not worn any dress but Amish dresses in so long she hardly knew what it felt like. Her hands trembling slightly, Annie took the lightweight flat package from Penny. How could she possibly wear anything Penny gave her now?
A gasp shot past Annie’s best intentions as she raised the dress by the shoulders and saw how it shook out and found its drape. It was silk. Good quality silk. A rich red in color, the dress had a modest V neckline and cap sleeves. At the waist, the fabric overlapped itself and gathered to one side, where a small gold buckle was the only adornment.
“Oh, Penny!”
Myra slid a careful hand against the back of the dress, and Annie watched her mother’s face. Was it only a few hours ago that she had laid her clumsy quilt in her mother’s lap? Suddenly everything about Annie’s new life seemed frumpy and unskilled.
“It’s spectacular, Penny.” Annie handled the dress gently, cautious to keep it on the white paper it had been wrapped in rather than let it brush against the roughness of her jeans. If she snagged it, Penny could not take it back.
“It will look spectacular on you,” Penny said.
“Penny, it’s so generous! And gorgeous. But I don’t see…well, under the circumstances, it would not be practical for me to keep it.”
“It won’t hurt to try it on.”
Penny raised her eyebrows. Annie knew that look.
“Just try it on,” her mother urged. “Those black heels you used to love are still in the closet of your bedroom.”
“I’ll help you put your hair up,” Penny said.
Annie closed her eyes briefly before saying, “Okay.” For a few minutes she could go back in time to the sisterly habits of fifteen years ago. What harm would it do?
Thirty minutes later, Annie stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to the closet door of her childhood closet. She hardly recognized herself.
For the last eight months, she had let her hair grow uncut. She wore it either in a ponytail or braided and twisted back in the disciplined Amish style Franey taught her. Penny had swept it high on her head, leaving tendrils to frame her face. The dress fit as though Annie had been the model for the pattern. Cool, sleek silk against her skin set off sensory reactions she thought were long gone. The bodice covered well, yet left no doubt of the form beneath it. The skirt fell just above her knees. When she stepped into the black heels, the muscles in her calves found old memories.
“You. Look. Fantastic.” Penny grinned.
Annie grimaced but said, “I do, don’t I?”
“You have to show Mom.”
“You go ahead. I’ll be right out.”
Penny left, and Annie tried out several angles in the mirror. If only Rufus could see her now.
Annie had never had trouble getting a man to kiss her if she wanted him to—until Rufus. She waited weeks—even months— between kisses, then afterward, invariably, he seemed sorry. He did not say he was sorry, but why else would he wait so long before doing it again? If he saw her now, he would come close and brush a tendril from her face and bring his lips close to hers. His hands would go to her waist as his mouth found hers.
Annie shuddered, ashamed. The image in her mind was everything Rufus was not. How could she even consider trying to make him kiss her like that? She pulled one pin, and then another. Her hair tumbled free around her shoulders.
“What’s taking so long?” Penny stood in the doorway. “Wow. I think I like your hair down even better.”
Annie did, too. Setting her hair loose only made her miss Rufus more sharply.
“Come show Mom.”
Annie complied, feeling every bit as beautiful as her family told Her she was. What she had not expected was to love the feeling.
Her father had been the first to fade, and her mother soon followed after securing agreement from everyone to attend church in the morning. They had not been to church together as a family in—Annie was not sure how many years.
After their parents turned in, Penny ensconced herself on Annie’s bed and leaned against the wall with a bowl of popcorn.
Annie straightened the red dress on the hanger and put it in the closet. She rummaged through the old clothes. “I didn’t think we’d be going to church. I didn’t bring anything to wear.”
“Excuse me! Did you not just hang up a smokin’ hot dress?”
“For church?”
“Why not? No plunging neckline. No bare shoulders.”
Annie moved a few more hangers before admitting that everything in the closet was, well, too high school. Why hadn’t her mother given this stuff away years ago? “I could probably wear nice jeans.”
“You’re wearing the dress, girl. It will turn a few heads.”
“Maybe I don’t want to turn heads.” Annie let her hand drift over the red silk one more time before closing the door.
Penny tilted her head back and dropped several popped kernels into her mouth. “So how serious are you about this Amish thing?”
“I’m figuring that out.”
“I don’t think Mom is taking it all that well.”
“No kidding.”
“Is it Rufus? Is that it? You can’t be with him if you’re not Amish?”
Heat crept up the back of Annie’s neck. “Well, that’s part of it.” With more notice that she would see her sister face-to-face, she might have prepared her words better. “But it’s more.”
Penny shifted on the bed, meeting Annie’s eyes.
“I was wired into everything before I met the Beilers,” Annie continued.
“Technology, having it all. Lots of money. But was I happy?”
“I guess I’ve been gone too long,” Penny said. “I didn’t know you were unhappy.”
“I didn’t know myself.” Annie picked up a throw pillow left from her adolescent purple phase and sat on the bed. “It hasn’t been easy to unplug, but most of the time I think it’s worth it.”
“Most of the time?”
Annie licked her lips. “I have moments. But simplicity has more moments.”
“Can’t you just live a simpler life without giving everything up? No law requires you to own a big-screen TV. What’s so evil about electricity?”
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“No one says it’s evil. But electricity—or texting constantly or owning a car—means you can escape to another place at a whim. The thing that makes the Amish strong is the community that brings them together, because they can’t leave at a whim.”
“Dad doesn’t seem too rattled, but I don’t know how you’ll ever persuade Mom.”
“I know.” Annie fiddled with mementos from college that still lay on the dresser. “If I do become Amish, I don’t want it to be just on the outside. I have to find out if I can really see the world as the Amish do.”
“And if you can? Then you can be with Rufus?”
Eight
July 1775
No matter how old she got, Magdalena never got used to the feel of a kapp on her head at the height of summer. Once she got clear of the house, she stopped to set the basket of quilt remnants on the ground and remove her kapp. If corn had eyes instead of ears, perhaps the hearty crop would tattle on her. As it was, Magdalena could brush undetected through rows of her father’s corn almost as tall as she was. After she crossed the creek onto the land that belonged to Nathanael’s family, she would put the kapp back in place.
The quilt fabrics were a ruse. Magdalena did not even enjoy quilting. It was a fact of life. Somebody had to piece together a family’s bedding, and no Amish woman would think to marry without at least rudimentary skill. Magdalena had learned early and well from her mother before she passed. Only last year Magdalena was hard at work on the quilt she hoped would cover the bed she and Nathanael would share as man and wife. She finished it, stored it carefully in a cedar chest, and waited for his proposal.
Yet, after the attack, the wedding season passed with no further mention of marriage from Nathan’s lips. In another couple of months, this year’s couples would begin having their banns read at the close of worship. No doubt every other Sunday would herald some new pair. Everyone acted as if they did not know who would become engaged, but of course the banns were seldom a true surprise.
Magdalena stopped in the middle of the cornfield and rubbed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. Hard. She had hoped for last year—or this year at the latest. Nathan had his own land and was a wise farmer who learned well from the experience of his father and uncles. His farm was not large by standards of the Conestoga Valley, but it was a solid start. Everyone said he had a gift for the land, just as Magdalena’s father did. Their families cared for each other. No one would stand in the way of their marriage.
Except the Patriots.
Nathan never talked about what happened that day. At first, Magdalena told herself he needed more time. When he was ready, he would tell her what happened, what they had done to him, how awful it had been, how he had refused to retaliate, how he stood strong as a peaceful man of God. She would comfort him and be proud of him.
No. Not proud. Ordnung did not allow pride in any form.
She could care for him and tell him he did the right thing.
But Nathanael never talked about the experience, not to Magdalena and not to anyone. Rather than looking forward to marriage and living in his own house, Nathanael seemed increasingly content with the room he had shared with his brothers growing up. As the youngest, he was the only one left living under their parents’ roof, and he showed no restlessness with the arrangement.
Magdalena bunched up her kapp in her hand and threw it against the ground. With the ties splayed in two directions, it looked pitifully innocent, and Magdalena instantly filled with regret. Repenting, she snatched it out of the dirt and put it back on her head.
She did not know how to pray anymore.
She straightened her dress, took several deep breaths, and adjusted the basket of cloth on her hip. Nathanael’s mother would appreciate the gift of the scraps. Magdalena made up her mind right then that even if she did not get to see Nathanael, she would not regret bringing the gift. It was not too late to make it a sincere offering.
“How is he?” Magdalena asked when Nathan’s mother welcomed her into the summer kitchen half an hour later.
The older woman shrugged. “He’s been out to the fields this morning, but he’s back now. I heard him talking to his father about the extra help they will need to get the harvest in.”
“Surely they still have a few weeks to sort that out.”
“Between the two farms, it’s a great deal of work,” Mrs. Buerki said.
What she did not say was that her youngest son did not always carry his share of the load anymore, but Magdalena understood. In the summer kitchen, they were far enough from the main house to speak freely, but after ten months, little remained to be said about Nathanael.
Despite the heat of the hearth, the summer kitchen’s limestone walls kept the structure reasonably cool—for which Magdalena was grateful after her walk in the sun. A door propped open at each end allowed the air to move.
She set the basket of fabrics on the worktable. “I thought you might want to go through these and see if you can use anything.”
Mrs. Buerki’s eyes brightened. “Did I tell you I’m to be grootmoeder again?”
Magdalena’s eyes widened as her heart sank. Another of Nathanael’s brothers was having kinner before she and Nathanael were even married. It was probably Obadiah and Esther, but she could not bring herself to ask. “Then you’ll need to start a new quilt,” she managed to say. “There’s plenty here for a babe.”
The gray-haired woman smiled briefly. “Go on in the house, Maggie. He’ll be pleased to see you today, I think.”
Magdalena nodded and stepped out into bright sunlight again. She crossed the yard and tapped lightly on the open door at the back of the main house. “Is anyone home?”
“In here.” Nathan’s voice sounded bright, but she knew that his tone was not always a promise of his mood.
She loved him. She could not imagine not loving him. Though Nathanael usually seemed glad to see her, he had not asked her to ride with him to a singing since before the attack. Whatever hope for the future they held between them last year had weakened like coals spread too thin. Nathanael was jumpy and wild eyed at times, sparking the nickname Nutty Nathan l. No one ever called him that to his face, of course, but Magdalena fumed nevertheless.
Nathan sat at the table beside a cold hearth, and Magdalena took a seat opposite him.
She could not stay long. She wished she could sit all day with him even if he did not speak to her again, but her chores would not allow such indulgence. Her older brother and sister were married now and in their own homes, leaving Magdalena to help with the younger children. Babsi was with child again, though so ill that the midwife feared the child would come far too early to survive.
For now, she decided to give herself half an hour to sit with the man she loved.
“Are you hungry?” Magdalena asked. “I am sure your mamm would not mind if I fixed you something to eat.”
He shook his head then turned to gaze out the window.
“You must be tired from being in the fields in the sun.” Magdalena searched his face for any encouragement.
Nathan crossed his arms and cradled his own elbows. “You are kind to come.”
“Of course I came.”
“I know I disappoint you, Maggie.”
“No, you don’t. You couldn’t.” She reached across the table, but he did not grasp her hand.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Jacob met Sarah’s gaze and answered evenly, “Yes.”
“It could be dangerous,” she said. “Your movements may come under scrutiny.”
“I am aware.”
“My husband will help you however he can.”
“Emerson is a fine man, Sarah.”
“I’ve always thought so. But there’s Mamm to think of.”
“I’ll be careful. Mamm will be in no danger.”
“You may be overstating your case.” Sarah tugged at the canvas covering the load in Jacob’s wagon. “I hate to think what might happen if you get stopped.”<
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“Who would stop me? The British have their hands full trying to keep their grip on Boston. That only makes our work more imperative. We must move while we have opportunity.”
“ ‘Our work’? Is that what it is now?”
Jacob leaned forward and kissed Sarah’s cheek. “We’re in this together, you and I.”
“Christian will be horrified.”
Jacob’s jaw hardened. “Last year he came here with Magdalena and asked me to do something.”
“I hardly think this was what he had in mind.”
“The question must be resolved so we can get on with our lives. Boston is only the beginning. If we let the British have Boston, we’re done for.” Jacob swung himself up into the wagon’s seat and picked up the reins. As he pulled away from Sarah’s stately Philadelphia home, he resolved to return to his own land the long way—by way of the Conestoga Valley. It was better to stay off the main thoroughfare between Philadelphia and Berks County anyway, and honesty was the best route with his brother as well.
Christian flipped back the canvas and flicked his eyes toward Jacob. “That is a great deal of saltpeter.”
Jacob nodded.
“You can only have one end in mind for such a load.”
Again, Jacob nodded.
“Jacobli, this saltpeter will produce far more gunpowder than your household requires. Remember that I once hunted the hills of Berks County alongside you.”
“If you want me to state my intentions, I will.” Jacob cleared his throat. “Though we differ in our acts of conscience, I don’t intend to deceive you.”
“You’re making gunpowder for the Patriots.” Christian slapped the canvas back in place then caught himself. He would not allow Jacobli’s choices to provoke his temper.
“The colonists are going to fight the Crown,” Jacob said. “But they can’t hope to be successful if they must continue to depend on the French for gunpowder. We must have our own supply.”
Christian’s belly heated. He prayed regularly and fervently for Jacobli and all his siblings to find the way of peace. Would God never answer?
“The land behind the tannery is more than suitable for a powder mill,” Jacob said. “It’s a good distance away from any other families, and it will be easy to hide the operation if need be. Having the creek so near is an advantage as well.”
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