The Amish Bride. Emma MillerЧитать онлайн книгу.
looked at her father. Surely there had been a misunderstanding or miscommunication with the Shetlers. Surely her father would have wanted to talk in private with Ellen about Simeon’s proposition before inviting them all to sit down together to talk about it.
John Beachey met his daughter’s gaze and nodded. He knew her all too well. He knew just what she was thinking. “Jah, Ellen. We’ve talked, Simeon and I.”
“You have?” she managed.
“We have, and we’re in agreement. It’s time you were married, and who better than one of the fine sons of our good neighbor. A neighbor, who,” he reminded pointedly, “helped us out so much when we had the fire.”
The fire, Ellen thought. That weighty debt: rarely mentioned but always remembered.
How many years ago had it been now? Seven or eight? The suspicious fire, probably caused by teenaged mischief makers, had started at the back of the store and quickly spread through the old kitchen and up through the ceiling into the second floor. Quick-thinking neighbors had smelled smoke and seen flames, and the valiant efforts of a local fire company had prevented the whole building from being a loss. But smoke and water had destroyed all of the contents of the shop, leaving them with no means of support and no money to rebuild. Simeon had showed up early the next day with a volunteer work force from the community to help. He’d provided cash from his own pocket for expenses, lumber from his mill and his sons’ services to provide the skilled carpentry to restore the shop. Over the years, her father had been able to repay Simeon’s interest-free loan, but they owed the Shetlers more than words could ever express.
“Sit, please.” She waved a hand to the men and boys.
Having Simeon’s sons standing there grinning at her was unnerving. Or at least, handsome, blond-haired Micah was grinning at her. Neziah, always the most serious of the three Shetler men, had the expression of one with a painful tooth, about to see the dentist. He nodded and settled solidly in his chair.
The room positively crackled with awkwardness, and Ellen wished she were anywhere but there. She wished she could run outside, jump on her push scooter and escape down the drive. Everyone was looking at her, seeming to be waiting for her to say something.
Neziah’s son Joel, age five, came to her rescue. “Can we eat now, Dat? I’m hungry.”
“Jah, I’m hungry, too,” the four-year-old, Asa, echoed.
The boys did not look hungry, although boys always were, Ellen supposed. Joel, especially, appeared as if he’d just rolled away from a harvest table. His chubby face was as round as a donut under a mop of unruly butter-yellow hair, hair the same color as his uncle Micah’s. Asa, with dark hair and a complexion like his father’s, was tall for his age and sturdy. Someone had made an effort to subdue their ragged bowl cuts and scrub their hands and faces, but they retained the look of plump little banty roosters who’d just lost a barnyard squabble and were missing a few feathers. Still, the boys had changed the focus from her and the looming courtship question back to ground she was far steadier on—the evening meal.
“We waited supper for you,” Ellen’s mother explained. “Come, Dochter, sit here across from Micah and Neziah.”
Ellen surveyed the table. There would be enough of a main dish for their company because she’d made the two potpies. She also saw that her mother had fried up a platter of crispy brown scrapple and brought out the remnants of a roasted turkey. “Let me open a jar of applesauce and some of those delicious beets you made this summer, Mam,” she suggested. As she turned toward the cupboard, she took off her good apron, which she wore at the shop, and grabbed a black work apron from a peg on the wall. “I’ll only be a moment,” she said. “I’m sure the boys like applesauce.” Tying the apron on, she retrieved the jar and carried it to the table.
“Do you have pie?” Joel called after her. “Grossdaddi promised we would have pie. He said you always got pie.”
“And cake,” Asa chimed in.
“Boys,” Neziah chided. “Mind your manners.”
“But Grossdaddi said,” Joel insisted.
Ellen went to the stove and scooped biscuits from a baking sheet and dropped them into a wooden bowl that had been passed down from a great-grandmother. They were still warm, so they must have just come from the oven.
Her mother rose to seek out a pint of chow-chow, and a quart of sweet pickles that they’d put up just a week ago. In no time, they were all seated, and Ellen’s father bowed his head for the silent prayer.
When Ellen looked up once prayer was over, Micah met her gaze, grinning. He seemed to be enjoying the whole uncomfortable situation. But as she started to pass the platters and bowls of food, she found herself smiling, as well. Having friends at the table was always a blessing. She might not have expected to find the Shetlers here this evening, but here they were, and she’d make the best of it. So what if they were there to talk about a possible courtship between her and one of the Shetler men? No one was going to make her marry anyone.
Shared meals were one of the joys of a Plain life, and it was impossible not to enjoy Simeon and Micah’s teasing banter. The children concentrated on devouring their supper, eating far more than Ellen would suppose small boys could consume. Unlike Micah, Neziah ate in silence, adding only an occasional Jah and a grunt or nod of agreement to the general conversation. Neziah had always been the quiet one, even as a child. How he could have such noisy and mischievous children, Ellen couldn’t imagine.
Simeon launched into a lengthy joke about a lost English tourist who stopped to ask an Amish farmer for directions to Lancaster. The story had bounced around the community for several years, but Simeon had a way of making each tall tale his own, and Ellen didn’t mind. At least when he was talking, she didn’t have to think of something to say to either of her would-be suitors.
Joel looked up from his plate, waved his fork and asked, “Now can we have pie?”
“Rooich,” Micah cautioned, raising a finger to his lips. Quiet. He then pointed his finger in warning to keep Asa from chiming in.
Ellen glanced at Neziah to see his reaction to his brother chastising his boys, but Neziah’s mouth was full of potpie and he seemed to be paying no mind. It was his third helping. She was glad she’d made two large pies, because the first dish was empty and the second held only a single slice.
Neziah suddenly began to cough and Micah slapped him on the back. Neziah reddened and turned away from the table. His brother handed him a glass of milk, and Neziah downed half of it before clearing his throat and wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Sorry,” he gasped, turning back to the table. “Chicken bone.”
Ellen blushed with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said hastily. She’d been so certain that she’d gotten all the bones out of the chicken before adding it to the other ingredients.
“I may be a dumb country pig farmer,” Simeon said, delivering the punch line of his story, “but I’m not the one who’s lost.” He looked around, waiting for the reaction to his joke and wasn’t disappointed.
Her mam and dat laughed loudly.
“Jah,” her mother agreed. “He wasn’t, was he? It was the fancy Englisher with the big car who was lost.”
Simeon slapped both hands on the table and roared with delight. “Told him, didn’t he?” Tears ran down his cheeks. “Lot of truth in that story, isn’t there?”
Ellen’s father nodded. “Lot of truth. Not many weeks pass that some tourist doesn’t stop in the craft shop to ask how to find Lancaster. And I say, you’re standing in it.”
“Course he means the town,” Ellen’s mam clarified. “Lancaster County’s one thing, the town is another.”
“Town of Lancaster’s got too many traffic lights and shopping centers for me.” Simeon wiped