Arms of Love (4 page)

“Abby, come here. See our new baby.
Mamm
named her Faith.”

Abigail skipped over for a quick look, then turned to the other room. “Is
Mamm
sleeping? I won’t wake her, Lena. May I go in?”

“
Nee
!” Lena broke off at the stricken look on the child’s face. “I mean to say . . .
nee, mei schwester
. You cannot.” The infant kicked weakly in her arms and let out another mewling cry. “Abby,
Mamm
died this morning, after giving birth to Faith.”

The little girl’s lip quivered. “I don’t believe you.
Mamm? Mamm
!”

Only the front door opening in her path waylaid Abigail from entering the room where her mother lay. Adam caught the little girl up in his arms and made soothing sounds in his throat as she beat her fists against his broad shoulders.

After a few moments the child cried herself still, and Adam let her slide to the floor. She immediately came to press herself into Lena’s skirts. “I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I will be a big girl like
Fater
told me.”

Lena smiled gratefully at Adam, but he looked away. She patted her sister’s head while she balanced the baby in one arm. “It’s all right, Abby. John and I will take care of you. And we will all take care of Faith.”

Adam cleared his throat. “I’ll send for my mother to come and help you this morning once I’ve finished outside. And you have need of a wet nurse,
ya
?”

Lena couldn’t control the flush that burned her cheeks. At another time they might have laughed together at speaking so casually of such a thing, but she sensed a strange distance in him. She told herself that she had not realized how attached he was to her mother. He must be as stricken with grief as she was.

“
Danki
, Adam,” she said.

He turned on his muddy heel. “I will also send my
gut bruder
to your aid this day, Lena. I think his studies make him more than able to bless the burial, while I tend to the other . . . unsavory things.”

“I thank you,” she said, and he nodded, closing the door with a brisk snap.

Adam tried to let the rhythmic motion of the horse beneath him bring some solace to his soul. His conversation with Mary Yoder burned through his brain as he tried to recall every word they had spoken. Then, like some hot brand held against his skin, the thought came that he could forget about the promise and go on as before. But then he prayed, and his mind cleared a bit. If Mary Yoder knew that she must give up one world to gain another—heaven at that—and leave behind a new babe and her other
kinner
, then surely he should be able to do the same—give up Lena for a time, to gain a better world in the future. His breath came rapid and shallow, and he felt as though he’d been running a long distance. He knew that he would try to honor his promise, no matter how much it hurt.

Despite his ease in speaking of the matter to Lena, Adam felt no such confidence in his ability to find a woman from whom the infant could nurse. He racked his brain as he rounded Timothy on the turn to his family’s farm, which lay a mile from the Yoder home. Perhaps his mother should attend to the issue . . . but then, there was Mary Yoder to bury.

He pushed away his thoughts and dismounted, entering through the front door of the stout limestone farmhouse and slipping off his hat and cloak. His father had gone from the table to work the horses, but Isaac still sat, his dark head bent, studying the Bible. A bevy of odd cats were curled around his brother’s feet—strays that were more feral than house cats. But that was Isaac—always bringing home a strange animal.

The
Martyrs Mirror
, that heavy tome so valued for its descriptions of persecutions of Christians in the Old World, lay open on the table. Although Adam was familiar with the valuable book, he had little wish to dwell on the specific details of the deaths of thousands of martyred Anabaptists, as his
bruder
was wont to do.

Adam’s mother placed a warning finger to her lips, and he obeyed with a faint frown. He rounded the wooden plank table and ignored the rumble in his stomach that reminded him he had missed the early morning meal. He took a heel of crusty bread from a platter and slipped an arm around his mother’s waist. At nearly forty, Ellen Wyse was still as slender as a girl and had managed to keep her cheerful outlook upon life despite her husband’s whims of mood. Adam bent his head and whispered of the Yoders’ loss.

Mary Yoder had been both friend and neighbor, and the news was enough for his mother to interrupt her studying son. “Isaac, Mary Yoder died this morning in childbirth.”

Adam watched the slow awareness flood his brother’s dark eyes; it was the same ponderous consideration he gave to anything before he spoke, and it annoyed Adam to no end. He knew it was deliberate, this slow delivery of speech, so that others would be forced to hang on his words. But perhaps a man who believed he might someday become a bishop should speak with weighty accord.

“A sad loss, to be sure,” Isaac said. “But always, as
Derr Herr wills
. . . It is a mercy that the child survived.” He reached down to scratch a oneeared tomcat.

“
Ya
,” their mother agreed, bowing her head.

Adam rolled his eyes at his brother’s expression of the obvious. “Ya, and the babe hungers. I will ride into town to seek a wet nurse if you will go and help Lena tend to things,
Mamm
. And I know you would be a comfort to her, Isaac.” He was surprised at the sting of jealousy that accompanied his words, as he realized that soon enough Lena would accept his brother’s help more than his own, if he continued to push her away.

His mother lifted a basket from the floor. “I’ll take some fresh gingerbread and the new churning of butter over with me. The younger kinner will be hungry as well. How is Lena?”

Adam shrugged, avoiding his
mamm’s
questioning gaze. “Strong, I guess, but broken too. She may display different feelings to another woman.”

Isaac closed his Bible and rose. “Lena is strong, but even she will be bowed by this load. Perhaps it would be proper for me to offer her spiritual counsel at this time. I am sure it would please her father.”

Adam clapped his hat on his head and scowled. “Why not bury her mother first?”

“To be certain.” Isaac blinked. “It would be unseemly to—”

“I’ll meet you both there as soon as I can.” Adam crossed the tongue-and-groove kitchen floor and escaped before his brother could finish. He’d had more than enough food for thought this morning, and the idea of sleepy-eyed Isaac “counseling” Lena burned the back of his brain like liquid fire. He mounted the horse and turned toward Lancaster, intent on making short work of the three-mile distance to the bustling town.

Ruth Stone swallowed a sob as she clutched her babe tighter and watched her cottage home burn to the ground. It was her fault, she told herself. She had let the chimney get blocked. Ever since Henry had been killed in the fighting a few weeks past, she had found it hard to concentrate. And now she had nothing but a few meager possessions and her child. She had nowhere to go, no one to lean on. She turned from the ashen remains of her home and started to walk—heading anywhere and nowhere . . .

Once Adam had gained Lancaster, he realized how absurd a chore he’d set himself up for. Wet nurses certainly did not promote themselves, and he felt like he was sinning every time he stole a glance at a matronly bosom. What in the world was he to do?

Finally he slid off the horse and approached a simply dressed young woman with a small toddler in tow. He stood in front of her, and the busy crowds swarmed around them. She looked up and took in his strength, and he saw the look of apprehension that crossed her brow. The child began to whine, and Adam knew he had to make haste.

“Uh, miss . . . missus . . . I see that you have a healthy-looking son there—great lungs on him. I have a friend who is in need of someone to nurse her babe . . . and I wondered if—”

The woman pushed past him, her face flushed with anger. He knew she probably would have slapped him had he not had the foresight to take a step back.

“Crazy Amish,” he heard her mutter as she made haste to put the crowd between them.

Adam sighed. Maybe he was crazy . . . He glanced over at the poplin-covered bosom of a well-endowed older woman and got jabbed by a parasol for his troubles. Perhaps he would have better chances on the outlying farms. He quickly remounted Tim and with a shudder left the town behind.

Ruth Stone stumbled with listless abandon along the rutted dirt road, not caring where her bare and blistered feet led. She knew she must look a sight, her graying red hair escaping the confines of her ruffled cap and her apron splattered with mud from the puddles she had trodden through. She carried a small wrapped bundle in her arms and another on her back, and she barely glanced up when the horse and rider pulled abreast of her. She no longer feared the British nor the Patriots, who would seek their freedom at any cost.

“Woman? Are you well?”

The man’s voice was deep, quiet, and resonant. It penetrated some of the distance in her mind, and she focused bleary eyes up at him.