Threads of Grace (7 page)

G
race bent to peer carefully into the eyes of her son. “Abel, you know Seth Wyse?”

“Of course.” The boy shifted restlessly.

“Abel, Seth Wyse has asked me—that is, us—to marry him.”

“What about the bad man? Uncle Tobias?”

“He will go away.”

“What do you mean ‘us’ to marry Seth?”

Grace smiled gently. “He wants us to become his family. Both of us. If you say
nee
, then I will say
nee
as well.”

“I like Seth. Do you?” Abel’s eyes were intent now, locked on her own. She resisted the urge to look away.

“Abel, I think he is a good man.”

The boy nodded. “But do you like him?”

“I want to like him. I will like him when I get to know him better. I—we—will get to know each other more after we are married.”

Abel shrugged. “Okay.”

Grace drew a deep breath and straightened, but then he caught her hand. “
Mamm
, will Seth be like
Fater
was?”

“No,” she said firmly. “Nothing like
Fater
.”

And she prayed it would be so.

V
iolet gave a sidelong glance at her sister as Abel ambled away. “It sounded like that went well.”

“So it would seem,” Grace said with a sigh.

Violet snapped her fingers under her sister’s nose. “Grace, think. This is not Silas Beiler, not by a long shot. Think how lucky you are to have found someone who loves you and wants to cherish you and—”

“You don’t know that.”

Violet blew out a frustrated breath. “I’ve got eyes, don’t I? I can’t imagine what it would feel like to have a man look at you the way Seth does.”

Grace turned to her. “Violet, tell me true and quick. Are you, well, are you attracted to him?”

Violet couldn’t suppress the giggle of surprise that bubbled up in her throat. “Grace, what woman wouldn’t be? But no, sweet sister, I do not want him. He’s all yours.”

CHAPTER 8

W
hen a widow or widower remarried, there was no need to wait for the usual season of weddings, October through December. But Seth was pretty sure that no widow had ever decided on a marriage with such haste. He squeezed Grace’s hand as they mounted the steps to the bishop’s house.

Bishop Loftus was a wizened old man with a sharp wit and an even sharper tongue. There was no telling what he might say in any given circumstance, and there was always the chance that he might not even give approval to Seth’s scheme. Still, as Seth fingered the sheaf of legal papers in one hand, he felt fairly confident that all would go well.

Ellie Loftus, the bishop’s
fraa
, opened the door to them with a kind smile. She was a straight-backed, small woman who had the kind of eyes that said they’d seen a world of things, and not all good, but still accepted with compassion and empathy.

“Grace, Seth,
sei
so
gut
,
kumme
in. How’s your leg—Esther Zook told me about the wall and your broken ankle. Where’s little Abel?”

“Uh, with Jacob. We were hoping that the bishop was around,” Seth said.

“Well,
kumme
in and sit and I’ll fetch him.” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “He’s in a bit of a bad mood. Some woodworking he was doing for the upstairs didn’t turn out well.”

“Ach,”
Seth murmured. His gut twisted, but he glanced down into Grace’s eyes and tried to smile at her with reassurance. She didn’t smile back. They perched on the rather stiff sofa that Ellie indicated and waited while she hollered up the steps in Pennsylvania Dutch for her husband. His cantankerous reply made Seth tug at his shirt collar.

Loud steps sounded on the stairs as the bishop clumped down in his work boots. If he was surprised to see Seth and Grace sitting together in his living room, he didn’t show it. The old man merely dropped into a chair facing them and raised a gray eyebrow.

“Well?”

“I’ll make lemonade,” Ellie murmured, disappearing into the kitchen.

Seth cleared his throat. “We’ve come about getting married.”

“Humph,” the bishop grunted.

“Tomorrow. At eleven. If you’re not busy.”

Bishop Loftus leaned back in his chair. “I’m not busy.”

Seth smiled. Maybe this was going to be easy. “Then if you consent, we can—”

“Did I say I consented?”

“
Nee
, but—”

The bishop shifted the full force of his gaze to Grace. “Seth Wyse is a runaround. He’s kissed more girls in this county and the next than I would care to count. He’s wild, restless, and has had
his eyes on you since you moved here, Grace Beiler. And you have wanted nothing to do with him. So why should I give consent?”

Seth sensed Grace straighten a bit by his side and felt a certain pride in her character, despite the words that came forth from her lips.

“I have no desire to marry him, Bishop Loftus, nor any other man. My first husband was enough for a lifetime. But I was young and foolish when I married. I signed papers.”

She indicated the folder in Seth’s hand. Seth extended the documents, but the bishop waved them away.

Grace went on. “I could lose Abel to an evil man if I do not marry Seth Wyse. He has offered. I understand his faults. I have plenty of faults of my own. I will do my best to be a
gut
wife to him for saving my son.”

The bishop stroked his long gray beard. “Hmm. Self-sacrifice is a poor foundation to marry upon. It’s an even sadder substitute for love.”

Grace did not respond, and Seth held his breath in the silence.

Finally the bishop nodded. “Very well. Eleven o’clock tomorrow. I will prepare a suitable sermon for the both of you. Ellie?” He turned and hollered in the direction of the kitchen. “Ellie? Where’s that lemonade? You’ve got to congratulate these two—they’re going to be married.”

S
eth gently steered Grace and Abel ahead of him and into his home while Violet followed behind. The living room windows were open and a light breeze played across the wood floors and
simple furnishings. The smell of freshly brewing tea and baking molasses cookies filled the air.

His
daed
, Samuel, was seated at the kitchen table reading
The Budget.
His
mamm
turned from the stove. Seth shepherded Grace and Abel forward.

“
Mamm, Daed
, the wid—I mean, Grace—has done me the honor of accepting my proposal of marriage, and Abel has also given his consent. We’ve been to the bishop’s, and . . . well, we’re to marry tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”

There was a distinct moment of silence while his
daed
put down the newspaper and stared at him. His
mamm
froze, a wooden spoon in hand.

“They’re thinking it’s strange,” Abel said clearly, and Seth half laughed, putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. He sensed Grace tense even further while Violet fidgeted beside her.

His
daed
cleared his throat. “Well, that’s . . . fine,
sohn
.” He rose slowly from the table and looked at his wife. “Isn’t that fine, Mary?”

His
mamm
burst into a smile, as if released from a spell. “
Jah
, fine! Grace, Abel—we welcome you. And, Violet, you too, of course. How
wunderbaar
that you can be here to help your sister prepare.” She put down her spoon and came around the table to pull mother and son into her arms, then she hugged Violet and embraced Seth but drew back to look up at him. “
Ach
, Seth, there’s so much to do. I hardly know where to begin.”

“We don’t want to be any bother,” Grace said quickly.

Mary Wyse laughed. “A wedding is no bother; it’s a time for celebration. What will you wear, Grace?”

Although the
Amisch
of their community did not wear
anything special for weddings, blue was traditionally favored by the bride.

“I’m not quite sure yet. I’ll go through my dresses.”

“What will I wear,
Mamm
?” Abel asked.

Grace looked at her son rather helplessly, and Seth spoke up. “Jacob and I will take care of you, Abel. Black coat, tie, shiny boots.”

The boy cut a glance in his
mamm’s
direction. “I don’t like a tie around my neck.”

“No tie then,” Seth assured him.

“I don’t much care for a tie either,” Samuel Wyse said with a smile. “But a new daughter-in-law and a
kinskind
are a double blessing.”

G
race tried to relax. Everyone was kind, but the silent questions reverberated through her brain: What was she doing? Why would Seth make a lifetime commitment to help her? How was it really going to be for Abel? And the most troubling question of all: How in the world was she going to live with the most attractive man she’d ever seen without losing her heart?

She had struggled to avoid Seth, with his kind words and gentle acts of thoughtfulness. He made no effort to hide the fact that he was infatuated with her, but she also knew that he’d be disappointed once the proverbial candy wrapper had been peeled away. She suddenly felt light-headed, and Mary Wyse must have noticed because she led Grace to the couch and helped her settle among the cushions.

“Sit down and rest. You must be exhausted. I know that
sudden change always makes me feel like I’ve got my bonnet blown off and a wind up my skirt.”

Grace couldn’t help but smile at the kind woman’s talk. She wasn’t used to talking to another mature
Amisch
woman, at least not idle talk. She was half afraid her in-laws might see her as some sodden cat that Seth dragged home and felt sorry for.

But she had to stop thinking that way. She had to believe in herself, to believe that
Gott
had made her worthwhile, no matter what was in her past.

She felt Abel come and cuddle next to her side and she stroked his hair. He did not especially like to be touched unless he wanted it. He must be nervous or he wouldn’t come this close.

She was tired, so tired. She wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep right where she was, to let the ground swallow her up and moss grow over her.

Grace let her weary gaze roam discreetly over her prospective husband. He so closely resembled her childish fantasy of what the future should hold. Now, suddenly, this broad-shouldered, lean-hipped man was going to be with her forever.

What on earth had she gotten herself into?

S
eth saw Grace and Abel and Violet home after a filling, spontaneous celebratory dinner of stuffed meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and new asparagus shoots.

Abel retreated into his bedroom with Violet for company. While his mother and Grace and Violet were making plans, Seth had slipped away and set the front door back on its hinges.

Now he shut the door behind them. “I don’t like the thought of you staying here even one night with that man lurking.”

Grace sat down at the quilting frame and picked up a needle, drawing a kerosene lamp closer on an adjacent table and balancing her crutches against the wall. She drew the light blue thread through the chambray inner square of the quilt and Seth frowned.

“What are you doing?”

“Quilting.”

“I know that. I mean, shouldn’t you head to bed to get some rest for tomorrow?”

Grace nodded. “I will, but I’ve several hours of work left on this. It’s due to send out to Lancaster first thing in the morning. I can get it done before the wedding.”

Seth knew that she made her living by quilting. He watched her small hands work diligently at the cloth, her slender neck bent. He didn’t want her to be working when she should have a chance to rest. And it didn’t help that she seemed to have completely forgotten him as she picked up her stitches.

“Lancaster can wait for the quilt. We’re going to be married.”

She looked up at him, her eyes earnest. “
Ach
, but this is a special order. A wedding anniversary quilt. A remake of a Double Nine-Patch Chain with cotton percale and sateen as well as the chambray. I can’t stop yet.” Her voice ended on a faintly pleading note, and he felt a surge of remorse for being critical. He knew what it was like to be close to finishing a painting and then to have to stop.

He grabbed a chair, straddled it, and sat down. Then he reached across the expanse of fabric and slid a needle from the quilt roll.

“What are you doing?”

He grinned at her. “Quilting.”

“No, you’re not.”

He threaded the needle with an easy hand and bent to begin to stitch.

“
Ach
, please don’t. You’ll ruin . . .” Her voice trailed away, and Seth looked up after he’d completed five perfect stitches.

Grace stared at him like he had two heads. “Wherever did you learn?”

“I worked on Lilly’s wedding quilt a bit and I picked it up, that’s all. I kind of think of it as painting, but with fabric.”

Grace smiled at him, but he had the strange feeling that the smile was a veil, something between them but not meant to draw them together. “The bishop might have an admonition for you for speaking of painting and quilting in such a manner. You make it sound like art.”