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As soon as she was gone, Brad Williams plopped down on one of the couches and poured coffee into a china cup. Not for her, Jemima noted, with a twinge of irritation – for himself.
“Sit down, Duchess,” he told her easily. He reached for a small remote on the table and switched on the television. Instantly the conference room materialized, and it was evident that Miss Juniper had told the unvarnished truth: every last seat in the auction room was taken, and dozens of people were standing against the walls.
Jemima stared at the screen, round-eyed. She could see everything, just as it was happening, in the room next door!
Brad Williams glanced at her face between bites of toast and teased: “What’s the matter, Duchess, haven’t you ever seen a T.V. before?”
Jemima turned her eyes to his face, and was gratified to see him look temporarily chagrined. “Oh-oh, yeah. Sorry, I forgot. Well, at any rate, we’ll be able to watch the bidding. It should be a real smackdown. They all seem to want that letter bad.”
Jemima frowned and sank down onto the couch.
It was nothing but greed, all of it. It felt wrong, and dirty somehow, and she had to remind herself that she was – thought she was – obeying a direct command from God.
But obeying God had never been so confusing before.
Brad Williams collected some of the tidbits onto a plate and handed them to her. “Go ahead, eat. The auction may last for a while, and once we’re out of here, the only other chance you’ll get is the drive thru somewhere. As much as I’d like to spoil you, I can’t promise you a spread like this on the Ledger’s expense account.”
Jemima took the plate from him, and nibbled morosely on a piece of cheese. She became aware that he was watching her, and she returned his gaze unhappily.
Brad Williams brushed the crumbs off his fingertips and leaned forward across the table. His bright eyes were intent. “Look, Jemima – I know what a big step this is for you. It can’t have been easy to come all this way, and...with me.” He looked down, and then up at her again. “It has to feel way strange, and maybe a little scary. But trust me – it’s going to be fine. Really.”
Jemima looked at him uncertainly. His eyes were full of that warm, sympathetic look again. Like he really did understand. Maybe, maybe God was using this young man to accomplish His will, even though he was an Englischer.
Brad smiled at her again. “Because, Jemima King, in another hour, you’re going to be the richest Amish woman in history.”
Then he cracked the devil’s own grin.
Jemima put her plate down with a clatter, and reverted to chewing her nails.
After they had finished eating, Brad Williams had lit yet another cigarette, and she had decided – twice – to just get up and leave, and then didn’t, the auction started. A man walked out onto a small stage and set the letter, now mounted in a clear plastic stand, up for all to see. The people in the crowd craned their necks.
After he had gone, the auctioneer walked briskly to the podium. He was tall, slim, youngish, and very smartly dressed.
He got right to the point. “We have here Item Number 10 in the catalog, a letter from George Washington to his wife Martha.”
Brad Williams turned to look at her, smiling. Jemima returned a faint, tepid smile and raised her eyes to the television screen.
“I’m going to start the bidding out at $50,000. Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty thousand, do I have fifty-five. Sixty. Sixty-fi– Seventy, thank you sir. Can I have eighty thousand? Eighty, eighty-five, ninety.”
Jemima watched in dumbstruck amazement. The auction had just begun, and already she had more money than she could imagine. Why did all those people want the letter so badly? It was sweet, it was even historically important, but it was just a letter, after all!
And if those rich people were that foolish with money – how had they gotten rich in the first place?
“One hundred thousand. Do I hear one hundred fifty, one sixty, one seventy.” The auctioneer nodded toward a woman who seemed not to have made any motion at all. “One hundred eighty thousand. One hundred ninety, can I have two hundred? Two hundred, two hundred twenty-five. Yes, sir.”
The auctioneer nodded toward a man talking on the phone. The man looked up at him and nodded. “Two hundred fifty thousand.”
Jemima closed her eyes and leaned back into the luxurious leather cushions. This wasn’t happening. She had never more than half believed those appraisers, and certainly had doubted Brad Williams when he told her that she was going to be filthy rich. She had thought she might get enough to help Adam Yoder with his bills, and maybe a few other people; and, if she was frugal, she might be able to sock a little away for her own family, just in case of an emergency. But this–
When she opened her eyes again, the auctioneer was no longer talking, but chanting in a fast, nasal sing-song: “Five-hundred fifty, five hundred seventy-five, can I see six hundred?”
There was a momentary pause, and Jemima held her breath. The auctioneer’s eyes swept the room.
Then he nodded. “Six hundred. Can I hear six-fifty? Six fifty. Six fifty. In the back. Six seventy-five, seven hundred!”
Jemima rolled her eyes to Brad William’s face. He was sitting on the couch opposite with his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped. He was staring up at the T.V. screen with a look of such undisguised pain that Jemima felt suddenly guilty. Yes, of course he looked sick. How could he not?
All of this could have been his.
He hadn’t noticed that she was looking at him. He was looking up at the screen with longing in his eyes, but to her surprise, Jemima saw no hint of regret. What was that he had said – something about pride – and wanting to impress a gorgeous redhead?
She felt so sorry for him suddenly that before she realized what she was doing, on impulse, she reached out and gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze.
He took her hand without missing a beat, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world for her to offer, and continued to look up at the screen. Jemima’s eyes followed his. The auctioneer was now talking so fast that she could barely make out what he was saying: “Nine hundred thousand, nine-fifty. Nine fifty – thank you ma’am. One million dollars. One million. One – the gentleman in the front.”
Jemima felt her heart throbbing in her chest, and closed her eyes again. She was never going to be able to hide this; she’d been lying to herself to imagine that she could. She was going to go home a millionaire, just as the appraisers had predicted, and she was going to have to explain everything.
But would her family understand?
And even more urgent – would Mark and Samuel and Joseph?
She shook her head, frowning. She would have to explain to her parents, and then most likely to the bishop. None of this was allowed, none of it had even happened to anyone else, and she was most likely going to have to repent.
She ticked off the list of infractions in her head. First and most glaringly, running off alone with an Englischer, meeting with him secretly beforehand, and not telling her parents about him at any point in that process. Then, not telling the bishop. Keeping the letter a secret, and not asking anyone else if she should sell the letter. Lying to her parents about going to her aunt’s.
She opened her eyes. And watching a television.
She felt suddenly ill.
The auctioneer’s voice rattled on: One million two hundred thousand. One million three. Thank you. One million four, one million five. One million six. One million six. Anyone?”
He looked around the room. “One million six. Last call. One million six.” He brought a small gavel down with a bang,
Sold!” he announced, and the crowd broke out into applause.
Jemima stared at the screen in open-mouthed disbelief. One-million-six-hundred-thousand dollars.
She was dimly aware that Brad Williams was hugging her, and saying “Congratulations Duchess.”
Then the door to the room suddenly burst open, and a camera flash went off.
