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Jemima moaned and turned her face into her pillow. “Kiss me, Brad!” she murmured. But instead of Brad placing a tender kiss on her lips, an impatient hand shook her shoulder roughly. She opened her eyes, frowning.
The sky outside was still dark; the glow of a single candle provided the only light in the room. Gradually the dark blob hovering over her resolved into a human face. Deborah held a candlestick high overhead, and leered down at her.
“’Kiss me, Brad!’” she simpered. “You’d better be glad it’s me who’s waking you up, and not Mamm!”
“What’s the matter? What is it?” Jemima cried, her mind still clouded by dreams.
“What is it? It’s almost five, lady of leisure, and Mamm says that if you don’t get up, she’s going to come and drag you out of bed by your feet. You’ve overslept!”
“Oh!”
Deborah shook her head and left, but Jemima scrambled out of bed, searching for her clothes. If only they’d let her sleep in, just once! She’d been dreaming the loveliest dream that she was in Brad’s arms and that he was just about to ask her...
“JeMIMa!”
Jemima put a hand to her mouth. Her father hadn’t used that tone of voice to her in years.
“Coming!” she cried, and hurried to put her hair up and dress.
It was Sunday, and they were going to worship at Silas Fisher’s, so breakfast was somewhat hurried. Jemima was present in body only, and performed only the bare minimum required of her: a brief yes, no, or nod of the head, when she was directly addressed. She had no memory of the meal, or what anyone said – she could only think of Brad.
On the buggy ride to the Fisher farm, Jemima looked out across the fields to the horizon, but what she was seeing was a cramped studio apartment in the city with one tall, bright-eyed occupant. She saw him open the door clumsily in the wee hours of the morning, carrying a big picnic basket on one arm. She saw him set it on the breakfast counter, walk a few big paces across the room, and collapse on a narrow bed pushed up against one wall.
Poor Brad!
She frowned, wishing there was some way she could meet him halfway, instead of him having to make such a long trip at night. But she had no transportation...
“Jemima!”
She looked up, startled. Her mother had half-turned and was looking at her in exasperation from the front seat of the buggy. “What did I just say to you?”
Jemima gaped at her in dismay. “Oh...I...”
Deborah rolled her eyes. “Oh, never mind her, Mamm. She’s mooning over her boyfriends,” she put in unexpectedly. “She’s been worthless for days.”
Jemima gave her sister a glance that was expressive of gratitude – and surprise.
Rachel pursed her lips in exasperation. “Jemima, I asked you if you remembered to bring the book I promised to loan your Aunt Priscilla.”
Jemima stared at her guiltily.
“Well – did you?”
“No...no, I’m sorry...I forgot.”
Her mother looked at her in exasperation. “Child, what will I do with you?” she wailed softly. “But I suppose all young girls are a little distracted when they’re...” she bit her lip, smiled faintly and turned back around.
Jemima watched her mother with worried eyes, and then turned to look at her sister. Deborah had saved her last night, and even this morning she was helping her to deflect suspicion. Was it possible that for once in her life, Deborah was trying to be helpful?
Deborah felt her gaze, turned and winked at her. Jemima frowned, turned back to her contemplation of the countryside, and remained silent for the rest of the drive.
The Fisher farm was a sprawling complex of four big houses, six barns, and a dozen other outbuildings clustered at the center of acres of corn and wheat. The weather was overcast and cold, but it did not seem likely to rain, so helpers had set up worship benches inside the main barn, and on the lawn outside.
Jacob parked the buggy next to dozens of others lined up on the grass, and they walked down the long road. Jemima kept her eyes on her feet, because she was suddenly stabbed by the fear that Joseph or Mark or Samuel would find her – and she had nothing to give them but heartache.
Jemima followed her mother and Deborah to the main barn, where worship was being held, and sat beside them on the women’s benches. She was careful to move to the very end of the row, where she could hide behind Dorcas Hershberger. According to the local grapevine, Dorcas weighed 250 pounds at least. In any case she made an excellent screen; behind her, Jemima didn’t have to worry about looking up, and seeing a boy’s eyes pleading with her.
As the long, slow hymn singing began, Jemima retreated inside her own mind. It helped her stave off her growing fear that she’d jumped the fence, that she’d strayed into uncharted and dangerous territory.
Jemima gnawed her fingernail. She’d never met anyone who’d gone out with an Englischer – much less fallen in love with one. It just wasn’t done.
So what would happen, now that she had fallen in love with one?
She closed her eyes. Hurt. Yes, a lot of hurt for everyone involved. Pain for her when she had to tell her suitors that she couldn’t marry them. Pain for them, because they all loved her. Pain for her parents when their dreams for her didn’t come true.
Pain for her and for Brad when they had to part ways at last – because there was no realistic future for the two of them.
Pain for her again, after, when no one else could ever be Brad Williams.
Her Mamm had been right: she was going to hurt badly, she was going to hurt other people. The smart thing, the best thing, would be to forget Brad, choose a husband and settle down.
But if she did, which one of them – and how could she choose?
Dorcas Hershberger suddenly leaned down to get something she’d dropped, and for a second Jemima had a clear view of the men’s worship benches. Instantly she was aware that three pairs of eyes were looking at her. Jemima’s guilty gaze moved from Joseph’s hopeful face, to Samuel’s questioning glance, to Mark’s sad and steady eyes on her.
She felt tears coming to the surface again, and dropped her glance. No, she couldn’t do it. It would be mean and dishonest to marry Joseph or Samuel or Mark when she was really only fond of them. It would be cruel to let one of them pour his whole life into a fantasy.
Because sooner or later, he’d see the truth – and hate her for it.
No, whatever she had to face, it was better to face it and have done. Better to wound a friend honestly, than to poison his whole life with a lie.
Tears sparkled in Jemima’s eyes. Oh Lord, she prayed, I know I’m not supposed to love an Englisch boy. But please, even if I am doing wrong, help me to tell Mark and Joseph and Samuel what I must. Please comfort them – they’re going to be hurt.
Please don’t let them hate me for it. I do still love them so!
