up her hair into a bun and pulled hairpins from between her lips to stab it into submission. Finally she lifted the prayer kapp from its resting place on her bedside table and prepared to set it atop the tight bun.
Unfortunately Lydia’s answer to Greta’s distress the evening before had been to counsel prayer, Scripture and early to bed. There had been no opportunity at all to bring up the subject of Luke Starns. Furthermore, in the middle of the night Greta had realized that because she had rejected Luke’s offer to drive them after all, she needed to reverse that decision and hope that he would agree. Thus the urgency of her early morning errand—one that her sister must not observe.
Checking to be sure that Lydia was otherwise occupied, Greta picked up the note she’d prepared the night before and ran down the lane to the blacksmith shop. All was quiet through the little village and she thanked God for that. She crept up the staircase on the side of Luke’s shop that led to his living quarters and slipped the envelope under the door. When she heard the distinctive sound of a man clearing his throat from somewhere beyond that door, she ran down the stairs and all the way back to her house.
* * *
Luke had found the small white envelope when he’d headed out to hitch up his wagon.
Luke Starns,
Your kind offer to drive my sister and me to
services today is most appreciated. We will be
ready at eight.
Greta Goodloe
Luke couldn’t help but smile. So Greta Goodloe had decided to keep her end of their bargain after all. He wondered why. Greta did not strike him as a woman who did anything without a good reason—something that would be of benefit to her. Not that she wasn’t devoted to her sister. Their closeness was well-known through Celery Fields and it was seldom that one was seen without the other—even when Josef Bontrager was around.
He reread the note. The implication was that Lydia had agreed to this idea—and that surprised Luke. More than surprised him, it made him suspicious. Had Greta actually gotten Lydia to agree to the plan? He doubted it. But now that he’d been given the opening he’d sought to call upon Lydia, he hardly cared what Greta’s motives might be. Of far greater concern was that he return to his room above the shop and make sure that he had done everything he could to make the best possible impression on the schoolteacher.
He changed his shirt for one that he’d been saving for just such an occasion. He ran his thumbs down his suspenders making sure they were straight and without any twists. He brushed his navy wool pants to remove any possible traces of crumbs from his breakfast. Finally he picked up his wide-brimmed straw hat and set it precisely on his head, wishing for the first time in his life that he owned a mirror.
Pure vanity, he thought, chastising himself for such a lapse on the Sabbath of all days. He set his hat more firmly on his thick hair and headed downstairs to hitch up the wagon, thinking that it would be more proper if he had the courting buggy he’d been given when he had turned sixteen and left behind when he moved to Florida.
“Courting buggies are for kids,” he muttered to the horses as he fixed them with their bits and harness. “Lydia Goodloe and I are no longer young. And she is a practical woman. She will not mind the wagon.”
Outside he took special care hitching the team to the wagon and ran the flat of his hand over the seat to be sure there were no splinters that might catch on the sisters’ skirts. He paused as he thought about the splinter he’d removed from Greta’s thumb the day before. How vulnerable she had seemed standing there in the reflected light of the fire, licking at her wound like a kitten whose paw had been injured. How very smooth her skin had been especially in contrast to his rough and callused palms. For a moment he was carried back to Ontario—and another young woman whose hands had been as soft as that.
Luke shook off such thoughts. Those days were behind him. He lived here now. His life was here in Celery Fields and if God granted him his prayer, his future was with Lydia Goodloe—not her sister, no matter how pretty and lively she was.
* * *
Greta closed the door to her bedroom and sat on her bed, trying to catch her breath before going to share breakfast with Lydia. She was relieved that Lydia had long ago insisted that she would take care of the usual chores and preparing their breakfast on Sunday mornings. She took a minute to steady her breathing as she felt the flush of exertion from having run all the way back after leaving the note for Luke. She hoped she could trust the man.
Trust.
Perhaps Josef had looked to the future and seen a lifetime of uncertainty when it came to trusting her. For it was true—as often as he had declared his love for her, she had never once been able to bring herself to say the words to him. She had simply accepted that she and Josef were meant for one another and she had believed with all her heart that in time she would come to love him as much as she liked him.
Her head reeled with the need to find some logical explanation for his sudden decision to quit her, and then to find an equally agreeable solution to this sudden upheaval. On a morning when she had expected to arrive at services and hear her name linked with Josef’s in the announcement of coming nuptials, she must instead wonder how she could possibly endure the day. For endure it she must. Even if Luke found her note and showed up to drive them to services, chatter about a romance between Lydia and Luke would take time to develop. And there was always the possibility that Lydia would refuse to accept the ride.
And what of the added humiliation if Josef had failed to tell Bishop Troyer not to include them when he made the announcement?
“Liddy,” she called out, her voice shaking with panic as she flung open the door of her bedroom. “Liddy!”
Chapter Three
Lydia came running down the hall from the kitchen. “What is it? Are you all right?” Greta looked up at her sister with tear-filled eyes and an expression of pure panic. Lydia rushed to her side. “Come, sit. Take a deep breath.”
Greta did as her sister instructed. Since their mother’s death when Greta was only a toddler, she had relied on Lydia to show her the way through the travails of daily life. “What if...” She drew in a long breath and gasped, “What if Josef has not spoken with Bishop Troyer? What if...”
Lydia frowned, a sure sign that she had not considered this possibility and was even now working through the logistics of how best to handle this latest crisis in Greta’s life. “Well, we shall simply have to make certain that the bishop knows what has happened. Therefore, it would be best if we arrived at services as soon as possible.”
Greta nodded. “You’ll speak with him?”
“Bishop Troyer? Of course, but Greta, he is likely to want to speak with you—and Josef.”
Greta groaned.
“Now, sister, it’s not necessarily as dire as you may think. As I told you last night,” Lydia continued, “I suspect that Josef has simply had a bout of nerves. Marriage is a big step. There is every possibility that after a night’s lost sleep he regrets his impulsive action and has not yet figured out how to set things right again.”
When Greta had told Lydia the news over supper the evening before, she had taken great comfort and hope from her sister’s reassurances. But Lydia might know many things—might
