Amish Days: Replacement Wife: Hollybrook Amish Romance (Greta's Story Book 1) Page 3

“Neither of you has to stay,” he said to Greta and Abigail. He wanted to say more. He wanted to thank them for all they were doing for his family. But he couldn’t say another word. If he did, he would start crying and might never stop.

  He swallowed hard past the huge blockage in his throat. Abigail stepped forward and touched his arm.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “We’ll be in the hall if you need us.” She ran her hand down James’s back and left the room.

  Greta followed her. When they’d gone, Isaac took a long breath. They’d been wonderful to him and Betty and James, but right then, he didn’t want anyone else in the room. He sat down again, cradling James on his lap. He thanked God that James was so quiet, so still, as if the little lad knew what was happening.

  “Betty…” Isaac stopped and swallowed again, fighting to control his voice. He tightened his hold on James. “We love you. Both of us. We love you.”

  He took a gulping gasp of air. He couldn’t speak anymore. He leaned over, balancing the baby, and pressed his lips to Betty’s cheek. A muscle close to Betty’s mouth moved. Isaac held his breath. Was she going to say something?

  He watched her, his eyes focused so hard on his beloved that his head started to ache. He didn’t feel good. Nausea swept through him. James gurgled and laid his head over on Isaac’s chest.

  The rhythmic ticking of Betty’s wind-up clock filled the room. Isaac glanced at it, wanting to throw it against the wall. He wanted to stop time. Stop what was happening. But he couldn’t move.

  The ticking continued.

  His eyes blurred and a tear dripped on James. And still the two of them sat. Keeping watch.

  Nearly an hour had passed, and James continued to be content in Isaac’s arms. It was eerie. Never had James sat so long without making a fuss. Isaac felt a movement on his leg. His eyes darted down, and he saw Betty’s hand rubbing the crease in his trousers.

  “Betty?” His voice lurched from him.

  Her eyes fluttered open. She looked at him and then at James. Isaac tensed, his heart squeezing inside him. “Betty?”

  The look in her eyes lost focus. She gave a small gurgle, closed her eyes, and went totally still. Isaac’s face screwed up in a sob.

  She was gone. Gone.

  His wife was dead.

  He kissed her lips, feeling her fading warmth. Then he lurched from his chair and stumbled from the room.

  Chapter Six

  When Isaac staggered from the room, Abigail went to him. Gently, she pried James from his arms and handed the boy to Greta. And then, ignoring everything her grandmother had told her, ignoring all proper community conventions, she took Isaac in her arms. He sobbed against her shoulder, and she held him.

  James let out a howl, and Greta took him away, down the stairs.

  Abigail patted Isaac’s back and simply stood, waiting. When he finally straightened, he drew out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  Abigail shook her head. “No need. Betty was a beautiful person.”

  His lips trembled, and he sucked in a long breath. “She was.”

  “Greta and I can dress her in white for you, if you’d like.” Abigail was hardly aware that her hand rested on his arm. “Does she have a white dress? Do you need me to get her one?”

  He glanced at her as if confused. “Her dress…?”

  Abigail shook her head. “Never mind. It’s all right.”

  Isaac looked about the hallway as if he didn’t know where he was. “The bishop. I need to go for the bishop.”

  “I can go for him if you like.”

  “Nee. I’ll go. I need to go.” He stared at the open door to Betty’s room. “Will she be all right…”

  “Betty is all right,” Abigail said, her voice catching.

  He nodded his head. “Jah. Jah. Of course.” He gave her a helpless look. “The bishop. I should go.”

  “We’ll take care of James. Don’t worry.”

  “Jah. James.” Isaac rubbed his head. “Where is he?”

  “Greta took him downstairs.”

  Isaac nodded. “Jah. Gut.” He glanced again at his wife’s door. “All right. I’m going.”

  He slogged down the hall as if walking through mud.

  “Isaac?” Abigail said.

  He turned to look at her.

  “It’s going to be all right.” She watched him as he nodded again and went downstairs. Her heart was breaking right along with his. She couldn’t imagine losing a spouse at such a young age. She’d had sorrow in her life when her heart had been so broken, she thought she’d never recover. But her loss hadn’t been a spouse.

  Not exactly…

  She blew out her breath as she heard him trudge down the steps. She didn’t know whether Betty’s body would be embalmed or not. It was allowed, and many had it done nowadays. But that would be the end of the funeral home’s involvement. The casket would be made right there in the district, and the men would dig the grave.

  She should have asked Isaac about the embalming.

  She placed her hand on Betty’s door and paused. Bishop would be there soon. He’d help with all the arrangements. Isaac was going to need a lot of help. A single man with a baby would struggle to hold three visitations and a funeral. It was going to be too much.

  She would help. As would Greta.

  Greta… The woman who was to be Isaac’s new wife. Why did it trouble Abigail so? Why did her mind balk at the notion?

  She didn’t have any designs on Isaac. Before the last few weeks, she hadn’t even known him. She shuddered and pushed the thought away. She needed to find a white dress for Betty.

  Chapter Seven

  Greta looked nervously at the clock. Her father would be looking for her. She shifted James a bit higher on her hip as she worked in the kitchen to set out something for the noon meal. It should have been eaten hours ago, but… Well, she supposed that someone dying would alter a schedule. James pulled the string of her kapp, yanking it lopsided.

  “James!” she scolded, her voice sharper than she intended. James puckered up his face and began to cry.

  “Ach, I’m sorry, little one. I’m so sorry. All of us are a bit on edge.” Greta put her hand on his head. “My poor little boppli with no mama of your own.”

  She wanted to pucker up and cry right along with the baby. She glanced out the kitchen window. Isaac would be back with the bishop at any time. He must be so hungry; she knew he’d barely touched his breakfast.

  “Will you sit in your highchair for a bit?” she asked James. “It’s hard for me to do this with only one hand.”

  But the minute she tried to set James down, he clung to her and his wailing raised in pitch.

  “You know something’s wrong, don’t you? My poor little one.” She kissed his head and picked him back up.

  Her father would be worrying now. She always found time to run home after the noon meal at Isaac’s to serve her father his noon meal at home. Not that he couldn’t put a meal together himself. Greta always made sure the fridge was stocked with food, most of it already prepared. But no. Her father wouldn’t dream of serving himself. Putting a meal on the table was woman’s work, and Greta was the only woman around.

  Well, he’d simply have to get by without her that day. Greta could hardly leave the baby with Isaac for an hour or two, now could she? She cringed, though, anticipating the reception she’d get from her father when she returned that evening. It wouldn’t be pretty.

  She sighed, and her thoughts went back to Betty.

  “Promise me…”

  If Greta did marry Isaac, she wouldn’t have to live with her father a minute longer. She could get away, just like her two sisters had. Shame burned through her. What must God think of her and her plans for escape? Her father was her father. She had to be obedient and respectful.

  But even when he was horrid to her…?

  She swallowed. She had to be obedient and respectful. It was simply the way of things
. But the thought of freedom grabbed hold of her and wouldn’t let go. She raised her eyes to the ceiling. Betty, did you know? Did you know how badly I needed a way out?

  James snuggled onto her shoulder and sucked his thumb.

  Yet Greta had clearly told Isaac that she would never hold him to such a promise. She frowned. Why had she been so quick to reject the possibility? Why? She liked Isaac. She did. But to get married because of such a promise? No. She’d already decided she couldn’t marry for anything but love.

  As she pulled the jar of pickles from the refrigerator, her mind went to her father. She was confident that his anger at her absence would have multiplied into a good steam by now…

  “Greta?” Abigail stood at the kitchen door.

  Greta turned toward her. “Jah?”

  “I can watch James for a while. I know you like to go home for an hour or so around noon. And it’s late.”

  Greta blinked. “Nee. It’s fine. I’ll stay.”

  Abigail moved into the kitchen. “You don’t need to. Really. I’ll watch James for you.” Abigail pried James’s toasty warm body from Greta’s shoulder. The baby immediately nestled into Abigail’s neck.

  “But the noon meal—”

  Abigail patted her arm. “I know I won’t be able to put it on as well as you, but it will be fine. I can do it.”

  Greta had no response. She didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to leave the baby, Betty, or Isaac. Especially Isaac.

  “But—”

  “It’s all right,” Abigail said quietly, hugging the baby. “I can take over. Betty doesn’t need my…” Her voice faded, and she didn’t continue.

  Greta nodded. “I know.” She ran her hands down her apron. “All right. I’ll go home. But I’ll be back. Be sure to tell Isaac.”

  As soon as the words left her mouth, Greta felt foolish. Why had she made such a comment? Now Abigail would get the wrong impression. Like she was making sure Isaac knew her whereabouts and her schedule. She left the kitchen quickly, but not before she saw a strange look on Abigail’s face.

  Almost as if she resented Greta.

  Greta shook her head in annoyance. She was imagining things, and she needed to stop. She needed to stop her thoughts about marrying Isaac, too. It was unbecoming and painfully premature.

  She had no business whatsoever to harbor such things.

  Chapter Eight

  Abigail watched Greta go. Greta was a nice person. Warm and capable. Abigail could see why Betty had chosen her to be Isaac’s new wife.

  And from what she could tell, Greta wasn’t opposed to it.

  Be sure to tell Isaac? Hmmm.

  Maybe this plan of Betty’s was already well underway. Maybe Isaac and Greta had already discussed it.

  “Come on, James,” Abigail said. “I said I’d get the noon meal on the table, and that’s what I intend to do.”

  She smiled and kissed the baby’s head. “You sweet boppli. I’m so sorry about your dear mamm. So very sorry.”

  And with those words, she finished getting the food on the table.

  As she placed the last serving dish on the dining table, Abigail heard a buggy enter the drive. She pulled back the curtain and saw Isaac returning with the bishop beside him. Perhaps, the bishop was hungry, too. She peered into the kitchen at the large clock on the wall. It was nigh on to two o’clock. The bishop had surely already eaten.

  The buggy pulled up to the porch, and Abigail opened the screen door to usher both men into the house.

  “Hello, Abigail,” the bishop said.

  “Hello, Bishop.”

  Isaac looked ready to collapse. Abigail led the bishop into the front room.

  “Isaac, the noon meal is ready. Would you like to eat?” she asked him as he followed the bishop.

  Isaac blinked and looked at her and then at James. “Where’s Greta?”

  “She had to go home. She’ll be back soon.”

  He nodded absently as if he hadn’t really heard her.

  “I can bring you some food in on a plate, if you’d like.”

  He frowned and ran his hand over his beard. “Food? Uh, I’m not hungry.”

  “Just a bit?” Abigail said, fearing the man was about to crumple.

  “Nee. I’m fine.”

  “Tea, then. I’ll bring some in for both you and the bishop.”

  His lips parted, and he nodded again.

  Abigail prepared the tea and also made a sandwich for Isaac. She served them and left the room, knowing it wasn’t her place to be there for the discussion of all the arrangements. The bishop would no doubt accompany Isaac upstairs when they were finished talking. Abigail took James into the dining room and put him in his high chair. She fed him a bit of mashed carrots and gave him the bottle which Greta had readied earlier.

  Before clearing the table, she rocked James and sang him the sweet lullaby her grandmother had often sung to her. James’s eyes fluttered closed, and his breathing grew soft and steady. She glanced at the staircase, wondering whether she should put him down for his nap. But Isaac and the bishop were up there now, and she was hesitant to go up.

  “It’s all right,” she crooned to the sleeping baby. “I don’t mind if you use me for your cradle today. I think all of us could use some extra snuggling.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Dat?” Greta called when she entered the house through the wash room. “Dat?”

  He didn’t answer which made Greta tense. He was angry. Otherwise, he would have called right back. She braced herself and went through to the front room. There he sat, rocking hard next to the warming stove.

  It wasn’t burning wood as the temperature was pleasant, but he had a lap quilt about his shoulders anyway, as if it were already fall. His bushy gray brows were low over his eyes as he scowled at her.

  “Where you been?” he snapped and then fell into a fit of coughing. Phlegm scraped up his throat as flecks of his spittle flew through the air.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” she said. “Did you eat?”

  She knew it was absurd to even ask him, but she was trying to give an air of normalcy to the situation.

  “Eat? How could I eat?” he asked, his watery eyes boring into her. “You weren’t here to fix the meal. Where you been?”

  Greta walked to the davenport and sat down. “Betty Wagner—’

  “Why are you sitting?” he cut in. “Get my food!”

  “But Dat, I was trying to tell—”

  He swiped his fleshy arm through the air. “Daughter, get me my food first. You can jaw at me later.”

  Greta’s nostrils flared. She had a sudden urge to get up and walk out. Just leave. And never come back. Instead, she rose and looked at her father.

  “Jah, Dat. Right away.” She left the room and went into the kitchen. Because of all the prepared food she was now leaving in the fridge, it only took her minutes to fix his meal. She hadn’t eaten, either, but she was in no mood to eat with her father. In any case, she wasn’t sure if she could keep food down anyway. Her stomach was in turmoil.

  All she really wanted was to hurry back to Isaac’s place. She wanted to see James and sit a while with Betty. She inhaled sharply and fought the tears that flooded her eyes.

  “Daughter!” came her father’s call. “Hurry up! I’m hungry. You ain’t been feedin’ me proper-like.”

  Greta walked to the front room door. “It’s on the table.”

  With a loud harrumph, the old man brought himself to his feet. He lumbered into the dining area and plunked down in the chair at the head of the table. “Ain’t there any coffee?”

  “Jah, Dat. It’s almost ready.”

  “Gut.” He tucked his napkin onto his lap and stared at her. “Ain’t you going to eat?”

  “Nee.”

  “Suit yourself.” He bowed for a silent blessing and then began shoveling the food into his mouth.

  It was all Greta could do to stay in the room.

  He made a loud gulp and took a long drink of milk.
“What were you going to tell me?”

  Greta licked her lips. “Betty Wagner passed this morning.”

  His mouth gaped open, and he set his glass on the table with a thud. “Did she now?”

  Greta nodded.

  “Why didn’t you tell me when you first came in?”

  Greta bristled. Was he serious? “I tried to, Dat, but you wouldn’t have it.”

  “Don’t you be blaming an old man,” he sputtered. “You know that news of death takes precedence over other things.” He studied her, and his tone changed. “I’m sorry, daughter.”

  Greta’s gaze flew to him. Was he being nice? Did he really know what Betty had meant to her? She softened toward him, even was about to reach over and touch his shoulder when he went on.

  “I s’pose I’ll be dying alone in this house.” His kinder tone evaporated, and he glowered at her. “Nobody gives a bit of care what happens to this old man. Your sisters can’t be bothered. And then there’s you…”

  Greta cringed.

  “…always traipsing off to take care of other folks. Can’t be bothered with your own dat, now, can you?”

  “That’s not fair…”

  “Fair? What ain’t fair is me spending my days all alone on this big farm. Me bein’ expected to get my own food.” He sat up straighter as if daring her to contradict him.

  She wanted to. Oh, how she wanted to. Her nerves were raw with what had happened that day, and she was in no mood to placate her crotchety old father. But she held her tongue, going into the kitchen to fuss about with the dishes. Anything to get out of the room.

  “Greta!” he called.

  She went to the kitchen door and peered out at him.

  “I ain’t done. And where’s that coffee?”

  “I’m getting it,” she muttered, turning back to the stove top.

  Chapter Ten

  Isaac walked down the street in a fog. His brain was reeling. His heart was reeling. His entire being was reeling. A leaden feeling pressed on his stomach, and his mouth tasted like metal. He wanted to vomit. He swallowed hard, trying to suppress it, but he couldn’t. With a jolting movement, he ran to the shoulder of the road and bent over, retching harshly onto the tangled weeds. He grabbed his knees, staying low, spitting the last bits from his tongue.