The Amish Seamstress (15 page)

By the end of the war, those around us, even some who were Plain, were frightened and suspicious of the Indians—all Indians, even the peaceful Conestogas. At one point, though the war was over, Father confided to Gorg and me that the Conestogas were afraid to go hunting or leave their village with their weapons, fearing that settlers would think they were on the attack
.

I was appalled. Yes, Indian tribes were bringing harm to settlers near and far, but the peace-loving Conestogas hadn't been involved in any conflicts with any settlers, as far as we knew. Besides, the land where they lived had been given to them in the treaty with William Penn. They had a legal right to be there. Yet that land was slowly being encroached upon and taken from them until they barely had enough game land from which to feed themselves
.

All along, Father insisted to any who would listen that the Conestogas were not involved in the conflict between the settlers and the Indians and that we could trust them completely
.

How very wrong he had been
.

To my shock, the story ended there.

Confused, I flipped back to see if I had missed something, but I hadn't. Those were the final words of the book, at the bottom of the page:
How
very wrong he had been
. There was no explanation, nothing further to make sense of that astonishing statement.

“That's it,” I said, dumbfounded.

“What? It can't be. What kind of an ending is that?”

Verna was as doubtful as I was, but when I flipped that last page over to prove there was nothing after it, I gasped.

As I held the chapbook open wide, I saw that there
had
been pages there, as many as we'd already read through—but those pages had been cut off and removed from the book, leaving just a tiny margin of paper along the center so as not to destroy the binding.

Someone had taken out the rest, someone who wanted to hide the truth of Abigail's story.

E
IGHT

I
held out hope that the missing pages of the chapbook were among the papers in the boxes, but they were not. After another week of sorting and purging, Verna and I hadn't found anything else of value, and we were almost finished. That Monday afternoon as I left Susie's, I took the chapbook and the letter with me to a store and had three photocopies made—one for Verna, one for Zed, and one to keep in my purse, where I'd have it handy for reference. That was my best bet for protecting the originals. That night I wrote to Zed and told him all about the letter and the chapbook, added his copies to the envelope, and stuck on a few extra stamps to cover the weight.

The next morning, I put the letter in the mailbox as I was leaving for Susie's house. Once there, I gave Verna her copy and tried to return the originals as well, but she insisted I hang on to them for safekeeping. I tucked them in my bag, promising to put them away in a drawer in my room once I was home.

After coffee, we returned to our search through the boxes, but we were nearly to the bottom of the last one. As we dug in, I could see that Verna was still feeling optimistic that we might find something, but I'd
been growing far less hopeful. If the missing pages weren't here, or at least among the rest of the papers at Rod's farm, then we were out of luck.

I pulled my copy of the chapbook from my purse and studied it, a thought coming to me as I did. Turning to her, I asked if perhaps there might have been more copies back then than just this one.

“It was published, after all,” I added. “Maybe one ended up in a local library, or a historical society.”

Verna's brow furrowed. “I think it unlikely any copies would have survived except within the family. Libraries weren't common back then, and I doubt any museum collections would have been started.”

That made sense, but I still felt frustrated. I stood and stretched as I wondered where else we could turn.

Verna hadn't had breakfast when I arrived, so I reheated the oatmeal left on the stove and started the kettle for a cup of tea.

As she settled into a chair at the kitchen table, she told me she hadn't slept well over the weekend.

“It's not normal for me. I usually sleep like a log.”

“Are you feeling all right?”

“
Ya
,” she said, but she didn't sound very convincing.

After I served her, I sat down across the table with my own cup of tea. “I'm so eager for those other boxes. Do you suppose Carl could go get them this week? Or should I ask my
daed
to do it?”

Verna took one small bite and then put her spoon back in her bowl. “No, Carl said he would get over there as soon as he could. Let's give him till Monday. If he hasn't gone by then, maybe you can ask your father instead.”

I told myself to be patient. Even though Susie had volunteered her husband to get the boxes, I knew he was a busy guy. Besides, I had other things I should be doing anyway, namely more sewing and handwork for the shop.

Thinking of that, I remembered the two dresses I'd brought from home for Verna and hopped up from the table to get them, pulling them from my bag and returning to the kitchen. She had taken her bowl to the sink and was scraping what was left into the slop bucket. Even though
this house was in town, the family kept a pig and some chickens in their shed out back.

“Here you go,” I said, holding up the dresses. “These were Linda's when she was younger. I had a feeling they might fit you better than the ones you've been wearing.”

“
Ach
.” Verna smiled. “
Danke
.”

I had already altered one of Verna's own dresses for her on Friday, but I thought it might help to have a few more. Linda had outgrown them by the time she was thirteen, but they looked to be a pretty good fit for our tiny great-aunt.

“Have you lost weight since you moved here?” I draped the dresses over a kitchen chair.

“Some. Susie's family doesn't eat the big meals I was used to on the farm, which is best. I'm not working like I used to, either.”

I couldn't imagine she'd been doing that much before moving here.

The sound of the front door opening caught my attention, and then Susie's voice called out. “Izzy? Can you come up to the shop for a minute?”

“Sure,” I called. “I'll be right there.”

The door thunked closed and I got Verna settled on the couch, tucking the quilt in around her. The house felt draftier today than it did most mornings.

After telling her I'd be right back, I grabbed my cape and hurried to the shop.

When I entered, I spotted Susie standing behind the counter. “I have someone who wanted to meet you,” she told me.

The only other person in the shop was a woman with curly brown hair piled high on her head. She wore a bright green coat with a pink scarf.

Susie stepped toward the woman. “This is Izzy Mueller,” she said. Turning toward me, she said, “And this is Marcia Johnson.”

The woman extended her hand. I took it, shaking it quickly.

“I was admiring your work,” Marcia said. “You have a very distinct style.”

My face grew warm at her praise.

Susie must have sensed my discomfort because she said, “Marcia is a costume designer.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” the woman said, her tone vaguely aristocratic. “I make costumes for the Walnut.”

I must have given her a blank stare because she added, “The Walnut Street Theatre, in Philly? Oldest theater in America?”

Although I was intrigued, all I could manage to say was, “Oh.”

“I told Marcia you'd made some costumes too, although I couldn't remember the details,” Susie said.

I nodded, my face growing even warmer. “They were for a film a friend made. It won an award and an endowment from the Pennsylvania Film Festival.”

“Wonderful!” Marcia beamed. “I'm even more impressed. You must be so proud.”

She meant it as a compliment, but I was mortified. Pride was not a desirable trait for an Amish woman. I froze in embarrassment—I hadn't meant to brag—but Marcia didn't seem to notice. Instead, she just had some questions about several of my pieces, including some unusual stitches I had used in one of my runners. We chatted for a while, and eventually she made her way over to the cash register, where Susie began ringing her up.

Trying to be helpful, as we talked I folded and bagged some of the larger items she was buying. To my astonishment, when we were all done, her total came to nearly a thousand dollars. She didn't even blink as she whipped out a credit card and handed it over. Once the sale was final, we both thanked her profusely. After she was gone, Susie turned and gave me a quick hug.

“I told you that having you around would mean a boost in sales!”

I smiled in return, my face growing warm. That smiled lingered as I left the shop and made my way back to the house.

When I got there, I stepped inside and called out to Verna as I hung my cape. She'd been resting on the couch, but when I came into the living room, she sat up straight and greeted me.

The final box was right where we'd left it, with just the last few inches to go. First came a letter and then more receipts—one from a general store; one from a Mr. Collins, who had sold hay to Verna's father; and
one for a steer. Next was an old newspaper clipping about the end of the war in 1945.

“Oh, that was a glorious day,” Verna said. “I remember it well. To have the war over, at last, was such a relief.”

She was quiet for a long moment, and I asked if she was tired.

“A little. Maybe we should take another break. I'll doze again here on the couch and you can do your handwork. Susie was a little miffed at me yesterday that I didn't give you any time to do your embroidery.”

“Oh, I worked at home yesterday afternoon. I got a lot done.” I'd kept my promise to myself and my mother to stay focused. Besides the embroidery, I'd altered a suit jacket for an
Englisch
neighbor too.

Verna lifted her legs onto the couch and curled up for a nap. It seemed she was asleep in no time. I covered her with a second quilt and then retrieved my bag from by the door, settled down in the rocking chair, and got to work on my embroidery, thinking about Verna's other boxes and how soon we might get our hands on them.

After a while, my thoughts were interrupted by a sharp snore from Verna. I looked up as she turned to her other side and then quietly settled back to sleep.

She just seemed so tiny lying there, yet larger than life too, considering all she'd given to others—and to me. Not for the first time, I thought how glad I was to have taken this job. I had always liked her, but we had become much closer in the past week and a half. She had so many stories to tell, and it seemed that every letter, receipt, and document we ran across sent her off in a new direction. Some folks might have found our conversations tedious, but I had enjoyed listening to her as we sorted out the boxes together.

I worked on my embroidery for an hour and then decided to take a break to stretch my back. As Verna continued to sleep, I wandered around the room, finally coming to a stop at the last box, which we'd left open. I looked down at it. There were only a couple of newspaper articles at the bottom, with something curious poking out from beneath them. The clippings were both Lancaster County columns from the
Budget
, maybe even written by a scribe who was a friend of Verna's like some of the others we'd found. They didn't look that old.

I reached down and pulled the last item out and then studied it for a moment. I had a feeling it was a bookmark, but one made of cloth instead of paper, its words embroidered rather than printed. It looked really old, and feeling it between my fingers, I decided it was constructed of some sort of stiff linen, ivory colored, though it may have been white at some point. The words, “My help cometh from the Lord” had been stitched into the front in a beautiful script. The whole thing was lovely, except for a stain at the bottom that was perhaps water but maybe coffee or tea.

If I made some bookmarks like these, would they sell well in Susie's shop? I kept it out, eager to ask Susie what she thought. First, of course, I would show it to Verna when she awoke and find out if she'd ever seen it before or knew anything about it.