Chapter 6: The Rival’s Proposal
The first cool breath of September threaded through the valley, carrying with it the smell of apples and turned soil. Marybeth Yoder walked the lane with her basket of mended shirts, the morning sun warm at her back. She loved this season best—when the world seemed stitched together by equal parts labor and blessing. Yet lately even the gentlest air felt heavy. Whispers from the quilting bee still lingered, and the barn-raising had only added fuel.
She tried not to think of the lantern glow, of Elijah’s hand steady on her arm, of the way her heart had pounded like hooves on a bridge. She tried, and failed.
The day brought no relief. At supper, her mother mentioned it casually—too casually—that Josiah, the bishop’s nephew, had asked after her. Marybeth nearly dropped her spoon.
“He’s a fine boy,” her mother said, voice warm with approval. “Steady. A help to his uncle. You could do worse.”
Marybeth managed a smile, though stew turned to ash on her tongue. She knew Josiah well enough: tall, pious, always quoting proverbs with the satisfaction of one who had memorized them for praise. He was not unkind. He was not unhandsome. But his gaze slid over her like sunlight on ice—warming nothing beneath.
The next afternoon found her walking back from the mill, basket light on her arm. The lane curved by the bishop’s pasture, where Josiah waited with his hat in hand.
“Marybeth,” he said, stepping forward. His smile was practiced, polite, the kind that might have been taught with scripture. “Might I walk you home?”
She hesitated. Courtesy demanded agreement. She nodded.
They walked side by side, his stride measured, his words chosen like polished stones. He spoke of the bishop’s work, of the harvest to come, of the righteousness of industry. She listened, murmuring assent, though her thoughts strayed toward a certain butter paddle hidden beneath her pillow.
At the crossroads near the Yoder farm, Josiah stopped. He turned to her, eyes earnest. “Marybeth, I’ve prayed long about this. You are a woman of virtue, steady in faith. My uncle believes it would be good for us to join our households. I ask if you will consider courting me—with marriage in mind.”
Her breath caught. The world seemed to still: the crickets, the leaves, even the clouds.
“I… I must think,” she whispered.
Josiah’s smile widened, confident in victory. “Of course. Pray on it. The Lord will guide you.” He tipped his hat, then turned back toward the bishop’s lane.
Marybeth stood rooted, the weight of his words pressing down like wet cloth.
That evening she sat on the porch steps, watching the last of the light fade. Across the field, Elijah walked home from Brother Yoder’s workshop, sawdust clinging to his trousers. He paused when he saw her. For a moment, only the distance lay between them, thick as a wall. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders tensed—as if he already knew.
Marybeth looked away first, her heart thrumming.