Chapter 9: Gossip on the Wind
By Sunday morning, the whispers had already taken root. Marybeth felt them before she heard them—small glances exchanged at the meetinghouse door, the quick turn of shoulders when she passed, the way laughter died too suddenly when her name was near. Amish tongues seldom stayed still, but this was different. This was sharper.
She kept her head bowed through the hymns, singing soft, steady notes. Yet even the sacred words could not drown the thrum in her chest: Anna knows. And now, perhaps, everyone does.
After service, Sister Ruth approached with her kind eyes narrowed. “Marybeth,” she said, resting a hand on her arm, “guard your steps. Reputation, once sullied, is not easy to cleanse.”
Marybeth’s throat closed. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Then let your life show it,” Sister Ruth said gently. “Idle tongues need little fuel.”
Marybeth nodded, though the words felt like ash.
At the common meal that followed, the tension thickened. Josiah claimed the seat beside her, speaking loudly of virtue, of patience, of how a righteous household stood as a beacon to others. His words carried far enough for listening ears.
Marybeth kept her answers short, eyes fixed on her plate. Yet across the room she felt Elijah’s gaze once—just once—before he turned deliberately away.
The coldness cut worse than the gossip.
All week the whispers grew. Anna kept her promise not to speak outright, but her smirk and sidelong glances did the work all the same. By Tuesday, Sister Miriam was telling friends that she’d “seen Marybeth lingering at the creamery too late.” By Thursday, one of the younger boys swore Elijah had “stayed after dark for reasons no carpenter should.”
Marybeth worked harder than ever, rising early, scrubbing, churning, stitching. She tried to fold her unrest into the neatness of her chores. But even butter refused to come easy, clumping stubbornly until her arms ached.
Friday evening brought the blow. The bishop himself stopped by the Yoder farm, hat in hand. Marybeth’s mother welcomed him, flustered but smiling. Marybeth dried her hands on her apron, heart rattling.
“Your daughter,” the bishop said gravely, “is a fine young woman. But there are murmurings. About late nights. About impropriety.” His gaze fell heavy on Marybeth. “I trust you understand the seriousness.”
Her mouth went dry. “Bishop, I—”
He lifted a hand. “No need for defense now. Only wisdom going forward. Keep to the light, child. Do not give occasion for stumbling.”
Her mother thanked him with fervor, promising vigilance. Marybeth stood silent, cheeks burning.
When the bishop left, the house seemed too small, too airless. Her mother turned to her. “Marybeth. What is it they speak of? Tell me true.”
Marybeth shook her head, tears stinging. “Nothing, Mamm. Nothing but shadows.”
Her mother sighed, weary. “Then make sure the shadows pass.”
That night Marybeth stepped outside, the fields silver with moonlight. She needed air, space, distance from walls closing in.
A figure moved near the fence—Elijah, walking home from the workshop. For a heartbeat she thought he might stop. He did not. He walked straight past, shoulders stiff, gaze fixed ahead.
Her chest ached with the absence of his eyes.
She pressed her palm to the fencepost, whispering into the night: “Lord, how long can I endure the wind when it carries only whispers?”
The crickets offered no answer.