. . . I don’t know that I could manage. What do you think, Ted?”
Mary watched Jude’s father cast his eyes over the table, clearly used to his wife’s manner of speaking. “Oh, I don’t know, Lydia. I am surprised that Jude has enough information for a book. Aren’t your people private by nature?”
He didn’t address her by name but tipped his crystal glass in Mary’s direction with a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
There was a sudden silence around the table as Mary lifted her chin to reply. I must speak well—this is Jude’s dat . Please, Gott , give me words to say to this man who doesn’t want Amisch for his son . . . “Yes, usually private. Jude was the first one who Bishop Umble allowed to stay on the mountain. I think he got a lot of facts for his book and that it will be good.”
She looked across the table at her husband to find him watching her with something sad and steady in his eyes.
But Mr. Lyons shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you, honey. If your people are so private, won’t a book about them destroy that privacy? Won’t it bring the whole world to your—mountain? How wise a decision was it to allow Jude in—I mean by your bishop, of course.”
“Dad.”
There was a warning note in Jude’s voice as he spoke and Mary understood that there was more to the conversation than she knew, not plain speaking but an undercurrent of dangerous anger. And she felt herself infected by the anger at the suggestion that Bishop Umble was less than wise, but she knew that she must not respond to the feeling .What had Jude said—that here, people live by their feelings? I have been raised to control my emotions and my tongue, as Derr Herr instructs . . .
“Come on, Jude,” his father continued in a mild voice. “If you married her, she’s got to be bright. No offense meant, Carol darling. But, son, let the girl answer a few questions. She must know that what you’re doing is exploiting her culture, and for what, a better position and more—”
“That’s enough,” Jude said with quiet determination. He rose from his chair and Mary watched him squeeze his grandfather’s shoulder before he came around the table and held out his hand to her. “Mother, please excuse us.”
Mary put her hand in his and followed him from the room, but she couldn’t resist a glance back at the table. She saw the looks of satisfaction on the faces of Carol and Jude’s father. It was an image she would not forget.
Chapter Thirteen
“Are you driving fast?” Mary asked, her voice faint.
Jude nodded and slowed. “Yeah.”
He looked over at her beautiful, concerned face in the play of sunlight and shadows as he took back roads to Roswell, wanting to go somewhere and walk. He had expected his father to be what he always was, but not so soon or so openly. And he hadn’t expected it to hurt so much when his dad found the right buttons to push—always enough truth to make him uncertain whether they were really lies. He realized that, in the past, he probably would have sought out a drink about now, but he had no desire to hurt Mary by doing so.
“Look, Mary, I’m sorry about lunch. My father is . . .”
“I understand, I think. Back home once, one of Ben Kauffman’s older bruders wanted to leave the Amisch and the mountain—Ben’s fater was alive then. He fought with his sohn , in private and in public. I only remember bits and pieces because I was young, but the fater fought because he was angry and worried for his son. That is what your dat must be for you.”
Jude gripped the steering wheel hard. “I wish it were that easy, sweetheart. I really do, but my father is a hard man—one who’s used to getting everything he wants. It’s not only that I’m a disappointment to him, it’s that I’m different than he is—and he cannot accept that.”
He swung the Expedition into the turn for Bulloch Hall, an old plantation that was open for historical tours, and
Mary watched Jude’s father cast his eyes over the table, clearly used to his wife’s manner of speaking. “Oh, I don’t know, Lydia. I am surprised that Jude has enough information for a book. Aren’t your people private by nature?”
He didn’t address her by name but tipped his crystal glass in Mary’s direction with a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
There was a sudden silence around the table as Mary lifted her chin to reply. I must speak well—this is Jude’s dat . Please, Gott , give me words to say to this man who doesn’t want Amisch for his son . . . “Yes, usually private. Jude was the first one who Bishop Umble allowed to stay on the mountain. I think he got a lot of facts for his book and that it will be good.”
She looked across the table at her husband to find him watching her with something sad and steady in his eyes.
But Mr. Lyons shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you, honey. If your people are so private, won’t a book about them destroy that privacy? Won’t it bring the whole world to your—mountain? How wise a decision was it to allow Jude in—I mean by your bishop, of course.”
“Dad.”
There was a warning note in Jude’s voice as he spoke and Mary understood that there was more to the conversation than she knew, not plain speaking but an undercurrent of dangerous anger. And she felt herself infected by the anger at the suggestion that Bishop Umble was less than wise, but she knew that she must not respond to the feeling .What had Jude said—that here, people live by their feelings? I have been raised to control my emotions and my tongue, as Derr Herr instructs . . .
“Come on, Jude,” his father continued in a mild voice. “If you married her, she’s got to be bright. No offense meant, Carol darling. But, son, let the girl answer a few questions. She must know that what you’re doing is exploiting her culture, and for what, a better position and more—”
“That’s enough,” Jude said with quiet determination. He rose from his chair and Mary watched him squeeze his grandfather’s shoulder before he came around the table and held out his hand to her. “Mother, please excuse us.”
Mary put her hand in his and followed him from the room, but she couldn’t resist a glance back at the table. She saw the looks of satisfaction on the faces of Carol and Jude’s father. It was an image she would not forget.
Chapter Thirteen
“Are you driving fast?” Mary asked, her voice faint.
Jude nodded and slowed. “Yeah.”
He looked over at her beautiful, concerned face in the play of sunlight and shadows as he took back roads to Roswell, wanting to go somewhere and walk. He had expected his father to be what he always was, but not so soon or so openly. And he hadn’t expected it to hurt so much when his dad found the right buttons to push—always enough truth to make him uncertain whether they were really lies. He realized that, in the past, he probably would have sought out a drink about now, but he had no desire to hurt Mary by doing so.
“Look, Mary, I’m sorry about lunch. My father is . . .”
“I understand, I think. Back home once, one of Ben Kauffman’s older bruders wanted to leave the Amisch and the mountain—Ben’s fater was alive then. He fought with his sohn , in private and in public. I only remember bits and pieces because I was young, but the fater fought because he was angry and worried for his son. That is what your dat must be for you.”
Jude gripped the steering wheel hard. “I wish it were that easy, sweetheart. I really do, but my father is a hard man—one who’s used to getting everything he wants. It’s not only that I’m a disappointment to him, it’s that I’m different than he is—and he cannot accept that.”
He swung the Expedition into the turn for Bulloch Hall, an old plantation that was open for historical tours, and
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