mention a hired hand, Dorcas. Did you see him the other day when you were there?”
Dorcas busied herself buttering her toast. “Ya, I saw him.”
“But you never said so.”
Dorcas took a big bite of toast.
“Now, Martha, don’t pick at the girl. She’d taken a tumble. I’m sure her mind was on her hurt knee and that pretty new dress you got her.”
Dorcas smiled gratefully at her father. She sometimes winced when he called her a girl, but this time she didn’t mind. She’d told her parents about the fall she’d taken, but she had omitted the part about Gideon and his rescue of her. She hoped he and Sara wouldn’t tell. It had been most inappropriate, but it had been the most exciting thing that had happened to her in years, maybe ever. She didn’t want to share what she’d done with anyone, least of all her mam and dat.
“I’ve been wondering,” Dorcas said, in an attempt to turn the conversation to a safer subject. At least a little safer. “If you would care if I started using my middle name.” She looked up cautiously at her parents.
“Adelaide?” Her mother’s eyes widened in surprise. “Whatever for? You’ve been called Dorcas all your life and now you want—”
“What harm would it do?” her father interrupted. “It is her name.”
“Exactly,” she said. “I’ll be thirty soon, and Dorcas sounds too...too fancy.” She didn’t know where that had come from and looked down quickly at her plate. It wasn’t like her to fib like that.
Her mother thrust out her chin. “Adelaide?” she repeated. “That sounds more worldly to me than Dorcas. It was your grossmama who gave you your middle name, after her favorite grandmother.”
“I...I was thinking of Addy,” Dorcas dared. Again, she looked up quickly at her parents then back at her plate. “I think it has a nice, mature ring to it.”
“Mature?” Her mother sniffed.
Her father took another sip of coffee and nodded to his wife. “Come now, Martha, what harm will it do?”
Her mam shrugged and sighed. “If you have your heart set on it, and your father doesn’t object, do as you please. But it’s a fernhoodie to me why you want to do such a thing. Dorcas is a goot, Plain name, for a goot, plain girl.”
“I just think I’d like to go by Addy,” she said lightly, not wanting her mother to know how much it suddenly mattered. Such a small thing, but the suggestion, coming from a man like Gideon, seemed right. “Addy’s plain enough, isn’t it?”
“I think it’s a fine name,” her father said. “So, Addy it is.” He glanced at her mother. “Perfect, don’t you think, Martha? For a new beginning.” He patted his wife’s hand.
Addy was surprised. It wasn’t like her parents to show affection for each other in front of her.
“I think you should tell her,” her dat said.
“Tell me what?”
Her mam pulled her hand free. Her pale cheeks flushed just a little. Addy could tell that her mother was pleased by the gesture, but she wasn’t willing to show it. Some people thought that her mother and father were a poor match. Her mam had a sharp side and was quick, always busy, always in motion, and her dat was generally easygoing and slow. He could spend the better part of an hour leaning on the garden gate deciding which chore he’d start on first. And sometimes he was so busy thinking that the day got away from him. But her father was a pious man and a good preacher. Life had not been easy for him, but he’d never lost faith that the Lord would see him through.
Her mother frowned. “I didn’t want to have this talk this morning, Reuben. No need to make her self-conscious. She’s liable to let it go to her head and make a fool of herself in front of the matchmaker. But since you’ve taken the lid off the pot, you may as well serve the stew.” She gestured for him to speak.
Addy looked at her father. She had no idea what they were talking about. “Dat?”
He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “Your mother and I... We thought... We’ve been talking about...about the fact that you’re not getting any younger, and you don’t seem to be able to—”
“Reuben!” Her mother rolled her eyes as she interrupted. “That’s no way to put it.” She turned to Addy. “We’ve spoken to the matchmaker about finding you a husband.”
“Me?” Addy sank back into her chair. For a moment, she was stunned. “You asked Sara to... For me?” she protested. “But we don’t have the money to pay a matchmaker’s fee.”
“Ach,” her mother soothed, pushing a bite of soft egg into her mouth. “You’re not to worry about the money. We’ll find it somewhere. Your father can always sell off some of his beef cattle.”
“Or maybe those acres of woods that Charley’s been wanting to buy,” her dat suggested.
“Ne.” Addy shook her head. “I don’t want you to sacrifice what you worked all your life for. Tell Sara that we’ve changed our minds. Maybe if I went to visit our Ohio cousins, I could meet someone there.”
“Not every girl’s family pays,” her mother explained. “Sometimes, it is the man or his parents who bear the expense. I’ve already brought that possibility up with Sara.”
Addy’s heart sank. Who else knew about this? Who had Sara told? Did Gideon think she was one of the girls who had to pay to find someone? How could she face him again? “Is that why Sara hired me?” she asked.
“Of course not, you silly goose.” Her mam stood and came around the table to hug her, an act Addy found almost as startling as the fact that her parents had engaged a matchmaker without consulting her. But Addy couldn’t pull away, and her mother’s embrace, so rare, was all the more precious. “The new teacher helps out, but she doesn’t have the strength to keep up that house. Sara needs some painting done, and help to do her canning. She’ll have more girls coming to stay, and she needs someone she can count on.”
“Unless you’ve changed your mind and you don’t want to work for her. I thought you could give your mother half of your pay and keep half for yourself,” her father said. “As any other unmarried daughter would do.”
“Ne, Dat,” she assured him. “I want to work for Sara.”
“Goot,” her mother said. “It’s settled. You’ll work and while you’re at Sara’s, she’ll give you some instruction. You’ll follow her advice and meet the men she wants you to meet. And let us worry about Sara’s fee. If she makes a good match for you, you’ll be in a position to help us in our old age.”
Addy nodded. She had other siblings, but they were older and lived far away. It would be her duty to care for her parents when they were too old to work. It was what was expected of Amish daughters, and she would do what she could for them with a whole heart.
“Don’t look so glum,” her father said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “It’s time you were married, with a good husband and children of your own. My other grandchildren I never get to see. We only want what’s best for you.”
“Ya,” her mother agreed. “I’m weary of going to my sister-in-law’s family’s weddings. It’s time we had one of our own.”
Maybe the idea of having Sara find her a match wasn’t so bad. Addy did want a husband, and she was tired of serving as an attendant at her cousins’ weddings. But—she sighed inwardly—who would want her, at her age? Most girls were married and had several children by thirty. No young man would want her. Sara would most likely find her an older widower, someone who already had children. She tried to imagine what such