First Impressions Read online

  In First Impressions Sarah Price has crafted a lovely setting with memorable characters and a fascinating plot—all specialties for this talented author. The conflict is realistic, and the ending will leave you satisfied but wanting more. I can’t wait for the next one!

  —KATHI MACIAS

  MULTI-AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF MORE THAN FORTY

  BOOKS, INCLUDING THE SINGING QUILT

  WWW.BOLDFICTION.COM

  Sarah Price’s First Impressions is a heart-warming story of faith, family, and renewal. It will delight fans of Amish fiction and those who love a tender romance.

  —AMY CLIPSTON

  BEST-SELLING AUTHOR OF THE KAUFFMAN AMISH BAKERY

  SERIES

  Author Sarah Price is a devotee of Jane Austen and lover of all things Amish. In First Impressions she has mixed two unlikely worlds into a curious blend: a retelling of Pride and Prejudice, where much is made of misunderstandings, and an Amish world of clear roles and high expectations. A sweet, engaging story that will satisfy Price’s many fans.

  —SUZANNE WOODS FISHER

  BEST-SELLING, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE INN AT

  EAGLE HILL SERIES

  Readers know that when Sarah Price writes a book, they will be both captivated and fully charmed by her one-of-a-kind characters. First Impressions will certainly catapult her to the top spot of the best Amish fiction authors. Fans will be pleasantly surprised and delighted with her adaptation of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Sarah Price’s First Impressions has the makings of a true classic.

  —MICHELLE DAWN

  DESTINATION AMISH . . . A PLACE WHERE BOOKS

  COME TO LIFE

  WWW.DESTINATIONAMISH.COM

  Sarah writes so well in so many different genres, it’s dazzling. Here her writing is crisp and clean and sweet. There’s never a dull moment reading Sarah’s work. This book is a real treat.

  —MURRAY PURA

  AUTHOR OFAN AMISH FAMILY CHRISTMAS

  Sarah Price continues to explore new territory when it comes to writing Amish Christian fiction. Her ability to forge new paths is a true statement to her talent and skill, not just as writer, but also as a masterful storyteller. Her talents are a true gift to her readers.

  —PAMELA JARRELL

  WWW.WHOOPIEPIEPLACE.COM

  Most CHARISMA HOUSE BOOK GROUP products are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchase for sales promotions, premiums, fund-raising, and educational needs. For details, write Charisma House Book Group, 600 Rinehart Road, Lake Mary, Florida 32746, or telephone (407) 333-0600.

  FIRST IMPRESSIONS by Sarah Price

  Published by Realms

  Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group

  600 Rinehart Road

  Lake Mary, Florida 32746

  www.charismahouse.com

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  All Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, International Bible Society. Used by permission.

  Copyright © 2014 by Sarah Price

  All rights reserved

  Cover design by Bill Johnson

  Visit the author’s website at sarahpriceauthor.com.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Price, Sarah, 1969-

  First impressions / Sarah Price. -- First editon.

  pages cm. -- (The Amish classics ; 1)

  Summary: “Set in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, book one of The Amish Classics series is a retelling of Pride and Prejudice, covering the same issues of manners, upbringing, morality, education, and marriage within the Amish community. SERIES DESCRIPTION: The Amish Classics Series is a retelling of novels by Jane Austen in a contemporary Amish setting. The main storylines are accurately followed but told within the Amish culture and religion”-- Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-62136-607-2 (pbk.) -- ISBN 978-1-62136-608-9 (ebook)

  1. Amish--Fiction. 2. Lancaster County (Pa.)--Fiction. 3. Austen, Jane, 1775-1817--Parodies, imitations, etc. I. Austen, Jane, 1775-1817. Pride and prejudice. II. Title.

  PS3616.R5275F57 2014

  813’.6--dc23

  2013050280

  Dedicated to my husband, Jean Marc Schumacher.

  If ever there was a Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet,

  it is definitely the two of us.

  A Note About Vocabulary

  THE AMISH SPEAK Pennsylvania Dutch (also called Amish German or Amish Dutch). This is a verbal language with variations in spelling among the many different Amish and Mennonite communities throughout the USA.

  In some region, a grandfather is “grossdaadi,” while in other regions he is known as “grossdawdi.” The word for mother is “maam” in some communities, “mammi” in another, and still “maem” in yet one more.

  In addition, there are words such as “mayhaps” or “reckon,” the use of the word “then” and “now” at the end of sentences, and, my favorite, “for sure and certain,” which are not necessarily from the Pennsylvania Dutch language/dialect but are unique to the Amish and used frequently. Other phrases such as “oh help,” “fiddle faddle,” and “oh bother!” are ones that I have heard repeatedly throughout the years.

  The use of these words and phrases comes from my personal experience living among the Amish in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. For readers who are not familiar with such terms, I have italicized the words and included a glossary at the end of the novel.

  Preface

  THE IDEA FOR this book was a long time in coming. I started to read quite early in life, and my taste for books transcended the typical chunky books that preschoolers are made to read. I confess that my first love was Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books, which I devoured practically on a daily basis. To say I was a bookworm would be putting it mildly. Children would take bets whether or not I could finish a book a day, a challenge I won easily on most days.

  So my transition to classic literature came at an early age, with my favorites being Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, Emily Brontë, Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, and (a personal favorite) Victor Hugo. Christmas was fairly predictable in my house. Just one leather-bound book always made it the “bestest Christmas ever.”

  In writing Amish Christian romances, something that I have been doing for twenty-five years, I have always tried to explore new angles to the stories. I base most of my stories on my own experiences, having lived on Amish farms and in Amish homes over the years. I have come to know these amazingly strong and devout people in a way that I am constantly pinching myself as to why I have been able to do so. I must confess that, on more than one occasion, I have heard the same from them: “We aren’t quite sure what it is, Sarah, but . . . there’s something deeply special about you.”

  Besides adoring my Amish friends and “family,” I also adore my readers. Many of you know that I spend countless hours using social media to individually connect with as many readers as I can. I found some of my “bestest friends” online, and despite living in Virginia or Hawaii or Nebraska or Australia, they are as dear to me as the ones who live two miles down the road.

  Well, something clicked when I combined my love of literature with my adoration of my readers and respect of the Amish. It is my hope that by creating this literary triad, my readers will experience the Amish in a new way. They will experience authentic Amish culture and religion based on my experiences of having lived among them and my exposure to the masterpieces of literary greats from years past.

 
I thank the good people at Charisma Media for sharing in my enthusiasm, especially Adrienne, who reached out to me and listened with an open mind.

  It’s amazing to think that a love of God and passion for reading can be combined in such a manner as to touch so many people. I hope that you too are touched, and I truly welcome your e-mails, letters, and postings.

  BLESSINGS, SARAH PRICE

  [email protected]

  http://www.facebook.com/fansofsarahprice

  Twitter: @SarahPriceAmish

  “For I know the plans I have for you,”

  declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

  —Jeremiah 29:11

  Contents

  A Note About Vocabulary

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  Other Books by Sarah Price

  About Sarah Price

  Chapter One

  THE REDDISH-GOLD RAYS of the setting sun lit up the sky behind the roofline of the large white barn. The double doors to the hayloft were open and two robins sat on them, singing a song of good night to the rest of the farm. The black and white Holstein cows lazily meandered through the back pasture near the stream, a few pausing to dip their heads and drink from the refreshingly cool water in the fading heat of the late spring day. One of them, a fat one with a white chain around her neck, looked up, her soulful brown eyes scanning the barnyard before giving a deep, investigating “moo.”

  A young woman, wearing a rich blue dress and no shoes upon her feet, walked down the lane. Her head was adorned with a white, heart-shaped prayer kapp. A few strands of brown hair had fallen free from the neat bun that was hidden beneath the organdy fabric and clung to the back of her tanned neck. Two white ribbons hung from the kapp, casually resting on her back as she walked. Two brown chickens ran in front of her, a rooster close behind. When the rooster saw the woman, he stopped and puffed his feathers at her, his neck bulging out as if ready to attack. “Scoot!” she admonished, kicking her foot at the brightly colored rooster to shoo it away.

  As she approached the end of the lane, she paused, glancing around for a moment to ensure that no one was on the road before she stepped off the driveway, shaking the cool dust from her bare feet before stepping onto the warm black asphalt of the road that led to town. It was the mailbox that beckoned her, a dented gray mailbox with a single nameplate resting atop: Blank.

  From the distance the sound of an approaching horse and buggy could be heard, the familiar clip-clopping of its hooves against the macadam reaching the woman’s ears long before the animal actually came into her sight. She paused, one hand on the mailbox and the other covering her eyes from the setting sun that hindered her from seeing who was approaching. Still she waited, listening as the clickety noise of trotting hooves was now joined by the gentle hum of the buggy’s wheels. Together the two noises made music, Amish music that was as rich to her ears as was any Ausbund hymn that the congregation sang on church Sundays.

  The young woman waved to the driver of the buggy as he passed; then, with a slight turn, she opened the mailbox and leaned down to peer inside. It was full of letters surrounded by a folded newspaper, which she promptly pulled out and tucked into the crux of her arm. Perhaps today the letter will come, she thought. Her maem was eagerly awaiting news of the old Beachey farm, located a short distance from the Blank property. Just a few weeks prior the tenants who had been renting it for years had left. It was just a matter of time before the new occupants arrived, and word on the Amish grapevine was that Jacob Beachey might be returning himself.

  Slowly the young woman walked in the direction from which she had come, past the imposing white dairy barn. Although the barn could hold at least sixty cows at any given time, the farm on which it was built was not, by any means, considered a particularly wealthy farm. Indeed, the property was only one hundred acres, most of it used for growing corn, hay, and tobacco. Unfortunately many of the fields lay dormant during the growing seasons, crop rotation affected by demand rather than personal desire.

  The lane wrapped around the barn and toward a large, old white house with four plain white square columns that held its frontal overhangs. The house looked out of place, as if it should belong in the Deep South, way back when. The chipped paint on the columns and on the crooked shutters that flanked the downstairs windows hinted of a house where the owner was too busy working the land to worry about the upkeep of his home. Lounging under a worn ladder-back chair, a gray-striped cat lifted its head, looking at the woman as she approached the steps leading up to the porch.

  “Come, come, Lizzie,” a voice called from inside the kitchen window. “Stop dawdling and let me have the mail already!”

  “Sorry, Maem,” the young woman said as she opened the screen door and disappeared inside.

  Her mother had been waiting for her, standing near the door and watching impatiently as she slowly made her way up the lane with the mail. “Honestly, Lizzie!” Maem sighed. “You know I’m expecting that letter now, ja?”

  Lizzie didn’t reply but merely nodded, handing the bundle of mail to her maem, who proceeded to snatch it before hurrying into the kitchen. Lizzie followed, her eyes adjusting to the darkness inside the house, for it was still too early to light the kerosene lamp that hung over the kitchen table.

  The bench was pushed out from the table, and there was a pile of roughly folded clothing set upon it. The top of the table was crowded with pans and bowls covered in flour, in desperate need of washing from the day’s activity of baking bread for church service the following day. Lizzie’s older sister, Jane, was busy at the sink, her back to the door, as she washed more plates and cookware that had been sitting upon the counter, left over after both dinner and supper. There had been too many other chores for anyone to have bothered washing them earlier. Jane wore a pale green dress, much the same as Lizzie’s, except for its color. Despite her prayer kapp, tendrils of blonde curls hung down her back, having escaped from her bun after she spent the afternoon weeding the family garden.

  “Is it there, Maem?”

  Lizzie turned to look at the sitting area conveniently set in a sunny part of the kitchen. Her three younger sisters, Mary, Catherine, and Lydia, were sitting on wooden chairs, their heads bent over pieces of material they were busy cross-stitching. Like her, they were all brunettes and had their hair parted in the middle and pulled back from their faces, a neat bun pinned at the nape of their necks. Only one wore a prayer kapp; the two others wore nothing to cover their hair. As she looked at her sisters, watching their expressions, so eager and bright, Lizzie knew that not one of them had really been paying much attention to her task. Indeed, they had been waiting for Lizzie to return from the mailbox.

  “Now hush a moment, Lydia!” Maem snapped as she flipped through the assortment of envelopes. “My word,” she muttered, glancing at her daughter with a look of grave frustration. “When was the last time you fetched the mail, Lizzie?”

  “Two days ago,” she replied. “I was at market yesterday, remember?”

  Her maem made a soft noise as if dismissing Lizzie’s statement, but it was clear that she ha
d forgotten that Lizzie went to market on Fridays. “Now, let’s see,” she mumbled, holding the mail and walking toward the sitting area. She set the paper on a plush chair that no one occupied; that was Daed’s chair. Surely he would want to read his weekly newspaper, Die Botschaft, later that evening. “Here it is!” She tossed the rest of the mail onto the table by the chairs and held up a single small white envelope, her eyes glowing eagerly. “I knew that they would write to us! Oh, how dreadful of them to wait so long!”

  The three younger daughters tossed their cross-stitching aside, as eager as their maem to hear the contents of the letter. The two youngest, Catherine and Lydia, could hardly contain their enthusiasm.

  “What does it say, Maem?” Lydia asked, her eyes glowing with expectation.

  Their maem glanced up, her cheeks flushed and a stray strand of gray hair brushing across her left cheek. Like her daughters, a few hairs had fallen free from under her kapp after a long day of laundry, cooking, cleaning, and gardening. “You know I’d no sooner open your daed’s mail than tell a lie, dochder! We shall have to wait until Daed comes in from the fields!”

  A collective groan of disappointment came from the three younger girls, a groan that caused Lizzie to snicker. “Such impatience for what you already know is contained in the letter,” she laughed, her big brown eyes sparkling at her younger sisters’ enthusiasm.

  Reluctantly everyone returned to their regular evening chores: Lizzie and Jane went on preparing the evening meal, while their maem fluttered about the kitchen, speculating over the contents of the letter; meanwhile the three younger daughters sat breathless on the edge of their seats. From time to time Lizzie would laugh to herself over the different ideas that would jump into their maem’s head and out of her mouth.

  “A month,” she said at one point. “Mayhaps two!”

  “Oh, Maem,” Lydia exclaimed. “Do you really think so?”

  Her maem stopped pacing and bit her lower lip. “Or mayhaps they aren’t coming at all.” The thought caused her much concern and she frowned. “Mayhaps the delay in writing was because they changed their minds!” She flopped down into a chair and raised a hand, the one that still held the unopened envelope, to her forehead, striking it several times. “Oh, my nerves cannot take this much longer, I fear!” She began to fan herself with the envelope, her eyes shut. With her legs spread apart and stretched straight out before her, two dirty bare feet poking out from under the hem of her dark navy dress, she looked exasperated.