A Patchwork Family

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Mercy couldn’t conceal her grin as she recalled the forthright, opinionated headmistress she’d butted heads with more than once. “Matter of fact, she moved from the social circles in Philadelphia to live in St. Louis because back then that city on the Mississippi was considered too rough and rowdy for an unmarried lady of her station. Never let it be said that Miss Vanderbilt doesn’t appreciate—and invite!—adventure.”

  A grin lit Christine’s face, giving a hint of the happy child she’d been before the war. She turned her attention to the gowns, fashioned from rich brocaded silks and satins, tulle and taffeta that rustled seductively at her touch. They glimmered like jewels in the light from the little window.

  Then her brow wrinkled. “But what if Mama comes back? What if she needs—”

  “We’ll see she’s taken care of, dear. Or we’ll see that she gets to St. Louis, to be with you.”

  Mercy held up the lavender satin gown at the edge of the bed, smiling fondly. “I wore this to a spring cotillion, Christine—back when I was the belle of the ball. ‘Making over and making do’ is something we women tolerate now because the war has forced us to. But I believe your mother would be pleased that you were attending such a respected school. I’m sure she had that in mind for you once you outgrew Miss Bryce’s expertise.”

  Holding the gown against the girl’s slender shoulders, she assessed the alterations that would be needed. “If we took out these sleeves and nipped in the side seams . . . you’re a bit thinner than I was, but a few tucks in the front would—”

  “And we could cover those adjustments by stitching the lace—”

  “You know, if we bought a copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book next time we’re in town—”

  “I can do these alterations myself, you know!” Christine piped up. She had pinched the dress to her waist and was looking down to check its length. “And if you had a sewing machine . . .”

  Their eyes met, and they burst into laughter that filled the room as joyously as it warmed their hearts. For the first time, they shared a passion. A mission.

  “Look behind you,” Mercy whispered.

  Waves the color of honeyed flame whirled in a circle when Christine pivoted. “Why, it’s just like the one Beulah Mae and Mama taught me on! You see, I’ve been sewing for years now, so—” She turned, comprehension dawning in her bright eyes. “And so have you? Even though you grew up in a well-to-do family?”

  “That treadle machine was my gift from Miss Vanderbilt when I graduated at the head of my class,” Mercy replied proudly. “I’m sure it’ll welcome the chance to stitch silk and satin again, rather than calico. So if you’re certain you’d like to attend the academy—”

  “Oh, yes, please!” Christine gushed. Then, with a sheepish grin, she added, “And thank you, Mrs. Monroe.”

  And thank you, God! Mercy thought as she clasped two slender hands in hers. “I’m pleased to do this for you—but here it is August already, so we haven’t much time to prepare you! You’ll be wanting new under-things, but right now I don’t have the money. Judd needs lumber for more stalls in the barn, and—”

  “I—I—” Christine’s skin turned pink beneath her freckles, and she bolted from the room and up the stairs.

  Mercy smiled: the young runaway had a conscience after all.

  Moments later, the girl’s steps descended in a quick rhythm and Miss Bristol burst through the curtain with a conciliatory expression on her face. “Twenty dollars of what I took from . . . I’m sorry, I never should’ve . . . my train fare and that night in the hotel . . .”

  She thrust the money into Mercy’s hand, shifting from one foot to the other in her agitation. “And I can wear the underthings I found at the bottom of Mama’s trunk. Why—I can alter some of her dresses, too!”

  Struck with this sudden idea, Christine settled herself. “That—that’s only fair, since you’re sacrificing your own nice frocks . . . out of the kindness of your heart. Because—well, there hasn’t been much kindness in mine, has there?”

  Mercy longed to hug this girl, but she was as skittish as a new foal from owning up to her thievery and deciding to go away to school—all within the past few minutes. She placed her hands on those slender shoulders and felt her smile fill her whole face.

  “Apology accepted,” she said softly. “If my mother had disappeared, I’d be acting distracted, and chasing halfway across Kansas for her, too.

  “Now,” Mercy went on, while the fragile bond between them still held, “we’ll need to go into town soon—to send a letter to Miss Vanderbilt, so she’ll make you a place in her fall session, and to get the latest issue of—”

  “Godey’s Lady’s Book!” Christine chimed in.

  “Yes, and meanwhile I’ll write out my shopping list. We’ll gather more eggs, and churn the milk into butter—so we can trade those things for flour and sugar, and sturdy fabric to make shirts and pants for Billy—”

  “He’s shot up like a weed,” his sister said with a roll of her eyes, “and come winter, his shoes won’t fit.”

  “Ah. Lots to do, so we’d best get busy.”

  As Mercy lovingly draped her frocks over the sewing machine, a deep sense of satisfaction filled her: they’d bridged a wide chasm during this little chat! And when she thought about how Aunt Agatha would handle this headstrong little princess, it was all she could do not to laugh. She couldn’t wait to release Christine into the legendary disciplinarian’s care! But she also had her mother’s sister to thank for the practical skills, poise, and confidence she herself had developed at the academy.

  “How soon will we be going into Abilene?”

  Mercy turned toward the girl, who wore a hopeful, utterly lovely expression on her face. For a moment Mercy became thirteen again, eager for new dresses, a shopping trip, and a new school year. Where would any of us be without something to look forward to? A purpose—and meaningful work, she pondered. “How soon can you make that butter?”

  Christine’s mouth dropped open. But with amazing aplomb, she grinned and dashed out the back door.

  “Billy! Billy!” she cried. “You go fetch that bucket of milk from the springhouse while I find the churn!”

  Chapter Ten

  As the buckboard headed into the sunrise, Mercy settled herself beside Judd for the ride into town. Behind them, Billy and Christine talked in low voices. The girl kept touching the pocket of her skirt. Mercy had noticed the flickering of candlelight through the grating in the ceiling, so she suspected that Christine had written a letter late into the night.

  Was it to her wayward mother? Or to that man in Atchison who’d given her the picture? Perhaps she’d also brought the money from her mother’s trunk, along with big ideas for how to spend it.

  For whatever reason, Miss Bristol couldn’t sit still and seemed very eager to reach Abilene, such as it was. The little settlement still boasted fewer than fifty residents—the population of Dickinson County tallied at less than five hundred—so their limited shopping wouldn’t take nearly as long as the trip there and back.

  She talked quietly with Judd, reviewing what they needed before Holladay’s next supply wagon passed through. The peaceful countryside rolled along, with farmsteads on their right and the Smoky Hill River with its maples and cottonwoods on their left.

  “Almost there,” she said over her shoulder. Glancing sideways to catch Judd’s eye, she awaited the reaction from the back.

  “Almost where?” Christine stood up to scan the land ahead, to be sure she wasn’t missing anything. “I thought Abilene would be a town, instead of just a few little buildings. Why, Atchison was—”

  “Established a while back, and became the terminus for the railroad and the stage line,” Judd pointed out.

  He pulled the horses to a halt beside a log cabin with a sign that said FRONTIER STORE. “Most folks out this way came to homestead rather than to open up shop, so we make do with Doc Moon’s merchandise. You’re used to better—and so were we, back East. But for day-to-da
y survival, this little place gets us by.”

  While the Bristols hopped down from the back, Mercy waited for Judd to come around. She never tired of the look in his sky-blue eyes as he reached up for her; reveled in the strength of his muscled arms as he lowered her to the ground so effortlessly. Would he forgo their habitual kiss because they had two red-haired observers?

  Ah, no. Her husband’s hands spanned her waist as he lowered his lips to hers. Judd kissed her as though he could make those kids wait a week . . . as though he’d forgotten about them altogether and could only focus on her.

  When he raised his head, Mercy giggled with the sensations his kiss always caused. She turned toward the door, but he held her until she looked up at him again.

  “I love you, Mercedes,” he murmured. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “I love you, too, Judd.” She held his gaze a moment longer, noting long, black lashes lowered just enough to say he’d been moved by their kiss, as well. “And where would I be without you?”

  They often repeated this conversation, simple, yet rich in its familiarity. But today Judd burst out laughing. “Probably shopping in a fine Philadelphia store, with a mother whose hobby is spending your father’s money. Who ever thought we’d end up here in denim and calico, with two kids looking at us like we’re crazy?”

  He grinned at Billy and Christine. When he opened the door, they hurried inside as though witnessing affection between man and wife had embarrassed them a little. The boy hung back, surveying the log interior and long aisles of merchandise, waiting to tag along with Judd. Christine was off like a shot, to the table where bolts of yard goods awaited her eager eyes and fingers.

  “Here it is! A new Godey’s Lady’s Book!” came her excited cry.

  The other folks milling about looked up with understanding smiles.

  “How about if Billy and I see to the nails and lumber while you ladies take your time with finer things?” Judd suggested, waving to Ira Barstow across the store. “You’ll need to remind her that money doesn’t blow in with the wind, even when you’re spending it to help somebody else.”

  Mercy nodded, spotting her friend Elizabeth as she started down the narrow aisle of cooking pots and crockery bowls. The youngest Barstow, a towheaded girl, rode her hip while a boy with the same fair features toddled along, gripping her skirt. It was a picture of motherhood that made Mercy nip her lip with envy.

  “Well, hello there, Miz Monroe!” her neighbor sang out. “And what brings you to Doc’s store on this fine summer morning?”

  It was good to see a familiar face, after long days of labor on their isolated farm, so Mercy overlooked Elizabeth’s speculative expression when she glanced toward Christine. “Judd needed supplies to enlarge the corrals. And we’re making over some dresses to get Miss Christine ready for school in St. Louis come—”

  “Well, why on earth would you do that? It’s not like she’s kin!”

  Everyone in the little store stopped talking.

  Mercy felt a surge of protectiveness. Hadn’t the Bristol children already endured rejection from most of these people? It wasn’t as if she and Judd expected anyone’s help! They might as well hear this story firsthand, so they’d have all the facts when they gossiped about it later.

  Mercy smiled at Elizabeth, standing taller. She might be wearing calico, but she begged for no one’s approval. “When will I ever need those gowns?” she asked with a shrug. “Lord knows I’ll never see twenty-two again—or the figure I had before I married Judd. And what a waste, to let those pretty fabrics fade by keeping them packed away.”

  She smiled at Christine, who was bustling up the aisle with an open book and a face lit up like a summer sunrise. “Miss Bristol is a skilled seamstress, so she’s doing the alterations herself,” she said so everyone could hear. “I think that’s very commendable, for a girl of thirteen.”

  “Look at this pattern, Mercy! Wouldn’t that lavender gown look splendid if we made it over this way?” the young redhead exclaimed. “Just like you said, with tucks at the waist and the lace trim coming down in this vee, to cover them!”

  “And hello to you, too, missy!” Elizabeth jiggled the baby on her hip, her curiosity a-simmer. “Goodness me! The Monroes took you in like a stray cat, and then took you back after you ran off—and now they’re sending you away to school? Aren’t you just the fine and fancy princess?”

  Mercy cringed. Doc Moon and everyone in his store were pretending to go about their business, but they were hanging on every word of this escalating exchange.

  Christine glanced at Mercy, flummoxed. Then she squared her shoulders and forced an ingratiating smile, to face their neighbor with all the presence of a princess, indeed. “Thank you for noticing, Mrs. Barstow,” she replied politely. “How very nice to see you again.”

  With that, she turned back to Mercy. “You know, there’s a green taffeta gown in Mama’s trunk that could look just like this one if we—”

  “You’re sure you want to alter your mother’s dresses? What if she comes back, as we talked about before?” Mercy asked.

  “When will she wear them again?” Christine’s eyes betrayed a painful truth, but she didn’t back away from it. “And if you’ve been kind enough to sacrifice in my behalf, my mother wouldn’t begrudge me a few dresses. It’s not like she’ll be throwing any more lawn parties back home, is it?”

  Mercy’s throat tightened with admiration. She smiled at this waif’s determination—a mature acceptance, mixed with enough spunk to disarm whatever Elizabeth might challenge them with next. In fact, her friend’s broad face was turning a deep shade of rose—and then the baby made a splattering sound in its diaper. Perhaps from being squeezed too hard.

  “Nice to see you again,” Mrs. Barstow muttered. Then she pivoted, knocking into the shy son who still gripped her skirts. As the trio made for the door, the boy’s wail filled the little store and then the baby joined in. It was a noisy duet that had everyone returning to their business with quiet chuckles.

  “Nicely done,” Mercy said with a wink. “Catty, but called for.”

  “Why was she on such a high horse? I thought she was your friend.”

  Mercy wondered about that herself. “Maybe she’s having a bad day, or she’s in a peevish mood. Lord knows we all take our turn at that, don’t we?”

  She grinned broadly at the girl, but Christine missed her point. “Why don’t you find a couple lengths of modestly priced lace for those dresses, and pick out some cloth for Billy’s pants? I’ll get the groceries and put my note to Miss Vanderbilt in Doc’s mailbag.”

  Christine reached into her skirt pocket. “Would you please post this letter for me, and I’ll pay you for the stamp?” she asked coyly. “I thought it only proper to thank Mr. Trudeau for that likeness of Mama.”

  It was a very thick thank-you note, written on fine vellum Virgilia Bristol must have carried in her trunk. But Mercy let the girl have her pride. Christine would be as comely as her mother, and would entertain a bevy of beaux when she was old enough to be romanced. By then, the young man in Atchison would have found someone his own age—if he hadn’t already. So what harm would it do to let Christine pour out her lonely heart on paper?

  “Of course. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  When she got to the counter where Doc handled the mail, Mercy stood to one side to reread her letter. It was far too short, considering all the details her aunt would enjoy reading, but it served her purpose.

  Dearest Aunt Agatha,

  Have I got a challenge for you! Christine Bristol is thirteen. She and her brother Billy were abandoned at a stagecoach depot, and are staying with us now—a long story. I hope you have room for her in your academy courses this fall, as she’s a bright girl who needs guidance and a purpose at this precarious point in her life.

  We’re doing well, but the days never have enough hours for the tasks at hand. I’ll write more soon, and I look forward to your reply.

  Wi
th love,

  Mercedes

  P.S. THANK YOU for teaching me patience and the art of conversational strategy!

  After tallying the postage, Mercy had Doc bring the items on her list to his counter: flour, coffee, dry beans, sorghum molasses, salt, and tins of fruit for pies. As she was returning to the yard-goods table, she spotted Billy struggling beneath a bulging bag of grass seed, followed closely by her husband, who carried an ax, two spades, and some packets of nails. From the other side of the store came Christine, clutching bobbins of lace trim in the crook of one elbow as she waved a card of colored hair ribbons at her brother.

  “Look at these!” she crowed. “And we got you some denim for pants, and some thread and trims for my dresses, and—”

  Judd’s supplies landed on Doc’s counter with a whump, beside the food Mercy had ordered. When he glanced in the girl’s direction, Mercy saw it coming: reality and dreams were about to collide. And she already knew which one would win.

  She fished the pitifully limp coin purse from her skirt pocket, assessing what the “princess” had picked out in her absence . . . at least four types of lace, plus those pretty ribbons and her book of patterns. They hadn’t even looked at shoes for Billy.

  The hopeful glow on Christine’s face took her back to her own girlhood. And why wouldn’t she be excited about almost-new dresses for a new school? The pale yellow one she wore today pulled too snugly over her budding breasts. And what girl, riding high on a moment of social success, hadn’t pushed her luck and tried to get just a little more than she’d been allowed?

  Judd saw things differently, of course. Even though he’d be fair, Christine would never appreciate his priorities.

  “We’ll get you that book, and the fabric for Billy’s pants,” he said in a low voice.

  “But Mercy told me I could—”

  “No fuss, young lady.”

  “But I brought my own money—”

  “I really don’t need no new pants,” Billy piped up in a husky voice. “Why, those horses don’t give one hoot about how I look!”