Pattern for Romance: Quilts of Love Series

by Carla J Gade

  A band of the 29th Regiment of Foot filled the sidewalk. One of grenadiers bulled into his shoulder as they passed. Joshua turned, spying him elbow his comrade for the implied humor of it. Was Joshua every man’s fool? He whooshed out a deep breath and refocused his steps.

  “Reverend Cooper!” Joshua came face-to-face with his pastor as he crossed Brattle Square.

  “Joshua, what a pleasant surprise to see you on this fine day.” Reverend Cooper adjusted his black felt brim and smiled.

  “Fine, but not so pleasant,” Joshua said. “Pardon me, I am afraid I’ve misplaced my cheerful demeanor.”

  The reverend lifted his eyebrows. “Care to tell me about it? I can walk with you a while.”

  “Seems you often find me with extra knots in my thread.” Joshua cast a sardonic grin.

  “What is troubling you today, son?” Reverend Cooper asked.

  “What isn’t?”

  “All that bad?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “Miss Metcalf?”

  “How did you know?”

  The reverend grinned. “Intuition. Revelation. Both. Besides, when a fellow like you is so forlorn, it usually concerns a lady. Something you and your brother appear to have in common.”

  Joshua angled his chin. “My brother?”

  “I ran into Andrew this morning. I found him a bit out of sorts as well.” Reverend Cooper raised his wiry eyebrows.

  “That, he is. I don’t know what has gotten into him. He has become a reckless dolt.” Joshua rubbed the tension from his taut neck. “Forgive me, I should not speak ill of him. I am greatly concerned for Andrew. He is not acting like himself.”

  “Your heart is heavy for those you love,” said Reverend Cooper.

  Joshua’s eyes locked on the reverend’s compassionate gaze. “God knows. Yet nothing is going right.”

  “Do you recall my text from yesterday’s sermon?” the minister asked. “‘Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.’”

  “From Galatians,” Joshua replied.

  The minister smiled. “Ah, you were listening.”

  Barely. Joshua had been so distraught over the events of the day before that he could hardly pay attention. He was painfully aware of Honour’s absence. Mother had inquired of Mrs. Wadsworth regarding Honour’s health. She was assured that Honour was returning to health, though they thought it best for her to remain home and rest rather than become taxed from the long walk to the meeting house.

  “I tried to be of service to Honour while she was indisposed, yet she was offended by my actions. Perhaps I overstepped in my desire to win her heart,” Joshua told the reverend.

  “Oftentimes our exuberance overshadows our good intent,” Reverend Cooper said as the pair turned the corner.

  Joshua swallowed. “I truly care for Honour.”

  The reverend clasped his hands together. “I have no doubt that you do.”

  “Yet she somehow has come to the conclusion that I am one to mistreat women, though I have only shown her kindness. While my brother believes I am one to trifle with the ladies, robbing him of the pleasure in the process.” Joshua kicked a pebble.

  “Sometimes one matter gets confused with another. The answer may be simpler than you think. Have you asked your Heavenly Father about it?”

  “These past two sleepless nights.” Joshua sighed.

  Reverend Cooper slowed his pace. “Has He shown you what step to take next?”

  Joshua stopped, realizing he’d arrived at his destination. He looked up at Mrs. Lankton’s impressive house, just beyond the ornate iron gate.

  Joshua placed his shoe upon the granite step. “This one.”

  Honour reached for the scrap of paper fallen behind her bedside table, the piece of newspaper Mr. Greenleaf had wrapped around Joshua’s gift. She sighed deeply as she thought of how she’d ruined his birthday. She should have heeded her inclination to not go at all. As it was, she became totally un-raveled at his explanation of what transpired while she was incapacitated, things Joshua tried to rectify on her behalf. And she had berated him for it.

  A tiny shiver jolted her as she recalled the vile manner with which Andrew had treated her. Why did he treat her like an object of scorn? There were no secrets between them. She had just met the man. How unlike Joshua he was in demeanor, yet so like him in looks. When she had seen him walking near the garden, she’d called to him thinking him Joshua, planning to apologize for her outburst, for her ungratefulness. But then Andrew came to her. Honour buried her face in her hand, felt the tension of her warm brow beneath her palm.

  She bit down on her lip, recalling how Andrew had baited Joshua with that dreadful knife. The thought of the brothers fighting pained her so, though she now understood Joshua was protecting her. Didn’t they know how blessed they were to have one another? Her own brothers were dead. Thomas. Wesley. How I miss you both. Honour collapsed against her bed and wept.

  Some moments later, she sat on the edge of the bed, wrinkled paper still in her hand. She opened it, scanning the words out of curiosity. The diversion failed to last when she fixated on a small advertisement.

  Publick Notice per Commissioner of Customs

  A number of trunks, recently seized by the Admiralty. Diverse goods, linen white-work, English gowns. Unclaimed items to be sold at public vendue.

  Inquire of the Printer, Mein & Fleeming, Newbury Street, Boston, Massachusetts.

  She could scarcely believe her eyes. English gowns, linen white-work. Could they be her missing belongings? She must find out before others lay claim to the items at the auction. A bit of hope, at last. She whispered a prayer. Dear Lord, if the items are mine, please return them to my hands.

  Honour made her way down the stairs, exercising caution as she went. She entered the front room of the mantua shop hearing Mrs. Wadsworth and Tempe engaged in conversation.

  “Temperance, dear. Please drag that basket of rags out to the sidewalk.” Mrs. Wadsworth pointed to the large basket of unusable cotton and linen remnants in the corner of the shop. “The Boston Gazette advertised the printer’s pickup is today.”

  “What does he do with them all?” Tempe asked.

  Honour entered the room. “’Tis what the printer sends to the papermaker to make rag linen paper.”

  “Everything must be made in the colonies.” Mrs. Wadsworth planted her hand on her hip. “Although, Mr. Mein, The Boston Chronicle’s publisher, would certainly have no scruples about importing paper from England. He is a blatant supporter of the crown and delights in mocking those who do not.”

  “Why is it bad to get things from England? I came from England.” Tempe looked at Honour. “We both did.”

  Mrs. Wadsworth wagged her finger and smirked. “But we did not have to pay taxes for you to be imported.”

  Tempe’s eyes widened. “Ohhh . . .”

  “Is that so? I wasn’t aware Mr. Mein is a Tory.” Honour nibbled her lower lip. “He owns the lending library we subscribe to.”

  “I cancelled my own account,” Mrs. Wadsworth said.

  Honour crossed her arms. “As shall I.”

  Tempe crouched to drag the basket of rags, but then straightened. “Is that a boycott? Is it because he is a boy? If he was a girl, would they call it a girlcott?”

  Honour and Mrs. Wadsworth laughed. “No, pumpkin. ’Tis because he supports unfair taxation. Do you remember Poppa talking about it sometimes?”

  Tempe opened the door and pulled the basket toward her. “We came to America for Poppa’s business and to stand with the colonists.” Tempe’s lip quiver. “That’s why they died. It’s so unfair!”

  With one last tug of the basket to the sidewalk, Tempe allowed the door to slam behind her, the doorbells jangling as she did. Honour looked back toward Mrs. Wadsworth with a frown. When she turned around, Tempe was gone.

  Honour rushed outside and looked down the street. Tempe was nowhere in sight. Honour’s chest constri
cted with fear and she spun in the opposite direction.

  At the sight of Tempe, Honour’s hand flew to her chest and she drew in a deep breath. A smile crept across her face as Tempe skipped toward her, hand in hand with Joshua’s nieces.

  “Honour! Look who came to see us!” Tempe cheered.

  “Abigail, Sarah. What a nice treat to see you girls again so soon.” Honour restrained her panic and met the girls as if nothing had gone awry. The thump of her heart began to resume its normal pace.

  Joshua’s eldest sister greeted Honour with her lovely smile. “Good morning, Honour. We have come with good news and hope you and Temperance will agree.”

  “Hello, Deborah. ’Tis a nice surprise to see you and the girls.” Honour glanced toward the shop door where Mrs. Wadsworth was peeking out at the group of them.

  “Do come inside, ladies . . . and young ladies,” Mrs. Wadsworth called to them.

  Honour allowed their guests to enter the mantua shop first. She tugged on the long pair of fabric pleats streaming from the back of Tempe’s calico gown, and held her back. “Temperance Metcalf, if you ever run off again without so much as a ‘by your leave’, I shall have to tie you up by your leading strings. Is that understood?” Honour scolded in a hushed voice.

  “Aye, Honour.” Temperance scrunched her nose.

  Honour slid her fingertip down Tempe’s pert nose. “And none of that.” She pulled her sister to her side for a quick hug. “Now, let us see what these tidings are about.”

  When they entered, Deborah was talking to Mrs. Wadsworth. “I shall come by soon with my homespun, and schedule a fitting. I should have thought to bring it today, but we had another matter on our minds.” Deborah turned toward Honour. “Shall we tell her, girls?” Abigail and Sarah squeezed Deborah’s hands with glee.

  “Your news. You have made us both curious.” Honour smiled at the girls.

  “Anne and I have hired a tutor, at the bequest of our parents, and there is room for another student. We hope you will allow Temperance to join Sarah and Abigail in their schooling—unless you have other arrangements in place, of course. It would require no tuition and your only expense will be for a few supplies.” Deborah continued her invitation, “Mother insists that the girls learn to cipher and measure. She allowed Anne and me to sit with our brothers whilst they were tutored in mathematics and wants the girls to benefit similarly. Of course, Father grumbled about it then, but he has slowly changed his ways—largely due to her skill at reckoning his accounts proper.”

  Honour could hardly believe the conversation unfolding before her.

  Deborah parted her lips and paused. “You don’t object to mathematics, do you?”

  Honour rested her finger on her chin. “Well, no. I encourage it. It proves useful in sewing and quilting.”

  Tempe tugged on Honour’s sleeve, looking up from beneath her long eyelashes. Honour smiled widely. “How could we decline such a generous offer? I am exceedingly grateful.”

  Dimples, much like Joshua’s, blossomed at the corners of Deborah’s mouth. “Wonderful! We shall have the three brightest girls in Boston!”

  Mrs. Wadsworth clasped her hands and glanced heavenward with a generous smile. Honour agreed. This was an answer from God.

  “May I have a moment privately?” Deborah asked.

  “Certainly,” Honour said.

  Mrs. Wadsworth corralled the girls. “I’ve some fashion babies to show you. Follow me.” The older woman led the girls away to see the Pandora dolls, dressed in examples of high fashion—from before the embargoes—while Honour and Deborah retreated to a corner.

  “How are you faring?” Deborah asked in hushed tones.

  “I am well. Thank you,” Honour said.

  “That is good to hear. We have all been concerned for you. Please accept my family’s sincere apology for the appalling behavior of Andrew and Joshua.”

  “Joshua did nothing but defend me. I regret that I became unnecessarily upset with him.”

  Deborah touched Honour lightly on the arm. “I do not blame you for being upset. You were hurt. And how is your heart?”

  Honour released a little breath and clamped down on her lower lip.

  “As I thought.” The corners of Deborah’s mouth turned down. “He is hurting also.”

  Honour discerned Deborah meant that knowledge to bring Honour comfort, but who was Joshua hurting for? To whom did his heart belong?

  The bells on the door jingled and Maisey entered.

  “How did Mrs. Lankton like her gown?” Mrs. Wadsworth asked her.

  “She was most pleased, Mistress.” Maisey handed her employer a letter.

  “Good. A reply to the note I sent with you.” Mrs. Wadsworth said, turning the square piece of parchment one way and then the other.

  “She has invited you for tea at noon.” A knowing hint laced Maisey’s face. Had she read the missive?

  “And you know this how?” Mrs. Wadsworth asked, carefully breaking the wax seal.

  “Mrs. Lankton told me so. She sent me back in her Boston chaise,” Maisey said with a cheeky grin. “It awaits you . . . and Honour.”

  Honour placed her palm against her breast. “You must be mistaken.”

  Maisey whispered something in Tempe’s ear, and she giggled.

  Honour narrowed her eyes at them. “Something seems a bit fishy here.”

  The pair exchanged mischievous looks.

  Mrs. Wadsworth waved the letter. “It says so right here. We have both been invited for tea and she has sent her chaise for us.”

  Mrs. Wadsworth’s eyes sparkled as she looked at Honour. “This is turning out to be an extraordinary day for you, don’t you agree?”

  A feeling of warmth surrounded her. “Indeed, it is.”

  “You shall have a lovely time,” Deborah said. “Why don’t I take Temperance home with us and you can enjoy a day or two to yourself. Abby is also spending the night and the girls will have a grand time.”

  Temperance pursed her lips at Honour. “How can I refuse a face like that?” Honour squeezed Tempe’s chin and gave her a kiss.

  “Thank you, sister. I shall be a good girl,” Tempe said.

  “I know you shall. Go on now and gather your overnight things.” As Tempe skipped away, Honour called after her. “Be careful on the stairs.”

  Honour smiled at Deborah. “I appreciate your kindness. ’Tis a fine idea.”

  At last, a day that held promise.

  13

  Joshua paced from one side of Widow Lankton’s finely furnished parlor to the other. If he wasn’t careful, he’d wear a groove into the well-planed floorboards.

  Widow Lankton entered the parlor, followed by a female servant who carried a garment in her arms. “Joshua, dear, how pleasant to see you,” Emily’s aunt said.

  “Good morning.” Hands clasped behind his back, Joshua dipped his head in a short bow. “I have come to call on Mrs. Leach. I was told I could find her here today. Your housekeeper informed me she has not yet arrived and has allowed me to wait for her.” Joshua glanced toward the window.

  “By all means. Do you care for some refreshment,” she asked.

  “Thank you, no.” Though he felt a slight rumble in his belly, he was far too anxious to think about food—though if he imbibed, a sip of rum might calm his nerves.

  Joshua eyed the familiar-looking garment. Hadn’t he seen that in Mrs. Wadsworth’s workspace above Suttons? “What have you here?”

  Widow Lankton handled the exquisitely quilted sleeve of the garment. “Mrs. Wadsworth’s apprentice delivered it only moments ago, thus my reason for my tardiness in greeting you. The peculiar girl became rather distracted by your presence when she heard you enter. You apparently have an effect on the ladies. Though my niece has confused me on that matter,” the dowager sighed.

  Joshua straightened and focused on the quilted gown. “This is exceedingly well done.”

  “A great deal of time and talent went into the making of it,” she said.

/>   “I agree, emphatically.” Honour’s impressive handiwork was a privilege to behold.

  The widow addressed her servant. “That must be getting heavy in your arms. You may put it away, but please take care.”

  Widow Lankton’s rose water perfume was giving Joshua a headache. He took a step back, allowing the maidservant to pass.

  The elderly woman ambled over to a small table set with silver service. She poured herself a cup from a silver urn and lifted it, tilting her head. “Coffee?” she asked. She noted his refusal, and asked once more, “Are you sure?”

  “The aroma is enticing. Perhaps I shall, thank you.” He accepted the handleless porcelain cup. As the widow settled upon her chintz settee, he consumed his drink with several sips and resumed his pacing.

  Widow Lankton peered at him over her tea bowl. “I do not know what is keeping Emily, but you are making me a nervous wreck.”

  The elderly lady turned her opposite palm toward a comb-back Windsor chair. “Do sit down, Joshua.”

  Joshua paused at the window once again. He peered past the drapes, hoping Emily would return from her outing. He proceeded to the highly polished black chair.

  “Have you seen Emily since her marriage, Joshua?”

  “No, I have not.”

  Widow Lankton smoothed her sacque-back gown, a fine Indian chintz Sutton’s had fashioned for her before the trade sanctions. She patted the back of her gray coiffed wig, piled high upon her head and topped with a petite lace pinner cap. “Have you come to offer your congratulations . . . or mayhap your regret?”

  “I only regret Emily hadn’t spoken directly to me about her plans before she wed Mr. Leach. I would have assured her I wanted her to marry for love and perhaps she would not have taken such a hasty course.” Joshua’s mouth tightened. “We were ill-suited for one another and I should have been clear about the mismatch sooner.”

  “Is that why you were dragging your feet for so long?” Widow Lankton was not in the habit of mincing words.

  Joshua shifted on the hard chair. “That, and the fact that she was not yet of age. She still is very young yet, barely ten and eight.”