Pattern for Romance: Quilts of Love Series
Page 17
“You are certain?” Mrs. Wadsworth asked Honour, coming to her side. “You are relinquishing the quilt?”
“That, and much more.” Honour placed her hand upon Mrs. Wadsworth’s sleeve. “I beg you, please do not break this confidence.”
The kind woman patted Honour’s hand. “If you wish, dear. It is not my secret to tell.”
Honour turned toward the wall, wiping the lone tear that trickled down her face.
Mrs. Wadsworth returned to her seat by the hearth. “I have brought you a few of your belongings. Some of your garments and personal items. I was able to remove most of the blood stain from your gown with hot vinegar. Though you will have to wear an apron to cover it.”
“Thank you,” Honour said.
“We will send the rest of your possessions when you are fully recovered and give you some time to settle into your new employment with Widow Lankton. Temperance shall join you when you are ready. She misses you, but the beautiful indigo bed quilt brings her comfort. She says her prayers and then traces the pattern with her finger until she falls asleep.” The corner of Mrs. Wadsworth’s eyes crinkled.
“You stay with her until she falls asleep?” Honour asked.
“I sat with her the first few nights after she returned from Deborah’s. When she returned it impacted her how unwell you were and she became a little downcast. She is fine now.”
“I hope caring for her has not been a burden to you,” Honour asked.
“Not at all. After her school each day, Temperance comes home and does her chores. In the evening, she practices her tambour work and we read for a while.” Mrs. Wadsworth smiled. “I am rather fond of keeping her.”
“It pleases me know she is in such good hands. I sincerely thank you.”
“You may thank me by getting well,” Mrs. Wadsworth said.
Tempe returned carrying a tray of refreshments and set it down on the tea table. The maidservant set out a pitcher and glasses. “Lavender lemonade,” the girl said.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Wadsworth said. “I’ll see to the serving.”
The maid nodded and dashed away.
Tempe set a plate of little cakes and lemonade on the bedside table for Honour.
“This is very kind of you, sister.”
Tempe’s face filled with pride and she took a seat at the tea table with Mrs. Wadsworth.
“Mrs. Wadsworth told me you started school, Tempe. How do you find your tutor?”
“I like him, though he puts up with little nonsense.”
“I would suspect so, as did my tutors.”
Tempe angled her head. “Your tutors?”
“Yes. I had several. Education was extremely important to Mum and Poppa.”
Tempe rubbed her lips together, glancing down at the floor.
“It is all right to talk about them, Tempe. It may even help,” Honour said.
Tempe looked up in earnest. “Wesley and Thomas, too?”
“Of course, pumpkin.” Honour said. “They will forever be a part of our lives and we shall see them again in heaven.”
“I hope God is taking good care of them.” Tempe looked from Honour to Mrs. Wadsworth.
Mrs. Wadsworth squeezed Tempe’s hand. “I have no doubt that He is.” Mrs. Wadsworth traced her finger along her neckline as she did when she thought about her husband. “I also know God is taking care of Captain Wadsworth, just as He does each of us.”
“Then why does Honour keep getting hurt?” Tempe asked.
“Oh, people get hurt, and sadly some die. Though what we often fail to notice is how good the Lord is to see us through such times,” Mrs. Wadsworth said.
Tempe went to Mrs. Wadsworth’s side and hugged her. “May I call you Grandmother?”
Mrs. Wadsworth’s pressed her hand against her chest and blinked back tears. “Of course, you may, child.”
Honour’s heart filled with warmth as she held back her own tears. Then she noticed the black ribbon on Tempe’s ruffled cap, the same black crepe that adorned her own. Mrs. Wadsworth had spared it for them when they had first come to stay with her, as they had no mourning attire. Through the months the black ribbons became almost invisible, a perpetual memorial woven into their lives.
“Come here, Tempe.” The child came to her bedside and Honour removed the cap from her own head. She untied the ribbon of black crepe, representing her loss and grief.
Tempe’s lips parted in awe of what was transpiring before her. Honour unfastened the black ribbon on her sister’s white cap. It broke Honour’s heart Tempe had to bear such a grief at her young age. Honour wound the ribbons together and held them between her clasped hands. “Place your hands on mine, sweet sister.”
Tears streamed down Tempe’s cheeks. “What are we going to do?”
Honour’s eyes filled with moisture. “Our time of mourning is done. Mum and Poppa, Thomas and Wesley shall remain in our hearts forever. We shall henceforth wear pleasant colors of remembrance to honor them all the more.”
“Do you mean like violet? ’Twas Mum’s favorite color,” Tempe said.
Honour smiled softly. “Aye. Violet, and orange for Wesley, and blue for Thomas.”
“And green for Poppa,” Tempe said. “He liked green.”
“’Tis the color of your eyes, is why.” Honour planted a kiss upon Tempe’s nose.
Mrs. Wadsworth looked on, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief.
“I may have some ribbon in my workbag. Would you hand it to me, please, ’tis right there.” Honour asked Tempe, pointing to the bag on the shelf of the bedside table.
Tempe handed her the bag and Honour found a length of yellow ribbon, while tucking the black ribbons discreetly inside. Honour wrapped the yellow ribbon around Tempe’s cap and tied it in a bow. “There. Yellow to match your petticoat.”
The light in Tempe’s eyes brightened. “And yellow for the sun.”
“Indeed. We shall have sunnier days ahead.” Honour hoped her words would prove true. But without Joshua in her life, she might have to settle for cloudy days instead.
19
Father took Joshua by the arm and ushered him to the side, questioning him in a low voice. “Honour Metcalf! What, pray tell, possessed you to do her bidding at the expense of your family’s name?”
Joshua’s body grew rigid as he met his father’s glare. “I went to inquire on her behalf, as she is unable to do so herself. To see if they were indeed her belongings.”
“If they were?” Father asked. “Would you have claimed them? Paid the duties?”
Joshua face grew tense, hesitating. “Yes,” he nodded, “I would have.”
His father’s mouth drew into a grim line, and an eyebrow darted upward.
Joshua tossed his palms out to his side. “The items were from the stolen cargo she immigrated with. The items were not to be sold, only redeemed for the owner.”
“You are certain she is the owner?” his father asked.
Did Father doubt her? Joshua looked at him, incredulous. “That is what she told me. She recognized the description of them in The Chronicle—especially her white-work linen.”
“Who would not want to claim such a cloth as their own when most have resorted to homespun?” Father asked.
“I believe she is sincere.” Joshua looked at his father, pleading. “Father, you know her.”
Father looked down, and tapped a buckled shoe against the wooden planks of the wharf. “Not long enough,” he muttered, angling his head back at Joshua.
Joshua ignored the complaint. “As much as we despise paying the king his taxes, surely there is no wrong in paying revenues on personal property?”
Father heaved a great sigh. “The only wrong here is subjecting our family to the scrutiny of the untoward.” His father glared at that mushroom judge, John Mein.
The crowd that assembled around them continued to grow restless.
“Get on with it, ye!” a woman in a ragged gown bawled. “I’ve children to sew for.”
“I�
�ve a quilt to make, I do,” an old dame called out, a basket perched on her hip.
A quilt.
The dame continued. “’Tisn’t that Honour Metcalf you spoke of, Margaret Wadsworth’s quilter from England? She almost stole from the milliner and a schoolmistress.”
“Quiet, woman, or you’ll get the scold’s bridle.” Sheriff Porter snarled at her.
“’Tis half past the hour. The auction was to commence at eight o’clock,” a man hollered, hoisting up his cane.
John Mein chortled, as he came around and placed a hand on Father’s shoulder. “I dare ye. I’ll grant Sutton’s Clothiers top rank on my list of non-compliers come Monday.”
Father cringed, and began to raise his arm. “You unscrupulous—”
Joshua discreetly drew his father’s elbow down, fearing if spoke he would have popped like a lead ball shooting from a musket. Andrew stood at Father’s opposite side.
“You call yourselves Sons of Liberty!” yet another heckler called out.
A fellow merchant in a fancy suit came forward, standing by Molineux. “What about that fancy carriage you own, Jairus Sutton? Did that come from England? Have you paid your carriage taxes?”
Clowing crossed his arms over his chest, awaiting the reply.
“This is not the inquisition, man,” Molineux said to the merchant. “Yet, what say you, Sutton, so we may put that matter to rest?”
Joshua stayed his hand on Father’s arm. “My father made his purchase from a chaisemaker in Cambridge . . . Massachusetts. Before the Townshend Acts were in effect. Further, his taxes are always paid in a timely fashion. Sheriff?”
“I’ve never had trouble with Sutton on that account,” the sheriff said. “As for Miss Metcalf. She has been accused, aye, yet she has never been found stealing.”
“Yet she sent you to pay duties on her things,” the woman sniveled at Joshua. “How do you know they were her own?”
“Get her out of here,” the Sheriff directed one of the redcoats.
Joshua stepped forward, addressing Clowing, Sheriff Porter, Molineux, Mein, and the horde of others.
“These are difficult times, we need not make them worse. We planned to hold a special auction of the textiles here today—to the lowest bidder, without charge.” Joshua glanced at Andrew, who nodded. “We’d not yet been given a chance to explain. This vendue was halted before it was begun.”
Clowing narrowed his eyes.
Molineux grinned. The brilliant master of Boston’s spinning schools, and representative of the Body of Merchants, appeared satisfied for the intended help to the poor and plan to avert the greedy pockets of the commissioners.
“Ye cannot do that!” Mein snapped.
Father inclined his head. “Sheriff?”
“There is nothing illegal in it. In fact, it is a clever way to distribute goods in a peaceful and charitable manner,” Sheriff Porter said.
“As members of the Body of Merchants and the Sons of Liberty, Sutton’s Clothiers devised a splendid plan for the betterment of the community,” Molineux said. “Let there be no more interference with it.”
The people hearing this grumbled. Had the plan been carefully explained, they would have understood the benefit Joshua had devised. But with tensions high, and this pronouncement coming after their long wait, the ‘clever’ plan incited them to anger.
A wad of seaweed flew through the air and slapped Joshua in the neck.
A second attack targeted Andrew, sending his cocked hat flying to the ground.
A dead fish smacked the horse in the rump and there he went. Horse and wagon bolted down the wharf through the clamor of people, as they scattered. Andrew chased after it with Joshua trailing behind. The horse turned as some redcoats formed a barrier. At least they were good for some purpose.
Joshua went around, arms extended to each side. “Whoa, now. Easy there.”
Andrew slowly approached on the other side, reaching out toward the harness.
A musket resounded into the air with a boom! The frightened horse reared back, knocking Andrew onto the quay. Andrew jumped up as horse and wagon jolted around catching the wagon on a wooden post. A wheel slipped over the pier.
Joshua leapt forward, trying to put his weight on the rear of the wagon with the help of some other men, while Andrew grabbed the horse’s reins. British soldiers and Bostonians worked together, fencing the horse in so that it would not try to escape again.
While men held on to the wagon, Joshua made his way around the horse. He and Andrew unharnessed the timid creature and walked him away, handing the animal off to their father.
The brothers went back to the wagon and helped the men pull the end dangling over the edge, but it was caught in a tangle of heavy ropes. Someone shook it hard, trying to loosen it, but the heavy textiles broke through the wooden side into the harbor below.
Joshua and Andrew groaned as they looked over the pier. The precious contents sunk into the dredge of briny water, seaweed, clamshells, and muck. A bolt of material sank down into the mire—the machine-quilted French Marseilles. Mother would be horrified, as surely she would be when she learned of this morning’s debacle.
Honour stood at the bedchamber window gazing into the backyard of Widow Lankton’s estate—pristine gardens with late summer blooms, fruit trees with leaves beginning to show their near autumn shades, and weeping willows whose green fronds were now turning yellow. Everything had changed. This, her home now, and soon to be Tempe’s. Widow Lankton, her employer, and Mrs. Wadsworth, her employer no longer. Moreover, the love she thought Joshua held for her, which had taken root in her heart, was not enough to take root in his.
Honour felt the linen weave of the curtain between her fingers and noticed a small loosened stitch. Mayhap Joshua’s affection for her was not unchanging, nor unending, but just beginning to bloom. Had she asked too much of a man she hadn’t begun to court? Yet, their bond already felt more significant than a courtship. He oftentimes anticipated her needs and came to her aid, though she knew not how to help him. She’d denied him the opportunity to explain what prevented him from doing her favor. Was it his family? A political reason? Unlike the heart stencil, held up to the light to illuminate its pattern, her heart felt darkened, dull—and until she understood what had transpired between them, it would remain so.
Widow Lankton entered the room with the clacking of her brocade mules against the wooden floor. “Honour, dear. I am surprised to find you out of bed.”
“Mrs. Hall informed me I could rise for a short spell. As long as I was no longer dizzy, it would improve my strength.” Honour stepped toward the older woman. “Have I thanked you for all you have done for me?”
“I believe you have, dear,” Widow Lankton said. “You are entirely welcome.”
Honour’s face brightened. “Please come into the next room.”
Widow Lankton followed Honour through the doorway into the adjoining bedchamber and cast a curious look at Honour. “I smell cinnamon.”
“Indeed you do.” Honour smiled, extending her hand toward the white quilt which was carefully draped on the bedstead.
“What lovely patterns. Did you do that yourself?” Widow Lankton’s brow lifted.
“I instructed Mrs. Hall how to place them so I did not have to bend.” Honour pointed to the designs transferred onto the cloth. “Cinnamon is patted through the small holes of the stencils I made to mark the pattern.”
“So that is why Mrs. Hall brought cinnamon upstairs,” the widow said. “I thought mayhap it was another remedy for you. Another interesting use of the spice.”
Honour picked up one of the stencils from a small table by the window. Though not as lavish has her own bedchamber, this tidy room, painted a cheerful yellow, would be perfect for Temperance, once she joined her. Honour handed Widow Lankton the stencil.
“I noticed these on your bedside table. You were napping and I did not know what to make of them. I thought perhaps you’d found a project to help pass the time.”
“You did not work on them yesterday, did you?” Widow Lankton held up her finger. “I do not abide working on the Sabbath.”
“Nor do I. I spent my time in prayer and reading the Scriptures while you were at meeting and supping with Reverend and Mistress Cooper. I had a special visit with my sister and Mrs. Wadsworth the day previous and realized I’ve much to be thankful for, as well as a future to commit to God’s care.”
Widow Lankton looked at her with compassion. “I am glad to hear it, dear. Healing is a timely process. I am aware your body is not all that is in need of mending.”
“You are?” Honour sealed her lips together. How does she know my heart is suffering because of Joshua? Had she heard me weeping after he departed the other day?
“When my beloved husband died, the emptiness and grief seemed more than I could bear at times. You, too, have suffered a terrible loss no one should ever have to endure.”
Honour nodded sadly, the lump in her throat preventing her from speaking.
The widow continued. “I found comfort and strength in God’s Word. And though I miss Mr. Lankton dearly, I find that my life is purposeful and never lacking the love of others.”
Honour gave a faint smile at the elderly woman’s empathetic words. “Thank you.”
“God sets the lonely in families,” Widow Lankton said. “It says so in His Word. You are part of my family now and I know you shall always have one with Margaret Wadsworth.”
“Mmm. She has been a great friend to me and Tempe, and more.” Honour stared down at the quilt and the light-colored cinnamon markings, soon to be quilted.
Widow Lankton also looked down at the quilt. “A good amount of the quilting has already been done. It makes me wonder to whom it once belonged. I see great care was taken. It must have been stitched with love.”
A surge of emotion overcame Honour. She squeezed her eyes tight as she fought back racking sobs. Honour could no longer withhold her tears and buried her face in her hands, her grief pouring forth. Though Honour no longer wore her banner of mourning—the black ribbon upon her cap—she was discovering that grief dispensed in waves, like the ebb and flow of the tide. Someday, it might recede entirely, as the painful manner of her family’s demise faded into the unknown. But the memory of her family would forever leave a loving impression upon her heart, like the silhouette of remembrance Widow Lankton kept upon the chest of drawers. When Honour looked at the small portrait it was flat, unmeaning, yet when the widow looked at it, how meaningful it must be to her. Honour had no portraits of her family, save the images she held in her mind’s eye. But the whole-cloth quilt before her was their legacy of love. As painful as it was to part with it, the love was meant to share. Mayhap this was part of letting go.