The housekeeper rose from the nook and, without asking, grabbed Grace’s bowl and refilled it. “You don’t mind my saying so, ma’am, you need to put some meat on those bones of yours. Now eat up.” She slid back into her seat and was quiet for a moment before taking a deep breath and launching into a new subject. “Chautauqua brings a lot of folks into town. A lot of money, too. Hotels fill up fast. Some folks rent out rooms—and I mean folks who never do such things otherwise.” She paused again, seeming to ponder whether or not to say whatever was circling in her mind. Grace lifted her coffee cup to her mouth, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a sip.
Finally, the housekeeper said, “Now don’t take this wrong, but if you’re of a mind to earn some extra money while you’re in town, they’s plenty of chances for it. In fact, might be I could help you with that.” She looked over at Grace. “Not keeping house. I don’t mean that. I can tell you’re not used to scrubbing floors and such.”
Grace set the coffee cup back down. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Yer hands. Don’t take a genius to see you ain’t had to work hard labor. And besides that, you talk real smart. Not like me.”
Grace looked down at her hands. Her hideous hands, boasting paper-thin skin stretched across swollen knuckles. And age spots. How she had mourned the loss of her beautiful young hands. But then the housekeeper put her own red, chapped ones on the table, palms down. “Them’s a working woman’s hands.”
Grace shrugged. “You’re right. I haven’t much experience with ‘real work.’ I’m an actress. I suppose that shocks you.”
The woman laughed. “Takes more than that to shock Ladora Riley.” She got up and refilled Grace’s coffee cup. “You at the Opera House? I heard there’s a comedy troupe expected in.”
Grace shook her head. “No. I–I’m not here for that.” Without warning, tears filled her eyes. She’d made her way up and down the East Coast begging for roles. Any role. But age had robbed her of the beauty that had once made directors willing to overlook her less than stellar talent. Embarrassed, she looked down at her bowl, poking around in the oatmeal with a spoon and trying not to cry.
“There now.” Mrs. Riley patted Grace’s pale, wrinkled hand. “It’s none of my business anyhow. The colonel will help you if he can, no matter why you come to him. You don’t have to say another word.”
Grace swallowed. “It’s just that I was counting on—” she sighed. “It was very kind of you to invite me in and serve breakfast. It was delicious. And now I really must be going. I’m at the Paddock, but I need to arrange to have my things moved this morning.”
“People are pouring into town from all points today and tomorrow. Those who have good rooms had best not let them go.”
“I know you’re probably right, but the manager demanded payment in advance, and my most recent income was in francs and marks, and—the banks here—there’s been a delay.” Again, Grace spoke carefully so as not to tell an outright lie. She did still have a few francs in her trunk somewhere, and presenting foreign money to any of the local banks probably would cause a bit of a delay. It would take a teller at least a few minutes to consult someone, wouldn’t it?
“Why don’t you just stay here and keep me company for the next few days?” It was obvious the woman had just blurted it out, but once the words were out, she didn’t take them back. She picked up steam. “It’s just me rattling around in this big old house, and they’s times I’m about to go crazy from bein’ lonely.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Grace said, even as a faint hope sprung up. Whether she could face Josiah or not, she could get a few days to really rest—and to eat well, if Ladora Riley’s breakfast was any indication.
“They’s no imposition,” Mrs. Riley said. “All I got to do is bake pies every day. I’d welcome the company.”
“I should probably admit that I couldn’t make a pie crust if my very life depended on it,” Grace said. “But I can wash and chop. I’m willing to help, if you’re sure the colonel wouldn’t object to my staying a couple of days.”
“Object? He’s not even here. And he would object to my sending a lady away when there’s likely not a room to be had in the whole city.” Mrs. Riley retrieved a blue-and-white sugar bowl from behind a pile of rhubarb. Setting the lid on the counter, she withdrew a roll of bills, peeled a few off, and held them out to Grace.
Grace shook her head. “Absolutely not. I cannot allow you—”
“The colonel leaves a little in the sugar bowl so’s I can help them that comes to his door when he’s away. I may be nothing but a housekeeper, but he trusts me. And we don’t turn people out. We do what we can.”
Grace took the money. Things were looking up.
Emilie had barely gotten settled between May and Junie on the buggy seat when April snapped the reins and the buggy lurched forward. As she guided the gray mare around and out toward the road, she told the girls they could talk about anything they wanted—with the exception of Emilie’s adventure last night, which had to be saved until they could all hear the story. As the buggy reached the business row where Klein’s Market and the Paddock Hotel and Opera House stood, Emilie couldn’t help but look that way.
“Looking for Noah?” May teased, practically singing the name.
Emilie shot her cousin her best don’t-you-dare look. “Actually, I was just wondering if a Miss Ida Jones might have checked in yet. I’m hoping to interview her.” Her interest in the hotel didn’t have a thing to do with those dining-room windows looking out onto Sixth Street. And a lingering hope of catching a glimpse of a certain person. She was only wondering about Miss Jones. She was only thinking of the interview. With Miss Jones. Noah Shaw hadn’t entered her mind. More than a few hundred times since waking.
May frowned. “But isn’t Mrs. Penner doing the Ladies’ News now?”
June nodded. “She stopped by the house early this morning. Something about double-checking the details of Mama’s Ladies’ Aid announcement.”
“Any excuse to gloat,” May grumbled.
“Don’t feel bad on my account,” Emilie said. “I have an even better idea for a series.” And she told them about Ten for Ten. She didn’t even mention the title “Another View.” Noah Shaw was right. Everyone would be interested in the answers to her ten questions, and she would make Father see just that—if only she could get to Miss Jones and finish the first article. Today. In time for Will Gable to set the type and get it into Friday’s Chautauqua Express.
“So did you ask Mr. Shaw your ten questions?” May asked. When Emilie shook her head, May teased, “Why not?”
“Because,” June chimed in, “they were otherwise engaged.” She leaned over and added a breathless, “In the moonlight.”
Emilie felt herself blushing. “If you two don’t stop that”—she glowered at Junie—“I won’t tell you what Bert wants.”
Junie was instantly serious. “What does Bert want?”
“Promise you will never tease me about Noah Shaw again.”
Junie put her hand to her heart. “I promise.”
“Bert wants to sit with us tomorrow night during the opening exercises.”
Junie’s expression saddened. “What’s so special about Bert wanting to sit with us?”
“You are the best part of us. And before long Bert’s going to realize that, and when he does…”
“She can make him another roast beef sandwich,” May said. “With the famous goblet of milk on the side.”
Emilie could tell from Junie’s expression that there was more to this story than roast beef and milk. She nudged May.
“Mother was fit to be tied when she saw that Junie had gotten out the good china. That’s all.”
“All? That’s all?” Junie shivered. “You would have thought I borrowed her tiara without asking.”
April called back from the driver’s seat. “Since when does our Mama have a tiara?”
“I thought you said you couldn’t hear what we were sa
ying from up there,” Emilie called.
“Just enough to be confused,” April shot back. “And you just hold all the chatter. We are nearly there.”
But instead of guiding the buggy beneath the entryway arches unimpeded, April had to pull up. Emilie, May, and Junie stood up, holding on to the back of the buggy seat and exclaiming over the long line of wagons ahead of them filled with benches, canvas bundles, and an upright piano.
“If that’s the piano for the Tabernacle,” May said, “we are definitely early enough.” She smiled over at Emilie. “It’ll take a while for Mr. Tilden to get it unloaded and tuned. We’ll have time to show you our camping spot before we rehearse.”
And so it was. The wagon with the piano was waved through the gates and headed off toward the Tabernacle, but the same man who had waved that wagon through, directed April to “pull over to the side” and “let these other wagons by.”
“But we’ve a rehearsal at the Tabernacle,” April protested. “We’re the Spring Sisters.”
“Yes’m,” the man said, tugging on the brim of his cap. “I recognize you. But we’ve got to control the traffic today. You ladies will have to park the buggy out here and walk in. We’re only letting the workers hauling supplies onto the grounds today.”
April hesitated. “Can we at least drive over to our parents’ cottage and hitch up there?” She pointed at the pink cottage gleaming in the distance. “I’ll pull around back. Completely out of the way.” She smiled down at the man. “The thing is, we’re spending most of the day out here, and my father will have my hide if I don’t take good care of his old mare.” She nodded at the dappled gray buggy horse.
The man waggled the toothpick jutting out from the corner of his mouth as he thought about it. When someone in the line yelled a protest about the delay, he looked up at April. “The point is all the road apples, ma’am. Got to keep them cleaned up.”
April didn’t miss a beat. “I promise you there won’t be a single road apple left behind our cottage. We’ll see to it before we leave today. You have my word.”
The man nodded. “All right, then.” He waved her through. Emilie heard him call after them. “I’m counting on you ladies to keep your promise.”
She nudged Junie and May. “Ah, the Spring Sisters. Vocalists Extraordinaire and Road-Apple Specialists.” Even April laughed at that one.
CHAPTER 9
April parked Aunt Cornelia’s buggy behind the pink cottage. The girls worked together to unhitch and picket the gray mare and were making their way across the grounds toward the Tabernacle, when May linked her arm through Emilie’s and slowed her down a bit.
“I only heard Ma’s side of the telephone conversation with Aunt Henrietta this morning,” she said. “Did you really run away last night?”
Emilie sighed. “No.” She explained her side of things, ending with, “I wanted to make peace with Mother so that maybe, just maybe, I’d be able to be a drone in your Bee Hive these next few days. And it seems to have worked, at least based on her mood this morning.”
May laughed. “As if you’d ever be a drone.”
“A worker bee, then,” Emilie said. “This is April’s year to be the queen.”
“It’s going to be very strange having her married,” May said.
“It’s already strange. And you know what I mean.”
May nodded. “I agree with you, but what do we know about falling in love? Maybe April’s common sense approach is the way it’s supposed to be.”
“I hope not,” Emilie said. “It’s a shame to be bored before you’ve even said ‘I do.’ Honestly, most of the time it seems to me that Junie is more in love than April.” She paused. “I know everyone says it’s just a crush, but if I ever fall for a man, I hope just looking at him makes me blush the way Junie does when she looks at Bert.”
“Speaking of blushing,” May said, “did this Mr. Shaw who’s coming to dinner really come running out of the night to rescue you?”
“It wasn’t nearly that dramatic.”
May grinned. “Maybe not, but look who’s blushing now.”
Emilie pointed toward the Tabernacle stage. “It looks like Mr. Tilden’s finished tuning the piano.”
“So,” May teased, “we aren’t going to talk about Mr. Shaw?”
“The sooner we finish rehearsing, the sooner we can get over to the campground and see if the tent’s set up.”
“Not even a little?”
“I have an idea for our Bee Hive sign.”
“Okay, then,” May groused. “Not even a little.”
Emilie closed her eyes, savoring the last notes of the arpeggio she always played to finish the Spring Sister’s last song. April, May, and June, had been facing Emilie as they sang, their crossed arms resting atop the upright piano, but when applause sounded, their heads turned toward the back row of benches. Emilie followed their gaze. And gulped. Noah Shaw—with a woman on his arm—was standing beneath the overhang at the back of the Tabernacle.
Emilie pinched herself to prevent the blush she could feel creeping up the back of her neck. She brushed an imaginary bit of dust off one of the bass piano keys and then took great pains to close the lid over the keyboard. Almost in slow motion. Finally, she got to her feet and looked over at the couple approaching the stage. They were both smiling, and Emilie realized that for the first time in her life she had just experienced a bolt of good old-fashioned jealousy—and it didn’t feel good at all. How ridiculous. She barely knew Noah Shaw. Still, when she realized that the hair peeking out from the woman’s hat was snow white, Emilie’s jealousy dissolved into relief. Which was even more ridiculous.
Noah Shaw introduced himself to the cousins, making reference to William Rhodes and the Daily Dispatch and how he’d already heard wonderful things about the Spring Sisters and now he knew why. Then he smiled up at Emilie and, motioning to the lady on his arm, said, “I’ve brought you Miss Jones.”
“Your note was waiting for me when I checked in to the hotel a while ago,” Miss Jones said, “but then Mr. Shaw sought me out on your behalf, as well. I am honored to be at the top of your Ten for Ten list. It isn’t every day a newspaper editor of Mr. Rhodes’s reputation encourages our cause in print.”
Oh dear. Miss Jones thinks Father is championing a cause? And what, Emilie wondered, would that cause be? Suffrage, you idiot. What else could it be? She cleared her throat. “To be quite frank, my Father doesn’t know about Ten for Ten yet. And I honestly don’t know if he’ll be a champion or not.”
Truth be told, she didn’t even know if Father would print it after last night. Surely, though, if the content was good enough—surely she could make a case for a special Chautauqua series. That wasn’t the same thing as a regular column. She’d even offer to publish with a pseudonym. Wouldn’t that make it easy for Father to say yes? When she glanced over at Noah Shaw, his smile gave her courage. She looked back to Miss Jones. “I can, however, promise to do everything in my power to convince him to print the series.”
Miss Jones didn’t say anything for one very long moment. Finally, though, she nodded. “Then we shall do everything in our power to make certain that your piece is so riveting he can’t resist it.”
With a smile, Emilie introduced her cousins. To their credit, neither Noah Shaw nor Miss Jones laughed when April, May, and June Spring introduced themselves. Why on earth Uncle Roscoe had gone along with the idea of those names for his three daughters, Emilie could not understand. It might have been cute when they were little girls, but now—now it was just embarrassing.
The introductions complete, Miss Jones patted Noah Shaw’s arm and said, “Mr. Shaw suggested we conduct the interview over afternoon tea at the Paddock. Does that suit?”
Emilie hesitated. She was supposed to be helping her cousins. And she didn’t have her own transportation. “A–actually—”
Much to Emilie’s amazement, April interrupted and offered the buggy, with only one admonition. “Just don’t forget to fetch us later.�
�
“No Royal today?” Mr. Shaw asked.
Emilie shook her head.
“Then why not accompany Miss Jones and me when we drive back to town? I have to return the hack I rented around two o’clock. You can conduct your interview over tea in the hotel dining room. You might even have time to write up the article and take it to the newspaper office before it’s time for me to escort you home in time for our evening engagement.”
Emilie hesitated. If she went to tea with Noah Shaw and Miss Jones, there would be no time for the lavender bath and rainwater hair rinse Mother had recommended. Then again, if Mother really was trying to throw her at Mr. Shaw, maybe she’d be happy to see them together. It was hard to predict what Mother might think or do.
“Then it’s settled.” May spoke for Emilie and abruptly changed the subject. “We were headed over to the campground just now,” she said to Mr. Shaw and Miss Jones. “Would you like to walk with us? We can give you the grand tour on the way.”
“I’d love to come along,” Miss Jones said, “but I have a meeting over at Willard Hall in just a few minutes.” She looked up at Shaw. “See you at the gate at one forty-five?”
While April, May, and Emilie made their way to the stage stairs, Junie hopped down beside Mr. Shaw and began to pepper him with questions. Where was he from? Did he always have such a deep voice? How was it he came to be out here last night when Cousin Emilie screamed? What did he think of Beatrice? Did he like boating? Did he play baseball? “Because,” Junie said, “if you like baseball, you should sign up to play on Bert Hartwell’s team.”
“June Elizabeth Spring,” April scolded, as the rest of them caught up to her. “It’s rude to ask such personal questions.”
June shrugged. “Well, he looks like he could be a good baseball player. He’s tall and strong.” June turned back to Noah Shaw. “Bert’s the best hitter on the team, but he doesn’t run very well. Sometimes they let someone else run for him, and I bet you’d be hard to beat.” She looked over at April. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help Bert, is there? If Mr. Shaw played on his team, maybe they could win for a change.”
Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] Page 9