Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03]

by Message on the Quilt

  “Mr. Shaw does not play baseball,” Noah said. “He’s much too dignified. On the other hand, Noah loves the game.”

  June sent an I-told-you-so look in April’s direction as she said, “Really? Do you really play baseball, Noah?”

  “You’re looking at the home-run record-holder from St. Charles, Missouri.” He smiled and tapped June on the nose. “And I’ve been known to win a footrace or two. So if your friend wants me on his team, I’ll do my best.”

  Noah couldn’t remember enjoying himself as much as he did for the few hours the Spring sisters and Emilie Rhodes led him on a tour of the Chautauqua grounds. By the end of their time together, he couldn’t decide which of them he liked the most: April, with her carefully constructed dignity; May, with her easy laugh and unbounded energy; or June, who wore her heart on her sleeve and obviously longed to give it to Bert Hartwell. As for Emilie Rhodes, she had won a unique place in his mind—a place he hadn’t taken time to analyze. Yet.

  Hartwell joined the group unexpectedly, not long after Noah and the young ladies had meandered past the bandstand and toward the row of cottages.

  “That’s ours,” Junie said, pointing to a pink structure which seemed small compared to the elaborate tree house off to one side. She glanced over at Noah. “Isn’t it hideous?”

  “It’s—unique,” he said.

  “No,” April chimed in. “Hideous is the correct word. Mama insisted, on the grounds that ‘pink is such a cheerful color.’”

  “We’re lucky our house isn’t pink,” Junie said. “Pa put his foot down at that. So Ma contents herself with pink flowers. Ever–y–where.” The words were barely out of her mouth when a young man emerged from the pink cottage and called a hello.

  June did her best to sound nonchalant when she called out, “Bert Hartwell, what are you doing in our cottage?” It didn’t quite work, though. The tone was a bit off. She was trying too hard. And when her cheeks blazed red, Noah realized why. June Spring was a girl in love.

  June put a hand on Noah’s arm. “This is Mr. Noah Shaw. Mr. Shaw is one of the speakers this year.” She lowered her voice. “But if you agree to call him Noah, he just might join your team and see to it that they win this year. He’s a home-run king. And a fast runner.”

  Hartwell extended his hand. “My boss interviewed you for the paper.” He grinned at Emilie. “I’m checking the cottages for the old man. He asked me to come out here and do one more eradication tour. Spiders. Snakes. Crickets. Ants. Anything that might cause a poor, defenseless woman to scream in the night.” He grasped his lapels and thrust out his chest. “Nothing to fear, now. Hartwell is on the job, defending the defenseless and ridding cottages of vile creatures.”

  “Are you quite finished?” Sarcasm dripped from Emilie’s every word.

  “I’m not sure,” Hartwell said. He pursed his lips. “No, I don’t believe I am. In fact, now that I think about it, I should probably ask Mr. Shaw here to show me where he released that bull—”

  Noah barely saw her move, but in a flash Emilie had knocked Hartwell’s hat off his head.

  By the time Hartwell had yelled her name and snatched up his hat, Emilie had taken off like a shot in the direction of the campground.

  May nudged June from behind. “Betcha I can beat you over there.” And she took off with June on her heels.

  April just shook her head. “You’ll have to forgive them, Mr. Shaw. One Bert Hartwell plus two Spring sisters and a dash of Emilie Rhodes never ceases to be a recipe for unsophisticated nonsense.”

  Emilie’s laughter sounded in the distance, and then June shrieked as Hartwell jumped out from behind a bush, clasped her in a bear hug and swung her about in a circle before setting her down and, with an exaggerated bow, offering his arm.

  April sighed. “Family. There’s nothing to be done but love them, even when they misbehave.”

  “I was just thinking how lucky Hartwell is to be related to such a fun-loving bunch of ladies,” Noah said. “And really hoping that he will ask me to play on his team—especially if you four will be present, cheering us on.”

  April chuckled. “Oh, we have an understanding when it comes to Bert. We never miss a chance to cheer him on. He isn’t actually related, but we all adopted one another years ago when Bert’s family died.”

  “How terrible,” Noah said. “Not the part about his being adopted, of course—but he lost his entire family?”

  April nodded. “Bert calls it his ‘terrible miracle.’ He and Emilie have always been good friends—and they’ve gotten into more than their share of trouble over the years because of it. When they were twelve, Emilie dared him to climb a tree. He fell and broke his leg, and the doctor insisted he stay in the clinic for a couple of days. While he was gone from home, his family contracted something awful.” April swallowed. “The doctor was never quite certain about the diagnosis, even though he quarantined the house. Anyway, within a few days, Bert lost his mother and father, two sisters, and a baby brother.”

  They walked along in silence. Finally, Noah said softly, “I make my living with words—but honestly, what does a person say in such a moment?”

  April gave him a little smile. “Sometimes nothing is exactly the right thing.”

  Noah and April had just walked past the bandstand when June Spring came trotting back from the direction of the campground. “You’d better hurry,” she said. “May is fit to be tied. The land rush has started, and our tent isn’t up yet.”

  “Land rush?” Noah frowned.

  April explained. “It’s what we call today and tomorrow. A rush to get set up—and sometimes there’s a bit of a fight over prime camping spots for those who didn’t prearrange things with the superintendent. But I reserved ours.” She spoke to June. “Pap Green promised me that spot.”

  “What size tent did you order?” May was bent down reading the tag on a canvas bag.

  “The biggest,” April said. “Twelve by fourteen, is it?”

  May shook her head. “They’ve left us an eight by ten.”

  Emilie nudged a board with her toe. “And look at this. The flooring’s all warped. Are you sure we’re in the right spot? Maybe the name is wrong on the tag.”

  April pointed above them. “See that branch? Perfect for a swing.” She walked over to a couple more small trees. “And these are for the hammocks. This is definitely the spot. Pap Green promised.”

  Noah looked down the long row of tents already in place. Here and there a family scurried back and forth between a tent and a wagon, unloading camp chairs and, in one case, a rocker. Just then a man stepped up from behind a nearby tent and, without saying a word, began to help himself to the pine boards stacked near the hackberry tree.

  “That’s our tent floor,” June said and grabbed the board.

  “Doesn’t have a name on it,” the man said, and held on.

  “Doesn’t have to.” Hartwell rushed over. “The lady said it’s spoken for.”

  The man glowered, but he backed off, and June’s face glowed with delight as she gazed over at Bert.

  “Our knight in shining armor,” Emilie joked, “and guardian of the tent floor.”

  Bert rolled his eyes. “Tell you what. How about you ladies guard your spot while Shaw and I take the tent over and make the exchange with Pap Green. We’ll find out about the flooring, too.” He smiled at Noah. “And maybe talk a little baseball?”

  Noah readily agreed and suggested that he and Bert could pitch the tent when they got back. He looked at the four ladies. “And I resent those expressions of disbelief. As it so happens, I spent the better part of one entire summer pitching tents for Sells Brothers’ Circus.”

  June spoke first. “The circus? Really? You’ve been with the circus?”

  Noah nodded, then grinned. “And I’d appreciate it very much if you didn’t broadcast that part of my résumé to the Chautauqua board. I doubt they’d be impressed by the fact that I count Chuckles the Clown a personal friend.”

  Hartwell
laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.” He nodded toward the ladies. “But I can’t speak for them. The little one there once had a crush on a circus clown.”

  “Bert Hartwell!” June scowled at him. “I was six years old.”

  “Seems like yesterday,” Hartwell said, and together he and Noah headed off in search of Pap Green.

  Less than an hour after Bert and Noah went in search of Pap Green, Emilie lifted the tent flap and, along with April, stepped inside their newly raised tent, also known as the Bee Hive. Not only had Bert and Noah arranged for the exchange, but they’d also returned with one of the larger tents that boasted two small sleeping areas on each side of the peaked-roof portion of the canvas.

  “This is positively luxurious,” May said, stepping inside and twirling about. “We may never want to go home.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” April said. “But it is very nice.” She smiled at Noah and Bert. “Thank you very much. We’ll be able to get all moved in this afternoon.” She nodded at Emilie. “While you meet with Miss Jones and write your article.”

  “You two had better get going,” May said. “We’ll see you at supper.”

  Emilie took Noah’s arm, and together they headed toward the gate to meet Miss Jones. “It was very kind of you to set aside your plans this afternoon,” she said.

  “I enjoyed every minute,” Noah said. “You’re very blessed.”

  “In what way?”

  “To have good friends. Cousins. Family.” He sounded wistful.

  “I imagine it’s hard on your family,” Emilie said, “to have you traveling so much. Do you get homesick?”

  “Not in the way you mean,” Noah said. “I don’t really have any family. I’ve been on my own since I was about thirteen. As to home, well…that’s another subject.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry. I apologize.”

  “There’s no need to apologize.” He changed the subject. “I only hope I didn’t talk myself up too much when it came to baseball.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. No one really expects you to hit a home run every time you come up to bat.” She paused. “Three or four per game should be sufficient.”

  “Thank goodness,” he said. “For a minute there I thought I was in danger of disappointing my new friends.”

  Friends. He considered them friends? They walked along in easy silence. Friends. Emilie decided she liked the idea. Very much.

  Noah hitched the rented rig up just outside the Paddock and escorted Emilie and Miss Jones to a table in the hotel dining room before excusing himself to ask after Madame Jumeaux at the desk. Before he could say a word, the clerk waved him over and handed him a note. “Madame Jumeaux left this for you when she checked out.”

  “She checked out?” Noah frowned.

  “Yes, sir. Midmorning. Lock, stock, and barrel, as they say.”

  Noah crossed the lobby to the window by the door and opened the envelope:

  Mr. Shaw,

  You are very kind to have been so solicitous of one you barely know. As it happens, I would have been unable to accept your invitation to dine this evening, even if your own schedule had not changed. Fortune has smiled on me, and I have accepted a unique opportunity which will afford me not only comfortable lodging but also companionship and a small income until the situation I mentioned before corrects itself. I hope that I will have the opportunity to hear one of your upcoming addresses. Sincerely, Mme Grace J.

  Her first name was Grace. Not very French. Noah folded the paper and tucked it back into the envelope, then crossed back to the desk. “Was madame distressed when she checked out?”

  “Isn’t her kind always distressed about something? The woman makes her living in the theater. Seems like being distressed would be a way of life.” The clerk looked over at Noah. Cleared his throat. “Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with the theater, of course. It’s just that—well, sir. You know what I mean. There’s theater and then theatrics. And she seemed to have more of a gift for the latter. You don’t need to worry over her. Turns out she was in town to talk to Colonel Barton.”

  “Colonel Barton?”

  “Yes, sir. You haven’t heard of Colonel Josiah Barton?”

  Noah shook his head.

  “Famous around these parts and beyond,” the clerk said. “Fought with the North brothers and their Pawnee Scouts back in the ‘60s. Got religion somewhere along the way. He’s retired now. Makes it his business to help mothers and such find their long-lost kin—sons, brothers, and such. When he can.” The clerk paused. “Anyway, when the colonel’s gone, his housekeeper has orders to take them in until he gets back. So your lady friend? She’ll be just fine.”

  “And if I wanted to check in with her—just to make sure? Where would I go?”

  “You’d head to the colonel’s house. You passed right by it on your way here from the train station. White house. Lots of red geraniums out front.”

  Noah remembered the house, mostly because of the flowers. Ma had loved red geraniums. “This Colonel Barton,” Noah asked, “he served in the West?”

  “All over the West, from Fort Kearny to Fort McPherson and beyond. Fought with the Pawnee against the Sioux and Cheyenne. Word is he’s writing his memoirs. If he gets it done, it’ll be something to read, I can tell you that.”

  Fort Kearny. Ma had mentioned Fort Kearny. She’d been there, both on the way out with Pa, and then on the way back, alone. Of course there was almost no chance Colonel Barton would remember one woman in a sea of faces. For that matter, he probably hadn’t been anywhere near Fort Kearney when Ma was there. And yet, a man who decided to write a memoir…You never knew what he might recall. Or whom.

  CHAPTER 10

  It was late Wednesday afternoon before Emilie made her way to the Daily Dispatch office, her first Ten for Ten article in hand. Relieved when she saw Dutch still hitched out back behind the newspaper office, she hurried in the back door and up the few steps that led to the double doors opening into the newsroom. As expected, most of the reporters who occupied the desks in the large room had already turned in their columns and were either on their way home for an early dinner or tracking down a story. Her heart pounding, Emilie paused just outside the newsroom doors and looked down at the neatly written pages in her hand.

  She couldn’t imagine a more receptive or enthusiastic subject than Miss Ida Jones. Miss Jones had worked hard and found success in what was, on the whole, a man’s world. She was intellectual, articulate, and charming. And for all her firm beliefs, Miss Jones displayed nothing of what Father called “the typical suffragist’s strident voice and pushy ways.” Miss Jones displayed a keen intellect and ready wit. The first installment of Ten for Ten was very good reading—for men and women alike.

  The manager at the Paddock Hotel dining room had allowed Emilie the use of a corner table for nearly three hours. She must remember to send him a thank-you note. Perhaps she would do so beneath her byline. There was nothing like a little free advertising to win support.

  My byline. Just thinking about it made her smile. A special report from E. J. Starr. First in a series. For a moment, she wavered, but then she convinced herself—again—that this wasn’t the same thing as requesting a regular column in the paper. And besides, she’d used a pseudonym. Of course she knew she couldn’t expect Father to print her name in the paper only hours after he’d agreed with Mother about the Ladies’ News. She’d come up with a way to keep everyone happy—and to offer the Dispatch a scoop. Taking a deep breath, she pushed through the double doors and headed for Father’s office.

  He looked up and frowned. “Why aren’t you at home, helping your mother get ready for our guests?”

  “Because she said she didn’t need me. Aunt Cornelia came over to help, and Mother sent me off to the grounds with the cousins to rehearse.” Emilie paused. “She even said I could help them prepare the Bee Hive—and stay with them during the assembly. You must have had a hand in that. Thank you.”

  Father la
id the pen in his hand down. “You’re welcome. But don’t give me too much credit. Your mother would never stand in the way of something that would strengthen family ties. We want you to remain close to your cousins.” He glanced at the papers in her hand. “You did a nice job with the Ladies’ News. I appreciate the way you handled it.”

  “Working on the last edition convinced me that, in the end, it was the idea of writing for the paper that I liked rather than the Ladies’ News. Which is why”—she looked down at the article in her hand—“which is why I’ve come to ask you about this.” She held the papers out.

  Father took them and glanced at the heading. “Ten for Ten?”

  “Ten questions for ten speakers over the ten days of Chautauqua.”

  Father’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a very good hook.”

  “Thank you. That would be the first of the ten. I spoke with Miss Jones this afternoon. Mr. Shaw agreed to be the second, and I think Colonel Barton would be an excellent choice for the third. Reverend Talmage, if I can get through the throngs to speak with him. And Miss Willard, of course. At least I’ll try. Miss Jones said she would put in a good word for me. You’ll see there that her own story includes many elements people love to hear about—rising from poverty, overcoming obstacles, believing in oneself. As for Mr. Shaw’s interview, my article won’t be a repeat of the one you’ve already planned. It would complement it.”

  Father laid the papers atop the others on his desk. “You’ve given this quite a bit of thought.”

  Her frayed nerves calmed a bit. At least they were talking about it. “You’ll see I’ve chosen a pseudonym. It’s a veiled tribute to Miss Starr, the woman who helped Jane Addams open the settlement house in Chicago.” She and Father had had long conversations about the settlement-house concept. He’d even said that perhaps one day they could visit Hull House. Still, something in his manner prevented Emilie’s relaxing enough to sit down on the chair she’d occupied after the “press room incident.”