Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03]

by Message on the Quilt

  “Don’t imagine they’ll be camping,” Ladora said. She paused. “I think he sells real estate,” she said. “Probably up Lincoln way. And the wife is hoping to get him to listen to that Mrs. Willard and to see the light when it comes to demon rum.”

  Grace looked over in surprise, and Ladora grinned. “Well, you got a better story?”

  “As a matter of fact…” The small group was almost out of sight when one of the omnibuses came in sight, packed with passengers. “She isn’t his wife. She is his sister. And she had to give up her dream of becoming an opera singer in order to return to the Midwest and mother her brother’s five motherless children. And they hate her.” She paused, then said quickly, “Except for the youngest. The youngest does not remember her own mother, and she is devoted to the opera singer. Which is the only thing that keeps the poor woman from running away.”

  “Land sakes. Marion Harland’s got nothing on you.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Marion Harland,” Ladora said. “Jessamine? True as Steel? Sunnybank?”

  Grace shook her head. “I’m afraid those names don’t mean anything to me.”

  “Well we will fix that while you are here,” Ladora said. “I know there is some who think that novels just aren’t fit reading for a Christian lady, but you can’t be one of them, you bein’ an actress and all. And Missus Harland writes the best stories.” She opened the newspaper. “But for now, let’s see what the news is for the day.”

  Grace smiled at the huge letters right beneath the newspaper heading. Some store was closing its doors and offering “ridiculous bargains.” She turned the folded paper over so that she could see what was at the bottom of the front page. “Noah Shaw: First Impressions.” The first line quoted a review of one of his performances somewhere in Illinois. “With keen black eyes, with a wealth of jet-black hair, with a face to woo the masses, and with a powerful and magnetic voice, he holds his audiences like no other orator has been able to do.”

  Ladora glanced over at Grace’s paper. “That’s a good likeness,” she said. “Did Mr. Shaw say what he wanted with the colonel? Not that I’m a busybody or anything. But you said you talked on the train.”

  “The first I knew of his interest in anything military was when I heard him ask you about the colonel yesterday morning.” Grace stared down at the image that had been reproduced in the Dispatch. Ladora hadn’t said anything about it, but then maybe Ladora hadn’t looked at those photographs in Josiah’s office in a very long time other than to brush over the frames with a feather duster.

  The resemblance was uncanny. Truly uncanny.

  CHAPTER 14

  Mothers. Who could explain them. They worried if you didn’t show an interest in any of the young men they paraded past you over the years, and then when you finally did show an interest, they worried.

  Mother had kept Emilie in the breakfast nook for what felt like half the morning, reminiscing about when she and Father courted, sharing fond memories of how everyone had known that William and Henrietta would be a “good match,” because, after all, their families had known each other for years and years. She said that even when people know each other really well, there are surprises in relationships that lead to a “period of adjustment.” How thankful Mother had been for the protection of her parents and their guidance during those early years.

  All in all, breakfast had amounted to a motherly monologue on marriage. Which might make a good news column, now that Emilie thought about it. On the other hand, the point of Mother’s motherly monologue had been that, while from all indications Mr. Shaw was a fine man, Emilie should exercise caution in regard to the obvious “high regard” in which he seemed to hold her—so soon after they had met. When Emilie reminded mother that another version of her parents’ courtship and marriage included the term love at first sight, Mother frowned.

  “Well, yes,” she’d said. “But I only thought that in hindsight, when I realized how very compatible your father and I seemed to be. Compatibility must be tested by an appropriate span of time, dear. In some cases, a great deal of time.”

  Half an hour later, as Emilie packed for the next few days of camping on the assembly grounds, she was still upset by the conversation. To her mind, it was a perfect example of one of the things that drove her to distraction about Mother. If there was something about Noah Shaw she didn’t like, then why in heaven’s name didn’t she just come out and say it? What did she want Emilie to do? Why didn’t she just tell her?

  Yanking three summer blouses off their hangars one by one, she tossed them onto her bed. She followed the blouses with three skirts, two pairs of sensible shoes, and various and sundry unmentionables. After she shoved everything into the Gladstone bag Father had brought her from one of his business trips, she added the leather travel set that held her brushes and combs. Finally, she added pens, paper, and two bottles of ink, the latter wrapped in a towel for extra cushioning and tucked safely into one corner of the bag, then held in place with a pair of her shoes—and not her favorite ones. All the while she packed, her emotions simmered as she replayed the scene with Mother at the breakfast table.

  “We don’t want Mr. Shaw to think you aren’t a lady,” she’d said. “You must guard your reputation.”

  As if Noah Shaw were some vagabond. As if he’s suddenly sprouted horns, after all Mother’s fawning over him that first night.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” Emilie reassured her. “Noah Shaw is a consummate gentleman.”

  “Not if he was already speaking of kissing when you’d only just met.”

  “Well, he only spoke of it,” Emilie said. “He didn’t do anything about it.”

  “He didn’t have to, did he?”

  Emilie’s cheeks flamed. “I don’t know what got into me, Mother, but I can assure you it won’t happen again. Now may I please go upstairs and get packed? What time did you say we were supposed to meet Aunt Cornelia?”

  Mentioning the busy day ahead finally got Emilie out of the uncomfortable conversation. Mother gave up and went into the kitchen to speak with Dinah about the meal plans for the days ahead.

  Now, as Emilie put the last of her things into the bag and snapped it shut, she stopped long enough to look at herself in the mirror and to wonder exactly what it did mean that Noah had requested to kiss her cheek—and, more importantly, that she had so readily kissed his. What did it mean that right now, right this minute, all she wanted to do was saddle Royal and gallop into town and talk to Noah? Had he seen the Journal? Did he know they’d printed her article? He would understand how she felt about that. And besides that, he was the second name on the list for Ten for Ten. She needed to interview him and get the article written and submitted—all while moving in to the Bee Hive with the cousins and, if they insisted, going through this evening’s music selections again. April was famous for demanding “just one more run-through.” Or infamous, depending on a person’s mood at any given rehearsal.

  Emilie peered at herself in the mirror and smiled. Time with Noah had to be at the top of her list of things to do on this busy, busy day. Life as a fledgling reporter was good. Very good.

  Emilie hitched up the buggy and drove up under the porte cochere. Dinah helped her put the portable desk Grandfather had used in the war in the back. Emilie put her bag on the seat. And then she waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, she went back inside.

  “She’s all a-flutter,” Dinah said, lifting her eyes to the second story to indicate Mother.

  “About what? There’s so much less to do than last year. Calvin’s probably done most of the hard work already. And Father hired extra help.”

  Dinah nodded. “I know.”

  “And I’m not going to be staying there, so that’s even less work.”

  “I didn’t say she was overwhelmed with work,” Dinah said, and added the potatoes she’d been peeling to the large roasting pan setting on the stove top. “I said she’s all a-flutter.” She paus
ed. “It’s ’bout that gentleman.”

  At that moment, Mother came down the stairs with all three of her needlework bags in hand and several books balanced on one arm.

  Emilie took the books out of her arms. “Do you really think you’re going to have time to read?”

  “One never knows,” Mother said. “Cornelia’s bemoaning the long evenings without our young people about. I just want to make sure I’m prepared to join her if she decides to become some dowager, rocking and knitting.”

  Emilie laughed. “I can’t imagine Aunt Cornelia being content to sit in a rocking chair and watch the world go by.” She led the way outside. “Besides that, I doubt that wild horses would be able to keep her from coming over to the Bee Hive at least once a day, just to make sure that whatever we’re doing meets with her approval.”

  “What’s this?” Mother pointed to the field desk as she settled her needlework bags on the seat.

  “The cousins and I want to make some signs for the Bee Hive,” Emilie said. “The way this folds down will work perfectly. And the cubbyholes will give us all a nice, organized way to keep track of our music and the notes we’ll be taking at the sessions each day.”

  Mother looked doubtfully at the old wooden box, with its drop front and fold-out legs. “Do you really need it?”

  “Perhaps not,” Emilie shrugged. “But I thought I’d offer it, just in case. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “It was just stashed in a corner of the basement back by the coal bin. I’ll take it back in if you don’t want us using it.”

  “No, it’s all right.” Mother climbed up beside her. “I didn’t realize the Bee Hive was going to involve actual furniture. I thought—well, in spite of all my needlework and those books, I suppose I thought—or hoped—that you girls might still spend the greater part of your time at the cottage.” She shrugged. “I made a point of telling Dinah to be sure she brought enough food for everyone—just in case.”

  Emilie glanced over. Mother looked sad. “Well, if they really do end up with the predicted eight hundred tents pitched over on the campground, who knows but that we’ll all come running back the first night.”

  Talk turned to the traffic in town and the weather, the music the Spring Sisters would present this evening, and eventually it wound its way back to the subject of Noah Shaw and Mother’s seemingly harmless musings on what he might present this evening.

  “He thought he’d try to do something that complements our first song.”

  “And what will that be?”

  “The new arrangement April wrote that combines ‘Let Party Names’ and ‘Blest Be the Tie.’” Emilie smiled. “April thought it would be a good idea to remind everyone of the need for unity and Christian charity before the fights start over turns at the table or who gets the last piece of Mrs. Riley’s pie at the dining hall.”

  Mother chuckled, and Emilie began to sing in a low voice, “Among the saints on earth, let mutual love be found; heirs of the same inheritance, with mutual blessings crowned,” then, as they were pulling up into the drive at Aunt Cornelia’s, she finished with, “Blest be the tie that binds, our hearts in Christian love; though lines be long and pie be gone, remember Christian love.” She grinned over at Mother. “We aren’t really singing those words, of course. But you get the idea.” She tied off the reins and climbed down. “Noah’s doing the Shepherd Psalm and the Lord’s Prayer.”

  “So simple?” Mother sounded surprised. “I would have thought he’d be bent on impressing everyone with something less well known.”

  Emilie shrugged. “He said it’s best to keep it simple on the first night—and that there are no greater words than the ones in the

  Bible.”

  “He said that?”

  “Yes, Mother. And now you know he isn’t a heathen.”

  “I never thought him a heathen, Emilie Jane. But I don’t recall the Bible being a topic of discussion at supper.”

  “It came up when we sneaked off behind the carriage house to have that secret romantic interlude.” Emilie watched for Mother’s reaction before laughing. “He’s a good man, Mother. You don’t need to worry about us.” Us. There was no “us.” Feeling flustered, Emilie was thankful when May came out the front door and bounded down the steps. Mother went on inside, leaving May and Emilie to transfer things from the back of the buggy to the already-loaded farm wagon parked alongside the house.

  May grunted as the two of them lifted the camp desk down from the buggy and began to make their way around to the wagon. “Do we really need this?”

  “We might not,” Emilie said. “But I will.”

  “Really?”

  Emilie nodded. “Really.” They loaded the old camp desk into the wagon, and then Emilie motioned for May to follow her. Together, they ducked into the barn. Emilie made a show of making certain they were alone. “I have something to tell you.”

  “Well, there’s a surprise.” May rolled her eyes. “I thought you were just doing your weekly check of the barn.”

  “I’m serious,” Emilie said.

  “And I’m in a hurry,” May replied, “so tell me and then let’s get back inside so we can finally get out to the grounds and get set up.”

  “I took my article to Father.”

  May frowned. “But it wasn’t in the Dispatch. I looked as soon as it arrived.”

  “He said no. Very firmly. But then—” Quickly, she told May about what had happened.

  “It’s in the Journal? And Noah did that for you?”

  “I used a pen name.”

  “I heard that part,” May said. “And Noah did that for you?”

  “If you heard the pen name part, you heard the part about Noah putting it in the mail slot.”

  “Yes,” May said, “but the Noah part is more interesting—at the moment.” She nodded. “So you need the camp desk because you have a series to write now.” She arched one eyebrow. “Is Noah going to continue helping you?”

  “I don’t know. That’s not important. What is important is that I’m going to need your help.”

  “Help with what?” Junie appeared in the doorway.

  “Help with the sign for the Bee Hive,” May said, without missing a beat.

  June frowned. “And you had to sneak out here to the barn to discuss that?”

  “There’s a surprise involved,” Emilie said.

  “And to make it work, Emilie needs to stay in town for a while today.” May grabbed Emilie’s hand. “We both do, actually. But you can’t tell Ma or Aunt Henrietta what we’re up to. Because the surprise involves them.”

  May pulled Emilie after her, and somehow she convinced Mother to let the two of them linger in town instead of following them out to the Chautauqua grounds right away. In moments, Mother and Aunt Cornelia, April and June were headed south in the family’s wagon, while May and Emilie pulled the Springs’ buggy over in front of Klein’s.

  Emilie climbed down. “Tell me when they’re out of sight. I need to find Noah, and that search begins at the Paddock.”

  “You also need to figure out where to get more ink and paper. I suppose we could buy it on credit at Crowell’s.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Emilie agreed. “By the time Mother notices the charge, we’ll be in Long Pine. She’ll have forgotten all about it by the time I get back.”

  “I’m helping you with this for now,” May said, “but you have to tell Uncle Bill and Aunt Henrietta everything—and before we leave for Long Pine. It isn’t right to keep them in the dark. And besides that, it’s a sin to lie.”

  “Of course I’ll tell Mother,” Emilie promised. “Just not yet. I want to let Father get used to the idea first.”

  “He knows?”

  Emilie nodded. “I couldn’t just let him read it in the Journal.”

  May looked over at her. “That explains that strange sound we heard this morning at breakfast.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “P
apa said it was likely just the Queen of the Blue’s whistle. I’m thinking it was more likely Uncle Bill blowing off steam.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha.” Emilie looked toward the hotel. “I’ll be right back if I don’t find Noah.”

  “Find who?” Noah strode toward them from the opposite direction. “I’ve been pacing around the block, hoping you’d get here before too much longer.” He held up the Journal. He’d folded it to reveal E. J. Starr’s interview of Miss Ida Jones. “Have you read this? It’s excellent.” He winked at Emilie.

  May said something about his being on the front page of the Dispatch.

  “That—oh—yes. Of course. Thank you.” He smiled up at May. “I was hoping you might be able to introduce me to this E. J. Starr. I’d like to see if I could wrangle my way onto his list of ten—although I suppose it’s nine, now. You wouldn’t happen to know him, would you?”

  “Him?” Emilie looked up at May. “Did you just hear that? The man reads an article he likes and automatically assumes the author is a man.” She looked over at Noah. “Chauvinist.”

  “Reporter,” Noah said back. “Journalist. Writer.”

  Emilie bobbed a curtsey “Thank you.” She motioned at May. “May came up with a way for me to stay in town just long enough to get the next interview accomplished. I hope you’re available?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you, with just that in mind,” Noah said. “And I’ve been thinking that you probably still want to maintain anonymity?” When Emilie nodded, he continued. “I have an idea to that end. Is Colonel Barton still on your list?”

  “Absolutely. He’s the perfect subject for Independence Day.”

  “I stopped by his house yesterday about another matter,” Noah said, “and his housekeeper invited me to return.”