Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03]

  As she tapped her way through the grass toward the lighted pavilion in the distance, Grace hunched a bit and leaned on the cane. She had transformed into a crabbed old woman. It was time to get to work.

  The sad truth of it was that she had lost her nerve. Emilie Rhodes, who had never had a nervous bone in her body when it came to playing the piano in front of a crowd, couldn’t seem to play a simple hymn tonight. With the sounding of the last note—she didn’t dare try an arpeggio—Emilie braved a look over at her cousins, taking a bow as the evening crowd offered polite, but decidedly restrained, applause.

  The set of April’s jaw said it all. Emilie was in for a tongue-lashing later tonight. May just looked confused. And Junie—well, Junie was too intent on pretending not to seek out Bert Hartwell’s face in the front row to worry about the accompanist who had missed a few notes during the performance.

  I don’t miss notes. What is the matter with me? The weak applause died down. Emilie felt like slinking into the night. April relied on a strong piano to keep her on pitch. A weakness in her voice to be sure, but not something that the Spring Sisters had ever had to worry about, thanks to Emilie. Until tonight.

  She kept her head down as she descended the stairs from the stage to the sand-covered earth. Thank heavens they were seated in the front row. At least she would only feel eyes boring into the back of her head instead of feeling like she was surrounded by people sending either sympathetic or disappointed looks her way. Still, as she settled on the chair next to Noah, she could feel those eyes. Especially Mother’s and Father’s. Was it possible for mere looks to give someone a headache? She certainly had one.

  The Spring Sisters had barely regained their seats when Reverend E. S. Smith rose to give the invocation. Then the town band played, and happily for them—and the crowd—the Beatrice Band was much better this year than last. Maybe their improvement would obscure people’s memory of the fiasco that was the Spring Sisters this evening. On the other hand, if that tuba player missed one note or six—Emilie Rhodes, that is just mean. Wishing missed notes on a fellow musician. What was wrong with her, anyway?

  As she sat, blinking back tears of shame, Emilie gripped the edges of the bench on either side of her lap and hung on, willing herself to sit with her back erect and her chin held high. She pretended fascination with events on the stage, when all she really cared about was getting the night over with so that she could retreat to the Bee Hive, wallow in her failure—and think about tomorrow’s interview.

  But then Noah leaned close and whispered in her ear, “Everyone has an off night. You’ll be wonderful tomorrow.” Then he covered her hand with his…and left it in place. Not that anyone else could see. Her white lawn skirt hid both their hands. Which made it even more scandalous, she supposed. She looked up at him. Like her, he was concentrating on what was going on up on the stage. And yet…his hand stayed put. And then, he was being introduced so that he could introduce the evening’s lecturer, Professor C. M. Ellinwood of the Nebraska Wesleyan University.

  Noah rose and strode up onto the stage. He looked out over the crowd of several hundred and complimented those in attendance for “choosing Professor Ellinwood’s fine lecture on ‘The Six Days of Creation’ over the Sells Brothers’ Circus.” The latter, as everyone knew, had had the audacity to set up camp this evening in competition with the Interstate Chautauqua. He mentioned that he and Professor Ellinwood had something in common, this being their first opportunity to share an assembly platform. And then he explained that, since the professor’s presentation included “grand and beautiful colored lantern pictures of theological and biblical subjects,” darkness would be required before the beginning of his lecture.

  He looked over at Emilie. “And so I am hoping that the Spring Sisters will grace the stage once again and delight us with another number.”

  He was giving her a chance at redemption. The girls rose to a smattering of polite applause, and on the way up to the stage, sweet May leaned in and said, “Just imagine them all in their unmentionables. That always works for me.”

  May meant well, of course, but Emilie’s mind went straight back to its usual subject. She was fairly certain that Noah Shaw looked amazingly good in anything he wore—or didn’t. And that thought made her blush again. Finally, though, she decided to imagine what April would say and do if Emilie let her down again. Dread of that had the desired affect. Emilie concentrated on the hymn. She didn’t miss a single note. She even dared an arpeggio. This time, the applause swelled.

  As the girls made their way back to their seats, Noah moved to the edge of the stage, and as twilight fell and the Tabernacle crowd faded from view in the gathering dusk, he began his recitation. “‘The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want….’” The crowd stilled. Emilie turned her head just enough to see a few rows of the crowd. People had lifted their heads and were staring, mesmerized, as Noah’s rich voice resonated beneath the Tabernacle roof. With a few quiet remarks, he transitioned seamlessly into the Lord’s Prayer and, finally, back to Psalm 22. Then he ended with one phrase. “‘The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want.’”

  When Noah’s voice died away, it was as if the crowd gave a collective sigh. There was no applause, just silence as Professor Ellingham’s magic lantern projected a colored slide intended to illustrate Genesis 1:1, “In the beginning…God.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The moment the opening meeting concluded and Noah stood up, he was surrounded. Someone held a program up and requested his autograph. While he was signing the program, someone else asked where he’d studied elocution. The program said he was from the St. Louis area. Did he happen to know that wonderful orator Garrison Richards? Another program was thrust forward for his signature. He took the pencil, all the while scanning the crowd for Emilie. Where had she gone? She’d been right beside him only moments ago. Now…now he was in a conversation with overzealous redheaded twins, essentially trapped here at the bottom of the stage stairs.

  “We’ve heard so much about you from our mother,” one twittered, “and now we know why.”

  “Indeed we do,” the other said. “We’re the Penners. Flora and Fern.” The speaker glanced at her sister. “And we’ve never heard such a beautiful rendition of the Shepherd’s Psalm. Your voice—you project so well.”

  “Girls, girls.” A woman—obviously the twins’ mother—pushed her way through the small group gathered around him. “Let Mr. Shaw take a breath.” She beamed up at him, “You must forgive Fern and Flora their zeal. It’s my fault, I’m afraid. I’ve been singing your praises ever since I learned that you were the same lecturer I heard at the conference last year.” She paused. “And I must say I’m more than a little envious of my friend Henrietta Rhodes. She’s out-paced everyone with last evening’s dinner party. I’m hoping to convince you to join the Penner family for a meal at some point during the assembly. We’ve one of the cottages here on the grounds.”

  Noah nodded without really listening. Finally, he caught a glimpse of Emilie heading off in the direction of the campground with May. She wasn’t even looking his way. What did that mean? Was she upset?

  The twins’ mother was still talking. Noah nodded while he signed other programs. It had begun. Anonymity would be impossible now—at least insofar as the few hundred people who’d attended this evening’s session were concerned. And all he wanted to do was follow Emilie back to the Bee Hive.

  But then he noticed a young girl standing back a bit, clutching a program, waiting. Hardly daring a glance in his direction, and yet…waiting.

  “Wonderful,” the twins’ mother was saying. “We’ll look forward to it.” She spoke to her daughters. “Come along now, girls. We mustn’t monopolize Mr. Shaw’s time. There are many others who wish to speak with him.” She headed out into the night, the two girls following along.

  Even as he wondered what he’d just agreed to, Noah moved toward the girl, noting her simple calico dress, which was clean but faded. He bent down. “May I help you,
miss?”

  The girl nodded. “I liked your ‘Lord is My Shepherd.’” Noah had to strain to hear the words. “My mama used to say it every night for prayers.” Tears gathered in her eyes.

  Used to say it. Everything else faded away as Noah concentrated on the young girl remembering a mother who was, for whatever reason, no longer saying prayers with her.

  “My mama taught me,” Noah said, as quietly as possible. When the girl looked up at him, he gave a little nod. “She’s been gone since I was about your age. I miss her every day. But I’m glad she taught me that psalm. Every time I recite it, I pretend that God has opened a window in the sky and she’s looking down on me, smiling. Sometimes that makes me cry, but mostly it makes me feel better.”

  The girl nodded. She started to hold the program out to him, but then she sighed and took it back. “I don’t have a pencil.”

  Someone handed Noah a pencil. He asked the girl her name and wrote, For Elizabeth, Psalm 119:92, Noah Shaw. “That’s another verse that helps me,” he said and recited, “‘Unless thy law had been my delights, I should then have perished in mine affliction.’” The girl looked over at him with a little frown. He smiled at her. “You’ll understand it better when you get older, but one of the things I think it means for you and me is that even when we feel sad, we should keep on saying the Shepherd’s Psalm.”

  The girl nodded and thanked him in a shy, half-whisper. Noah watched her make her way across the pavilion and to the side of a work-worn man in a battered hat, who was waiting just at the fringe of the light. When the girl looked up at him and said something, the man looked over at Noah and tugged on the brim of his hat. Then he and the girl disappeared into the night.

  Could a poor child be an angel in disguise? Feeling humbled—and convicted that he shouldn’t be so self-centered when it came to these moments after a performance—Noah shut all thought of Emilie out of his mind and took up the work. He signed programs and conversed with strangers about everything from the beautiful assembly grounds to the new courthouse being erected up on Sixth and Grant Streets to Mr. Wilde’s new novel about a surreal portrait of a man named Dorian Gray. And then he caught up with the redheaded Penner twins over at one of the cottages. He apologized for not paying better attention and learned than he’d agreed to a Sabbath-day luncheon with the family. They would collect him directly after the eleven o’clock service.

  It was ten o’clock by the time Noah could seek out the Bee Hive. The campground had been set up like a small town, with named streets and numbered tents, both of which facilitated the moving of people and the mail, the latter delivered daily. As Noah walked up one street and turned onto another, the sounds of voices and the glow of lighted lamps shining through the canvas made him think of the Indian tepees Ma had embroidered on his quilt. She had described the glow of campfires on the prairie. He didn’t think she’d ever described glowing tepees, but as Noah looked around him, the effect of lamps lighted inside the canvas tents was almost magical. Did tepees glow this way on winter nights when snows kept their owners close to home?

  Ma had said someone told her that among the Indians, the woman owned the tepee. It was the woman’s job to take it down and put it back up again, and the woman was the one to haul it across the prairie when the tribe moved. She’d seen a long line of Indians go by once. She said the women were walking alongside ponies dragging a conveyance made by attaching the tepee poles to either side of the pony, and then suspending the household goods on a blanket or buffalo skin between the poles. A travois, they called it.

  Low thunder in the distance made Noah looked toward the west. Ma had heard that tepees could stay in place even in a very high wind. She’d thought about that the night a storm blew her wagon over. That was the night Pa died, although Ma had never said that, exactly. She just didn’t talk about Pa all that much. It was as if one night she was on the trail with him, and the next she was headed the other way with a freighter who’d agreed to give her a ride back to where she came from.

  A lot of people at the assembly tonight had expressed a wish for rain to relieve the heat. They might get their wish tonight. Noah looked about at the campground. What would happen to all these tents if a storm blew through? He frowned, thinking of the huge tree branch arching over the place where Emilie and May would be sleeping. On a hot summer day, such a thing was a boon because of the shade. But on a stormy night?

  The sound of laughter brought him back to the moment and interrupted the worry. Group laughter. And above the laughter, the strumming of a guitar from the direction of the Bee Hive. He knew a quote about bees. Benjamin Franklin, he thought. What was it? Something about a spoonful of honey catching more flies than vinegar. Why anyone would want to catch flies, Noah wasn’t sure. He remembered the quote. “Tart words make no friends; a spoonful of honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar.” He didn’t like thinking of himself as a fly, but one thing was certain. He was being drawn to the Bee Hive.

  Grace made her way back to Josiah’s house through darkened, quiet streets. She’d thought she had plenty of time to become Grace Jumeaux again, but she was only halfway up the stairs when she heard the back door creak. She paused just long enough to realize that Ladora was heading this way. As quietly as possible, she scampered up the remaining stairs and into her room. Grimacing as she literally ripped the wig off her head, she stuffed it beneath the bed, along with the cane and the gray shawl, then leaped beneath the covers, still fully clothed. Turning on her side and away from the door, she huddled down, willing her breathing to even out as she listened. As expected, the door creaked open.

  Adding just the right tone of confusion—after all, she was supposed to have been asleep—Grace croaked, “W–who’s there?”

  With a sigh of regret, Ladora opened the door a bit farther. Her voice just above a whisper, she answered. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just couldn’t settle in until I was certain you were all right. Did those headache powders help at all?”

  Grace waited before answering. “Y–yes. I believe so.” She turned over to face the door—and Ladora. “Now that I’m awake, I think—I think the pain is less. Thank you.”

  “Has your stomach settled? I could make some mint tea if you’d like.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. I’m sure I’ll be fine in the morning. How was the opening?”

  “Oh, it was fine. Just…really…so fine. Mr. Shaw’s voice…and the music. I wish you could have been there. The magic lantern show was beyond anything I could have imagined. The professor asked Mr. Shaw to read the creation account from the Bible, and when he said, ‘And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters,’ the professor actually made the waves up on the screen move. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was mighty near to miraculous. It made me think of all the places you’ve been in your travels. You’ve been blessed, Grace. I’m not complaining, mind you. Old Ladora Riley’s got herself plenty to do right here at home. But the ocean. That must be something.”

  “It is,” Grace said. “I’m glad you enjoyed the evening.”

  “There’s another one Sunday. You’ll get your chance to see for yourself.”

  Grace said nothing.

  “I’ll let you rest now. I’m glad you’re feeling better. Heat should be letting up in the night. There’s a bit of lightning in the west. We just might get rain.”

  “I’ll be down in plenty of time to help chop more pie plant,” Grace said.

  “Now don’t you give that another thought. You just rest. You need anything, give the floor a whop with a shoe, and I’ll come running. In fact, give the floor two whops when you’re ready for breakfast, and I’ll bring it up. You remember that, now. One whop for help and two for breakfast.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but I’m quite certain I’ll be mended by morning. Good night, now.”

  Grace waited a moment after the door had closed before throwing back the covers. She hoped Ladora was right about the rain. Goo
dness but it was a hot night to be lying under even one light comforter, let alone with all these clothes on.

  She sat in bed, listening until she was certain Ladora had finally retreated to her own room at the back of the house. Slipping out of bed, she knelt on the carpet, grunting as she fished her things out and stowed them in her costume trunk. Next, she retrieved the exquisite little box where she’d stowed the French buttons. She would have to sell them now. It was the only way for her to pay her way onto the grounds again. And she had to return, even though she had little interest in a magic lantern show.

  Of course the businesses would stay open to take advantage of all the people in town, but the owner might want to take advantage of the Chautauqua sessions—and only an owner was likely to be aware of the value of French enamel buttons. A town this size should have at least half a dozen women in the dressmaking business. Surely there would be one owner who would choose business over pleasure. The right woman should be willing to pay a dollar a button for the matched set, and she’d know she was getting a bargain in the process.

  Laying the button box atop the dresser beside the door, Grace slipped out of her dress and donned her nightgown, scolding herself for tonight—which had amounted to an abject failure. She might not have had a headache earlier this evening, but she was getting one now. She sighed. Of all the things that had changed in her world of late, of all the things that she had lost as her youth waned, she didn’t think she’d ever lose her courage. There’d been ample opportunity to resupply her empty purse tonight out at the assembly grounds. People were so naive. It would have been easy. Why hadn’t she taken advantage of it?

  She turned away from the window and, in the process, knocked the book she’d borrowed off Josiah’s shelf onto the floor: Illustrations and Meditations by Charles Haddon Spurgeon. Intended to help her remember the right vocabulary for her current role as a respectable old maid. Confound Charles Spurgeon for his blasted meditations, anyway. And confound Ladora Riley and Noah Shaw and Emily Rhodes and their blasted niceness. Because of them, a part of her she’d thought long since dead and buried seemed to be resurrecting itself. Because of them, she was going to have to sell her French buttons. And she didn’t appreciate it. Not one bit.