The two friends whiled away the Sabbath together. May read while Emilie worked on another article—this one a behind-the-scenes discussion of all the hard labor by mostly unseen folks that enabled the Chautauqua to proceed. They took a nap, and Emilie mostly managed not to obsess over Noah, who was likely charming the daylights out of Hazel Penner and her twins even as he impressed Mr. Penner, who taught English, with his knowledge of literature. Noah had dozens of quotations stuffed into his handsome head.
CHAPTER 18
She might have wandered from the fold, but even Madame Jumeaux had her limits. When a plethora of opportunities presented themselves on the Sabbath, Grace looked the other way. Once, she even warned a particularly inattentive young lady. “You should keep a better watch over your bag, dear.” When the young lady in question scowled at her, Grace handed her the coin purse she’d just lifted. “This practically fell right out of it.”
“Th–thank you, ma’am,” the girl said.
When Ladora looked over with surprise, Grace shrugged. “Wherever there are crowds, there are pickpockets. Unfortunately, the larger the crowd where people are inclined to assume goodness on the part of their fellow event-goers, the more tantalizing the prospects. Have you heard of London’s Metropolitan Tabernacle?”
“Who hasn’t?” Ladora said. “The colonel dreams of hearing Spurgeon speak there one day.”
“I have had the honor,” Grace said, “and I was warned that those crowds are considered prime targets for some of London’s less savory elements.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Ladora sighed. “But I don’t like to think on it. Someone who would take what’s not theirs from the Lord’s own people on the Sabbath must have a very dark heart, indeed.”
Exactly, Grace thought. Even Madame Jumeaux had her limits. And so she stayed with Ladora and listened to Noah Shaw re-create the confrontation between Satan and God in the book of Job.
She supposed she’d heard the story before, but when Shaw recited the opening, it was as if it were new material. “‘Hast not thou made an hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land. But put forth thine hand now, and touch all that he hath, and he will curse thee to thy face.’”
Of course Job had done no such thing. The thing was, though, most of the people Grace had ever known seemed to agree with what Satan was saying. That was obviously the wrong side of the heavenly conversation, but it had always seemed to Grace that people were pious because they believed that if they were good, God would respond in kind. The reverse side of that coin was true, too. If you weren’t good, you were on your own.
As Shaw’s monologue proceeded, things got beyond what Grace remembered of the story—and, in more ways than one, beyond her experience and understanding. First of all, God let Satan wreak havoc in Job’s life, which was strange enough in itself, but then Satan was proven wrong, because Job wasn’t at all like the pious people Grace had known—the ones who treated God like a celestial banker.
Even without anything to his name, even when his own wife told him to “curse God and die,” Job held on to faith. Oh, he whined and stomped his feet for a bit, but at the end of the book—and the end of Noah Shaw’s monologue—Job was still believing. And God hadn’t even told Job that the whole thing was an experiment and that Job was going to get everything back. In fact, without getting one thing back—except a good talking-to by the Almighty—Job stayed true.
Grace had never known anyone like Job, and something about all that “where were you” passage at the end made her squirm. Did Josiah espouse the kind of faith Job had, or did he “get religion” in order to earn God’s favor? And which kind of faith would be best for Grace when it came time to face Josiah? Wondering made her head spin. The idea of facing God made her tremble.
Maybe she should just take the money she’d gotten for those buttons and whatever else she could get while she was here and buy a ticket for as far away as the money would take her. By the end of the evening she’d decided that was the best idea yet.
“Land sakes!”
The shout and resulting crash from below brought Grace fully and immediately awake. For a moment, though, she remained disoriented. It was still pitch dark outside. What on earth?!
It’s Monday. Josiah would be here this evening, and one way or the other Grace was going to have to decide once and for all what to do.
Ladora had talked even more than usual last evening on the way back from the Tabernacle service. Noah Shaw’s reciting Job didn’t seem to have affected Ladora one bit. Her concern centered around preparations for Josiah’s return. You would have thought it was up to Ladora Riley to single-handedly prepare the residence for the Queen. She had an absurd list of things she wanted to accomplish. Grace sincerely doubted that Josiah would care whether or not there was fresh straw in the nesting boxes in the chicken coop. On the other hand, after Ladora turned in and Grace couldn’t sleep, she was glad for the knowledge that if she could make it until dawn, she would be too busy to think.
More noise from below set her nerves on edge. Today was the day. With a sigh, she slipped out of bed, combed her long gray hair, wrapped it up, dressed, and padded downstairs.
“I suppose I woke you with all my crashing about,” Ladora said. She was standing at the counter pouring water over the lard she’d added to a bowl of flour. “Thought I should get these pies out of the way. I just couldn’t sleep another wink.”
Grace donned an apron before grabbing a handful of rhubarb and heading to the sink to rinse it. “What’s on your list that I can do besides washing and chopping the pie plant.” She looked over. “Did you really pick this in the dark?”
“Wasn’t all that hard,” Ladora said and settled a thin sheet of pie dough into the first of the five pie plates. “As to what you could do, there’s the nesting boxes—but that has to wait until daylight. So does scrubbing the front walk and the porch. Oh—and those cushions on the rockers need to have the dust beat out of them. That one fern in that planter to the right of the door looks a little peaked. Might get a replacement if there’s time. The geraniums need to be dead-headed. I suppose that’s all for the outside.”
Grace smiled as she worked. “Unless you want the siding to the house and barn scrubbed?”
Ladora looked over at her with a frown. “You think it needs it?” And then she broke off. “You’re joshin’ me.”
“Only a little.”
“I just want things to be nice. Don’t want the colonel thinkin’ I’ve spent these weeks he’s been gone lounging about.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“Nigh onto ten years.”
“Then I suspect he knows that you’re about as far from being the type who plays when the cat’s away as Beatrice is from London.”
Ladora plopped another lump of dough onto the counter and began to roll it out. “Wish it didn’t take most of an hour to get pies delivered out to the dining hall.”
“If you had a telephone”—Grace didn’t look up as she washed the last of the rhubarb—“you might be able to call one of the other ladies on the committee and ask them to do it for you.”
Ladora didn’t respond for a moment. “And if I was the Queen of England, I’d be having tea and crumpets and my livery man would be baking my pies.”
Grace laughed. “I doubt even the Queen of England can get her livery man to bake pies for her.” She looked over at the housekeeper. “I’ll deliver them for you. In fact, I’ll do all the outside work. Even the nesting boxes, if you’ll agree to let those two hens that hate me so much out in the yard first.” She shuddered. “They scare me.”
“Colonel wouldn’t like it, my treating a guest like a maid.”
“You’ve let me be in charge of the rhubarb,” Grace said.
“That’s different. It’s for the missions. Even high-toned ladies in town do such as that for missions.”
&n
bsp; Grace sighed. “I’m not a high-toned lady, Ladora. Let me help. Please.”
“You know how to drive a wagon?”
“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t.” And so, a little before noon, Grace nestled five freshly baked pies into the straw scattered over the wagon bed, climbed up to the driver’s seat, and headed the plodding draft horse named Babe to the grounds. The gatekeeper peered over the side of the wagon and then up at Grace.
“Those Mrs. Riley’s pies?”
“They are,” Grace said.
“Thought so.” He smiled. “You staying for the W.C.T.U. meetin’ today?”
Grace shook her head. “Just delivering these to the dining hall.”
The man nodded and waved her through. “No charge.”
Things were chaotic at the dining hall when Grace arrived. Apparently the original tent had been all but destroyed by the storm the previous Friday night. Supplies were depleted and now the dining hall was only partially sheltered. Over half the tables would be out in the sun if the ladies maintained the original setup. The woman in charge of things was ill, but someone had made the obviously necessary decision to change that original setup as the sun emerged from the clouds. Now, over a dozen people scurried about with a common goal but no organizer to see that it was achieved efficiently.
No one seemed to notice Grace, waiting to be told what to do with the pies. Finally, she climbed down from the wagon and went in search of the answer. It presented itself when she made her way beneath the awning and saw a table covered with a white sheet. Flies swarmed over the sheet. Clearly, that was where today’s pies were being kept.
Someone shouted thanks from the opposite end of the dining hall as Grace, pie in hand, headed for the sheet-covered table. “You’re welcome,” Grace called back. “These are from Mrs. Riley.” She lifted the sheet to slide the pie into place. And that’s when fate presented temptation. Right there beneath the sheet. A black money pouch.
Grace dropped the sheet and headed back for the other pie. One by one, she transferred pies into place. Four times she ignored the money pouch. But the fifth time, she did what any number of people in her position would do. She accepted fate’s offering.
Her heart pounded all the way back through the Chautauqua gates. At any moment she expected someone to come running after her. But no one did. The money pouch remained where she’d put it, nestled in the straw behind her, covered over by the sheet used to protect Ladora’s pies.
All the way back to Josiah’s, all the way up the drive, Grace worked at hardening her resolve. All day long, she worked, deadheading geraniums and replacing faulty ferns in the porch planters, and sweeping the floor, and beating the dust out of the rocker cushions and giving fresh straw to the pesky hens. And for once she missed Ladora Riley’s chatter, because working outside meant swirling thoughts about things that Grace did not care to ponder.
It was all well and good for people like Ladora Riley and Noah Shaw to wax eloquent about matters of faith. Ladora had no worries at all as housekeeper to a man who was apparently a paragon of virtue, and people fawned all over men like Noah Shaw. Grace doubted he’d ever had a hungry day in his life. If Josiah had taken his responsibility seriously years ago, she wouldn’t have been left on her own. If she’d had Noah Shaw’s looks, she would still be in the theater. Some golden-hearted sop would likely replace the money. It probably wasn’t even that much. And besides that, the deed was done. She couldn’t exactly take it back, now, could she?
It was late afternoon before Grace had finished everything that Ladora had wanted done outside. She even picked enough pie plant for tomorrow’s pies. With her arms laden with rhubarb it was easy to hide the money pouch from view as she carried it inside. Hopefully, it would provide the answer she wanted about facing Josiah.
She wouldn’t have to.
Ladora was still upstairs when Grace went back inside. She laid the rhubarb in the sink, then snatched a clean apron off the hook by the back door and used it to hide the money pouch as she headed upstairs. She was halfway up when Ladora leaned over the railing. “Finished already?”
“I brought in tomorrow’s pie plant,” Grace said. “And I thought I should put on a clean apron before I help inside.”
“Well aren’t you just the nicest thing,” Ladora said. “I’ve just finished with the colonel’s room. Thought I might get a bouquet of flowers from the field next door and put them on his desk. After that, I’ll rustle us up some supper. I’m plum tuckered.”
“Don’t worry about feeding me,” Grace said as she continued on into her room. “I’m really not all that hungry.”
“Not hungry? Nonsense. You’ve just been too busy to notice, I reckon. Hard as you’ve worked, by the time you get that clean apron on, your stomach will be growling loud enough to raise the dead. Mine already is.” Ladora headed on downstairs, prattling away about how the colonel should be here any minute now, and she’d just get those flowers and then maybe they’d have some cold roast beef sandwiches or maybe…”
Ladora’s voice faded as she headed toward the back of the house. Grace closed the bedroom door. She placed the money pouch on the bed and stared at it while she removed the soiled apron and donned a clean one. Finally, she opened it. And gasped. She hadn’t expected so much. Was it the entire earnings from the weekend and beyond? What fool would leave it all in one place? They should have known to deposit it at the bank at the end of every day.
She sat on the bed for a moment, willing herself to avoid the obvious. Finally, though, conviction settled over her like a cloud. Conviction. Where had that come from? She had what she’d wanted all along. Enough money so she wasn’t at anyone’s mercy. She could leave if she wanted to. Leave and look for honorable work and maybe write to Josiah—or return when she’d had time to—honorable. What a word. A good word, just not a word she should use in regard to herself.
She closed her eyes against the memories of every little step she’d taken away from honor and into all kinds of things. She hadn’t planned to wander. It had just happened. She’d never planned to lie or cheat. But sometimes a girl alone—and then a woman alone. When she’d heard Charles Spurgeon preach about “the dangers of sin” and the “wiles of Satan,” she’d smirked. Anything she’d done was petty compared to real crime. She’d made sure of that, always treading just along the edge of the pit, making sure not to slip and fall in a way that would make recovery impossible. She had rules. She didn’t steal on the Sabbath, for example. She didn’t steal from the poor, and she never took more than what she absolutely had to have to survive. She’d never done anything that would hurt someone truly good. Until today.
As she looked down at the money pouch, conviction and fear settled over her like a cloud. She would go to jail if they caught her. What had she done?
Although the western sky was still light, the eastern sky had darkened to a cobalt blue and the evening star had appeared on the horizon when Emilie finally finished her next article and managed to sneak it into editor Carl Obrist’s bag at the newspaper tent. She’d felt oddly out of sorts all day long because, even though the interview had gone well and she felt good about the article, she hadn’t seen Noah today. Unless one counted passing by the children’s class this afternoon when he was telling Mark Twain’s story of a certain celebrated jumping frog.
Perhaps he would make his way to the Bee Hive this evening, but if he did he’d find an empty hive, for the Spring Sisters and Emilie had promised their parents to spend the evening at the cottage with the new double-decker tree house. It was, to hear Mother tell it, the “talk of the entire assembly.” Something of an exaggeration, Emilie thought. On the other hand, she imagined that the view of the grounds from the higher platform was probably quite spectacular. She was already looking forward to joining the family up there for the torchlight processional and the fireworks display on July 4th.
Bert Hartwell was standing outside the Bee Hive, almost like a sentry.
“Waiting for Junie?”
> “Wh–what?” Bert frowned. He took a step sideways to keep her from entering.
“It’s all right, Bert. She won’t mind. And I have to get changed, too.”
He actually grabbed the tent flap so that she couldn’t get in.
“Hey. Give a girl a break. I’ve had a long day, and I’m in no mood.”
“Wait. Just…wait.”
She heard an odd sound and looked over at the wing she shared with May. “What’s going on in there?”
“Something you’ll like. Just trust me and wait a minute.”
Finally, a familiar voice sounded from inside. “Ready, Hartwell.”
Noah? Emilie looked up at Bert, who grinned. With a flourish, he stepped aside and raised the tent flap himself. Emilie ducked inside. Looked. Looked again.
“It isn’t perfect,” Noah said. “But at least it isn’t in some trash pile.”
“That can’t be the same camp desk,” Emilie said. “It was smashed to smithereens.”
“Not quite,” Noah said. He nodded over at Bert. “Hartwell helped me pack up the pieces. And I talked a carpenter in town into trying to mend it.” He looked over at the desk. “I think he did a good job.”
Emilie stepped closer. She ran her hand over the surface of the desk. Peered at the cubbyholes.
“The legs that fold out had to be replaced. They weren’t much more than toothpicks. Everything else is the same though—well, with several pounds of glue added.” He chuckled.
“I—I don’t know what to say.” She looked up at him. “Does Mother know?”
“We didn’t say anything,” Bert said, “in case it really was impossible.” He nodded at the desk. “You’ll want to check that lower left-hand cubbyhole.”
Emilie reached into the cubby and withdrew a clear glass paperweight. It was the small rectangular kind made popular as a way to frame and preserve photographs or post cards. This one contained carefully pieced-together fragments of the Journal. The date of the edition, the words Ten for Ten from her first article, and the byline for E. J. Starr.
Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] Page 18