Mary thought about the odd conversation after they left, but Jennifer’s arrival and their walk to the garden to get her digging potatoes put the Williamssisters from her mind. It wasn’t until a week or so later, when Matilda Kaliska came in, that she recalled the earlier visit by the sisters. Matilda, too, looked at wedding silks, but then she was a seamstress who specialized in wedding dresses.
“I hope to blend a deep purple taffeta with a lighter purple silk,” Matilda said. “I’m going to cover the buttons. There’ll be two dozen down the back, and I’ll ruche the bodice. It’ll be two pieces, the jacket and then a pleated back plate below the bustle on the skirt.”
“It sounds lovely,” Mary said. “Who is the lucky bride?”
Matilda blushed. “Oh, I can’t say,” she said. “It’s a secret, but of course the bride-to-be hopes she meets the test.” Test. That word again.
“Is there some sort of contest about?” Mary said.
“Contest? Oh no, nothing like that. I shouldn’t have said anything. I need to pick up additional material for a quilt I’m making, too. Richard—Mr. Taylor—needs to come every week to keep me in supplies,” she said, wagging her finger at Mary in a kindhearted way.
“I didn’t know that you quilted, too. What pattern are you working on?” Mary asked as they walked toward the bolts of cloth on the shelf near the back of the store. Mary had decided to move her best sale items to the back so that customers had to walk all the way through the stoneware, furniture, and lanterns to reach them, thus being exposed to other products along the way.
“Storm at Sea,” she said. “It’s a Bible quilt block.”
“Yes, I know.” Mary’s heart fluttered at the memory of Richard holding her hand over that troubling sea. “I could get you the book of—”
“Richard—Mr. Taylor—mentioned that he’d sold it, and then he drew the pattern on a piece of butcher paper from memory. His skill of recall is fabulous, and he so enjoys quilting. So many men discount the intricacies of a seamstress. He said he’d order in a book for me, but his sketch was sufficient to get me started. I’ve nearly completed it using Rosa Red thread. I just adore the feel of that flax thread—don’t you? Oh, that’s right, you don’t quilt, do you? Richard—Mr. Taylor—mentioned that.”
He’d talked about her? But it was her lack of something that was the focus of the conversation. Mary’s heart sank.
Matilda bought two yards of plaid wool along with the purple taffeta and said she’d get whatever else she needed when “Richard—Mr. Taylor” came by next. “But Mary, I can’t thank you enough for hiring him. His visits have brought such a delight to Mama and to me. And I believe I will take him up on his suggestion that I consider opening a shop in Brownsville proper. Of course I’d buy all my materials from you, Mary. Richard—Mr. Taylor—said it would be only right since it’s your store that gave me the confidence to branch out.”
Richard—Mr. Taylor—had apparently acquired a spread-out name, as each of his customers Mary encountered referred to him with both his informal and then formal titles. Well, Richard—Mr. Taylor—was like that, Mary supposed. It was part of his charm, and she should be grateful; her business was in the black for the first time since Dale’s death.
But she wasn’t grateful at that moment; she was envious, not a helpful emotion to harbor at all.
Chapter 5
Why Bessie, it’s so good to see you,” Mary told the woman, who sported new glasses.
“It’s good to see you, too, Mary. Now that I can.” She adjusted her spectacles. “I had no idea what all I’d been missing not being able to see, don’t you know?”
“And still you made the most endearing quilts,” Mary said. “Even without glasses.”
“Oh, but they’ll be better than ever now. That’s what Richard—Mr. Taylor—told me. In fact, that’s why I’m here. I’m so hoping I can meet the test of a truly fine quilter.”
“What test would that be?” Mary asked. Though she didn’t know why, her stomach hurt in anticipation of what Bessie might tell her about this infamous test … and Richard’s part in it.
“Well, I shouldn’t say, really, but Richard—Mr. Taylor—has as much as said that if he can find a woman who is truly devoted to her quilting; who stitches patterns to give away, showing her generous spirit; who also serves her family, using scrap pieces quilted to keep them warm and to demonstrate her love for them; and who quilts with color and design to honor the gift of creativity given by our Creator; well, that’s the kind of woman who meets his test for a bride.”
“Bride?”
“Yes. Bride. I took it to mean that he’ll marry a woman who meets his test and that he was too shy to simply come out and ask me, at least not before the quilt blocks are finished. And surely, I do meet his test, don’t you know? What with my glasses to help me see better. I know he wanted that for me, to improve my skills, so surely, well …” She lowered her eyes and fluttered her lashes to Mary’s stunned stare.
“And what quilt pattern would you be working on to meet the test?” Mary asked.
“It’s from the Bible quilt-blocks book. Richard drew patterns from memory—he’s so gifted. He suggested Road to Jerusalem, and I adore it. It’s not unlike Road to California, but it has so much more spiritual meaning behind it, don’t you know? Who wants to go to California anyway? I’ll write my signature on the blocks, but I plan to give it away as a sign of my generosity. The new owner will know whose work it is. Richard loves a generous woman.”
“Does he now?”
“Solids mean a woman has the means to purchase whole cloth new and not just piece a quilt top together from her father’s old pants or mama’s aprons. Besides, a good solid red will set off my colored “roads” to Jerusalem just perfectly. And I get to use that Rosa Red, don’t you know?”
Mary did not know. What she did know was that Richard—Mr. Taylor from now on to her—had somehow suggested to her best customers that if they created the kind of quilt he wanted that he’d request their hand in marriage. His behavior was … appalling, outrageous. Worse, terrifying, because it meant that once he actually chose one of the women who met his spurious test, the sales to the other customers would drop. The good news of the past summer with increased sales would become the worst news she could have. There’d be few customers wanting cloth and fabric doo-dads once word of his scheme got out. She may as well close down the store now.
After Bessie left, Laird Lawson interrupted Mary’s anger and growing self-pity by shyly entering the store, hat in hand. “Mrs. Bishop,” he said, “I wonder if you could, that is, if you’d be so kind as to help me find the proper gift, proper birthday present, for a woman friend of mine.”
Oh, good grief, now he wants to buy me a birthday present? How did he even know my birthday was next week?
“Mr. Lawson, it’s really not necessary.”
“Oh, but it is,” he said. “I find her company to be quite pleasant … when the babies are put to bed. And the other children quite well mannered. She’s a good cook, too, Mrs. Mason is.”
“Oh, you’re looking for a present for Widow Mason,” Mary breathed.
“Yes, of course.”
Mary recovered quickly. “Would you like something in personal wear such as jewelry? Or store-bought clothing? Or—”
“Something practical,” he told her. “Say Geer’s Improved Cherry Stoner,” he pointed to the object.
“Mr. Lawson, are you hoping to impress the widow? Because if you are, then buying something she might never buy for herself even if she could afford it will tell her more than if you bring her an improved cherry stoner.”
“But she’s a woman who is both practical and … lovely,” he said. Color rose past his muttonchop sideburns up to his eyes.
“That she is. So let’s consider something both practical and lovely.” She moved toward the window and removed a fashionable hat. “Every woman needsnew felt, and one that complements her face with a dash of style is even better.”
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br /> He tested the felt thicknesses with his fingers then picked up another hat and surveyed the lining, even sniffed the white silk flowers that adorned the edges of the hat Mary handed to him next, hoping he’d buy it. She was grateful she’d had Jennifer dust the hats after school yesterday. “And this hatpin, with the cherub on the end, I like it best of all of these.” Mary took the long pin from behind the glass case.
“It would honor her role as a mother,” he said turning the metal piece in his hands.
“It would indeed.”
“I’ll take them both,” he said and waited while Mary wrapped the hatbox and placed the hatpin, all eighteen inches of it, in a velvet pocket bag. “I hope you don’t mind my not coming in as much to check on how things are going,” Laird said. “But this is all because of you, Mrs. Bishop.” He put his own hat back on then lifted the hatbox. “If you hadn’t asked me to deliver those buttons and all the things since, I might never have discovered what a fine woman Mrs. Mason is.”
“I’m glad for you, Mr. Lawson. Very glad indeed.”
“I’m glad for me, too,” he said and smiled like a schoolboy.
And Mary was pleased for him despite the fact that after he left she shut the door, turned the CLOSED sign out, and walked to her back room. This temporary lull of romance couldn’t take away the sour taste of what Richard Taylor was doing to her customers. What was she to do? She couldn’t allow this charade to continue; her own integrity was at stake with her partner proposing such “tests.” But she also didn’t know how she’d manage the loss of sales that would surely follow the revelation of what he’d done. Worst of all, it was clear that Richard Taylor loved quilting and the women who quilted, which left her without a stitch of a chance to sew him to her side. “What am I to do?” she prayed. “This isn’t the kind of detail I thought I’d ever have to manage again,” she said, “this … this … falling in love.” Lacy whined, and Mary picked the little dog up, cuddling at her neck. Then she lay down on her bed and wept.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Taylor said. “You’ve barely spoken a word to me since I got back, and I do so miss our evening chat over your sumptuous meals. Those tomato figs are beyond description, as good as anything created by the chef at the Astoria in New York.” He kissed his fingertips and blew them toward her. She didn’t smile. “Haven’t the sales been good? Hasn’t our association been successful? I thought you enjoyed our time together. I know I do.”
“Do you? Even though I don’t quilt and couldn’t possibly meet your test?” She nearly spit the word test.
“Mary, what is it?”
“I am absolutely torn, Mr. Taylor, absolutely torn.” She held a handkerchief and found as she pulled it through her damp palm that the wound was still sensitive even after seven months. If she hadn’t cut herself, maybe she would have come to her senses and taken the cart on her own, hiring someone to work the store while she was gone. Maybe she’d have been more attentive to how charm could also be deceptive. Maybe he didn’t even know of his bifurcated ways.
“About what? What are you torn about?” He motioned for her to sit on the bench outside the store.
“You’re deluding my customers into thinking that if they create the very best quilt block they’ll have met your ‘test’, and you’ll marry one of them. Only they don’t know that there are other women carrying on with the same ‘surmising’, as the Williams sisters put it.”
“Ruthie and Nelia?”
“And Bessie and Matilda. I have no idea how many more. The others just haven’t come into the store to add to their supplies or maybe to gloat a bit and tell me of their good fortune.”
“Why would they gloat to you?” he asked. “You’re not a quilter nor in the market for marriage, are you?”
His words wounded deeper than she’d thought.
“I’m still a young woman,” she whispered. “Barely thirty.”
“But … you seem wise, the kind of wise that comes with age. And you’re devoted to your deceased husband. I just thought … and your hair—”
“Has been white since I was twelve,” she snapped, “not that it’s any matter to you nor this discussion. Wise,” she scoffed. “Not wise enough to see through you.”
“But I didn’t, that is, I never meant to deceive them. It’s true I love a woman who sews beautifully. I love the stitching like tiny commas in a grand manuscript. Quilt patterns are like … engineering feats, getting color to create movement, taking your eyes to places they wouldn’t otherwise go.”
“And taking Bessie’s eyes to places they wouldn’t have gone either.”
“What?”
“You convinced her to buy glasses suggesting … well, you know.”
“Now Mary, that’s not true. I told her she could sew even better if she could see, and that’s the truth. The rest have been truthful things said, too. I mean, they love being inspired. That’s all it is, just inspiration for their creativity.”
“They see it as something more, Mr. Taylor. And when they find out, there’ll be—oh—”
Perhaps he did intend to marry one of them. At least all of the women wouldn’t be upset with him and with her for hiring him in the first place if he actually chose a woman. Still, they’d be distressed because they all thought they were special to him. “And do you intend to marry one of the quilters who meets your test?” she asked. Her heart pounded as she feared his answer.
“Well, I hadn’t really thought they’d take it that way. I only meant to inspire. Maybe I can back off, start finding flaws in their work. I hadn’t thought that—” He looked at Mary. “I never intended to hurt you or your log cabin store in any way. I only wanted to be successful,” he finished, as though speaking to himself.
Mary didn’t like the idea of his now finding fault with a customer’s skill, and she told him so. “There’s nothing worse than demeaning a potential buyer.”
“I know, I know.” He tugged at the yellow curl at the back of his neck. “A terrible predicament I’ve put us in, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed. We’ll just have to think of a way to save the store and their dignity,” Mary said. “But we may not be able to save you from a marriage you never intended.”
“Maybe I’ll just have to choose,” he said.
Mary swallowed. “Maybe you will.”
Mary wasn’t really angry with Richard anymore. She didn’t envy him his current circuit, but maybe he’d come up with a plan after seeing each of them again, seeing them with new eyes. And Mary had to accept that her moments of camaraderie with Richard Taylor would have to end. Once winter came and the circuit could naturally be closed down until spring, it would be the ideal time for Mr. Taylor to move on. She’d miss him—that was certain—but his attention had been a good reminder for her of what she and Dale had had. Love grew like a vine, but it had to have good roots planted in healthy soil. She didn’t really know much about Richard Taylor’s soil or his soul.
A light snow fell, putting her into the mood for Christmas. A November bazaar was planned at the Presbyterian church, where there’d be sleigh rides and sledding outdoors if they had enough snow. Inside, the women of Brownsville would bring their wares for sale and maybe just a little flaunting. The kids would bob for apples. It would be a festive time.
Mary busied herself with preparing for the event. She and Jennifer walked to the hills to saw branches of mistletoe from the trees and hang the clusters beneath the fir shed to dry so they could be wrapped into wreaths. She’d ordered in sleigh bells and holiday candles with white stripes on red and a peppermint candy so strong it scented the entire store and lodged itself into the logs as well. Mary also ordered in more red material since so much had been used throughthe year, and with the great interest in quilts, Mary made sure she had plenty of cotton batting and enough cheaper cloth for backing. At least they might all finish their quilts before running Richard out of town.
When Richard Taylor returned, he said little about what had happened, but he had new orders f
rom her customers. “I told them they’d have to come into town to get these.” He handed the lists to Mary. “Circuits only for spring, summer, and fall, I told them.”
“And did they, that is, are you …?”
“Engaged? No. I think I’ve dodged that bullet at least for this season. I’ve told them I knew they’d need just a little more time to create the perfect quilt and suggested they might want to make a quilt for the pastor’s wife as a gesture of confidence in her husband, each making a block and signing it.” He looked sad to Mary, and she saw genuine remorse in the lines of his face. “I thought if I diverted them from, well, marriage thoughts to spiritual ones, they might surmise something other than their upcoming engagement.”
“I hope you’ve ducked a bullet,” Mary said. “And if you have, I have, too, since we’re in this skirmish together.”
“There are other things I’d rather be in with you,” Richard Taylor said, “but I’ll take what I can get.” He smiled, and Mary thought again that he just didn’t realize the power of his words to touch a woman’s heart.
The Christmas bazaar was held right after Thanksgiving, and Jennifer helped Mary take seasonal items to the church, things Mary donated that they’d sell along with fruitcakes and pies, saddles and harnesses, and dolls and wooden trains made for the children by the good citizens of the region. A portion of each sale went to the widows and orphans fund, so people tended to be generous in their purchases. Holly garlands spirited the hallway and led visitors into the sanctuary, where chairs had been lined around the walls so the children could play games. Presbyterians didn’t dance, but they had lively games with music. And of course, the Christmas items for sale brought people out to browse, drink apple cider, and catch up on the news.
Mary was dressed in her almost-best dress, a wide, red velvet skirt and jacket with white rabbit trim that looped like a garland around the skirt and formed a soft collar at the jacket’s neck. She’d lost weight these past months since she’d worn the dress last year. Maybe it was having the use of only one hand for so long, she thought. She could eat or work, one or the other, but not both, and that could account for the slenderizing of her waist, as she always had work to do.
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