Maggie's Journey (McKenna's Daughters) (13 page)

“I’m getting to see my only granddaughter.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she enveloped Maggie in a tight hug.

Relishing the enthusiasm her grandmother expressed, Maggie wound her arms around the woman. Warmth and comfort flowed over her soul. This welcome was just what she needed.

When Agatha finally released her and took a step back, she gently touched Maggie’s hair. “We haven’t had a redhead in the family that I know of, but look, Georgia, she inherited my curls.”

The words sent ice through Maggie’s veins, and she shivered. She didn’t inherit anything from Agatha Carter. Not her ability to design dresses, not even the curls. If her grandmother thought so, she couldn’t know the truth either. Why hadn’t Florence told her own mother about the adoption?

For a moment, Maggie felt light-headed, and she had a hard time taking a breath. This visit might prove to be more difficult than she’d ever imagined. Maybe coming here was a huge mistake.

Her grandmother didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. But she did notice Charles hovering behind them. “And just who is this young man?”

Maggie glanced at him, but his attention was trained on Agatha, instead of her. “This is Charles Stanton. He and Daddy are combining their stores right now, so they are partners.”

“You don’t say. That’s interesting.” Agatha thrust her hand toward him. “Welcome to The House of Agatha Carter. I assume you are also my daughter and granddaughter’s traveling companion.”

Charles gently took her hand, but Agatha gave his a vigorous shake, much like any businessman might. “That’s been my pleasure. I’ve heard a lot about you, and I’m glad to finally meet you, Mrs. Carter.”

She studied him a long moment. “I can see that Joshua made a good choice for a partner and for a man to travel with our daughters. Welcome to Little Rock.”

Her grandmother turned from him and linked arms with Maggie. “Let’s go home. I can show you around here another day. Tucker’s wife, Shirley, has a banquet prepared in your honor. I hope all of you are hungry.”

Maggie let herself be ushered out the front door, along with Charles and Georgia. Tucker stood beside the coach awaiting their arrival.

On the ride to the house, Agatha and Georgia carried on a lively conversation. Maggie listened to the two women with half an ear, all the while wondering what it would feel like to actually be a part of this family. She hated living a lie.
A lie not of my own choosing
.

“There’s the house.” Maggie glanced in the direction Georgia indicated.

Although the structure wasn’t as large as the Caine mansion on Beacon Hill in Seattle, neither was it just a bungalow. The two-story white clapboard had windows along both the first floor and the upstairs. Dormer windows in the roof indicated an attic as well. Each window was flanked by dark blue shutters, and the rocking chairs scattered across the front porch matched. With curtains fluttering behind the open windows, the whole thing looked homey and welcoming to Maggie.

Tucker drove the coach up the white gravel driveway and stopped beside the front of the house, at the end of a brick walkway. After everyone exited, he drove on toward the back of the building. Evidently there was a coach house and maybe a stable back there. Perhaps tomorrow she could check them out. Florence never let her go around the horses in the stable back home. But she wasn’t here to monitor Maggie’s every move. She could do anything she really wanted to without censure.

“Well, come on in my house, girls.” Agatha herded them across the walkway, then turned around. “And I should have said for you to come too, Mr. Stanton.”

Charles was already right behind them. “Just call me Charles, Mrs. Carter.”

“And I’m Agatha.” She gave a quick nod. When she smiled, tiny lines crinkled beside her eyes, revealing she wasn’t as young as she looked.

Maggie couldn’t help liking this hospitable woman. How she wished Agatha really was her grandmother. Then the thought cut through her.
Maybe I have grandparents somewhere who don’t even know about me.
She stopped short, overwhelmed by the idea.

Charles grabbed her shoulders to keep from running into her. “You should let people know when you’re going to stop like that, Maggie,” he whispered into her hair near her ear.

His breath felt warm against her skin, and those errant curls that had made their way out of her bun tickled when they moved. She wanted to reach up and push them back where they belonged, but she didn’t want to chance encountering his face. After the way he’d acted on the train, she didn’t want to experience such a personal touch.

“I’ll try to remember to give some kind of signal next time.” Heat rose up her neck and settled in her cheeks. She was sure they flamed red. No telling what he’d think about that.

She hurried to catch up with Agatha and Georgia on the porch. Charles kept pace with her.

A dark woman, dressed in black with a white apron and a white ruffled cap on her head, opened the door right before they reached it. “Miz Agatha, this your grandchile?”

Agatha put her arm around Maggie’s shoulders. “She sure is.”

“Ain’t she a pretty little thing?” The woman held the door wide open for them to enter. “And who is this strappin’ lad? Her gentleman friend?”

Maggie didn’t think her cheeks could blush any more than she already had, but even more heat flushed her face all the way to her hairline. She hoped she wouldn’t start sweating. She was mortified, knowing all that red skin would clash with the flaming hair. She dropped her head, hoping no one would notice.

Charles took charge of the situation. He held out his hand to the older woman. “I’m Charles Stanton, Mr. Caine’s business partner.”

“That’s right nice of you.” She stared at his hand for a moment but didn’t take it. “I’ll have dinner on in a jiffy.”

Maggie knew that Florence wouldn’t have let any of her servants speak so casually with guests in their home, but Shirley and Tucker seemed to be just as much a part of the family here as the Jorgensens were at home.

In Seattle, more Indians and Chinese worked as servants than black people. Maggie couldn’t remember seeing a single one in the homes of their friends. Of course, Mother refused to use any of these people in her house. She had to have Europeans.

Maggie never understood why that made a difference to her mother. But then she often had a hard time understanding her at all. And it wasn’t any wonder, since they came from different backgrounds. If only Maggie knew what hers was. With a name like McKenna and with her red hair, evidently she was Scottish. She had studied about them coming to the United States over two hundred years ago, with many of them settling in the mountains in the eastern part of the country. She wondered what caused Angus McKenna to come west. Would she ever know?

Chapter 13

Maggie thought she would probably sleep late as her grandmother urged her to after their long evening. However, the aroma of coffee mixed with bacon and biscuits enticed her from slumber early the next morning. She quickly donned a navy skirt and a shirtwaist with tiny navy stripes on a white background. After brushing out her sleeping braids, she pulled her hair back and tied it with a white ribbon. As usual, many curls sprang forward, framing her face. At least they didn’t fall in her eyes. For just a moment, she wished she had Ingrid with her to dress her hair.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she headed toward the kitchen, bypassing the empty dining room. Charles sat at the kitchen table, his elbows propped on the top and his chin resting on his clasped hands, visiting with Georgia. For a moment, she stopped and enjoyed the view. Relaxed like that, he appeared younger than she knew him to be, and totally at home in the kitchen. She wondered if he spent time in the kitchen of his own mansion. Maybe he had, since his grandparents reared him after his parents were gone.

“So everyone is up early. Right?” Maggie hated to disturb them, but she wondered where her grandmother was.

Shirley set a filled plate in front of Georgia. “Miz Agatha done left to go to work before any of you got up.”

“Something smells wonderful.” Maggie snatched a tiny piece of crispy bacon from Georgia’s plate. Her aunt slapped at her hand.

“Don’t you worry none. I fix you a plate right now.” The black woman bustled toward the stove and commenced filling a plate with way too much food for one person.

“I won’t be able to eat that much after what we had last night.” Maggie slid into the chair between Charles and Georgia at the small square table.

“Don’t you worry none about that. We feed the dog what you don’t eat.” Shirley set the plate of steaming food in front of her. Scrambled eggs, biscuits, and bacon, just as her nose had alerted her.

Maggie picked up the biscuit and split it, dipping half-melted butter to slather on. Then she glanced at the array of other spreads—honey, apple jelly, strawberry jam, and sorghum molasses. The molasses shone such a dark brown color that it was almost black, and threads of it dripped from her spoon when she tried to put some on the biscuit.

Georgia glanced from Maggie to Charles and back. “Maggie, do you want to go to The House of Agatha Carter today or later?”

“Today would be good for me.” Maggie really wanted to see what happened on the upper floor of her grandmother’s business.

“Then I shall accompany you ladies.” Charles gave one of his bows, and Shirley laughed.

“What time do you want to leave?”

“Tucker ain’t got back from runnin’ errands for me.” Shirley started picking up the empty plates from the table. “He be back anytime now.”

Maggie arose from her chair. “How about we all get ready so we can leave as soon as he is free?”

After Georgia and Charles agreed, Maggie followed them as they climbed the stairs. She wondered if they had been flirting at the table before she came down. Maybe Georgia wouldn’t carry on in front of Shirley. At least Maggie hoped not.

•••

Maggie memorized the route to the business while Tucker drove them in an open surrey. While the horses high-stepped it up Main Street to Fifth, then across to Pulaski, Maggie took note of the stores she wanted to visit before they went home. Many interesting things caught her eye, especially one called
Les Chapeaux
with a window filled with various styles of hats for women. After they turned on Pulaski, they passed more residences than stores until they reached The House of Agatha Carter.

Tucker stopped the carriage and turned toward the passengers. “You sure, sir, you want to spend most of the day with the ladies? Lots of fabric and fripperies in that house.”

Charles chuckled. “You’re probably right, Tucker. What did you have in mind for me?”

“Well, I could show you around some places that won’t be interesting to the ladies.” He gave them a gentle nod. “If you ladies don’ mind.”

“Now, Tucker, don’t go taking Charles anywhere that he’ll get into trouble.” Georgia arched a teasing eyebrow at Charles.

Tucker gave a laugh that sounded almost like a snort. “You know me better than that, Miz Long. I’m a God-fearing man myself. Won’ fine me in none o’ those places.”

“Me either, or I would tremble at the consequences.” Charles sent a glance Georgia’s way, implying he would more enjoy the consequences than tremble at them, but Georgia was looking away. Maggie caught the look and frowned.

Grow up!
she telegraphed toward him.

The smile slid from his face, and suddenly he was all business.

“Let me escort the ladies to the door, and I’ll come back. We can go wherever you want to take me.” Charles assisted Maggie to descend, then Georgia. He pulled Georgia’s hand through the crook of his elbow and swept up the sidewalk.

As soon as they reached the front door, Georgia quickly entered, but Charles stayed on the front porch. Maggie didn’t even glance at him as she followed her aunt into the house.
Thank goodness he’s not staying here all day.
With him gone, maybe she could keep her mind on what she wanted to learn from her grandmother.

As they entered, Agatha walked regally down the stairs, the queen of this realm. “Oh, good, you’re here. Let’s take a tour of the downstairs first.”

Maggie eagerly tried to take in everything as her grandmother led them through the sitting room. “Here’s where I often meet with clients for the first time. And when husbands come to see the dresses we’re making for their wives, I have newspapers and magazines available for them while the women are dressing. I really don’t let any of them come upstairs. It would cause too much of a commotion and disturb the women working.”

That intrigued Maggie, even as she imagined men sitting in the matching wing-back chairs, reading the paper while they waited. Or lounging on the sofa upholstered in a coordinating floral pattern. No lace or tassels on the pillows thrown carelessly along its length. “Just how many women do you have working for you?”

Agatha stopped walking. “It depends on the season and whether we have many orders. I do almost all the designing, but I’m training two young women in the art of crafting patterns. They might take over some of the design work eventually.”

Georgia gave an unladylike huff. “Mother, you know that day will never come.”

Agatha gave a decisive nod. “It might. You never know what will happen. Now let’s go through here. The dining room is used when we have a lot of orders to be filled quickly. I have Shirley come here to cook for the women. That way we don’t waste any extra time.”

The solid oak table was long with ten Windsor chairs around it. A tablecloth that coordinated with the rest of the decor in the downstairs draped the table, and dishes and silverware were set at each place as if awaiting the diners.

Maggie imagined having a business where she would need a large dining room and a cook to feed the workers when they had a lot of work. Too bad Mrs. Jorgensen worked for Florence. She’d be a wonderful asset to her company . . . if she ever had one.

“So do you have ten women working here now?” Maggie knew that if Agatha could afford to hire that many workers, she must be making a comfortable living.

Agatha stood beside Maggie. “See that portrait?” She indicated a painting on the wall of the dining room. A woman stood with her hand on the back of one of the wing-back chairs in the parlor. Her federal blue gown had a jabot with a frothing of lace. Her hair was smoothed back, its length gathered in a snood attached to a jeweled comb at the top of her head. “That’s Lizzie Quaile Berry, wife of the former governor, in a dress I designed for her. She had me create most of her wardrobe. She was good for my business. I had more than ten women working for me that year, because a number of other women in Little Rock wanted dresses designed by me after they saw what I made for her. But we usually only have around eight or ten working at any given time. The new governor isn’t married, so I don’t have to contend with so many political requests.”

Maggie took a deep breath. How wonderful it must be to design clothing for someone as important as the governor’s wife. Would Maggie ever get the opportunity to be as successful as her grandmother is? The money involved wasn’t what interested her as much as the opportunity to use her talents to make clothing that would help women feel beautiful. She wondered if that would ever happen.
Not if Florence has her way.

After they went through the kitchen, Agatha led them to a room on the opposite side of the downstairs. “This was a bedroom, but I use it as a dressing room when a husband wants his wife to model the clothing for him. We also use it when I have some dresses already made up for women to choose from. That’s not always the case, but when we don’t have pressing orders, we do make a selection. Some women like to come in and try on various styles to see what suits them best.”

Next her grandmother led them toward the front of the house. “The room on this side of the foyer is what I consider my office, but it looks more like a library.”

Maggie had to agree with her assessment. Books lined two walls of the large room. Light from outside filtered through the many panes of the expansive window on the front of the house. She could imagine herself sinking into the plush upholstered chair and curling up with a good book. Before she left Little Rock, she planned on checking out Agatha’s bookshelves to see what her grandmother liked to read. She wondered if their tastes were similar. Of course, she doubted that Agatha would ever pick up a dime novel, and Maggie had been known to read a few of those. She loved the strong heroines, hoping someday to be like them.

“Now let’s go upstairs.” Agatha led the way. “I had the second floor extensively remodeled to meet my needs. There were several bedrooms up here, and I connected the three across the back into one large workroom.”

When they went through the doorway, Maggie noticed Georgia was already there talking to one of the women sitting at a treadle sewing machine. When the seamstress saw Agatha, she leaned over her machine and started running fabric under the needle. Even though she kept her eyes on what she was doing, she continued to carry on the conversation. Maggie doubted she could do those two things at the same time. But if she learned to run one of the machines, perhaps she could, too.

“As you can see, the cutting table is on this side.” Agatha gestured toward the right where a heavy table, its top covered with heavy canvas, took up a large area. “I designed the kind of table I wanted and had a carpenter build it for me. He had to actually cut the lengths of lumber and build it in this area. It’s too large and heavy to move up the stairs. I guess when I’m gone they’ll have to dismantle it to get it out of the house.”

“Maybe someone will want to purchase your business and keep it there.” Maggie wished she could be that person.

Two women had fabric spread across the table and were arranging pattern pieces on top, weighting them down with ornate pieces of silverware, more table knives than anything else. Maggie hadn’t ever wondered how they kept the pattern pieces from shifting when they cut out the garments. Now she knew how her grandmother did it.

“How’s everything going?” Agatha went over and checked on the progress of the women’s work.

Maggie watched the way they interacted with her grandmother. They showed respect, but also exhibited a sense of equality with her. If Maggie ever opened a business of her own in Seattle, that’s the kind of relationship she would want with her workers, mutual respect. Perhaps that’s one of the things she had always craved.
Respect.

Agatha walked toward the other half of the room. “As you can see, I have six of these Singer treadle sewing machines. We don’t always need to use all of them, but usually at least four are utilized at any given time.”

As she said, four women of a variety of ages worked at the machines, each one using a different type of fabric.

“These are my regular workers.” Agatha stopped by one of the machines. “Loraine has been with me for a long time.”

The woman smiled up at Agatha, but didn’t stop running the fabric through the machine. Her legs rocked the treadle at a fast rhythm. She must feel as though she were running. Using one of these saved a lot of time, but probably wore the women out by quitting time.