Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03]

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About the Author

Dedicated to the memory of
God’s extraordinary women
In every place
In every time

E
milie Rhodes couldn’t remember a single time in all of her eighteen years that she’d failed to charm Father out of a sour mood. But there was something about his grip around her wrist today that sent a chill up her spine as he pulled her out of the press room. Something about the insistence with which he propelled her along the narrow aisle that ran the length of the newsroom. And something about the posture of the handful of men bent over their work like acolytes bowing before an icon. Not a single one looked up as Father and she passed by. Not even Tom Tomkins, who’d always treated Emilie like something of a mascot for the
Beatrice Daily Dispatch.
As for the typesetter she’d been helping—when Emilie glanced back at him, Will Gable looked unusually concerned. If Will was worried… Emilie shivered.

Father released her as soon as they crossed the threshold to his office. He closed the door firmly and pulled a shade down, obscuring the sign on the window that read E
DITOR IN CHIEF
,
B
EATRICE
D
AILY
D
ISPATCH
.
Emilie found her voice just as he reached for the second of the shades mounted above the two large windows that usually afforded him a view of his universe.

“Don’t you want to be able to see when Mr. Shaw arrives?” When Father looked surprised, Emilie shrugged. “I heard you and Uncle Roscoe discussing who to feature in the inaugural Chautauqua edition. Y–you said you were meeting with Mr. Shaw as soon as he arrived on June 24th. Tuesday. Today.” When Father merely continued to lower the last of the shades, she defended herself. “I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was helping clear the dining room table. We all heard you. Talking about Mr. Shaw. Something about ‘spellbinding pathos.’ You wanted to be the first to speak with him. To beat out the
Journal
with an interview.”

For a moment, Emilie thought she might have succeeded in diverting Father’s attention from the fact that she’d disobeyed him. But all he did was open the door and call to Tom Tomkins. “Let me know if Mr. Shaw arrives before I’ve finished my business with my daughter. And whatever you do, don’t let him get away.” He closed the door firmly and, without so much as a glance in her direction, marched around his desk and sat down.

Emilie knew he’d sat down only because she heard the chair creak. She hadn’t dared to look at him. Instead, she clutched her ink-stained hands before her and waited to be told what to do. After what felt like eons, Father cleared his throat and told her to sit down. She perched on the edge of the simple oak chair shoved into the corner. As she looked down at the jobber’s apron she’d donned earlier, a hank of hair tumbled into view. She reached up to tuck the ash blond strands back into place, but the ink stains on her hands made her hesitate. Instead of repairing her coiffure, she curled her fingers into her palms and dropped both hands back into her lap. Maybe Father hadn’t noticed her hands.

Of course that was a false hope. Father noticed everything. “Exactly what,” he said, accenting the
t
s in both words, “do you think you were doing just now?”

“Will—”
No, don’t call attention to Will. You’ll get him in trouble.
She lifted her chin and made herself look at Father, concentrating on the tip of his immaculately groomed handlebar mustache. “I was setting type.”

“I am familiar with the process,” Father snapped. “Allow me to rephrase the question. Exactly what do you think
you
—the accomplished daughter of Mr. William T. Rhodes and Mrs. Henrietta J. Rhodes—were doing—especially in light of recent conversations in regard to your notion of a ‘career in journalism.’”

Emilie swallowed. “I want—” She reached up to scratch her nose, then realized with horror that she’d probably just blackened it. Leaning down, she rubbed it with the hem of the apron, taking note of the new black smudge that had just joined a host of others. She took a deep breath. “I want to understand the process,” she said.

“The process.” He elongated the sound of the
o.

Emilie had learned to judge the state of Father’s temper by his pronunciation, and that long
o
was a bad sign. A very bad sign. Still, she persisted in trying to make him understand. “I want to do more than just write a column announcing church ice cream socials and Ladies’ Aid meetings. I want to write real news someday. Why can’t you understand that? You praised everything I wrote when I was away last year. So did my teachers. They said I have a real talent, Father. I want to use it. And I don’t just want to write. I want to understand every part of what it takes to produce the paper.” Finally, she dared to look at him. “Some of my earliest—and best—memories are of visiting you in this very office.” She shrugged. “It’s in my blood. I don’t see why you can’t understand that.”

Father removed his watch from his vest pocket. He glanced down at the watch before looking over at her. “Let’s talk about that word
understand
, Emilie Jane. Apart from the issue of the news, I wonder…Do you
understand
that it’s rude to keep people waiting?” He held the watch up so that she could see the time. “Or did I
mis
understand your mentioning a four o’clock rehearsal over breakfast this morning?”

Emilie focused on the watch:
Four fifteen. Oh, no.
She reached behind to untie the apron. “I lost track of time.” She pulled it over her head, newly aware of just how much of her coiffure had been affected by her afternoon in the press room. “If I hurry—”

“If you hurry,” Father snapped, “you will still have kept your cousins waiting. You will still have demonstrated a rude disregard for their schedules for the day. And ultimately,
they
will ‘understand’ that you were thinking only of yourself. Again.” He snapped the watch closed and tucked it back in his vest pocket. Then he rose, came around the end of the desk, and reached out to tap the back of one of her hands. “And Mother, Emilie Jane. What will you say to make her
understand
these hands of yours?”

Emilie uncurled her fingers and inspected the distressing amount of filth beneath her fingernails. It was as if Father’s touch had deflated her resolve. She sighed.
I won’t say a thing. Why would I bother? Nothing I say changes anything.
She seemed to have been born with a talent for behavior that horrified Mother and consequently upset Father. She preferred balls to dolls and had little patience with the culinary arts. Doing a sewing stint made her want to scream, and she was never content to just sit on the grass and watch Will Gable and Bert Hartwell play baseball. She wanted to play. In recent months she had steadfastly maintained friendships with several young men while just as steadfastly resisting Mother’s attempts at matchmaking. Just last week she’d declared that it was wrong for women not to have the right to vote—and come very close to suggesting there was something wrong with a woman who didn’t agree with the idea of women’s suffrage. An embarrassing moment, since Mother didn’t support the idea of women’s suffrage.

Poor Mother. The voting discussion had been particularly distressing because it took place in the company of Aunt Cornelia, Mother’s only living relative. Aunt Cornelia could bask in the joy of three perfectly genteel daughters. Any parent would be proud to claim those three, while poor Mother’s fate allowed her only one child—and a faulty one, at that.

The sound of Father clearing his throat brought Emilie back to the moment and the subject of her ink-stained hands. “Dinah will know what to do,” she said. It wasn’t the answer Father wanted, but it was the best she could do. And it was true. Aunt Cornelia might not envy her sister her only child, but she did envy Mother Dinah Brooks, the best housekeeper in Gage County.

As for Emilie’s cousins, also known as the popular ladies’ trio, the Spring Sisters—they were the least of Emilie’s worries at the moment. April would scold, but more out of a sense of duty as the oldest than from any real anger. Junie would roll her eyes and mutter something about “Emilie being Emilie again.” And May, the middle child, would understand. May always understood, because she shared Emilie’s desire to become something more than ornamentation for a man’s life—even if May was more subtle about her leanings.

With a sigh, Father stood and stepped over to his office door, pausing with his hand on the brass knob long enough to say, “Get that apron off. I’ll have Hartwell see you home. He can wait while Dinah helps you get cleaned up, and then he can drive you out to the assembly grounds for your rehearsal.”

“You don’t need to bother Bert. I can—”

“Do not tell me what I do or do not ‘need’ to do.”

Obviously Father wasn’t open to suggestions. The best thing Emilie could do was to keep her head down and do as she was told. Even if it was 1890. Even if she was eighteen years old. Not that Father seemed to remember that very often.

“I’d take you myself,” he continued, “if I hadn’t arranged to meet with Mr. Shaw about that column.” He cleared his throat. “Unlike others,
I
do not make a habit of missing appointments.” He paused. “Hartwell can be counted on to get you home—and not to snicker behind our backs.” He opened the door and called for Bert.