Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (11 page)

By the end of the day, rows of benches would fill the space beneath the Tabernacle roof, and the groundskeeper would have finished planting the host of flower beds and planters scattered about the grounds. Thoughts of the Tabernacle made Emilie wonder if Noah Shaw would go back out there tonight after sundown to practice. She wouldn’t mind hearing that wonderful voice recite one of her favorite poems…by moonlight.

He’d be surprised if, after teasing her about the romantic poets, he learned that Wordsworth was actually one of her favorites. She could almost imagine Shaw reciting the poem that had first drawn her to the beloved English poet’s work:

Would Noah Shaw laugh if he knew how much Emilie loved that poem? How would he spend his time today? And what should she wear to dinner this evening?

The thought surprised her. She’d never been one to primp before a mirror, and she’d never given much thought to the way she was dressed—until last night. First, when Bert commented about a hair ribbon matching her eyes. And then beneath the steady gaze of Noah Shaw’s mesmerizing dark eyes. What was happening to her?

Stepping back into her room, she opened the doors of her cherry wood wardrobe and stood back, gazing at the rainbow of colors representing her dinner gowns. Emilie had always thought it ridiculous that Mother insisted they “dress for dinner.” Today, though, she was actually looking forward to the chance to erase the image Noah Shaw had of her dressed like a cleaning lady, complete with a kerchief over her hair.

Reaching into the wardrobe, she drew out her white lawn skirt and a ruffled blouse, then gathered white hose and her white shoes. At least she could look nice for the rehearsal, just in case anyone happened by the Tabernacle. She grimaced. With her luck, Shaw would come to the cottage, right when she was in the middle of sweeping. She would wear the indigo gored skirt from last season. And a half-apron. Easy to snatch off if he showed up. Between the stylish skirt and the blue-and-white striped blouse that matched it, perhaps she could replace the image of a washerwoman in his mind. And there would be no kerchief about her head today, but rather a bit of red ribbon holding her hair in a loose French braid.

The aroma of coffee joined that of cinnamon biscuits. Dressing quickly, Emilie headed downstairs, hoping that she was right and that the cinnamon biscuits meant that Mother was still in a conciliatory mood. She really needed the prevailing winds to blow in her favor today. She nearly had her ten questions ready, and somehow she needed to find time to interview Miss Jones. And write an interview. And present it to Father.

Hope faded when Emilie set foot in the kitchen. Dinah and her sister Ida, who worked for Aunt Cornelia, were already at work. The kitchen counters were barely visible beneath mounds of potatoes and carrots, stalks of rhubarb, bags of flour, cake pans, roasting pans, and a bucket filled with wildflowers. Emilie’s heart sank. Even if they did finish over at the cottage, Mother would want Emilie to return home and help with preparations for this evening.

“You’ve gone and done it, now, young lady,” Dinah said, as she measured flour into the massive bowl before her.

“Me? What did I do?”

Dinah didn’t answer. She nodded toward the stove. “You’ll have to serve yourself. Ida and I have too much to do to think about cinnamon biscuits.”

Emilie retrieved a small plate from the pantry and did just that. What did Dinah mean that she had “gone and done it”? What had she done? She decided it best not to ask. Instead, she served herself two biscuits and then, setting the plate down, retrieved a coffee mug from the pantry. “I hope there’s coffee left.”

“Does my kitchen ever lack for coffee?” Dinah almost snapped the reply, then quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, miss. Of course there’s coffee. I’m just a bit flustered. Mrs. Rhodes is in quite a dither. Pot roast won’t do. It’s got to be leg of lamb. And that means mint jelly, and we used the last of it at Easter.”

Emilie gazed around her. All of this because Noah Shaw was coming to supper? Ah. So that was what she had “gone and done.” She’d brought all this work down on Dinah’s head. “Klein’s probably has mint jelly,” Emilie offered.

“And what if they do?” Dinah hefted a mound of dough out onto the floured table and began to knead it. “Calvin is already out at the grounds cleaning and scrubbing, and I can’t exactly call up Mr. Rhodes and tell him to pick up mint jelly on his way home, now can I.”

From where she stood at the sink, peeling potatoes, Ida let out a shout of laughter. “Ha! Wouldn’t that be the day.” Then she grinned at Emilie. “Men have no idea what it takes to serve up a meal, now do they? They just lap it up and ask for more—like some magician says ‘poof’ and there it is in the kitchen.”

“I could get it,” Emilie said. In fact, she wanted to get it. That might give her a chance to stop by the hotel and speak to Miss Jones. “I’d be happy to help”—she motioned around the kitchen—“with all of it. Anything you need. If Mother will allow it.”

Dinah gave her “the look.” The one that meant, “I don’t know what you’ve got up your sleeve, Missy, but there’s something there.” She nodded toward the breakfast nook. “Mrs. Rhodes has been waiting for you to come down. Ida and I will see to the mint problem.” She looked over at Ida. “Got some nice mint growing out in my kitchen garden. Think we could come up with a sauce?”

E
milie left Dinah and Ida discussing mint sauces and substitutes and headed into the breakfast nook, relieved when Mother looked up with a smile. Still, she apologized for sleeping so late.

Mother only chuckled and laid her recipe book aside. “Not to worry, dear. You aren’t in trouble. I’ve sent your grumbling bear of a father off to the office with my assurance that you and I are fully capable of having a civil discussion without him to referee.” She looked pointedly at Emilie’s ensemble. “That’s last season’s skirt, I believe?”

Emilie swallowed. “Yes. I thought—”

Mother didn’t wait for her to finish her sentence, “As you know, I’ve never been one to approve of wearing out-of-date fashion, but that really is a classic line. It accents your tiny waist.” She handed over the piece of paper she’d been perusing when Emilie joined her. “Tell me what you think of this evening’s menu.”

Emilie sat down and scanned the menu. Mother clearly didn’t consider tonight a last-minute supper with a few friends. She’d listed oyster soup to be followed by boiled salmon with cream sauce, followed by leg of mutton served with fried apples and mashed potatoes. “I see you settled on rhubarb pie for dessert.”

“Yes, but I’ve added the pound cake with whipped cream. Just in case anyone doesn’t care for rhubarb pie. I’d hate to end the meal on a negative note.”

At the bottom of the page, Mother had written a reminder to Dinah about “the usual condiments.” That probably meant pickled beets, olives, piccalilli, dilled green beans, and at least two different jams or jellies for the Parker House rolls. And a plate of sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, and onions from the garden.

“You’re—I mean we—we’re asking a lot of Dinah on short notice.”

Mother nodded. “I know. Which is why I talked Cornelia into sharing Ida for the day, in spite of her needing to set up camp out at the grounds. I promised her I’d help her all day tomorrow if she needs me, but Calvin is already over there.” Mother paused. A smile played about her lips as she said, “Your father is going to ask Mrs. Fielding, the woman who cleans the newspaper office, if she’ll take on the cottages for us. You and I have more important things to attend to.”

“We do?”

“Well of course we do, dear. You have your rehearsal. And I can’t be lollygagging about the Chautauqua grounds when I’ve a house full of guests arriving this evening. We have to put the leaves in the dining table and press the damask tablecloth—the gold one, I think. And all those napkins. We’re going to have to work very diligently, or things will never be ready for Mr. Shaw.”

She glanced out the nook windows. “And here come the girls now.” Rising, she headed for the side door. “Cornelia’s staying here to help me. You girls can go on over to the grounds in the buggy.” Mother paused. “And I know you want to help them with their Bee Hive, but I really must insist that you get back here in time for a nice bath. A good soak—with lavender oil. Your father hauled a bucket of rainwater up to the powder room before he left this morning. Your hair will simply glow, dear.” Mother smiled. “And please stop looking at me as if I’ve sprouted horns—or a halo. Aside from May’s tendency to be a bit rowdy, your cousins, overall, are a very good influence.”

“Does that mean I can—”

“Yes, yes,” Mother said. “It means that you can join the girls in their adventure in independence. Just please try to maintain some sense of decorum. One never knows who one might encounter. I imagine all the men—people—on the program will be out and about today.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Emilie enthused. “Thank you so much.” She popped the last bit of cinnamon biscuit in her mouth, delivered her plate and her coffee cup to the kitchen, and hurried outside.

This was Josiah’s house. Grace stood in the entryway and looked around her while his housekeeper prattled on about the colonel. He’d taken the room to the left of the front door—the one obviously intended to be a formal dining room—and made it his office. Barrister’s bookshelves lined the walls. Two desks claimed much of the space, one piled high with stacks of paper and rolls Grace assumed to be maps. None of that surprised her. It looked exactly as she would have expected. What she did not expect was the large portrait of a girl and a boy hanging by a length of black braid in a prominent place just behind Josiah’s desk.

“I’m taking you both downtown to have you shot.” That’s what their father had said. He’d been joking, but Grace had been particularly naughty the previous day, and she’d been terrified by the possible meaning of being
shot.
Of course Pa had meant he was having their photograph taken. And there it was, hanging on her brother’s wall. The sight of it brought tears to her eyes. If Josiah had hung their photograph, maybe there was hope, after all. Maybe he’d forgiven her for selling their parents’ home.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” the housekeeper said. “It’s a horrible mess, but the colonel doesn’t want me touching a thing in this room—except for dusting the bookshelves, of course. He’s working on his memoirs, and he says he knows where everything is.” She gave a low laugh. “The amazing thing is, I think he does.”

She cupped Grace’s elbow and turned her about. “Now, this room, on the other hand, is quite lovely.” The formal living room featured a small grouping of chairs and a sofa gathered into a cozy conversation area around a fireplace in the center of the wall opposite the arched doorway. “That’s all there is on this floor. The formal parlor, the colonel’s office, the kitchen, and my room at the back of the house.” She led the way past the staircase, up the hall, and through another door, which opened onto a simply furnished kitchen. “The colonel takes his meals here when he’s home. I told him it isn’t proper, but he doesn’t listen.” She pointed to the small rectangle of space jutting out from the back wall of the kitchen that was, to Grace’s mind, a bit of heaven, what with the morning light pouring in the multi-paned windows on each wall.

“Now you just set yourself down,” the woman said, “and I’ll have us a breakfast cooked up in no time. Meanwhile, suppose you tell me about your boy?”

“My—boy?” Grace frowned.

“The boy you want the colonel to help you find. What company was he in? Any battles? When did you last hear from him?” She took a coffee grinder down off a shelf, poured beans in, and turned the crank.

“There’s no boy,” Grace said. “Is Josi—I mean, is Colonel Barton on some special commission that has to do with the military?”

The woman shook her head. “No, ma’am. Nothing official. It’s his own calling, he says. Helping the mothers and wives find their men—the missing ones from the Indian wars. The colonel’s been all over the West, and he has a way of remembering faces and names that’s very nearly miraculous.” She glanced Grace’s way before filling an enameled coffeepot with water and setting it on a burner. “The Lord has given him a gift to remember faces and names, and he uses it to help people. Of course some of the missing don’t want to be found. The colonel tries to be sensitive to that, too. When he finds a live one, he sends them a letter first. He’s learned that not every wife or sister is a saint who wants to be reunited out of the kindness of their loving hearts.”

Well. Grace couldn’t remember the last time the walls around her conscience had been pricked, but Josiah’s unwitting housekeeper had just done it. She shifted in her chair and looked around the kitchen. “You look like you’re planning a lot of preserving today.” She nodded at the piles of rhubarb on the far counter.