Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (12 page)

The housekeeper talked as she plopped two blobs of oatmeal into two bowls and put them on a serving tray. “That? Oh, my yes—lots of work in coming days, but that’s not for preserves. I’ve promised five pies a day for the full run of Chautauqua. We have a dining hall on the grounds and serve hundreds every day. The profits fund some of our missionaries. We serve pie for lunch and cake for supper. The colonel’s not much for cake, so I didn’t promise cakes. I never did get the knack for icing.”

So. Josiah hadn’t changed in that regard. He’d never cared much for cake. But pie and pastry? Oh, my. His housekeeper added an array of oatmeal toppings to the breakfast tray. Once she was settled opposite Grace, she bowed her head. “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest.” She poured molasses over her oatmeal and added a blob of butter as she talked. “You said you don’t have a boy you want the colonel to find,” the housekeeper said. “So what brings you to Beatrice? And from where, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“This is so good,” Grace said, and added a tablespoon of raisins atop the oatmeal she’d just tasted. “I don’t know when I’ve had better.” She took another mouthful, reveling in the taste of warm butter, cinnamon, and sugar. She was ravenous. It took all her self-control to set the spoon down and answer the woman’s questions. “I’m from everywhere. I grew up here, but I’ve been away for a very long time.” She could have made up a wonderful story, but for some reason Grace didn’t want to lie to this talkative, generous woman.

“You on the faculty at the assembly? Teaching, maybe? Is that how you know the colonel? He’s given his share of lectures hither and yon.”

“As it happens,” Grace said, “I am familiar with his talent. He’s a very persuasive speaker.” Josiah had talked her into more than one escapade when they were young. “Is the colonel on the program, by chance? I haven’t had an opportunity to see the plan for the entire event. I did make the acquaintance of a Mr. Shaw on the train. I believe he’ll be very impressive on the stage.”

“Never heard of Mr. Shaw,” the woman said. “I’m not much on the speakers. What I like is the music. Our Spring Sisters are going to be singing. Now that’s good entertainment. You wait until you hear them. The angels are probably jealous.”

Two cups of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal later, Grace was feeling fortified and almost hopeful. She’d listen for the train whistle, and when another train arrived, she’d head to the station. And if luck was with her, who knew? She might even be able to pay for the hotel today. It was high time luck showed its face in Grace Barton’s life. High time.

The housekeeper rose from the nook and, without asking, grabbed Grace’s bowl and refilled it. “You don’t mind my saying so, ma’am, you need to put some meat on those bones of yours. Now eat up.” She slid back into her seat and was quiet for a moment before taking a deep breath and launching into a new subject. “Chautauqua brings a lot of folks into town. A lot of money, too. Hotels fill up fast. Some folks rent out rooms—and I mean folks who never do such things otherwise.” She paused again, seeming to ponder whether or not to say whatever was circling in her mind. Grace lifted her coffee cup to her mouth, inhaling the rich aroma before taking a sip.

Finally, the housekeeper said, “Now don’t take this wrong, but if you’re of a mind to earn some extra money while you’re in town, they’s plenty of chances for it. In fact, might be I could help you with that.” She looked over at Grace. “Not keeping house. I don’t mean that. I can tell you’re not used to scrubbing floors and such.”

Grace set the coffee cup back down. “How could you possibly know that?”

“Yer hands. Don’t take a genius to see you ain’t had to work hard labor. And besides that, you talk real smart. Not like me.”

Grace looked down at her hands. Her hideous hands, boasting paper-thin skin stretched across swollen knuckles. And age spots. How she had mourned the loss of her beautiful young hands. But then the housekeeper put her own red, chapped ones on the table, palms down. “Them’s a working woman’s hands.”

Grace shrugged. “You’re right. I haven’t much experience with ‘real work.’ I’m an actress. I suppose that shocks you.”

The woman laughed. “Takes more than that to shock Ladora Riley.” She got up and refilled Grace’s coffee cup. “You at the Opera House? I heard there’s a comedy troupe expected in.”

Grace shook her head. “No. I–I’m not here for that.” Without warning, tears filled her eyes. She’d made her way up and down the East Coast begging for roles. Any role. But age had robbed her of the beauty that had once made directors willing to overlook her less than stellar talent. Embarrassed, she looked down at her bowl, poking around in the oatmeal with a spoon and trying not to cry.

“There now.” Mrs. Riley patted Grace’s pale, wrinkled hand. “It’s none of my business anyhow. The colonel will help you if he can, no matter why you come to him. You don’t have to say another word.”

Grace swallowed. “It’s just that I was counting on—” she sighed. “It was very kind of you to invite me in and serve breakfast. It was delicious. And now I really must be going. I’m at the Paddock, but I need to arrange to have my things moved this morning.”

“People are pouring into town from all points today and tomorrow. Those who have good rooms had best not let them go.”

“I know you’re probably right, but the manager demanded payment in advance, and my most recent income was in francs and marks, and—the banks here—there’s been a delay.” Again, Grace spoke carefully so as not to tell an outright lie. She did still have a few francs in her trunk somewhere, and presenting foreign money to any of the local banks probably would cause a bit of a delay. It would take a teller at least a few minutes to consult someone, wouldn’t it?

“Why don’t you just stay here and keep me company for the next few days?” It was obvious the woman had just blurted it out, but once the words were out, she didn’t take them back. She picked up steam. “It’s just me rattling around in this big old house, and they’s times I’m about to go crazy from bein’ lonely.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Grace said, even as a faint hope sprung up. Whether she could face Josiah or not, she could get a few days to really rest—and to eat well, if Ladora Riley’s breakfast was any indication.

“They’s no imposition,” Mrs. Riley said. “All I got to do is bake pies every day. I’d welcome the company.”

“I should probably admit that I couldn’t make a pie crust if my very life depended on it,” Grace said. “But I can wash and chop. I’m willing to help, if you’re sure the colonel wouldn’t object to my staying a couple of days.”

“Object? He’s not even here. And he would object to my sending a lady away when there’s likely not a room to be had in the whole city.” Mrs. Riley retrieved a blue-and-white sugar bowl from behind a pile of rhubarb. Setting the lid on the counter, she withdrew a roll of bills, peeled a few off, and held them out to Grace.

Grace shook her head. “Absolutely not. I cannot allow you—”

“The colonel leaves a little in the sugar bowl so’s I can help them that comes to his door when he’s away. I may be nothing but a housekeeper, but he trusts me. And we don’t turn people out. We do what we can.”

Grace took the money. Things were looking up.

Emilie had barely gotten settled between May and Junie on the buggy seat when April snapped the reins and the buggy lurched forward. As she guided the gray mare around and out toward the road, she told the girls they could talk about anything they wanted—with the exception of Emilie’s adventure last night, which had to be saved until they could
all
hear the story. As the buggy reached the business row where Klein’s Market and the Paddock Hotel and Opera House stood, Emilie couldn’t help but look that way.

“Looking for
Noah
?” May teased, practically singing the name.

Emilie shot her cousin her best don’t-you-dare look. “Actually, I was just wondering if a Miss Ida Jones might have checked in yet. I’m hoping to interview her.” Her interest in the hotel didn’t have a thing to do with those dining-room windows looking out onto Sixth Street. And a lingering hope of catching a glimpse of a certain person. She was only wondering about Miss Jones. She was only thinking of the interview. With Miss Jones. Noah Shaw hadn’t entered her mind.
More than a few hundred times since waking.

May frowned. “But isn’t Mrs. Penner doing the Ladies’ News now?”

June nodded. “She stopped by the house early this morning. Something about double-checking the details of Mama’s Ladies’ Aid announcement.”

“Any excuse to gloat,” May grumbled.

“Don’t feel bad on my account,” Emilie said. “I have an even better idea for a series.” And she told them about Ten for Ten. She didn’t even mention the title “Another View.” Noah Shaw was right. Everyone
would
be interested in the answers to her ten questions, and she would make Father see just that—if only she could get to Miss Jones and finish the first article. Today. In time for Will Gable to set the type and get it into Friday’s
Chautauqua Express.

“So did you ask Mr. Shaw your ten questions?” May asked. When Emilie shook her head, May teased, “Why not?”

“Because,” June chimed in, “they were otherwise engaged.” She leaned over and added a breathless, “In the moonlight.”

Emilie felt herself blushing. “If you two don’t stop that”—she glowered at Junie—“I won’t tell you what Bert wants.”

Junie was instantly serious. “What does Bert want?”

“Promise you will never tease me about Noah Shaw again.”

Junie put her hand to her heart. “I promise.”

“Bert wants to sit with us tomorrow night during the opening exercises.”

Junie’s expression saddened. “What’s so special about Bert wanting to sit with
us
?”

“
You
are the best part of us. And before long Bert’s going to realize that, and when he does…”

“She can make him another roast beef sandwich,” May said. “With the famous goblet of milk on the side.”

Emilie could tell from Junie’s expression that there was more to this story than roast beef and milk. She nudged May.

“Mother was fit to be tied when she saw that Junie had gotten out the good china. That’s all.”

“All? That’s all?” Junie shivered. “You would have thought I borrowed her tiara without asking.”

April called back from the driver’s seat. “Since when does our Mama have a tiara?”

“I thought you said you couldn’t hear what we were saying from up there,” Emilie called.

“Just enough to be confused,” April shot back. “And you just hold all the chatter. We are nearly there.”

But instead of guiding the buggy beneath the entryway arches unimpeded, April had to pull up. Emilie, May, and Junie stood up, holding on to the back of the buggy seat and exclaiming over the long line of wagons ahead of them filled with benches, canvas bundles, and an upright piano.

“If that’s the piano for the Tabernacle,” May said, “we are definitely early enough.” She smiled over at Emilie. “It’ll take a while for Mr. Tilden to get it unloaded and tuned. We’ll have time to show you our camping spot before we rehearse.”

And so it was. The wagon with the piano was waved through the gates and headed off toward the Tabernacle, but the same man who had waved that wagon through, directed April to “pull over to the side” and “let these other wagons by.”

“But we’ve a rehearsal at the Tabernacle,” April protested. “We’re the Spring Sisters.”

“Yes’m,” the man said, tugging on the brim of his cap. “I recognize you. But we’ve got to control the traffic today. You ladies will have to park the buggy out here and walk in. We’re only letting the workers hauling supplies onto the grounds today.”

April hesitated. “Can we at least drive over to our parents’ cottage and hitch up there?” She pointed at the pink cottage gleaming in the distance. “I’ll pull around back. Completely out of the way.” She smiled down at the man. “The thing is, we’re spending most of the day out here, and my father will have my hide if I don’t take good care of his old mare.” She nodded at the dappled gray buggy horse.

The man waggled the toothpick jutting out from the corner of his mouth as he thought about it. When someone in the line yelled a protest about the delay, he looked up at April. “The point is all the road apples, ma’am. Got to keep them cleaned up.”

April didn’t miss a beat. “I promise you there won’t be a single road apple left behind our cottage. We’ll see to it before we leave today. You have my word.”

The man nodded. “All right, then.” He waved her through. Emilie heard him call after them. “I’m counting on you ladies to keep your promise.”

She nudged Junie and May. “Ah, the Spring Sisters. Vocalists Extraordinaire and Road-Apple Specialists.” Even April laughed at that one.

A
pril parked Aunt Cornelia’s buggy behind the pink cottage. The girls worked together to unhitch and picket the gray mare and were making their way across the grounds toward the Tabernacle, when May linked her arm through Emilie’s and slowed her down a bit.

“I only heard Ma’s side of the telephone conversation with Aunt Henrietta this morning,” she said. “Did you really run away last night?”