Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (15 page)

“Working on the last edition convinced me that, in the end, it was the
idea
of writing for the paper that I liked rather than the Ladies’ News. Which is why”—she looked down at the article in her hand—“which is why I’ve come to ask you about this.” She held the papers out.

Father took them and glanced at the heading. “Ten for Ten?”

“Ten questions for ten speakers over the ten days of Chautauqua.”

Father’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s a very good hook.”

“Thank you. That would be the first of the ten. I spoke with Miss Jones this afternoon. Mr. Shaw agreed to be the second, and I think Colonel Barton would be an excellent choice for the third. Reverend Talmage, if I can get through the throngs to speak with him. And Miss Willard, of course. At least I’ll try. Miss Jones said she would put in a good word for me. You’ll see there that her own story includes many elements people love to hear about—rising from poverty, overcoming obstacles, believing in oneself. As for Mr. Shaw’s interview, my article won’t be a repeat of the one you’ve already planned. It would complement it.”

Father laid the papers atop the others on his desk. “You’ve given this quite a bit of thought.”

Her frayed nerves calmed a bit. At least they were talking about it. “You’ll see I’ve chosen a pseudonym. It’s a veiled tribute to Miss Starr, the woman who helped Jane Addams open the settlement house in Chicago.” She and Father had had long conversations about the settlement-house concept. He’d even said that perhaps one day they could visit Hull House. Still, something in his manner prevented Emilie’s relaxing enough to sit down on the chair she’d occupied after the “press room incident.”

Father rose from his chair and crossed to the windows. As he looked out onto the street, he reached up to smooth the tips of his mustache. Then, quite calmly and without turning around, he spoke one forceful word. “No.”

The word seemed to hang in the air between them. Emilie was so surprised that it took her a moment to react. Finally, she managed. “No? But you haven’t even read it.”

He turned back around, sounding weary when he said, “We had this conversation just last evening, Emilie Jane. Frankly, I’m somewhat appalled at the idea that you’ve spent the better part of the day pursuing something that your mother and I clearly forbade.”

“But you didn’t—”

“Yes. We did.” He walked back to his desk and picked up her article. “It’s unfortunate that you weren’t really listening.” He frowned. “Exactly how did you manage this, by the way? You said you rode out to the grounds with your cousins. But here you are back in town, having completed an interview and written a news article.”

Emilie rattled off an explanation. “Miss Jones had a meeting over at Willard Hall. Noah had met her, and he rented a rig and brought her out to the grounds. The two of them stopped by the Tabernacle just as we were finishing our rehearsal. Then the cousins and I showed Noah the grounds while Miss Jones had her meeting, and then I rode back here with them to do the interview and to write it up. Noah’s waiting to drive me home.”

“Noah,” Father muttered and set the article back down atop the papers on his desk.

Oh, dear.
Clearly, he didn’t care for that familiarity one bit. And it had just slipped out. “He asked us to call him that.”

“So you spent the afternoon here in town with Mr. Shaw and Miss Jones, in lieu of helping your cousins prepare that tent you were so eager to inhabit?”

She willed herself to look him in the eye. “Bert and Noah pitched our tent for us. Pap Green had delivered the wrong size, and they got things straightened out. Bert even invited Noah to play on his team for the baseball tournament. And no one minded my leaving to do an interview.” She grasped a bit of her skirt between thumb and forefinger and began to worry it while she waited for Father to say something.

“So now you’ve managed to get your cousins, Bert Hartwell,
and
Mr. Shaw to support your going against your mother and me.”

“I didn’t—it wasn’t like that.” Emilie swallowed. “It just happened. Noah said he enjoyed getting to know us better. He’s actually very nice. Even funny sometimes. I think he’s lonely.”

“We are not discussing Mr. Shaw, Emilie Jane.” Father sighed. Shook his head. “I can’t imagine what your mother would think if she knew about all of this nonsense.”

Mother. It was always about mother. Just once, couldn’t he care about her? Be concerned about what she was thinking? She let go of the bit of her skirt and took a step back. “She’ll be thrilled,” she snapped. “That rainwater she made you haul up to the bathroom this morning? That’s to make my hair look especially nice. She’s planning on throwing me at Mr. Shaw. What’s she going to think? I’d say she’ll be
delighted
to see the two of us together. She’ll probably call all her friends tomorrow morning and crow about how ‘taken’ Mr. Noah Shaw is with her Emilie Jane. How he went all the way out to the grounds to hear her play. How he escorted her about town for the better part of a day. And then waited to drive her home.” Angry tears threatened. Emilie swiped them away. She grabbed the article and held it up to him. “Won’t you at least read it?”

Father shoved his fists in his pockets and stood there, staring at her, his jaw working, his lips pressed together. “No. I told you that your foray into journalism was over.”

It was sunny outside, but a chill coursed through her. Something had changed between her and Father. And with that change, something fundamental in her world shifted. A curtain lowered between them. She drew the article to her. Took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. “Well, then,” she said and left his office without another word.

The woman who answered Noah’s knock on Colonel Barton’s door had clearly been busy. She wore a burgundy calico apron spattered with flour and what appeared to be bits of dough. “I’m very sorry to bother you,” Noah said. “My name is Noah Shaw. The manager at the Paddock said that Madame Jumeaux had moved over here?”

The woman pushed a lock of auburn hair back from her damp forehead. Before she could respond to Noah’s question, another woman stepped through a doorway at the far end of the hall and called out, “I’m here, Mr. Shaw.”

As she hurried to the front door, Noah wondered at Madame’s complete transformation. He recognized the voice, but that was all. She wore a rust-colored calico dress. Her gray hair was pulled back in a bun, her face devoid of makeup. Had Noah seen her on the street, he probably would have walked right by without recognizing her. The difference left him speechless.

Madame Jumeaux, on the other hand, was unusually talkative. She sent an unspoken plea his way as she chattered, “It’s all right, Ladora. Mr. Shaw is on the Chautauqua program. I told you about meeting him on the train. He and I enjoyed a late supper last evening at the hotel.” She looked up at Noah. “I don’t think I mentioned that the assembly itself wasn’t really my principle reason for coming to Beatrice. I was hoping to speak with Colonel Barton. Ladora is his housekeeper, and she’s been kind enough to offer me lodging until he returns.”

Madame sent a fleeting smile in the housekeeper’s direction before adding, “I’m going to help with Ladora’s baking. She and the other Methodist women run a dining hall over on the grounds to support their missionaries. Isn’t that a fine cause? I’m so pleased to be able to help.”

Why was she so flustered? It was almost as if she wished he’d never come to the colonel’s house. “I just wanted to make certain that everything was all right,” he said. “I’m glad to see that it is.” He turned his attention to the woman who’d answered the door. “I understand Colonel Barton spent time at Fort Kearny, Mrs…?”

“It’s Riley, but everyone just calls me Ladora, and you should, too. As to Fort Kearny, oh my, yes. The colonel served all over Nebraska Territory and on up Dakota way. Fort Kearny will be mentioned often in his memoirs, you can be sure of that.”

“I’d very much appreciate being able to speak with him upon his return. May I leave a note?”

Mrs. Riley stood back and motioned him inside. “The colonel’s office,” she said, pointing toward the room lined with bookshelves. She spoke to Madame Jumeaux. “I’ll trust you, Grace, to rustle up paper and pen for Mr. Shaw whilst I tend to my pies. Top right drawer of the desk for note paper.” She looked back up at Noah. “I just filled the inkwell on the desk set this morning,” she said. “You may use it, but I’ll ask you to take care. It was a gift from General Dodge himself.”

Mrs. Riley headed back up the hall toward the back of the house, while Noah followed Madame Jumeaux into the office, gazing about as she retrieved note paper from the desk drawer. “I’m very glad to see that you’ve found comfortable quarters,” he said. He might not have recognized the name General Dodge, but the desk set itself was quite impressive. Polished stone set into a footed brass base held a cut-glass inkwell with a faceted stopper and an ebony-and-filigreed gold pen. Noah hesitated, thinking a hastily scratched note requesting a meeting hardly worthy of such a pen. On the other hand, depending on what Colonel Barton might be able to tell him, this note might change Noah’s life.

Madame Jumeaux interrupted his musings with a question—asked in a wary tone of voice. “You have business with Colonel Barton?”

“I have an interest in Fort Kearny,” Noah said. He returned the pen to its place in the desk set. “Learning about the colonel was a serendipity. When I learned that you’d checked out of the hotel, I expressed concern for your welfare. The hotel manager sang the colonel’s praises by way of reassuring me. He only mentioned the fort in passing.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Nor did I.”

“I do appreciate your kindness. It’s just that it’s been some time since anyone took notice of me—with kindness as a motivation.”

“I’m very sorry for that. I only wish you well, Madame Jumeaux.”

“Grace,” she said. “Please call me Grace.” She reached up and ran her palms over her hair, smoothing it back. “I suppose you’re wondering at the change. The wigs and furbelows make no sense for a place such as this. This seemed the right—costume, as it were.”

“What’s that about wigs and fur-blows?” Mrs. Riley pushed through a small door that obviously led into the kitchen. She had a dessert plate in her hand, which she held out to Noah. “It’s rhubarb. The colonel would want me to extend his hospitality in his absence.”

Noah took his watch out of his vest pocket, glanced down at it, and winced with regret. “I have to say ‘no thank you.’ I promised to meet a young lady and—”

Mrs. Riley grinned. “You’d best be on your way, then. It never suits to keep a young lady waiting.” She handed the pie to Grace Jumeaux and showed him to the front door.

“Thank you for understanding.”

As Noah stepped out onto the porch, Mrs. Riley said, “You get a hankering for a piece of rhubarb pie, you know where to find it. Costs you a dime over at the Stewart Dining Hall. Maybe twice that at the hotel. The colonel’s kitchen serves it up free. You remember that.”

“I will. And thank you.”

“Bring your young lady along if you’d like.”

“I just might do that.”

He was at the bottom of the porch steps when Mrs. Riley called through the screen. “You can set on the front porch together. That porch swing’s just right for sparkin’.” She looked over at Madame Jumeaux, who was standing next to her in the doorway, the pie plate still in her hand. “Now, Grace, don’t be shocked. Neither of us is so old we don’t remember sparkin’.”

Noah laughed, tipped his hat to both women, and took his leave. Out at the street, he paused and looked back at the porch swing. He remembered the swing that April Spring had mentioned for “the Bee Hive.” And he wondered if Emilie Rhodes had ever engaged in “sparkin’.”

E
milie managed to get through the newspaper office’s double doors and out onto the street before the tears came. She folded her arms across the sheaves of paper representing her first bit of real journalism and walked along, hugging them to herself. Silent tears coursed down her cheeks. She kept her head down as she skirted around the corner and ducked into the hotel lobby, where she nearly bowled Noah Shaw over.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he joked. Then he noticed the tears. Quickly, he guided her back outside and to the rented rig. Without a word, he helped her up onto the driver’s seat. Handing over his handkerchief, he hurried to unhitch the rig, climbed up beside her, and headed north on Sixth Street, past the high school, past the county courthouse construction site, and on toward the north edge of town.

After a few moments, Emilie finally managed to say, “Well. That’s that.” She gave a rueful laugh, then closed her eyes, willing the tears to stop. And failing. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“For crying? Why? There’s nothing wrong with crying. Obviously, things did not go well with your father. That has to hurt.”

She wasn’t really embarrassed about crying in front of Noah. Which was odd. Oh well. Her life seemed to have taken a turn toward odd since last night when she screamed and a gorgeous man came running out of the night. “I feel stupid because apparently I didn’t really hear what Mother and Father were saying when they took the Ladies’ News away from me.” She shook her head. “How could I have been so dense?”