Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (16 page)

“You are the opposite of dense. It’s only human nature to resist bad news about something that really matters to us—to listen between the words and hear what we want to hear instead of what’s actually being said.”

“‘Listening between the words,’” she muttered. “That’s an interesting way to put it.” She shrugged. “Father would say that I wasn’t listening at all.” She held the article up. “He was amazed I even brought this to him.”

“He really said no?”

“He barely looked at it.”

“I’m so sorry, Emilie.”

“I honestly thought I had a chance—especially if I used a pseudonym. I thought that would give him the excuse he needed with Mother.” She sighed and looked over at him. “You’re right, though. I was listening between the words. I only heard the end of my writing Ladies’ News. Now I realize what that really meant. Father’s decided he agrees with Mother. Or—even if he doesn’t completely agree, he’s decided to follow her lead.”

She looked down at the few pages of handwriting in her hands. “What upsets me more than anything is the fact that this is good work. Father even admitted that I had a good hook for the series. I just know that if it were submitted by anyone but me, he’d print it.” She sighed. “If only he would have thought with the business side of his brain instead of the side that caters to my mother.”

Noah was quiet for a moment. Finally, he said, “I never knew my father. My mother died when I was only a boy, and I’ve never been in love. So what I’m about to say may be worthless in this situation. But it seems to me there’s another way to look at what you call your father’s ‘catering’ to your mother. Maybe he feels caught between the daughter he loves…and his wife, whom he also loves. That’s a tough spot for any man to find himself.”

“Well, he’s found a way out of it.” She took a deep breath. “Just now? It was like he pulled a curtain down between the two of us.” Her voice wavered. “And he and Mother are on the other side.”

“I can understand why you feel that way right now,” Noah said, “but while you’re deciding what you’re going to do about the series idea, take time to think about all the people who’d give anything to have parents who care about them. To have a family and friends like yours.” He leaned over and nudged her shoulder. “To have a Bee Hive during Chautauqua.”

Emilie looked over at him. He envied her her family and friends. She’d been right about him. Handsome as he was, talented as he might be, Noah was lonely. “You’re right,” she said. “I do have a lot to be thankful for.”

“So. Do you want to risk the good relationship with your parents over Ten for Ten?”

Emilie looked down at the article. “It’s not just this article. They don’t realize how important writing is to me. In fact, I’ve already submitted some of my stories to
Leslie’s
and
Godey’s.
”

Noah looked surprised. “So you’re already published?”

“Not yet.” She paused. “I don’t think fiction is where I belong in the writing world. I tried those stories and poems, but it never felt right. When Father gave me the Ladies’ News, I realized why. I have notebooks filled with essays and reports and studies. The kind of writing that I’ve really loved to do isn’t fiction.”

“Have you told him that?”

“I’m just beginning to realize it. And do you really think he’d want to hear it? Now?”

“Maybe not now,” Noah agreed. “But someday.” He smiled. “I can’t imagine a parent not wanting to know they’ve inspired their child.”

Emilie looked over at him. “Did your mother do that for you? With the theater?”

He thought for a moment before answering. “I hadn’t thought about it. Maybe she did.” He laughed. “Although it doesn’t take much for a mother to like the idea that her child always gets to be Abraham Lincoln in the school pageant.”

“Impressive,” Emilie said with a smile.

“It was the height.”

“And the voice.”

“Neither of which had a thing to do with talent.”

“When did you know you were destined for the stage?”

“I’m not sure
destiny
is the right word for what happened in my case. I was the muscle for a traveling theatrical company. One of the older members had taken me under his wing. Someone couldn’t go on one night, and Professor Gordon talked the manager into giving me a chance. My ma wouldn’t call that destiny or fate. She’d say God led me there. She’d say He gave me the talent, and then He took me to the place where I could use His gift.”

Emilie thought for a moment before saying, “I’d love to think that my writing comes from God.”

“Why would you doubt it?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It just feels…natural, I guess. It’s something I’ve always done.”

“Exactly,” Noah said. “And I had my first theatrical role in first grade, playing Abraham Lincoln.”

“You really think God did that?”

Noah shrugged. “The Bible says He cares about sparrows and lilies. It doesn’t seem all that unreasonable to think He’d care about a boy.”

“I suppose when you put it that way…maybe writing is something He gave me to help me figure things out. When I have a problem, I write about it. When I get angry, I write it out. I write and write and write until I know how to think about whatever is going on.” She sighed. “But neither of my parents are going to be willing to think that what I want to do is anything but my being stubborn. Mother doesn’t even try to understand that part of me. She’s too busy worrying about poor Emilie Jane who doesn’t have a man.”

She blanched. Had she really just said that out loud? Goodness. She sat very still and made herself concentrate on the article in her hands, while she willed herself not to turn bright red.

Noah was quiet as well. When he finally did speak, it was to chuckle. “And here I thought that invitation to dine was a tribute to my charm.” He grinned over at her. “It wasn’t my charm at all. It’s a plot. And I must say that it was very clever of Mrs. Rhodes to plant that snake in the cottage so you’d scream and I’d come running. Very clever indeed.”

“Don’t make fun,” Emilie muttered. “I’m already embarrassed enough.”

Noah chirruped to the horse, who had nearly stopped in the road. “Do you really think I thought that invitation to dinner was all about some paper I delivered at a conference last year?” He shook his head. “It was a good bit of work, but it hardly merits a middle-of-the-night invitation to dine.” Taking a deep breath, he continued. “I probably sound like the most arrogant man alive right now, but the truth is, mothers seeking eligible marriage material isn’t new to me.”

Emilie braved a glance his way. “If you suspected the real reason behind the invitation, why’d you say yes?”

“You.” He paused. “And I rarely turn down an invitation to get a home-cooked meal. And for another…” He lowered his voice. “You.” He continued. “And I meant what I said about meeting your cousins and Bert Hartwell. I like them. So please, may I still come to supper, even though it might also be a mother’s ploy to get me to fall in love with you?”

She looked over at him. He was looking straight at her with those dark eyes of his, and there wasn’t one hint of embarrassment in his expression. Until he frowned. “Unless—?”

“Unless what?”

“Unless your Father is going to bounce me out on my ear for encouraging you to write that article.”

“I doubt Father will even mention Ten for Ten. As far as he’s concerned, the matter is settled.”

“And what do you think? Is it settled?”

Emilie sighed. “I don’t know. What do you think I should do?”

He pulled the buggy over to the side of the road and held out his hand. “I think you should get a second opinion. May I?”

She handed the article to him.

He handed her the reins and began to read.

“I said it was good, but I’m not exactly objective.”

“Unh-hunh.” He kept reading.

“I wasn’t sure about that one question.” She pointed at a question midway down the second page.

“Hmmm.” He kept reading.

“It’s very difficult to be truly objective about one’s own work. I know that. Maybe I was overly confident when I said it was good and that Father—”

“Stop interrupting.”

Emilie held the reins for what felt like half an hour.

Finally, Noah finished and looked over at her. “I think
Daily Dispatch
readers would enjoy this—and look forward to more from this E. J. Starr person.”

“Thank you.” She was surprised at just how much his praise meant. “And so I ask again, what do you think I should do?”

He shrugged. “What I think is irrelevant. They aren’t my parents, and I don’t have to live with the consequences of the decision.”

“You’re no help at all.”

“No help?” He leaned back, pretending to be shocked. “How can you say that? For you, mademoiselle, I bring Miss Jones to rehearsal. For you, I pitch tent. For you, I read article and say it is very good. For you, I come to dine with notorious matchmaking mother. For you,” he said with a wicked grin, “I face giant snake.”

He’d taken on some kind of weird accent and syntax, but it worked. Emilie laughed. “All right, all right. Thank you for all you’ve done and for all you are about to do.” She handed the reins back and took the article. “But I still don’t know what to do with this.”

“Maybe Ten for Ten is only a symptom of a bigger issue.” He guided the rented horse into a turn that sent them back in the direction of town.

They were approaching the turn that would take them to her house before Emilie spoke again. “You’re right. There’s more to what just happened than just one series of articles.” She swallowed. “Lecturers like Miss Jones inspire people to think. She has things to say about the cause that people need to hear. Because the world needs to change the way they treat women. I told Father I wanted to interview Colonel Barton, too. He has things to say about the way we’ve treated our Indians. People need to hear that, too, because policies should change.” She shook her head. “But I’m one girl from Nebraska who can’t even get her own father to let her write for his newspaper. Who am I to think that what I report would matter to anyone?”

Noah was quiet for so long that she thought maybe he agreed with her and just didn’t know how to say it. Finally, he mentioned a name. “Susette LaFlesche Tibbles. Have you heard of her? A girl from Nebraska, if I’m not mistaken”

“Of course.”

He nodded. “And Clara Colby?”

Emilie looked over at him. “What do you know about Mrs. Colby?’

“Enough to know that ladies from Nebraska shouldn’t be underestimated.”

“I’m not that gifted.”

“How do you know? You’re as bright as anyone I’ve ever met.”

“But…my parents.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Your parents. Exceptional parents. Very good people.”

Listening to Noah agree with everything she said tempted Emilie to go back to “you’re no help at all.” Except that, in an odd way, he was helping. He was listening as she shared her heart. He wasn’t laughing at her for thinking she could “make a difference” in the world. And he believed she was smart enough to decide what to do—for herself.

They were back at the turn to home. Emilie shook her head. “Not yet. Head back into town.”

In the short time they’d been driving, things had changed back in Beatrice. Now, both sides of Sixth Street were lined with carriages and buggies, mounted riders and farm wagons. Two omnibuses were pulled up at the Paddock Hotel, both dropping passengers off. The effects of Chautauqua were beginning to show on the streets of Beatrice. Over the next ten days, excursion trains would disgorge hundreds at the three railroad stations on the west side of town. Farmers would drive in from miles around. Eventually, thousands of people would descend on Beatrice and the Chautauqua grounds just across the Blue River.
Thousands of readers.

Emilie sighed. Once again, she looked down at the article she’d written. The idea that had flickered to life when she stormed out of Father’s office an hour ago took hold. She’d been angry when it first surfaced. This time, the thought was borne of her talk with Noah and her subsequent thinking through what he’d called the “bigger issue” behind hers and Father’s disagreement over Ten for Ten.

The buggy passed by Klein’s Market. She looked through the windows. The interior was teeming with shoppers. Could it really have only been this morning that she’d offered to fetch mint jelly for Dinah? She felt so much older.

As Noah drove the buggy past the Paddock Hotel, Emilie gazed up Court Street toward the
Daily Dispatch
office. At the next corner, she asked Noah to turn right. “One stop and then you can take me home.”

E
milie stood beneath the porte cochere, looking after the surrey bearing all their dinner guests save one back to town. Aunt Cornelia had seen to it that Bert sat beside June at the rear of the three-bench surrey that was Aunt Cornelia’s pride and joy. It was a fine vehicle, with padded seats upholstered in deep green and gold fringe along the edge of the canopy. The last thing Emilie saw before the surrey disappeared into the night was Bert reaching over to tug on June’s blond braid and her slapping him away. She sighed and shook her head. Someone needed to open that man’s eyes to the love that was sitting right next to him.

Laughter dragged her attention away from the departing guests and back up to the top of the stairs where Noah stood talking to Mother and Father. He shook hands with Father and bent to kiss the back of Mother’s proffered hand as Father opened the screen door, clearly intending for them both to go back inside and leave Emilie alone with Noah, who was headed toward her now. As Father held the door open, Mother flashed a smile in Emilie’s direction and flexed her wrist, ending in the flick of a forefinger indicating Noah. She nodded. Pointedly. Father pretended not to notice as he put his arm around her and pulled her inside.

Noah grinned. “And so the dastardly matchmaker departs, her evil web growing ever more inescapable.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Emilie laughed in spite of herself. “It was a nice evening.”

“It was.” He hesitated. “Are you certain you don’t want me to wait while you speak to your Father about that extra stop we made this evening?”