Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (18 page)

When Emilie relayed Dinah’s message, Billy said no. “Tell her thanks, but Mr. Obrist told me to head straight out to the grounds this morning. I’m to help set up the correspondents’ office.” He reined the horse about and took off.

Emilie stepped back inside, lingering in the kitchen just long enough to scan the front page of the Journal. Not seeing anything of particular interest, she rejoined Father and handed him the
Dispatch.
She kept the
Journal
for herself. And there it was, at the top of page three. Not the front page. Still, very good placement. Right where every subscriber would see it the minute they opened the paper. She stifled a smile.

“Since when are you interested in the competition?” Father poured his second cup of coffee. “And what’s making you smile about the
Journal
?”

Emilie moistened her lips. “I came down early so that if this happened, you’d hear it from me.” She folded the paper and laid it between them so that he could read the headline:
Ten for Ten. First in a Series.

He snatched the paper up and glared at the page.

“It’s good work, Father. I wanted to see if someone else would be interested.”

“And so you decided to go behind my back.” He slammed it down with her article facing away from him.

“My motive was never to hurt you. That’s why I used a pen name.”

Father snorted. “And just how long do you suppose it will take for E. J. Starr’s true identity to be broadcast all over Beatrice?

“I submitted the article inside a plain envelope containing nothing but that article and a note. All it said was that if the first in the series was printed, subsequent articles would be submitted featuring—and then I listed the nine names. I didn’t even put the envelope in the
Journal
mail slot myself. Noah did it for me.”

Father glowered at her. “So I have Noah Shaw to thank for this?”

“No. It was my decision. He and I talked on the way home, but he refused to give advice in the matter.”

Father snorted. “I’ll bet.”

“I’m telling you the truth. After I left your office, I cried all the way over to meet him. He put me in his rented buggy and took me for a drive, waiting for me to calm down. And then, when I asked him what he thought I should do, he told me how grateful I should be that I have such a wonderful family.”

“How noble of him.”

“He said that since I was the only one who would have to live with the consequences of what I decided to do, I was the only one qualified to decide.”

Father took a drink of coffee. He smoothed his freshly waxed mustache. Finally, he said, “And I suppose the fact that you dreamed up this E. J. Starr and enlisted Shaw to sneak the article into the
Journal
office makes you think I’ll recant and offer my support?”

Emilie took a deep breath. “You’ve made it very clear that if I force you to choose sides, you’re backing Mother.” She forced a smile. “A girl can’t fault her own father for loving her mother, now can she?” Clearly that wasn’t what he expected to hear. She met his gaze. “I’m not throwing down a gauntlet like some spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum. But this is important to me. I’m going to continue writing, and I’m going to continue to seek publication.” She looked down, tracing the rim of her own coffee cup with her index finger.

The newspaper rustled. Father laid the
Journal
aside. Picking up the
Dispatch
, he opened it and began to read. Presently, he said, “Would you please inform Dinah that I’d like poached eggs this morning?”

Emilie rose and went into the kitchen. She relayed the message about Father’s breakfast and offered to make his toast while Dinah poached eggs and fried a slice of ham. She retrieved a jar of peach jam from the pantry.

“That’s the last one,” Dinah said. “I was saving it for a special occasion.”

“It’s Father’s favorite,” Emilie said, and opened the jar. As far as she was concerned, this was a special occasion.

I
t was barely light enough for Noah to see the street below his hotel-room window when he dressed and descended to the lobby. The dining room wasn’t yet open, and the newsstand held only copies of yesterday’s news. Exiting into the predawn light, he paused for a moment and closed his eyes, appreciating the quiet city which, he knew, would soon transform as crowds of people descended from hotel rooms and houses to dine and shop and rent carriages and, eventually, pay fares to ride out to the grounds. Many would want to go early and stake out their place on a bench beneath the Tabernacle covering in anticipation of the evening’s opening exercises. But Noah was focused on only one thing at the moment—today’s
Beatrice Journal.

As he paced, he thought his way through first one and then another of the poems in his repertoire. He murmured the Shepherd’s Psalm to himself and had just begun with one of his favorite orations, which involved selections from the Old Testament book of Job, when a wagon came into view, turning onto Court Street from the direction of the
Journal
offices.

When the wagon rolled up to the Paddock door, Noah was waiting. He offered to carry a bundle of papers in, disappointed as he scanned the front page and did not see the words
Ten for Ten.
At the sound of a key in the dining-room door lock, he tucked the paper beneath his arm and headed in to breakfast, greeting the waiter and choosing a seat near a window. As the first rays of morning light spilled over the tops of the buildings and into the street, he searched the paper, finally locating Emilie’s article. Good placement, in the upper right-hand corner of page three. Right at the top. Right where the eye would land. Superb placement, actually.

He glanced toward the northeast. Emilie was probably standing just inside the front windows at the foot of the mansion’s front stairs right now, watching for the lone rider who would deliver the paper to the Rhodeses’ home this morning. How would Mr. Rhodes react to seeing her column in his competitor’s paper? What would Emilie say to him?
And how would he react to the idea that I delivered the article for her?
That part of the equation wasn’t the most important part, of course. He reminded himself that he was leaving town in less than two weeks. And then smiled at the thought of having more time to get to know Emilie during the Long Pine Chautauqua. Would she want to do a second round of Ten for Ten interviews while she was there?

Voices sounded out in the lobby, and hotel guests began to filter into the dining room. Two waiters entered through the swinging door that connected the kitchen to the dining room. One brought Noah his coffee; the other welcomed other diners. And in what seemed like only moments, the dining room resonated with the familiar sounds of a busy restaurant and the aromas of freshly baked bread, frying bacon, brewing tea, and percolating coffee.

Noah ate heartily, but all the while his mind was on what might be happening over breakfast at the Rhodeses’ mansion. He wished he could have been there to see the look on her face that first moment, when Emilie opened the paper and caught sight of the name E. J. Starr in print. And if there were to be more tears shed after she talked with her father, Noah wanted to be there for that, too.

“I talked Dinah into letting me open the last jar of peach jam.” Emilie set Father’s breakfast before him and refilled the shaving mug.

Father didn’t look up, although he did mutter
thank you.

She almost sat back down across from him, but then she thought better of it. Perhaps that wasn’t fair. Perhaps an uneasy peace was all she should expect for now. Father was, at least, talking to her. She’d almost decided to retreat to her room when Mother descended the stairs and came to join them.

“My, but you’re up early,” she said to Emilie, as she bent to kiss Father on the cheek.

“I’ll bring your tea,” Emilie said. She glanced back from the doorway just as Father nuzzled the back of Mother’s hand, and then pulled her to him for a different kind of kiss. Emilie’s cheeks flamed, and she looked away, embarrassed—not by the show of affection—but by the realization that seeing her parents’ kiss had made her think of Noah Shaw.

By the time she had Mother’s tea brewed, Father was leaving for the office. “You two have a lovely day together,” he said as he headed out the door. He paused and looked over at Emilie, seeming about to say more. Instead, he gave a slight shake of his head and continued on outside.

Emilie gave Mother the cup of tea, then carried Father’s breakfast dishes out to Dinah—along with Mother’s request for a soft boiled egg and toast. She’d headed up the stairs to her room, intending to begin laying out what she would move over to the Bee Hive later this morning, when Mother called her back downstairs.

About that kiss.

Awakened by the doorbell, Grace pulled on her wrapper and headed downstairs to answer it, but before she so much as reached the first of the steps leading down, Ladora had opened the door and spoken to whoever it was. When Grace heard the word
telegram
, she stood as if rooted to the bare wood floor in the upstairs hall, her hands clutching the railing, her heart thumping. Ladora had said that Josiah always telegrammed when he was headed home. How much longer would she have before facing him?

Grace listened as Ladora thanked the messenger and closed the door, then retreated to the kitchen. Finally, the back door closed. That was her cue to move. Ladora would be gone for a few minutes, gathering eggs.

Descending the stairs, she headed into Josiah’s office. Facing her brother would perhaps be the most challenging role of her life, and she didn’t know how to play it. Returning prodigal? Repentant prodigal? Desperate prodigal? There were nuances to be considered if she was going to get what she wanted, and from her brief time in this house, it was clear to Grace that she didn’t know the man Josiah had become. For one thing, his housekeeper called him “devout.” For another, he apparently spent a great deal of time helping others—at his own expense. She would study Josiah, just as she’d always studied for any role.

The photograph of the two of them drew her across the room. Skirting her brother’s desk, Grace stared at it for a moment, surprised to realize that something had changed for her over the years, too. She wasn’t bitter anymore. Josiah had promised their dying mother to “take care of Grace” and then, only a year later, reenlisted. He’d promised to send money when he left. “I’ll write,” he’d said. But he never did. She worried for weeks. She feared him dead. And then…then she read his name in a newspaper article about Major Frank North and the Pawnee Scouts. And she got angry. Finally, she sold the house and left to follow her own dreams. She’d had her revenge and then some, she supposed. For whatever reason, she wasn’t angry anymore. Was Josiah?

She looked away from the photograph and over at the roll of maps and the stacks of papers covering nearly the entire surface of the second of two desks in the room. He was writing his memoir. Why did he believe people would want to read it? What had he done and seen that was so important? Ladora said he’d been “all over the West.” Well, so had thousands of other men.

She looked around the room at the books. The shelf nearest her held several Bibles. The rest of that entire bookcase contained theology books and sermon collections. Charles Wesley, John Wesley, George Whitefield, David Brainerd. And Charles Spurgeon.

Grace smiled at the idea that Josiah had several volumes by Spurgeon. She’d gone to hear the man preach. More than once, actually, in London. When had Josiah been converted? And by whom? Had redemption mitigated his anger toward her? Did she have the courage to find out? She’d come all this way, but now that she was here in Beatrice, standing in her brother’s study, she wasn’t certain. Could brotherly love survive twenty years of estrangement?

She reached for one of the volumes with Spurgeon’s name on it. It would behoove her to refresh the vocabulary of the saints before Josiah got home. Intending to take the book up to her room before going into the kitchen, she made her way back toward the stairs, pausing briefly to peer at the two other portraits hanging on the wall to the right of the door. She hadn’t really paid them any mind. Now she was glad she’d stopped to look them over. One showed Josiah in some sort of frontier garb, looking more like a character in a Wild West show than the brother she’d grown up with. Was that a young William Cody? It was. Again, Grace smiled. Josiah, with Buffalo Bill. Perhaps she would learn that story one day. Perhaps she’d tell him about meeting Rosa Bonheur in Paris.