Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (19 page)

The other photograph appeared to be some kind of Indian delegation. A ramrod-straight Colonel Josiah T. Barton in full dress uniform graced this one, and my but he did look impressive. So did the dozen or so Indians in the photograph. Grace supposed she was looking at their version of “full dress uniform” as well, what with their bear claw necklaces and ornate headdresses, their beaded moccasins and government medals.

She glanced back at the desk laden with materials. These photographs explained the memoir idea. Apparently, Josiah knew some famous people relatively well. Buffalo Bill was a sensation. People would love reading about him. And Indian chiefs? Maybe these men weren’t chiefs, but still—she squinted at the portrait. With a sharp intake of breath, she removed her spectacles. Leaned closer. She really must have her eyes checked. Or clear her mind with a cup of strong coffee. It couldn’t be.

The sound of the back door closing sent her scurrying back up the stairs with the theology book in hand. She had dressed and was halfway back down the stairs when Ladora stepped into the hall. “There you are,” she said. “I could have sworn I heard you come down earlier. I have good news. Did you hear the bell ring earlier?”

“I did,” Grace said. “I heard the word
telegram.
” She shuddered a bit. “I have trouble getting used to the idea that they can bring good news.”

“I know what you mean,” Ladora agreed. “Not that long ago, telegrams only meant bad news. Now things are changing all around. Colonel wants one of those newfangled telephones. I told him he could install anything he wants, it being his house and all, just not to expect me to use such a ridiculous invention.” She led the way back toward the kitchen. “‘Telegrams are just fine,’ I said, ‘and besides that, Colonel, why would you want to be spending your hard-earned money on a telephone? Think how many books you could buy, and you do love your books. Think how many meals those Indian children you seem to love so could eat for what that contraption would cost.’” She paused. “Not that it’s any of my business, of course.” She sighed. “Well anyway, he’s listened so far and he just telegrams, but I expect he’ll want the telephone one of these days, especially once he publishes that memory book of his and gets even more famous than he already is. Anyway, the telegram said he’ll be home Monday afternoon.”

The prospect of facing Josiah in less than a week put all consideration of Indians and showmen out of Grace’s head. While she made coffee, Ladora scrambled eggs, waxing especially eloquent about the performance of the Rhode Island Red hens housed in the chicken coop out back and various other “local news items” that Grace barely listened to.

Her day of decision was definite now. Sometime between now and Monday, she would have to decide what to do. She’d arrived in Beatrice with no alternative but to throw herself on her brother’s mercy, but then Chautauqua added an intriguing alternative—especially with the very respectable duties involved in baking pies and helping to deliver them to the Stewart Dining Hall. Of course Grace could still face her brother and hope to reconcile, but even so, it would be nice not to have to do so as a penniless prodigal begging for mercy.

“Beautiful morning out,” Ladora said. “I was thinking we might take our breakfast out to the porch. Newspapers have probably arrived by now, and there will be a regular parade going by for most of the day.” She paused. “What say, Grace? Shall we be the two old biddies on the porch, watching after other people’s business?”

In a matter of moments, the two women had carried a breakfast tray out onto the porch and settled down, first to eat and then to read the papers that, as Ladora had predicted, had arrived. Ladora had also predicted a parade out on Ella Street, and she was right about that, too. First came the empty omnibuses, headed toward the three train stations only a few blocks away. Two boasted hotel names, the Paddock and the Grand Central. A third advertised Hamaker & Skinner Livery & Feed. It wasn’t long before the train whistles blew and Ladora said, “You watch, now. A whole parade headed back the other way.” She rose. “But first, let me get us more coffee.” She grabbed up the breakfast tray and headed inside, calling back over her shoulder, “I’d be much obliged if you’d let me read the
Journal
first. The colonel prefers the
Dispatch
, but I cannot for the life of me understand why.

Grace retrieved the newspapers from where they had landed at the base of the porch stairs and unfolded first one, then the other. She settled back in her chair with the
Dispatch
just as Ladora returned with steaming mugs of coffee. “And so it begins,” she said, as she handed Grace’s mug to her and nodded toward the street as a family hurried past. A man, a woman, and five stair-step children, all girls, all wearing dresses made from the same dark blue calico, all wearing straw hats with streamers, each one carrying a pasteboard bandbox.

“Don’t imagine they’ll be camping,” Ladora said. She paused. “I think he sells real estate,” she said. “Probably up Lincoln way. And the wife is hoping to get him to listen to that Mrs. Willard and to see the light when it comes to demon rum.”

Grace looked over in surprise, and Ladora grinned. “Well, you got a better story?”

“As a matter of fact…” The small group was almost out of sight when one of the omnibuses came in sight, packed with passengers. “She isn’t his wife. She is his sister. And she had to give up her dream of becoming an opera singer in order to return to the Midwest and mother her brother’s five motherless children. And they hate her.” She paused, then said quickly, “Except for the youngest. The youngest does not remember her own mother, and she is devoted to the opera singer. Which is the only thing that keeps the poor woman from running away.”

“Land sakes. Marion Harland’s got nothing on you.”

“Who?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Marion Harland,” Ladora said.
“Jessamine? True as Steel? Sunnybank?”

Grace shook her head. “I’m afraid those names don’t mean anything to me.”

“Well we will fix that while you are here,” Ladora said. “I know there is some who think that novels just aren’t fit reading for a Christian lady, but you can’t be one of them, you bein’ an actress and all. And Missus Harland writes the best stories.” She opened the newspaper. “But for now, let’s see what the news is for the day.”

Grace smiled at the huge letters right beneath the newspaper heading. Some store was closing its doors and offering “ridiculous bargains.” She turned the folded paper over so that she could see what was at the bottom of the front page. “Noah Shaw: First Impressions.” The first line quoted a review of one of his performances somewhere in Illinois. “With keen black eyes, with a wealth of jet-black hair, with a face to woo the masses, and with a powerful and magnetic voice, he holds his audiences like no other orator has been able to do.”

Ladora glanced over at Grace’s paper. “That’s a good likeness,” she said. “Did Mr. Shaw say what he wanted with the colonel? Not that I’m a busybody or anything. But you said you talked on the train.”

“The first I knew of his interest in anything military was when I heard him ask you about the colonel yesterday morning.” Grace stared down at the image that had been reproduced in the
Dispatch.
Ladora hadn’t said anything about it, but then maybe Ladora hadn’t looked at those photographs in Josiah’s office in a very long time other than to brush over the frames with a feather duster.

The resemblance was uncanny. Truly uncanny.

M
others.
Who could explain them. They worried if you didn’t show an interest in any of the young men they paraded past you over the years, and then when you finally did show an interest, they worried.

Mother had kept Emilie in the breakfast nook for what felt like half the morning, reminiscing about when she and Father courted, sharing fond memories of how everyone had known that William and Henrietta would be a “good match,” because, after all, their families had
known each other for years and years.
She said that even when people know each other really well, there are surprises in relationships that lead to a “period of adjustment.” How thankful Mother had been for the protection of her parents and their guidance during those early
years.

All in all, breakfast had amounted to a motherly monologue on marriage. Which might make a good news column, now that Emilie thought about it. On the other hand, the point of Mother’s motherly monologue had been that, while from all indications Mr. Shaw was a fine man, Emilie should exercise caution in regard to the obvious “high regard” in which
he
seemed to hold
her—so soon after they had met.
When Emilie reminded mother that another version of her parents’ courtship and marriage included the term
love at first sight
, Mother frowned.

“Well, yes,” she’d said. “But I only thought that in
hindsight,
when I realized how very compatible your father and I seemed to be. Compatibility must be tested by an appropriate span of time, dear. In some cases, a
great deal of time.
”

Half an hour later, as Emilie packed for the next few days of camping on the assembly grounds, she was still upset by the conversation. To her mind, it was a perfect example of one of the things that drove her to distraction about Mother. If there was something about Noah Shaw she didn’t like, then why in heaven’s name didn’t she just come out and say it? What did she want Emilie to
do
? Why didn’t she just tell her?

Yanking three summer blouses off their hangars one by one, she tossed them onto her bed. She followed the blouses with three skirts, two pairs of sensible shoes, and various and sundry unmentionables. After she shoved everything into the Gladstone bag Father had brought her from one of his business trips, she added the leather travel set that held her brushes and combs. Finally, she added pens, paper, and two bottles of ink, the latter wrapped in a towel for extra cushioning and tucked safely into one corner of the bag, then held in place with a pair of her shoes—and not her favorite ones. All the while she packed, her emotions simmered as she replayed the scene with Mother at the breakfast table.

“We don’t want Mr. Shaw to think you aren’t a lady,” she’d said. “You must guard your reputation.”

As if Noah Shaw were some vagabond. As if he’s suddenly sprouted horns, after all Mother’s fawning over him that first night.

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Emilie reassured her. “Noah Shaw is a consummate gentleman.”

“Not if he was already speaking of kissing when you’d only just met.”

“Well, he only spoke of it,” Emilie said. “He didn’t do anything about it.”

“He didn’t have to, did he?”

Emilie’s cheeks flamed. “I don’t know what got into me, Mother, but I can assure you it won’t happen again. Now may I please go upstairs and get packed? What time did you say we were supposed to meet Aunt Cornelia?”

Mentioning the busy day ahead finally got Emilie out of the uncomfortable conversation. Mother gave up and went into the kitchen to speak with Dinah about the meal plans for the days ahead.

Now, as Emilie put the last of her things into the bag and snapped it shut, she stopped long enough to look at herself in the mirror and to wonder exactly what it did mean that Noah had requested to kiss her cheek—and, more importantly, that she had so readily kissed his. What did it mean that right now, right this minute, all she wanted to do was saddle Royal and gallop into town and talk to Noah? Had he seen the
Journal
? Did he know they’d printed her article? He would understand how she felt about that. And besides that, he was the second name on the list for Ten for Ten. She needed to interview him and get the article written and submitted—all while moving in to the Bee Hive with the cousins and, if they insisted, going through this evening’s music selections again. April was famous for demanding “just one more run-through.” Or infamous, depending on a person’s mood at any given rehearsal.

Emilie peered at herself in the mirror and smiled. Time with Noah had to be at the top of her list of things to do on this busy, busy day. Life as a fledgling reporter was good. Very good.

Emilie hitched up the buggy and drove up under the porte cochere. Dinah helped her put the portable desk Grandfather had used in the war in the back. Emilie put her bag on the seat. And then she waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, she went back inside.

“She’s all a-flutter,” Dinah said, lifting her eyes to the second story to indicate Mother.

“About what? There’s so much less to do than last year. Calvin’s probably done most of the hard work already. And Father hired extra help.”

Dinah nodded. “I know.”

“And I’m not going to be staying there, so that’s even less work.”

“I didn’t say she was overwhelmed with work,” Dinah said, and added the potatoes she’d been peeling to the large roasting pan setting on the stove top. “I said she’s all a-flutter.” She paused. “It’s ’bout that gentleman.”

At that moment, Mother came down the stairs with all three of her needlework bags in hand and several books balanced on one arm.