Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (2 page)

Emilie dared a look at Father as he waited for Bert. At the set of his jaw. The glum expression. The disappointment. Over her. The only child her parents would ever have. Even if Father had gotten over the disappointment of her not being a boy, he was still disappointed. And why? Because she couldn’t even manage to be the next best thing—a lady like Mother. And this time, Father wasn’t just upset. He was ashamed of her. He wanted her out of the newspaper office as quickly as possible, and he was calling on someone who wouldn’t “laugh behind their backs.” As she ducked her head and waited for Bert, Emilie blinked back tears. It was one thing to be a disappointment, and quite another to think you might have been the cause of people laughing at your parents.

“This conversation is not yet finished,” Father said. “We’ll continue it when you return from rehearsal. In my study at home.” He sighed. “I thought giving you the Ladies’ News column would—help, somehow. Now I see that it’s only put more ideas into your head.” Taking a deep breath he said, “Be thinking of who you’d recommend to replace you. The column performs a worthy service to the community—but I realize now that it was a mistake to put you in charge.”

The air grew close. Crumpling the soiled apron into a ball, Emilie sprang to her feet and blurted out a promise. “No, Father. Please. I—I didn’t think—”

“Indeed, you did not. For such a bright girl, you seem—” At the sound of a familiar, shuffling gait approaching the office, Father broke off and stepped back to admit Bert Hartwell.

Bert had a unique walk. It was more of a shuffle, really—a shuffle caused by a poorly set broken leg suffered six years ago when Emilie and Bert were twelve-year-olds chasing each other in and out of the trees along the banks of the Blue River one Sunday afternoon. It was long before the city had staked out ninety acres and designated it for a ten-day extravaganza called the Interstate Chautauqua. Back then, the woods meandering along the clear river were just a favored spot for family outings. Now they provided the perfect site for a regional event that drew thousands of visitors to Beatrice to hear lectures and attend reunions, to savor concerts and endure sermons. But back before all of that, twelve-year-old Bert Hartwell had taken a dare from his best friend, Emilie Rhodes.

“Bet you can’t climb that tree,” she’d said. And now Bert shuffled.

The scent of his cologne preceded Bert into the office. Emilie scrubbed at her nose with the soiled apron. It came away with still more evidence of her hours setting type. What she must look like! She glared an unspoken message in Bert’s direction.
Don’t you dare laugh.
He gulped and looked at Father, who was giving instructions in the no-nonsense way he had that sounded of authority—and yet of kindness.

Kindness.
How Emilie wished Father would have flavored his words to her just now with even a hint of that. Perhaps he would have even been proud of a child taking an interest in the business—were that child named
Emil.
What a difference two letters could make.

“You can take my buggy instead of collecting one from the livery,” Father said. “I’ll walk home after I’ve concluded my business with Mr. Shaw. The fresh air will do me good. Please wait through the rehearsal and see that Emilie goes directly home when the ladies are finished.”

“Yes, sir,” Bert said. “You can count on me.”

“I knew I could.” Father waved them both out of his office.

When Emilie glanced back, he was rolling up the window shades to once again reveal the part of his world over which he had absolute control.

“Whew,” Bert said as he helped Emilie into the buggy hitched in the alley behind the newspaper office. “I haven’t seen him that angry in a while.”

“You haven’t seen him around
me
in a while,” Emilie said, suddenly aware of the fact that she was still holding on to the soiled printer’s apron. They made their way toward Sixth Street and then north, past the construction site of the new county courthouse and, finally, to North Seventh and the new home Father had had built for Mother only last year. When Bert pulled the buggy to a halt beneath the porte cochere, Emilie didn’t wait for his help before jumping down. “You might as well come in,” she said. “I’ll hurry, but it’s still going to take a few minutes. Dinah made lemon pie yesterday. I’ll tell her to get you a piece.”

Bert followed her along the narrow porch that extended from the front of the house, around the curved corner turret to the porte cochere, and then all the way to the back, where it widened to create a modest sitting area just off the kitchen.

Dinah liked to sit there in the evening, knitting while she waited for her husband Calvin to finish his work in the barn or elsewhere on the half-acre property. But this afternoon, Dinah was standing at the sink, trimming the tops off a bunch of carrots. Emilie peeled off her gloves and went to her side. Holding out her hands, she said, “Help. And can Bert have the last piece of pie, please?”

Dinah spoke to Bert first. “It’s right there under that cloth.” She pointed at the worktable on the far side of the kitchen. “All you need is a fork.” Dinah peered down at Emilie’s hands. “What you been doing?”

“It’s printers’ ink. Will Gable was showing me how to set type. And I’m late to rehearsal with the cousins.” She shrugged. “And Father caught me, and he’s fit to be tied.” She bit her lower lip. “He asked Bert to drive me. And to bring me home later.”

Shaking her head, Dinah trundled into the pantry, returning with a small tin, which she set on the counter. The foul-smelling mixture she ladled out of the tin and into Emilie’s open palm removed the ink from her hands as she scrubbed. Dinah helped her remove the smudges from her face and soon all traces of the ink were gone, except for the dark lines beneath her nails.

“You gonna have to soak your hands to get rid of those,” Dinah said.

“I will when I get home tonight. For now, gloves will have to do. I’ll just have to hope the cousins don’t notice while I’m playing.” Planting a quick kiss on Dinah’s leathery cheek, Emilie raced up the back stairs and into her room. One look at herself in her dressing mirror and she almost understood why Father had been so upset, especially when her imagination recreated the smudged face and a filthy apron.

Repairing her hair would take too long. Pulling a dozen hairpins out, she let it tumble down around her shoulders, then quickly drew a brush through it and tied it back with a green ribbon. Grabbing a straw bonnet, she headed back downstairs, landing in the kitchen just as she heard her mother call Father’s name from the front hall.

Emilie sent a panicked look in Dinah’s direction. “I thought she was at a library meeting.”

“Must have finished early.” Dinah headed into the pantry with the tin of cleanser.

Tugging on Bert’s sleeve, Emilie headed for the back door. When Bert hesitated, she hissed, “Dinah will explain that it was us and why we had to hurry off. Come on!” Cramming the last piece of pie into his mouth, Bert set the pie plate in the sink and followed her outside. Once he had the buggy moving, Emilie said, “I’ve already heard Father expounding on what a disappointment I am. I don’t need a sermonette from Mother, too.”

As the late afternoon train pulled into Beatrice, Nebraska, “The Man of Many Voices” rolled up his old quilt and tucked it inside the canvas duffel he’d had made especially for the road. He’d spent the last few hours trying to find a way to make his six-foot frame comfortable so that he could nap, and as he stood up to retrieve his travel bag, his back and shoulders complained. Stretching, he pulled the travel bag down from the luggage rack overhead. By the time the train came to a stop, Noah Shaw had clipped the duffel in place and was standing out on the platform, ready to jump down and head for the Paddock Hotel. To his chagrin, the fellow passenger he’d been trying to avoid for most of the trip joined him as the brakes squalled and steam spewed into the air.

Ma had raised him to behave like a gentleman, and so, whether the term
lady
applied in this situation or not, he motioned for the garishly dressed woman to precede him down the stairs. “May I help you with your bag?”

“You may.” With a toss of her bewigged head and a dramatic sweeping of her skirts, the woman who’d introduced herself earlier as Madame Jumeaux descended to the platform. She’d said her name with a flourish and a tone that made it obvious that Noah was expected to recognize it. When he didn’t, she’d condescended to excuse him. After all, she’d said, his was largely a Midwestern career. One couldn’t expect everyone in “that part of the country” to be informed “as to the larger theatrical scene on the coast.”

Noah grabbed the woman’s valise and tucked it under one arm as he grasped his own bags and followed her off the train. As soon as he’d alighted, he set her bag down. “May I summon a porter to assist you?”

“He can assist us both,” she said. “I assume you’re staying at the Paddock? It is, regrettably, the best they have to offer.” She waved a gloved hand. “I suppose it’s not so bad. One must temper one’s expectations to the venue.”

A screech rang out as a freight car door slid open a short distance up the tracks. Noah turned to see a dark figure scurry out of the far end of the station, a wheeled cart in tow.

“That will be our trunks,” madame said.

“Yours, perhaps.” Noah indicated his valise and the duffel. “I travel light.”

Madame’s painted lips parted in a prim smile. “How clever of you. Impossible for an actress, of course. One’s costumes and associated regalia.” She put a gloved hand on his arm. “Shall we walk together?”

“I regret that I must decline,” Noah said. “I’ve an appointment.” He made a show of pulling his watch out of his vest pocket. “And I’m afraid I’m already late.” He tugged on the brim of his hat. “Have a good evening.” He pretended not to notice that the woman was about to say something. Instead, he headed off up the street—as if he knew where he was going. As if the exact location of the
Beatrice Daily Dispatch
wasn’t a complete mystery.

E
milie was quiet for most of the drive to the Chautauqua assembly grounds. Thankfully, Bert knew her well enough to let her simmer without forcing conversation. He was driving the buggy beneath the largest of the four wooden arches that marked the entrance before she voiced one of the worries that had been niggling at her for most of the twenty-minute drive. “What do you think Father will do to Will for letting me help set type?”

Bert didn’t answer for a moment. Instead, he let Father’s pride-and-joy buggy horse cool down, ambling along the winding road that led to the open-air auditorium called the Tabernacle. When he did speak, his tone was confident. “It’s more important than ever to get the paper out on time during Chautauqua. Folks are estimating there could be as many as ten thousand people on the grounds—and that’s on an average day. Who knows how many will come to hear Reverend Talmage that last Sunday? I imagine Will’s safe—although he’s probably had his ears pinned back by now. When it comes right down to it, though, there’s too much business to be missed if the
Daily
isn’t running smoothly over the next couple of weeks. You don’t need to worry about Will.”

“Too much business to be missed.”
Too much money at risk. Bert was right. Father was, first and foremost, a businessman. He wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of all those newspaper sales.

“Come prepared to suggest your replacement.”
In the wake of relief on behalf of Will Gable came a wave of dread at the memory of Father’s implied threat to take the Ladies’ News away from her. She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t. She’d find a way. But she’d have to think about that later. Worrying over it would make her hands tremble. And then she’d miss notes at rehearsal, and Cousin April would scold even more than she would anyway because of Emilie’s being late.

Glancing toward the Tabernacle in the distance, she said, “Do you really think the crowd will be that large this year? Will was working on the program today, so I had a chance to see the schedule. Ex-President Hayes isn’t coming. I know Reverend Talmage is popular, but I can’t imagine him being as big a draw as a former president.”