Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (6 page)

After that night, Ma began to talk about the past more often. In the evenings, she’d sit with handwork in her lap and tell stories “from the old days” while she sewed. About heading west to start a new life and camping under the stars at night. About the other argonauts on the trail. About the soldiers who guarded the way. About Pa dying and a freighter taking pity on her and letting her ride with him back to Nebraska City. About working her way home to Missouri on a steamboat called the
Laura Rose.
About losing everything and being lonely and then—having God bless her with a baby boy who looked just like his Pa. In time, Noah realized that he didn’t really like Sally Bennet anymore. Eldridge Mason could have her.

Noah was thirteen when Ma took ill. She was only sick for a few days, but pneumonia settled into her lungs and took her life. Noah was sent to live with a distant cousin he’d rarely seen, even though she lived in nearby St. Louis. It didn’t take Noah long to understand that Cousin Beulah would do “her Christian duty,” but she despised it and would rejoice on the day it was once and for all fulfilled.

A year later, being different came in handy again. Noah might have been only fourteen, but he was over six feet tall and strong as an ox when he stowed away on a freight car one night, bent on riding as far away from Cousin Beulah and her black snake whip as possible. Before long he was loading and unloading freight cars. Helping unload a theatrical troupe in Kansas City introduced him to Professor Harry Gordon, and Professor Gordon introduced him to Shakespeare and Whitman, Dickens and Coleridge, Byron and Shelley and Keats. And now, ten years and what felt like a lifetime later, Noah Shaw had educated himself and found a life in which his big voice and his height and even his dark looks all gave him an advantage.

Using Mother’s maiden name had been Professor Gordon’s idea. “There is no reason to give people an excuse not to hire you, my boy. It’s as wrong as it can be, but that statue to liberty they put up in New York harbor a few years ago hasn’t done a thing to change the average American’s opinion of the tired and poor if they happen to be Italian or Irish.” He’d pronounced it Eye-talian, to make his point. “As long as Eye-talian means the same thing as Papist, that’s two strikes against a man. What was your mother’s name before she married?” He’d waited for Noah to respond and then nodded. “There you have it. Be Noah Shaw. It’s a good English name. Protestant, too. Oh, I know it could be Irish or Scot, but you just let people think your roots go deep in the land of the Bard himself. That’s perfect for a theatrical career.”

Noah had felt guilty about it for a while, but then he decided there was nothing wrong with paying tribute to a woman by using her name. Pa had loved her, too. He’d understand. And so here Noah Shaw stood in southeastern Nebraska, at the place where the prairie met the edge of Beatrice in Gage County, gazing up at a clear night sky. He was looking forward to the moonlit walk about the Chautauqua grounds and along the banks of the Blue River. He’d be able to listen to the same night sounds he imagined Ma and Pa hearing about twenty-five years ago when they’d camped on the banks of this very same river.

Once he’d stepped through the arched entryway to the Chautauqua grounds, Noah paused and looked up to locate the Big Dipper in the night sky. Next he found the Bear, which spread out from the Dipper, and then Orion and the Pleiades. He smiled. Ma had embroidered the Big Dipper and the Bear on the surface of the quilt rolled up inside the duffel back in his hotel room. It was his only physical connection to her. He wasn’t certain which he valued more, the quilt or Ma’s stories about the things she’d embroidered on it. He didn’t know how old he’d been when she began calling him her “Little Bear.” That had transformed to “Bear” when what she called his “growly voice” emerged. They’d laughed about it, and she’d drawn a real bear standing on its hind legs and added it to the quilt she was making for him.

An owl hooted. As Noah glanced in the direction of the sound, he caught a moonlight glimpse of a great bird swooping down out of a tree and landing in the tall grass up ahead. Ma had embroidered an owl on his quilt. A wagon wheel and flames of fire. It was almost as if the old bedroll was coming to life as he imagined wagons camped nearby and campfires flickering over by the river.

When he finished here in Beatrice, he’d be headed to the Long Pine Chautauqua, some three hundred miles north and west of here. He wondered if he’d have a chance to see a live buffalo out that way. They were almost extinct now, but Ma had told him about seeing herds that spread across the prairie like a dark wave. What that must have been like!

He stood still and closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the prairie at night. And he said a prayer for this season, which was about much more than monologues and storytelling. This season was a quest. Somehow, somewhere in the broad expanse of the western sky, Noah LeShario Shaw hoped to find the piece of himself that had always seemed to be missing.

At the sound of footsteps on the wide porch just outside the kitchen door, Emilie snatched her fingertips from the bowl of warm water on the table before her. She stood up, hoping the sound of her chair scraping the floor wouldn’t carry to the bedrooms upstairs. Drying her wrinkled fingers, she went to the door and peered out, smiled, and opened the door to Bert.

“You should be home by now.” She glanced past him toward the drive and the hitching post. “And where’s Royal?”

“As if I would take your horse and leave you trapped here all day tomorrow.” He hesitated. “I couldn’t head home until I knew you were all right.”

With a glance behind her, Emilie stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind them. “They’ve taken the Ladies’ News column away.”

“Oh, Em.” Bert reached for her hands and gave them a quick squeeze. “I’m so sorry.”

She almost leaned in to have him comfort her, but instead she squeezed back and let go. “I’ll be all right.” She took a deep breath. “It’s just a detour.”

“But you loved writing for the paper.”

Emilie shrugged. “Father said something tonight that made me realize it was the
idea
I liked—not the assignment. It wasn’t really much in the way of real news. Just a list of events. Apparently Mother disapproved of even that—much more than I realized.” She paused. “This was going to happen sooner or later. Father as much as told me that tonight. ‘Actions have consequences,’ he said. And he couldn’t spare me anymore. Not if he wanted to keep the peace at home.” She paused. Forced a little laugh.

“He gave the column to Mrs. Penner. If she can do it, why would I even care about their taking it away?” Still, her voice wavered and she had to bite her lip to keep from crying again. Because she did care. Even if it wasn’t much, it had been hers. Her name in print.

“Well, don’t give up,” Bert said. “People everywhere are going to read Emilie Rhodes someday. I just know it.”

Emilie kissed his cheek. “You are the best friend a girl could ever hope for.”

Bert pointed up at the moon. “Nice night for a walk.”

“It is,” Emilie agreed, “but Father laid down the law. And now that my fingers are all prune-y from getting the ink out from beneath my nails, I have to get upstairs and write that farewell column.” She glanced toward the carriage house. “You really should save your leg and ride Royal home. Mother has plans to keep me tied to her apron strings all day tomorrow. I won’t need him.”

“I have a feeling you’ll think of a way out of it—and wish you had your horse. Besides, like I said, it’s a nice night for a walk.” Bert paused. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

Emilie thought for a moment, surprised that she could honestly say she was. “Not that I didn’t have a pity party a little while ago, but I’m all cried out.” She took a deep breath. “I’ll be fine. And I’ll see you Thursday evening at the opening ceremonies.”

“Save me a seat.”

“I thought the Penner twins had that taken care of.”

Bert cleared his throat. “Friends do not let friends get hornswaggled by the Penner twins. Save me a seat.” He stepped off the porch and headed into the night, whistling as he walked.

Back inside, Emilie hurried to pick up after herself in the kitchen and then tiptoed up the back stairs and into her room. Once she’d lit the lamp at her desk, she spread out the assorted bits of paper in the folder Father had handed her earlier: cryptic notes from this member of that committee and that chairman of this board. Ice cream socials, quilting bees, silent auctions, Ladies’ Aid meetings, chorale recitals, and of course the opening exercises for this year’s ten-day Interstate Chautauqua.

Now that the Ladies’ News wasn’t hers anymore, organizing the bits of paper and rewriting the information made Emilie feel weary. There was so little room for creativity in any of it. Which was probably why she’d charmed Will Gable into showing her more of the “behind the scenes” workings of the paper…and come out of the press room
looking like some hapless immigrant mill girl.

Father’s words still smarted. She couldn’t think of another time when he’d spoken to her with the harsh tone he’d used today. At least not for an entire portion of a day. He always relented, and he usually gave her what she wanted. Hadn’t April Spring said as much when they were growing up?
Emilie Jane Rhodes, you are so spoiled.
Apparently that season of life was over.

Thoughts of the Spring Sisters set her mind to whirling once again about the Bee Hive. She had to find a way to join them. She looked down at the announcements submitted for the Ladies’ News. Doing an exemplary job with her farewell column might be a good start:

Miss Ida Jones will give her renowned lecture:

“Resolved: That woman has as much influence in the nation as man”

Check the special Chautauqua Edition of the
Daily Dispatch
for further details.