Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (21 page)

“But …” Aunt Lydia frowned. “I don’t understand. Didn’t Mr. Duncan offer to make inquiries for you? He didn’t say he was interested, did he?”

“No,” Juliana said. “Even though he’d already mentioned it to Cass.”

Aunt Theodora spoke up. “If George Duncan can afford a house like this, you might wish to request an audit of the bank books.”

“Theodora,” Aunt Lydia scolded.

“Well, it isn’t even the largest bank in the city.” She gestured about. “Where would George Duncan get the money for marble floors, servants, grand pianos, and libraries?”

“Apparently he wants to buy it as is,” Juliana said.

“I see. A lower purchase price, and then Helen can finish it with inferior materials.”

“There’s no way to know what they’d do in the way of finishing, although I doubt marble flooring would remain on the list.”

Aunt Theodora pursed her lips. “Do you remember the Duncans’ parlor?” She shuddered. “Those abominable green draperies. And mauve walls.
Mauve.
”

“Not everyone likes the same decor, Sister,” Aunt Lydia said gently.

Aunt Theodora waved the comment away. “I can just hear the gossip now. ‘What a shame the Suttons didn’t have better taste. Can you
believe
the colors in that entryway?’ When all the while it would be Helen Duncan’s doing.”

Juliana suppressed a smile. “Then you won’t be upset to hear that I’m not going to sell to the Duncans.”

“Thank heavens.”

Aunt Lydia looked about her with an expression approaching dismay.

“What are you thinking, Aunt Lydia? I need your wisdom.”

“That is very good of you, dear, but the fact remains that it isn’t our decision to make.”

“I’m not asking you to make the decision. I’m asking what you think. Honestly. Without worries about my feelings or desires. What do you think we should do?”

The older woman took a deep breath. “Well … of course it’s stunning. But I just can’t imagine rattling around in it. I’m picturing myself getting lost on the way to the water closet in the middle of the night and your having to send out a search party.”

Juliana laughed. “All right, then. Let me raise a possibility. And while I hate to credit him after his underhanded ways, the fact is that the seed of this idea probably came from something Mr. Duncan said at that first meeting. Do you remember it? He said I could give this property away and never miss the money.” The aunts nodded, and Juliana continued. “The first time I came out here after Sterling died, I met a man named Elmo Klein.”

“I know Mr. Klein,” Aunt Lydia said. “Lutie Gleason took him and his family in.”

Juliana nodded. “Yes. When George Duncan, who apparently owns a number of rental properties, would have put them out on the street.”

Aunt Theodora muttered, “How does that man sleep at night?”

“Obviously,” Juliana continued, “we all agree that it’s a travesty that good people like the Kleins should have nowhere to turn at times like that. That’s part of the reason our society exists. But other people need help, too. People we tend to ignore. Girls like Nell Parker, for example. Did she turn to prostitution because it was her only alternative to hunger and homelessness?”

Aunt Theodora spoke up. “I applaud your concern and would also mention other girls who find themselves in a family way and cast out.”

Juliana nodded. “Lincoln is growing, and as much as we all hate to admit it, when a city grows, problems multiply. Women like Lutie Gleason have been taking people into their homes for years now, and that’s wonderful, but I think the society needs a building dedicated to helping even more people.” She held out her hands, palms up. “And I have a building that I never wanted.” She smiled at the aunts. “What would you think of giving it to the society?”

Aunt Lydia clasped her hands like an athlete celebrating a victory. “The Sterling Sutton Home for the Friendless. Yes!”

Aunt Theodora spoke up. “
Friendless
is such a bleak word. And the people who come to us won’t be friendless, will they? I suggest we name it
Friendship Home.
” She hesitated.

“But we must speak with Alfred and Martha. If we aren’t moving out here …”

“We can’t lose Alfred and Martha,” Aunt Lydia agreed. She looked to Juliana. “If they want a stone cottage, can we build them one at home? We have an acre. There’s plenty of room, isn’t there?”

“There is.” Juliana laughed. “And we’ll give Alfred and Martha whatever they want.”

But Alfred said that he and Martha wanted neither a move nor a stone cottage. “I won’t say no to that stove Martha loves. But the fact is we like it right where we are.” He smiled. “To tell you the truth, I have had some concern about living all the way out here in the country. A deacon should be close to home if he’s to serve his flock. Martha and I will be more than happy to stay right where we are.”

And so it was decided. They would announce the donation at the bazaar in June. The biggest challenge would be how to keep it a secret until then. There was much to do in the interim, and the three women chattered about it all the way back home. They would need a special meeting of the board to develop a new mission statement. A review of the house plans.

“We won’t need a ballroom,” Aunt Theodora said. “I was thinking perhaps a nursery, but it will be far too hot without cross ventilation in the summer. Do you suppose your Mr. Gregory would be able to add more windows to the third floor?”

Aunt Lydia chimed in. “And a full-time nurse can have one of the servants’ rooms. There would be room for a large play area right there on the same floor.” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “We should have a toy drive in early December. People will be thinking about Christmas, and they can pass on their unwanted toys—the things their children have outgrown.”

Aunt Theodora wondered if Mr. Gregory could manage a dumbwaiter to carry soiled linen from each floor to the basement. “Is there a basement? Because that would be a perfect location for a laundry room. And a pantry. We’ll need a vast pantry. We should have him to supper. Or Sunday lunch. He can bring those plans in and tell us what he thinks.”

Ideas blossomed all the way home. Ideas and joy. As the buggy drove into the yard behind the house, Juliana took it all in.
This
was where she wanted to live, sharing a home with the aunts, with Martha and Alfred in their apartment over the barn, the new capitol within view, the quilting group coming for the day on Thursdays, and all of them involved in a project that would transform the half-finished mansion she’d never wanted into a Friendship Home.

They were going to be all right. A cloud had lifted. And now, there was something Juliana had to do. She lingered outside, waiting until the aunts had gone in before asking Alfred to bring one of the empty trunks stored in the barn up to her room.

It was time.

Juliana sat at her dressing table for a long while that evening, letting down her hair, brushing through it, and thinking. When she knew that the aunts would probably be asleep, she went out onto the porch and looked up at the stars. She gazed off toward Lincoln, remembering that night when the life she’d known had crumbled.

I am going to be all right. I have the aunts and a new project to keep me busy.
She might never get over what Sterling had done to her, but she would learn to get past it.

She retreated back to the bedroom and, opening the doors to Sterling’s wardrobe, sat back down and stared at the things hanging there. Maybe it was her imagination, but it seemed that the scent of his cologne lingered in the air tonight. It didn’t make her angry. He’d caused her great pain, but she had good memories, too. She would not allow their life together to be rendered meaningless by a curl of hair and a photograph.

Rising from the dressing-table bench, she retrieved the locket. Opening it, she stared down at the face. Was this Pamelia Lindermann? If so, where was she?
I hope she doesn’t suffer.
Juliana frowned, surprised at her own thought. Could God’s mercy cover over anger and hurt? Could it flow into the promise of a meaningful future? Could it enable her not to hate this woman? And the child. What of the child now that Sterling was dead?

Leaving the locket open on her dressing table, Juliana emptied the wardrobe, taking one piece at a time, folding it carefully, and laying it in the trunk. With trepidation, she checked the pockets. It wouldn’t do for the aunts to find anything that would blemish their image of their “dear boy.” She found nothing that would have done so. A program to a literary society meeting they’d attended together. Some loose change. A handwritten note about a meeting at the bank. And then a note that made her cry bittersweet tears.
Lilies. J’s favorite.

Had he written that reminder so that he wouldn’t confuse her favorite flower with someone else’s? She could choose to see it that way. Or she could choose to think Sterling loved her and cared to be mindful of her preferences. She would remember the good things. His whispers in the night. A lily on her pillow. The smile on his face when he surprised her with the rangy red colt that would become her beloved Tecumseh.

After the wardrobe came the dresser. The diamond studs, the gold money clip. She put it all in the trunk. And when the last shirt had been laid on top and she was ready to close the lid, she stood looking down at the contents and said quietly, “You weren’t a bad man. You’ve hurt me, and I don’t know if I’ll ever forget that. But I won’t hate you.”

She hesitated about what to do with the locket. She might not hate Sterling, but she was far from finished with the emotions that swirled around what he’d done. Finally, she retrieved the diamond studs, added the locket to the box, and tucked it beneath the handkerchiefs in her dressing-table drawer.

Tomorrow she would ask Alfred to hire someone to help him haul Sterling’s dresser and wardrobe out to the barn this next week. She didn’t want them in her room any longer. He’d chosen to leave her for other women. She would let him go.

Now unto him that is able to do exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think, according to the power that worketh in us, unto him be glory in the church by Christ Jesus throughout all ages, world without end. Amen.
E
PHESIANS
3:20–21

A
week after the decision to donate the house, Aunt Theodora descended to breakfast dressed for church. Juliana and Aunt Lydia exchanged amazed glances.

The older woman put her hand to the jet-black brooch at her neck as she said, “You stare as if I had sprouted an additional nose. Is there something I should know?”

An amazed Aunt Lydia could only say, “You’re going to church with us.”

“I believe I asked if there was something I should know. This is not new information.” She lowered herself into a chair at the table, head held high, back erect.

Juliana hurried to pour coffee and set it before her.

Aunt Theodora took a sip then eyed her sister and Juliana. “I may be willing to bend the rules of mourning, but I am not yet willing to give up on good manners. Let us relegate being late to Sabbath services to the likes of Mr. and Mrs. Duncan.” She sniffed.

Aunt Lydia patted Juliana’s hand. “That means you and I need to get dressed.”

Aunt Theodora sent a frosty smile in Juliana’s direction. “Have I not often said that my sister is brilliant? Her powers of deduction are unrivaled.”

“Not so,” Aunt Lydia said as she headed for the stairs. “Deducing the intended meaning is elementary, my dear Watson.”

“There is no need to make vulgar reference to
popular
fiction.”

Laughing, Juliana followed Aunt Lydia up the stairs. They paused on the landing, waiting to hear it. And finally, it came. Muffled laughter from down below.

Margaret finally gave up waiting for the sun to rise. Padding into the kitchen, she warmed up leftover coffee and got a piece of pie. Pie for breakfast was the least of the sins she had to worry over on this Sunday morning. It would be the first time she’d darkened the door of a church in more years than she cared to think. And now that she’d said she would go with Cass, here she sat, trembling with fear. Pastor Taylor had seemed nice enough that day at Nell’s graveside. Would his kindness extend to the sanctuary of his church?