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

Mrs. Burnham chimed in. “What Herbert means to say is that of
course
our parishioners come first. But Thursday morning would be best for all concerned. If you don’t mind.”

Aunt Theodora spoke up. “We mind very much.”

The reverend and his wife looked her way with surprise.

“We mind being hurried to decide something because it is convenient for you.” Her voice wavered. “We cannot possibly be expected to answer such questions barely an hour after we’ve learned that our dear boy is—” Her voice wavered. She turned to her sister. Shook her head.

“It is most unfortunate,” the reverend said.

Juliana wondered what the man meant. Unfortunate? Was he referring to Sterling’s death or the fact that his personal schedule was being inconvenienced? She glanced at Mrs. Burnham and noticed two things. There was another bit of tea cake on her expansive bosom. And she was discreetly checking for the maker’s mark on the bottom of her saucer.

Anger flared again. At Reverend Burnham for caring more about his schedule than his parishioners. At Sterling for caring more that they attend “the right church” than that their souls be fed. At Mrs. Burnham for behaving like she was on a social call. At herself. At life. “I am afraid,” she said, as she shrugged out of the shawl, “that you are going to have to excuse me.” She held her hand up to stay Aunt Lydia, who was already coming to her side. She paused in the doorway and, turning around, said to Mrs. Burnham, “Spode. ‘Greek’.”

And she fled the room.

Tears began to flow as Juliana ascended the stairs. She walked past her own bedroom door to stand at the doorway and look north. How she’d hated the prairie when they first moved here for Papa to be professor of classics at the fledgling University of Nebraska. For weeks after their arrival, Juliana had longed for the wooded vistas of home and the splendor of Lake Michigan. She’d been miserable. And then she met Sterling Sutton at a literary society meeting.

Mama had liked him right away and invited him to supper. After an evening spent learning how Sterling’s original plan to make a fortune in the salt business wasn’t panning out and how he planned to make up for it, Papa had liked him, too. “That’s a young man who will make something of himself,” he’d said.

And Sterling did, working dawn to dusk, investing every dime he made, buying and building and selling and buying again, even as he swept Juliana up in a whirlwind of romance that left her breathless.

Breathless.
She felt that way again. Only this time, it wasn’t passion making her catch her breath. Turning her back on the prairie, she went into the bedroom to retrieve a clean handkerchief, then went back out to the upstairs sitting area and sank into one of the chairs. As tears flowed, she tried to remember just when their trouble had started.

They’d grown apart. Never fighting, never obviously unhappy, yet—she hadn’t been able to give him children. That had to be the reason. Her failure had driven him away. But if that was the reason, why the other night? She thought of the locket. Had guilt fueled his passion?

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She would never know.

Voices sounded below. The Burnhams were leaving. Finally. Juliana sat listening to their murmured platitudes. Mrs. Burnham telling Aunt Theodora to be certain to let her know if there was anything the Ladies’ Aid could do. Reverend Burnham expressing a desire to “make everything work out for all concerned.” The door closing. The carriage leaving. The silence descending.

Juliana rose and went to the banister, calling softly, “I’m going to lie down for just a little while.”

“Take all the time you need, dear,” Aunt Lydia said.

Aunt Theodora agreed. “It will do us all good to have a little rest. We’ll talk later.”

Stifling a sob, Juliana headed into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her eyes closed, more tears streaming down her cheeks. Bombarded by memory, heartbroken by doubt, haunted by the photograph in the locket, she slid to the floor. At some point she crept into bed, where she could muffle her wails with a pillow. Sterling’s pillow, scented by the pomade he had specially mixed at an old-time apothecary not all that far from Goldie’s.

Goldie’s.
Would it haunt her for the rest of her days?

In the dream, fire ate up the ground as it flowed toward the buggy. Juliana lost control of Fancy. Terrified by the scent of the fire, the mare bolted, charging into the boisterous crowd gathered near the building. But this wasn’t the usual curious crowd. This group was dancing. Drinking. Celebrating. Cheering the flames.

Then Sterling charged out of the building. But he wasn’t alone. Several women followed him, each one dressed in a gown Juliana recognized. The pale green silk she’d worn to the governor’s for dinner last fall. The dark blue velvet made for the Christmas ball. The shimmering gold gown she’d worn on her wedding day. And then … the last woman … in a simple calico frock … with a baby in her arms. A boy. Juliana didn’t know how she knew that, but she knew. It was a boy.

The scene changed, and she was standing on the front porch here at home. As she watched, Sterling brought the other woman up the path to the house. The front door was flung open from the inside, and Aunts Lydia and Theodora came out, exclaiming over the baby. They all went inside, but when Juliana tried to follow, Sterling closed the door in her face. She began to weep.

I need to wake up. It isn’t real.

Slowly, she clawed her way out of the dreamworld and back to consciousness. Her pillow was damp with the tears she’d shed. Then she remembered something new from last night. Something she hadn’t consciously thought about.

Last night at the lumberyard, she and Aunt Theodora hadn’t even bothered to get down from the buggy. It was obvious no one was there. Juliana had negotiated a tight turn and headed the buggy back the way they’d come. They were just crossing the street when a loud crash from the scene of the fire was followed by a shower of sparks and smoke. When the wind blew the smoke their way, Fancy nearly bolted.

In the struggle to keep control, Juliana had barely caught a glimpse of the fire itself. But she’d recognized Sterling’s foreman, his arm about a red-haired girl wearing—something that meant she “worked” at Goldie’s.

Juliana opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. What was Sterling’s most trusted employee doing with his arm around that girl? Did he know of his employer’s private life? If so, he must think Juliana a complete fool. The idea that at some point she was going to have to speak to Cass Gregory about the half-finished house filled her with dread. How could she face him, knowing what he must think of her?

That infernal house.
She’d never wanted it, but Sterling had insisted. He would run for the governor’s seat one day, and the house would make everyone sit up and take notice. Two and a half stories of brick and stone. Ten fireplaces. Half-a-dozen porches and a two-story turret to the right of the front entrance. A ballroom on the top floor. A slate roof and a plan to panel each of the upstairs rooms in hardwood from a different country. What would she do with it now? What of the entire business? What would become of Sutton Builders?

What’s to become of us all?

She closed her eyes again and wished for sleep.

Let the wicked fall into their own nets, whilst that I withal escape.
P
SALM
141:10

J
uliana woke to the sound of Theodora playing the piano. She lay quietly for a moment, listening to the beautiful music. And then she noticed the minor key and the ponderous tempo, and she remembered.
Sterling.
The sun might be shining, but everything was different. As Theodora played on, the weight of her grief seemed to ascend to the second floor and slide beneath Juliana’s bedroom door, wrapping her in a thick cloud of sadness.

Slipping out of bed, she began to dress, all the while listening to—Chopin, she thought. Music meant a lot to Theodora. She played beautifully. So beautifully, in fact, that the ladies on the society committee had once tried to cajole her into playing a benefit concert for the Home for the Friendless.

“Don’t be absurd,” Aunt Theodora had said. “I shall do nothing of the kind.”

“But it’s for a good cause,” Aunt Lydia had ventured.

Aunt Theodora had glowered at her sister. “There is no cause worthy of a lady being dragged up on stage and displayed as if she were a—commodity.”

No one had ever suggested Miss Theodora Sutton’s gift be used to raise funds again. Even for a good cause.

Juliana had protested when Sterling first ordered the piano. She hadn’t known his aunt played at all. She thought it just one more way for Sterling to be conspicuous about his success. But when Juliana first heard the older woman play, when she saw Aunt Theodora’s face as she caressed the ebony finish and touched the ivory keys, she realized that the piano wasn’t just about showing off. It was about Sterling’s love for his elderly aunt. And now, thanks to that, she would have her music as she grieved his death.

Aunt Lydia would find comfort in the worn pages of her Bible and, perhaps, in her church friends. She had visited First Church on occasion, but for reasons Juliana was never quite clear about, Aunt Lydia favored what Sterling called a “less sophisticated” form of worship. He didn’t seem to mind, but he hadn’t shown any interest in his younger aunt’s brand of faith. At times, Juliana had envied Aunt Lydia her church friends. There seemed to be something different about their connection to one another.

So. Aunt Lydia had her faith and her friends, Aunt Theodora had her music, and she—Juliana glanced out the window at the blue sky touching the horizon. She had Tecumseh, the fleet, chestnut saddle horse she doted on to the point of what Sterling called “absurdity.” Neither the aunts nor Sterling understood it, but for Juliana, there was something spiritual about her connection with that horse. He could be counted on to do exactly as she wished. Sometimes he seemed to sense her thoughts. And today, streaking off toward the horizon held a special allure. If Mr. Lindermann wasn’t expecting them at the funeral parlor, she’d don her riding habit and head out to the barn this instant.

There was something strange about being expected to make plans for a funeral right away. She hadn’t really grasped the reality of Sterling’s death yet. Still, she was expected to have him buried by Friday.

She looked around the room she’d shared with him for all these years, and once again she longed to go for a ride. Was it possible to outrun grief? Her gaze landed on the dresser drawer where the locket waited. Could a woman leave betrayal behind?

She had just slipped back into her green silk dress when a light knock sounded at the door. Hairbrush in hand, Juliana went to open it to
Martha
? Tears gathered. “But it’s your day off.”

Martha pulled her into her arms. “And I’m spending it here. I am so sorry Alfred and I weren’t here for you. So very sorry. Alfred had an early breakfast with the deacons or we’d have been here when Marshal Hastings rode out. Deacon Hill suggested the men pray for you. That’s how we found out.” Her voice wavered. “We hurried home, but you were all resting when we got back.” She leaned away. Stared into Juliana’s eyes. “But I can see you weren’t really resting.”

Juliana shuddered. “I dreamed of fire.” She choked back a sob. “I couldn’t seem to cry at first. Now I can’t seem to stop.”

“There’s a psalm that says the Lord stores our tears in a bottle. Whatever else that means, it means tears are important. You let them out.” She opened one of the dressing table drawers and handed Juliana a kerchief. Then she reached for the hairbrush in Juliana’s hand and guided her to sit down at her dressing table.

“I look frightful.”

“You look like a grieving woman.” Martha worked quickly to let Juliana’s hair down. “I don’t know that there’s a thing anyone can say to truly comfort you right now. But you remember that Alfred and I will help in any way we can.”

Juliana reached up and caught the woman’s work-worn hand. She gave it a squeeze and met Martha’s gaze in the mirror. “You have already helped,” she said. “You came.” She closed her eyes as Martha drew the brush through her thick brown hair.

“I saw Miss Lydia down in the kitchen,” Martha said as she worked. “She said Marshal Hastings had the Burnhams come out.”

Juliana allowed a grunt. “Did she tell you he had the nerve to
tell
us when the funeral should be scheduled so that he isn’t inconvenienced?”

Martha paused before adding. “It takes a lot to make Miss Lydia angry.”

So. Aunt Lydia was upset, too. Somehow that was a comfort. Juliana opened her eyes and looked at Martha in the mirror. “Can you imagine? After all the money Sterling has poured into that church.” She paused. “I know it’s not supposed to be about the money, but—honestly. It seems like they would at least make the effort.”

“Did the reverend say he wouldn’t?”

“No. But he whined. I
hate
whining. What does he expect us to do?”

“Miss Theodora said you’re not having Mr. Sutton brought here at all.” Laying the brush down, Martha began the process of braiding Juliana’s dark, waist-length hair.