Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (10 page)

Sadie sat back down. “You should take Ludwig’s job, Cass. If you get booted when the smoke clears—no pun intended—you’ll still have a job. It never hurts to have a backup plan.”

She didn’t want to talk about the fire. So be it. Cass nodded. “It couldn’t hurt.” He looked at Meyer. “I’ll tell you what. We’ve got a great stonemason. I could mention your job to him. See if he’s interested.”

“I would appreciate that.”

Sadie grinned. “Meyer’s Mercantile is on its way.” She leaned over and kissed Meyer’s cheek before serving up another helping of potatoes. “But you are going to have to agree to let me order the ready-to-wear.” She glanced over at Cass. “My brother thinks I look like a sweet schoolmarm. That is
not
acceptable.”

Infernal rooster.
Juliana had just managed to fall into a deep sleep when Martha’s prized rooster announced dawn. With a weary groan, she grabbed a pillow and put it over her head, willing herself to sleep more. But the rooster crowed again. And again. So Juliana threw the pillow off and lay, counting the roses on the bedroom wallpaper and trying to stave off conscious thought. It didn’t work.

Sliding out of bed, she reached for her wrapper and headed into the hall. Intending to go out onto the balcony for a moment, she paused just outside, savoring the aromas of fresh coffee and warm bread wafting up from the kitchen. She was hungry. Instead of heading out onto the balcony, she padded downstairs.

Martha was setting up a breakfast tray, obviously intending to take it upstairs. She glanced up. “Thought I’d offer breakfast in bed to anyone who wanted it.” She frowned. “Guess I don’t have to ask if you slept well.”

“Do I look that bad?” Juliana sat down at the kitchen table.

Martha poured coffee and set it before her, then put a hand on her shoulder. “When Alfred drives into town today, you should have him stop at Dr. Gilbert’s for something to help you sleep.”

“Not necessary,” Juliana said. “Just kill the rooster.” But Martha had raised the current king of the henhouse, and the attempt at levity fell flat. “You know I don’t mean that.”

Martha hefted the tray and headed for the back stairs. “Lots of fresh air and sunshine out there this morning. If a person was so inclined, they might think it a good morning to take a ride.”

“Are you kicking me out of the house?” Juliana reached for the stack of paper they’d left on the table after getting back from Lindermann’s yesterday. “I’ve run off on the aunts twice now. If I do it again, they may not be so understanding.”

“Pastor isn’t expected until midmorning. There’s plenty of time.” Martha headed on upstairs. Juliana glanced through the kitchen windows to where Tecumseh was prancing around his small pasture, tossing his head, half rearing, spinning about, reveling in the beautiful spring morning.

Juliana looked down at the paper in her hand.
Pallbearers.
She wrote
George Duncan
and
Harry Graham.
Both men would probably call sometime today. Bankers and lawyers never wasted time circling the wreckage—at least that’s what Sterling always said. She filled out the rest of the list with friends from the Odd Fellows and the G.A.R. encampment. She would ask Aunt Theodora to look it over. She could be counted on to know what was what when it came to who might be offended if not included. Juliana set the list aside and reached for the piece of paper Miss Thornhill had given them at the shop yesterday.

Mourning was an expensive endeavor. Miss Thornhill thought she might be able to remake the bonnet Juliana had worn when mourning Mama and Papa a few years ago, but with the need for a widow’s veil, she’d have to see it to be sure. And the line had changed in recent years. The black petticoat Juliana already owned might not work, either. Alfred was to take everything that needed to be refashioned into town for them later today. But first, Juliana had to collect it all. Thinking about it made her head hurt.

Martha came back downstairs. “The aunts are taking tea up in their sitting room,” she said. “You’re to come up if you’d like.”

“Are they all right?”

Martha nodded. “Just taking it a little slower this morning. Gathering what they need to send to Miss Thornhill. Reminiscing about when Mr. Sutton was a boy.”

Juliana took a deep breath. “Last night I thought I heard him coming upstairs. I actually sat up in bed and looked at the door, waiting for him to enter. That’s insane.”

“From what I know about it, most people experience things like that.” Martha ducked into the pantry and returned, dust cloth in hand. “As long as you know it isn’t real, you aren’t insane. You start having conversations with an empty chair; we’ll start to worry.”

Juliana laid the notice from Miss Thornhill’s aside. She really should go upstairs and sort through the wardrobe. She might even have to check the attic. “What time did you say you’re expecting Pastor Taylor?”

“Around ten o’clock. Thought I’d head into the library and freshen things up a bit. Open the windows, let the morning breeze blow through.”

Juliana glanced upstairs. “Do you think Aunt Theodora will come down to meet with him? She has to be furious with me over what I’ve done.”

“Don’t you worry. Miss Lydia will smooth her ruffled feathers. And furious or not, Miss Theodora would never snub a minister.”

Juliana rose to follow Martha up the hall. “I think I’ll open the windows in the parlor, too.”

The memory of Francis Burnham lingering in the parlor doorway set her teeth on edge. Drawing the drapes, she drew back the inner shutters and raised the windows. Fresh air wafted into the room, rustling the fronds of the potted fern on the plant stand in the corner.

She hadn’t paid very much attention to Aunt Lydia’s quilt project, other than to pay the requisite fifty cents to put her name on it. Now, she took a minute to look it over, remembering the committee meeting that had taken place right here in the parlor last fall. She’d breezed through on her way to a board meeting in town, but even in that short moment of greeting and wishing them well, she’d envied Aunt Lydia and her quilting friends their enthusiasm for the project and the obvious camaraderie among them as they selected patterns and planned colors so that the colors on the quilt would be balanced.

They’d recruited women to piece sixty quilt blocks. A few weeks later, when they’d gathered up the finished blocks, they met again to decide how to arrange them, laying the finished blocks out on the parlor floor. Home that day with a slight cold, Juliana had lingered only long enough to make certain the women knew they were welcome. She’d kept her opinion to herself, but she thought the potpourri of blocks a hopeless hodgepodge. Now that she took time to look at the finished top in the frame, she realized that Aunt Lydia had an eye for design. She’d set the blocks on point with a narrow stripe as the sashing, and the result was really quite lovely.

Juliana sat down at the quilt. Piecing the individual blocks had only been the beginning of the project. Next came the gathering of signatures, with each person donating fifty cents for signing the quilt. Sterling’s name was on it somewhere. So was Juliana’s, although not on the same block as his.
How apropos.

Sterling had offered to gather signatures and tucked a block in his coat pocket one day on his way out the door. When he returned it, he’d charged the signers ten times what the committee had. Lydia had protested when he handed her fifty dollars for the ten signatures, but Sterling just smiled and said it was for a good cause and he’d only had to break one arm to get them to pay up.

President Arthur’s signature was on the center block. Aunt Lydia had been thrilled when it arrived in the post one day, a strong signature on a square of muslin, the ink so dark brown it was almost black. Most of the signatures had been applied with a pencil and then embroidered over. But no one was going to embroider over the name Chester A. Arthur. Aunt Lydia had spent hours piecing a special block with the president’s signature in the center of a sunburst.

Juliana leaned down, reading some of the names.
George Duncan. Mrs. G. C. Duncan. Harold Graham. Mrs. H. C. Graham. James W. Dawes.
Sterling really had gone all out to get the governor’s signature. And then,
Sterling Sutton.
She traced the letters with her index finger then read more names.
Marvin Lindermann. Pamelia Lindermann.

Juliana caught her breath. Mr. Lindermann was a widower. Who was Pamelia Lindermann?

She frowned. “Martha.”

Martha came to the door.

“The Lindermanns didn’t have a daughter, did they?”

“Not that I know of. I believe a niece was here for a while last year, keeping house for Mr. Lindermann.”

“But she’s not here now.”

“I don’t think so.” Martha came to the door. “Maybe the funeral business bothered her. I recall that Alfred overheard an argument. Mr. Lindermann had asked him to come by to finalize some plans for Deacon Hobart’s service last summer. He said the young lady came out of the back room and scurried upstairs without paying him any mind. She was very distraught, but when Alfred expressed concern, Mr. Lindermann said that the matter had been resolved and Miss P—” Martha swallowed. She covered her mouth.

“Miss Pamelia.”

Martha nodded. “Yes. Miss Pamelia had decided that she should make her home elsewhere.” She closed her eyes. “Oh, missus.” She took a step into the parlor, but Juliana waved her away.

“Just—give me a moment. I’ll be … all right.” She sat staring at the name.
Pamelia Lindermann. P. L.
Perhaps she should give the locket upstairs to Mr. Lindermann. Wouldn’t that be something?

She looked down at the names on the quilt. Had it really only been moments ago when she’d been tracing Sterling’s signature, remembering happy times and longing for another chance? Here it was again. The anger.
Use it.

Aunt Lydia’s workbasket stood beside the quilt. Opening it, she took out the silver sewing scissors. She paused, her hand poised over the quilt. And then she slipped the silver sheath off the blades and began to snip threads. In less than a moment, the name
Pamelia Lindermann
was little more than a shadow on the quilt.

Returning the scissors to Aunt Lydia’s workbasket, Juliana plucked the loose threads into the palm of her hand. Opening the front door, she let the spring breeze blow them away. Having heard the front door open, Martha came into the hall. Poor Martha. The look on her face.

“I’ll be all right. It’s done.” Juliana nodded toward the quilt. “If there’s a way to get rid of the shadow of that name, I’d appreciate your doing it. You’ll see what I mean if you take a look.”

And then she went upstairs to change.

“Hello, old man.” Juliana reached up to tug on Tecumseh’s forelock. The horse nuzzled her arm. “I know. I’ve neglected you. But I’m here now.” She slipped a hackamore over his head and led him out of the small pasture and into the barn. Hitching him to one of the iron rings placed at intervals along the row of stalls, she went to work brushing him down, happy for the diversion, trying to forget the name on the quilt and knowing that she never would.

Glancing at the other horses who’d thrust their heads across their stall doors and were looking her way, Juliana spoke to Tecumseh. “You wouldn’t go off with some other woman, now would you?”