Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (3 page)

Cass turned back toward the ruined building. The fire was almost out, the crowd dispersing. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he headed for the rooming house. He’d only taken a few steps when a shout sounded and Dr. Gilbert jumped down from the back of the wagon where he’d been tending the blond-haired working girl. He darted toward the stretcher being carried out of what was left of Goldie’s.

It didn’t take long for the doctor to shake his head and draw a sheet over the victim’s face.

But it was long enough for Cass to recognize Sterling Sutton.

Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.
P
SALM
51:1

L
udwig Meyer’s house was so small it barely deserved to be called a house. Yet as Margaret followed Sadie and Mr. Meyer inside, the aromas of soup and pipe tobacco, along with the warmth of a tiny coal-burning stove in the miniscule parlor, transformed her first impressions. The house might be tiny, but it was also cozy. It felt like a home.

Divided down the middle, it boasted a combination parlor and kitchen on the left and what Margaret assumed to be two bedrooms on the right, both of them opening directly into the living area. In the parlor portion of the house, two rockers sat atop a large rag rug. Between the chairs, a revolving table crowded with colorful, leather-bound books supported a lovely oil lamp, its shade adorned with painted roses.

Curtains served as doors to the other two rooms. Meyer pulled aside the one obscuring the view of the nearest room. “The bed is not so large,” he said, “but I have many comforters and quilts. We can make a pallet on the floor for one of you.”

“The bed’s fine,” Sadie said, patting him on the chest as she nestled close and looked at Margaret. “Ma loves it, don’t you?” Meyer’s face turned red. When he cleared his throat, Sadie laughed and patted his shoulder. “It’s all right, sweetie. I was just teasing.” She stepped into the little room and perched on the edge of the only piece of furniture beside the iron bed—a low trunk shoved against a wall. “We’ll do just fine.”

“Whatever you’re cooking,” Margaret said, “it smells wonderful.”

Sadie smiled at Mr. Meyer. “That’s a real compliment. Mama’s a wonderful cook. Wait till you taste her biscuits. They melt in your mouth. The girls practically fight over them.”

Mr. Meyer nodded before disappearing into the other room at the back, returning with a piece of paper and a pencil in hand. He offered it to Margaret. “If you will make a list, I’ll see that you have whatever provisions you might need.” His face flushed again. “I am hoping you will stay. We have some ready-to-wear at the store where I work, although nothing quite so fine as what you are”—he glanced at Sadie—“what you are accustomed to.”

Sadie pointed at the list in Margaret’s hand. “Put down what you need to make biscuits.” She smiled at Mr. Meyer. “Goldie said she’d send someone around tomorrow. She’ll loan us enough money to last until she has a new place.”

“But—” Meyer frowned. “I thought all was lost in the fire.”

Margaret explained. “Goldie keeps cash sewn into the lining of that dressing gown she had on tonight. She doesn’t trust banks. You can bet there’s even more cash hidden somewhere else.” She looked at Sadie. “But I don’t think we should take much from Goldie. Maybe just enough for some proper clothes so we can look for work.”

Sadie laughed. She held her hands out, palms up. “Do you really think the good people of Lincoln will give Simone LaBelle a job? Can’t you just see me behind the counter where Ludwig works?” The robe threatened to fall open.

Mr. Meyer crossed the room to stand at the small cookstove. Lifting the soup pot lid, he busied himself stirring, tasting, and adding spices.

“No,” Margaret said, “but they might be very willing to give a lovely girl like Sadie Gregory a chance.”

Sadie rolled her eyes.

Mr. Meyer turned around. “Sadie?” he said. “You are not Simone?”

Sadie glowered at Margaret. “I needed something exotic.”

Mr. Meyer smiled and repeated the name. “Sadie Gregory.” He nodded. “That’s a nice name. For a nice lady.” He ladled soup into a bowl and set it on the table. “A nice lady who is also hungry, perhaps?”

Sadie sashayed over to the table and sat down on one of the two chairs.

Mr. Meyer pulled out the other for Margaret. “Please. You are my guest.”

Margaret sat down, and Mr. Meyer retreated to the back door, stepping out onto a covered porch. When he came back, he had a battered stool in hand. He served himself and Margaret, then perched on the stool at one end of the small table. He bowed his head.

“Blessed God in heaven, thank You for saving the lives of Goldie and the others. Thank You for Your kindness and Your love to us, and for allowing me to share my home. Thank You for the promise of new life in Christ. Let us live to accept it. Amen.”

Margaret dared not look up at Sadie after such a prayer. She did, however, dare to say
amen
along with Mr. Meyer. She wanted to believe in a new life for herself and Sadie, even though she wasn’t sure she had a right to ask for it.

As Juliana headed the buggy toward home, Juliana took her nervous mare in hand and tried to calm Aunt Theodora. “Fancy’s in a hurry, but she won’t bolt. It’s the scent of the fire making her so flighty. You don’t have to be afraid.”

“I believe you,” the older woman muttered. But when Juliana glanced down, Aunt Theodora was still braced against the buggy seat as if at any moment she might be pitched onto the prairie.

Finally, Juliana pulled back on the reins harder than she really wanted to, and Fancy slowed to a dancing walk, all the while snorting and tossing her head.

With a visible sigh of relief, Aunt Theodora reached up to adjust her bonnet. “Thank heavens.” She settled back. Presently, she said, “I know that any fire is a tragedy, but I cannot regret the destruction of that particular edifice.” She sighed. “I suppose Sterling will think us foolish to have worried. He’ll probably be seated at the kitchen table having cocoa with Lydia when we walk in. We must have just missed him.”

Not knowing what to say, Juliana kept silent. Alfred and his wife, Martha, must have been watching for them, because they were both waiting by the back door as Juliana drove up. Aunt Theodora reported that Sterling had apparently already left the office. Sutton Builders was safe. The fire had eradicated a building no worthy citizen would miss.

Martha offered to help her inside, but Aunt Theodora waved her away. “I realize that I look as brittle as a dried twig, but I am still quite capable of carrying myself up three shallow steps.”

Juliana glanced Martha’s way and gave a little shrug. Martha smiled and headed off to the barn—undoubtedly to help Alfred unhitch the buggy and tend to Fancy. Part of her wished she could go with them instead of heading inside. If Sterling had come home, Martha would have said so, and Juliana was far too angry to murmur either excuses or concern. By the time she stepped into the kitchen, Aunt Theodora had already removed her bonnet and taken a seat at the table. Aunt Lydia was pouring hot chocolate into three of the four cups and saucers sitting atop the kitchen table. Juliana sat down, murmuring her appreciation for the rich, dark chocolate.

Finally, Aunt Theodora spoke up. “Could there have been a lodge meeting?”

“I suppose so,” Aunt Lydia said. “He belongs to so many, one loses track.” She smiled. “Do you remember that time back in Chicago? He had an unfortunate meal—fish, I think. It didn’t agree with him, and he stayed over at a hotel instead of driving home.”

“And you scolded him within an inch of his life for worrying us.” Aunt Theodora glanced at Juliana. “I know it’s hard to imagine Lydia scolding anyone, but she did.”

“And I will again. My goodness, there’s simply no excuse for it. Why have a telephone installed if he doesn’t use it for things like this? Wherever he is, he had to have heard the fire alarm. He must know we’re concerned.” Aunt Lydia reached over to pat Juliana’s hand. “Don’t worry, dear. I won’t be too hard on him.”

After another sip of cocoa, Juliana rose to go. Both aunts decided they would finish their hot cocoa in their respective rooms, and so the ladies filed up the back stairs to worry, to pray, to ponder, and, in Juliana’s case, to simmer.

The brisk April morning brought the sound of someone knocking at the front door. Juliana tried to ignore it, but whoever it was seemed determined not to be turned away. Because it was Monday, Martha and Alfred’s day off, no one but Juliana or the aunts could answer the door.

With a sigh, Juliana stepped out onto the upstairs porch to see if she recognized the offender’s rig. There was no rig, and she didn’t recognize the rangy buckskin tied to the hitching post. Finally, she went to the edge of the porch. She was just about to call down and tell whoever it was to come back at a decent hour, when she heard the front door open and—Lydia? Yes. Aunt Lydia. Inviting the person in!

She stepped back inside, lingering in the upstairs hall. As expected, Aunt Lydia came up. First, she knocked on her sister’s door, but she didn’t wait for an answer before opening it and leaning in to say something. When she turned around and Juliana saw how pale she was—how her eyes had filled with tears—dread washed over her.

“It’s Marshal Hastings, dear. We’ll wait for you in the library.”

It took Juliana twice as long as usual to get her waist-length, dark hair wrapped up. She kept dropping hairpins. It seemed to take half a lifetime to manage the row of tiny buttons marching up the front of the white waist she pulled out of her wardrobe. Thank goodness she’d just bought lace-up shoes. The way she was shaking, if she’d had to wield a buttonhook, she’d probably have given up and gone downstairs in her stocking feet.

Her emotions a jumble, Juliana finally joined the aunts in the library where they waited, already seated, their hands clasped in their laps. She crossed the room to stand behind them, feeling like a sleepwalker in one of those dreams where things moved in slow motion.

“With all due respect, ma’am,” the marshal said, nodding at an empty chair. “You might want to sit down.”

“Thank you. I’ll be fine.” She wasn’t at all certain of that, but the truth was she felt safer here, with the aunts between her and whatever the marshal was about to say.

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. Cleared his throat. “I imagine you heard the fire alarm last night.”

Juliana nodded.

Aunt Theodora spoke up. It wasn’t like her to ramble, but now she did, like a woman trying to fend off the inevitable. “We tried to call Sterling at the office. He was working late. When he didn’t answer, we drove down to the office. But he wasn’t there, so we drove back. We saw …” Her voice trailed off. Her sister reached over and took her hand.

“We saw the fire,” Juliana said. She gripped the chair harder in a vain attempt to stay her trembling. “Of course we cross that street on our way to the office. By the time we headed home—it was a terrible scene.”
Just say it. Don’t make us wait any longer. Just say it.

The marshal nodded. He took a deep breath. “I am very sorry to have to tell you that Mr. Sutton was a victim of that fire.”