Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] Read online

  Tugging on Bert’s sleeve, Emilie headed for the back door. When Bert hesitated, she hissed, “Dinah will explain that it was us and why we had to hurry off. Come on!” Cramming the last piece of pie into his mouth, Bert set the pie plate in the sink and followed her outside. Once he had the buggy moving, Emilie said, “I’ve already heard Father expounding on what a disappointment I am. I don’t need a sermonette from Mother, too.”

  As the late afternoon train pulled into Beatrice, Nebraska, “The Man of Many Voices” rolled up his old quilt and tucked it inside the canvas duffel he’d had made especially for the road. He’d spent the last few hours trying to find a way to make his six-foot frame comfortable so that he could nap, and as he stood up to retrieve his travel bag, his back and shoulders complained. Stretching, he pulled the travel bag down from the luggage rack overhead. By the time the train came to a stop, Noah Shaw had clipped the duffel in place and was standing out on the platform, ready to jump down and head for the Paddock Hotel. To his chagrin, the fellow passenger he’d been trying to avoid for most of the trip joined him as the brakes squalled and steam spewed into the air.

  Ma had raised him to behave like a gentleman, and so, whether the term lady applied in this situation or not, he motioned for the garishly dressed woman to precede him down the stairs. “May I help you with your bag?”

  “You may.” With a toss of her bewigged head and a dramatic sweeping of her skirts, the woman who’d introduced herself earlier as Madame Jumeaux descended to the platform. She’d said her name with a flourish and a tone that made it obvious that Noah was expected to recognize it. When he didn’t, she’d condescended to excuse him. After all, she’d said, his was largely a Midwestern career. One couldn’t expect everyone in “that part of the country” to be informed “as to the larger theatrical scene on the coast.”

  Noah grabbed the woman’s valise and tucked it under one arm as he grasped his own bags and followed her off the train. As soon as he’d alighted, he set her bag down. “May I summon a porter to assist you?”

  “He can assist us both,” she said. “I assume you’re staying at the Paddock? It is, regrettably, the best they have to offer.” She waved a gloved hand. “I suppose it’s not so bad. One must temper one’s expectations to the venue.”

  A screech rang out as a freight car door slid open a short distance up the tracks. Noah turned to see a dark figure scurry out of the far end of the station, a wheeled cart in tow.

  “That will be our trunks,” madame said.

  “Yours, perhaps.” Noah indicated his valise and the duffel. “I travel light.”

  Madame’s painted lips parted in a prim smile. “How clever of you. Impossible for an actress, of course. One’s costumes and associated regalia.” She put a gloved hand on his arm. “Shall we walk together?”

  “I regret that I must decline,” Noah said. “I’ve an appointment.” He made a show of pulling his watch out of his vest pocket. “And I’m afraid I’m already late.” He tugged on the brim of his hat. “Have a good evening.” He pretended not to notice that the woman was about to say something. Instead, he headed off up the street—as if he knew where he was going. As if the exact location of the Beatrice Daily Dispatch wasn’t a complete mystery.

  CHAPTER 2

  Emilie was quiet for most of the drive to the Chautauqua assembly grounds. Thankfully, Bert knew her well enough to let her simmer without forcing conversation. He was driving the buggy beneath the largest of the four wooden arches that marked the entrance before she voiced one of the worries that had been niggling at her for most of the twenty-minute drive. “What do you think Father will do to Will for letting me help set type?”

  Bert didn’t answer for a moment. Instead, he let Father’s pride-and-joy buggy horse cool down, ambling along the winding road that led to the open-air auditorium called the Tabernacle. When he did speak, his tone was confident. “It’s more important than ever to get the paper out on time during Chautauqua. Folks are estimating there could be as many as ten thousand people on the grounds—and that’s on an average day. Who knows how many will come to hear Reverend Talmage that last Sunday? I imagine Will’s safe—although he’s probably had his ears pinned back by now. When it comes right down to it, though, there’s too much business to be missed if the Daily isn’t running smoothly over the next couple of weeks. You don’t need to worry about Will.”

  “Too much business to be missed.” Too much money at risk. Bert was right. Father was, first and foremost, a businessman. He wouldn’t let anything stand in the way of all those newspaper sales.

  “Come prepared to suggest your replacement.” In the wake of relief on behalf of Will Gable came a wave of dread at the memory of Father’s implied threat to take the Ladies’ News away from her. She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t. She’d find a way. But she’d have to think about that later. Worrying over it would make her hands tremble. And then she’d miss notes at rehearsal, and Cousin April would scold even more than she would anyway because of Emilie’s being late.

  Glancing toward the Tabernacle in the distance, she said, “Do you really think the crowd will be that large this year? Will was working on the program today, so I had a chance to see the schedule. Ex-President Hayes isn’t coming. I know Reverend Talmage is popular, but I can’t imagine him being as big a draw as a former president.”

  “Never underestimate the power of a good sermon.” Bert looked over with a grin. “And besides that, I hear that the Spring Sisters and their lovely accompanist are to be featured a half-dozen times.” He pulled the buggy up alongside the Tabernacle stage. “At least I thought we had the Spring Sisters. But there’s clearly no one waiting to rehearse. Do you think they got tired of waiting?”

  “Who could blame them?” Emilie gazed past the empty stage toward the row of cottages in the distance. “They could be helping Aunt Cornelia settle in. You wouldn’t believe what she hauled out here last year for the series. She even brought an icebox. For a ten-day campout. Can you imagine?”

  Bert smiled. “Well, just because a person is camping is no reason to suffer needlessly, eh? I seem to recall that your parents’ cottage was fairly well furnished last year, too.” With a flick of the reins, he headed the buggy around the back side of the Tabernacle and toward Cottage Row.

  “In case you don’t remember it’s the pink one with the diamond-patterned roof,” Emilie said. “I don’t see the girls, but there’s definitely something going on.”

  Mother had been the first of the town ladies to come up with the idea of erecting a cottage out here. Once it was known that Mrs. Rhodes had come up with such a clever alternative to tent camping, a flurry of activity along the Blue River had resulted in an entire row of diminutive cottages. Some boasted gingerbread, while others had expansive porches or whimsical gazebos.

  As the buggy got closer, Bert said, “Looks like the ladies have some kind of competition going this year.” Workers swarmed like bees around several places. One was getting a fresh coat of paint, while a team of men installed window screens and shutters on another. But none was getting attention comparable to Aunt Cornelia’s. Burt gave a low whistle as they pulled up. “Well. Would you look at that?”

  Emilie just shook her head. “It was bound to happen. Mother and Aunt Cornelia may be sisters, but it’s always a contest between those two. We have a porch around ours, and last year everyone congregated over there. Especially after Mother talked Father into having hammocks put up all around. Aunt Cornelia would never let a porch and hammocks go unanswered.”

  “But…a tree house?” Bert gazed up into the massive oak tree that shaded the pink cottage. Carpenters had already built a platform around the trunk. Now, two were adding a simple railing between uprights obviously intended to support a second story. The beginnings of winding stairs circled the tree trunk.

  Aunt Cornelia stepped through the front doorway and hurried over. “You didn’t get the message? ‘Etta said she’d tell you.”

  “Te
ll me what?”

  “The piano hasn’t been delivered to the Tabernacle yet. You’ll have to practice at the house. The girls are waiting there.” Aunt Cornelia pointed at carpenters at work on the tree house. “Isn’t it lovely? And after they’ve finished the observation deck, I’m having them lay a lovely veranda across the open space between our cottage and the tree.” She smiled. “I just might have your uncle bring the parlor piano out for the duration.” She waved a hand in the direction of the new construction. “It’s the perfect setting for evening entertainments, don’t you think?”

  Emilie muttered something she hoped sounded positive before turning to Bert. “I guess it’s Aunt Cornelia’s next.” She bid her aunt good-bye, and Bert urged Dutch into a smart trot. As they slowed to cross the bridge across the river, Emilie said, “I hope you didn’t have plans for an early supper.”

  “The only plans I have is to do whatever it takes to give a good report to my employer after I return his buggy, his horse, and his daughter later this evening.”

  “A report? You’ll be expected to report?”

  “Not in the way you mean. But he’ll probably work it into a conversation at the newspaper office tomorrow.” He nudged her. “Don’t look so glum. All I plan to say is that I personally escorted the lovely Miss Emilie Rhodes to her destination and that she looked every inch a lady, right down to the ribbon in her hair which was, I happened to notice, exactly the shade of her green eyes.” He glanced her way. Shrugged. “You’re right. Needs editing. Too much detail.”

  “My eyes aren’t green.”

  “They tend toward green when you’re upset. And when you wear that color.”

  Emilie glanced down at her gray-green skirt. The realization that Bert could describe her ensemble made her feel strangely…strange. Did her eyes really tend toward green when she was upset? No one had ever said anything like that to her before.

  They’d made their way back into town and were passing by the Paddock Hotel and Opera House before Bert spoke again. “He wants what’s best for you, Em. He gets angry because he cares.”

  She snorted in disbelief.

  Bert was quiet for the rest of the drive. Emilie had just climbed down, and Bert was hitching the buggy when a voice sounded from the screened porch up on the second floor of the two-story white farmhouse.

  “Bert Hartwell, is that you?” And a giggle.

  “You didn’t tell me the Penners were going to be at your rehearsal,” Bert groused.

  Emilie looked over at him. “Because I didn’t know.” There was no time to say anything more, as the front door opened and the Penner twins bounded down the porch stairs, followed closely by Emilie’s three cousins. The twins fluttered about Bert as he finished tying off the buggy reins.

  April, the eldest of the three Spring sisters scolded. “You’re late.”

  May, the middle sister and Emilie’s best friend interrupted. “But it’s actually kind of good that you were.”

  “I wouldn’t be this late if I’d known we weren’t practicing at the Tabernacle.” Emilie directed her defense at April, then looked over at May. “And why is it good that I’m late?”

  April pressed her point. “Mother told Aunt Henrietta at the library meeting, and Aunt was supposed to tell you to come here.”

  Ahnt. In recent weeks, it was as if that miniscule garnet engagement ring on April’s finger gave her a right to pontificate to her younger sisters and, by reason of association, to Emilie. Emilie scowled. “Well, Ahnt Cornelia may have told your Ahnt Henrietta, but no one told me, because I wasn’t home this afternoon to get the message. And for your information, Ahnt Cornelia didn’t seem upset with me at all.” She looked back to May and repeated her question. “And why is it a good thing that I was late?”

  Junie, two years younger than Emilie and suffering from a longstanding crush on Bert Hartwell, didn’t give May a chance to answer. “Where were the two of you?” She gazed toward Bert, still trapped by the giggling Penner twins.

  “Relax, Junie.” Emilie tugged playfully on the thick blond braid trailing down Junie’s back. “I was working at the newspaper office, and I assume Bert was doing the same, although I didn’t really see much of him—until Father ordered him to drive me home.” She leaned close. “He has to stay all evening. Apparently he’s to be my keeper. Father ordered him to deliver me home.”

  Junie blushed bright red. “I bet he’s hungry. I could get him a sandwich from the kitchen. Do you think he’d like that?”

  “I’m certain he would.”

  “Actually,” April said as Junie headed inside, “we’re all on our own for supper. Mother summoned Papa out to the cottage.” She raised her voice so that the Penner sisters—one hanging on to each of Bert’s arms—could hear her. “We’ll have to rustle up our own supper.”

  The Penner on Bert’s right arm sighed dramatically and leaned forward just enough to see her sister. “That’s our cue to leave, Fern. We don’t have permission to stay for supper.”

  “I’d invite you to stay,” April said, “but we really do need to concentrate on our music.” She glanced in Emilie’s direction. “We’ve gotten such a late start.”

  “Oh, bother.” Fern let go of Bert. She patted his shoulder. “We’ll save you a seat on the front row for the opening exercises.”

  Bert muttered something noncommittal, disengaged, and headed up the stairs and onto the wide front porch, where he waited to play doorman.

  As soon as the Penner twins were out of earshot, May spoke up. “Finally. I thought they’d never leave.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she said, “With April getting married this fall, this is her last chance at independence. So”—she clasped her hands before her—“we’ve reserved a tent for the entire Chautauqua. And we paid the extra dollar to get a floor installed. Won’t it be wonderful?! Just the four of us. We can go boating on the river or take a moonlight cruise on the riverboat or walk in the moonlight or read or play music or—do nothing at all. No parents, no servants, no chores, no cares. For ten whole days!” She reached for Emilie’s hand and pulled her along into the house.

  As they all passed the doorway into the formal dining room, Junie called Bert’s name. “I—I made you a sandwich. I hope you like it.”

  Emilie smiled. Dear Junie. She’d made a sandwich, all right. And set the table with Aunt Cornelia’s good china, right down to a crystal wine glass. Filled to the rim with milk.

  “It’s only roast beef,” Junie said. Her expression dared her sisters to say a word. They didn’t.

  “It looks wonderful.” Bert gave a little bow to the others. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.” And he headed into the dining room.

  The look of joy on Junie’s face made Emilie want to hug Bert for being so kind. Instead, she followed April and May into Aunt Cornelia’s kitchen, wishing with all her heart she didn’t have to disappoint her cousins. But there was no way on earth Father would let her stay in their tent during the Chautauqua. Not after today. He didn’t even trust her to get herself home from music rehearsal. “Be thinking of a replacement for the news column.”

  Suddenly, a knot of sadness and apprehension took over the empty space in Emilie’s midsection that she’d been planning to fill with Aunt Cornelia’s scrumptious roast beef.

  Noah laid his fork and knife down. He bit his lower lip to keep from frowning. The roast beef was succulent, the gravy smooth and flavorful, the candied sweet potatoes better than any he’d ever tasted. A succulent meal in the Paddock Hotel dining room ruined. By four little words.

  “May I join you?”

  If only he’d been seated facing the door that opened onto the hotel lobby. Maybe he could have escaped. But he hadn’t and couldn’t, and so he forced a smile, rose, and pulled out a chair for Madame Jumeaux. Across the table, instead of beside him.

  “I hope you won’t mind my being so forward.” A veritable cloud of scent rose as the woman settled on her chair. “Life on the road does teach one that it is sometimes necessary—and pl
easurable—to circumvent convention.”

  The combination of cheap perfume and musty gown made Noah take a step back. Thankful for the expanse of table between him and Madame Jumeaux, he muttered something noncommittal and returned to his own chair.

  “Don’t let me be the cause of you having to eat a cold meal.” Madame made a show of removing her lavender kid gloves and laying them atop the table. When a waiter approached with a menu, she fluttered her eyelashes and waved it away, ordering coffee, toast, and a poached egg. She touched his elbow. “And do emphasize soft-poached,” she said. “The last time I was here, the cook was calling white stones soft-poached eggs.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The waiter nodded. “I’ll see to it.”

  The waiter retreated, and Madame folded her hands in her lap and smiled at Noah. “A profitable meeting at the newspaper, I assume?” She tilted her head as she waited for a reply. When Noah said nothing, she gave a little laugh. “Please forgive me, Mr. Shaw. I’ve been forced to acquire a certain boldness over the years. A lady traveling alone—you mustn’t let it bother you. I don’t mean to pry like some gossipy spinster.”

  Noah glanced down at his plate. He’d been ravenous not two minutes ago. Ah, well. Tomorrow was another day. He took a sip of water. “Are you pleased with your accommodations? You expressed doubts, as I recall.”

  Madame gazed about them. Gave a little shrug. “I’ve had worse. And better.” She sighed. “Much, much better. But then you don’t want to hear about that.”

  She was right. He didn’t. He didn’t want her at his table, either. Dining with an overly painted aging actress wasn’t exactly the best way for a single man to maintain his reputation. “I think you’ll be pleased with the food,” Noah said, nodding down at his plate. “This is delicious.”

  The waiter approached, a plate in one hand, a coffeepot in the other. Madame waved the coffeepot away. “I’d forgotten the late hour. Just bring me a cup of hot water with a splash of lemon.” The waiter set the plate before her and headed back to the kitchen. Madame leaned forward as if sharing a confidence. “Lemon is good for the instrument, you know.” She bent one wrist, lifted her chin, and swept the air along her powdered throat.