Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] Read online

  “So I’ve heard.” Noah set his glass down. “And now,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you to enjoy your meal in private. There is still one thing to which I must attend before nightfall.” He wasn’t quite certain what that thing was, other than to escape. An inner warning sounded every time Madame Jumeaux came near, and he’d learned to heed inner warnings. He’d encountered plenty of lonely ladies in his travels, and he didn’t mind a friendly conversation, but there was an air of desperation about this woman that made him wary.

  “But you haven’t finished your meal.” Madame pointed at his plate. “A man of your considerable”—her gaze swept over him—“physique cannot possibly be satisfied with so little.”

  Noah folded his napkin and rose. “I am quite satisfied,” he said. With a bow, he took his leave. Exiting the dining room through the door that opened onto the street, he feigned a certainty that he did not feel. Once out on the street, he hesitated just long enough to glance through the window and catch a glimpse of Madame reaching across the table with fork in hand to stab a strip of the roast beef Noah had left on his plate. She moved quickly. The roast beef deposited on her own plate, she repeated the action, this time with a spoon, downing a spoonful of his sweet potatoes before attacking the roast beef waiting on her own plate.

  Frowning, Noah headed off up the street. How had he missed it? Cheap cologne. A wig arranged in the long curls that hadn’t been in style for a very long time. And, now that he thought about it, those lavender kid gloves she’d laid on the table had been quite worn. As was the carpetbag he’d carried off the train for her earlier today. With a sigh, Noah realized that he’d misunderstood—out of pride. He hadn’t seen her in the dining car on the train. Not once. Madame Jumeaux wasn’t desperate for a man. She was hungry.

  Noah paused and looked back toward the hotel. How was she paying for a room in the finest hotel in Beatrice? He looked off toward the west at the spectacular sunset and thought of Ma and her love of the evening sky. Ma would have expected better of him with regard to Madame Jumeaux.

  Taking a deep breath, he muttered an apology. I’m sorry, Ma. She’d never turned anyone away from their door. It didn’t matter that it was just the two of them. It didn’t matter that she worked long hours and late nights providing for them. Ma had said that sometimes they might be entertaining “angels unawares” when they were kind to those in need.

  I’m so sorry. His conscience pricked, Noah decided to walk for a while. He headed off toward the Chautauqua grounds where he’d spend the greater part of his time over the next ten days. As he walked, thoughts of the Artist who’d painted this evening’s magnificent sunset led to another apology. I am sorry, Father. I was only thinking about myself. I missed the face of hunger behind those painted cheeks.

  Pausing before crossing the bridge across the river flowing just to the south of the city, Noah Shaw, “The Man of Many Voices,” decided something. Tomorrow, he would invite Madame Jumeaux to dine with him. He would thank her for all the advice she’d given “her fellow thespian” on the train. At the time, he hadn’t really appreciated her rattling on. Now he realized that he should have listened and seen with his heart.

  CHAPTER 3

  When the waiter returned for Noah Shaw’s plate and headed to the kitchen, Grace Jumeaux followed his retreat with profound regret. So much delicious food left on that plate. And those sweet potatoes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d tasted something that mouthwatering. She stared down at the poached egg on her plate. Eggs. She was so sick of eggs. She couldn’t face them tonight. Not after getting a few bites of roast beef and sweet potatoes. She lifted the cup of hot lemon water to her lips.

  “Is the egg not to your liking, madame?” The waiter had returned. “The kitchen is about to close. If you require another—”

  “No, no.” She waved him away. “It’s fine. I’ve just realized I’m not really all that hungry.” She took a nibble of toast before picking up her worn kid gloves and pushing herself away from the table. Relief washed over her when she peered out into the lobby and saw that the night clerk wasn’t at his station. She hurried to the stairs.

  “Madame?”

  Too slow. She pivoted about. He was too young. No chance of charming him. She would have to try something else. Tilting her head, she responded with a little frown. “Oui? Vous m’avais appellé?”

  “I was directed to ask you about your room.”

  “Pardon?” The man hesitated. Good. It usually took only a few French words to get them to give up.

  He smiled. “Vous ne parlez-pas anglais, madame? Ça ne fair rien. C’est mon plaisir de vous assister en français.”

  Madame pursed her lips. Who would have thought a night clerk in Beatrice, Nebraska, would speak French. Dommage. She gave him her most gracious smile. “Please excuse me. It wasn’t that long ago that my company was touring en Europe. Sometimes I forget that I’m back home.” She didn’t move from the stair. “You were saying?”

  “I was instructed to inquire about the room.”

  “It’s lovely. Thank you so much.” She turned to go.

  The young man raised his voice. “About payment?”

  She looked back at him. Frowned. “Is this some new policy? The last time I was here…” She feigned confusion. “I am so sorry, monsieur, but I was not aware that payment in advance would be required.”

  “It isn’t—usually. But with the Chautauqua coming and rooms in such demand—” He paused. “We don’t raise our rates for the event, but we do request payment in advance. There’s a waiting list, you see.”

  “Of course,” Madame said. “And I shall be happy to accommodate you. I am only waiting, you see, for my most recent remuneration to be converted into American dollars and wired to the bank here.”

  “I understand, ma’am, truly I do. And I hate to inconvenience you, but the manager indicated that you were aware of the policy. He instructed me to say that if you can’t pay in advance, then…”

  At least he feigned embarrassment. Or maybe he was embarrassed. It was hard to tell. Madame lifted her chin. She glowered. “Are you implying, young man, that there is a problem with my staying at this hotel?”

  “No, ma’am. There’s no problem, it’s just that—”

  “Tell your manager that I shall speak with him in the morning. At which time I will request that my trunks be removed to a more accommodating hotel.” With a toss of her false curls, Madame Jumeaux stormed up the first flight of stairs. Out of breath, she forced herself up the second flight and to the end of the hall. Finally in her room, she leaned against the door, fighting off tears and waiting to catch her breath. Dreading the desk clerk’s knock on the door. Thankfully, he wasn’t so loyal to the management as to pursue a poor woman up two flights of stairs.

  Trembling, she pulled her wig off and placed it on the stand atop the open theatrical trunk crowded between the foot of the bed and the wall. Lighting one of the gas lamps by the door, she stared at herself in the mirror above the washstand. She hadn’t planned on knocking on Josiah’s door quite yet. But if the hotel manager was going to be that pushy…well. She didn’t really have a choice. She might be a good actress, but there was no “more accommodating hotel” in her future. Since paying for that egg she hadn’t eaten, she had exactly twenty-five cents to her name. Enough to pay her way onto the Chautauqua grounds for one day. But now she needed a place to stay.

  She hoped seeing her again would soothe whatever anger Josiah might have felt about her selling the house and leaving town. After all, it had been twenty years. He had to have known she wouldn’t last long living alone in a one-horse town while he traipsed all over kingdom come chasing after Indians. He’d said he was born to be an Indian fighter. Well, good for him. She’d been born for the stage. And didn’t a woman have as much right as a man to seek her destiny?

  For all the good it had done her.

  As she stood in the dim light, staring at the trappings of her last twenty years as a
vagabond, Grace was tempted to wonder what her life might have been like if only—no. Once again, she looked in the mirror and spoke aloud to the tired woman staring back at her. “You made a choice to live a dream. And you had some wonderful times, old girl. So stop the pity party. You’ve hit a rough patch. That’s all it is. Josiah will keep his promise.” She lifted her chin, even as she pressed one palm to her growling stomach and repeated, “Josiah will keep his promise.”

  He had to. According to the one letter she’d received some years ago, he’d become a Bible-thumper. And she had nowhere else to turn.

  The idea of sharing a tent during Chautauqua put conversation and supper ahead of the Spring Sisters rehearsal. And then there was the matter of the state of Emilie’s hands, which of course could not be hidden from view when it came time to eat. As Emilie had expected, Junie said something about “Emilie being Emilie,” April merely shrugged, and May understood.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “Uncle Bill will have calmed down by the time you talk again.”

  Uncle Bill. Emilie didn’t think Father had been called “Bill,” by anyone but May, even as a boy. But then May had a way about her. If only Emilie could borrow some of her charm. By the time Bert drove her home, she’d calmed down a bit. But then the house came into view, and Emilie saw that the old-fashioned hurricane lamp in Father’s study window was lit. Her grip on the edge of the wagon seat tightened. Had Father merely lingered in the study while relaxing…or was he waiting up for her? As the buggy slowed beneath the study window, Emilie thought she saw the fringe on one of the window curtains move a bit. As if someone were standing there, watching. Oh no. If Father had waited up…Oh no.

  “Didn’t expect to see a light in the old man’s study,” Bert said. “I hope everything’s all right.”

  “He’s waited up for me.” Emilie swallowed in a vain effort to keep her voice from quavering. “H–he told me to be considering my replacement for the Ladies’ News. I was hoping the late hour would at least delay that conversation. Hoping he’d rethink it.”

  “Maybe he has,” Bert said, “and he’s just waiting to tell you.”

  Dear Bert. Such a good friend, always hoping for the best. “Maybe.” Emilie forced herself to agree, even as her heartbeat ratcheted up. Maybe, but probably not. The second Bert pulled the buggy up at the side stairs, she moved to get down. “Thanks for babysitting.”

  “My pleasure. Tell the old man I bedded Dutch down. Make sure he knows I gave him fresh water and forked hay into the crib in his stall.”

  “The ‘old man’ thanks you.” Father’s voice sounded from the other side of the screen door. “It’s late, Hartwell. If you’d rather ride back to town, you are most welcome to saddle Royal once you’ve seen to Dutch.” He paused. “Emilie won’t need him for the next few days.”

  The next few days? Whatever that meant, it sent a frisson of nerves up Emilie’s spine. She’d planned to ride Royal over to the Chautauqua grounds tomorrow. First, for an on-site rehearsal as soon as the piano was delivered to the Tabernacle. But also to help the cousins get settled in their tent.

  She was supposed to help them make the sign that named the temporary abode the “Bee Hive.” And after that, who knew? The grounds would be a fascinating place tomorrow, with a veritable army of men raising camp tents and dining-hall tents, wiping down and installing benches at the Tabernacle, and more. Emilie had planned to spend the day there, not only to have fun, but also to give Father time to calm down. To see reason in regard to his threat about the Ladies’ News. Swallowing, she repeated her thanks to Bert.

  Bert murmured, “You’re welcome,” and headed on up the drive toward the carriage house at the back of the property.

  Father motioned her inside, then closed and latched the screen door and the heavy inner door behind them before leading the way to his study. The aroma of cigar smoke lingered in his wake. If he’d had a relaxing evening at home, maybe all was not lost. But that flickering hope died the minute they turned the corner into Father’s study. Mother was waiting there, standing next to one of the chairs she’d proclaimed “hideous” the first time she’d seen it. Father had a pair of them, one tucked into each of the two corners of the study. They were upholstered in black horsehair. The hideous part was the fact that each chair’s framework had been constructed with horns from longhorn cattle.

  If Mother had spent the evening sitting in one of those despised chairs, things were very bad indeed. As Emilie offered a greeting, Mother wound a half-finished sock around the knitting needles in her hand and bent to tuck them into a bag sitting on the floor. She sat back down, and motioned for Emilie to do likewise.

  Father settled in the swivel chair behind his desk. “I know you’re wondering about not having Royal tomorrow. Mother has agreed to chauffeur you. She’ll wait until you’ve finished your farewell column and then drive you to my office so that you can submit it on time.”

  Farewell. Emilie glanced Mother’s way. “B–but the cousins and I have rehearsal at the Tabernacle as soon as the piano arrives.”

  “Not to worry,” Mother said with a forced smile. “We’ll go straight out to the grounds from your father’s office. I can drop you at rehearsal—”

  “After which,” Father chimed in, “you’ll head over to the cottage and offer Mother your assistance getting our camp set up.”

  Emilie swallowed. “She has Dinah to help her. And I—I told the cousins I’d help them set up housekeeping. They’ve rented a tent.”

  Mother frowned. “Why on earth would they do such thing? Cornelia’s ordered all kinds of improvements to their cottage.”

  “I know.” Emilie forced a conspiratorial smile. “Bert and I saw. And you are so right about her and ‘improvements.’ She’s having a two-deck tree house built around the big oak out back. And a porch laid out between the tree house and the cottage. She even mentioned having Uncle Roscoe haul the upright piano out for ‘evening entertainments.’”

  Mother shook her head. “Cornelia will never stand for the girls jumping ship after she’s had all that done.”

  This was good. A conversation that deflected attention away from this afternoon and the Dispatch print shop. “May said the three of them wanted to do something special since this is their last summer together. What with April getting married.” She plunged ahead. “Actually, I’m grateful you both stayed up. The cousins were hoping you wouldn’t object to my joining them over at the campgrounds. They’re quite enthused about their plans. They’ve even paid to have a floor installed in the tent. And they’re going to name their camp the Bee Hive. Hang a sign above the tent flap and everything.”

  Father tugged on the tip of his mustache. Emilie knew the gesture well. He was hiding the beginnings of a smile. Given half a chance, Father would help his nieces paint the sign. He was probably already designing it in his mind’s eye. If only Mother weren’t here, it would be easy to talk him out of his dark mood over her foray into the press room today.

  But Mother was here, and she wasn’t deferring the conversation to Father. “So that’s why you’re so late,” she said. “I was worried it meant there was a problem with the music.” She settled back in the chair.

  “The Spring Sisters sound wonderful,” Emilie said. She relaxed a little. “April’s chosen the perfect repertoire for the week. And they’re all in good voice. We’ll do the family proud.” She began to remove her gloves, but then remembered the ink beneath her nails. She laced her fingers together instead—hoping she looked more relaxed than she felt. “I’m late because April insisted we all have a light supper before we practiced.” She chattered on. “The Penner twins were at the house when we first got there, and you know how they are. The way they were hanging on Bert and flirting, poor Junie was fit to be tied. She really does care for Bert—even if she is only sixteen. I hope Bert’s paying attention. They’d be a great match.”

  When Mother didn’t seem inclined to discuss the romantic possibilities looming before her nieces, Emilie v
eered back to coming events. “We’d just finished practicing when Uncle Roscoe brought a copy of the Chautauqua program in. I stayed so the cousins and I could talk over the offerings and decide what we might attend together.”

  They had actually spent more time planning which sessions to skip, but that was just semantics. Emilie took a deep breath and looked over at Father with a bright smile. “Did the meeting with Mr. Shaw go well? Are you going to feature him in the Dispatch?”

  Father ignored the question. Instead, he looked over at Mother. Emilie followed his gaze. Something passed between them. Finally, he said, “The hour is late, and I see no reason to belabor this.” He cleared his throat. “I have decided that this week’s Ladies’ News will be your final foray into journalism.” He paused. “When you write the article, be certain to include sincere good wishes to your successor.”

  Successor. The word landed like a blow. “B–but—you said we’d talk—you—”

  “And we are talking,” Father said. Again, he looked at Mother. Was it Emilie’s imagination, or was he pleading with her to say something?

  Mother spoke up. “We understand that you will be disappointed, and we do not take that lightly, dear. One of the most difficult things any parent faces is the necessity to do the hard things that cause momentary conflict but that will, in time, yield long-lasting benefit for a beloved child.”

  Father nodded. “That is the very principle upon which I based my support when you wanted to attend the Female Seminary in Rockford. Your mother had her doubts, but I argued that a short season of pain at being separated from her only child would yield lasting benefit for you.”

  Pain at being separated? Emilie rejected the notion. Mother hadn’t felt pain. She’d been relieved. Not one of the letters she had sent to Emilie in northern Illinois had said a thing about missing Emilie. Not one.