Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] Read online

  Shaw pointed to the carpetbag on the floor by the table. “May I?”

  As he bent to retrieve her bag and then passed by on his way to the front door, Emilie realized how very tall he was. She turned the lamp down and followed him outside, locking the door and tucking the key in her apron pocket. Apron. I’m wearing faded calico and one of Dinah’s aprons. She was a lot more embarrassed than she’d been earlier today when Father discovered her in the press room.

  Mr. Shaw offered his arm. “Not to denigrate your Chautauqua grounds, but I nearly fell headlong running over here. Stumbled into a hole. You don’t want to turn an ankle.”

  The moon came out from behind a bank of clouds, casting silver light all around. They could both see well enough to avoid any holes. Still, Emilie took his arm.

  “So,” he said after they’d walked a short way in the moonlight, “A Mr. Tomkins handed your father a folder while I was there—something about your column in the paper? I imagine he’s very proud to have you take such an interest in his business.”

  Emilie grunted a short hunh. “Actually, the column was something of a consolation prize. I’d attended a year at a female seminary in Illinois, and I wanted to go back for the second year, but my mother objected. So Father created the Ladies’ News. It gave me hope. At first.”

  “But hope didn’t last.”

  She looked up at him. “What makes you say that?”

  “Voices are my business. I hear disappointment in yours.” He paused. “I know what it’s like to long for an education you can’t have. Although in my case, it was a matter of finances. My mother would have been thrilled to know I was attending a university somewhere. Anywhere.”

  “She might not have felt that way if you’d been a Norah instead of a Noah.”

  “I’m very sorry you were denied that second year. But that doesn’t mean you can’t learn. After all, that’s what Chautauqua is all about, isn’t it? Education for the masses. Including aspiring lady journalists.”

  Perhaps it was the fact that he didn’t pry or that his voice was warm with what sounded like sincere interest; perhaps it was the combined effects of his rescuing her and being so kind; or the fact that he didn’t make excuses for Mother. Maybe it was a little bit of everything, combined with the moonlight and the soft breeze rustling through the trees. Whatever it was, as they walked past the Tabernacle, Emilie said, “Actually, I turned in my last column today.” Then she allowed a bitter laugh. “Mother didn’t approve of my writing for the newspaper. And so I’ve been fired. By my own father.”

  “I am so sorry.”

  The sand that had been spread across the expanse of the earth beneath the Tabernacle roof glowed in the moonlight like a halo. For a brief second, Emilie envisioned Miss Ida Jones up on the stage, speaking on the topic of women’s influence over a nation. She blurted out the question. “Do you know Miss Jones?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Miss Ida Jones,” Emilie said. “She’s on the program with you. She’s supposed to give an address this week. Something about women’s influence over a nation.”

  “Sounds fascinating. I’ll have to make sure I hear that.”

  Emilie laughed. “It’s all right, Mr. Shaw. You don’t have to pretend.”

  “Who’s pretending?”

  He sounded sincere. But then voices were his business, and he probably had expert control over his. They were at the stables. Royal whickered and thrust his head over the stall door. He snuffled the carpetbag in Mr. Shaw’s hand. Emilie patted the gentle bay’s soft muzzle, slipped the bridle on, and led him out of the stall. “You were very kind to call me an aspiring journalist just now. The Ladies’ News is just a list of events. All I did was put the list in order and correct spelling errors and the like. There was very little real journalism involved.”

  “Yet you’re sorry it’s ended.”

  She handed Mr. Shaw Royal’s reins while she shook out the saddle blanket, then settled it on the horse’s back and smoothed it into place. “It’s my own fault. As I said earlier, my mother never really approved. And today at the newspaper office I finally committed the unforgivable sin.”

  “Surely not unforgivable.”

  She smiled in spite of herself. “I’m being melodramatic. Still, I lost the column.” She hoisted the saddle into place, tightening the girth strap as she explained. “I asked the man who runs the press to let me help him set type today. Father caught me at it.” She allowed a sad laugh. “I had ink under my nails, smudges on my face, my hair was a mess, and poor Father was horrified. He said I looked like ‘some hapless immigrant mill girl.’ And that was that. I’ve been replaced.”

  “So soon?”

  Emilie shrugged as she led Royal out of the stables and toward the arched gate in the distance. “Mother had a name in mind. I think she’d been hoping to end what she called my ‘experiment with journalism’ for quite a while. At any rate, I wrote the final column, left it for Father to take with him to the office in the morning, and here I am.”

  He stopped walking and looked down at her. “You ran away from home.”

  True or not, the comment made her sound like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum. “I left a note so they wouldn’t worry. If it hadn’t been for that snake, I’d have been ready to work at first light, and by the time Mother drove over, I would have had a nice surprise waiting for her.”

  “Peacemaker.”

  If it weren’t for the gentle laughter accompanying the word, Emilie would have thought he was calling her a name. She chuckled along with him. “Don’t give me too much credit. Conquering the dust motes and cobwebs in the cottage were also a means to an end.”

  They passed beneath the arched gate and turned onto the road. He looked down at her again. “You still want to write for the newspaper. Something more than a list of events.”

  Emilie let go of his arm. “You could not possibly have heard that in my voice.”

  “A slight change in tone,” he said. “A little lift at the end of that last sentence that hints at renewed hope.”

  Was she really that easy to read? “When I asked if you knew Miss Jones, it was because I left a note with Alan Crenshaw at the Paddock before I rode out to the ground tonight. He’s the night clerk. We went to school together.” She was babbling. How embarrassing. “Anyway, I’ve requested an interview with Miss Jones. I’m hoping to convince my father to let me do a series for the Chautauqua Express, the paper he prints especially for those who attend the Interstate Chautauqua. From the ladies’ point of view, as it were.” When he said nothing, she defended the idea. “Don’t you think the ladies in attendance would like to know more about the speakers?”

  “Don’t you think everyone would? Why assume only ladies would be interested in what you have to say?”

  Emilie could feel herself blushing and was thankful that it was dark. “That’s very kind of you.” She paused. “I was going to suggest Ten for Ten as a series title. Ten questions asked of ten speakers for the ten editions of the Chautauqua Express to be published over the ten days of the event.”

  “That’s a very creative hook,” Mr. Shaw said. “Any chance you’d want to try your questions out on me?”

  “It’s probably not a good idea to imply that my Father didn’t get the scoop on ‘The Man of Many Voices,’” Emilie said.

  He gave a dramatic sigh. “You ‘crush me under the weight of your rejection,’ mademoiselle.”

  Emilie laughed. “Don’t be hurt. And it isn’t fair to scold me with Shakespeare. Besides, for all you know, I can’t write a complete sentence without four misspelled words and a dangling participle.

  “And for all you know,” he rumbled, “the real reason I’m here in Nebraska has almost nothing to do with the stage I was standing on when I heard you scream.” He pointed up at the night sky. “I do love walking at night. When I was a boy, my mother used to tell me a story about the bear in the sky…”

  Emilie listened, but she didn’t really hear what h
e was saying about the sky. She was circling the hook Mr. Shaw had dangled before her about why he might really be in Nebraska. And thinking that interviewing him might not be a bad idea, after all.

  CHAPTER 6

  By the time he and the charming Miss Emilie Rhodes had crossed the bridge south of Beatrice and ambled on into town, Noah really didn’t want to say good night yet. He couldn’t explain it, but it was as if the curtain that usually existed between strangers didn’t exist with her.

  “It’s only half a mile more,” Miss Rhodes said. “I don’t want you to have to retrace your steps in the dark.”

  “But it’s nearly midnight, and I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I let you go on undefended.”

  “It’s Nebraska, Mr. Shaw.” Miss Rhodes laughed. “There are no highwaymen waiting in the bushes to steal my carpetbag. And besides that, you’d regret your kind offer once you had half a mile of dark road facing you on the walk home.”

  “Who could object to half a mile of moonlight?”

  “Half a mile of moonlight?” She shook her head. “All right, Mr. Shaw. How can I reject someone with such a creative bent for describing a walk down a dirt road in the dark.”

  He laughed. “I believe you’ve just summarized the difference between your desired profession and mine.”

  “Really?”

  “I look north and see half a mile of moonlight. That’s drama. You see half a mile of a dirt road. That’s realism. Theater and journalism. So tell me, which courses did you enjoy most at Rockford? I’d wager it wasn’t the course on the romantic poets.”

  “Gambling is a sin, Mr. Shaw,” Miss Rhodes said. Still, she gathered her horse’s reins and began to walk north.

  Noah caught up to her and asked about Beatrice.

  “The accent is on the second syllable,” Miss Rhodes said. “I know it sounds wrong—especially to a world traveler like yourself, but it isn’t. It’s from Julia Beatrice Kinney, one of the founder’s daughters, and that’s the way she pronounced her middle name, so that’s the way we pronounce it. Put the accent on the first syllable, and everyone will know you’re a stranger.”

  “Bee-AT-trice,” Noah said and repeated it three times.

  Miss Rhodes laughed. “Very good.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “Well, let’s see. We’re the third largest city in the state, and to hear my mother tell it, Father’s a big part of the reason. In fact, sometimes I think that if she had her way, the town would be renamed Rhodesville.”

  “And what would Miss Kinney say to that?”

  “Maybe she wouldn’t know. She never did actually live here. I think she’s somewhere out in California, lucky woman.” She turned east on another road. “It’s not far now. Just up ahead, actually.” They’d only walked a short way when she stopped and muttered, “Oh no.”

  “What is it?”

  It was as if the air around them trembled when Miss Rhodes looked toward the mansion silhouetted against the night sky. Even the horse seemed to sense the change in her mood, tossing its head and dancing away. She ordered it to settle down before speaking to Noah. “That lighted window on the second story? That’s my mother’s room.” She picked up the pace a bit, and when the front of the house came into view, she sighed. “And that second light? That’s Father’s.”

  Someone exited the side door and hurried toward the carriage house just visible beyond the porte cochere. Emilie groaned. “And there’s Father. I had so hoped to just slip in, retrieve the note I left for them, and sneak upstairs the back way. Now it looks like someone’s raised the alarm. They probably haven’t even seen my note.” She sighed. “If you’ll give me a hand up, Royal and I will catch up to Father before he gets the buggy hitched.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Noah said. “We can explain where you’ve been—and they’ll know you weren’t in any danger. Unless—but your Father knows me. Why would they be angry?”

  “Mother will be upset because I was ‘gadding about’ alone at night, and Father will be angry because I’ve upset Mother. Again.”

  She sounded so miserable. Noah almost reached out to offer a comforting hug. Instead, he set her bag down, circled her waist with his hands, and boosted her into the saddle. With a surprised oh, she found the stirrup with the toe of her boot, then gathered the reins and motioned for him to hand her the carpetbag.

  “Go on ahead,” he said. “I’ll bring it.”

  “Please just hand it over. I know you mean well, but your showing up will only create more trouble for me. The last thing I need is for my parents to think I’ve been wandering around with a strange man on a dark night.”

  “Your father knew I was headed out to the grounds to rehearse. I don’t see how—”

  She interrupted him. “You don’t see how because you haven’t met Mrs. Rhodes, the absolute queen of making mountains out of molehills. If you stroll up that drive with my carpetbag in hand, all my mother will see is her daughter and a man to whom she has not been properly introduced.” She waggled her fingers in the direction of the bag. “Please. I really do need to hurry.”

  Noah gave her the bag.

  The horse danced in place, seeming to sense her urgency. She held him back just long enough to say, “Thank you for rescuing me from slithers in the night. And don’t think this means I’m letting you out of an interview.”

  “I won’t. I still want to hear the rest of the story about BeATrice, the town born on a Missouri sandbar.”

  “And I’ll be happy to tell it,” Miss Rhodes said. “Assuming my parents don’t lock me in my room as punishment for tonight.”

  Noah smiled as she cantered toward the house, her apron strings waving in the moonlight. He looked back toward town and then after Miss Rhodes. Was this really going to turn into a crisis for her? Or did a streak of the dramatic reside beneath that lovely exterior, after all?

  Your father knew I was going out to the grounds. He’d thought that a good thing just now, but with Miss Rhodes hurrying off to explain her absence—and not wanting Noah with her—a flicker of worry niggled. If Emilie’s mother really was in the habit of making mountains from molehills…if Emilie let it be known the way the two of them had met…Emilie. He was thinking of her as Emilie? He was. And he felt oddly protective of her. As if he should defend her somehow.

  He looked down at his hands, touching fingertip to fingertip. Her waist had fit perfectly into that circle just now when he lifted her into the saddle. He wondered what color her eyes were by the light of day. If he ever expected to find out, he could not allow the remotest chance that Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes would think he’d sneaked away into the night.

  Taking a deep breath, he headed up the drive toward the house.

  Emilie called, “I’m home,” as she pulled Royal up just outside the wide double doors on the back side of the carriage house. Father had already opened them so that he could drive the buggy out, but by the time Emilie had dropped her carpetbag to the ground and dismounted, he’d turned Dutch back into his stall and latched it shut.

  As he walked toward her, Emilie could see his face dimly illuminated by the one lantern he’d lit—the one hanging on the iron hook by the small door facing the house. He was furious. Again. As angry as he’d been earlier today when he dragged her out of the press room.

  “Apparently you didn’t see my note?” She tried to keep the tone just right. She didn’t want to fawn. Then again, she did feel apologetic. She hadn’t meant to worry them. This time, she’d actually planned things out and taken pains to explain her behavior.

  “What note?” Father snapped.

  The ts were emphasized. Not good. “On the breakfast table in the nook.” She reached up to smooth Royal’s mane as she talked. Maybe it would keep her hands from trembling so. “I finished the final Ladies’ News. It’s there, too—along with a note. I left everything where you’d see it first thing in the morning. So that you wouldn’t worry.”

  “Your Mother was concerned after our talk. She went to check o
n you—and discovered your absence.” He raked his fingers through his hair. Took a deep breath. “Do you have any idea how weary I am of trying to translate you to her—and her to you?”

  “There’s nothing to translate,” Emilie said. “If you’d read my note, you’d know. I decided to ride out to the grounds and spend the night so that I could get to work cleaning the cottage at first light. I wanted to surprise Mother.”

  “Mission accomplished. I am surprised.”

  Emilie whirled about. Royal danced away, and there stood Mother. Fully dressed, albeit somewhat disheveled.

  “I left a note,” Emilie repeated.

  Mother glanced at Father. Something passed between them, and Father’s scowl relaxed a bit. Mother’s tone seemed almost conciliatory when she said, “After the way we ended things, I couldn’t sleep. I lay there thinking over how you must be feeling—I just couldn’t leave it that way. And so I knocked on your bedroom door. Imagine my surprise when I discovered you’d run away from home.”

  “But I didn’t,” Emilie insisted. “How many times do I have to say it? Here,” she said, and held Royal’s reins out to Father. “I’ll prove it. You take Royal, and I’ll go get the note I left.”

  “No.” Mother waved for Father to join her. “You tend to Royal, Emilie. Your Father and I will go in. After all this excitement, I’ll need a cup of tea before my nerves calm down, anyway.” She bent to retrieve Emilie’s carpetbag. “We were headed to Cornelia’s first. I told your Father it was likely you would have confided in May.”

  Emilie sighed. For Mother to suspicion some plot with May wasn’t all that unreasonable. But this time, May was innocent. “It was just an idea that came up tonight, while I was writing my final piece for the paper.”

  The three of them stood, looking at one another like combatants who wanted to call a truce but didn’t quite know how. Royal pricked his ears and turned his head to stare into the shadows just past the house. He snorted and shook his head. When Noah Shaw emerged from those shadows, Emilie saw Mother put her hand to her hastily arranged coiffure and step back.