Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (18 page)

“How kind of him.” The older woman paused. “He seems rather young for the amount of responsibility that’s been thrust upon him. I do hope he’s up to the task. Do you know what kind of experience he had before my nephew hired him on?”

Juliana shook her head. “Sterling always seemed pleased with his work ethic and skill. He trusted him. I do know that.”

“Well, then. It would appear you have a good man on board. Intelligence, work ethic, honesty, and all of it in a very handsome package.” She motioned up the hall. “Shall we, my dear? I’ll wait for you.”

As it always did, the specter of the locket lurking in that drawer across the room rose up the moment Juliana closed the bedroom door behind her. Today, it was joined by the memory of Mr. Gregory’s redhead and the madam driving out to Juliana’s property to talk about rebuilding.

Aunt Lydia would be crushed if she knew that her “good” Mr. Cass Gregory had such dealings. What if Pastor Taylor knew that one of his church members was helping someone build a brothel?

And what did it mean for her? Juliana sighed. She couldn’t avoid him forever.

The moment Juliana and Aunt Theodora descended to the parlor, conversation around the quilt stopped. Juliana forced a smile. “I’m afraid I’ll be of no help at all with the quilting, but I have convinced Aunt Theodora to grace us with a reading.”

“How wonderful!” Aunt Lydia looked at the three other women seated at the quilt. “You are in for a delightful afternoon. No one has more refined elocution than my sister.”

Clearly taken by surprise, Aunt Theodora bowed as she was introduced to Edith Pritchart, Lutie Gleason, and Medora Riley. Then she excused herself and fled into the library in search of “an appropriate offering.”

When Juliana headed toward the sofa by the open windows, Mrs. Pritchart spoke up. “Now, dearie, don’t be taking yourself all the way across the room from the conversation.” She rose and pulled the desk chair out of the corner and plopped it at the quilting frame, then hesitated. “Unless of course, it pains your arm?”

At the mention of Juliana’s arm, Lutie Gleason retrieved a needlepoint pillow from the sofa. “Here you are, my dear. Always keep it elevated. It will help keep the swelling down.”

Medora Riley chimed in with a mention of an herbal tea known to promote healing of the bones. “I’ll have my man bring you some first thing in the morning,” she said. “Warm compresses help, as well.”

“Indeed, they do,” Mrs. Gleason countered, “but alternating between warm and cold is even more effective.”

“Do you still suffer from headache, dear?” Mrs. Prichart asked. “Lydia said it’s been frightful. Nothing is better for headache than Dr. Chase’s drops. I’ll write out the recipe and have it brought down. Catnip tea is good, too.”

All in all, not half an hour after Juliana had joined the group, she felt literally wrapped in affection. She’d known that Aunt Lydia felt close to her church friends, but this was Juliana’s first chance to be among them. She was so glad that she had not hidden away, that she and Aunt Theodora had joined them.

When Aunt Theodora concluded her first reading of Tennyson, the friends demanded an encore. Lutie Gleason spoke up. “Would you mind reading ‘Crossing the Bar’? I find that such a comforting perspective, especially the closing line about seeing our Pilot face to face.”

After the reading of “Crossing the Bar,” it was time for lunch. When Martha served up gooseberry pie, the talk turned to the bazaar. Martha offered to make five pies and a batch of jelly for the silent auction. And before Juliana quite knew how it had happened, she had agreed to accompany the ladies on a gooseberry-picking outing.

“And I know just where to go,” Aunt Lydia said. “There is a massive thicket of bushes on Juliana’s land south of town.”

Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other.
P
SALM
85:10

I
t had been weeks since Margaret had been awakened by the sound of crying. Thinking that she’d been dreaming, she adjusted her pillow and lay back down. But there it was again.
Sadie?
In the predawn light, Margaret glanced over at the pallet on the floor. Sadie had insisted she be the one to sleep there. Neither one of them felt comfortable in Ludwig’s room, even though he was living at Cass’s rooming house.

Margaret went to the door. Sadie stood by the stove, her head in her hands.

“What’s wrong?” Margaret hurried to her side.

“I c–can’t d–do anything,” Sadie sobbed. “I—I woke up and was going to make biscuits, but I don’t remember how.” She sniffed loud and long. “And I ground the coffee, but I don’t know how much to put in to make it. She dropped her head in her hands again. “Ludwig won’t w–want me. He’ll st–starve w–with me as h–his w–wife.”

Margaret pulled Sadie into her arms and let the girl weep. “Ludwig,” she said quietly as she stroked Sadie’s long red hair, “adores you. And I believe you know someone who can teach you to cook. All you have to do is ask.”

Sadie calmed a bit. Margaret sat her down at the kitchen table. “Wait here,” she said, and went into Ludwig’s room to retrieve paper and pencil from the small box on his desk. Back in the main room, she set the paper before Sadie. “What do you need to know how to make?”

“Everything,” Sadie moaned.

“Not everything. You could make breakfast when you were only twelve years old.”

“Anybody can fry up ham and eggs.” Sadie shrugged. She looked up at Margaret. “Ludwig likes pie. He was down talking to Mr. Jessup last week, and when he came back, he said there’s a big thicket of gooseberries down that way. He went on and on about how his
Mutti
used to make the best pie.” She began to cry again. “And I don’t know the first thing about making a pie.” She looked at her mother. “He’s going to hate being married to me.”

“Sadie Gregory!” Margaret gave her a little shake. “Stop your blubbering.” She tapped the paper with her finger. “Write down a whole week of meals. Think about what I cooked at Goldie’s. What did you like? What do you know Ludwig likes? Make a list. We’ll ask Cass about the gooseberries this evening.”

Sadie wrote while Margaret made coffee. By the time she set a steaming mug in front of the girl, Sadie had a week’s worth of meals written down. Margaret looked it over. As she read down the list, she nodded until she came to some words she didn’t know. “What’s this?” she set the paper down and pointed to the group of foreign words.

“I don’t know how to spell them, but those are things Ludwig said his ma made.” She pronounced the words as she went down the list. “Boarsht. Feffernoose. Plat-shinda. Kook-in. Flyshkookla.”

“Well,” Margaret sighed, “I haven’t any idea what any of those are. We’ll have to ask Ludwig.”

“No! I want to surprise him! I don’t want him to know I can’t cook.”

“Sadie.” Margaret sat down again. She looked meaningfully into her daughter’s blue eyes. “Ludwig knows you haven’t spent your time cooking.”

Sadie blinked. She looked away. “I still want to surprise him. And I want to be a good wife.”

Margaret chuckled. “Daughter, I do believe you have fallen in love.”

Sadie ducked her head. Shrugged. “I guess I have. I sure don’t want him to starve because of me.”

“All right, then.” Margaret got up and, crossing to the hooks by the door, took down two aprons and handed Sadie one. “Biscuits,” she said.

And the lessons began.

Just after sunrise early in May, Cass met Ma and Sadie at the livery. He rented a buggy and an ancient mare for them and led the way south of town, crisscrossing ahead of the buggy, keeping his eye out for the thicket of gooseberries he’d found after Ma had asked about them. It had to be near here—
there. Right there.
He urged Baron to a trot, and when he’d verified the find, he waved in the direction of Ma and Sadie’s buggy.

As they drove up, Ma asked again. “You’re sure Mrs. Sutton won’t mind?”

“I asked Aunt Lydia at church yesterday. She said it would be fine. Her committee wants to come out this week, but she said they’ll never use them all.”

Ma climbed down from the buggy. “My goodness,” she said. “I don’t know when I’ve seen bushes so laden with fruit.” She smiled up at him. “We only want enough for a pie-baking lesson. They won’t even notice we’ve been here.”

Cass dismounted, hitched Baron to the rented buggy, and began to pick gooseberries. Ma began to hum, and before long the three of them had filled the basket she’d brought along.

Sadie climbed back up to the buggy seat. “There’s gooseberry pie tonight if you know anybody who might be interested.”

“Is that an invitation to supper?”

“It’s an invitation to dessert.”

“Accepted. Pie for supper. I like it.” Cass untied Baron’s reins and stood watching as the buggy headed back into Lincoln. If he’d ever doubted Sadie’s feelings for Ludwig Meyer, the fact that she wanted to learn to cook for him was proof. He lifted his face to the sky. “Thank You.”
This is the day the Lord has made. I will rejoice and be glad in it.
He bent to pluck a wildflower and tucked it into his coat lapel. Baron whickered. Someone was headed this way. Riding a tall red horse.

Mrs. Sutton? She wasn’t supposed to be riding until June sometime. He took his hat off and waited for her to come within earshot.

“Does Dr. Gilbert know you’ve disobeyed his orders?”

“Does my aunt know you’ve been purloining the berries she needs for her fundraiser?”

The look on her face—she was really angry. Over gooseberries? “I thought you knew. I asked at church yesterday. Aunt Lydia said it would be all right.” Tecumseh had sensed her distress. Tossing his head, he began to prance about. “Doesn’t that hurt your arm? Can I help you down?”

“Dr. Gilbert decided it’s just a sprain. And please do not change the subject.”

Cass nodded. “All right. I’m sorry if I misunderstood. It was only enough for a couple of pies.” He looked at the thicket of bushes and then back up at her. “I doubt you’ll even miss them.”

She looked after the buggy. Back at him. “You said one pie. Now it’s two?”

“Ma’am?”

She nodded toward the buggy disappearing in the distance. “I saw you with your arm around that—woman—the night of the fire.”

All right. So she’d seen more than she’d let on before. “Yes, ma’am. I was thanking God they were all right.”

Mrs. Sutton sucked in a breath. “I do not wish anyone ill, Mr. Gregory. But I object in the most intense way possible to your association with those—people.”

“You object?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “To your inviting them onto
my
land and offering a stonemason in
my
employ to help them rebuild. And”—she was picking up steam—”to my gooseberries being given away.” She glowered at him. “Do you have any idea—”

She broke off. She must be in pain. She was trying not to cry and losing the battle. Or maybe this was just a bad day. People could act strange after losing someone. Half the men in Cass’s regiment in the war had seemed crazy at one time or another. Back then, the best thing had seemed to be to let them have their feelings and avoid trying to talk them out of them. Trying to convince Mrs. Sutton that she was being ridiculous was probably the worst thing he could do. So he’d apologize. Over the gooseberries he had permission to pick.

“I’m sorry. Truly. Aunt Lydia said you wouldn’t mind about the berries. I should have talked to you myself. But you haven’t seemed to want to speak to me. I would never intentionally presume on your gooseberries.” Did he really just say that? He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. “And as to the building, I told you about Jessup taking that job, remember? The day you came out to the house. The day of the accident. You didn’t seem to have a problem with it then. Jessup’s kept his word, and so have I. You aren’t being cheated out of a minute of his time. Or mine. But if you’ve changed your mind and you don’t want him to—”

“It isn’t that,” she snapped. Tecumseh’s ears shot back to take in what she was saying. It did nothing to calm him down. “It’s the principle of the thing. The sneaking around. The hiding. The pretending that all is well.” She glared at him. “How
can
you sit in Pastor Taylor’s church on Sunday morning, pretend that you’re helping him with some poor unfortunate’s funeral, and then continue to
consort
with them? How can you?!” She drew in a ragged breath. “I suppose you think it doesn’t matter. After all, my own husband …” Her voice wavered. “Well, I didn’t …
know
about St–Sterling.” She was losing the battle not to cry.