Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (11 page)

The horse looked back at her as if pondering the question. He shook his head.

It was only a game, but when Tecumseh shook his head, tears sprung up. Juliana sniffed. “I know. You never would.” She cried through the rest of the process of saddling and bridling, but once she’d mounted, she felt better. And when Tecumseh moved into an easy lope, she forgot everything but the ride.

A few miles away at the entrance to Wyuka Cemetery, she pulled Tecumseh up, gazing toward the place they’d selected for the family plot when Alfred drove them here late yesterday afternoon. The sight of it made her want to tear off across the prairie again; but instead, she put Tecumseh through his paces along the winding lanes of the park-like setting. They practiced flying lead changes and a series of gaits until both horse and rider were breathing hard. Finally, Juliana pulled up to walk. There was a new grave dug in the far back corner, as far from the road as one could get and still be inside the cemetery proper.

I’m not the only one burying someone they loved.
She gazed about her at the rows of gravestones.
I’m not the only one. I’m probably not even the only one to bury an unfaithful husband. Or wife. Not the only one to find evidence. Not the only one to be hurt. Not the only one.

Somehow, the idea gave her comfort. Generations of people had had to do exactly what she did yesterday. Buy a lot. Select a place. Say good-bye. All the way back to Abraham himself, who’d had to buy a place to lay Sarah to rest.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
It was part of life.

She wished that Mama’s and Papa’s graves where here, but Sterling had paid to have them taken back to the family plot near Chicago. It had cost him dearly, but he hadn’t complained. He’d said it was his duty and he was glad to do it.
He did a lot of very nice things for people.

She didn’t want to think about them, though. So she slid out of the saddle and led Tecumseh down to the creek that wound its way through the property. She’d just gathered up the reins to leave when a small procession turned in at the gate. The deceased was being transported in a farm wagon decorated with swags and floral wreaths. The team of horses pulling the wagon wore black fly nets. The wagon driver looked like … it was.
Pastor Taylor.

A second wagon followed the first, this one bearing mourners. This one driven by Cass Gregory. The woman sitting next to him on the wagon seat was obviously the woman from the fire. Even with a hat perched atop her head, the red hair shone like a beacon in the morning sun. Was the older woman the infamous Goldie? This must be Nell Parker’s service.

To reach the grave in the far corner, the procession turned away from where Juliana stood watching. Taking up the reins, she strode up the hill toward the caretaker’s house just inside the gate, where a carriage block would enable her to mount Tecumseh without help. She’d just done so when the caretaker stuck his head out the door. He expressed his condolences.

Juliana thanked him, then nodded in the direction of the wagons trundling away from them. “I imagine they’d prefer not to have someone meandering about when they’re trying to have a service for their friend.”

“Friend.” The caretaker snorted. “Sorry you had to see that. I told ’em we didn’t want it. This is a resting place for respectable people. But the old woman got it done anyway. Went over my head. I told ’em they had to get it done before Friday. At least they listened to that. Can you imagine Pastor Taylor agreeing to this?” He shook his head. “Bet his deacons have a thing or two to say about that when they find out.”

All the way home, Juliana pondered the strangeness of a world where Sterling Sutton was honored with ceremony and Nell Parker’s friends had to fight for a place to bury her. She wondered if the caretaker was right. Would Pastor Taylor be in trouble for praying over a harlot’s grave? She supposed he might be. People had scolded Jesus Christ Himself for being kind to a harlot.

She wished she hadn’t remembered that. She didn’t want to feel sorry for that woman. Or for Pamelia Lindermann. She didn’t have the strength for anything right now but simmering anger. At least at Sterling and his
P. L.
She would leave compassion and forgiveness to Pastor Taylor. It was, after all, a minister’s job. Which didn’t explain Reverend Burnham, but then who could?

Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth.
1 C
ORINTHIANS
13:7–8

Daily State Democrat
April 15, 1883

A
s angry as Juliana was in the days that followed Sterling’s funeral, she was surprised at how much she missed him. When he was alive, she’d learned to cope with his absences by immersing herself in charity work. She’d filled her days with meetings and, on occasion, a stint at one of the homes throughout the city where the Society for the Friendless housed orphans. She’d served on committees and boards and participated in endless rounds of fund-raising and plans. Keeping busy salved the wound of her troubled marriage. But now that Sterling was truly gone forever, Juliana found that not an hour went by but that she didn’t find herself listening for his footsteps, wishing to hear his voice calling hello, longing to hear him breathing next to her in the night.

She didn’t expect the sense of loss to be such a threat to her peace of mind, but anger could only sustain a woman for so long. At some point she had to face the notion of permanent loss. There would be no opportunity to find each other again. No confrontation. No accusation. No admission. No chance to reconcile. That inescapable reality deepened Juliana’s sense of loss in a way that no one could understand—no one save Martha, who had seen the locket and succeeded in reducing the shadow on the quilt to something only she and Juliana would ever notice.

Sometimes at night, Juliana opened the locket and stared at the faces, wondering how it could be real. One afternoon she walked back and forth, back and forth in the yard, looking for the locket she’d thrown off the upstairs porch. Wherever it had landed, she couldn’t find it. The prairie was green and the grass lush.

Tecumseh saved her sanity. She didn’t have a black riding habit, but Aunt Theodora didn’t make note of it. Apparently, since she knew that Juliana usually ended up at the cemetery, she saw the riding as a wife mourning a beloved husband. Juliana did nothing to dissuade her. In some ways, maybe that’s what she was doing. She rode there every day and dismounted and sat, staring at the grave and trying to understand. More than once she walked up to Nell Parker’s grave, too. At some point she realized she didn’t hate Nell Parker. She felt sorry for her. Whatever circumstances landed a girl in that place, Juliana couldn’t imagine. But one thing was certain. If it weren’t for men like Sterling Sutton, “fallen women” wouldn’t exist. It might not be the kind of reasoning the Ladies’ Aid at First Church would approve, but it helped retain Juliana’s sanity. As did the words to the hymn Pastor Taylor had had them sing at the graveside:

The words were something of a jumble, and Juliana supposed she wasn’t thinking of them in the pious way they were intended. Yet they spoke to her. She was treading a dark maze. She did need help to find her way through the darkness. The hymn talked about sorrow’s tears being wiped away. She was tired of crying.

Jenny
Friday, April 20

She was so tired of coughing. It just wouldn’t let up. Tired of coughing and crying and being afraid. Lonely, too. It hadn’t been so bad when she could spend the days cooking and cleaning the house and getting dressed up for Sterling. She sometimes spent the better part of a day just on her hair. She liked to rinse it in the rainwater from the barrel out back. Sterling never failed to say something about her soft, silky hair.

That’s over now. Forever. You have to face it and decide what you’re going to do.

And she would face it, as soon as she got over this spring ague that kept hounding her. Just when she thought she was over it, she started coughing again. If she didn’t feel better soon, she might see if George Duncan would bring her a bottle of remedy. At least for the cough.

More than anything, she worried about Johnny. He seemed so hungry all the time. But she couldn’t imagine discussing such private matters with any man, let alone one like George Duncan.

Maybe she should just hitch up the pony and head into town on her own. If she didn’t feel better in a few days, she would. Surely Dr. Gilbert would help her. He might even know about a wet nurse if he thought Johnny needed help.

How much did a doctor charge these days?

Margaret and Sadie stepped into the spring sunshine. Margaret pulled the door closed, and together they set off for Ernie Krapp’s saloon.

“I wish you’d just let me write her a note,” Sadie said. “She’s not gonna be happy to hear what we’ve got to say.” She looked over at Margaret. “You’ve never been at the other end of Goldie’s temper. I have.” She shuddered.

“I’m not looking forward to it, either,” Margaret said. “But she deserves more than a note, and it’s been over a week since the fire.”

“I still don’t like the idea of sashaying in there in broad daylight and telling her I’m not coming back.”

They crossed the street and made their way past half-a-dozen houses, each one small, each one well tended. Daffodils bloomed in a row along the front of one, tulips at another. Margaret paused before the one with the pink tulips in bloom. “Tell me right now if you’re going to change your mind. Right now. I mean it.”