Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (7 page)

“I suppose she’s upset with me about that.”

Martha shook her head. “Just surprised. You know Miss Theodora. She does like to abide by the rules.”

I’ve lived by the rules, too. It doesn’t seem to have done me much good.
“I don’t want to hurt her, but—I can’t. Not here.” Martha looked up, still holding a braid in her hand. Their eyes met. “You know how things were between Sterling and me these past few months.” Martha barely moved, but the slight nod was enough.

“There’s something I—I need you to see.” Juliana got up and retrieved the locket and handed it to Martha. “Open it.”

Martha gasped. “Lord, have mercy.”

Juliana’s eyes burned with still more tears. She sniffed. “I want to protect the aunts, and heaven knows I don’t want to cause still more gossip. But a wake in my parlor? No.” She reached for another handkerchief. Somehow, she managed to choke out the story of how she’d found the locket. And when.

“Dear child.” Martha closed the locket and put it back before returning to braiding Juliana’s hair. Finally, she said, “I know it’s hard for you to believe right now, but in time you’ll be able to remember the good, too.” She reached for a hairpin and tucked it into place.

“I—am—so—angry.” The words came out in measured bursts.

“Nothing wrong with a little righteous anger. Seems to me you have a right to it.”

“You should have seen Francis Burnham looking over this house. For a moment I thought she might ask for a tour.” Juliana shook her head. “I will
not
have people like her using Sterling’s death as an excuse to see my home.”

Martha nodded. “I know you feel like you’re standing in front of a big, yawning hole, just about to fall in. But that’s not going to happen. You’re going to be fine. You’re a strong woman.”

Juliana closed her eyes. “I don’t feel strong.”

“And still, having just learned what you learned, having lost the chance to do a thing about it—you’re headed to the funeral parlor to make plans. You are protecting the aunts. You are doing your duty by a man who didn’t do his. Lots of women would just call for the doctor and go to bed.”

“Last night when I found that locket, I wished I could be the kind of woman who faints in a crisis,” Juliana said. “But I’m not.”

“That’s what I mean. Strong.”

“Yet I fled the room earlier today and left Sterling’s aunts to deal with the Burnhams.”

“To hear Miss Lydia tell it, they were happy to do so.”

“Perhaps, but it wasn’t really fair.”

“Could be they liked you trusting them. Could be that was a comfort to them. Knowing that even though they’re
Mr.
Sutton’s blood, they have a strong bond with you, too.”

Juliana forced a smile. “I can’t imagine life without the aunts.”

Martha nodded. “That’s good. You all need each other right now.” She handed Juliana a hand mirror so that she could check her hair.

Juliana waved it away. “I’m sure it’s fine.” Taking a deep breath, she rose and followed Martha toward the upstairs hall. At the door, she reached for Martha’s hand. “Thank you.” She glanced back toward Sterling’s dresser. “I think it helps, having someone know.”

Martha headed on down the back stairs to the kitchen. Juliana lingered on the upstairs landing for a moment, trying to collect her thoughts. Meeting with Mr. Lindermann about the funeral was only the beginning. Beyond deciding about the new house, she would need to speak with Mr. Duncan at the bank. And Mr. Graham, Sterling’s attorney. Her throat constricted. Did Sterling have a will? Surely he wouldn’t leave her unprotected. Would he?

She thought of the woman and the child in the photograph.
To my P. L.
Whoever it was, would she even know that Sterling was gone? If she wasn’t in Lincoln—if she lived somewhere far away—she would think Sterling had abandoned her.

Maybe the two of them weren’t all that different.

Jenny
Monday, April 16

Footsteps on the porch.

Her eyes flew open. From beneath the pile of blankets, Jenny listened. It wasn’t the right day, was it? She thought hard. No. It was Monday. He never came on Monday.

Someone knocked on the door. She wasn’t supposed to answer the door when strangers came knocking. Which was fine with her, anyway. It wouldn’t be long before they were moving away. They’d have a nice house and a new life where Johnny would be accepted as the son of a rich man. Soon, the loneliness and this farmhouse would be a bad memory. If only she could hold on. She hunkered beneath the blankets and waited for them to leave.

“Jenny. It’s George Duncan.” He pounded on the door. “Open up. We need to talk.”

Maybe this was it. Maybe the plan had come together. And her looking such a mess. “Just a minute. I’ll be there in a minute.” When she stood up, she felt dizzy. And chilled. She hurried to the bedroom and pulled on a wrapper. No time for anything else. No time to do her hair, either. What would that matter, anyway? It was only George Duncan.

She crossed the hall and checked in on the sleeping baby. Such a beautiful boy. The white-blond hair was beginning to darken. He was going to be a handsome boy. George knocked again. Buttoning her robe, Jenny went to the window and peered out before opening the door.

Mr. Duncan glanced behind him like a robber making sure there were no witnesses. Finally, he stepped inside and pulled the door closed. Jenny backed away from him, frowning. George Duncan had never been particularly nice to her. Oh, he’d been polite. He had to. Sterling would never have put up with anything less. But the manners were exaggerated just enough that Jenny knew what he really thought. Today, he wasn’t hiding his dislike for her. His disdain.

She was tired of pretending. Tired of waiting, too. On everything. Johnny was six months old. He’d started to recognize his daddy and smile at him, and it was time Sterling made good on his promises.

“I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“What kind of bad news?” She swallowed. If Sterling was going to go back on his promises, he would find out something new about her. She was not going to go away quietly. She’d given him a son. This wasn’t just a little fun under a moonlit sky anymore. There was a life at stake. An important one.

Mr. Duncan pointed at the sofa. “You should probably sit down.”

Jenny sat. She’d taken another chill. Perspiration broke out on her forehead. She suppressed a cough.

“Don’t tell me you’re sick.”

“Don’t you worry about me,” Jenny said. “Just tell me what you came to say.”

“Sterling’s dead.”

“Wh–what?” She felt woozy. She couldn’t have heard that right.

“You heard me. Sterling’s dead.”

“But—how? Why?” Fear clawed at her.

“There was a fire. He went in to save—” Mr. Duncan broke off. “That’s the official version. The fire was at Goldie’s. He didn’t make it out.”

Jenny blinked. “But Goldie’s is a …” She wiped her brow with a trembling hand. “No. He would never—” She began to cry. “We were going away. We were going to start a new life together. You know that. He … he was going to—” Sobs smothered the words.

Johnny began to wail. The cries carried down the hall. Jenny got up and went to him. Pulled him close and carried him back into the parlor.

Mr. Duncan avoided looking at the baby.

“Wh–what’s to happen to us?” She could barely speak. How could Sterling be gone?

“You won’t be named in the will, if that’s what you’re wondering. You need to be thinking about what you’re going to do.” He frowned. “You might think about contacting your uncle.”

“He doesn’t care about me. He sent me packing as soon as he found out. If it hadn’t been for Sterling, I’d have been out on the street.” A cold chill crawled up her spine. She shivered and pulled Johnny closer. He’d fallen back to sleep as soon as he was in her arms. She looked down at the precious round face, the silky eyelashes, the pink cheeks.

“If it hadn’t been for Sterling,” Mr. Duncan said, “you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“He loved me.”

“Fine. Have it your way. He loved you. But that’s not going to do you any good now, is it?” Duncan took a deep breath. “I’ll see what I can do. You think about what you want to do. Where you want to go. I’ll make discreet inquiries. I’ll get back out here as soon as I can. Do you need supplies?”

Jenny shook her head. She’d been feeling poorly for a few days, but it was nothing to worry about. She’d always been the picture of health. And now she had to be. For Johnny. She stroked the sleeping baby’s cheek. “We’ll be fine.”

“All right, then.” Mr. Duncan turned to go. “I guess I should say I’m sorry for your loss. I am sorry for”—he gestured around them—”all this.” He looked at the baby. Shook his head. And he was gone.

Margaret had just scrambled three eggs and toasted a piece of bread for her lunch when Mr. Meyer stumbled in the back door carrying a stack of boxes so tall it was a wonder he could see to walk.

“Good afternoon,” he huffed as he plopped the boxes on the table. “I hope that you slept well.”

“I did,” Margaret said, then answered Meyer’s unspoken question. “Sadie’s still asleep.”

Meyer nodded. He laid an open hand atop the stack of boxes. “I have brought things for you both. Dresses. Bonnets. Shoes. And—” He blushed as he tapped the bottom box. “Other things.”

Margaret smiled at the man’s inability to say the word
unmentionables.

He motioned to Margaret’s plate. “But please. Don’t let me interrupt your lunch.” He sat down abruptly. “May I speak with you while you eat?” He blushed as he glanced over his shoulder at the room where Sadie lay sleeping.

“Of course. What is it?”

“I wish to ask for Sadie’s hand in marriage. And I will also ask Mr. Gregory’s permission this evening. I should. Is that correct? It seemed correct, but yet—” He stopped. Reached up to adjust his spectacles. “Please forgive me. I am nervous and ignorant of the custom here. Perhaps this is not the correct way to do this?”

Margaret stared at him. “You truly want to
marry
Sadie.” It wasn’t so much a question as an amazed statement. It wasn’t unheard of for men to blather about such things at Goldie’s. But no one ever took them seriously.

Meyer fidgeted. “It is not often that we Germans speak of what we feel,” he said. “But ever since that first night—when she was so kind—and ever since—She is so beautiful.” He nodded. “Yes. If she will have me, I want to marry.” His expression changed. “Do you think she will have me?”

“I don’t have any idea.” Margaret had given up understanding Sadie a long time ago. It was impossible to read the girl’s mind and doubtful she would trust a man enough to marry him. She didn’t trust her own brother, even though he’d proven himself over and over in recent years. Margaret swallowed. “It’s difficult for Sadie to trust,” she said. “Life hasn’t been easy.”

“For either of you.”

Meyer’s expression was so kind. Could God be answering her prayers for Sadie after all this time? “You are correct, Mr. Meyer, that in most circles in America, it is the custom that a man asks permission of the father before proposing marriage to his daughter.”

Mr. Meyer nodded. “And Mr. Gregory is gone, as is Mr. Nash, Sadie’s stepfather. May God rest their souls. Which is why I ask you.”

Margaret smiled at him. “Neither my opinion nor her brother’s will matter to Sadie.”

“That may be true,” Mr. Meyer said, “but it matters to me.”

Tears sprang to Margaret’s eyes. What a generous soul. He treated her as if she were just a mother with a daughter of marriageable age. An honorable woman. She blinked and looked away.

“I’ve upset you,” Meyer said. “I am so sorry.”

Margaret shook her head. “You haven’t upset me. You’ve amazed me.” She paused. “I haven’t been respected in a very long time by anyone other than my son.”

Meyer shrugged. “We are all the same in God’s eyes, yes?”

“If you really believe that,” Margaret said, “you are a rare man.”

Meyer blushed. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“If Sadie will have you,” Margaret said, “I will be tempted to believe that God answers prayers—even for people like me.”

Surely every man walketh in a vain shew … he heapeth up riches, and knoweth not who shall gather them.
P
SALM
39:6