Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles]

by Shadow on the Quilt

  © 2012 by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Print ISBN 978-1-61626-444-4

  eBook Editions:

  Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-62029-104-7

  Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-1-62029-105-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: Müllerhaus Publishing Arts, Inc., www.Mullerhaus.net

  Published by Barbour Publishing, Inc., P.O. Box 719, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Save me, O God; for the waters are come in unto my soul.

  I sink in deep mire, where there is no standing:

  I am come into deep waters, where the floods overflow me.

  PSALM 69:1–2

  Lincoln, Nebraska

  April 15, 1883

  Juliana Sutton stood before her husband’s mahogany dresser, staring down at the gold locket. What was it doing nestled in the leather box where Sterling kept his diamond studs? She glanced back at the bedroom door, feeling almost guilty for having found it. He was probably planning to surprise her. Ah, well. She would pretend to be surprised and tease him about how she’d come to find it.

  “It’s not my fault my husband doesn’t pick up after himself,” she would say. “I was sitting at my dressing table, brushing my hair before retiring last night, when something glinted in the lamplight. I glanced over, and there it was: one of your diamond studs languishing against the baseboard. It must have gotten lost when I … when we—” And she would blush as she was blushing now, remembering her part in—things just last night. Her response to Sterling’s hand at her waist when he pulled her close. Her removing one glove before reaching up to rake her fingers through his hair. Her unfettered joy at his kiss.

  She turned the locket over in her hand. He’s had it engraved. She shouldn’t read the inscription, but now that she’d discovered it, she couldn’t help herself. And so, leaving the dresser drawer open, she retreated to her dressing table and held it close to the lamp and—gasped. She sat down.

  To MY P. L.

  S. T. S.

  Her mouth went dry. She didn’t know anyone with the initials P. L. Sterling was Sterling Theodore, S.T.S.

  Maybe it’s an estate piece. He was going to have it reworked for me. Perhaps the initials are a coincidence. She reached up with her free hand to touch the locket that hung around her neck. He knows how I love lockets. She already owned half a dozen, all but one gifts from Sterling.

  She opened the locket and looked down at the portrait of a young woman holding an infant in her arms. But it wasn’t the portrait of the woman that sucked the air out of her lungs. It was the curl of white-blond hair that dropped into her lap. And Sterling’s profile behind the glass on the left.

  God help me. For the first time in her life, Juliana wished she was the kind of woman who fainted away in a crisis. If she could only faint, the pain would stop. At least for a moment, she wouldn’t have to feel as though some evil specter had reached inside her chest to squeeze her heart with a ghostly hand.

  Steady. Breathe. Hold on. She looked at herself in the mirror, willing the glimmering tears away. Be strong. You are no wilting violet. She lifted her chin. Stared into her dark eyes to remind herself. Juliana Regina Masters Sutton was a graduate of Mt. Holyoke Female Seminary. On the board of directors of the Society of the Home for the Friendless. A respected member of First Church. Not a woman to act the role of the wounded martyr.

  She would not wail or accuse. She would … think. Think. This is no time for hysterics. It will only drive him further away. But as the lamp flickered and the moments passed, thinking didn’t really help. Thinking reminded her of all the nights Sterling “worked late.” Thinking reminded her of Aunt Theodora’s protest just this morning.

  “I might have to work late tonight,” Sterling had said as he laid his napkin aside and rose from the breakfast table. “Finney’s having trouble with the ledger. Could be a while. Don’t wait supper.” He’d kissed the top of her head on his way out of the dining room. “And don’t wait up.”

  Juliana hadn’t protested, but Sterling’s Aunt Theodora had not been so accepting. “Successful businessmen need efficient help, dear boy,” she’d called after him. “If that Irishman can’t handle the job, then—”

  Aunt Lydia had interrupted her. “Now, now, Sister. Let’s not suggest poor Christopher Finney should lose his position. The man has five children and a wife to feed.”

  Children. Juliana looked down at the infant, little more than a smudge of sepia swathed in lace. Once again, tears threatened. She and Sterling had longed for children for all of their ten years of married life. She’d seen more than one specialist, even traveled to Philadelphia in search of help. No one gave them hope. Through it all, Sterling had been steadfast. Loving. Everything a husband should be. “We have each other,” he’d said more than once. “That’s all that matters.”

  Juliana closed the locket. She swiped her tears away. She shouldn’t be surprised. Not really. After all, in recent years, a great many things had seemed to matter more to Sterling than she did. More business mattered. More land. More investments. More employees. More buildings. More professional accolades.

  Oh, he’d included Juliana and his two elderly aunts in his life, but now that Juliana thought about it, perhaps they merely served as excuses for his quest for more. More jewelry. More furs. More horses. A grand piano for Aunt Theodora. Generous donations to all of Aunt Lydia’s pet causes. A summer house in Wisconsin so the aunts could escape the Nebraska heat.

  He’d pressed Juliana to go with them last summer. Now she wondered if there’d been a hidden reason for his sudden willingness to have her gone for a month. How old was the child in that woman’s arms?

  She bowed her head and closed her eyes. She’d thought last night meant a new beginning. They’d weathered the storm. They were going to be all right.

  The locket burned into her palm. Opening her eyes, she put it down on the cool marble surface of the dressing table and stared at it. What should she do? She took a deep breath. Then another. Finally, her racing h
eart began to slow. Somehow she managed to force shock and betrayal, hurt and dismay back. In favor of anger. Anger could be useful. Anger would keep her strong until—until she knew what to do.

  Rising, she crossed the room and dropped the locket back into the satin-lined case with the diamond studs. She closed the drawer. Firmly. And began to pace. As she crossed the carpeted room, she reached up to grasp the locket around her own neck. Reaching the closed door, she spun about to head back toward the opposite wall where Sterling’s dresser loomed. She yanked on the chain. Once. Twice. Finally, it gave way.

  Locket in hand, she paced out of the bedroom. Through the sitting room on the upstairs landing. Out onto the upstairs porch and to the ornate railing that graced the Italianate home she had grown to love. She looked toward Lincoln and the warehouse district. Wondered where Sterling was really “working” tonight. And with all her strength, she launched the locket into the night.

  Juliana stayed out on the balcony, pacing back and forth, willing herself not to give in to tears, until she felt that she could retire without wailing and waking the aunts. They both doted on their only nephew, and Juliana had grown to love them. Whatever she decided to do, it must not involve them. Aunt Lydia was sixty-two; her sister, Theodora, seventy. They didn’t deserve heartbreak. Juliana would do what she could to shield them from it. How that would work out, she didn’t know, but she would find a way.

  She headed for the door to the upstairs hall, hesitating for one last glance toward town before going inside. Sterling had taken her for a gullible fool. He would learn that that was a mistake.

  She’d just opened the door when the fire bells sounded in town. Was it her imagination, or could she smell smoke on the spring breeze? She looked west. Tongues of fire lapped up the darkness hovering over what appeared to be the warehouse district. Frowning, Juliana let the door close and stayed outside, returning to the railing to gaze toward the western horizon.

  Moments later, Aunt Theodora came out onto the porch. “We heard the alarm.”

  “It’s a big fire,” Juliana said, nodding toward town.

  “I tried to call Sterling at the office. He didn’t answer.”

  “I didn’t realize you even knew how to use the telephone.”

  “Just because I didn’t want the dear boy installing one in my private sitting room doesn’t mean I have remained willfully ignorant. Although it obviously doesn’t solve all the problems in the land, now does it. In this case it doesn’t solve a thing. Sterling didn’t answer. We are still left to worry.”

  Juliana looked behind her at Aunt Theodora, her profile illuminated by the amber light spilling out of the house. Tall, slim, and somehow managing to look regal even though she must have hurried to dress.

  “Lydia went to rouse Alfred,” Theodora said. “He’s hitching up the buggy. I knew you would want to check on Sterling, but you must not go alone. I shall ride with you while Lydia stays here. If anyone calls or brings word while we’re away, she’ll send Alfred with the news.” She motioned for Juliana to come inside. “It is fortunate that you haven’t changed yet this evening.”

  Aunt Theodora was a force to be reckoned with. There would be no way to keep her at home. The best Juliana could do was to drive the buggy into town and hope that Sterling would have a good story waiting in the morning. Perhaps he really was at the office. Perhaps he was merely … distracted. The mental image that created made her shiver as she swept through the doorway and went inside.

  “Everything will be all right, dear,” Aunt Theodora said. “We’ll probably know it’s another building before we’re halfway there. And Sterling will have called before we get back—or perhaps he’ll be home by then.” She led the way downstairs, all the while muttering against “that Irishman in the office” whose incompetence forced Sterling to work such long hours untangling his mistakes.

  When the older woman hurried into the kitchen, Juliana hung back. She didn’t want to go chasing after Sterling. Not tonight. Not with the image of another woman and her child taunting her. She blinked back tears. God, help me. I don’t know what to do.

  A glimmer of strength returned. Aunt Theodora came to the kitchen door and called out that the buggy was waiting. Juliana headed for the kitchen where Aunt Lydia stood, her gray hair tumbling down her back, her hands clasped as she nodded at whatever Aunt Theodora was saying.

  “All right, Sister.” There was a slight edge to her voice. “I think I can be trusted to stay awake and send Alfred with word if Sterling—or anyone else—turns up with news. It’s not like you’ve asked me to translate a passage of Greek poetry.”

  “You were never good with the Greeks,” Aunt Theodora snapped, then glanced at Juliana. “Ah. Here you are.” She led the way outside.

  Aunt Lydia reached for Juliana. Taking both her hands, she gave them a squeeze. “Prayers ascending, my dear.”

  Juliana kissed the old woman on the cheek. Once outside, she thanked Alfred for being so quick about hitching up the buggy, then climbed aboard and took up the reins. As Fancy moved seamlessly into a trot and headed up the road toward the warehouse district, Juliana peered at the flickering light in the distance.

  What kind of woman saw something like that and almost hoped it was her husband’s business feeding the flames? She couldn’t help it. If the business burned, if they had to start over, maybe Sterling would come back to her. Maybe they could start over as lovers, too.

  And if not, maybe she’d strangle him with the gold chain attached to that confounded locket in his dresser drawer.

  Awakened by the fire bell, Cass Gregory had been content to throw up the sash and watch as a team of Belgians charged past with the new Silsby engine in tow. The hose team raced after it, half-a-dozen men pulling the two-wheeled cart bearing a giant spool of fire hose. But then Cass heard someone shout, “It’s Goldie’s!”

  Tonight, the childhood lessons in fast dressing taught by the painful end of his stepfather’s buggy whip served Cass well. In no time, he was bounding down the stairs of his rooming house. Once outside, he tore off up the street, dodging the merely curious and coming to an abrupt, skidding stop when he rounded the corner and saw that it was, indeed, a fire at Goldie’s lighting up the night sky.

  For a moment, it felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him and stopped time itself. The building would be a complete loss. There was no doubt of that. Cass scanned the crowd. He looked up at the flames leaping from the second story toward the back alley. Was Sadie’s room in that part of the place? He didn’t know. Hadn’t wanted to know. Ma’s was just off the kitchen. Had the fire started there? God in heaven. Please. Not this. Not this.

  The hose team went to work attaching the fire hose to the water tank. As the men began to work the pump, a stream of water fought the crackling flames. A shout went up from the crowd as a soot-streaked figure stumbled out the front door.

  Cass shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the curses spewed at him. Before he could get close enough, the girl collapsed into the arms of a fireman. He carried her to a waiting wagon and laid her—none too gently, Cass thought—in the wagon bed. Cass recognized Dr. Gilbert as the doc bent over her. Blond hair. It wasn’t Sadie. He turned his attention back to the burning building, his heart hammering in his chest, his fists clenched at his side.

  Inhaling the acrid scent of the fire, he coughed. Again, he scanned the crowd. The curious onlookers’ faces shone red and yellow, reflecting the flames. Someone just behind him muttered that the demise of Goldie’s wasn’t exactly a terrible loss for the community. Cass nearly punched the man. In the wake of lives possibly lost in the most horrible way a person could die, he thought a little common grace might be extended. He didn’t say it, though. He just stood watching, his emotions a mixture of panic, rage, and grief. God in heaven. Please.

  He’d just raked the back of his hand across his face to scrub away tears when someone tugged on his shirtsleeve and called his name. One look and he engulfed the older woman in his arms
. “Ma! Thank the Lord! I thought—” A sob swallowed the rest of what he was going to say. Without opening his eyes, he whispered Sadie’s name as a question.

  “I’m here, silly.”

  He opened his eyes. She stood wrapped in a flamboyant blue silk robe, her Titian red hair half pinned up, half tumbling down her back, her vibrant blue eyes as defiant as ever, a smirk uplifting one corner of her mouth.

  She held the silk robe closed and nudged him with one shoulder. “You don’t think I’d be stupid enough to die in a fire? I was out before the alarm rang. In fact,” she said, “I’m the one who raised the alarm.” She looked up at the building and shuddered. “I’ve been telling Goldie to forbid smoking upstairs ever since she opened. Would she listen?” She shook her head. “She’ll regret it now.”

  “If she lives to regret anything,” Cass muttered.

  “Aren’t you the dramatic one?” Sadie nodded toward the saloon across the way.

  “Ernie Krapp might be blackhearted, but he took us in when we ran for cover.”

  Cass followed her gaze to where Goldie stood in the saloon doorway, smoking a cigarette and watching her building burn. Her stoic expression revealed nothing of what she must be feeling. He turned back to Sadie. “Everyone’s all right then? Everyone got out?”

  Sadie shrugged. “I didn’t exactly wait at the front door and check names off a list.”

  It wasn’t until Sadie shivered that Cass wished he’d taken time to grab his jacket on his way out the door. Suddenly, he was aware of the men in the crowd leering at Sadie, the outlines of her body all too apparent beneath the thin silk. A male voice sounded from behind them.

  “S–Simone? Is that you? Oh, thank God!”

  The speaker was at least an inch shorter than Sadie—Cass could not make himself think of his own sister by the name she’d taken for herself. Wiry blond curls framed the stranger’s round face. Dark eyes glimmered behind spectacles. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it across her shoulders. Then he spoke to Cass. “You must be the brother.” He thrust out his hand and introduced himself. “Ludwig Meyer.”