Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles]

by Shadow on the Quilt

  Cass frowned. “Who’d want an unfinished house?”

  Duncan looked out the window for a moment. Finally, he said, “Mrs. Duncan relishes the idea of a home on the outskirts of the city.” He sat back. “And the property boasts mature trees—a rare thing in our part of the country. However, not all of my assets are as liquid as I would like. I need a little time. A few weeks. Perhaps two months.”

  Cass’s mind raced. Duncan wanted him to delay Mrs. Sutton’s house to give him time to gather enough money to buy it—at a reduced rate because it wouldn’t be finished. “But it won’t be finished until late November, anyway.”

  Duncan pressed the point. “Every bit of progress adds to the value.” He shrugged. “I recall Sterling talking about imported hardwoods for the upstairs bedrooms. ‘A showcase of exotica,’ he once said. And marble for the entryway floor. Once those things are installed—” He broke off. Cleared his throat. “See it as an opportunity. A new property owner would likely offer a bonus to the foreman who showed the right amount of enthusiasm for realizing his vision.”

  Cass took a renewed interest in breakfast, washing down a mouthful of flapjacks with coffee while he tried to think things through. What a snake, offering a bribe and coloring it as concern for Mrs. Sutton and opportunity for Cass. He forced a smile. “I expect Mrs. Sutton will be grateful to hear of your interest in the property and to know that she has options.” Duncan’s expression soured. “Of course you’ll want to give her the news yourself, you being a trusted friend and all. In the meantime, the best way I know to prove myself worthy of the boss’s trust is to keep things on schedule. Until I hear from Mrs. Sutton.”

  “She never wanted that house,” Duncan snapped. “Mrs. Duncan is certain of it. And the truth is, Juliana could give both her houses away and hardly notice the loss—beyond the need to move. No one is proposing anything that will harm her financially. She has just become a very wealthy woman.”

  Cass wiped his mouth with his napkin and laid it alongside his plate. “Well, then. That answers the question for my crew—which is why I wanted to talk to you this morning. There won’t be a problem making payroll. They’ll be really glad to hear it. So am I. We all need the work.”

  Duncan snatched his napkin off his lap and plopped it atop his plate. “Your loyalty is admirable.” His tone made admirable sound more like a curse than a compliment.

  Cass ignored the tone. “Thank you.” Duncan rose and hurried off—without shaking hands. Cass finished his flapjacks. His appetite had returned. Apparently, loyalty agreed with him.

  CHAPTER 4

  Miserable comforters are ye all.

  JOB 16:2

  Juliana didn’t wait for Reverend Burnham to make his way up the path from the drive. Instead, she followed Marshal Hastings out the front door and onto the porch to greet him, even more dismayed when she saw that he’d brought his wife along. She’d never really cared for the Burnhams, but Sterling had been adamant: “Where a man goes to church is just as important as where he banks. All the right people fill the pews of that church every Sunday morning, and we will be among them.”

  At sight of Juliana standing on the porch, Mrs. Burnham launched herself up the gravel path ahead of her husband and, once on the porch, engulfed Juliana in a hug that nearly squeezed every bit of air out of her lungs.

  “You poor, poor dear,” Mrs. Burnham clucked, then turned her attention to Lydia and Theodora lingering just inside the open front door. “You poor dears.” She snapped at her husband to “take Mrs. Sutton’s arm” and led the way inside.

  Juliana and Reverend Burnham followed, just in time to see Mrs. Burnham hesitate at the door to the formal parlor.

  “We’ll be in the library,” Aunt Lydia said. “We’ve been using the parlor to finish our fund-raising quilt in time for the bazaar in June.”

  “Bazaar?”

  “St. John’s is hosting one to benefit the Society of the Home for the Friendless.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Burnham remained in the doorway to the parlor, peering into the room. “You must let me invite my circle to join you one day. They’d love to help.” She sighed. “What an exquisite room.”

  “Francis!” The reverend’s tone was firm. Almost scolding. When Mrs. Burnham whirled about, he handed her his hat and gloves. She placed them on the hall tree and then removed her own mantle, bonnet, and gloves.

  Juliana watched with dismay. Were they planning a long visit? Anger could only fuel a person for so long. She was beginning to feel weary. She led the way into the library. This time, she sat down right away. When she shivered, Lydia pulled the paisley scarf off the Steinway in the corner and draped it about her shoulders.

  The aunts exchanged glances. “I believe tea is in order,” Aunt Lydia said. “If you’ll excuse me, Alfred and Martha have Mondays off. I’ll just be a few moments.”

  “You must let me help,” Mrs. Burnham said and followed Aunt Lydia out of the room.

  Reverend Burnham selected the most substantial chair in the room. As he lowered his bulk into it, the chair creaked. He cleared his throat and opened his Bible, into which he had inserted a few sheets of blank paper. Lifting the sheets of paper away, he said, “Before we address the grievous but necessary details, I should like to offer a few words of comfort.”

  Juliana didn’t particularly want to be comforted at the moment. She did, however, have a strong urge to march upstairs and empty the rest of Sterling’s drawers. Into the pit behind the carriage house where Alfred burned the household trash. She said nothing.

  Aunt Theodora thanked the reverend for his thoughtfulness.

  He waited a moment, obviously hoping that the other ladies would return from the kitchen, but when they did not, he cleared his throat and began to recite the Twenty-third Psalm. After reaching the end of the psalm, he continued on to other less familiar—at least to Juliana—scriptures until, at last, he concluded with, “‘The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’”

  He closed his Bible and, balancing it on one knee, put the blank sheets of paper atop it. “It is my hope that you will find comfort in your faith and in the knowledge that your loved one is with God. Now. Shall we designate Thursday morning for the service?”

  The abrupt segue caught Juliana off guard. Aunt Theodora was looking down at her hands, a slight frown on her face, her left thumb making small circles on the surface of the large garnet set into a ring Sterling had given her years ago.

  Did Nell Parker have a garnet ring? A locket?

  The other ladies finally returned with the tea tray. While Aunt Lydia poured tea, Mrs. Burnham popped one of the pastries Aunt Lydia had put on a small plate into her mouth. After eyeing the available chairs doubtfully, she pulled out the piano bench and sat down. When she leaned in to take tea, a crumb that had dropped on her bosom fell to the floor.

  “We are simply devastated by your loss,” she said. “It’s always been a joy to see such a handsome couple occupying the same pew every Sabbath.” She gazed over at Juliana. “Herbert and I were just saying last month how fortunate we are to have a future governor as a member of our congregation.” She sighed. “Governor Sutton. A bright star has been extinguished.”

  While Mrs. Burnham waxed poetic, Juliana’s mind wandered. She ran her finger along the rim of her teacup, thinking back to the day all those years ago when Mama opened the barrel of dishes Papa had ordered from England to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary. Somewhere in his professorial mind, Papa had remembered Mama admiring Spode’s “Greek” in a store window, when it was actually Staffordshire’s “Palestine” Mama loved so. Papa was mortified when he realized his mistake, but Mama laughed, and for the rest of their married lives, Mama and Papa enjoyed “afternoon tea with the Greeks.”

  Why did remembering how much her parents had enjoyed afternoon tea make her want to cry?

  Silence called Juliana back to the present. Everyone was staring at her, clearly waiting for her to say somethin
g. She couldn’t think what.

  Aunt Lydia spoke up. “The reverend has asked if Thursday morning would be all right for the service, dear.”

  Mrs. Burnham chimed in. “And the Ladies’ Aid will serve a nice lunch at the church after the graveside service.” Her eyes wandered toward the formal parlor again. “Unless you’d prefer to have luncheon here.”

  A nice lunch. Juliana blinked. Nice. What an odd thing to say. “I don’t … know.” She looked to the aunts. “We haven’t had a chance to talk about it.”

  Reverend Burnham cleared his throat. “Of course. We do understand. The entire city has had a shock.” He tapped the still-blank paper on his knee with the pencil. “The difficulty is that there’s to be a conference at First Church the latter part of the week. The session planned it more than a year ago, and the first gathering is to be Thursday afternoon. So you see, if your service could be Thursday morning …”

  Mrs. Burnham chimed in. “What Herbert means to say is that of course our parishioners come first. But Thursday morning would be best for all concerned. If you don’t mind.”

  Aunt Theodora spoke up. “We mind very much.”

  The reverend and his wife looked her way with surprise.

  “We mind being hurried to decide something because it is convenient for you.” Her voice wavered. “We cannot possibly be expected to answer such questions barely an hour after we’ve learned that our dear boy is—” Her voice wavered. She turned to her sister. Shook her head.

  “It is most unfortunate,” the reverend said.

  Juliana wondered what the man meant. Unfortunate? Was he referring to Sterling’s death or the fact that his personal schedule was being inconvenienced? She glanced at Mrs. Burnham and noticed two things. There was another bit of tea cake on her expansive bosom. And she was discreetly checking for the maker’s mark on the bottom of her saucer.

  Anger flared again. At Reverend Burnham for caring more about his schedule than his parishioners. At Sterling for caring more that they attend “the right church” than that their souls be fed. At Mrs. Burnham for behaving like she was on a social call. At herself. At life. “I am afraid,” she said, as she shrugged out of the shawl, “that you are going to have to excuse me.” She held her hand up to stay Aunt Lydia, who was already coming to her side. She paused in the doorway and, turning around, said to Mrs. Burnham, “Spode. ‘Greek’.”

  And she fled the room.

  Tears began to flow as Juliana ascended the stairs. She walked past her own bedroom door to stand at the doorway and look north. How she’d hated the prairie when they first moved here for Papa to be professor of classics at the fledgling University of Nebraska. For weeks after their arrival, Juliana had longed for the wooded vistas of home and the splendor of Lake Michigan. She’d been miserable. And then she met Sterling Sutton at a literary society meeting.

  Mama had liked him right away and invited him to supper. After an evening spent learning how Sterling’s original plan to make a fortune in the salt business wasn’t panning out and how he planned to make up for it, Papa had liked him, too. “That’s a young man who will make something of himself,” he’d said.

  And Sterling did, working dawn to dusk, investing every dime he made, buying and building and selling and buying again, even as he swept Juliana up in a whirlwind of romance that left her breathless.

  Breathless. She felt that way again. Only this time, it wasn’t passion making her catch her breath. Turning her back on the prairie, she went into the bedroom to retrieve a clean handkerchief, then went back out to the upstairs sitting area and sank into one of the chairs. As tears flowed, she tried to remember just when their trouble had started.

  They’d grown apart. Never fighting, never obviously unhappy, yet—she hadn’t been able to give him children. That had to be the reason. Her failure had driven him away. But if that was the reason, why the other night? She thought of the locket. Had guilt fueled his passion?

  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She would never know.

  Voices sounded below. The Burnhams were leaving. Finally. Juliana sat listening to their murmured platitudes. Mrs. Burnham telling Aunt Theodora to be certain to let her know if there was anything the Ladies’ Aid could do. Reverend Burnham expressing a desire to “make everything work out for all concerned.” The door closing. The carriage leaving. The silence descending.

  Juliana rose and went to the banister, calling softly, “I’m going to lie down for just a little while.”

  “Take all the time you need, dear,” Aunt Lydia said.

  Aunt Theodora agreed. “It will do us all good to have a little rest. We’ll talk later.”

  Stifling a sob, Juliana headed into the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, her eyes closed, more tears streaming down her cheeks. Bombarded by memory, heartbroken by doubt, haunted by the photograph in the locket, she slid to the floor. At some point she crept into bed, where she could muffle her wails with a pillow. Sterling’s pillow, scented by the pomade he had specially mixed at an old-time apothecary not all that far from Goldie’s.

  Goldie’s. Would it haunt her for the rest of her days?

  In the dream, fire ate up the ground as it flowed toward the buggy. Juliana lost control of Fancy. Terrified by the scent of the fire, the mare bolted, charging into the boisterous crowd gathered near the building. But this wasn’t the usual curious crowd. This group was dancing. Drinking. Celebrating. Cheering the flames.

  Then Sterling charged out of the building. But he wasn’t alone. Several women followed him, each one dressed in a gown Juliana recognized. The pale green silk she’d worn to the governor’s for dinner last fall. The dark blue velvet made for the Christmas ball. The shimmering gold gown she’d worn on her wedding day. And then … the last woman … in a simple calico frock … with a baby in her arms. A boy. Juliana didn’t know how she knew that, but she knew. It was a boy.

  The scene changed, and she was standing on the front porch here at home. As she watched, Sterling brought the other woman up the path to the house. The front door was flung open from the inside, and Aunts Lydia and Theodora came out, exclaiming over the baby. They all went inside, but when Juliana tried to follow, Sterling closed the door in her face. She began to weep.

  I need to wake up. It isn’t real.

  Slowly, she clawed her way out of the dreamworld and back to consciousness. Her pillow was damp with the tears she’d shed. Then she remembered something new from last night. Something she hadn’t consciously thought about.

  Last night at the lumberyard, she and Aunt Theodora hadn’t even bothered to get down from the buggy. It was obvious no one was there. Juliana had negotiated a tight turn and headed the buggy back the way they’d come. They were just crossing the street when a loud crash from the scene of the fire was followed by a shower of sparks and smoke. When the wind blew the smoke their way, Fancy nearly bolted.

  In the struggle to keep control, Juliana had barely caught a glimpse of the fire itself. But she’d recognized Sterling’s foreman, his arm about a red-haired girl wearing—something that meant she “worked” at Goldie’s.

  Juliana opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling. What was Sterling’s most trusted employee doing with his arm around that girl? Did he know of his employer’s private life? If so, he must think Juliana a complete fool. The idea that at some point she was going to have to speak to Cass Gregory about the half-finished house filled her with dread. How could she face him, knowing what he must think of her?

  That infernal house. She’d never wanted it, but Sterling had insisted. He would run for the governor’s seat one day, and the house would make everyone sit up and take notice. Two and a half stories of brick and stone. Ten fireplaces. Half-a-dozen porches and a two-story turret to the right of the front entrance. A ballroom on the top floor. A slate roof and a plan to panel each of the upstairs rooms in hardwood from a different country. What would she do with it now? What of the entire business? What would becom
e of Sutton Builders?

  What’s to become of us all?

  She closed her eyes again and wished for sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  Let the wicked fall into their own nets, whilst that I withal escape.

  PSALM 141:10

  Juliana woke to the sound of Theodora playing the piano. She lay quietly for a moment, listening to the beautiful music. And then she noticed the minor key and the ponderous tempo, and she remembered. Sterling. The sun might be shining, but everything was different. As Theodora played on, the weight of her grief seemed to ascend to the second floor and slide beneath Juliana’s bedroom door, wrapping her in a thick cloud of sadness.

  Slipping out of bed, she began to dress, all the while listening to—Chopin, she thought. Music meant a lot to Theodora. She played beautifully. So beautifully, in fact, that the ladies on the society committee had once tried to cajole her into playing a benefit concert for the Home for the Friendless.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Aunt Theodora had said. “I shall do nothing of the kind.”

  “But it’s for a good cause,” Aunt Lydia had ventured.

  Aunt Theodora had glowered at her sister. “There is no cause worthy of a lady being dragged up on stage and displayed as if she were a—commodity.”

  No one had ever suggested Miss Theodora Sutton’s gift be used to raise funds again. Even for a good cause.

  Juliana had protested when Sterling first ordered the piano. She hadn’t known his aunt played at all. She thought it just one more way for Sterling to be conspicuous about his success. But when Juliana first heard the older woman play, when she saw Aunt Theodora’s face as she caressed the ebony finish and touched the ivory keys, she realized that the piano wasn’t just about showing off. It was about Sterling’s love for his elderly aunt. And now, thanks to that, she would have her music as she grieved his death.