Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles]

by Shadow on the Quilt

  “I’ll be all right. It’s done.” Juliana nodded toward the quilt. “If there’s a way to get rid of the shadow of that name, I’d appreciate your doing it. You’ll see what I mean if you take a look.”

  And then she went upstairs to change.

  “Hello, old man.” Juliana reached up to tug on Tecumseh’s forelock. The horse nuzzled her arm. “I know. I’ve neglected you. But I’m here now.” She slipped a hackamore over his head and led him out of the small pasture and into the barn. Hitching him to one of the iron rings placed at intervals along the row of stalls, she went to work brushing him down, happy for the diversion, trying to forget the name on the quilt and knowing that she never would.

  Glancing at the other horses who’d thrust their heads across their stall doors and were looking her way, Juliana spoke to Tecumseh. “You wouldn’t go off with some other woman, now would you?”

  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?

  CHAPTER 8

  Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth.

  1 CORINTHIANS 13:7–8

  Daily State Democrat

  April 15, 1883

  Mr. Sterling Sutton, 42, died unexpectedly in a heroic effort to save the life of an unfortunate soul caught in the wicked embrace of a fire that completely destroyed a building in the western part of the city.

  Mr. Sutton was born in Cook County, Illinois, February 17, 1841. He came to Nebraska about thirteen years ago, intent on getting in on the ground floor of the salt business once touted as a promising industry of the fledgling state. Together with his widowed father, Mr. Sutton helped a friend haul an engine and a pump and several railroad cars full of lumber for vats to evaporate brine from Nebraska City, the end of the railroad at that time, to Lincoln. When the promise of the salt business did not meet with expectations, Mr. Sutton stayed on and was eventually rewarded by those habits of self-reliance and industry that made him just such a man as this country most needs—active, energetic, self-reliant and of uncompromising integrity.

  Perhaps no man in this community has done more to build our city than Sterling Sutton. The fruits of his labor are to be seen in the numerous buildings which dot our fair city in every direction, enduring monuments of his industry and skill. He has left his “footprints on the sands of time.” When the demon of war broke loose, he stood firm and loyal by the old flag, serving with honor as part of Company D, 12th Regiment from Cook County, Illinois.

  Mr. Sterling united with the First Church of Lincoln at the age of 30 and was an honored member at the time of his death. He was united in holy matrimony with Miss Juliana Masters in 1873, who mourns his loss along with his aunts, Theodora Humana Sutton and Lydia Johanna Sutton, and a large circle of friends.

  The funeral services were held on Thursday afternoon, April 19, the Reverend Mr. Herbert Burnham preaching from Job, the fourteenth chapter. Many were unable to gain admission to the service, which was held at St. John’s. A large crowd, among them an honor guard from the various lodges in the city and a second guard consisting of the loyal employees of Sutton Builders, formed a long procession which made its way on foot to Wyuka Cemetery, where Mr. Sutton’s earthly remains were laid to rest with all the dignity due a man of his stature in the community. The Reverend James Taylor offered a prayer at the graveside and led the company in a closing hymn, which created a most fitting opportunity for friends to bid the deceased farewell.

  As 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 endl
ess 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:

  While life’s dark maze I tread,

  And griefs around me spread,

  Be Thou my Guide;

  Bid darkness turn to day,

  Wipe sorrow’s tears away

  Blest Savior …

  Fear and distrust remove….

  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.”

  Sadie rolled her eyes. “Ma. I’m not gonna change my mind. It’s just … a big change, is all. I know you’ve hated every minute of it for—”

  “Seven years. Since that day I got well enough to realize what you’d done.” Margaret shook her head. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “For what? Sticking with me when I was too bullheaded to listen?” Sadie shook her head. “You were sick. We were gonna end up out on the street. I did what had to be done. And then I just kept at it—I don’t know why. But I’m finished with it now.” Sadie took her mother’s hand and smiled. “Who would have thought a bespectacled German would come along and win Simone LaBelle’s heart?”

  “Has he? Has Mr. Meyer won your heart?”

  Sadie didn’t answer the question. “I still have trouble believing he wants a future with me.”

  “Sadie.” Margaret chucked her daughter beneath the chin. “Look at me. Ludwig Meyer does not deserve to have his heart broken.”

  Sadie pulled away and strode on up the street, with Margaret hurrying to keep up. “Don’t you think I know that? I’ve got no plans to break his heart. It’s just—this is all so new.” She pointed back at the little house. “I don’t even know how to talk to regular women.”

  “You know how to talk to me,” Margaret said. “I’m as regular as they come.”

  “You don’t count. You’re my ma. You have to put up with me and pretend to like it.”

  Margaret put her arm around her daughter’s waist. “I bet you love Roca when you see it.”

  “What if Roca doesn’t love me?”

  “The wife of the owner of their new store? The woman who sells them calico and lace? Why wouldn’t they like you?”

  “Because I’m loud and I say what I think.” Sadie took a deep breath. “Don’t you dare tell Ludwig or Cass, but the truth is I’m scared. Scared to death I’ll say or do something wrong. And people will punish Ludwig for taking up with me. And he’ll be sorry he ever met me.”

  “He isn’t taking up with you. He’s marrying you.”

  “What if he changes his mind?”

  “I’ve had two weeks to watch the two of you. Mr. Meyer loves you. Very much. And if you doubt it, explain his moving over to Cass’s rooming house to protect your reputation.”

  Sadie rolled her eyes. “And if that isn’t a sign that he’s lost his mind, I don’t know what is. Next thing I know, he’ll be expecting me to go to church with him and Cass.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Can you imagine Simone LaBelle at church? Don’t say it. The answer is no, but maybe Sadie Gregory could fit in. Someday.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  Sadie’s eyes filled with tears. “I know it. I know he is.” She looked away. “And I can’t see why he’d settle for the likes of me.”

  “Do you remember what you said that first day when Cass came to supper? That Mr. Meyer sees you?”

  Sadie nodded.

  “That’s the answer. He doesn’t see Simone LaBelle when he looks at you. He sees the young woman who will do anything to protect the people she loves. Who makes hot tea for her friends when they’re feeling low. Who’s always willing to listen. And who has a way of making people smile.”


  “Don’t forget the part about being kind to wounded animals and orphaned children,” Sadie muttered. “Might as well spread it thick if we’re gonna make me over.”

  They neared the burned-out building, and Margaret gestured toward the rubble. “That fire destroyed two lives. We can keep it from destroying ours. In fact, we can use it for good. We can claim the new life God’s offering us. Just like Ludwig says in his prayer every evening before supper.”

  Sadie looked at her mother. “You have to know that I’m not real big on the idea of God. Not since—a very long time.”

  “I know,” Margaret said. “I’ve wondered where He was, too. Ever since Quantrill’s raiders did what they did to us. But I love you with all of my battered heart, Sadie. And somewhere in the Good Book it talks about love hoping all things. I guess I’m hoping that you and me and God can all get reacquainted.”

  Sadie gazed across the road at the saloon. “Well, Lord knows we’re going to need some new friends in about ten minutes.” She glanced up at the sky. “You listening? This would be a good time to step in, if Ma’s right and You do care, after all.”

  Taking a deep breath, Sadie led the way in search of Goldie.

  Tuesday morning, nearly a week after Sterling’s funeral, Juliana lay in bed, listening to the steady rhythm of rain in the predawn light. When she finally got out of bed and went to the window to look outside, the sodden landscape only darkened her mood. She and the aunts were supposed to meet with Mr. Graham today for the inevitable “reading of the will.” Perhaps she could call and postpone it. Aunt Lydia never complained, but Juliana had noticed her massaging her arthritic hands in recent days. Heading out into damp weather would do nothing to ease her aching joints.