Pattern for Romance: Quilts of Love Series

by Carla J Gade

  “There now, Honour. ’Tis all right to cry. It is why the good Lord made our tears.” The kind woman pulled Honour into an embrace. “Come, let us get you back to bed before Mrs. Hall scolds the both of us.”

  Joshua ripped the handbill off the door of Sutton’s Clothiers just as mother opened it. He knew what warning it held.

  Mother gasped at Joshua as he tripped over the threshold. “What in heavens?”

  “Excuse me, Mother, but I must find Father at once. Have you seen him?”

  “Of course, he is in his office going through some invoices,” she said. “Joshua, what is it? Are matters worse?”

  Joshua went to the office, Mother’s heels tapping as she hurried behind him. How upset she’d been when Father explained what happened at Gray’s Wharf. While doing her bookwork, she’d discovered the missing invoices. He should have been more careful. So when she questioned the sorry trio when they returned from their morning encounter against the forces of Boston, she’d nearly collapsed. Her own family, enemies against her precious cause. Yet the cause belonged to them all, they’d assured her, but now the episode was turned on its end.

  Joshua slapped the handbill down on Father’s desk, the afternoon sun searing a beam of light onto the paper. Joshua looked over his father’s shoulder and read the threat again.

  SUTTON’S CLOTHIERS

  Sign of the Scissors,

  Hanover Street, Boston

  It is desired that the Sons and Daughters

  of LIBERTY would not buy any one thing

  of them, for in doing so will bring much

  Disgrace upon themselves and their

  Prosperity, forever and ever, AMEN.

  “We have suffered dearly for our compliance with the boycott. Now it is for naught!” Father moaned. “These handbills will be distributed all over the city.”

  Mother picked up the notice and read. “It is we who are disgraced!” She plopped onto a chair, and wept.

  “’Tis worse.” Father handed Joshua The Boston Chronicle.

  Joshua read the print aloud, as Mother would beg to see it anyway. Maybe his voice would soften the blow.

  A list of those who audaciously continue to counter the united sentiments of the Body of Merchants throughout North America by importing and selling British goods according to the AGREEMENT:

  Jairus Sutton, SUTTON’S CLOTHIERS

  William Jackson, BRAZEN HEAD

  Theophilus Lillie, LILLIE’S DRY GOODS

  James McMasters, McMASTERS & COMPANY

  He twisted the newspaper in his fists. “This is slander!”

  “You know John Mein has a penchant for telling the truth as he sees it.” A grim scowl crossed Father’s face.

  Joshua sneezed and turned away and wiped his nose with his handkerchief. “Excuse me.”

  Mother pinched he eyebrows. “Dear, I hope you are not coming down with a cold.”

  “’Tis nothing.” Joshua looked from his mother to his father and cleared his throat. “Does Andrew know about this?”

  “Yes, he was with me when I bought a copy of the paper. He is beside himself with regret.” Father wiped the perspiration from his brow.

  Joshua’s jaw tightened. “Let us hope he does not attempt another reckless endeavor.”

  “He went to see Reverend Cooper for some spiritual guidance. Though I do not know how he can get us out of this disaster.” Father shook his head. “Mayhap some goodwill comes out of it, for his sake if not for our own.”

  Mother got up. “I am retiring to the parlor. You shall find me on my chaise, should you need me. I shall pray. There is nothing more to be done. Should the Lord see fit to untangle our plight, I shall praise him.”

  Untangle our plight. Like the wagon wheel caught on the rope at the pier, Joshua would not allow the whole load of goods to go crashing into the mire. There must be a way to repair this damage. He would solicit the Lord’s help for direction, and work with Him in tandem. He’d not go off on his own, as Andrew seemed so fond of doing. Lord, help me to forgive my brother again. And please help me to know Thy way.

  Father rose and retrieved the crumpled newspaper from the waste barrel where Joshua had tossed it. “There is more.” His father pointed to an article John Mein printed, reporting on Saturday’s affair. It was bad enough how word got around. The murmurs at Sunday meeting were almost his parents’ undoing. Thankfully, Reverend Cooper preached a sermon about making hasty judgments.

  Joshua tossed back his head. “Hasn’t Mein eked enough out of this inquisition?”

  “The man is greedy. His lust of power is not like many others. But I fail to see how it benefits him in any way, save selling his newspapers and infuriating the masses.” Father exhaled. “Hear me, he shall pay for his words one day.”

  “I have no doubt he shall. He is an evil man.” Joshua rubbed his scratchy throat.

  “Son, did you see what he wrote concerning you and Honour?” Father asked.

  Joshua scanned the print in haste.

  The publisher reports his own encounter with Joshua Sutton whom, Friday last, inquired of The Chronicle regarding imported British textiles and goods held at the Customs House, for which he was prepared to pay duties.

  He confessed to the public that said items were on behalf of Miss Honour Metcalf, quilter at Mrs. Wadsworth’s Mantua Shoppe; some accusing the maid of thievery.

  “As a tailor you are apt at making a right assessment of a suit of clothing within the span of a passing chariot, but as for your estimation of Miss Metcalf I cannot say the same,” Father said. “Trouble befalls the young woman at every turn.”

  Joshua looked at his father dumfounded. “I thought you were fond of her! You know these accusations are untrue.” Joshua paced like a caged panther.

  “I am, son,” Father frowned. “But we must put feelings aside, especially as yours blind you so. With her character in question, we cannot afford to have you associate with her, no less court her.”

  20

  Joshua sat upon a window-side table in the workroom, stitching the seams of his father’s new suit. At least Father would be well dressed when his business went under, due to the expanded pattern. How like the ever-increasing resolve his father bore, his example of how to face these trying times.

  To add to it, Joshua had been abed for several days, at Mother’s insistence, with a spell of cold and fever. Andrew’s trick, which had left him wet and cold, had caught up with him, Mother said. Although he tended to believe Mr. Benjamin Franklin, who disagreed with this theory of illness, Joshua was satisfied to attribute his misery to his brother.

  All the while, he’d worried about what he could do to help resolve the tribulation his family had fallen prey to at the hands of that vulture, John Mein. He’d like to blame the man for everything from his family troubles to his discord with Honour, in the same way he’d blamed his brother. But blame served no one, least of all himself. It was meaningless. Meaningless—like his life seemed without Honour. Oh, God, I beseech Thee to help me to take my eyes off others so I may see Thy way. Please restore my relationship with Honour. Be with her now as her loving Father and help her through trials of her own.

  From his perch, Joshua looked out at Boston Harbor, into the distance where sky and sea appeared seamless. The words Reverend Cooper had proclaimed from his pulpit on Sunday, following Joshua’s illness, returned to him. “Do not judge hastily.” But how could Joshua not judge the rash words John Mein printed after the vendue? Mein’s evil tactics were apparent, and he’d wasted no time publishing them in Monday’s edition of The Boston Chronicle. But words more poignant came to mind, those shared by Reverend Cooper read from the book of Proverbs. Unlike the Puritan churches in Boston, which distained any resemblance of Anglican worship, the manifest of the Brattle Street Meeting House allowed the reading of the Holy Scriptures at each turning of the hourglass. “Seest thou a man that is hasty in his words? There is more hope of a fool than of him.”

  Joshua slipped the tape measur
e through his thumb and forefinger. A tape carefully measured and marked for use as his guide, so he could make a correct measure. “Judge not, that ye be not judged,” Reverend Cooper had also read from the gospel of Matthew. “For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.” Judging Mein according to the man’s own corrupt manner would not serve the Suttons at all and would only make Joshua as great a fool as Mein. God’s Word must be his measuring rod—the standard of truth was the only way to refute the damage.

  Joshua lowered his head and closed his eyes. Please show me how to fight this battle, Lord, according to your statutes.

  The battle is mine.

  As if a ghost appeared in his mind, Joshua saw the face of Reverend Cooper through the crowd at Gray’s Wharf. With his distinct features, white bob-wig, and black parson’s garments, the esteemed and learned Reverend Doctor Samuel Cooper was unmistakable. Joshua had only regarded him briefly and hoped that the Reverend kept the Suttons in prayer during their time of inquisition.

  The screeches of seagulls beckoned Joshua’s attention from the window. He looked down into the street where he could make out the form of Reverend Cooper, in his usual black frock. The reverend often walked this way, but today rested on a bench befriending the scavengers with crumbs of stale bread. What had Reverend Cooper said the day he walked with Joshua to the Lankton house? “Do not grow weary in doing good, for in time—”

  Joshua would not give up. At once, he jumped off the table, securing his woven cap over his head. He kicked off his work slippers, wiggled his way into his buckled shoes, and donned his coat. Call him a fool, but he had some seagulls to feed.

  Honour pulled her silk thread through the fabric. Each tiny stitch continued to reveal more of the design of the beautiful whole-cloth quilt. The lamb’s wool batting, so carefully carded by Temperance during their voyage from England, and tacked to the linen quilt top with a linsey-woolsey bleached as white as the linen. Honour sighed relief that it remained intact, despite the quilt’s own precarious journey. But the manner in which Honour found this quilt in her lap once again remained a curiosity to her. Was it God’s way of sending her a message? A message to trust Him for the direction of her life? Each stitch was but naught, yet strung together, part of a unique pattern. Her stitches were purposeful, sometimes pleasant and other times tedious, yet, one stitch at a time she pressed on. She liked this work, though her fingers grew weary after laboring long hours, it was a joy to be employed at a satisfying endeavor. Bittersweet though it was, each precise stitch wrought healing somehow.

  A fortnight had passed, even more, since she’d last seen Joshua. He had chosen to stay away. Would she ever see him again so she might tell him she never should have imposed on his good graces? It tore at her she’d offended him so, a man whom she so ardently admired. Mayhap it was better this way, and her rent heart might have chance to mend. Yet, she prayed for him still.

  Widow Lankton entered the parlor, her maidservant following, carrying a tray. “I am so pleased to see you so well recovered, Honour. The pink in your face is becoming. Though I fear you shall wear your fingers to the bone with your stitching from morning until night.”

  “’Tis pleasing work,” Honour said.

  Widow Lankton took her seat on the velvet settee and smoothed her brocade gown. “I must insist you take a respite. We shall enjoy some ‘Indian Tea’ this afternoon with some currant scones.”

  Honour rose, laying her quilting down on the chaise and joined Widow Lankton. “Thank you,” Honour said, accepting her tea from the gracious lady.

  “The tea is made from redroot grown in the Province of Maine. It tastes like Bohea, don’t you agree?” Widow Lankton asked.

  Honour took a sip of the hot beverage. “’Tis delicious. Who needs teas from England when plenty can be found on American shores?”

  “My sentiments precisely,” the widow said. “I am pleased to know you share them.”

  The maidservant entered and handed the Widow Lankton a newspaper. “The Boston Gazette, Mistress.”

  “Thank you, dear.” She said, and the girl scurried away. “Let us see what tidings abound in this edition.” Widow Lankton viewed the front page through her bejeweled magnifying lens, making note of the entries. “There is a frontiersman named Daniel Boone, who began an expedition across the wilds of Kentucky. What danger he must be encountering.”

  “I am astonished one could be so brave,” Honour remarked.

  “There is not just one form of bravery, my dear,” Widow Lankton said. “You exhibit great courage when you face your trials.”

  Honour nodded and a surge of warmth washed over her.

  The widow continued reading. “It says here, French pirates were captured off the coast of Massachusetts and will be tried for the attack on a British ship last year. The Admiralty is summoning witnesses for the prosecution.”

  Honour’s heart propelled at the rate of a spinning wheel in motion. “What will become of them?”

  Widow Lankton looked up. “Hanged, I suppose.”

  Honour gasped. “Does it report the name of the ship?” She bit her lower lip as she awaited the answer.

  Widow Lankton scanned the article. “The Luna, it says . . . dear me, is that the ship . . . ?”

  Honour released a deep breath. “No. It is not the ship my family was on.” Honour turned away and shook off a bitter chill.

  Widow Lankton placed her hand upon Honour’s arm. “It shall all come to pass, here or in eternity.”

  The widow sipped her tea and resumed her perusal of The Gazette. “Hear this. An alphabetical list of the names of the 350 Sons of Liberty who dined at the Liberty Tree in Dorchester in August. The roll is impressive. Samuel Adams; John Adams, Esquire; John Hancock, Esquire; William Molineux; Honorable James Otis.”

  “May I?” At Widow Lankton’s nod, Honour looked on at the list, under the S’s. Jairus Sutton, Joshua Sutton. True Patriots. Perhaps Andrew was not listed as he was not yet a freeman, or could it be there was division within their own household?

  “The Suttons are listed.” Widow Lankton pointed at their names. She slanted her head toward Honour. “We’ve not seen Joshua in some time. Would you like to invite him to the quilting party?”

  “Quilting party?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I thought when you were done stitching the motifs we could invite some ladies to assist with the border and complete the quilt.”

  Honour smiled. “What a lovely idea.”

  “’Tis a custom to bring the ladies to quilt in the day and the men in the evening to celebrate,” Widow Lankton explained. “Of course, your Joshua shall be welcome.”

  “My Joshua?” Honour sighed. “I am not so certain he is my Joshua.”

  “Do not lose heart, my dear. There must be some worthy reason he has not called on you recently.” Widow Lankton gazed absently at the newspaper. “It is imprudent to speculate. It only leads to worry.”

  The sound of someone arriving through the front door hearkened their attention. “Your niece and her husband have arrived,” Mrs. Hall announced.

  “Do send them in,” the dowager instructed, promptly greeting her niece as she entered the room. “Welcome, Emily. Where is your husband?”

  Emily lay her reticule on the secretaire. “Good afternoon, Aunt Eunice. He shall be along momentarily.” She smiled at Honour. “How nice to find you looking well again. We’ve come to see how the quilt is coming along.”

  “It is . . .,” Honour began, when an imposing figure emerged in the doorway. The bewigged man, clothed in a pretentious suit, fastened his gaze on Honour, overlong. In spite of his foreboding presence, he cast a debonair grin.

  Widow Lankton lifted her chin. “Miss Honour Metcalf, please meet Emily’s husband, Mr. Edmund Leach.”

  Honour stiffened, then proffered a conciliatory nod. “Mr. Leach.”

  He approached the settee and graciously bowed and kissed Widow Lankton on the cheek
. He turned to Honour and took her hand in greeting. “The pleasure is mine.”

  She cringed.

  Widow Lankton led them to the whole-cloth linen quilt, making much ado of it when showing it to the couple. “Honour’s handiwork is unmatched. I am glad to have hired her for the task. Her work is exquisite.”

  Mr. Leach looked on, casting scathing, furtive glances Honour’s way. “My wife’s quilt is progressing well. What good fortune I had in acquiring it. Don’t you agree, Miss Metcalf?”

  Despite Honour’s hard work, Mr. Leach gloated on his find. He put his arm around his wife’s waist, “You are pleased, dear?”

  “I am,” Emily said, “A more beautiful quilt could not be found.” Though the quilt met with Emily’s approval, Honour knew the sorrow hidden beneath Emily’s pleasant countenance.

  “Then, Emily, you will be pleased to participate in the quilting bee I am hosting on Saturday for its completion,” Widow Lankton said. “The men will join us in the evening for a feast and dancing. You will attend, Edmund?”

  Leach looked down at his wife, receiving an obligatory nod, and returning his regard to Widow Lankton. “We shall be delighted. ’Tis our wedding quilt, after all.” He cocked his head toward Honour and issued an obscure smirk.