Queen Anne's Lace

by Susan Wittig Albert

  As always at our house, supper was a time for everyone to share what was going on in their lives. McQuaid related a sanitized version of a recent missing-person investigation, and I told about finding the chest of lace in the storeroom (but omitted the spooky bit about hearing a woman humming, which would no doubt evoke hoots of laughter). Casey reported on her recent tennis match, and Brian recounted a funny story about a guy who came into the garden supply where he works part time, wanting to buy “real cow poop,” not that “dried-up crap in a plastic bag.” And Caitie described our tussle with Extra Crispy and invited everyone to her play. “It’s a week from Friday,” she said importantly. “Please come and watch me die.”

  As our guests left, Brian gave me an extra hug. “Thanks, Mom,” he whispered in my ear. “You guys are great. I really appreciate you.”

  “You and Casey are the ones who are great,” I said, meaning it. “Come back as often as you can.”

  Lori Lowry phoned just as McQuaid and I started the kitchen cleanup, so I left him to it and went into the dining room to talk to her. “Just calling to let you know that Professor Vickery got the photos of that lace,” she said. “She says she’d love to have a look at them. She’s free tomorrow afternoon—okay if she drops by the shops, around four? I’ll be between classes and we can meet upstairs.”

  “Super,” I said. “It’ll be good to talk to somebody who knows about this stuff.”

  “Christine Vickery is the right person,” Lori said. “She did her thesis on lacemaking as a women’s craft in Ireland and America.” She paused, and a different energy came into her voice. “I’ve had some good news on my birth mother search, China.”

  “That’s great, Lori! Who have you found?”

  “Aunt Josephine! She was my adoptive mother’s sister, although they were on bad terms. She lives in Waco—and she’s willing to tell me what she knows about my adoption.”

  “Woo-hoo,” I said. “Atta girl!”

  “I’m not getting my hopes up, of course. But this search has taught me that you never can tell what’ll happen when you pull on a thread. It might unravel a whole new series of possibilities.”

  “Sounds a little like a detective story,” I said. “You are the detective and—”

  “And my mother is the missing person,” Lori said with a laugh. “Yes, that’s exactly what it is—a detective story. Anyway, after we talk to Professor Vickery tomorrow, I’m driving to Waco to see if Aunt Josephine can give me any clues. She’s even invited me for supper.”

  “Fingers crossed,” I said, repeating Ruby’s old Irish blessing. “I hope she can tell you something useful.”

  “I do, too,” Lori said. “But whether she does or not, it’ll be interesting to meet her, after all these years. Her email seemed friendly.” She sighed. “I’d love to have even a little bit of family.”

  Sometimes even a little bit of family can be just what we need to set things right, I thought as we said good-bye. Lori’s mention of Professor Vickery had reminded me of the laces, so I took the wooden chest to the dining room table and opened it to have another look.

  Caitie came to prop her elbows on the table and watch me take out the lace, piece by piece—some two dozen in all. The largest was the embroidered net veil, the smallest a six-inch strip of narrow cobwebby lace. There was a lady’s lace cap with long ribbons, a baby’s lace cap, the black lace collar that had made Ruby so inexplicably sad, and the pink fingerless mitts, made of silk yarn. And something I hadn’t noticed that afternoon: a single gold-filigree earring with a shiny pink stone, stuck in one corner of the chest.

  “Just one earring?” Caitie asked, picking it up. She held it up, turning it to catch the light in the gold lacework around the pink stone. “It’s pretty. I guess the other one got lost, huh?”

  “Probably.” I turned the lady’s cap in my fingers. “Gosh. I wonder how old this is.”

  “It looks like what Mrs. March wears in Little Women,” Caitie said, dropping the earring back in the chest and taking the cap from me. “That would make it really old.” She ran a finger around the frilly lace edging. “Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make this, didn’t they?”

  “I’m sure,” I said. “Hours and hours of work, all by hand.”

  “A woman?”

  “Most likely.” I began putting the pieces of lace back in the chest. “A professor from the university is coming to have a look tomorrow. Maybe she’ll be able to tell us something about the person who made these.”

  Caitie nodded and straightened. “I’d better practice my violin. There’s orchestra rehearsal tomorrow. And I want to put some more chicken pictures on my website.” She began ticking things off on her fingers. “Play rehearsal on Wednesday. The chickens go to the fair on Thursday morning. And on Friday evening, we go back to the fair to see what I’ve won.” She grinned confidently. “And celebrate a blue ribbon. Maybe two.”

  I laughed. “Haven’t you heard the old saying? Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched. You never know what might happen.”

  I was joking. But I was right.

  Really. You just never know.

  Chapter Four

  Pecan Springs and Austin, Texas

  July 1888

  Now that Annie was alone and had only herself to rely on for her living, her little lacemaking business became not just the center of her life but her sustenance, as well. As long as there was a ready market for her lace, she felt she should be able to manage.

  So on an early July morning, she prepared to take the train to Austin to sell the laces that she and the girls had finished in the past two weeks. She pinned up her auburn hair and put on her gray poplin traveling suit with a lace-trimmed white shirtwaist, gored skirt, and jacket. The bustle was back, but Annie’s sympathies lay with the Rational Dress Movement and she refused to wear the ridiculous wire contraption, which made sitting terribly uncomfortable. She also preferred a simple wide-brimmed straw hat with a red velvet band and a modest gray feather to the more lavishly decorated hats that were in fashion. Her only pieces of jewelry were the simple gold earrings and gold lapel watch that Douglas had given her for their first anniversary. She had buried her wedding ring with her husband.

  The summer day promised to be bright and hot, but the air was still reasonably cool when Annie folded the laces into tissue paper and packed them in a wicker basket. With her white parasol over her shoulder, she walked the six blocks to the railroad depot on Sam Houston Street, to catch the nine a.m. northbound train. The International and Great Northern railway had reached Pecan Springs just six years before, linking the village to Austin (thirty-five miles to the north) and San Antonio (thirty-five miles to the south). Its arrival had transformed the sleepy hamlet of five hundred souls to a bustling, prosperous village of nearly twelve hundred. A hotel had been built beside the small spring-fed lake for which Pecan Springs was named, and tourists were flocking to the cool, crystal waters. A teachers’ college was under construction north of town on Cedar Ridge. The presence of tourists, students, and faculty members promised to change the village and make it grow even faster.

  Annie always took a seat by the train window so she could enjoy the sight of the rolling, cedar-clad hills and limestone bluffs to the west. She wiped the coal dust from the seat before she sat down, then settled back, enjoying the pleasant view and the rhythmic clackety-clack of the wheels as the train took her northward to Austin, with stops at stations in San Marcos and Kyle and Buda to pick up passengers and freight. In the old days, before the train, the trip to Austin by horse and buggy took all day—if you were lucky. Now, the train trip took just ninety minutes. It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock when she stepped from the coach car at the new buff brick railroad depot at Congress Avenue and Pine Street, north of the Colorado River.

  If Pecan Springs was prospering in this second decade after the War Between the States, Austin—the capital of T
exas—was booming. The station platform was crowded with bales of cotton and bushel baskets of chili peppers, peanuts, and yams, all destined for Dallas and Houston and points farther north and east. Some people still thought of Austin as a cow town, but the population had already reached nearly fifteen thousand people, some four times what it had been when the war ended. The city streets were crowded with horse-drawn wagons, trolleys, horse and buggies, and bicycles. The dust rose in clouds, and the sky shimmered with the usual Texas summer heat. But there was an energy in the air that gave Annie the sense that today, in this bustling city, anything was possible.

  Holding up her gray skirt to keep it out of the dirt and avoiding piles of steaming horse manure as she crossed the streets, Annie walked up the wide gravel path along Congress Avenue. There was a spring in her step and a smile on her lips, for she was anticipating the pleasure of accepting the money from the sales of her laces, along with several special orders. Mrs. Turner might report: “Mrs. Hillary would like you to make the laces for her daughter’s trousseau negligee.” Or Madame LaMode might say, in her fake French accent, “Mademoiselle Campbell weeshes me to tell you zat she adores ze lace-covered parasol you made for her and wonders if you would consent to make another for her deerest friend.” Annie would smile and nod and make notes in the little book in which she kept her orders—neatly and with care, because she was a businesswoman now, earning her own living, and it was important to keep track of everything.

  But instead of a cheerful smile and a special order, Mrs. Turner—a gray-haired woman in her sixties—wore a somber look as she handed Annie the envelope with her payment and some disquieting news.

  “The doctor says I must have a rest, so I’ve decided to close the shop.” She sighed apologetically. “I’ve loved your laces, but I won’t be taking any more, I’m afraid.”

  Annie was startled, then concerned. Mrs. Turner had been her very first Austin customer and she depended on the dress shop as a regular market. “Of course I wish you the very best,” she said, and then asked the question that worried her most. “Do you think another shop will open here?”

  “Oh, most assuredly,” Mrs. Turner said. “Mr. Josephus Ward, from Dallas, has purchased the lease to this building and intends to open a haberdashery.” Another apologetic smile. “But Austin is growing fast and someone is sure to open another dress shop soon, I should think. I hope this won’t be a hardship for you, my dear.”

  A haberdashery! But that was only men’s clothing! Still, Annie tried to cover up her apprehension. She lifted her chin, summoning a brave smile. “Oh, no. No hardship at all. I know how much work you’ve put into your shop, Mrs. Turner. I hope you enjoy your rest.”

  Annie wasn’t feeling so brave when she stepped back out to the bright, bustling street. But she reminded herself that Mrs. Turner was right. Austin was flourishing—witness the “university of the first class” that was being built on forty empty acres north of the new state capitol. Oh, and the plan to build one of the largest dams and electrical generating plants in the world—yes, in the world!—just upstream of the city on the Colorado River. Soon, very soon, someone was sure to open another dress shop.

  In the meantime, Annie was certain that Madame LaMode would take what Mrs. Turner couldn’t use. Picking up her pace, she turned the corner at Hickory and started down the block. But when she reached the millinery shop, she was stunned to see that the display window was dark and empty and there was a Closed sign on the door. A note tucked into the door frame directed her to the barbershop across the street, where the barber handed her a cigar box and an envelope with her name on it. There was money in the envelope and a few unsold laces in the box, smelling of cigars. There was also a note. It read simply, My daughter has fallen ill in New Orleans and I must go to her. I do not plan to return. Au revoir. Gertrude Winkle.

  Annie gasped. Oh, no—not this one, too! She stared incredulously at the note, feeling as though someone had just punched her in the stomach. Somehow, she managed to thank the barber and went out onto Hickory, where she stood for a moment, trying to decide what to do. Usually, she treated herself to a nice lunch on her visits to Austin. But the two envelopes she had picked up contained a total of just seven dollars, more than half of which had to be shared with the ladies who had made the lace. Her chief source of income had just vanished, and there was no quick or easy way to replace it. The sensible thing to do would be to pick up a twenty-cent sandwich at the Pork Barrel on the corner of Congress and Hickory, go back to the station, and wait for the afternoon train.

  But that would feel like a defeat, wouldn’t it? And this—well, it wasn’t a defeat. It wasn’t! She had just met a temporary obstacle, that’s all. She had lost everything in the world when she lost Douglas and their baby boy. Compared to that, this little setback was only a bump in the road.

  Defiantly, she straightened her shoulders, crossed the street, and marched up the block to the imposing Driskill Hotel, recently built at the corner of Brazos and Pecan. The cost of lunch in the ladies’ dining room—a whole dollar—was outrageous. But the table was spread with a snowy damask cloth, the crystal goblet held cold water and little cubes of real ice, and Annie’s meal of veal cutlet, mashed potatoes, fried okra, and baked apple was served on the hotel’s elegant gold-rimmed china. Placing the damask napkin on her lap, she glanced around, noticing the other women. They were all beautifully dressed—out-of-town visitors, wealthy enough to afford one of the lavish rooms upstairs at the Driskill, which were rumored to cost as much as four dollars a night. As she ate, she tried to pretend that she wasn’t a working woman who had just lost her job—both of them!—but was one of those ladies of leisure, come to Austin to enjoy some sightseeing.

  After lunch, still trying to keep up her private pretense, Annie put up her parasol and strolled north on Congress Avenue to observe the newly built state capitol building. Dedicated just three months before, the building was constructed of native red granite dug out of the hills to the west of the city. It was immense—the seventh largest building in the world, it was said—with an astonishing 392 rooms and a dome that rose a breathtaking three hundred feet in the air. It was topped by a huge statue of a woman. Her upraised hand held a star, representing the Lone Star State.

  Annie stood for a few moments, gazing wide-eyed at the awe-inspiring dome. But if she had hoped that some of the Lone Star’s proud bravado might rub off on her, she was disappointed. The impressive size of the capitol building only made her feel small and insignificant, and the heat—the sun had slid behind clouds but the air was heavy and sultry—was making her light-headed. The hem of her gray poplin skirt was dirty, her hair straggled in damp curls around her face, and the underarms of her jacket were wet. Wearily, she turned and trudged back down Congress to catch the train to Pecan Springs, wishing she hadn’t spent that small fortune on lunch at the Driskill when a Pork Barrel sandwich would have done just as well.

  To make matters worse, as she sat in the station waiting for the train, Delia Hunt came tripping along and plumped herself down on the waiting-room bench. She looked cool and summery in a pink ruffled dress with (of course) a stylish bustle that required her to perch on the very edge of the bench. Her golden hair was caught in a pink net snood and she wore pink lace mitts—the very latest fashion—and smelled of a flowery perfume. She was carrying a basket filled with several parcels and chattering like a jaybird about what she’d bought and how much everything had cost and how annoyed Adam would be when he saw the bills—especially for the new earrings she had just purchased and that now dangled from her pretty ears. Pink amethysts, set in delicate gold-filigree lace.

  Delia pouted. “Adam always tells me I shouldn’t spend so much. I try to be good and mind him, of course—until I’m tempted past all resistance.” She touched one earring. “I can simply never say no to a pretty pair of earrings, and these were only ten dollars. Real amethysts, too.”

  Ten dollars. Annie pulled in he
r breath. She and her girls had to work for a week to earn ten dollars!

  “And anyway,” Delia went on, “I needed something to go with this dress. Caroline and I are taking the train to Galveston tomorrow. With luck, we’ll be there for a couple of months.”

  Delia had grown up in Galveston, and she returned every so often to visit her sister. Annie often thought that Pecan Springs must feel like a frontier village compared to Galveston, which at the last census had been the largest city in the state. Brightened by tropical flowers, it was also the most beautiful, everyone said, and certainly the most cosmopolitan, since it was a seaport and entertained people from the farthest-flung corners of the world.

  Delia was smiling. “Of course, while I’m there, Clarissa and I will be going to all the best parties. The summer season isn’t as grand as the winter, but it’s still a great lot of fun.” She turned to glance down her nose at Annie and, for the first time in a while, seemed to see her. She frowned at Annie’s sweat-stained jacket and straggling hair.

  “I wonder at you, Annie,” she said. “I really do. Your husband’s been dead for—what? Two years? Three? Isn’t it time you fixed yourself up and went looking for another one? It’s rather brave of you to try to manage on your own, of course. But that’s no kind of life for a woman. Like it or not, we all have to marry, if we can. And if we can’t—” She gave a short, brittle laugh. “Well, as I said, that’s no kind of life, is it? But then, I imagine you’ve already found that out.”