by Jane Peart
Well, this time he was wrong. He’d see. They’d both see. She was serious. She loved Ross Davison, and in spite of anything they said, she was going to keep on loving him and someday they would marry.
Then she heard her mother say firmly, “You must speak to Alec Murrison, Tennant. That’s all there is to it. I am sure he would not countenance his assistant pursuing a courtship that was unwelcome. Even if it is only a matter of our friendship, I am sure he will see that our wishes are respected.”
Johanna’s hands balled into fists and she pressed them against her mouth. Oh, no! That would hurt Ross so dreadfully. He revered and admired Dr. Murrison so much. To have him rebuke him for—what? For loving her! It was too awful. Johanna crept back upstairs and into her room, choking back new sobs.
Across town in the house of the town’s physician, another conversation was taking place. Remembering that this was the man who had taken him in, treated him like a son, rendered the hospitality of his home, given him the benefit of his own knowledge and skill, been his mentor and his instructor, Ross hesitated. Perhaps it was too much to ask for Dr. Murrison to champion his cause. Perhaps Dr. Murrison would be risking his friendship with the Shelbys if he gave his blessing to Ross’s asking for Johanna’s hand in marriage. But how else could this ever come about? At least he could ask Dr. Murrison if he should try.
“I want to marry Johanna Shelby. Do you think there is any hope? I don’t want to take advantage of you, sir, but I do need your opinion.”
Dr. Murrison pursed his mouth as if giving the statement considerable thought. He knocked his pipe ashes on the stone edge of the fireplace, took his time refilling it and lighting it again before answering Ross’s question.
“Have you addressed the young lady herself as yet?”
“Not formally asked her to marry me. However, truthfully, I have told her I love her.” He paused in anguished embarrassment. “I couldn’t help myself. But I didn’t speak of marriage. I wanted to talk to you first, and if you think it would be all right, I would then, of course, approach her father and ask his permission.”
“Well, that certainly is the usual way of things,” Dr. Murrison agreed, but there was a degree of hesitancy in his words that sent a cold chill through Ross. Something more was coming, and instinctively he braced himself for it.
Then Ross suddenly decided that whatever it was—and he suspected what it might be—he didn’t want to hear it.
Abruptly he got to his feet and said, “I shouldn’t have taken advantage of our relationship. I was wrong to place you in an awkward position. Forgive me.” Without waiting for Dr. Murrison’s reply, Ross left the room.
He went quickly upstairs to his room. He sank into the one chair in the sparsely furnished space and stared at the flickering light shining through the door of his small stove. Why had he been so stupid? Why hadn’t he seen what should have been obvious to him from the first? The Shelbys, one of the most prominent families in Hillsboro, accepting a poor, backwoods doctor with no future for the husband of their daughter? He gave a short, harsh laugh. For that’s what it was—laughable! Ridiculous. Impossible. How could he have been foolish enough to entertain such a thought—to dream?
At church the following Sunday, Johanna was sitting in the family pew, beside her mother. Rebecca’s head was bowed in private prayer before the service. Johanna bowed her head also. She wasn’t praying, exactly—she was pleading in anguish and fear. Fear that what she wanted most in the world would not be allowed her. Please, please, God.
While her mother stopped after the service to compliment the minister on his sermon, Johanna stepped outside, looking for Ross or Dr. Murrison in any of the groups of men gathered in the churchyard, talking. But the tall figure she hoped to see was nowhere in sight.
It was bitterly cold and frosty, and when Johanna’s mother joined her on the church steps, she took her arm, urging sharply, “Come along, Johanna. Get into the carriage. It’s too cold to stand around in this wind.”
Chapter Seven
Rebecca, her back very straight, sat at her quilting frame in the parlor. Seven stitches to the inch, in her hand the needle, poised daintily, moved expertly in and out. She had placed a lot of hope in Johanna. Much careful thought and consideration had been given to her rearing. Expense too, sending her to a fine female academy for the kind of education necessary for a girl who would assume the role of a wife in a prestigious marriage. Johanna had shown little interest in housewifely skills. She had acquired exquisite manners and social graces, could set a beautiful table, and was a graceful dancer and a gracious conversationalist. Of course, if she married someone from a wealthy family, such as Burton Lassiter, she would have plenty of servants. However, a woman still needed to master all sorts of tasks to enable her to teach her servants, show them how the work was to be done.
Rebecca gave a small shudder. Although her face was expressionless, she was concerned about her oldest daughter. Through the years, Rebecca had learned to conceal her emotions—disappointment, hurt, anxiety. Pride might be her besetting sin, but it was also her shield.
One deep wound she had suffered and tried to conceal was that she was the only one of all Grandmother Logan’s granddaughters not to bear her name—Johanna. As if that weren’t humiliation enough, then there was her own failure to produce a son for her husband. After two miscarriages and one stillborn, with much difficulty she had delivered Johanna. Three years later Cissy, and five years after that, Elly. But no male to carry on the family name.
Thinking of her own mother, Rebecca had to suppress her resentment. Why had she refused to follow the tradition of the family she married into? Rebecca had hardly known the rebellious young woman who had been her mother. She had died when Rebecca was only four. But of course, the story of her own christening had been told to Rebecca by anxious “do-gooders” and busybodies. It was a family scandal that could not be hushed up, because it had been witnessed by so many. A whole churchful, as a matter of fact. Possibly the whole congregation. The time had come for the minister to ask the question, “And by what name shall this child be known?” and instead of replying as expected, “Her name shall be Johanna,” her mother, dark eyes flashing, had responded in a clear voice, audible to the very rafters of the small stone church, “Rebecca.” There had been, Rebecca was told, a collective gasp of shock.
The story had been repeated many times to Rebecca over the years, and she grew to dislike hearing it. She’d had to live with the legacy she had been left. It had, in a way, made her the outcast. She had tried to make up for it by excelling in many ways, always competing for attention among her cousins, for her grandmother’s affection. But in the end, no one really seemed to care. Bee and Honey and Jo McMillan and Johanna Cady and even Hannah never mentioned it.
Was blood thicker than water? Had somehow Johanna, her carefully taught daughter, inherited the wildness of her maternal grandmother? The rebellious spirit? Flaunting what was expected, falling foolishly in love with an unsuitable man? Ross Davison might be a fine young man—certainly Alec Murrison thought the world of him. Still, he was not the right husband for her daughter. Johanna Shelby had been reared to marry a man of wealth, society, good family, refined background.
Well, it would not be. She would not allow it. Not let all her dreams, hopes, plans, go amiss because of a foolish girl’s fancy.
Rebecca bent her head again over her work. This quilt, on which she was spending hours of meticulous care, tiny stitches outlining the lovely pattern, was for Johanna. Her wedding quilt. Rebecca had carefully traced the pattern from the ancient design, adding some of her own creative interpretations. It was called the Whig Rose by most, although the more romantic name was Rose of Sharon, which was taken from the beautiful Scripture in Song of Songs, the love song of Solomon to his bride, a part of the Bible that was now taught to describe Christ’s love for the church.
As the Rose of Sharon, the pattern was a dazzling declaration of human love, the joy and passion between man an
d woman, honoring the sacredness of marriage. Secretly that is how Rebecca thought of it as she appliqued the delicate scrolls, the buds, stems, and leaves, white thread on white. To her it represented all those hidden expectations she had brought to her own wedding, the special dreams of happiness she had hoped would be fulfilled. Now, years later, she was a mature woman who had survived the cares and concerns, the sorrows and losses, the disenchantments of life. As she sewed, Rebecca reflected on her own memories. If all those hopes and dreams had never been fully realized, still she had experienced a satisfying life, once she had faced realities, put away fanciful dreams. As she stitched into this quilt for her daughter renewed promises that yet might be for her happiness, Rebecca’s mouth tightened. Rebecca rapped her thimbled finger on the edge of her quilting frame resolutely. I won’t let her make some stupid mistake, throw her life away.
The following afternoon was the cousins’ weekly quilting session. Alternating homes, the ladies of the family gathered to work on each other’s quilts. Each cousin had her own special quilt in progress on which the others sewed. Of course, this was more than simply a sewing session. It was a time to exchange events and town gossip, discuss relatives and friends and upcoming plans, or contribute a bit of interesting news. Dessert and coffee and tea were served, perhaps a new recipe to be tasted, commented upon, and enjoyed. It was always a congenial time, and Rebecca always looked forward to it with pleasure. However, in her present state of mind, she was tempted to promote her slightly scratchy throat into a fullfledged cold to avoid going.
These get-togethers had started before they all had married, at the time all were working on quilts for their hope chests. Now it had become a weekly ritual in their lives. Nothing but a serious illness or a life-and-death crisis was an acceptable excuse for not attending. To not go was bound to cause concern of one kind or another.
Only the most unobservant person could have missed the effect of Hannah’s remark at Christmas about Johanna’s snow frolic with Dr. Davison. Since not one of her cousins could be qualified as that, Rebecca was also sure her canny relatives had noticed Johanna’s obvious gaiety brought on by the arrival of the young doctor on New Year’s Day. Surely one of them had guessed her high spirits were prompted by something other than a family gathering.
Nothing in the family was ever a private matter. Although kept within the family enclave, everything that happened or was about to happen or needed to be decided was always discussed at length among the cousins. Rebecca was sure someone, some way or other, would mention Johanna’s escapade, her interest in Dr. Murrison’s assistant.
Although Rebecca felt ill-prepared to answer any probing questions, at length she decided she had to go. There was no possible way out. However, she was determined to maintain a discreet silence on the subject, no matter what the provocation. She anticipated that if there were any, it would most probably come from Hannah. With no children of her own to make excuses for or explanations about, Hannah had an insatiable curiosity about others’ offspring.
Resignedly Rebecca hooked the braided fastenings of her mauve pelisse, settled her bonnet on her head, tying its brown satin ribbons firmly under her chin, and set out. Today’s meeting was at Johanna Cady’s house, only a short distance from the Shelbys’. The brisk walk would clear her head for whatever lay ahead.
As she stepped inside her cousin’s door, she was greeted by the usual buzz of conversation from the already assembled ladies, which only halted briefly as she was welcomed. The hostess for the day, Johanna Cady—called Josie by her cousins—rose to take Rebecca’s cape, compliment her bonnet, and relieve her of her muff.
“You’re late, Rebecca. I thought something might have happened.”
“I’m sorry. A little delay, that’s all.”
“Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that matters.” Josie lowered her voice. “You missed all the discussion about the new pattern we’re starting. Of course, Hannah had to have her say, which took a while. So we got started later than usual.”
Rebecca took her place at the quilting frame, between Honey and Hannah, and threaded her needle. The pattern stretched out was called Caesar’s Crown. It was an array of geometric shapes forming an intricate design, on which Hannah was unfavorably commenting, “Why ever did you pick such a complicated one, Josie?”
“Because it’s beautiful. Why else?” Josie retorted, adding tartly, “When it’s done properly.”
Honey, always the conciliator, spoke up. “I’ve seen one or two of these finished, and they’re outstanding.”
“Did Munroe or Harvel use drafting tools to cut your material from?” Hannah persisted.
“No. As a matter of fact, I did it all myself. I used bowls and teacups and folded paper,” Josie said with a little toss of her head. “It just takes a little imagination.”
“Well, I prefer the Double Wedding Ring pattern to this—it’s every bit as handsome and much simpler,” sniffed Hannah, anxious to have the last word. Then, in order to keep Josie from another sharp rejoinder, Hannah turned her attention to Rebecca, asking, “Has Johanna finished her twelve quilt tops yet, Rebecca?”
Traditionally, a young woman completed twelve quilt tops for her hope chest. A quilt was supposedly finished by the time she was ready to be engaged. Before Rebecca could think of a noncommittal answer, Bee appeared with the tray of cakes and the tea service. “Let’s take a break, ladies,” she suggested, and the ladies left their sewing for a welcome time of refreshment. Hannah’s question was left dangling.
Rebecca had always been provoked by Johanna’s lack of interest in quilting and needlework of any kind. Cissy was much more amenable in every way toward the womanly arts so necessary in a genteel woman’s preparation for marriage. If only Johanna were more diligent and less imaginative and adventurous. If she were, there would certainly not be this need to worry over her.
Josie used Hannah’s comment to introduce a subject she wanted to bring up. “Speaking of the Double Wedding Ring pattern, I think we should start working on one soon,” she smiled smugly and sat back, waiting for her cousins’ eager curiosity.
“What do you mean, Josie?” asked Bee.
“Well, it isn’t official,” she began tantalizingly, “but I think Harvel is about to propose to Marilee Barrington. He’s just spoken to her father over in Cartersville, and—”
She was immediately the target of enthusiastic inquiries, demands for a description of the young lady, the possible date of the nuptials, and other pertinent questions. Of course, it was Hannah who had to put a chill into the happy conversation. She pierced Rebecca with a long look and pursed mouth, remarking morosely, “What a shame we couldn’t be planning a lovely quilt for Johanna!”
Every eye, albeit tactful ones, turned expectantly toward Rebecca. She could easily have said something scathing to silence her cousin, but that would only have revealed her own inner upset. Instead, keeping her voice even, a tolerant smile in place, she replied, “No news from that corner, I’m afraid.” Inside she was indignant at her cousin’s bluntness. Somehow Hannah always managed to strike a sour note.
For the rest of the afternoon, Rebecca sewed quietly, not adding much to the hum of conversation that flowed around her. Her mind was busily plotting a sure way to remove Johanna from the dangerous ground on which she was treading because of her foolish infatuation with the young doctor. Johanna was always drawn to the different, the out of the ordinary, the unusual. And Ross Davison certainly fit all those criteria.
If only Tennant hadn’t given into Johanna’s pleas not to be sent back to Miss Pomoroy’s. Rebecca had been against it and yet had allowed herself to be persuaded. Privately she had decided Johanna was as “finished” as she need be. They could apply the saved fee to Cissy’s turn to go next year. Rebecca had to admit that the thought of enjoying Johanna’s company at home had influenced her decision. Now she regretted her quick capitulation.
How cleverly Johanna had managed to manipulate her parents for her own purpose
. Rebecca could but wonder how she herself had been taken in by Johanna’s persuasiveness. All Johanna had ever wanted was to stay in Hillsboro, near the young doctor. It’s my own fault, Rebecca chided herself. I saw it on New Year’s Day! They only had eyes for each other. Johanna attempted to hide it, but he was too honest to try. Rebecca sighed. Even then it was probably too late. It had gone too far by then.
But of course, this courtship was impossible. And now it was up to her to do something, Rebecca decided.
Quite unexpectedly she was handed the opportunity she had been searching for. She was brought back from her own troubling thoughts into the present when she heard Honey announce, “I’m planning to go to Winston with Jo when she returns home.”
Winston! Of course! Rebecca thought immediately. Winston, where the McMillans lived, was a lovely place with two colleges and a seminary, a cultured atmosphere. It was a hospitable and friendly town. What a perfect solution! Get Johanna out of town. Her cousin had a wide circle of friends, most of whom had children Johanna’s age who could introduce her into their lively social life. Johanna could accompany Honey on her trip. Honey adored Johanna, and if Johanna could be persuaded—
No, not persuaded—told she must go. Rebecca was through with indulging her. They would have to be firm. Johanna must be kept from a mistake that might ruin her life.
Rebecca decided to have a private word with Honey. As soon as Honey got up to leave, Rebecca quickly followed. Once outside walking together, she tucked her arm through her cousin’s and outlined her plan, confiding the reasons she had not wanted to share with the others.
Honey was delighted with the idea. Encouraged by this response, Rebecca felt led to open up more about her concerns, about how unsuitable she felt Johanna’s interest in Ross Davison was and how anxious she was to remove Johanna even temporarily from an impulsive attachment.
