Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] (21 page)

“Just how many pie plants do you have growing out back?” Grace smiled.

“Nigh on to a forest,” Ladora said. “No need to worry about that. I’ll be able to keep my promise to the Methodists. You mind settin’ up a coffee tray?”

In just a few minutes, the two women were back out on the front porch, welcoming Mr. Shaw and his friend.
Friend.
Ha. Noah Shaw might be ignorant of the real state of affairs, but it was obvious to Grace that more than friendship was blossoming—at least on the part of the young lady. There was something about the way she looked up at him that reminded Grace of—a memory she’d rather not indulge at the moment. And so she concentrated on setting the coffee tray on the table between the two rocking chairs while Ladora welcomed Miss Rhodes—whom she’d obviously met before.

“I’m doing a series of articles for the newspaper during Chautauqua,” Miss Rhodes said. “When I told No—Mr. Shaw that I was hoping that Colonel Barton would agree to be my subject for Independence Day—”

“I suggested we come here for Miss Rhodes to leave a note for the colonel.” Shaw finished the young lady’s sentence.

She picked up where he had left off. “And then I thought perhaps I could interview Mr. Shaw—if you’d indulge us with the use of the front porch?”

“I assured her that you’d already extended an invitation,” Shaw said.

“And since I need to turn in that interview before we go out to the grounds—”

“We thought we’d ‘kill two birds with one stone,’ as they say.” Shaw continued. “Miss Rhodes is writing with a pen name, and she preferred not to conduct the interview at the Paddock.”

“I’d like to protect my anonymity if at all possible,” she said.

Grace smiled at the two, each one finishing the other’s sentence, much like a couple who’d been married for decades. Did they realize what they were doing? She supposed not.

“If you subscribe to the
Journal
,” Mr. Shaw said, “you might have already read the first in Miss Rhodes’s series. She interviewed Miss Ida Jones yesterday about her life ‘on the road,’ so to speak.”

“The
Journal
?” Ladora sounded surprised.

“I read that article,” Grace said. “Enjoyed it very much.”

“Thank you.” Miss Rhodes smiled.

Ladora looked confused. “Why’d you want to go and write for the other newspaper? And hide your real name? Rhodes is the best newspaper name you could want around these parts. And the
Journal
?” She sounded a bit like a mother scolding a child when she said, “I wouldn’t think Mr. Rhodes would think kindly of his own kin helping the competition.” And then she hurried to add, “Not that it’s any of my business, of course. But I got to be careful I don’t allow somethin’ the colonel wouldn’t approve.”

“I understand, Mrs. Riley,” Miss Rhodes said. “And I well remember Colonel Barton’s filling in for Reverend Philips this spring. He spoke about personal integrity and the importance of telling the truth.”

Ladora looked surprised. “You got a good memory.”

“It was a fine sermon,” Miss Rhodes said. “One of the reasons I’m using a pen name is that I didn’t want to be published because of who I am. Everyone knows that I had the opportunity to write the Ladies’ News precisely because my father is…my father. It had nothing to do with whether or not I can write. I did take this series to my father first, but he rejected it. And so I decided to try with the
Journal.
But it’s important to me that it be accepted or rejected on its own merits. I didn’t want it in the
Daily Dispatch
just because Father was making allowances, and I didn’t want it in the
Journal
because Father’s competitor wanted to get his goat. Hence, the pen name. Which only a few people know about.”

Grace looked over at Ladora. “You’ve got to admire her spirit. She’s not giving up.”

Ladora still wasn’t convinced. “Does Mr. Rhodes know you took it to the other paper?”

“He does,” Miss Rhodes said. “When I saw it in the
Journal
this morning, I showed it to him myself.” She paused. “And in the spirit of Colonel Barton’s talk this past spring, I will admit that Father is far from thrilled with the idea of my writing for a newspaper. But he didn’t forbid it. I suppose you could say that we have agreed to disagree on the matter.”

Grace avoided Ladora’s gaze. In some ways, Miss Rhodes reminded her of herself—strong enough to try to make her own way in the world, even if doing so meant some would disapprove of her choices. Miss Rhodes hadn’t mentioned what her mother thought of it all. Grace suspected that the mother had a role in the issue of a pen name as well. She dared a look at Ladora, who seemed to be working hard to reconcile her mother-hen tendencies with her “upstanding Methodist” beliefs.

If Ladora was going to split hairs over something so insignificant as a pen name, what would happen when she finally learned the truth about her houseguest? Finally, Grace spoke up. “All kinds of people in the creative arts take on other names, Ladora. I’m Madame Jumeaux in the theatrical world. Samuel Clemens is Mark Twain to his readers.” She looked up at Noah Shaw. “For all we know, Mr. Shaw here is really Mr. Cornswaggle J. McSnapencrackle.”

The ridiculous name made Shaw laugh. “What a fabulous name. I may just have to create a new character.” He snatched his hat off and held it over his heart. Grasping one lapel with his free hand, he then hitched one shoulder higher than the other and lisped, “Cornssswaggle J. McSssnapencrackle, Esssquire, at yer ssservice.”

Laughter broke the tension, and Miss Rhodes said, “I only need to impose on you this one time, Mrs. Riley. I’ll have my own office set up out at the grounds by this evening.”

Ladora’s expression softened. “And Mr. Rhodes knows all about this?”

“Yes, ma’am. I haven’t told Mother yet, but I will. Soon.”

Ladora glanced over at Grace. “So it ain’t really lyin’ then, is it? And don’t you get offended, Madam Joo-mo. I’m not callin’ names. I just never thought on pen names and stage names and such before. I guess I knew Mark Twain couldn’t be a real name. Too much of a coincidence, a man with a name like that writin’ ’bout steamboats and such. Had to be made up.”

The shadows of doubt that had furrowed Ladora’s brow cleared. The “upstanding Methodist” and the mother hen melded, and Ladora became her whirlwind self again, shooing the young people into the porch rockers, then alternately recommending the swing and even Josiah’s office if Miss Rhodes needed a nice desk. Then, without warning, she asked Mr. Shaw how they were planning on getting out to the grounds and offered them a ride.

“Thing is,” she said, “Grace and me have these pies to deliver.” She looked up at Shaw. “If yer of a mind to do it, you could hitch Babe up for us and then ride out. It’s no trouble at all to detour by that newspaper office. A free ride instead of twenty-five cents or whatever they’re chargin’ people this year for the horse cars.”

Miss Rhodes and Mr. Shaw exchanged what amounted to an unspoken conversation and they both said
thank you
at once. Back at work in the kitchen, Ladora said to Grace, “We’ll get there early enough, we’ll have prime seats. Miss Rhodes plays piano for the Spring Sisters, and those girls sound sweeter than anything. Wait till you hear. And while I’m not much on lectures, I’ll admit to lookin’ forward to hearing what Mr. Shaw has to say from up on that stage. My but he is a handsome thing, isn’t he?”

Grace busied herself with chopping rhubarb, grateful that Ladora was doing fine holding a conversation without her saying a word. How was she going to take advantage of a Chautauqua crowd if she was expected to keep company with three other people all evening? She might have to claim a headache when it came time to leave. Maybe try to recomb that mousey wig into something more conservative. And a cane. Yes. Definitely. A cane.

Ladora had stopped talking. Knife poised in midair, Grace looked over at her. “I–I’m sorry, Ladora. What did you say?”

“I was just wonderin’. What awful name did you Frenchify?”

“Wh–what?”

“You said Joo-mo was for the theater.”

Grace nodded.

“That’s French, ain’t it?”

“Y–yes.”

“So…what awful name did you Frenchify?”

Barton.
Which wasn’t all that awful, unless you were a young girl consumed with anger and resentment. Grace took a deep breath. “I just thought French sounded more glamorous.” She nodded toward the front of the house. “Do you think we might offer the young people a little lunch instead of just pie? And if we’re going out to the grounds early, did you intend to buy supper out there?”

“Buy supper? Land sakes, no. I can’t be spending money like that. You all right with us making ourselves a picnic? Lovely day like today would be a good one to take in the sights and then maybe have a picnic over by the river. The
Queen of the Blue
is running now. She’s a pretty sight.”

“
Queen of the Blue
?”

“The steamboat. She don’t run far. Just from the grounds downstream to the paper mill dam at Glen Falls and back. Costs a dollar. I’d never spend such money. But she’s a pretty a little thing. You should see her when they take her out for a torchlight excursion. Oh, my.” Ladora glanced toward the front porch. “It’s about the most romantic sight I’ve ever seen.”

Relief flooded through Grace as Ladora segued from the topic of romantic steamboat excursions to boating to the new natatorium and other assembly attractions without noticing that Grace hadn’t really answered the question as to the real name behind Madame Jumeaux. She’d avoided two things now. Revealing her real name and admitting that just paying the entry fee onto the grounds would leave her penniless. If things went well, the latter problem would be solved tonight. In regards to her being a Barton, she just didn’t know. But she had nearly three days to decide. Josiah’s train wasn’t due in until Monday.

Grace stood at her bedroom window, looking down as Ladora drove Josiah’s small farm wagon out onto Ella Street. They’d left the tailgate down, and Miss Rhodes and Noah Shaw were perched on the back, their legs dangling, the five rhubarb pies nestled in the thin layer of straw behind them. Just seeing the two talking to each other made Grace smile. Her own experience with love at first sight hadn’t worked out, but that didn’t necessarily mean that Miss Rhodes and Mr. Shaw were headed down that road. It would depend on Miss Rhodes’s ability to adjust to a life she hadn’t been prepared for—in her case life with a traveling man who turned women’s heads wherever he went. A woman inclined to jealousy would never last with a man like Noah Shaw.
Maybe you should warn her. Or him.

“No,” Grace muttered aloud and turned away from the window. “You should mind your own business is what you should do. And get to work.” And there was work to be done. Thankfully, she hadn’t lost her touch when it came to playing a role. The sudden emergence of a sick headache had been played just right. She’d convinced Ladora that, while she was too sick to attend opening exercises, Ladora should definitely go. Grace would be fine. She just needed to rest in a quiet room with the shades lowered. Now, as the wagon disappeared from view, Grace took up her comb and brush and began to restyle her dark brown wig.

When the sun dipped low on the western horizon, she got ready, donning the wig and a rural-style blue chambray bonnet. Next came a gray knit shawl and a cane. As shadows lengthened, Grace made her way downstairs and out the back door, avoiding the busiest part of town as she hurried south toward the river. Emerging from behind a lumberyard on Bell Street, she joined the stragglers headed toward the only bridge crossing this part of the Blue River. By now she was using the cane.

She knew her disguise was a good one when a couple driving a buggy pulled over and offered her a ride. She thanked them in a wavering, aged voice. When the driver helped her up, it would have been easy to check his coat pocket for a money clip, but she decided not to. Safer to wait until she was out on the grounds where she could get lost in the crowd. That’s how she’d always worked. Get the cash fast and use the crush of people to obscure the act of discarding money clips and coin purses.

It took a moment to convince the young driver and his pretty wife to leave her just outside the entrance to the assembly grounds. No, she really didn’t need any assistance. Yes, she really did wish to wait here. Her friends would be along any minute; she was sure of it. She’d promised them she would wait at the gate, and she wouldn’t want them to worry.

Finally, the couple believed her and went on their way. Grace waited for a few moments before making her way to the gate. She fumbled with her coin purse as she withdrew her twenty-five-cent entry fee with a trembling hand. The ticket-taker probably associated her shakiness with age, but it wasn’t an act. Parting with that last quarter made it real. She was now officially destitute. In spite of the warm evening, she shivered and pulled her gray shawl close.

As she tapped her way through the grass toward the lighted pavilion in the distance, Grace hunched a bit and leaned on the cane. She had transformed into a crabbed old woman. It was time to get to work.