Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (41 page)

Feeling herself blushing, Juliana hurried ahead of Cass to the front door while he fetched a small toolbox out of the buggy. As soon as he unlocked the door, she pointed to the space to the right of Caroline’s office door. “Right there.”

They proceeded through the house, hanging framed prints in the dining room, library, and kitchen, and then, taking the back stairs up to the second floor, working their way through each of those rooms back toward the front of the house, ending in the second-floor turret room.

“Just inside the door,” Juliana said, feeling self-conscious as she remembered the last time they’d been in that room alone together.

“You were right to keep this for a small sitting room,” Cass said, as he stepped in and looked around. “It’s very inviting.”

It was. Especially with him in it. “I think I’ll go on down to the kitchen and see if there’s anything I can do to help ready things there.” Without waiting for Cass to reply, Juliana skittered down the stairs and into the kitchen just as Mrs. Kennedy’s buggy came into view from the direction of town.

Cass came up behind her. “So much for sparking,” he murmured.

He was close enough that she could feel the warm of his breath on the back of her neck. And then he put his hands on her shoulders. Just as he had that day. Just for a moment. Just long enough.

As the last of the open house guests left late Sunday afternoon, Margaret Nash made a last tour through the rooms, gathering up errant dessert plates and coffee cups left here and there. The committee had done their best to keep the food and drink in the dining room, but at times the crush of visitors had been so great it was impossible to police everyone. Margaret had found cake plates in the cribs up on the third floor, coffee cups left on the bookshelves in the library, and even half a piece of cake tucked beneath a fern frond in the upstairs sitting room. That one made her smile … because it was Mehetabelle’s cake, not the leftover angel food Margaret had brought with her after the wedding reception.

As she headed into the kitchen with what she hoped was the last of the dishes left scattered about, she heard Mrs. Kennedy scolding someone who “had no business” doing whatever it was they were doing.

It had been quite the learning experience, helping out this afternoon with the open house. When Margaret first offered her assistance, Mehetabelle protested that she didn’t need help. She could manage cake and coffee for an entire stampede of skinny white people; just keep out of her way and let her work. But then she tasted Margaret’s cake.

“Please let us serve it,” Margaret said. “Sadie and I baked most of the week getting ready—more out of nervousness than necessity, I suppose. But there’s so much here, and it’s only Cass and me at home now. I don’t want it to go to waste.”

Mehetabelle took a pinch of cake between thumb and forefinger and popped it into her mouth. Finally, she swallowed. “Not too bad.”

“I cooked for a boardinghouse in Kansas City years ago. The owner’s son had been to San Francisco and brought back a cookbook by a Mrs. Fisher. It’s her recipe.”

“How’d you get it so light and fluffy?”

“Are you asking for my secret?”

“Ain’t no secret if you got it from a book, now is it?”

Margaret smiled. “Do you ever follow a recipe exactly?”

Mehetabelle shrugged.

“Neither do I. I’ll write it out for you before I leave today.”

And she intended to do exactly that—as soon as she rescued whoever Mehetabelle was scolding. The woman defended her kitchen like a soldier guarding a fort from the enemy. And my, did her big voice carry.

“You got no business doin’ that.”

Just as Margaret stepped into the kitchen, Mehetabelle grabbed a dish out of Pastor Taylor’s hand and waved him away from the sink, glancing over her shoulder at Margaret as she fussed. “You believe this man? Washing his own dishes like he belongs in my kitchen.”

Pastor Taylor backed away, grinning. “I was only trying to help.” He looked at Margaret. “Tell her, Mrs. Nash. I am allowed.”

“Not in my kitchen you’re not,” Mehetabelle snapped. She backhanded the air like a woman trying to bat a bothersome insect away. “You go on up to the front of the house and help someone else. Mrs. Nash and I don’t need no help. We doin’ just fine.”

Pastor Taylor exited the kitchen, and Margaret set the dirty dishes she’d collected next to the sink. “Do you want me to wash those dishes or wipe down the dining room tables?”

“I want you to write out that recipe for me before you forget you promised. Tell Mrs. Harrison you need some paper.” Mehetabelle turned back to the sink and plunged her hands into the soapy water.

Margaret ducked into the back hall and headed for the front of the house.

A smiling Pastor Taylor came alongside. “That is a woman who knows her mind.”

“Indeed she does.” Margaret laughed as the two of them made their way to the front of the house where Cass stood, chatting with Mrs. Sutton and her aunts.

“Mother.” He smiled. “I was just coming to see what I might do to help.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Pastor Taylor said and glanced back at the kitchen. “I just washed a dish, and Mrs. Kennedy nearly took my head off.”

“We have everything under control.” Margaret smiled. She glanced at Mrs. Harrison. “As long as you’ll agree to provide paper and pencil so I can write out the recipe for my cake.”

Mrs. Harrison showed Margaret into her office.
Beat whites of one dozen eggs until very light. Rub one pound butter and one pound powdered sugar together until creamed very light. Fold in beaten egg whites and beat again until very light.

Laughter sounded out in the foyer. Margaret glanced up as Miss Theodora took the guest book from the stand just outside the office and began to count names. Finally, she looked over at the group standing in the foyer. “Nearly three
hundred.
”

Cass ducked into the office. “We’ve been invited to celebrate over supper at Juliana’s. If you’re too tired, I can drop you at home.”

Miss Theodora, who was standing just outside the office, interrupted. “Young man, if a gentleman truly desires a lady’s company, he doesn’t provide choices.” She smiled at Margaret. “You will come, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Apparently Cass was once again dining with Mrs. Sutton. Apparently Miss Theodora approved. Interesting. Margaret returned to the recipe.
Sift two teaspoonfuls yeast powder into one pound flour. Add to eggs, sugar, and butter along with one-half teacupful sweet milk. Flavor with two teaspoonfuls extract of almond or peach when beating cake the last time.

Bake in any well-greased pan. Have stove moderately hot so the cake will bake gradually, and arrange damper so as to send heat to bottom of cake first.

Mrs. Harrison appeared in the doorway. “I’m taking Pastor Taylor over to call on Jenny, but I wanted to thank you for braving Mehetabelle’s kitchen today. That is not a duty for the faint of heart.”

Margaret laughed as she rose to leave the office, recipe in hand. “I enjoyed it. There’s a dear woman beneath all that bluster. She has a special tenderness for Jenny and her baby. You should have heard her bragging on the little boy. She was so disappointed when they didn’t join us this afternoon.”

“So was I,” Mrs. Harrison said. “Unfortunately, Dr. Gilbert has ordered Jenny to bed until her confinement. Which is one of the reasons I’ve asked Pastor Taylor to visit. ‘A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver’ and so on.” She smiled at the pastor.

Margaret made her way back to the kitchen and laid the recipe on the counter. “And before you ask, yes. I included the secret ingredient. The original said to use extract of almond. I use extract of peach.”

Mehetabelle nodded. “Next spring when you start running that lunch wagon again, you let me know. I got a secret of my own that makes folks crazy for my roast beef. Might sell a few more sandwiches if you try it.”

Jenny
Monday, November 26

She lay awake, staring up at the night sky. A light snow had begun to fall in the early evening. Now, even with only a sliver of a moon to light the landscape, shadows seemed to dance on the pristine snow. From time to time, Jenny looked over at Friendship Home. Miller and Huldah and Emil were over there, asleep in their cribs up on the third floor. Happy. Cared for by a nurse who was fond of them. A nurse who’d won smiles even from little Huldah.

Turning over in bed, Jenny gazed across the room at Johnny’s crib, smiling at the sound of an occasional snort. He had a runny nose, but Doc Gilbert had been here this afternoon and checked him out. Johnny’s lungs were clear. The doc said not to worry. He was a good man. Jenny had grown to trust him since coming here to Mrs. Harrison’s. She was doing everything he said. The day of the open house he’d seemed worried when he stopped in. But since then Jenny was feeling better. She was resting, hardly even getting out of bed. She and Johnny and the new baby were in a good place, now.

She missed Mehetabelle, though—missed helping in the kitchen at the big house. The first time Jenny had seen the dumpy, dark-skinned woman with the big voice, she’d wanted to run for cover. But then Mehetabelle decided that Jenny was a “sweet little gal.”

“You just call me Mattie, little miss,” she’d said one day late in October. “Let that little boy play awhile longer with them upstairs babies and you set yourself right there on that chair. You know how to peel taters?”

Jenny nodded, and that was that. Any time she felt like it, she was welcome in Mattie’s kitchen. Which meant a lot, because Mattie didn’t let just anyone in her kitchen.

What Jenny liked most about Mattie was her singing. The big, powerful voice that had been frightening at first made Jenny feel safe now. She loved to hear Mattie sing about chariots carrying people home and having a friend in Jesus. Her favorite, though, was the one that started with, “
How do I know my sin’s forgiven? My Saviour tells me so; That now I am an heir of heaven? My Saviour tells me so.
” That song carried promises about His sheep being secure and reigning in glory and “
the
pardon’s free in Jesus’ name.
”

One night when Mattie finished singing that song, she turned around and looked at Jenny and said, “There now, honey-lamb. What you cryin’ about?”

Jenny shrugged. “I just wish it was true.”

“You wish what was true?” Mattie lumbered across the kitchen and put her hand on Jenny’s shoulder.

“That it was free and I could be an heir of heaven.”

“Who told you you can’t?”

Jenny shrugged.

“You listen to Mattie, honey-lamb. You know that song I like to sing about ‘Jesus paid it all’?”

Jenny nodded.

“What you think
all
means? You think it means ‘Jesus paid it all—except for what Jenny done’? You think it means ‘Jesus paid it all—except for that Mehetabelle Kennedy—ain’t no Savior dyin’ for her’? No, child. That
all
means just what it says. It means everybody for all time no matter what. Ain’t nobody calls on Jesus gets told to go away.”

As Jenny lay in her bed thinking about what Mehetabelle had said, she looked back out the window at the moon and whispered, “Jesus. Is it true? You love me? Even after what I did? I feel so bad every time I see Mrs. Sutton. I wish I could just feel right again. I wish my uncle wouldn’t hate me.” She cried quietly for a while. Finally, she fell asleep.

At first when she woke, Jenny thought she just needed to visit the necessary. But when she tried to get out of bed, she realized that wasn’t it. It was too soon, but the baby was coming … fast. She hated to wake Johnny, but she had no choice. She called for Mrs. Harrison.

Mrs. Harrison didn’t waste a moment. “I’m taking Johnny over to Nurse Wilder, and I’ll be right back.” She scooped the baby out of bed. As Jenny peered out her bedroom window, she saw Mrs. Harrison cross to the big house with Johnny in her arms and moments later come running back, her long hair trailing out behind her in the moonlight. Jenny didn’t need to wonder who Mrs. Harrison was bringing with her. There was no mistaking Mattie, even in the moonlight.

“Now here is what we are gonna do, honey-lamb,” Mattie said. “Mrs. Harrison, she goin’ for the doctor, and I’ll stay here with you.” She looked over her shoulder to Mrs. Harrison. “We’ll be all right. You go on.”