A Basket Brigade Christmas (32 page)

The sewing bee at the Maddox mansion was buzzing when Zona arrived. The ladies were seated around the elegant parlor, their hands busy with various stitching and knitting projects. Lucy sat at a sewing machine as another woman cut squares out of fabric on the dining table on the other side of the foyer.

“Morning, ladies,” Zona said, quickly closing the door against the cold air. “I’ve brought a blanket from Mary Lou. She sends her regrets, but her knees are acting up.”

Lucy got up from the machine and nodded at the weather outside. “I wondered as much when it looked stormy.” She took the blanket. “She does such beautiful work. Give her our thanks.”

“I will.” None of the ladies asked her to join them, which was fine with Zona. Sewing was not her gift, and the women had long ago made it clear her help was not needed in this capacity.

Zona remembered the letters in her pocket and placed them in the basket on top of the piano. “Here are two letters for the soldiers from myself and Mary Lou.”

“Very good,” Lucy said. “The men so appreciate kind words.” Then she added, “Zona … we ladies were thinking that once Advent starts, it might be nice if you and some singers met the train every evening and sang Christmas carols. Would that be possible?”

Suddenly, a woman who’d been sitting in the corner stood up. “Oooh. I’d like to be involved in that.”

It was Mrs. Collins.

“But,” Mrs. Collins said, “I may not have time for that in addition to the musicale rehearsals. When do they start?”

Time slowed as Zona tried to think of an answer, and in the interim, she gained the gaze of the entire room.

“I … I posted the cast list this morning.”

“Very good. Do we start this evening?”

If only Mary Lou’s knees hadn’t been hurting, Zona wouldn’t even be here. Although a verse passed through her mind—
“And the truth shall make you free”
—she wasn’t so sure. But what choice did she have?

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Collins, but your name is not on the list.”
It’s the list’s fault, not mine.

All movement stopped, and slowly all eyes moved from Zona to Mrs. Collins. The woman’s breathing turned heavy, and her cheeks reddened. “There must be a mistake.”

“I’m sorry, but this year there were so—” Zona was about to say “so many talented singers,” but everyone knew the situation with the men gone off to fight.

“Are you implying others were more talented than I am?” Mrs. Collins’s eyes widened, revealing a disturbing amount of white around her irises.

Zona scanned the faces of the other ladies, who one by one took solace in the sewing work on their laps. She was in this alone.

Mrs. Collins stood and tossed her sewing on her empty seat. “This is ridiculous. Back in Springfield I played the lead in every production and was
the
soloist everyone cherished.”

Zona noticed a few eyebrows rise. “I’m sorry. Perhaps next year?”

Mrs. Collins strode into the center of the sewing circle, taking her place on the oriental rug as if there were an
X
marking her spot. “Let’s let the ladies decide if I deserve to be in your silly musicale.”

No!

But before anyone could stop her, Mrs. Collins cupped one hand in the other at bosom level, closed her eyes, and began to sing. “‘Drink to me only, with thine eyes …’”

The ladies’ reaction was immediate as eyebrows dipped and mouths grimaced. Then Zona had an idea. Perhaps if the woman
saw
her audience’s reaction … “Remember to open your eyes, Mrs. Collins.”

The woman nodded once, opened her eyes, and continued singing.

And then a miracle. As she sang, her eyes scanned the faces of her audience, and though the ladies politely tried to remove the pain from their faces, some were less successful or not swift enough to prevent Mrs. Collins from seeing their instinctive reaction to her voice.

Her facial expression changed from pride to panic. When she stopped singing, more than one woman let out her breath as relief took over the room.

Lucy began the applause, but the smattering that followed was pitiful.

Mrs. Collins turned a full circle. “I was that bad? Truly, my singing was that dissonant?”

“Not
that,
” Lucy said, being the kind hostess.

Mrs. Collins pointed at her. “It was. I saw your faces.”

Zona came to their rescue. She slipped her arm through that of Mrs. Collins. “Why don’t we go into the dining room to talk about it.”

The woman who’d been cutting out squares on the dining table willingly relinquished the room, and Zona closed the pocket doors behind them. She offered Mrs. Collins a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t choose you, but—”

“They cringed,” she said. “They looked as if they were in pain!”

So what did you learn from this?

But what Zona assumed would be a moment of revelation …

“What’s wrong with the people in this town? I have a lovely voice.”

Zona was at a loss. If the women’s reactions didn’t make Mrs. Collins recognize the truth, there was little hope. She pulled out two chairs. “Sit down. Let’s work through this.”

Although the woman sat, it was only for a moment as she popped up and resumed her pacing. “What is there to work through? I am a woman of great generosity, willing to do the work that is required to share my gift. That the citizens of Decatur are blind to it …”

But not deaf.

The mention of her “gift” gave Zona an idea, which was solidified as she noticed Mrs. Collins’s dress that sported a jaunty trim along the sleeves and bodice. “Did you make your dress?”

Mrs. Collins looked down, as if remembering what she was wearing. She smoothed her hands along the skirt. “I did.”

“There you are. Look at your fashion sense. I don’t know any other woman in town who would think of using that trim in such a delightful manner.”

“Thank you. I ordered it from Chicago before the war.”

“It’s very lovely.” Zona stood. “Would you be willing to be in charge of the costuming for the musicale? It’s not an easy task as we have to make do with what clothing people have and the costumes we’ve kept at the theater from past productions, but I know with your creative eye you could make what’s old seem new and fresh. Singers, I have, but a woman with an eye for fashion …. I could really use your help.”

Zona held her breath, waiting for her reaction.

Mrs. Collins fingered the edge of the trim on her bodice. “Well, perhaps. Actually, I think I would like that.”

The tightening in Zona’s belly eased. “I’m so pleased. You will be our official costume mistress.”

A smile spread across Mrs. Collins’s face. “I like that title. I accept.”

Zona offered the woman her arm. “Shall we go tell the others?”

“Here you are, Mrs. Byron.” Cardiff handed her the packet of headache powder. “If you don’t find relief, come back and I’ll do a bloodletting.”

She handed him a coin and left. When he saw that it was a quarter, he sighed. Not only had the war put a damper on his quantity of patients, but also their ability to pay. He usually charged a dollar for the office visit and twenty cents for the headache powder. And most of his wealthier customers wanted him to come to their homes, which meant he could charge higher fees. As such, he made a good living. Made. As it was, he wasn’t making enough to pay the Millers. And he was not alone. With many of the men off to war, everyone’s business had slowed.

He tossed the quarter into a dish on his desk and stood at the window, leaning on his cane. It was a good bet Mrs. Byron’s quarter would be his total income for the day.

He spotted a young man he knew reading a recruiting poster nailed to the shop across the way. Cardiff had brought Will Thompkins into the world. Actually, Will was the first baby he’d ever delivered.

Will touched his fingers to the poster, on top of the word
You
. R
ECRUITS
! W
E
N
EED
Y
OU
!

The thought of Will going off to fight spurred Cardiff to grab his coat, rush out the door, and cross the street.

“Will!”

The boy turned around. “Hello, Dr. Kensington.”

Cardiff nodded at the poster. “You’re not thinking of joining up, are you?”

The boy’s fingers strayed toward the
You
again. “My pa and my older brother have gone off, and I can’t stand just sitting here, not doing anything to help.”

Cardiff thought of the Thompkins family. Will had three younger siblings. With Mr. Thompkins also gone … Cardiff put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re needed here, Will. You’re the man of the family while they’re gone. How would your mother survive without you here?”
How would she survive if you were killed?

Will drew in a breath that made his shoulders rise, then let it out. “I know you’re right, but don’t all this make you want to help? Sitting here, doing nothing, seems wrong. Dishonorable.”

His innocent face pulled with sincerity, his eyes revealing the depth of his heart. Will waited for Cardiff’s response, yet Cardiff didn’t know what to say. The boy’s argument couldn’t be disputed. Yet to agree to it would require him to take personal action he didn’t want to take.

“Doctor?”

Will was needed here. But Cardiff wasn’t. Images of Cooper and Dr. Phillips invaded his mind. Their words doggedly resounded in his head:
“I will serve my country well and with honor…. Your help is needed…. Please come.”

Cardiff was surrounded by these men, their words, the recruitment poster, and this earnest boy. He could make excuses and return to his empty office, go home for lunch—it was carrot soup day—and let today play out as yesterday had, and tomorrow would.

Or …

Cardiff took his own deep breath and released his answer, letting it loose of its own volition, for if he thought about it too much, he would find a reason to take it captive, and find yet another reason to lock it safely away for the duration of the war.

It was now or never.

“You have inspired me, Will. I do want to help. I do want to pursue the honorable choice.”

The boy’s eyebrows rose, and he glanced at Cardiff’s cane. “You’re signing up?”

“I have been called to other service at a hospital in Chicago where I will attend our soldiers, wounded in battle.”

Will nodded. “That’s terrific, Dr. Kensington. I’ll feel better about my pa and brother fighting if I know you’re there to help them if they get hurt.”

He was naive, but Cardiff accepted the compliment.

“When are you leaving?”

First things first. He pulled a pencil from his pocket and jotted on a scrap of paper. “Would you take this to the telegraph office for me, Will?”

“Of course.”

Cardiff’s response to Dr. Phillips was short and to the point.

I’
M COMING.

“But what about us, Dr. Kensington?”

Gregory and his wife stood before him in the parlor, deep furrows between their eyes. He understood he was blowing apart their neatly ordered world, which revolved around creating
his
neatly ordered world.

“I need you to stay here and take care of the house and my office.”

“Without you here?”

“Without me here.” He offered them a smile. “My absence will allow you to vary the menu, will it not, Mrs. Miller?” She often complained about his need for a culinary schedule.

“I suppose, but it won’t be the same.”

“No, it will not,” he conceded. “But in many ways it will be easier, for you will have only yourselves to care for.”

“But who will draw your bath and set out your suits?”

“And mend them,” Mrs. Miller added.

Who indeed? Cardiff wasn’t used to fending for himself, be it for meals or his daily toilette. “I will make do without you.” He thought of a reason they couldn’t dispute. “As a sacrifice to our country.”

Gregory nodded once. “What about your patients? What will they do without you?”

“They will have to go to Dr. Smith in St. Charles.” He did worry a bit for the emergencies that would no doubt crop up. But it couldn’t be helped. “Our brave soldiers need me, and I must go.” He said it as much for his own convincing as theirs. “Perhaps you could use this time to visit your daughter? She lives in Columbia, does she not?”