A Basket Brigade Christmas (5 page)

“Of course.”

“Good. I’ll look forward to seeing you then. Now, if you will excuse me, I do have some private business to conduct with Mr. Tait and Mrs. Tompkins.” The moment the sputtering Mrs. Collins bustled out the door, Lucy flipped the O
PEN
sign in the window to read C
LOSED
. She looked from Mrs. Tompkins to Silas. “Did you ever?”

“Only several times a week,” Silas replied. “Mrs. Collins is a woman of very pronounced opinions and tastes, and she is a frequent customer.”

“And a good one,” Mrs. Tompkins added, “as long as she gets exactly what she wants.”

“I see that with greater clarity now,” Lucy said. And then she grinned. “I never quite understood how you could let her purchase all those yards of bright blue plaid last fall. I mean—the scale of it on such a … large frame.”

Mrs. Tompkins chuckled. “I did everything I could to steer her away from that plaid and toward an understated vertical stripe, but Mrs. Collins is not easily steered.”

Lucy sighed. “I suppose I’ve just bought myself a world of trouble by refusing her offer to help with the meeting.”

“You mean her offer to take over?”

“Yes, but—she’s probably right about ladies attending merely to see the house.” Lucy frowned. “I really don’t want gawkers. I need
workers.
”

Silas spoke up. “How can we help?”

Lucy described the plan that had resulted from what Silas could only think of as an epiphany. It would have taken something that dramatic to effect such a change. The Maddox mansion opened to the public? Transformed into a wartime production center? When Lucy mentioned that Martha Jefferson had offered to serve luncheon every day to whoever was there working, Silas interrupted with applause. “Bravo, Miss Maddox. It’s a superb idea. Inspired.”

“You really think so?”

“With not one scintilla of doubt.” The confident approbation earned him the kind of smile he had grown to cherish. “Mrs. Collins was right about one thing, though. Expect a very large crowd at that first meeting.”

Lucy nodded. “It’s a shame public curiosity can’t benefit the cause.”

“Perhaps it can,” Mrs. Tompkins said. “You could charge admission.”

“I couldn’t!” Lucy sounded horrified.

“Hear me out,” Mrs. Tompkins insisted. “It’s going to take a lot of fabric and yarn to accomplish what you want to do.”

Lucy looked over at Silas. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Would you agree to donating older stock to the cause?”

“It is your mercantile, Miss Maddox. You can ‘donate’ the entire dry goods department if you so wish.”

“I don’t,” Lucy said. “I just want to get off to a good start, but the point isn’t to draw attention to the Maddoxes. We need others to invest in the effort.”

“And so,” Mrs. Tompkins began again, “you ask them to invest from the beginning. Admission to the first meeting is gained by donating a bag of scraps or a twist of yarn.”

“I wish I’d thought to suggest that in the announcement. It’s too late now.”

“We can put up a notice in the store window,” Silas said. “Decatur has a very active grapevine. And you needn’t require it. Merely suggest it.” He reached up to pull down a few bolts of the older stock and then swept his hand over the surface of the top bolt of fabric. “A few women working together cutting these up into, say, four-inch squares while another few stitch them together could piece cot-sized quilt tops rather quickly, don’t you think?”

Mrs. Tompkins nodded. She glanced over at Lucy. “You’d want to tie comforters, though, instead of quilting—assuming speed is important.”

“It is,” Lucy said. “We don’t know that the trains will continue much past December.”

“Depending on how many ladies offer their assistance, it might be possible to tie several comforters in a day. Of course, someone would still need to bind them.”

“It’s a shame you don’t know a good tailor,” Silas said.

“Why a tailor?” Lucy asked.

“Because a good tailor with a sewing machine could apply binding in a fraction of the time required to stitch it by hand.”

Lucy nodded. “How many sewing machines do you suppose there are in Decatur?”

“I’ve ordered two for customers,” Silas said, “but only one is still here in the city. Mrs. Jenkins ordered a machine last winter after visiting the aid society in Salem and seeing firsthand what could be accomplished with one.”

“Jenkins,” Lucy murmured. “Didn’t they move this past summer?”

“They did. The other machine belongs to Mrs. Collins. She ordered hers about a week after Mrs. Jenkins’s was delivered. With more attachments and a nicer cabinet.”

Mrs. Collins. Again.
“I don’t dare ask Mrs. Collins to loan hers,” Lucy said.

“I doubt it’s been used once,” Mrs. Tompkins said. “It was more the principle of the thing.”

“What principle?”

Silas interrupted, hoping that his explanation showed due respect for poor Mrs. Collins, never satisfied and rarely happy. “She is somewhat … competitive … when it comes to things like fashion and the latest innovation. She wishes to be at the forefront of everything. I believe she sees it as part of her role as a community leader.”

Mrs. Tompkins chuckled. “That’s a very kind way to put it, Mr. Tait.” She smiled at Lucy. “It’s too bad the ladies of Decatur can’t be enticed to compete over something like comforter tying or sock production.”

“Perhaps they could,” Silas said. “Especially if public recognition for their accomplishment were part of it.”

Lucy was doubtful. “Wouldn’t they object to something like that? I mean … being singled out in a public way?”

“Object?” Mrs. Tompkins laughed. “They’d love the attention. In fact, recognition would likely entice scores of the women in our fair city to participate.”

“We could publish the winner’s name in the
Magnet,
” Lucy said.

Silas was half joking when he proposed a “Golden Needle Award” for “the most pairs of socks produced by one fair lady’s knitting needles.”

“That’s a superb idea,” Lucy enthused. She looked over at Silas. “Would you be willing to have socks submitted here at the mercantile? Someone would need to keep an official count.”

“We could string up a clothesline across the front window,” Mrs. Tompkins said. “Hang each pair on display. To keep the interest going.”

“And a count. A board in the window announcing the total number of pairs thus far. No names attached, to keep the mystery of who will win alive.”

“What’s a reasonable end date?” Lucy asked. She glanced over at Mrs. Tompkins. “Do you think Miss Evans would allow the winner to be announced at her Christmas musicale?”

“We can but ask,” Mrs. Tompkins said, “but first I’d like to return to something Mr. Tait said.” She glanced at Silas. “I know you were joking about the ‘Golden Needle Award,’ but what if the award itself were more than just an announcement and mention in the newspaper? What if it were something that would make the recognition more lasting. Perhaps something wearable?”

“That’s brilliant,” Lucy said. “A ladies’ version of a medal. Lasting recognition for exceptional service. To be worn with pride.”

“A brooch, perhaps?” Mrs. Tompkins offered.

“Large enough to be noticed but tasteful.” Lucy crossed the store to the jewelry display. She pointed to an oval brooch. “Something on the order of that. Except—do you think we could have something made specifically for the contest?”

“I could consult with the jeweler who made that one,” Silas offered. “I was actually planning a trip to St. Louis soon to make the rounds at a few of our suppliers.”

“Thank you,” Lucy said, and again Silas was graced with a sweet smile. “You are so good to offer.” She laughed and clasped her hands together. “It’s all coming together perfectly.”

She laughed.
The sound was more beautiful than any music Silas Tait had ever heard.

T
he day before Lucy’s meeting to establish a sewing arm of the Basket Brigade, she was wielding a feather duster in the library when she heard the muffled sound of hoof beats coming toward the house. She peered out the window.
Please. Not Mrs. Collins.
She’d been expecting the woman to call ever since reading a note Jimmy Kincaid had delivered for his mother.

Lucy had read the note to Martha before laying it aside. “Can you believe the temerity? Mrs. Collins made a social call to a woman in mourning. That’s very nearly scandalous.” Thinking back on it now gave Lucy fresh resolve to be quite firm when she faced Mrs. Collins on the morrow. She glanced over at Martha. “Perhaps I should simply step out on the veranda and tell her in so many words that I don’t
care
who runs the Ladies Aid. Before she so much as alights from the carriage.”

“If you want to try it, I’ll stand by you,” Martha said, “but I doubt the lady will believe you. She seems bent on assuming the worst.”

Laying her feather duster aside, Lucy hurried to the front of the house to greet whoever it was.
Please. Not Mrs. Collins.
The Maddox home sat in the middle of two acres bordered with a low stone wall. Guests approached by way of a winding drive that led from an iron gate suspended between two pillars, each one topped with elegant lanterns. Deliveries were made via a much less impressive double gate at the back of the property. It wasn’t until Lucy had stepped through the front door that she realized what she’d really heard. Someone was coming in the back way. Hurrying around the side of the house, she recognized the mercantile delivery wagon.

Martha had followed her and was the first to speak. “Why, that’s Mr. Tait sitting beside the driver. I wasn’t expecting a delivery. Were you?”

“No.” Lucy’s tone was teasing as she called out to Mr. Tait, “Do you really think we need an entire wagonload of refreshments for tomorrow?”

Mr. Tait lowered himself from the wagon seat, taking just a fraction of a moment to steady himself before turning around and tipping his hat. “Miss Maddox. Mrs. Jefferson. I’ve taken the liberty of delivering a few supplies in advance of the meeting.” He nodded at Lucy. “You asked if I would check for old stock. We have perhaps two dozen ends of bolts—a half yard here, a quarter yard there—and a good supply of remnants, for which there is often very little call.” He took a couple of steps and pointed at the oak cabinet in the wagon box. “I also thought you might make use of my sewing machine for the next few weeks. There hasn’t really been much demand for tailoring of late. It could be put to much better use here. If you’re willing to have it.”

Stunned by the generosity, for Mr. Tait’s machine belonged to him, not to the mercantile, Lucy said nothing for a moment. Mr. Tait misunderstood.

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I’ve overstepped. I didn’t mean—”

Lucy interrupted him. “No. Of course you haven’t overstepped. It’s … wonderful. It’s just … I don’t know if any of the ladies will know how to run it.”

“It’s a brilliant invention,” Silas said, “and quite simple to operate. It would be my honor to give you a demonstration, and I’d be happy to instruct anyone willing to learn. I thought its presence might make a silent statement as to the sincerity of the mercantile’s commitment to your endeavor.”

When he touched the brim of his hat and said something about interrupting her at a very busy time, Lucy’s hand went to the kerchief wrapped about her head.
Oh dear.
How embarrassing to be caught in such a state. “Well, obviously, I didn’t expect to be receiving.” She glanced back toward the house. “Martha and I have been giving the main floor a last polish, and when I heard someone coming up the drive—I thought it might be Mrs. Collins.”

“Mrs. Collins? Is she helping with the preparations?”

“I suppose that would be her way of seeing it.” Lucy chuckled. “But no, Mrs. Collins has not called today. Thank goodness.” She motioned toward the contents of the wagon. “It’s very kind of you to have done all of this. And I think you’re right. The presence of a sewing machine will make a very good impression.” She led the way inside. “You can see what we’ve done and look around a bit while I make myself more presentable. I’m sure you’ll know better than I where we should set up your machine. The fabric goes on the dining room table. If you’ve a mind to do so, you might suggest a way to display it to its best advantage. In fact, we might create a vignette—calico, a sewing basket—all the tools needed to facilitate the project. Can we do that?”