A Basket Brigade Christmas (6 page)

“Of course,” Silas said. “I’ll have Mrs. Tompkins gather up an assortment of materials and return whenever you wish. It will be ready to greet those in attendance tomorrow.”

Lucy nodded. “Good. I rather like the idea of everyone who comes through the door seeing that Maddox Mercantile has made a substantial commitment to get things started.”

Trusted employee or not, Silas Tait had never stepped through the door to the Maddox home. Even with Miss Maddox leading the way inside, Silas could not quite shake the feeling of trespass. He hesitated just inside the back door, trying his best not to stare. Miss Maddox directed Mrs. Jefferson to “show Mr. Tait what we’ve done to ready the house for tomorrow,” and then she retreated via a steep flight of stairs just off the kitchen.

“This way,” Mrs. Jefferson said, waving him through a door that led into a wide front hall with polished floors boasting an intricate inlaid border. Silas was reminded of the way Mrs. Collins had scoffed at people she labeled
gawkers.
How, he wondered, could one be expected not to gawk at exquisite silk wall coverings and crystal chandeliers? It was a glorious house—the finest he’d ever seen. Mrs. Jefferson showed him about with a combination of pride and deference. It was clear that she loved the house—and also clear that she respected him as the able manager of one of Mr. Maddox’s businesses. As the two of them returned to the front hall, she apologized for not taking the hat he had removed but still held in his hands.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, making you hold on to your hat like some delivery boy. Please forgive me, Mr. Tait.”

“You needn’t apologize,” Silas said with a smile. “I rather appreciate having something to hold on to.” He stared about him with open amazement. “I don’t know what I expected, but it was never anything this grand.”

Lucy’s voice sounded from the top of the stairs. “But surely you’ve seen the house before.”

“No, ma’am. There would have been no occasion for a mere tailor to be invited here.”

“But—Father thought so highly of you.” She frowned and then shrugged. “Ah, well. I am sorry.” She descended the stairs. “What do you think? Are we prepared for tomorrow?” She crossed the hall to the formal parlor, pausing in the wide doorway. “We’ve opened the pocket doors to make the space as accommodating as possible, but even counting the piano stool and the footstools, we can only provide seating for about thirty. There are more chairs in the ballroom, but I didn’t have the heart to ask Henry to haul them down from the third floor.”

Silas scanned the two rooms. He didn’t dare mention anything so intimate as
hoops,
but the fact of the matter was that once even a couple of dozen ladies wearing stylish hoop skirts arrived, the spacious rooms would be crowded. “I think it’s reasonable to expect that those in attendance will wear their best for the occasion. Taking that into consideration …” He hesitated.

“My thought exactly,” Lucy said. “It’s not really a matter of chairs, is it? It’s more a matter of our hoop skirts.”

Feeling awkward, Silas motioned toward the dining room. “Are you certain you want a display on that exquisite table? I will of course take great care, but—”

Mrs. Jefferson spoke up. “Henry’s working on a false top, backing a smooth piece of pine with felt. The pine will be the actual work surface.”

“That’s very wise,” Silas said.

“Where should we put the machine?” Lucy asked.

“By a window to provide the best light possible. Beyond that, it doesn’t really matter.” He looked about them. “I assume you’d prefer not to move the settee in the parlor?”

“I don’t mind it, but is the machine noisy?” Lucy asked. “I should know the answer to that, but I can’t recall hearing it in operation, and you know the ladies will want to be able to chatter while they work. On the other hand, it shouldn’t be tucked away where they won’t be aware of the work that’s getting done.”

“If you are willing to have the settee moved away from the parlor window, we can set up the machine and I’ll give you a demonstration,” Silas said. “Once you’ve seen it operate, you’ll have a better idea as to how to arrange things.”

“Whether it stays there or not, though, I very much like the idea of it being on display in the parlor for tomorrow’s meeting. It will do more than just show the mercantile’s commitment to the project. It will make a statement—that the point is work, not socializing. Although I will also say that as I’ve thought about this, I’ve rather liked the notion of these rooms echoing with voices and laughter instead of midnight creaks.” She walked to where a beautifully upholstered settee stood before one of the parlor windows. “We can just slide this over to the other window.”

“I’ll get Harker.” Silas hurried to fetch the driver. Together the men moved the settee and returned to the wagon for the machine. Silas had hoped that Henry Jefferson would be available to help haul the machine in. A wooden leg and carrying heavy equipment didn’t mix well. But Silas had no intention of looking like a weakling in Lucy’s presence. Fortunately, he had just positioned himself at the back of the wagon when Henry Jefferson came trotting around the back of the house. He’d been working on the cover for the dining table out in his workshop.

“Mr. Maddox would have my head for letting the manager of one of his businesses do the work of a common laborer. No sir, he wouldn’t never want that and neither does Henry Jefferson. Stand aside and let me help.”

Thank goodness for Henry Jefferson.

“You said it was simple,” Lucy said, watching as Silas opened the cabinet and lifted the machine itself into view.

“It is.” He pointed to the platform shaped like the soles of two shoes. “The operator places his or her feet there to pedal. That turns this wheel.” He touched the large wheel mounted on the right side of the cabinet, which was attached to the pedal with an iron bar. “This belt”—he indicated a leather belt that connected the large wheel to a smaller one—“transfers the power between wheels and from there to the finer mechanical parts that move the needle up and down. Meanwhile,” he said, removing a small plate near the needle, “the shuttle and bobbin work together to feed the thread in a way that produces a lock stitch.”

“That may seem simple to you,” Lucy said, “but to me it’s a bit of wizardry.”

Martha agreed about the “wizardry” involved, although she didn’t see it as a plus. “Wizardry from a monstrosity,” she said.

Silas smiled. “I suppose it is a bit of a monstrosity on display here in the formal parlor. In most homes, it would be hidden in the servant’s quarters—perhaps even given its own room.”

Martha snorted. “Over my lifeless body. I’ll have none of it. God gave me two good hands, and I can keep up with the mending just fine. Don’t have any use for a newfangled concoction of wheels and shuttles that could send a needle right through me at a moment’s notice. I’ll be back in the kitchen if you need me—doing what the good Lord intended a housekeeper to do.”

After Martha had retreated, Lucy apologized for her outburst.

“There’s no need to apologize,” Silas said. “A great many people are suspicious of machinery. Truly, though, there’s no wizardry involved. You could be running it efficiently in no time.”

Lucy sounded doubtful as she peered at the machine. “So says the man who’s a professional tailor.”

“Want to try it?”

“No.” She folded her arms. “I don’t want to chance being blamed for breaking it before we’ve even had a chance to use it.”

“The only thing you could break would be a needle.”

“Exactly. Broken before we sew a stitch for the cause.”

Silas reached into his pocket and produced a small wooden vial. “A good tailor always has a spare.”

Lucy reconsidered. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“I’d be delighted.” Silas grinned. “And Mrs. Collins will be incensed to think she’s not the only woman in Decatur who can operate a sewing machine.”

Lucy gave a low laugh. “If she does operate it.”

Amusement shone in Silas’s dark eyes.

Mrs. Collins aside, Lucy was surprised at just how much the idea of mastering a machine appealed to her. She nodded. “All right. Tell me what to do.” Silas carried the piano stool over. Lucy sat down, and in a matter of minutes, Silas had shown her how to fill the bobbin and thread the shuttle. Regulating the tension was a challenge.

“Just remember that a very slight movement of the screw makes a considerable change in the tension,” Silas said as he handed Lucy a tiny screwdriver.

She tried to hand it back. “You should do it.”

“No, you’ve a talent for machines. I can see it. You’ll be fine.”

She
was
fine, but there was a great deal more to learn. Threading the needle required guiding thread through half a dozen precise places on the machine head.

“If you miss a single one,” Silas said, “you won’t get a good result. There can be no shortcuts.”

Martha had returned from the kitchen and was standing in the doorway, her arms folded, her expression still wary. Yet, when Silas mentioned no shortcuts, Martha spoke up. “That’s just like with baking. Sloppy measurements or a missed ingredient and you’ve got yourself a failure.”

“Just so,” Silas said, nodding as he handed Lucy two squares of cloth. “Right sides together,” he said. “Just as you do when you’re hand stitching a seam.”

With trembling hands, Lucy lifted the presser foot on the machine and slid the fabric into place.

“Remember not to pull on the work,” Silas said. “That’s a good way to break a needle. All you need to do is guide the fabric. Let the machine do the work for you. That is, after all, the point. Now, you begin by placing your hand on the flywheel and moving it—gently. Once the motion is begun, keep it going by pedaling. The more evenly you can pedal, the more even will be your stitches.”

Lucy put her hand to the flywheel. Her heart thumped from nerves—and then thumped again when, as she barely moved the flywheel, Silas put his hand over hers.

“Not that way,” he said. “This way.” He corrected the movement.

For a fraction of a moment there was … something. Lucy didn’t quite know what, but it made her catch her breath.

Silas snatched his hand away. “I beg your pardon, Miss Maddox.” He took a step back.

Tentatively, Lucy moved the flywheel and then, placing both hands on the fabric, guided it beneath the presser foot while she pedaled. The result was a long line of stitches in a fraction of the time it would have taken her with needle and thread. Lifting the presser foot, she pulled the fabric away, snipped the threads, and held the result up with a triumphant smile. “God bless you, Silas. The ladies will bless you, as well.” She hesitated. “Is it asking too much for you to come to the first workday—just in case I have trouble with the machine?” She glanced over at Martha, who was still standing in the doorway. “You may think it a monstrosity, but I think it’s nothing short of a miracle.”

“And you’re to be the miracle worker, I suppose?” Martha asked.

“No,” Lucy replied. “Silas is the miracle worker for suggesting it and for teaching me how to use it.” She looked up at him. “What do you say, Mr. Tait? Will you agree to ‘hover’ here at the house in case the monster breathes fire?”

Silas bowed. “It would be my pleasure, Miss Maddox.”