A Basket Brigade Christmas (7 page)

O
n Tuesday morning Silas arrived at the Maddox mansion fully one hour before the ten o’clock meeting. Even so, as he drove the light rig carrying everything Mrs. Tompkins had gathered for the sewing display atop Lucy’s dining room table, he was startled to see several carriages waiting at the front gate.

Henry Jefferson had donned ancient livery for the occasion and was standing before those gates like a sentry. Which was a good idea, since the first carriage in line was Mrs. Collins’s flashy rig. Silas saluted Henry Jefferson as he drove by, bound for the back entrance. He was hitching the buggy when Mrs. Jefferson flung open the back door and called out, “Thank goodness you’re here.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not yet, but if Miss Maddox doesn’t settle down, she’s going to have an apoplectic fit before her guests arrive.” She descended the porch steps, and Silas handed over a couple of baskets of props and then took up a larger box for himself. Mrs. Jefferson continued, “She rose before dawn and has been second-guessing everything from how the chairs are arranged to what we’re serving and on to every other detail. And she’s convinced herself that what she’s planned to say is entirely insufficient.”

The two of them had barely entered the kitchen when Lucy swept in with such force that her hooped skirt swung about her like a bell. “Thank goodness you’re here!” she cried out.

Silas set the box of sewing paraphernalia on the table. He’d never seen Lucy so lovely. She’d coiled her dark hair about her head in a new way that made her look regal.

She put her hand to the fringe of black lace accenting the square neckline of her day dress. “Is it too much?” She looked down, nervously trying to smooth out the black-and-white striped ivory skirt. “I didn’t want to appear to be casual about the project, but now …” She patted the wide lace extending from beneath her bell-shaped sleeves and glanced at Mrs. Jefferson. “It is too much, isn’t it? They’ll think I’m flaunting my—”

The housekeeper interrupted her. “I haven’t changed my mind since the last time you asked me ten minutes ago. It’s perfect. They’ll expect you to look like the lady of this house, and that dress says that you are.”

Miss Maddox turned to Silas. “What do you think, Mr. Tait?”

He looked up. “Of …?”

“The dress,” Miss Maddox said. “Is it too ostentatious?” She touched one of the scarlet silk rosettes at her waist.

Silas looked over at Mrs. Jefferson, dismayed by the housekeeper’s knowing smile. “Well, Mr. Tait. What do you think? Since the opinion I’ve given at least half a dozen times since dawn doesn’t seem to have convinced her that she looks lovely, perhaps you can.”

Silas cleared his throat. Swallowed. “I am hardly a proper judge of ladies’ fashion, Miss Maddox. However, since you’ve requested an opinion …” He could feel the warmth climbing up the back of his neck again. He could not meet Lucy’s gaze, and so he grabbed the two baskets Mrs. Jefferson had helped him bring in and motioned toward the front of the house. “You are a vision. The dress is perfect. Everything is perfect. Now, if I may, I should be preparing the display you wanted in the dining room.”

Lucy stood at the base of the stairs in the front hall, her hands folded in a way she hoped belied the pounding of her heart. She was trembling with fear. Not just nerves but true fear, for Mrs. Collins was standing on the other side of the front door. Of course she would be the first to arrive.

Lucy looked across to the dining room, where a perfectly composed Silas Tait stood beside the perfectly composed display of sewing goods and cloth he’d arranged atop the dining room table. He’d protested what he called “such a prominent station” and suggested that he should wait in the kitchen until she called the meeting to order, at which time he would quietly slip in and stand beside the sewing machine at the back of the room. But Lucy had insisted.

“I need every friendly face I can muster,” she’d said. “And if I try to flee, you’re ordered to stop me.” She’d laughed nervously as if making a joke, but at the moment every fiber of her being wanted to do just that. She actually glanced behind her toward the upstairs hall.

“You’ll be fine,” Silas said. His quiet voice steadied her.

“He’s right,” Martha said. “Just think about the suffering you’ll relieve through this work.”

Lucy nodded. Yes. That was the secret, wasn’t it? Serving the wounded was the thing—not what others thought of her or the house or—anything. If only the ladies would agree to help. “All right,” she said. “Let us begin.”

Martha nodded. And opened the door.

“How kind of you to come,” Lucy said, smiling as Mrs. Collins stepped through the doorway.

The older woman did not even try to hide her curiosity. Instead, she ignored Martha’s offer to take her wrap and swept across the foyer to drop a calling card on the silver tray atop the hall table. She looked up. She looked down. She looked into the dining room and nodded. “Mr. Tait.”

“Mrs. Collins.” Silas bowed. “May I have the honor of seeing you into the parlor while Miss Maddox greets her guests?” He glanced at Lucy. “She has requested that you be seated at the front to facilitate your addressing the Ladies Aid—when the time comes.”

Mrs. Collins looked at Lucy with open suspicion. “She has, has she?”

“This way, if you please.” Silas escorted her across the hall to the parlor entrance.

Mrs. Collins peered into the parlor. “Is that—a
sewing machine
?”

“It is,” Silas said. “Not nearly as new as yours, I’m afraid, but—”

Mrs. Collins followed him into the parlor. And so it began.

Lucy was gratified by the enthusiasm that greeted her presentation. She quickly described the inspiration for opening her home—the intersection of the loss of “one of their own,” her encounter on the train, and Mrs. Kincaid’s request for help with a meeting place for the Ladies Aid. She hurried to do what she could to smooth Mrs. Collins’s ruffled feathers.

“I wish to make it clear that the work I am proposing to relieve the suffering of the wounded men who pass through Decatur is in no way intended to be in competition with the Ladies Aid. While I have offered my home for future meetings, I have done so only as a personal favor to my dear neighbor, Mrs. Philip Kincaid. The fact that I am playing the part of hostess today should in no way be perceived as a desire to be involved in leadership.”

She glanced at Mrs. Collins, who did not appear in the least convinced.

“Those who know me surely know that I have always been content to remain in the background while others far more able than I take up leadership roles. I have no desire to change that.

“After a brief time of refreshment, I will be yielding the floor to Mrs. Bernard Collins so that she can conduct a proper Ladies Aid meeting.” She forced a nervous smile and nodded at the irascible old woman sitting just a few feet away. “I do ask that if you are interested in joining my little project, you leave your card in the basket that Mr. Tait has provided in the dining room alongside his fine display. The display shows some of the materials Maddox Mercantile has donated to inspire us.”

Lucy went on to detail what she had in mind. She limited the proposed project to tied patchwork comforters and socks. The announcement of the Golden Needle Award was met with enthusiastic applause. Lucy smiled. “I wish to thank Mr. Tait for his support of the project and ask that he come forward and describe how the mercantile will be participating with us.”

Silas looked surprised when Lucy motioned for him to come forward. As he stepped up beside her, she said quietly, “Just describe your plans for the display window, please. So the ladies know that everyone who participates will be acknowledged.”

Silas described the planned display and the public signage that would keep citizens apprised of the rising number of donations. “Each time a pair of socks is donated, the knitter will be asked to sign a small ledger monitored by Mrs. Tompkins at the mercantile. The entire city will be able to watch as the laundry line spanning the main window is filled with pair upon pair of socks. The sign in the window will announce the total number, and it will be changed each day as the contest proceeds.”

Portia Dameron spoke up. “When’s it over? How long do we have to win?”

Silas stepped back, effectively yielding the floor to Lucy.

“December 1st,” Lucy said. “That way, the soldiers will benefit before the coldest months of winter set in.”

From the back of the room, a plaintive voice called out, “That’s less than two months away.”

Mrs. Collins looked behind her with a scowl. “I personally could produce a dozen pairs of socks in half the time.”

Portia retorted, “Yes, but will you?”

Mrs. Collins jumped to her feet and wheeled about. Before she could say anything, Lucy said, “I see that Martha is ready for us. Refreshments are being served in the dining room. Please don’t forget to leave your card if you think you might be joining us here tomorrow for our first production day. We’ll be cutting scraps into squares, stitching cot-sized comforter tops, and knitting socks. As I said earlier, Martha has graciously agreed to keep a pot of soup at the ready for those who work through the noon hour. Tea and cake will be set out throughout the day. I look forward to the opportunity to work alongside each of you. Are there any questions?”

Several hands went up.

Lucy thought that she handled the questions well—until Mrs. John Pritchard, whose son, Robert, was with the 35th Illinois, suggested they distribute the socks and blankets the Ladies Aid had already gathered as part of a project begun earlier in the year. “They’ve just been sitting over at the Presbyterian Church, waiting until we receive a specific request. I don’t see any reason to ship them off to parts unknown when, as Miss Maddox has so clearly explained—and as many of us have had occasion to witness—there’s a more immediate way to alleviate suffering. I move that we bring the Ladies Aid blankets and socks here to Miss Maddox’s for distribution to the men on the train.”

Mrs. Collins didn’t give Lucy a chance to respond before jumping to her feet and saying in clipped tones, “As Miss Maddox has clearly stated, the Ladies Aid meeting will proceed
after
we have had time to take advantage of her kind hospitality.”

“I don’t see why we have to wait,” Mrs. Pritchard argued. “Who could possibly object to the idea?”

“It isn’t a matter of objecting to the
idea,
” Mrs. Collins said.

Portia Dameron chimed in. “Then what is it a matter of?”

“Bylaws exist for a reason,” Mrs. Collins said. “Ideas are presented as ‘new business’ and voted upon by the membership.” She looked out across the women in the room. “Not everyone here is a member in good standing. That means not everyone can have a voice when it comes to the Ladies Aid materials.”

“Perhaps not,” someone else said, “but nearly everyone here is a mother or a sister or an aunt or a wife of a soldier, and we’d all agree that if there’s a chance to relieve suffering, we should do it. We’d want it done for our boys.”

“Exactly.” Mrs. Pritchard nodded.

“That’s not the point,” Mrs. Collins insisted.

“Gertie.”

Lucy started and looked behind her in the direction of the voice. She took a step back and bumped into Silas as a woman garbed in black stepped into the room, which became instantly quiet. Full mourning meant that Mrs. Kincaid’s face was obscured by a black, knee-length veil.

“I beg your forgiveness for interrupting,” she said, “as sincerely as I ask that you forgive this breach of etiquette on my part. I should not be making calls. In truth, I am not. But I have a personal interest in what Miss Maddox has proposed, and I wish to thank her for stepping forward and doing something that has required great courage on her part. I intended to listen from the kitchen and to return home without anyone knowing I came. I thought it would bring comfort to hear my friends take up the cause. I would like to think that all of this is at least in part because of the ultimate sacrifice recently paid by one of our own.” Her voice wavered.

The veil did not hide the tremendous resolve required for Mrs. Kincaid to continue without breaking down. Lucy crossed to where she was standing. When a gloved hand was extended from beneath the veil, Lucy took it. “Thank you, my dear,” the older woman said quietly. She cleared her throat.

“Gertie,” she repeated. “You and I have had our differences, but in this instance, I hope that we can agree to conduct ourselves in the spirit of Proverbs 3:27: ‘Withhold not good from them to whom it is due, when it is in the power of thine hand to do it.’ It seems to me that for those of us living in this place at this sad time in our nation’s history, it is well within our power to relieve suffering close to home. Let’s not be concerned with bylaws just now, Gertie. Let the Basket Brigade ladies distribute our stores to the needy on those trains. Please. In Jonah’s memory and in our dear Lord’s name. Let’s not squabble over who gets the credit. Let’s just do good.”

Lucy saw that she was not the only woman in the room struggling to hold back tears. Robert Pritchard’s mother wasn’t the only one with a loved one who’d enlisted. Doyle Lovett’s sister was here. And John Rutherford’s fiancée.