A Basket Brigade Christmas (9 page)

“I hear the disappointment in your voice, Mr. Tait,” Mrs. Tompkins said when Silas explained the plan to her. “She wasn’t refusing you personally. The mercantile is on the way to the depot for her. You would have had to rent a carriage. She has a fine one that hardly gets used. It’s more efficient this way. Don’t take it as anything more than that. She isn’t sending an unspoken message that you must never call on her.”

“I believe I’ve already made it clear that I would never expect such a thing,” Silas said.

“You have certainly made a valiant effort in that regard. But the heart will do what it will do. Someday, I hope you’ll have the courage to take down those iron gates you’ve locked around yours and at least let her know how you feel. You might be surprised by her reaction. ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ as the saying goes.”

Thankfully there was no time for more nonsense, for Lucy’s carriage had come into view. Silas led the way outside, locking the mercantile door behind them. In moments, they were at the depot and he was helping the ladies down from the carriage. Together, the trio made their way inside to garner a table in the café while they waited.

“You wouldn’t believe the chatter going on over at the house today,” Lucy said. “There are nearly a dozen ladies working together, and the unveiling of the Golden Needle Award is the main topic. There is going to be a virtual parade from my house to the mercantile midmorning.” She chuckled. “Mrs. Collins was distinctly put out with me that I wouldn’t so much as hint at the design. She must always have some little tidbit of news that no one else has. But I resisted. She will be just as surprised as everyone else.”

Silas suppressed a smile. He and Mrs. Tompkins exchanged knowing glances.

Lucy cocked an eyebrow and looked from Silas to the widow and back again. “Is there something I should know?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Silas said.

“At least not about the award,” the widow said.

At last, the train huffed its way into the station. Brakes squealed and steam hissed. Mr. Friede was the first one off the train. “Welcome to Decatur,” Silas said. “Miss Maddox and Mrs. Tompkins await us in the café.” As the two entered the depot, Silas explained the plan to make the unveiling a public event. “But Lucy—Miss Maddox—did not want to wait, of course.”

Lucy and Mrs. Tompkins rose as the two of them entered the café. As soon as Silas had introduced everyone, Mr. Friede reached into his pocket and withdrew a beautiful dark blue box. “I hope you are pleased, Miss Maddox. I made a slight change to the design—with Mr. Tait’s approval, of course.”

Lucy opened the box with trembling hands. Staring down at the sparkling gemstones surrounding the center crystal, she gasped with delight. “It’s—stunning. But—” She looked over at Silas. “We said seed pearls.”

Mr. Friede nodded. “I thought, given the purpose, you might prefer the red, white, and blue.”

“It’s more beautiful than anything I imagined,” Lucy said.

Mr. Friede’s eyes misted over a bit. “My nephew was on one of the first trains. He wrote me about your Basket Brigade. As I worked on this design, I realized how much I was enjoying the idea of supporting your good work. With your permission, I would like to donate this Golden Needle Award to the cause.”

By the time Lucy and Silas, Mrs. Tompkins and Mr. Friede had climbed aboard the carriage for the drive back to the mercantile, a sizable crowd had already gathered in anticipation of the unveiling.

“Look! Just look!” Lucy enthused. She leaned forward to tell Henry to drive around to the back entrance. “Oh, this is just wonderful. Thank you, Mr. Friede, for such a beautiful award. Thank you, Mr. Tait, for making it more than I ever dreamed! And thank you, Mrs. Tompkins, for that inspired decision to put a veiled display case in the window!” She wanted to hug someone. But she did not.

At last, it was time. Mr. Tait lifted the display case from the window and set it atop the counter. He and Mr. Friede stood shoulder to shoulder to block the view of the eager crowd outside while Lucy put the brooch in place. After Mrs. Tompkins redraped the case with the black veil, Mr. Tait returned it to the window, front and center.

“Someone should perhaps say a few words,” Mr. Tait said. “It’s quite a crowd. We might at least thank them for their support.”

“You do it,” Lucy said. “You’re the store manager. Besides that, without your and Mrs. Tompkins’s enthusiasm, this wouldn’t be happening at all.”

Mr. Tait—never one to call attention to himself, Lucy realized—asked Mr. Friede to join him. As the door opened, a titter of expectation sounded from the gathered ladies—and, Lucy noted, more than one gentleman. Mr. Tait began by introducing “one of the finest jewelers in the Midwest.” He lauded Mr. Friede’s generosity and then looked toward Mrs. Tompkins as he said, “And now, without further ado, the Golden Needle Award.”

The instant Mrs. Tompkins removed the veil, Mrs. Collins, who had been sure to arrive early enough to be standing right in front of the display case, leaned close. It seemed that every other woman in the crowd held her breath, waiting for the irascible woman to suggest what they should think. When Mrs. Collins finally spoke, Lucy sighed with relief.

“It’s magnificent,” she said, and then looked over at Mr. Tait. “What did I tell you? Speak with Meyer Friede. He does fine work.” She glanced about her. “Mr. Collins had a piece designed for me just last year.”

As ladies spilled into the mercantile, Lucy pulled Mr. Tait to the side. “I didn’t know you’d consulted with Mrs. Collins about the award.”

Silas shrugged. “Neither did I. Although now that I think about it, I might have mentioned Mr. Friede in a conversation right before I left for St. Louis. I don’t recall that she said anything about his skill one way or the other. How fortuitous for us all that she approves the design.”

“I know you were at least partly joking when you first mentioned a Golden Needle Award, but it was an inspired idea. Truly inspired, Silas. Thank you.”
Silas.
Somehow the familiarity felt right. After all, hadn’t they become more than employer-employee in recent weeks? Still, she shouldn’t presume. “I hope you don’t mind my calling you by your Christian name,” she said. “I don’t mean any disrespect.”

“I would never think you did. You needn’t have asked permission.” He hesitated. “I would not, however, want you to invite disapproval on the part of Mrs. Collins. She’s already caused you quite enough difficulty questioning your decisions in matters that were not her concern.”

Lucy pondered the warning. Finally, she said, “Perhaps we shouldn’t worry quite so much about Mrs. Collins. In fact, if we’re going to give her something to disapprove, let’s do it right. Please call me Lucy.”

O
nce the Golden Needle Award was on display at the mercantile, the number of ladies joining in the work at Lucy’s house increased daily. Mrs. Collins began to come every day. Lucy suspected that her motivation was a desire to keep an eye on her competition. Whatever the reason, Lucy was thrilled to see how well the community had responded overall. It made her wish that she’d opened her home on behalf of the cause long ago.

When someone suggested that the ladies tuck anonymous notes of encouragement in with their gifts to the wounded, Lucy cleared off her father’s desk in the library to facilitate that part of the project. On days when there were more notes than blankets or socks, the ladies simply handed notes out along with the food. No soldier ever refused. Every soldier was pleased.

Lucy began to join the ladies writing notes at every opportunity, especially when Silas was using the machine to attach binding to comforters. Unexpected friendship blossomed at Father’s desk, as Portia Dameron, who was, like Lucy, still single, threatened to sign her letters and to invite soldiers to Decatur to meet an “old maid” who wasn’t yet “totally resigned to spinsterhood.”

“You wouldn’t!” Lucy said, horrified.

“Of course not,” Portia replied. But then she gave a wicked grin and leaned forward to whisper, “but wouldn’t it give Mrs. Collins a shock.”

Lucy frowned. “Mrs. Collins? How so?”

“You don’t think I’d sign
my
name?” Portia chuckled.

Lucy clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud. Her composure regained, she tapped the notepaper before Portia. “Back to work, Miss Dameron. This is serious business.”

“As you wish, Miss Maddox.”

Lucy dipped her fountain pen in the inkwell and began to write.

When she completed her first comforter top, she changed the wording a bit.

Thank-you notes began to arrive and, along with the notes, a few letters. Some of the latter made the ladies blush, for they contained outlandish praise and, on occasion, a promise to come to Decatur one day. It was all nonsense, of course, but everyone agreed that it would be an unforgettable day if that actually happened.

There was one letter in particular that tugged at Lucy’s heartstrings. A Private Oscar Greene wrote that the Basket Brigade missive was the first mail he’d received since joining up. He had no family, he said, and if some kind soul would care to write again, he would be grateful. He apologized for his “abominable penmanship,” which he blamed on his injuries. His grammar was impeccable, his spelling excellent. Lucy thought that Oscar Greene must be an educated man. Perhaps even a gentleman.

She wrote again, although she did not sign her name. Initials would have to suffice. After all, a lady had to be careful.

She wrote of the weather and the work of the Basket Brigade. She spoke of opening her “huge, drafty house” to the work and how grateful she was for the help of many. She wished he could hear the pleasant murmurings of a dozen or more voices working together each day in the parlor, intent on bringing comfort to others. Her faithful housekeeper and the gardener had been a great support. She wrote a humorous account of Henry Jefferson dressed in old livery and standing guard at the gate on the morning of the first meeting. She hoped it would make the private smile.

She took Mr. Greene’s mention of the president as an interest in politics and told the well-known local story of how the future president’s first political speech had been delivered from atop a tree stump in front of a Decatur hotel. She boasted on behalf of a local tailor employed by her father who had had the honor of fitting Mr. Lincoln for a suit of clothing.

Private Greene did not think her silly. Her letters, he said, were the only light in his dismal days. He had nearly come to fisticuffs with another soldier over the cherished patchwork that would forever be a treasured reminder that there was, indeed, kindness in the world.

The private’s words made Lucy blush. She moved her correspondence with him to her bedroom, writing by lamplight late into the night, counting the hours until a reply came, and wondering…
is this what it is like to fall in love
? She caught her breath when Oscar first mentioned a visit. What a gift it had been that the mail could be carried between them so quickly, he said. How thankful he was for the frequent train service between Decatur and Chicago. He would soon be leaving the hospital. Decatur was not so far from Chicago.

Lucy studied herself in the mirror. She was still just plain Lucy Maddox. Nothing would ever change that. And yet … perhaps Oscar was different. He wrote with such grace. Such intelligence. How he would adore Father’s library. Lucy pictured him there with her, the two of them reading in the golden glow of the lamps. Fond hopes kept Lucy awake for the better part of a night.