Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (20 page)

Back outside, he unhitched the gray gelding, but when he moved to mount up, the horse danced away. Max stood with the reins in his hands. When the horse stepped close again, Max leaned forward and rested his own forehead against the gray’s, battling a brew of anger, regret, and something else he didn’t dare name. Finally, taking a ragged breath, he mounted the horse and headed off toward town. This time, he didn’t pause to look up toward the barred windows holding Jane captive.

Prison walls can’t keep God out.
Jane said she wanted to believe that. So did he.

M
amie started awake when something hit her foot. It took her a moment to reorient herself. It was Wednesday night, and she’d just fallen asleep in her rocking chair. Nodded off over God’s Word. Awakened to the same hitting her foot when it slid off her lap. Completely unacceptable. Both the nodding off and the losing hold of her Bible. As she bent to pick it up, someone knocked at the apartment door.

If it’s all the same to You, Father, I’d appreciate being able to turn in early tonight.

Groaning, she put her Bible back on the small table at her left. Rising, she stretched, then hesitated. She’d taken her shoes off. Whoever it was knocked again. Well, they would just have to deal with her stocking feet. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. “Coming,” she called toward the door as she passed through the parlor, ducking quickly into the bedroom to peek in the mirror and to straighten her collar and smooth back her hair. With a last glance, she headed into the hall and opened the door to… Martin.

“What is it?”

“Sorry to bother you, but there’s something—something important.”

She didn’t disguise the weary sigh. “All right.” She stepped aside. “If you’ll just wait while I get my shoes.”

“You don’t need shoes.” Martin’s face turned red. “I mean… unless you… well, yes. I see what you mean. I suppose we should—“

“I’m not needed upstairs?”

He shook his head. “Why, no, Mamie. Not that I’m aware.” He glanced behind him. Scratched his nose. “There’s just something you need to know. About Jane Prescott.”

Jane.
Her part in Vestal’s confinement seemed to have changed her for the better. And then… well, for the last couple of weeks it had been as if that flickering light had gone out. “What about Jane?”

“I’m the one who brought her down to see Dr. Zimmer that Wednesday. I thought maybe she’d bounce back, but she hasn’t. So… I thought you should know more.”

Mamie waved him inside. He hesitated. “I appreciate your concern for my reputation, Martin, but my feet are killing me and, frankly, I just don’t have the energy to care what anyone might think at the moment. So please come in. I’ll make tea and you can tell me whatever it is you think I need to know.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just closed the door behind him and pointed toward the kitchen on the left. Martin turned left while Mamie turned right. Retrieving a pair of knitted slippers, she pulled them on and hobbled back into the kitchen.

“You sit down and put your feet up,” Martin said. “I can make tea, and you need the rest. Goodness, you’ve been practically galloping through the days recently. It’s no wonder your feet hurt.” He headed into the kitchen, then reappeared at the door, red-faced. “That was awful bossy of me, Mamie. If—“

“At the moment, Martin, I am more than willing to be bossed.” She pulled an extra chair out and propped her feet up. “The teapot is on the stove. I always keep it filled with water so it’s ready whenever I want it. There’s several tins of tea. I like them all.”

“I’m partial to Earl Grey.”

“So am I. Good choice. Tea ball is—“

“In the sink. I see it. And cups on the shelf here.” He appeared in the doorway again, glanced at the table, and answered his own question. “I see you’ve got the sugar bowl out already. Do you take cream?”

It was odd having a man in her kitchen. Having him be so efficient was even stranger. But then again, Martin was a surprising man. Organized and highly intelligent—people mistook his being quiet for low intellect. Kind and sensitive—people would expect someone who’d been treated so badly himself to be angry and hostile. And now—good in the kitchen. When he set a steaming cup of tea before her, she said, “I suppose you cook, too.”

He sat down opposite her, smiling and shaking his craggy head. “Not a bit. Harry Butler and the state of Nebraska get credit for keeping old Martin Underhill alive.”

“That’s
Sergeant
Martin Underhill,” Mamie said, smiling.

True to form, he deflected the conversation from himself and back to her. “I hope you’re going to be able to slow down one of these days. I’ve been worried about you.”

“What on earth for?”

“Like I said, you’re mostly galloping through the days.”

“Well, there’s a great deal to be done to get things organized. Starting everything at once might not have been the wisest move, but then again, don’t they say to strike while the iron’s hot? I want to take every advantage of the warden’s support for as long as it lasts.”

“You’ve made a friend of Mrs. McKenna,” Martin said. “I think you can count on the warden’s support for the foreseeable future.”

She smiled. “It was very good of the Lord to use Vestal’s desperate circumstance to change Ellen’s heart. Her reading instruction has so much potential to make things better for the women.”

“Everything you’re doing is good, Mamie. Just don’t wear yourself out doing it.”

“You’re here about Jane.”

Martin nodded. “Adam Selleck was doing his usual the other day—you know how he is. Anyway, he said something about one of the ‘hens’ turning into a scarecrow. Made me angry at first—you know I don’t like him much—but then I noticed what he meant. Jane’s awful thin.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t like to speak out of turn. I tell the guards all the time that when they’re on post in the visitors’ room, they should forget anything that was said the minute they walk out the door—unless, of course, they hear a discussion of an escape plan.” He paused. “So I’m breaking my own rule just being here right now.”

“You’re the furthest thing from a gossip I’ve ever known, Martin. Please tell me whatever you think might help me understand—and help—Jane. I’ve thought she seemed terribly depressed, but I’ll be honest. I just hoped it would go away. I’ve been so busy… but that’s no excuse for ignoring a problem. She hasn’t complained about being ill. What do you think the matter is?”

When Martin tried to grasp the teacup by the handle, it was clear his huge fingers weren’t going to accomplish that. Instead, he palmed the entire cup as he lifted it to his crooked mouth and took a sip. “Well, of course you know the doctor told her the news about the pardon. She brushed that aside like it didn’t matter one bit. But then he told her he’d gone to Nebraska City and checked up on her daughter. That’s what made the change. It was like she crumbled away while he talked.”

Mamie frowned. “If there’s a problem with Jane’s child, something should be done. Why do you suppose she hasn’t talked to me about it?”

“It’s not that. He had a good report. The girl’s doing fine. But that woman in Nebraska City that’s keeping her? She’s let the girl think Jane is dead.”

Mamie put her feet back on the floor. She sat up straighter. “No wonder Jane’s melancholy.”

“Well, that’s the thing, Mamie. It seemed she already knew. She even recited a postcard she’d received.”

Mamie tried and failed to remember a postcard that might have had a nasty message on it. “What did it say?”

“I can’t quote it exactly. Something about Rose ‘mourning her past,’ and how it wasn’t good to ‘stir up memories’ of the tragedy. And that she was happy with that other woman as her new mother.”

Mamie shook her head. “I never saw that postcard.” She paused. “But if Jane already knew that was going on and she expected the pardon to be turned down, why is she having such a hard time?”

“She said she’d learned to do her time, and now here he came reminding her of everything she was missing. She said it was as if she’d just arrived all over again, and that if he didn’t quit talking about Rose it was going to kill her.” He paused. “I hear a lot of emotional talk when I’m on post in the visitors’ room. Usually I don’t pay it any mind. But—” He took another sip of tea. “She mentioned you.”

Mamie frowned. “Me?”

“Said that she’d been trying to believe what you said about prison walls not keeping God out.” He shook his head. “But now it’s like she’s fading away. Just when things are getting better up on the ward in so many ways, it’s like she’s lost hope.” He leaned forward. “We’ve got to do something, Mamie.”

From the look on his face, it was clear Martin wasn’t finished. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He hesitated. “Something about the way she talked about the past, something just doesn’t feel right.”

“Obviously something isn’t.”

“No, not that. I mean the way she talked about the trial. About what happened.” He swallowed. Shook his head. “Mamie, I’m not sure she did it.”

“The judge was certain. So was the jury.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t much of a trial. She took the blame and that was that. She checked in here ten days after Marquis died.”

“You think she’s protecting someone?”

“I don’t know. I just—everything I’ve seen and heard leaves me asking questions. I do know she needs help. I don’t know if she’ll take it, and I’m sorry to put the burden on you, but she needs help.” He glanced out the window. “It’s nigh on to dark. Time I headed downstairs. Patch’ll be raising a ruckus.”

“Patch?”

He gave an embarrassed smile. “The cat. Crazy little thing seems to think she owns me. Won’t let Harry feed her. Waits for me.” When Mamie moved to get up, he waved her to sit back. “You enjoy that tea. I’ll let myself out.”

“Martin.” Mamie called his name just as she heard the door creak as he opened it.

“Yes, Mamie?”

“Thank you for telling me about Jane.”

“Yes, Mamie.”

She started to tell him he was a good man, but thought better of it. “Good night, Martin.”

“‘Night, Mamie. You get yourself some rest, now, y’hear?”

Mamie finished her tea. Intending to go back to her rocker, she detoured into the bedroom and changed into her nightgown. Once in her nightgown, she decided she’d just lie down for a minute before going back in to finish her Bible reading and prayer time. The next thing she knew, it was dawn.

Things were changing for the better in the female department, but Jane couldn’t bring herself to care. She lay awake at night replaying Max’s last visit, lost in a morass of conflicting emotions she couldn’t seem to sort through. He’d kept his word. He hadn’t come back. She should be thankful for that, shouldn’t she? Part of her felt relief, but then things got confused. As long as she could picture Max in the office in Plum Creek—and demand that he stay there—she’d rarely thought about him. Now that she didn’t know where he was, she couldn’t seem to stop.

Maybe thoughts of Max were just her way of avoiding thoughts of Rose… with a new mother, and Jane all but forgotten. Even if she managed to fall asleep, let little Grace so much as peep and Jane jolted awake, thinking about those wonderful days when Rose was a baby and Thomas was alive. Had it really happened, or was she remembering a novel she’d read—someone else’s love story?

She tried to distract herself from the downward spiral. Sometimes it worked. For a while. She sat in on Mrs. McKenna’s lessons just to have something to do. Helping Agnes and Susan Horst work through their lessons for the next day took up more time. Those two had taken a fierce interest in learning, as if they’d been thirsty for a very long time and just discovered the only thing that would slake that thirst. Jane was happy for them. She just couldn’t seem to catch the same enthusiasm… for anything.

She didn’t even notice she hadn’t been eating much, until one morning when she went to button her skirt and it nearly slipped off her hips. Embarrassed, she looked around, hoping no one had seen. After breakfast, she took a dart or two right through the waistband as soon as Miss Dawson produced the sewing supplies. She didn’t think Miss Dawson saw her do it, and she was glad. She didn’t have the energy to cope with concern directed her way. There were no grace notes falling on behalf of Jane Prescott, and she didn’t want anyone trying to convince her otherwise. The idea just made her tired. And then a grace note plopped down beside her—in spite of her attempts to dodge it.

It was the afternoon the guards delivered four sewing machines to be lined up in a row beneath the windows on the west side of the parlor. Mr. Underhill was supervising instead of hauling. Jane supposed that was because he was still healing from his encounter with Pearl Brand. Or maybe it was that he’d been promoted. People called him Sergeant Underhill now. Jane didn’t think he liked it. Nor, she observed, did Adam Selleck, because Underhill’s promotion meant he was actually in authority now, a reality that obviously galled Selleck no end.

Jane didn’t take pleasure in much of anything these days, but she did like knowing that someone like Martin Underhill was in a position to control Adam Selleck’s more prurient tendencies. If only Underhill would realize that Selleck’s verbal assaults were just the tip of an iceberg that someone needed to shatter. But that wasn’t Jane’s concern. As long as Selleck didn’t try anything with her. As she watched the sewing machines slide into position and noticed the way Selleck leered at Ivy Cochran, Jane realized that there was something she did still care about. If she could feel disgust for Adam Selleck, maybe there was hope for her yet.