Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (26 page)

“You remember what happened?”

Slowly it all came back. “Ellen—Mrs. McKenna—”

“Is just fine. You took the blow intended for her.” Georgia’s eyes teared up. “And no one will ever forget that.” She shook her head. “What a brave, foolish thing to do.”

Jane tried to shrug it off, but it hurt too much. “My arm… hurts.”

“Pearl stabbed you clean through. Doc had to do surgery, but it’s not too bad. Oh, I know it hurts like fury, but you’ll be good as new when it heals up.” She smiled. “It won’t affect your quilting arm one bit. Miss Dawson said to be sure to tell you that.”

Jane smiled. “Well, I’m glad the doctor was sober Sunday night. What day is it, anyway?”

“It’s Tuesday, and the prison doctor didn’t do this.” Georgia pointed to the bandage. “Fact is, he was in his cups again. Sergeant Underhill and that fleet mare of his raced into Lincoln and got you a good doctor. Name of Zimmer.” She paused. “Here now, you take another drink of water, and I’ll tell you the whole story.”

Jane settled back and closed her eyes while Georgia talked. Max had moved to Lincoln. This was his infirmary, the first floor of a house he’d purchased. “He wants you to stay here for a few days, just to make sure the wound heals up and doesn’t get infected. But he said to tell you he hasn’t forgotten what you said, and you don’t have to worry. He’ll leave you alone.” Georgia paused. “He seemed to think it was very important you hear that last part about his remembering.”

Jane nodded. Weariness washed over her.

“You get some more sleep. You think you might want a little lunch when you wake up?”

Jane nodded again.

“All right then, I’ll leave you to rest, and I’ll see to it.” Georgia smiled. “Anything sound particularly good? Something you haven’t had in a while?”

“Pie,” Jane murmured. “Any kind. Just… homemade… pie.”

Max kept his word. Jane heard his voice a couple of times out in the hall, but for the most part it was as if she was being treated from a distance. Georgia’s nursing skills were obviously excellent. The first time she unwrapped Jane’s arm and Jane saw the results of Pearl’s attack, she shuddered.

Georgia spoke up. “Why’d you do such a fool thing?”

“I don’t know. I just… did.” Jane winced. “She was going to hurt my… friend. I know she’s not really my friend, but it seemed like she was Sunday night.” She paused. “She’s always been… kind.”

Georgia nodded. “Yes. She is. Always.”

“And she didn’t make me feel like I was ‘less than’ because of where I am. You know?”

“Yes. I do.” Georgia held out her hand. “To Mrs. McKenna, that’s just a hand. Same as hers.” She chuckled. “Although it’s a hand that makes much better piecrust than her dainty little white ones ever will.”

“You wouldn’t think she was quite so dainty if you’d seen the way she faced up to Pearl.” Jane shook her head. “She got her to talking, got her to reveal the whole plan. I never would have thought of that.”

“Adam Selleck was trying to steal Mr. Underhill’s horse. Because of what Mrs. McKenna had found out, they knew to chase after him. Underhill caught him in the act when he went to get Betsy to ride after the doc for you. Coldcocked the man. Broke his nose.”

“Martin Underhill!”

“I know.” Georgia shook her head from side to side. “Just goes to show: do not mess with a man’s woman or with his horse. It does not pay.”

“Selleck didn’t hurt Miss Dawson, did he?”

“No, no. I was thinking of the warden when Mr. Underhill dragged Selleck in.” She shook her head. “Way I heard it, it took four guards to hold the warden back.”

Jane took a deep breath. “I’m so glad no one else was hurt.” Georgia studied her for a minute. “What?”

Georgia shook her head. “Nothing. You get some rest. I’ll have Jack see to getting you some pie. Don’t imagine it’s nearly as good as mine, but the doc speaks highly of a place called Dinah’s.”

Jane was almost asleep. Without opening her eyes she said, “Jack? Ellen’s son? How—“

“Jack stops by every day after school to check on you before heading home.” Georgia paused. “Said it’s the least he can do.” Jane heard her chuckle. “I imagine he’ll take kindly to the idea of fetching a pie for a good cause.”

A
unt Flora stood at the foot of the stairs, holding Rose’s doll quilt by one corner, a look of revulsion on her face. “I don’t understand you, Rose. It’s worn to a rag. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it dangling over the edge of your doll bed. It
smells.
It’s time to throw it out.” She paused. “In fact, now that I think about it, I’m quite certain we
did
throw it out. As part of our before-school-starts housecleaning
last
year.”

And I’m quite certain I hate it when you send me on an errand and go snooping in my room while I’m gone.
Rose closed the front door behind her, then made her way into the kitchen to put the quart of milk she’d gone after in the icebox. Aunt Flora was still waiting at the foot of the stairs when she returned. “I changed my mind,” she said. “Mr. Hennessey was tending the trash bin and, when he lit the fire—” She shrugged. “I just couldn’t let it burn.” She reached for the little quilt.

Aunt Flora ignored her even as she pursed her lips together with displeasure. “You haven’t played with dolls in a very long while. And should you take a notion to do so, you have a perfectly lovely doll quilt made in the latest fashion.” She sighed. “It’s no wonder they call it crazy quilting. I thought I’d go mad before I had it finished.”

“I love the quilt you made for me,” Rose said. “Honestly, I do. It’s exquisite.” Rose gazed longingly at the frayed quilt dangling from Aunt Flora’s hand. She shrugged. “Please, Aunt Flora. I’ll wash it.”

“It will disintegrate.”

“Well, I’ll
rinse
it, then. Very carefully. I’ll do it in my room. You won’t have to. It’s not like it’s in your way or anything. I’ll tuck it behind all my dolls. You won’t even have to see it if you think it ruins the display.” She gazed up the stairs toward her room. The assortment of dolls arranged atop the brass doll bed sitting below her bedroom window was little more than a monument to her childhood now. After all, she was nearly grown. Odd how the least impressive doll and the raggedy quilt were the ones she cherished most. She lifted her chin. “I like George Washington. Mother said they made that fabric especially to honor him. And I named my doll Martha.
Please,
Aunt Flora…”

Aunt Flora relented with a forced laugh and a shake of her head. “All right, all right. But do rinse it out.”

Rose took the doll quilt in hand. Later in the day, she poured clear water from the pitcher on her washstand into the accompanying bowl and put the doll quilt in to soak. As she watched the president’s face change tone as the fabric soaked up the water, the name
George Washy
sounded in her head. She swished the quilt in the water, appalled by how quickly it turned murky. “It’s all right, George. I’ll get you all cleaned up.”

Aunt Flora appeared in the doorway to her room while Rose worked to clean the doll quilt. “I didn’t realize that little rag was all that important to you.”

Rose shrugged. “The one you made me is prettier.” It was the truth. The exquisite little crazy quilt was embellished with literally thousands of fancy stitches. “And I’ll treasure it forever.”

She would, too. But it would never replace the “George Washy” Mother had made.

O
n Monday morning, a week after Jane awoke in the infirmary, Warden McKenna arrived to transport her back “south of town.” On the way out of the house, Jane expected Max to appear, at least to say good-bye, but he remained true to his word to let her alone. She told herself it was her imagination when she sensed someone watching her go, but once the warden handed her up into his buggy, she glanced back toward the house. Max was standing at the window to the right of the front door. She realized she wanted him to wave or nod, but he did neither. In fact, he stepped back out of sight.

The warden climbed in opposite her and Georgia, and the driver flicked the reins. They headed off to the south. Jane caught a glimpse of Minnie Dawson’s shop, Manerva, and marveled at the beautiful garments in the window. Fashions had changed. She’d look ridiculous in the dress that waited for her release day. Lincoln had changed. Someone was building an impressive brick mansion at Seventeenth and South Streets.

The driver commented on it as they passed by. “Who would have ever thought the city would grow all the way down to South Street?” He shook his head.

As the buggy made its way past the last houses in town, the road narrowed to little more than two tracks leading south across the prairie, and Jane realized, with no small degree of surprise, that she was looking forward to seeing Mrs. McKenna again. And Miss Dawson. Even listening to Agnes grouse wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe she was fooling herself, but she didn’t think it would be quite so hard to go back inside this time.

Something in the way she was seeing things had changed, even though nothing about her circumstances had. She still had years ahead of her before she could even attempt reconciliation with Rose. But she couldn’t do a thing about that, and so she would cope. Somehow, with God’s help, she would cope.

God.
It was strange to think of God as a help. She’d always seen Him as a kind of angry parent holding court over her behavior and always being disappointed. At some point in recent days, however, she’d thanked God for helping her ward off Pearl Brand’s attack, and that seemed to have created a shift in her sense of things.

What was that term Miss Dawson had started to use since Vestal named her baby Grace?
Grace notes.
That was it. Jane realized that, if she chose to see it that way, she had grace notes in her life. A quilt to finish for Rose. Women to help learn to read. Rugs to make. Sewing to do. And there would be more patchwork quilts. Perhaps even an appliqué or two. After all, the one thing she had was time. Maybe Miss Dawson was right. If a person found a way to have a thankful heart, even when things looked grim, God felt closer. Circumstances didn’t weigh so heavily on a day. Jane looked up at the blue sky and smiled.

The buggy stopped first at the warden’s house. Jane had hoped to see Mrs. McKenna, but she was nowhere in sight. For a moment, dread washed over her.
Grace notes. Find them.
Georgia stepped down, then reached out and clasped one of Jane’s hands between her own and said, “Be well, my friend. Be well.” She blinked back tears and headed inside. The buggy lurched across the prairie to the hitching post at the bottom of the stone stairs.

A flash of blue caught her attention. The bachelor’s buttons she and Agnes had planted were blooming. Jane smiled again. The warden helped her down, and she followed him inside. Expecting to be taken through turnkey right away, she was surprised when the warden said, “This way first, Mrs. Prescott. There are a few things we need to discuss.” He must have noted her expression, for he smiled. “It’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about. I just have a report to file. A few questions, now that you’re able.”

Jane relaxed and followed him through the outer office, taking a seat when he pointed at one of the chairs opposite his desk. For the first time, she realized he’d been wearing a holster and gun.
Well, of course he is. You’re his prisoner.
But then he did the oddest thing. He took the holster off and hung it on the back of the chair next to her. She leaned away and looked at him as if to say,
Are you crazy?

He smiled. “It isn’t loaded.”

Not knowing what to say about that, she just said “Oh,” and waited.

He opened a file and held up a few sheets of paper. “The clerk I sent in to take your report while you were in the infirmary wrote this after taking down your account of events. If you still feel it’s an accurate record of what happened, I’ll ask you to sign it.”

Jane nodded, and the warden began to read. When he’d finished, he looked up. “Does that still stand as your statement of what happened?”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned the folder around and pointed. Jane signed on the line he indicated. He closed the folder. Opened another. “Now I have another statement to go over.”

To Jane’s horror, he began to read about the night when Owen died. “Sir, please… I don’t see why….”

“Just bear with me. I have a few questions. I just need to get things clear in my own mind as we move forward.”

It was agonizing listening to it again. Why was he making her go through this? Was someone—had Max tried to intervene again? Her heart lurched. He’d promised to leave her alone. She interrupted the warden again. “Dr. Zimmer promised he wouldn’t do this to me anymore. Maybe he didn’t tell you, but I insisted, and he said—“

The warden cut her off. “Dr. Zimmer has nothing to do with this. This is my investigation.”

“There’s nothing to investigate. What you read is what I said. And I stand by it.”

“Still. Today? After all this time? After everything that’s happened, you still insist you killed a man?”

She swallowed. “With all due respect, sir, I insist that you believe the statement as I gave it.”