Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (31 page)

As he talked, Jane began to weep. He kept driving. A small cemetery came into view. He pulled the buggy up beneath a massive cottonwood tree. Finally, he said quietly, “She’ll come back to you, Jane. She’ll remember your love. And she’ll come back to you.” He reached for her hand. When she gave it, he pulled her into his arms, and held her until, finally, her sobs subsided.

They drove back into town in silence, returned the rig, and walked back to the station together. Thankfully, the ticket agent named Simon who seemed to want to know everyone’s business, wasn’t on duty.

“Thank you for coming with me,” Jane said as they sat on a bench just outside the station, waiting for the train.

Max covered her hand with his. “I can’t think of anywhere on earth I’d rather have been today than with you.”

She gave a sad little laugh. “Things are looking up, Dr. Zimmer. You don’t have to endure being searched when you want to see me. Now you just have to put up with brief bouts of hysteria.”

Because it was the wrong time to say what he wanted to, Max just shook his head as he smiled. Halfway back to Lincoln, he reached for Jane’s hand again. Again, she gave it. By the time they pulled into the station at Lincoln, she’d put her head on his shoulder and fallen asleep.

It seemed to take half the night for Aunt Flora to finally fall asleep. Rose lay in the dark staring at the ceiling for a long while. Finally, she slipped out of bed and padded across the room to the window that looked down on the street—and the place where the buggy had waited earlier that day. She’d been so distracted, so irritable since Aunt Flora came home that her aunt had threatened to take her up to see the new doctor who’d taken over dear Dr. Bowen’s practice. The only thing that avoided that was Rose’s suggestion that she might be “becoming a woman.” That had gotten her a dose of Lydia Pinkham’s pills washed down with cod liver oil and an afternoon nap with a hot water bottle. Aunt Flora was nothing if not thorough.

Now, as moonlight silvered the picket fence and Rose waited to hear Aunt Flora’s outrageously loud snoring, she gazed down on the spot where the buggy had been earlier today. She tried to envision the face that went with that gloved hand… and failed. Standing up, she crossed the room to her dressing table and leaned close, peering at her reflection in the moonlight. Did she look like her mother? A knock sounded at the door, and in a flash Rose dove back beneath the comforters on her bed.

“Are you all right, dear? I thought I heard you up.” Aunt Flora stepped into the room.

“Hmmm?” Rose put her hand to her mouth, stifling a counterfeit yawn.

“I thought I heard you up. Shall I heat up some water and refresh the water bottle?”

“I’m fine. No need,” Rose said, and snuggled deeper into her comforter.

“If you’re sure?”

Rose pulled the comforter away from her face. “I’m sure. Besides, if I need the water bottle heated, I can do it. I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” Aunt Flora sighed deeply. “But that doesn’t mean I like the idea.” She paused. “I just don’t know where the years have gone.”

“Let’s get some sleep. Whatever you’ve got up your sleeve for tomorrow, I want to be rested enough to enjoy it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do I,” Rose assured her. “But there’d better be cake and ice cream involved, or I’m going to throw a fit. I worked really hard to win that competition.”

Aunt Flora chuckled. “Well, it was a lovely speech. The literary society was very impressed. I’m so proud of you, Rose.” She said good night.

Moments later, snoring finally sounded from across the hall and Rose slipped out of bed again. She pulled the box from beneath the bed, grateful for carpet to cushion the sound. Lighting the lamp on her dressing table, she positioned it so the reflection from the mirror bathed the room in golden light. For the first time ever, she took the skeleton key down from its resting place atop the molding above the door. Wincing as the tumbler moved into position with the turn of the key, she waited, but Aunt Flora was sound asleep now. Leaving the key in the lock, Rose turned around. She stood motionless, staring down at the box.

Finally, she bent down and, with a trembling hand, pulled the envelope from beneath the knotted string. Seated on the needlepoint bench at her dressing table, she held it up to the light, then tapped one edge to make sure she didn’t tear the letter inside when she opened it. Finally, she tore away just enough of one end to gain access. It wasn’t much of a letter. Only one page.

She looked at her name on the envelope and wondered at the hand that had written
Rose Elisabeth Prescott.
Finally, she removed the letter and read:

Rose frowned and looked up from the page. She tried to remember back to her first year with Aunt Flora, but it seemed like it was so long ago. She remembered Aunt Flora’s soothing voice offering comfort when Rose cried because she missed her mother. Mama wouldn’t be coming back, but Rose would have all the love she needed, as if she were Flora’s very own child. When had Rose decided that “Mama’s not coming back” meant that Mama was dead? Had Aunt Flora actually said the words, or had Rose just assumed it? Either way, the idea of Mama in prison and Aunt Flora’s pretense sent a wave of emotion through her. Anger? Fear? Dread? She wasn’t certain what to feel.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror again, trying to remember life before the train ride with Aunt Flora. Only flashes of memory remained, and Rose honestly didn’t know whether she was truly remembering a gunshot… a sheriff… a ride into town with someone…
Max Zimmer.
He’d taken her into town. She thought she remembered his soothing voice. Or was she just remembering that from earlier today?

She remembered a kindly woman and a lot of children. Warm milk… and a pallet on the floor by a fireplace. She must have stayed there for at least a few days. She thought Dr. Zimmer might have come by more than once. How long would it have been before Aunt Flora came for her? Had she ever seen Mama again? She couldn’t remember.

She looked back down at the letter.
She probably thought my letters would be too confusing.
Rose looked toward Aunt Flora’s room. There had been letters? Rose didn’t know about any letters. She’d thought Mama was dead. A knot began to form in her midsection as she read further:

At some point in the reading of the letter, tears began to course down Rose’s cheeks. Sniffing, she laid the letter atop her dressing table and sat, her palms resting on her thighs, staring at the box that still waited on the floor beside the bed. Finally, she swiped her tears away and crossed to the bedside carpet. Crouching down, she untied the string. With trembling hands, she lifted the lid. The quilt would be even more spectacular in the daylight, but lamplight was enough for now.

Stifling a sob, Rose sat back on her haunches, hugging her knees to her chest as she stared at the thin rectangles of blue fabric marching away from a red center square. Tan strips made the blue and red even more intense. Rose remembered brown, thirsty earth and a straggly red rosebush surrounded by blue bachelor buttons. She’d pulled a handful of those blue flowers, hadn’t she? Or was that later, for Aunt Flora?

Reaching for the quilt, Rose pulled it out of the box and crossed the room to sit down at her dressing table with it spread across her lap. The ornate brass key sewn to the center block shone golden in the light of the lamp. She traced its outline, and another memory flashed through her mind. A key like this on a ribbon… around Mama’s neck. What did it open? One thing was certain. The key on the quilt had had the desired effect. Rose was curious. Yet for all her curiosity, she couldn’t overcome the sense of dread she felt when she pondered the idea of meeting the woman who’d penned the letter, who’d been waiting in that buggy. If Mama wasn’t dead, then what had happened that night when Papa died?

The longer Rose thought about that, the more she feared the answer. Yet it had to be. Mama had committed murder. That explained everything. Didn’t it? Aunt Flora was protecting her. Wasn’t she?

F
or a few days after the quilt arrived, nothing changed. Rose left it beneath the bed and pondered. She went through the motions of pretending to be surprised at the party she’d known Aunt Flora was planning and helped with deadheading the rose arbor and agreed with Aunt Flora that October breezes were much to be preferred to the sweltering heat they’d endured this past summer. But through every day, the knowledge that she had a letter from Mama was never far from Rose’s thoughts, and the box with a quilt and a key called to her, almost as if a faint light beckoned from the dark space beneath the bed. And then, one cool October night, Rose woke with a start when Aunt Flora shook her awake.

“You were sobbing, dear girl. What broke your heart so?”

The words tumbled out as Rose sat up, swiping her tangled hair away from her face. “It’s dark. I can’t see it, but I hear a loud noise. I think it’s a gun. There’s a flash. And then I’m in my bed, but I can’t sleep. Not this bed. Another one. And Mama’s talking, but I can’t quite hear what she’s saying. I just know she’s talking. And then flowers. Lots of flowers on the ground. And a white fence.” She shuddered.

Aunt Flora sat down on the edge of the bed and held out her arms. Rose snuggled close while her aunt murmured, “That must have been horrible, but it was just a dream. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. I would never let that happen.”

“I can’t remember things,” Rose murmured. “I’ve been trying to remember back before the train ride.” She paused. “What was the name of the town where we lived?” Was it Rose’s imagination, or did Aunt Flora stiffen just a little when she answered the question?

“Plum Creek. I came for you as soon as I heard about the accident. And it’s no wonder you don’t remember. It was a terrible, terrible thing for a little girl to go through, and I’m glad you’ve forgotten it.” She paused. “The flowers on the ground and the white fence are probably what you remember about the cemetery. But that’s over now. We’ve a happy life here in Nebraska City. You don’t have to worry about the past, dear.” She took Rose by the arms and encouraged her—strongly—to lie back. “Now, I’m going to make you some chamomile tea to calm your nerves.” Aunt Flora left the room.

Rose didn’t ask any more questions about the past, but as the days went by and she kept dreaming, Aunt Flora took her to see the new doctor. “She’ll be fine,” he said. “She’s growing like a weed. Her body’s under stress. That can cause emotional outbursts. It’ll pass.”

Except that it didn’t. When Rose realized that telling the dreams upset Aunt Flora almost as much as dreaming them did her, she stopped the telling. If she cried loud enough in her sleep to awaken Aunt Flora, she said she didn’t remember the dream, even though she did. She began to write the dreams down on waking. And as time went on, she either dreamed in greater detail or she began to remember more. She reread Mama’s letter, and she began to pull the quilt out of its box on occasion, rolling it up and hiding it beneath her covers so that she could sleep next to it. She remembered red roses. And blue flowers. And lying on her back, looking up at the stars. She thought she remembered a voice.
The stars have names.
Slowly, she began to be able to tell the difference between the distortions of dreams and true memories.

And then, as a result of events connected to sweet old Mrs. Partain’s decline, Rose remembered everything.