Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] (36 page)

“Claudine! Comport yourself with some measure of dignity!”

Madame Savoie’s severe tone had the desired effect. The girl let go of Max and, leaning forward, peered toward the house. “What do we have for lunch,
Ma Tante
?”

“Roast guinea, glazed carrots, escalloped potatoes… and hopefully, a renewal of good manners.”

Beneath her aunt’s angry stare, the girl seemed to shrink. As soon as the phaeton stopped beneath the portico extending from the east side of the grand house, she opened the door and descended, leaving Max to assist Madame Savoie.

“She is young and foolish,” Madame Savoie said as Max helped her down.

“And lovely,” Max said.

“Yes. Dangerously so. My sister is hoping to see the dawning of some level of maturity after Claudine’s time with us.” She sighed. “She’s been here only a few days, and already I despair.”

Together, Max and Madame Savoie mounted the stairs to the side door. At the top of the stairs, the older woman turned and called out to her driver. “The doctor will need to be taken back to his home after lunch.”

“That’s not necessary,” Max said. “I enjoy walking.”

Madame Savoie nodded toward the lane, which was obscured by the pouring rain. “I know that quite well. I do not, however, require my dinner guests to swim home through such as this.”

“Touché, Madame,” Max said and followed her inside.

“Genie!” A booming voice called from up the hall. “What’s this I hear about company for lunch? Claudine says—“

Max hesitated inside the door and looked in the direction of the voice. A tall, broad-shouldered man sporting unfashionably long white hair and a drooping mustache approached, stopped dead in his tracks, and peered at Max. “I know you,” he said. “But for the life of me I can’t recall how.” He paused. “Ever been on trial for anything?”

“Gérard!” Madame Savoie’s beaming smile belied her scolding tone. She glanced at Max even as she removed her gloves and hat and handed them to the uniformed maid waiting with outstretched hands. “Pay him no mind.” She looked back at her husband. “Dr. Zimmer is to be our guest for lunch, dear. Try to live up to your reputation as a civilized gentleman.”

Savoie grunted at his wife and rolled his eyes at Max. “Women. Ruin all a man’s fun, sometimes.” He paused. Tilted his head. “You asked my advice. At the capitol. About a pardon for a woman.”

Max nodded. “Yes, sir. I did.” He glanced at Madame Savoie. “A friend of mine. A victim of injustice.”

“Ever get that worked out?” the judge asked.

Max nodded again. “Yes, sir. She… well, I suppose you could say she took things into her own hands. She’s free.”

Claudine DuBarry descended the stairs like a cloud gliding down from above. She’d changed into a diaphanous ensemble in a color that made her skin glow and her dark eyes glimmer.

“Zounds!” the judge exclaimed. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen since my Eugénie was your age.” He held out his arm. “Come along,
ma chère.
Humor an old man.”

Max offered Madame Savoie his arm, and together they went into the dining room, where servants waited to serve what proved to be an astounding series of courses.

“We take our main meal at noon,” Madame Savoie explained as Max pulled out her chair and then took his own seat next to Mademoiselle DuBarry.

“I do hope you have come with an appetite,
Monsieur le Docteur
,” the young girl said as she spread her damask napkin across her lap.

It rained throughout the meal. In spite of Mademoiselle’s flirtations, Max found himself enjoying himself. The judge proved to be an erudite gentleman of no small intellect and no pretense. The combination made for delightful dinner conversation.

After lunch, Max declined Mademoiselle’s invitation to join her in the library. “I really do need to attend to some business in town this afternoon.”

Madame Savoie smiled knowingly and, after her niece left the room, said quietly, “Mrs. Prescott seems very nice, Dr. Zimmer. Do give her my best, won’t you?” She glanced toward the library. “And please forgive my niece her foolishness.”

Back in town, Max had the Savoies’ driver turn right on O Street and drop him at Manerva. The heavy rain was little more than a misty drizzle now, but when he looked up at Jane’s window, it was obvious she still wasn’t home. He stood for a moment, looking up and down the street. When the Savoies’ phaeton turned the corner in the distance, he walked toward the end of the block and then up the alley toward the back door. There was no light in the rear apartment window, either, but movement near the door caught his eye.

A pasteboard box, nearly falling apart but held together with a belt, and a girl drenched and shivering. At sight of Max she burst into tears. “You’re Mama’s friend. You brought her to see me.” She gestured toward the box. “I’ve got the quilt here… and the key… and…” She shuddered. Max shrugged out of his coat and threw it around her shoulders. “Do you know where… where Mama is? I came… I came to tell her—” She began to sob. “I remember—I remember everything. And… and—” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry. I’m so… sorry.”

All through lunch, Jane did her best to rejoice with Mamie and Martin. The skies opened, and the rain poured, and the crowd at Dinah’s hunkered down and ordered dessert. When the rain didn’t let up, they pulled the checkerboard down off the shelf in the back and ordered coffee and more dessert. Finally, the rain stopped, and together, the Dawsons and Jane and Martin hurried toward Manerva for an afternoon of measuring and selecting fabric and planning wedding clothes and a trousseau.

Mamie blushed at the word
trousseau
and declared herself “too old for such nonsense.”

“I beg your pardon, dear,” Martin said firmly, “but my wife deserves the very best we can afford, and I will thank you to stop pronouncing her decrepitude.” He reached for one of Minnie’s fashion magazines and pointed to a lovely traveling suit. “This,” he said. “In that.” When he pointed to a bolt of claret fabric, Minnie and Mamie exchanged glances and dissolved in laughter. Martin blustered an apology for his faux pas, and Minnie told him the story of Mamie’s war with claret.

“Told me she didn’t care to look like a bottle of wine walking down the street,” Minnie said.

Martin grinned at his fiancée. “It’d be fine wine.”

“Oh, you—” Mamie dismissed him with a wave. “You take your jacket off and let Minnie take your measurements.” She glanced at her sister. “A nice charcoal?”

Minnie nodded. “And a black overcoat.”

“And a nice derby.”

And so it was that Martin Underhill, the ugliest man in town, ended up in the middle of a dressmaker’s shop being fussed over by two women who loved him and a third who thoroughly admired him, although she herself wasn’t quite ready to love. Yet. Not quite yet.

The storm clouds moved on, and the sun emerged late in the afternoon. Martin and Mamie headed back to the penitentiary, and Minnie went home, leaving Jane to climb the stairs to her room and wrestle over what had happened at church this morning. She’d just put the kettle on when someone pounded on the door. “Jane! Jane Marquis. Are you in there!” Just the name sent a chill up her spine.

“Open up. It’s Flora. I know you’re in there. Open up or I’ll be forced to go to the police.”

Jane opened the door to a bedraggled, frantic woman waving a piece of paper as she blustered. “I was here earlier and no one—and so I walked—” She thrust the paper at Jane. “Read it. Where is she?” Jane took the proffered paper and read:

Dear Aunt Flora,

I am sorry I deceived you, but I knew you wouldn’t let me do what I must. I am going to see Mama. I don’t understand why you let me believe she was dead, but she isn’t. She came to see me. And she’s very brave and wonderful. I didn’t know that at first, and I wouldn’t talk to her. But then on that day when I fainted, I remembered. I remembered everything. And I have to see Mama. So I am going to Lincoln. She lives above Manerva at 1400 O Street, and I can find that without any help at all.

Thank you for taking care of me while Mama was in prison. I will always be grateful. I have taken the doll I had when I was little and the George Washington quilt Mama made with me.

If you don’t want to keep my things until I get out I understand. But I hope you will. And I hope you’ll come and see me.

Your loving niece, Rose Elizabeth Prescott

The instant Jane looked up from the letter, Flora demanded, “Where is she? What have you done with her?”

Jane stepped back. “I don’t—I haven’t seen her.” A knot formed in her midsection as a thousand horrific scenarios involving what could happen to a young girl traveling alone flitted through her mind.

“How could you have gone behind my back?” Flora began to weep.

Jane pulled her inside, led her to the rocking chair, and made her sit down. While Flora wept, Jane made tea. Flora didn’t calm down until she’d drunk half a cup of the steaming brew.

Jane perched atop the small trunk beneath the windows. “I came without telling you because I was afraid you’d take Rose and disappear. I was terrified that I’d never see her again.” She swallowed. “That seemed to be what you intended.”

“You murdered a man,” Flora snapped. “Whatever you did to get free, that fact remains.”

More footsteps sounded on the stairs. Another rap on the door. And this time, joy as Jane opened the door. A sobbing Rose flung herself into her arms, while Max stood in the doorway. “Mama. Oh, Mama… I remember. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mama.”

Flora stood up.

Rose saw her, and her eyes grew wide.

“How could you?” Flora began to cry again.

Rose glared at her. “You lied to me. You let me believe Mama was dead. You didn’t give me her letters. You never took me to visit.” She swallowed. “You should have taken me. You shouldn’t have lied.”

“I did what I thought best.”

Rose blinked. Looked up at Jane, then back at Flora. “That’s what Mama said. She said not to be mad at you. That you did what was best. That you love me.”

“I do—” Flora’s voice broke. “Oh, Rose, I do love you. I only wanted to protect you from—” She glanced at Jane.

“You thought Mama killed Papa.”

Flora nodded.

“She didn’t,” Rose croaked. “I did.” And she burst into fresh tears.

Y
ou—!” Flora grasped the back of the rocking chair.

Even now, Jane couldn’t bring herself to say it. She put her arm around Rose, but remained mute.

“Papa called me ‘his little gunslinger.’ He taught me how. Mama hated guns. I never saw her so much as touch one.” She began to tremble.

Max stepped up. He put his hand on Rose’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Rose.”

Rose shook her head. “It isn’t.” She blinked. “I killed him. He was going to hurt Mama again. He was always hurting Mama.” She began to sob. “And she never did anything. She just tried to make him happy. He used to get so mad….” She shuddered. Croaked, “I couldn’t let him hurt her anymore.”

Dear God in heaven, help us. Forgive us. Help us.
Tears spilled down Jane’s face as Rose talked and Flora stared, and a cloud of emotion descended over the apartment.

Flora spoke first. “When you said you hoped I’d come visit you…”