Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] by Key on the Quilt Read Free Book Online Page B

while Mrs. McKenna and her housekeeper “arranged things” inside. Jane wanted to stay with Vestal, but Max waved her inside to help. She entered feeling like an intruder, even more ill at ease when she caught her first glimpse of the fine things furnishing the warden’s new house. The aromas of linseed oil and new paint filled the air—or was she overly sensitive to aromas she connected with high-toned living?
    While they all moved dining-room chairs away from the table—the doctor was going to use that for his exam table—the housekeeper said something about a mattress in the attic. She nodded Jane’s way. “The two of us could bring it down while the doctor washes up.”
    Jane trailed up the stairs after the housekeeper, unprepared for her exposure to a world that sent her whirling back in time just as surely as if the past few years had been a dream. When she stopped dead in her tracks at the top of the stairs, the housekeeper glanced back.
    “Is everything all right?”
    Jane started. “Y–yes. I just”—she nodded toward what was obviously Warden and Mrs. McKenna’s room—“that quilt…” She forced herself to look away, but just inside the next room was yet another wonder.
    The housekeeper smiled. “Mrs. McKenna brought most of that fabric home with her from the Centennial.”
    Jane nodded. She knew. She had to bite her lower lip to keep from crying over the memory it evoked. She and Rose had lived above a dry goods store for the two years after Thomas died—before Owen. The owner and his wife had attended the opening of the Centennial Exposition in Philadelphia, and when they came back, Mrs. Carr had purchased a bolt of commemorative fabric.
A centennial print,
she’d called it. Rose had called it
the George Washy.
Jane had made her a doll quilt with it, barely finishing it before… leaving… for Lincoln. Blinking back threatening tears, she lifted the hem of her plain gray skirt and followed the housekeeper up the steep, narrow stairs and into the attic, where they retrieved a somewhat limp mattress covered with a red-and-brown ticking.
    “Needs fresh straw,” the other woman murmured as she and Jane carried it back downstairs. “But it’s better than nothing.”
    As they traversed the second-floor hall, Jane stole another glance at the exquisite appliqué quilt adorning the McKennas’ bed. Red-and-green pomegranates danced across an ivory surface framed by the most exquisite swag border Jane had ever seen.
Love Apples.
Thomas had teased her about the name when he first saw their wedding quilt. And that first night, when he drew it aside and pulled her toward him…
    Jane cleared her throat. It didn’t matter that the warden trusted her. It didn’t matter that Vestal wanted her. This had been a mistake.
Please just let Vestal’s baby come. Let this be over. I can’t bear it. I can’t do this.
    Mrs. McKenna spread a clean sheet atop the straw tick the minute Jane and the housekeeper had it positioned atop the table. The older woman had said it needed straw, but when Vestal settled atop it, she sighed with pleasure. Jane smiled, too. No one else in that room realized how luxurious that straw tick would feel compared to what they were used to over in the ward. There they slept on bags of corn husks freshened every six months.
    While everyone else bustled about, Jane stood in the corner of the room, her hands clenched behind her, afraid she’d mar the elegant wall covering if she moved closer to the wall, even though she longed to lean against it for support as she tried to get control over her memories and hold back the tears threatening to slide down her cheeks.
    When Mrs. McKenna’s housekeeper touched her on the shoulder, Jane jumped.
    “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the woman said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought maybe you’d help me haul water in?” She nodded toward the back of the house. “I asked the guard, but he reminded me he’s no slave.”
    Oh, how she longed