Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles 03] Read Free

upset, especially when her imagination recreated the smudged face and a filthy apron.
    Repairing her hair would take too long. Pulling a dozen hairpins out, she let it tumble down around her shoulders, then quickly drew a brush through it and tied it back with a green ribbon. Grabbing a straw bonnet, she headed back downstairs, landing in the kitchen just as she heard her mother call Father’s name from the front hall.
    Emilie sent a panicked look in Dinah’s direction. “I thought she was at a library meeting.”
    “Must have finished early.” Dinah headed into the pantry with the tin of cleanser.
    Tugging on Bert’s sleeve, Emilie headed for the back door. When Bert hesitated, she hissed, “Dinah will explain that it was us and why we had to hurry off. Come on!” Cramming the last piece of pie into his mouth, Bert set the pie plate in the sink and followed her outside. Once he had the buggy moving, Emilie said, “I’ve already heard Father expounding on what a disappointment I am. I don’t need a sermonette from Mother, too.”

    As the late afternoon train pulled into Beatrice, Nebraska, “The Man of Many Voices” rolled up his old quilt and tucked it inside the canvas duffel he’d had made especially for the road. He’d spent the last few hours trying to find a way to make his six-foot frame comfortable so that he could nap, and as he stood up to retrieve his travel bag, his back and shoulders complained. Stretching, he pulled the travel bag down from the luggage rack overhead. By the time the train came to a stop, Noah Shaw had clipped the duffel in place and was standing out on the platform, ready to jump down and head for the Paddock Hotel. To his chagrin, the fellow passenger he’d been trying to avoid for most of the trip joined him as the brakes squalled and steam spewed into the air.
    Ma had raised him to behave like a gentleman, and so, whether the term
lady
applied in this situation or not, he motioned for the garishly dressed woman to precede him down the stairs. “May I help you with your bag?”
    “You may.” With a toss of her bewigged head and a dramatic sweeping of her skirts, the woman who’d introduced herself earlier as Madame Jumeaux descended to the platform. She’d said her name with a flourish and a tone that made it obvious that Noah was expected to recognize it. When he didn’t, she’d condescended to excuse him. After all, she’d said, his was largely a Midwestern career. One couldn’t expect everyone in “that part of the country” to be informed “as to the larger theatrical scene on the coast.”
    Noah grabbed the woman’s valise and tucked it under one arm as he grasped his own bags and followed her off the train. As soon as he’d alighted, he set her bag down. “May I summon a porter to assist you?”
    “He can assist us both,” she said. “I assume you’re staying at the Paddock? It is, regrettably, the best they have to offer.” She waved a gloved hand. “I suppose it’s not so bad. One must temper one’s expectations to the venue.”
    A screech rang out as a freight car door slid open a short distance up the tracks. Noah turned to see a dark figure scurry out of the far end of the station, a wheeled cart in tow.
    “That will be our trunks,” madame said.
    “Yours, perhaps.” Noah indicated his valise and the duffel. “I travel light.”
    Madame’s painted lips parted in a prim smile. “How clever of you. Impossible for an actress, of course. One’s costumes and associated regalia.” She put a gloved hand on his arm. “Shall we walk together?”
    “I regret that I must decline,” Noah said. “I’ve an appointment.” He made a show of pulling his watch out of his vest pocket. “And I’m afraid I’m already late.” He tugged on the brim of his hat. “Have a good evening.” He pretended not to notice that the woman was about to say something. Instead, he headed off up the street—as if he knew where he was going. As if the exact