Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] Read Free

There just wasn’t enough to do.
    The men had all kinds of industries. From dormitory windows that looked down on the yard inside the walls, the women could watch them filing from here to there, a human chain created by each man’s right hand on the shoulder of the man in front of him. They worked in the brick kiln or the clay kiln or for Great Western Stone Cutting. The buildings along the western side of the compound housed a woodworking shop and the laundry, among other things. But here on the third floor, the women had hand-sewing, mending, and reading. They never went outside. The days were long, the nights longer.
    Agnes Sweeney had been right about Miss Dawson, though.
    The matron was in a position to make life miserable if she had had the mind to do so, but Mamie Dawson had no such mind. She was firm but fair, and beneath her serious exterior, Jane saw evidence of true kindness. In another life, the two of them might actually have been friends.
    Most of the time, Jane was able to take Agnes’s advice and concentrate on doing her time as easily as possible. Every bell and every sunset marked a few less minutes until she’d be released and be able to try to rebuild a life for herself and Rose. She couldn’t quite imagine what that life would be like. Rose would be a young woman. When tempted to worry over it, Jane told herself,
Just get through today.
    No one must ever know the truth about that night when a drunk Owen Marquis raised his hand against her for the last time. Justice demanded payment for Owen’s death, and Jane would pay it. She got past Max’s visit and the resurrected emotions and spun a cocoon around herself. She did the time, one long day at a time. And then, toward the end of the first year, a postcard arrived from Flora that threatened to snuff the very thing keeping Jane’s flickering hope alive.
Rose has mourned her loss and is happy with me as her new mother. It is not wise to stir up memories of the tragic past.
    Jane kept writing for a few months, but every letter came back unopened. Finally, she asked Miss Dawson if the returned letters could be kept for her in the prison safe along with her other personal items. Miss Dawson agreed to see to it, and Jane stopped writing. The cocoon grew darker, but still she managed to slog through the days. God might not be listening anymore, but something in her would not let go. She couldn’t imagine what her purpose on the earth was, yet she clung to hope. She would survive and get out. She’d find Rose and… something. Most of the time her daydreams ended with finding Rose. Lacking knowledge of what Rose looked like now, she envisioned a younger version of herself. That would do for daydreams and fantasies. She’d deal with reality when the time came. For now, all she could do was the time.

Fall 1876
    M ama! Mama, no! Papa! Papa, stop!” Nine-year-old Rose Prescott flailed against the darkness, fighting whatever it was that held her in bed. Her heart racing, she tried to kick herself free.
    Aunt Flora’s voice sounded through the fog. “Rose… Rose, honey, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
    Arms encircled her, and Rose inhaled the comforting aroma of lavender as Aunt Flora held her, rocking back and forth, back and forth on the bed. “Shhh, sweet girl, shhhh now… you’re safe. Safe with Aunt Flora.”
    Clutching at her aunt’s sleeve, Rose began to cry, whimpering for Mama, wishing the bad dreams would go away.
    “I know, sweetheart, I know. They will. You’re safe now. No one can hurt you.”
    “Not me,” Rose murmured. “Not me… Mama.” Finally, she gathered the courage to open her eyes and peer over Aunt Flora’s shoulder toward the golden glow of the lamp in the window. The lamp they lit every night, just in case Mama came looking for Rose. So she’d know where to look. Aunt Flora said the angels would bring Mama right to Nebraska City, and Mama would see the light in the window and come for her.
    Aunt Flora began