These tangled threads, p.13
These Tangled Threads, page 13
“That does sound more like it,” Lorna agreed. “I’ll be the sheep.”
“Are you two here to see the surprise?” John appeared in the workshop doorway. “Come on in. We’re taking turns guarding it to make sure none of tonight’s guests sneak a look.”
Inside, the sedan chair gleamed in a shaft of sunlight. Arthur was proud of how the woodwork had turned out, and the fabric of the curtains seemed to glimmer. “What did you use to make the fabric?”
“It’s a basic design. I simply incorporated a metallic thread to make the cloth shine. It also added weight so the curtains drape nicely.” Lorna flicked the fabric to demonstrate how it dropped back into place, the folds hanging just so.
“You outdid yourself,” Arthur said, fingering the cloth. Lorna’s gaze dropped, and she mumbled a reply. “No need to be humble,” he said. “You should take pride in such fine work.”
“It’s absolutely perfect.” They turned to see Cornelia step inside, the game bag the staff had given her as a present slung over her shoulder. “I understand you both played an important role in making sure my entrance will not be forgotten anytime soon.” She smiled. “Thank you.”
Arthur noted the flush on Lorna’s cheek that made her look even more charming than usual. Which wasn’t something he had any business noticing.
“May I ask what your costume will be?” Lorna asked as though trying to change the subject.
Cornelia grinned. “It’s marvelous. I’ll be a Renaissance page with a bolero jacket and gorgeous lace underneath.” She became more animated as she spoke. “There’s a brilliant pink sash that matches the ostrich plume in my velvet cap. It’s a stunner.”
Lorna looked surprised. “A page? Not a queen with a crown or an exotic costume from the Orient?”
Cornelia made a face. “I’ve had to wear elaborate dresses too many times. As a page I’ll be wearing britches and low-heeled shoes that will let me dance and dance without pinching. We’ll have the Garber Davis Orchestra, and this costume means I can dance as much as I like without being encumbered.”
“You’ve thought this through,” Arthur said.
John joined them. “Our Nell’s a smart one,” he said. “And she’ll be the prettiest girl in the room no matter what she wears.”
Cornelia touched his arm fondly. “You always did stand up for me, John. Now, I’d better get back to the festivities. Again, thank you all for helping make this day so very special.”
John grinned, “That’s our girl. I believe I’ll step out and kick up my own heels a bit.” He winked. “Don’t be letting anyone get a peek in here.”
They watched John escort Cornelia out. Arthur caught a wistful look on Lorna’s face. “She must be missing her father today,” she murmured. “It doesn’t matter how many years pass; such a loss remains keen.”
“As you know all too well,” he said.
“Indeed, I do.” She turned luminous eyes on him. “Did I ever thank you for saving me that day?”
“It was never necessary. I’m only grateful I was there to do it.”
Tears welled. “Sometimes I wonder if I should have just let go. Followed Father wherever he went.”
“No.” Arthur grasped her arm. “Never say such things. You are . . .” He choked on the word. “You are precious.” His voice turned hoarse. “And you would be missed. Very much so.”
Two tears spilled, one after the other, plopping onto the back of his hand. “Thank you, Arthur. I didn’t say it then, but I’ll say it now.” She looked up at him. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
He found a handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. “You have long been and shall always remain dear to me. I’m grateful for your friendship.”
She patted her cheeks with the handkerchief and gave a watery smile. “Thank you for that as well, Arthur. It’s good to know I can count on you to be my friend.”
“Always.” And he meant it, even though his heart ached knowing it would never be more than that.
18
Gentry
BILTMORE VILLAGE
SEPTEMBER 1916
Gentry tried to be nice to Lorna. She guessed she was still pretty torn up about her father being drowned and nearly drowning herself. She supposed that was what happened when you liked your family. She tried to imagine how she would feel if she knew her mother was dead instead of just having gone off without her. That would be hard.
“I got that last batch of houndstooth done,” she told Lorna.
“Hmm?” Lorna slowed her own weaving to look at Gentry.
“I said I finished the houndstooth fabric. Without your having to tell me to do it.”
“Good.” Lorna picked up speed again as though she were racing against a clock no one else could see.
Gentry huffed. She needed Lorna’s help, but the older girl was always gloomy now. It had taken weeks to clean out the weaving rooms after the floodwater receded—a respite Gentry took full advantage of. But now they were back to work. Each day Lorna came to the weaving room, assigned work to the others, did her own work, and left again. No laughing. No teasing. Shoot, she didn’t even fuss anymore. It was like she’d become a machine.
“I’ve got something to show you,” Gentry blurted.
Lorna sighed without even slowing her work this time. “Can it wait?”
“It’s quitting time,” Gentry pointed out. “We’re the only ones left.”
Lorna pulled the beater bar one last time and stilled her hands. She glanced around. “So we are.” She gave Gentry a puzzled look. “Why haven’t you left?”
Gentry threw her hands up in exasperation. “I was waiting for you.”
“Oh. That’s kind.” Lorna stood and did what she needed to tidy her loom until she could pick back up in the morning.
“Can I show you something?” Gentry persisted.
“Fine. Yes. What do you want to show me?”
Gentry grinned and scampered to a table, where she’d tucked some pages in a drawer. “These,” she said, withdrawing her mother’s drafts with a flourish.
Lorna approached as though her boots were made of lead. She picked up one of the yellowed pages, and for the first time since the flood, her eyes lit. She reached for a second sheet. “Where did you get these?”
“Don’t you remember?” Gentry’s patience was running thin despite her best intentions. “They’re my mother’s.”
“I thought you just had the one.”
“You mean the one you stole?” There, that put some color back in Lorna’s cheeks. “There are lots of them.”
Lorna’s eyes flicked to Gentry and then back to the papers she held. “They are interesting.” She heaved a sigh and dropped the draft she was holding. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was weaving one of your mother’s designs. But you still aren’t skilled enough to weave these.”
“Are you?” Gentry asked.
Lorna tilted her head and drew the drafts close again. She bent over them, tracing the lines and patterns with a finger. “They’re challenging, but yes, I could do it.”
“Do you think someone would pay for the designs?”
Lorna’s head jerked up. “Pay? Are you asking if Biltmore Estate Industries would buy them from you?”
“Yes.” Gentry felt relief at being understood wash over her.
Lorna shrugged. “Perhaps. They’re certainly unique and would add to the collection. Since the first fabric did so well, they’d likely want more.”
“Would you take them to Miss Vance and Miss Yale for me? See what they would offer?” Gentry gnawed a broken fingernail. “You know more about what they’re worth.”
Lorna stood silent for several beats. It felt like an eternity to Gentry. Finally, the older girl nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. “I can do that.”
Gentry flung her arms around Lorna. “Thank you so much! You have no idea what this means to me.” Lorna felt stiff in her arms, but Gentry didn’t care. She had a plan to get the money she needed to go find her mother, and that was all that mattered.
Gentry forced herself not to ask Lorna if she’d sold the drafts yet. She knew her teacher had gone to see Miss Vance and Miss Yale after supper the previous day, but Lorna didn’t offer her any news. She tried to do her work—weaving yet another length of plain gray cloth—but she was even slower than usual. Finally, at the end of their lunch break, she saw Lorna pin on her hat and leave in a car headed toward Biltmore House. Could she be meeting with Mrs. Vanderbilt? Did this mean the queen of the castle herself would buy the drafts? Gentry’s mind whirled, and her fingers stumbled until at last she asked to be excused due to a headache. Apparently, she looked so miserable the floor manager believed her for once.
In her room Gentry tried to rest with a cool washcloth over her heated brow, but she couldn’t lie still. Finally, she picked up her dulcimer, sat on the floor beside her window, and plucked out the softest, saddest tunes she knew. The music worked where nothing else could, and soon she felt her spirit ease.
She was so lost in her music that she didn’t hear the footsteps approaching her room. A sharp rap on the doorframe brought her head up. Lorna stood in the doorway, a worried look on her face.
“She didn’t want them, did she?” The words burst from Gentry. She shoved her dulcimer away. “Well, maybe I don’t want her to have them. How about that?”
“No, no, that’s not it.” Lorna’s fingers worried the buttons on her blouse. “It’s just . . .”
“What?” Gentry was on her feet now, impatience buzzing through her so that she simply had to move.
“Maybe it’s not as much money as you hoped for.” Lorna looked down and straightened her cuffs. “I don’t want you to be insulted.”
“How much?” Gentry clenched her hands until her nails dug into her palms.
Lorna named an amount that was almost enough to buy a train ticket. Was that an insulting amount? Gentry had no idea. The money she earned weaving mostly went for her room and board, yet she’d also saved a little and that would hopefully be enough to fund her search for her mother.
Of course, Mrs. Vanderbilt was rich. Although . . . Gentry remembered Arthur saying things had gotten tight for the family after Mr. Vanderbilt died. So maybe it was all they could afford.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
Lorna locked eyes with Gentry for a brief moment before her gaze skittered away. She dug in the pocket of her skirt and withdrew the money. She paused, looking at the money in her hand. “Are you sure?” she asked as though she were waging some internal battle of her own.
Gentry tossed her head and laughed. “Of course I’m sure. Give it here.”
Lorna pressed a bill and some coins into Gentry’s hand. Gentry felt her teacher’s fingers quiver as she whispered, “Don’t do anything foolish with it.”
Gentry laughed. “I’m going to do something smart with it.” She crammed the money into her own pocket and scooped up her dulcimer. She perched on the side of her bed and struck up a lively tune. She glanced at Lorna to see if she would join in the celebration, but the doorway was already empty.
19
Lorna
BILTMORE VILLAGE
OCTOBER 1923
Lorna settled onto the bench seat in the passenger car. She balanced her bag on her knees but quickly realized it was going to be uncomfortable. She looked around. Should she stow it on the floor? Or on the seat beside her? But what if someone else wanted to sit there? Not that she’d welcome a seatmate, but she didn’t want to commit a faux pas either.
“I can take that for you.”
Lorna jolted and looked up into familiar hazel eyes. “Arthur. What are you doing here?”
He lifted her bag and slid it onto a rack over her head, then settled in the seat beside her. The seat that suddenly felt much narrower.
“That’s exactly what I was about to ask you. I’m on my way north to buy wood. Basil has connected me with a fellow who says he has some rare species for me. What about you?”
Emotions warred inside Lorna. She was glad to see Arthur, but how much should she tell him? Being let go still felt too fresh and painful. She settled for the bare-bones version of the truth. “Virgie gave me an address in West Virginia. I’m headed there to see if I can learn anything about my weaver.”
Arthur grinned. “I’m headed almost that far. I’ll change my ticket and come with you.”
Lorna squirmed. She wanted nothing more than to accept his kindness and his company. But she wasn’t worthy of him and should politely decline. She knew she should send him away, should save herself the heartache that would surely come if he ever learned the truth about her, but she lost the battle.
“I can’t ask you to come with me,” she said at last.
Arthur’s smile lit the carriage. “You didn’t ask,” he said and took her hand as naturally as if they’d been holding hands for years. His voice deepened. “You didn’t need to.”
Tears welled, and Lorna didn’t fight them. It was such a relief to give in, to let someone take care of her. “Thank you, Arthur,” she whispered. “I don’t deserve your help.”
He squeezed her fingers. “Yes. You do. You deserve so very much.”
She swallowed past a rising lump and smiled at him. If only he knew. But for now, he didn’t know, and she would rest in this moment, grateful to receive it and hopeful that it would sustain her when he was gone. As he inevitably would be.
Lorna jolted awake as the train’s brakes screeched. They were approaching the station where they would disembark. Arthur stirred and stretched, as well. Thank goodness he hadn’t been watching her sleep. “Is this our stop?” he asked, yawning.
“Yes, we’ve arrived in Ronceverte.”
“Now, that’s a funny name for a town,” he said as he rubbed his eyes.
A nervous laugh bubbled up, and she gulped it back down. “Isn’t it, though? I looked it up before I left. Turns out it’s French for greenbrier.”
Arthur grinned. “A troublesome plant. That’s one way to fancy up a problem.” He clapped his hands. “So, where to from here?”
“The address Virgie gave me says Pickaway.” Lorna produced a slip of paper from her bag. “She said it’s ten or twelve miles south of town.”
As the train thrummed to a full stop, Arthur stood and retrieved her bag. “Well then, let’s see if we can hire a wagon. I’m thinking that’s too far to walk.”
Thirty minutes later, Lorna wished they’d decided to walk no matter how long it took. No one had a wagon they could use, so Arthur had drummed up the use of a roadster that had seen better days. What was left of the top was in tatters, and the passenger door was attached with baling wire. Lorna feared for her life, but Arthur seemed delighted by the opportunity to drive the stuttering motorcar south on a rutted road to Pickaway.
Lorna kept one hand on her hat and gripped the edge of the seat with the other. She wanted to close her eyes but quickly discovered that not seeing was worse than the juddering view through the cracked windscreen.
Thankfully, they soon reached the community of Pickaway, which was little more than a scattering of farms anchored by a school, a church, a blacksmith shop, and a combination store and post office. They stopped at the store to get their bearings and then headed out Hillsdale Road toward the Goodwin family farm.
Arthur brought the automobile to a stop near a barn. Or perhaps the engine simply died. Lorna couldn’t tell. The barn leaned toward the road like an old woman peering nearsightedly over someone’s shoulder. Lorna felt oddly judged by it. She wanted to hop out and get away from the looming presence but couldn’t figure out how to operate the automobile door with its baling wire hinges. Finally, Arthur came around and helped her out.
She stumbled to the ground and hurried around the looming barn. A little red house sat in a tangle of a garden on the far side. All was still.
“Should we knock on the door?” Arthur asked. “And who exactly is it we’ve come to see?”
“Olive Goodwin. She’s a relation of the Goodwins, who ran a weaving mill here in Greenbrier County for years. It’s no longer in operation, but Virgie said Olive still teaches people to weave and would likely know about other weavers in the area.”
“Doesn’t sound like much to go on,” Arthur said. He flashed her a smile. “Here’s hoping!” He took her hand, and they walked together to the door.
Lorna was so flustered by the fact that Arthur was holding her hand that she barely registered the woman who flung open the door. She looked young—perhaps in her twenties—although the spectacles she wore and the way her hair was pulled back into a high twist aged her.
“If you’ve come for the cover lid, it’s not done yet.” She blinked at them from behind round lenses.
“I . . .” Lorna tried to remember what she’d planned to say.
“Are you Olive Goodwin? If so, we’ve come to ask you about a weaver we think might be living around here. Or maybe did at one time,” Arthur explained smoothly and calmly, the pressure of his hand firm and comforting against her own.
“I’m Olive, and I reckon I know every weaver within a hundred miles.” The woman smiled and it lit her face, making her look younger. “Come on in. You can talk while I weave.”
Arthur gave Lorna a little tug to start her forward, then released her hand once they were inside. She missed his touch instantly. But at the same time, she found she could focus again.
The room was small with a loom taking up more than half the space. The remaining sliver of room offered mismatched chairs that flanked a fireplace, with a little table holding a tumbler and a plate with crumbs on it. Where Virgie’s house had been cozy, this one was spartan. Nonetheless, the tension Lorna had carried with her all the way from Asheville began to drain away. She sank into one of the chairs. Arthur took the other. Olive settled at her loom and set her shuttle flying. The familiar rhythm and cozy atmosphere made Lorna’s eyelids feel weighted. She began to suspect she was falling under some sort of enchantment.
