These tangled threads, p.26
These Tangled Threads, page 26
“I asked everyone while I was there.” Gentry shrugged one shoulder. “I wasn’t there all that long. Maybe I missed her.”
“I suppose, yet it’s just hard to believe word wouldn’t have gotten to her that you were asking around. The people at the hotel wouldn’t have remembered me, but they would have talked about a girl asking questions.”
“There was one woman who said she knew the Cutshall family. She told me they were long gone, and then she bought me a ticket for Johnson City. That’s why I left.”
“What was her name?” Vivian asked.
Gentry furrowed her brow. “I don’t think she ever said.”
“What did she look like?”
“She had hair about the color of mine and was kind of pretty. I don’t remember much else. Oh! She wore the prettiest purple shawl with a silver pin like a little sword. I really liked the pin.”
Vivian pushed her bowl away and braced her hands on the edge of the table. “I can’t believe she would . . . that she would intentionally . . .” She couldn’t seem to get any more words out.
Lorna reached for her friend. “Vivian, what’s the matter?”
“That was Sabine. That pin—I know precisely the one. Not to mention the purple cloth. It had to be her. And she . . . she kept us apart. I knew she was angry, but . . .” Vivian stood abruptly. “I need to go for a walk. I’ll . . .” She turned and went out the door like a sleepwalker.
Gentry turned confused eyes on Lorna. “I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I,” Lorna said, “but it sounds like that might have been your aunt Sabine at the hotel. And for some reason, she didn’t help you find your mother.”
“But that was—” Gentry counted on her fingers—“more than seven years ago. Do you mean she could have told me where Mama was that long ago?”
“I think so.”
“What a horrible thing to do! I wish I could tell her what I think of her.” Gentry scowled and thumped the table.
“She’s dead now,” Lorna said. “She died of cancer a few years ago.”
“Oh.” Gentry’s face clouded. “I don’t know how to feel about that.” She looked out the window, where they could see Vivian walking along the crest of the bald, head down, hands clasped behind her back. “I’ll try not to be glad that she can’t make Mama mad ever again.”
Lorna had an idea. On her next trip home, she gathered all the scraps of Sabine’s fabric that Virgie had given her. She took them to Vivian’s cabin and spilled them out on the table. “There’s a woman in Weaverville who befriended your sister. Sabine gave her a trunkful of fabric, and these are the leftover scraps.”
Vivian sifted through them mechanically. She smoothed each piece and stacked them together. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I hope this isn’t too painful,” Lorna said. Had this been a mistake?
“We wrote to each other now and again. And I thought when she came here, we might become true friends again. But it was obvious something was eating at her. The few times we visited she was so stiff, so uncomfortable.” Vivian flicked a look at Lorna. “Now I suppose it was guilt. She knew my daughter was in Johnson City and yet she never told me.” Tears began to streak her cheeks. “How could she?”
“I suppose she was angry and hurt,” Lorna said. “Pain can make us do inexplicable things. I suppose it would have been awfully hard to confess what she’d done. I certainly know the truth of that.”
“These are mine,” Vivian said, laying a hand on the smaller of the two stacks she’d made. “The rest must be Sabine’s.” She flipped through them and tugged out the sunrise fabric. “This one is particularly lovely. Sabine had a real gift.”
“Virgie made a skirt out of that and took it to show Sabine. She told me what your sister said when she saw it. I was so struck by it that I went home and wrote it down.” Lorna pulled out a small notebook. “She said the fabric reminded her that ‘weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.’”
Vivian pressed a hand to her lips. “Oh my. That’s what we used to say when we were angry with each other. Being angry was like the sun setting in our hearts, but then . . .” She choked on a sob. “But then love would win. It would always win—like the sun rising again in the morning.” She crumpled into a chair, pressing the fabric to her face.
Gentry came into the room and rushed to her mother’s side. “What is it, Mama?” She glared at Lorna. “What did you do?”
Vivian looped an arm around her daughter’s waist. “It’s alright, dear heart. Lorna has done the most wonderful thing. She’s brought me a scrap of forgiveness.” She held up the fabric. “And I expect we can fashion it into something that will keep us warm for a long time to come.”
Gentry shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean when you talk like that.”
Vivian laughed through her tears. “No, I expect not, but I plan to teach you. Your heart is wild and a little skittish yet. But we have time. Thanks to Lorna and Arthur, we now have time.”
42
Gentry
ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
FEBRUARY 1924
Gentry watched as Lorna freed the fabric from the loom. She had to confess, she’d come to enjoy working on this project with her former teacher. Now Lorna moved with something like reverence, as if she were in a church.
“This is my absolute favorite moment in handweaving,” Lorna said in a hushed voice. “Up until this point, the cloth is stationary, bound by the rollers. But with the snip of my shears”—she demonstrated, snick-snicking the air—“the cloth becomes pliable, ready to be shaped into something wonderful.”
Something fit for a bride, Gentry thought.
“Is Mrs. Harshaw planning to have it made into something, or will she just give Cornelia the whole cloth?” Vivian appeared at Lorna’s elbow.
“I don’t know,” Lorna answered as she freed the cloth with a flourish. “Frankly, I wonder if she might have been mistaken about a wedding. The Vanderbilts haven’t even announced an engagement. Surely if Cornelia was getting married in a few months, the whole world would know.”
“Well, I’m certainly not one for listening to gossip, so I wouldn’t know anything about it.”
Lorna puddled the yards and yards of fabric on the table, and they all admired the play of color. Gentry reached out to touch it, then froze. “Oh! It reminds me of a tune!” She darted into the bedroom she shared with her mother and reappeared with her dulcimer. She sat and began playing the music conjured by the cloth.
Lorna cocked her head as if trying to place the song. Then in a clear, warm alto, Mama began to sing:
“‘Walking in sunlight all of my journey,
Over the mountains, through the deep vale,
Jesus has said, I’ll never forsake thee.
Promise divine that never can fail.’”
Tears spilled from Lorna’s eyes. She pressed a hand to her mouth as Gentry joined in, singing harmony to her mother’s melody:
“‘In the bright sunlight, ever rejoicing,
Pressing my way to mansions above.
Singing His praises, gladly I’m walking,
Walking in sunlight, sunlight of love.’”
Yes, the song did echo the fabric. Mama had designed it so that the colors shifted and changed as they wove. It started with deep moody blues—the French Broad River. Then it shifted to warm greens with a hint of brown wreathed in wisps of bluish-gray—the Blue Ridge Mountains. Finally, it ended in oranges, reds, and pinks—the sunset view from the back of Biltmore House. Mama had captured the thing folks said George Vanderbilt loved most about his North Carolina castle, the setting and the view he’d been so intent on capturing.
When she first arrived at Biltmore Estate Industries, Gentry had heard a story about how Mr. Vanderbilt first built a tower where he hoped to build his château. He climbed it to make sure his castle would capture the view he wanted of the mountains unfolding all the way to Mount Pisgah.
Sunlight of love. Gentry gazed at the fabric and thought she could see the shifting light as clouds moved across the landscape, highlighting now this rise, now that hollow. It was breathtaking.
She suspected Lorna could see it too when she looked up at Mama and asked, “How did you know to do this?”
Mama shook her head. “I couldn’t say. The notion came and I let it.” She shrugged. “I wish I could teach you both how to do it. But I think I’m simply the vessel for something passing through.” She settled a hand on Gentry’s shoulder. “And often the colors are accompanied by music in my mind. This one seems able to hear the music, as well.”
“It’s perfect,” Lorna breathed.
“Not quite,” Mama said with a smirk. She dug through the cloth until she came to a section where the mountains turned to sky. “Here. I added a flaw.” She smiled. “My particular flaw. The design is yours to claim, but I’ll always know where it came from by this.”
“I can’t claim this as mine,” Lorna said.
Gentry set down the dulcimer. “Why not?”
Lorna shook her head. “Because it’s not.”
“Those others you claimed weren’t yours.” Lorna was being silly. Why lie then but not now?
“That was different.”
“How?”
Lorna huffed a breath. “It just was. I was desperate then. I had to claim them if I wanted to get ahead.”
Gentry did her one-shouldered shrug. “And now you can get ahead again. And this time you have Mama’s permission.” This seemed so simple. Why was Lorna making such a fuss about it?
Lorna looked like she might burst into tears. “I don’t deserve your kindness and generosity. And I certainly don’t deserve to claim anything as fine as this.”
Gentry burst out laughing. That was rich. “My whole life I’ve been a pain and a bother to just about everyone.” She waggled a finger at Lorna. “You would have gladly tossed me into a dye vat when I couldn’t get anything right. Then I ran off, and poor Aunt Eulah probably wanted to murder me more than once.” She spread her arms wide and wrapped them around her beautiful mother. “And now look at me. I’ve got Mama, a place to live, work I don’t mind, and music to play. I guess if I’d waited to deserve all this, I’d still be waiting.” Why couldn’t Lorna accept the good being poured out in front of her?
Lorna just stared at Gentry like she’d never seen her before.
Mama hugged her back. “I could tell a similar story about what I don’t deserve.” She gave Lorna a watery smile. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, my dear. Just take the fabric and see what happens.”
Silently, Lorna nodded and gathered up the cloth, carefully rolling it and wrapping it in brown paper. “Thank you,” she said at last.
A stab of sympathy pierced Gentry. When she’d been given this gift of reuniting with her mother, she’d grabbed it with both hands and held on for all she was worth. Even now she didn’t want to loosen her grip even a little for fear it might slip away again. Lorna, on the other hand, didn’t seem to know a good thing when it landed in her lap. Maybe she’d seen too many good things slip away—her mother, her father, her reputation. Gentry supposed she could see how it might be hard to trust anything anymore.
“Lorna,” she said, “thanks for not drowning me in a dye vat when you had the chance. If you had, I would have missed this.” She nestled against her mother’s side. “Maybe it’s your turn for something good to happen.” She held out her free arm, motioning for Lorna to join them.
With a sob, the older girl rushed to them and fell into their mutual embrace.
43
Arthur
ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
FEBRUARY 1924
Arthur watched Lorna arrange the fabric across the table one more time. She’d asked if she could invite Mrs. Harshaw to his shop to collect her commission. He wasn’t sure why she wasn’t handing off the fabric at Biltmore Industries. Then again, he considered that Lorna hadn’t gone to the weaving room for quite some time. She’d mentioned to him that she was taking a sabbatical, but now he wondered if perhaps she and Mr. Tompkins had parted ways. He wanted to ask but told himself it wasn’t really any of his business.
The finished cloth was stunning. He’d never seen anything like it before. And yet Lorna seemed nervous.
“Mrs. Harshaw is going to be thrilled when she sees this,” he said, touching a fold of the undulating fabric. “It’s incredible.”
Lorna bit her thumbnail. Something he’d never seen her do before. “Yes. It is exceptional. I’m sure she’ll be delighted.”
Arthur tilted his head. “Then why do you seem uneasy?”
“Do I?” Lorna pressed her hands to her stomach. “I suppose it’s been such a long journey, and I can hardly believe we’re finally at the end.”
Arthur smiled and took one of her hands. It was cold and clammy. He gently rubbed her fingers. “You’ve worked so very hard, and you’ve accomplished what you set out to do. I wish I could be there when Cornelia sees this for the first time.”
Lorna tugged her hand away and fiddled with the cloth some more. “Yes, well, there hasn’t even been an engagement announced. I’m not altogether certain Cornelia is getting married.”
“Rumors suggest she is.” Arthur flushed at Lorna’s look of surprise. “I don’t mean to listen to gossip, but the ladies who come to shop often chatter on and, well”—he shrugged—“one can’t help but overhear. They say he’s British royalty.”
Lorna raised her eyebrows. “Wouldn’t that be something. A prince come to live in the North Carolina castle.”
“I don’t think he’s a prince, but you never know.”
Lorna knotted her hands together as though to stop them from fussing with the cloth again. “I doubt a royal will appreciate our mountain homespun.” She frowned. “What if Mrs. Harshaw changes her mind? What if this isn’t the right sort of gift after all?”
This time Arthur captured both her hands and tugged her closer. “Then Mrs. Harshaw is a fool.” He pressed a quick kiss to her mouth and saw a smile bloom, then just as quickly fade away. He released her before she could pull away again.
The bell jangled above the door, and Lorna turned with a smile he could tell she had pasted across her face. Mrs. Harshaw swept into the room wearing a broad hat with an oversized bow that Arthur wasn’t sure was her wisest fashion decision.
“Mrs. Harshaw, it’s lovely to see you,” Lorna said. “And thank you for meeting me here.”
The matron waved a dismissive hand. “It’s closer to my home, so really it was quite convenient.” She bore down on the table covered in fabric. “Is this it? Is this what I have waited for so long to see?”
Arthur saw Lorna go pale and stiffen her spine. Was Mrs. Harshaw not pleased?
“Yes, ma’am. It’s intended to be representative—”
“Of the estate’s Blue Ridge Mountain view,” Mrs. Harshaw inserted. She tugged off her gloves and ran her fingers over the fabric. “Oh, my dear, it’s absolutely exquisite.”
Lorna exhaled and sagged against the edge of the table. Then she recovered herself and smiled, more genuinely this time. “Thank you. I’d hoped it was what you had in mind.”
Mrs. Harshaw got a glint in her eye. “And it will most certainly be the only gift of its kind.” She looked around the room as though someone might be spying. “The engagement is to be announced within the month.” She lowered her voice another notch. “I understand the wedding will be soon thereafter.”
“Shall I wrap this for you?” Arthur asked.
“That would be lovely. We don’t want anyone to see it before it’s time.” She turned to Lorna. “I’ll deliver the payment to Mr. Tompkins, but here’s a little something for your trouble, my dear.” She slid an envelope across the table to Lorna. “Your design is exceptional. I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Tompkins what a treasure he has in you.” She tapped the envelope. “And I’ll be certain to send my friends to you for future commissions.”
Arthur watched emotions play across Lorna’s face, but he couldn’t pin down exactly what she was feeling. Elation? Pride? No, it was a look of . . . determination.
Lorna pushed the envelope back toward Mrs. Harshaw. “I appreciate the gesture, ma’am, but I can’t accept this.”
The matron frowned, clearly unaccustomed to being thwarted in any way. “Whyever not?”
“It’s not my design.”
Now Arthur could clearly read the look on Lorna’s face. Fear.
“What do you mean? Didn’t you weave this fabric?”
Lorna swallowed, and for a moment Arthur didn’t think she’d get any more words out. “I helped, yes, but a dear friend designed the fabric, and it was woven on her loom. All of my best patterns are actually hers.”
Mrs. Harshaw huffed a breath. “I don’t understand you, and I don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. Is this person going to come forward and claim the fabric? Is my gift for Cornelia somehow in jeopardy?”
Lorna blinked. “No, ma’am, the fabric is yours, and there’s not another like it anywhere. She was happy to let me have it. It’s just that I thought she should get the credit. Not me.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, what do I care who came up with the design? Just so long as it’s exclusive to my purpose.”
Arthur finished wrapping the cloth as the two women spoke. Mrs. Harshaw scooped up the oversized package and nodded toward the envelope still lying on the table. “Do with that what you will. Give it to this other weaver. Keep it for yourself. It matters not to me.” She spun toward the door and was about to exit when she turned. “Although perhaps I won’t be sending you additional commissions. This has all been a bit too dramatic for my taste.”
The bell jangled, and she was gone. Lorna sagged against the table.
“Why did you tell her?” Arthur asked.
Lorna buried her face in her hands and spoke through her fingers. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t stand pretending anymore.”
