These tangled threads, p.8
These Tangled Threads, page 8
Once they reached Reems Creek with its wider path, Basil turned upstream. Then he paused. “There are stories about a weaver.” He glanced back toward his mother’s cabin. “Supposed to be able to take the leaves and rocks and mountain sunshine and spin ’em into thread for her cloth.” He snorted. “Hogwash.” He shrugged. “But stories have a way of starting with something true more often than not.”
Lorna gripped Arthur’s arm. “Where would we find this weaver?”
“Can’t say,” Basil said. “Just stories. Tall tales if you ask me. But I thought you’d want to know. Ma can be tight-lipped until she gets to know you.”
Arthur reached into his pocket and pressed something in the other man’s hand. “Thank you, my friend. If you hear anything more about this mystery weaver, I’d be glad to know it.”
Basil nodded and trotted up the trail before stepping into the woods and disappearing among the trees like some wild thing.
Lorna looked up at Arthur. “Do you think there really is another weaver?”
Arthur took a slow breath and tilted his head back to watch a skein of geese unfurl across the sky. “Why not?” he said. “Looking at that cloth you have there, I can almost believe it’s made from goldenrod and pumpkins with a dash of cinnamon fern thrown in for good measure.”
“Birch leaves,” murmured Lorna.
“Yes.” Arthur snapped his fingers. “With the brown of the trunk to make the gold stand out.”
“We have to find her,” she said. “She’s the one.”
Arthur looked straight into her eyes, leaving her feeling breathless and comforted all at once. “Then we will,” he said. And she believed him.
While they hadn’t found the weaver, Lorna felt certain they were getting closer. And with Arthur’s help, she trusted they would find her soon. Add to that the fact that she had frankly enjoyed spending an early autumn day walking the hills with Arthur, and she realized she was in a cheerful mood for the first time since . . . well, in a long, long time.
“Will you join me on the porch for a simple supper?” she asked. It was forward of her to suggest dining alone with a man at her home, but surely if it was done in the open, no one could accuse them of anything untoward.
“That sounds like a fine idea,” Arthur answered, his smile telling her just how fine he thought it was.
She pointed to a small table. “Pull that out and I’ll get some food. It won’t be fancy.” She laughed. “Or even hot, but it’s the least I can do to thank you for today.”
“That’s not necessary,” Arthur said. “But I’m glad for the meal and the company.”
Lorna went inside, wondering what in the world had possessed her. Was it the feeling that she was finally doing something worthwhile? Was it Arthur reminding her of the days before everything good in her life washed away in a flood? She didn’t dare examine herself too closely. She knew all too well that her motives were rarely pure.
In the kitchen she gathered two apples, a wedge of cheese, half a loaf of bread, and a jar of cider she’d been saving for a special occasion. She arranged everything on a tray with some napkins, a knife, two glasses, and carried it outside.
As soon as Arthur saw her, he jumped to his feet. “Let me take that,” he said, opening the screen door and relieving her of her burden.
He settled the tray on a low table, and Lorna busied herself with slicing bread and cheese and pouring cider. When she had everything to her liking, she looked up to see Arthur smiling at her.
She flushed. “You must think me silly, fussing over nothing.”
“I think you’re an artist, and if this is nothing, I’d be glad to trade something for it.”
“Well, I have plenty of nothing these days.” She settled into a chair with a sigh. “No notion where to find this weaver, no new ideas for designs, and only a smidge of hope that I can—” She stopped abruptly. There was no need to tell Arthur that she was desperate to create a fabric that would not only impress Mrs. Harshaw and the Vanderbilts but would also save her job and maybe everyone else’s, as well. She’d painted a noble picture for Mrs. Howes, but her own needs weighed heaviest. And there was such a thing as too much honesty. “Cheese?” she asked, thrusting a plate his way.
He took a piece and ate it in two bites. “You didn’t really tell me why it’s so important to you to find this weaver. What you said to Mrs. Howes back there makes it sound like this is about more than being taken with a scrap of cloth.”
She plucked at some burrs clinging to her hem. If she could trust anyone, it was Arthur. “I’m hoping this weaver can help me with a design good enough for Cornelia Vanderbilt.” She sighed and gave in to the urge to confess her struggle. “You called me an artist, yet it seems I’m a bit . . . rusty when it comes to new designs. I’ve been given a commission that could make all the difference for my future. Perhaps for the future of Biltmore Industries. It’s been a long time since we celebrated being the largest handweaving industry in the world.” She folded her napkin into ever smaller squares, deciding to tell a partial truth. “There are rumors that business is down. And I’m tired of doing the administrative work. I want to get back into the weaving room—to make beautiful fabric that will delight those who wear it.” She shook her head and pressed a finger to her lips. “I seem to let my guard down with you, Arthur. Even though it’s been a long time since we’ve talked.”
“It has been a long time,” he agreed. “Too long.” He looked into her eyes. “There was Cornelia’s twenty-first birthday with the sedan chair, and then we talked that next spring, I think.” He shook his head. “And I don’t guess I’ve seen much of you since. I’ve been pretty busy with . . . some difficult circumstances.”
Lorna paled, suddenly remembering that last conversation. Arthur had been asking about her earlier designs. Designs that belonged to Gentry. She focused on the memory of Cornelia’s birthday party as a diversion. “Oh, that chair.” She laughed and made a face. “It was the fabric I used then that made Mrs. Harshaw come to me for a gift for Cornelia.”
“That’s good to hear.” The warmth of Arthur’s smile made Lorna feel like the fraud she was. “Sounds like I did you a good turn back then.”
Lorna realized that if Arthur knew the truth about her designs—which he’d nearly guessed once—he wouldn’t want to sit on her porch, eating her food. He wouldn’t want to help her. He certainly wouldn’t want to reach across the little table to take her hand the way she had a feeling he might.
She stood, knocking a slice of bread onto the floor. “My goodness, I’ve just remembered an engagement. I promised—” she floundered for a moment—“LeeAnn. I promised LeeAnn I’d show her how to incorporate spacers on her loom. You remember LeeAnn, don’t you?” She made a show of looking at the watch pinned to her blouse. “I really must go, I’m so sorry. Please, take some bread and cheese with you. Or an apple.” She snatched up an uncut piece of fruit and handed it to Arthur. “Again, thank you so much for today.”
Arthur stood as if in slow motion, the apple held in front of him like some sort of talisman. “No need to apologize. I enjoyed spending the day with you.” His eyes softened. “I think I saw the Lorna I used to know today. The one who loved to share her passion for weaving with her students. The one who encouraged me when Biltmore Industries was struggling back in sixteen.” He started down the steps slowly as though reluctant to go. “A lot has happened in my life since we last met. I’m betting the same is true for you. Maybe we could . . . meet again? And if you need my help, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m always happy to help a friend.”
Tears sprang to Lorna’s eyes, but she fought them back. Instead, she smiled. “I know that’s true Arthur. I’ve always known I could count on you.” She only wished he could say the same about her.
10
Arthur
SOUTH ASHEVILLE
APRIL 1921
Something was missing. Arthur stood back and looked at the front of the little cottage he’d been lucky enough to rent just south of Biltmore Estate. It wasn’t precisely what he’d hoped for in the way of a woodworking shop, but it was affordable. With an apartment above where he could live more or less comfortably. Its shortcomings could be improved upon as his business grew.
He felt a stab of panic and stuck his hand in his pocket to grip the carved fawn that was always there. What if the business didn’t grow? No. He wouldn’t allow discouraging thoughts to creep in. It was too late now. Fred Seely had been understanding when Arthur explained that he was leaving the woodworking shop to open his own business, but he’d seen the look of disappointment. And Mr. Seely hinted at the time and money he’d invested in men and equipment to keep the shop up to date.
Arthur shook his head. No. The writing had been on the wall. Mr. Seely was no longer focusing on woodworking. His passion was for the homespun cloth Lorna and her weavers produced. Arthur had made the right decision. Not to mention the fact that seeing Lorna had become a sweet torture since their muddled dinner together. He still didn’t know what had been written on the note that made her so upset with him. But there were rumors that she wasn’t quite the apple of Mr. Seely’s eye anymore.
It was easier to simply not see her. To not hear the whispers about her and feel the need to defend her. Because how could he? She didn’t trust him enough to tell him what was really bothering her. He’d thought time would heal the grief over the loss of her family. He’d thought she might be ready to look to the future—to a new family. But once again his plans didn’t mesh with the world’s. And what was left to do but lick his wounds and move on?
He tilted his head and considered the front of the cottage again. What was it? There were some cracked roof tiles, but that was hardly noticeable. The front door gleamed with dark green paint, and the sign proclaiming Arthur Westcott, Woodworker was pristine. Yet the place looked somehow . . . lonely.
“Good morning, Arthur,” a voice boomed as an open motorcar pulled to a stop behind him. Arthur turned to see Reverend Swope climb out and walk around the automobile to take the hand of a young lady in the passenger seat. “Clara and I have come to see your new enterprise.”
“You’re most welcome,” Arthur said with a tip of his hat and foreboding in his heart.
He had finally met Clara at services the Sunday prior. And he had to confess that something about her tugged at him. She seemed kind, thoughtful, and intelligent. Not to mention pretty, even though something sad clung to her that he couldn’t quite identify. He smiled, thinking that perhaps he should just give in and take the time to get to know her better.
The pair joined him in front of the cottage, and Reverend Swope wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Must be satisfying to see your name on that sign,” he said. “I know it does my heart good.”
“Yes, sir, I’ve worked hard to get here.” He nodded at the young lady. “Miss Peters. It’s good to see you again.”
“Uncle Rodney continues to show me around Asheville,” she said with a sweet smile. “It’s so very kind of him.
“Stuff and nonsense,” his mentor blustered. “It’s nothing but pleasure for me. Squiring a pretty girl around and telling people she’s my relation. What could be nicer?” He turned to take in the shop. “Open for business?”
“As of today,” Arthur answered. “Would you like to come inside and see?”
“What do you say, Clara? How about a tour of young Arthur’s new shop?”
Arthur felt his stomach flip. Was the shop as ready as he thought? Did he want his mentor and Clara to be the first people to see it with customers’ eyes?
Clara smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.”
Her simple response put Arthur at ease. If she had gushed her enthusiasm or clapped her hands at the prospect, he would have been suspicious. But her eyes were simply alight with interest and curiosity.
He motioned for the pair to precede him to the door. Clara hesitated and tilted her head to one side. “What is it?” he asked.
“It’s a lovely shop. I especially like the color of the door. Only . . .” She frowned.
Arthur leaned in. “Yes? I’m eager to hear what you think.”
Her cheeks pinked. “It’s probably presumptuous of me to say so, but have you thought about curtains for the windows? Or perhaps flower boxes out front? Here and here,” she said, indicating spots below each window. “It’s just that it all looks a bit plain.”
Arthur laughed and snapped his fingers. “I was just standing here thinking there was something missing, and I do believe you’ve put your finger right on it.” He grinned and offered her his arm. “And dare I ask that you help me choose the flowers?”
She smiled, making a dimple form in her right cheek. A very charming dimple. “I can’t think of anything I’d enjoy more.”
Arthur cast a glance at Reverend Swope as he escorted Clara inside. And he was pretty sure he caught a gleam in the old fox’s eye. Ah well, sometimes it was wise to let someone else steer your course for a time. He looked down at the gloved hand on his arm. Wise indeed.
Three weeks later, Clara stood on a stool Arthur had finished shaping only the day before and stretched to position a sweep of curtain. He had to admit, the pale green fabric shot through with gold threads softened the space, making it feel cozy and inviting. He was grateful for her help, and as he watched her slim figure outlined against the window, he thought he might be grateful for more than that. He moved closer to admire her work.
“Just a little further,” she said, stretching onto her toes. She wobbled, and Arthur put a hand to her waist to steady her. They both froze for a breath, and then he was using both hands to help her down from her perch. He released her reluctantly. How long had it been since he’d done anything more than offer a woman his arm?
“Thank you, Clara. You’ve worked wonders.”
She flushed. “No, you’re the one working wonders.” She picked up a simple frame that emphasized the beauty of the curly maple. “Your work isn’t as ornate as it was at Biltmore Industries,” she said, running her hand over the silken wood. “But I prefer the way you’ve captured the beauty of the wood itself rather than a design you’ve forced upon it.”
Arthur felt a knot form in his throat. Had anyone understood so plainly what he was doing before? “Thank you,” he croaked and cleared his throat. “I only wanted to point to the beauty that’s already there. I’m glad you can see that.”
She smiled and resettled the frame on a small table with other items for sale. He felt like a shadow had settled across her face even though the light had not changed. “Are you alright?” he asked.
“What? Oh, yes, of course. I was only thinking.” She smiled again, but he thought her expression was more sad than glad now. He hoped he hadn’t done anything to change her mood.
“How long will you be staying in Asheville?” Arthur asked.
“If my mother has her way, I’ll stay here for good.” Clara sounded sharp, but she quickly added, “Which would suit me fine. I adore Uncle Rodney, and the mountains are so beautiful.” She turned and began rearranging items on a counter.
“There’s nothing to call you back to—where is it your family lives now?”
“Iowa,” she said. “We moved . . . suddenly. And Mother thought it would be good for me to spend time with Uncle Rodney while she settled in.” Clara’s hands stilled. “But Uncle Rodney and Aunt Mary have hinted that they would be glad for my companionship. So I’m considering staying here.” She turned her luminous hazel eyes on him.
Without pausing to think it through, Arthur stepped forward and placed his hand over hers. “I would certainly be glad for you to stay.” He started to withdraw his hand, but she turned hers and twined their fingers together.
“Would you?”
Arthur found he could barely speak. “I . . . yes. Clara . . . would you . . .” He cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “Would you allow me to court you?”
“Yes, Arthur. I would.” She smiled and squeezed his hand before turning away. He caught the glint of tears in her eyes and wondered that she would be so emotional. He’d never had that effect on a woman before that he knew of. And, he had to confess, it was a heady sensation.
“Clara, are you part of a large family?”
She turned back toward him, any hint of tears gone. “Not so big—just my brother and I, along with Mother and Father. Sometimes I wish I had sisters so Mother wouldn’t focus quite so much on me.” That shadow fell again. “She’s determined to see me ‘settled properly.’”
Arthur’s breath caught. “Do you think she would . . . well, that she would approve of my courting you?”
“Oh, I know she would. Uncle Rodney speaks highly of you.”
The words should have reassured him, but her tone—dry and perhaps even dismissive—gave him pause. “Are you sure?”
She smiled, and this time her voice was warm as she stepped closer and laid a hand on his arm. “Quite sure.”
He grinned—foolishly, he imagined. But she didn’t see as she turned to add her feminine touch to another display in the shop. He watched her, thinking that while the memory of Lorna would likely sting for some time, Clara had already done a great deal to soothe the burn.
11
Gentry
BILTMORE VILLAGE
JUNE 1916
She’d dreamed of her mother again. Gentry rubbed her eyes and stared at the far wall, where dawn’s first light painted the scuffed paper with a flash of gold. Now she remembered. Her mother had been wearing Lorna’s lacy fabric in the dream. Except it wasn’t Lorna’s, it was her mother’s. And now Gentry knew the truth. Somehow, Lorna had woven one of her mother’s patterns.
It had taken a while, but she’d finally realized what it was about the fabric that was so familiar. She’d seen it before. The memory had finally floated to the surface of her mind. She’d seen her mother kneeling beside a trunk in the room they shared—a beautiful dress pressed to her face as she cried. It had startled Gentry, and she’d begun to cry as well. Mama rushed to her side and let her look at the dress, probably to distract her. It was the same fabric Lorna had made, except the background had been pink instead of blue. Like crocuses poking up through a crust of lacy snow.
