A Changing Light by Edith Maxwell (feel good books to read txt) 📕

my eyes filled. I looked away, but the doorway beyond led to her bedroom. Her death room. “Is she still . . . ?” I couldn’t finish.

“No. The Rogers funeral parlor men came yesterday. And speaking of funerals, we’re going to hold the service tomorrow afternoon at the Main Street Congregational Church. We’ll gather here afterward. You’ll come, won’t you?”

“I wouldn’t miss it. What time?”

“The funeral will be at two o’clock,” she said. “Dr. Chatigny has been a great help.”

“I’m glad. Is thy father coming?”

She cast her eyes upward for a moment. “Yes, my parents will arrive tonight. How someone as good as Nana produced a difficult man like him is beyond me. My husband is hurrying back with the girls, too, which will help. Somehow Mr. Latting gets along better with Father than I do.”

“Good. May I bring food for the gathering?”

“No, don’t trouble yourself. The good Congregational ladies are handling refreshments, for which I am grateful.” She gestured toward the stairs. “Shall we?”

I followed her up to her sewing room and exclaimed at the two loose dresses hanging ready for me. “Thee is a miracle worker.”

She’d found the lawn in a plain dusky green, and the other was of Quaker gray, as we liked to call it, but in a polished cotton. The fabric was shirred into tiny pleats at the shoulders and flowed down in loose folds from there, front and back.

“They are identical except for cloth and color,” Alma said. “Try one on, and I’ll see if I have to make any adjustments. They fasten down the front, and I used hooks and eyes instead of buttons. I had a dress like this when I was nursing my girlies. Hooks and eyes made it much easier to open the front one-handed and feed them.”

“I hadn’t thought of that aspect.” Sewing on hooks and eyes was indeed a brilliant idea. I unfastened the buttons at my waist. “Oh, that’s better. Alma, if there are any alterations, thee will have to do them on the spot. I plan to wear one of these home.” I’d be glad to get out of my wet hems.

Alma laughed and pointed at the Oriental screen she provided for modesty. I emerged in the gray version a minute later. Its slightly heavier cotton would be warmer. She looked at me, felt the shoulders, and turned me to face away.

“Yes, I think it’s perfect, and the length is, too. Do you agree?”

“I do.” It fell to my ankles but didn’t sweep the floor. I turned around again, running my hands down the front and sides. “You added pockets. I like that.”

“I try to provide all my ladies with pockets if they want them. You, I didn’t ask, knowing what a practical person you are. Believe me, when you’re carrying a baby around, it helps to have somewhere to stash a handkerchief or a teether.”

“I’m glad.”

“Let me wrap up the green one and the dress you wore here.” Alma headed to a wide roll of paper in the corner.

“Can thee possibly wrap them separately? The slush out there drenched my hems as I walked.”

“Certainly.” As she worked, she shook her head. “You know, the lady I told you about, the one I sold the widow’s dress to?”

“Luthera Harrington.”

“Yes, her. I’d included a pocket in the black dress, but she was unhappy about it. She claimed she would never have a use for one and instructed me to stitch it closed.”

“Truly?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“She does seem like someone who has always had others to make her life easier.” I pictured her privileged airs. “Maybe she can’t conceive of anything so practical as a pocket.”

“It might have come in handy if she’d wanted to hide the gun she shot her husband with.”

I stared at Alma.

“Well, you know.” She handed me my packages. “In the Pinkerton novel I read, the wife was the first suspect.”

Chapter Twenty-six

As Georgia’s home on Powow Street was only two blocks from Alma’s, I decided to stop by in case I could speak to Wilson. I had a little pang because of my promise to Kevin, but what harm could come of a brief conversation with the driver if I were in the company of a friend?

“Rose, good afternoon,” Georgia Clarke said as her driver helped her down from the carriage in the covered porte cochere attached to her house.

This was a stroke of luck.

“Do you have any news?” she whispered.

“Hello, Georgia. No, I don’t, but I actually wondered if I could have a word with Wilson.”

Wilson, his back to us, seemed to freeze at hearing me say his name.

“Whatever you need,” Georgia said. “Wilson?”

He clicked shut the door of the carriage, then turned slowly. His neat black suit and driving cap had the look of a uniform. He was clean-shaven, and intelligent gray eyes regarded me from under bushy eyebrows already going white. His build was trim, his spine straight, his expression wary.

I wondered what he thought he had to fear from me.

“Yes, Mrs. Clarke?” he asked.

“This is my friend Mrs. Dodge. She’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

“Very well, ma’am. Shall I put up Silver first?” He gestured toward the horse.

Georgia gave me an inquiring glance.

“This shouldn’t take long,” I said.

“I need to move to the front, Mrs. Dodge,” Wilson said.

“Please,” I replied.

Wilson stepped toward the aptly named steed.

“Is Luthera around?” I asked Georgia.

“No, she’s out with the carriage doings. I don’t expect her back until this evening.”

Good.

A white-clad nursemaid stepped into the doorway of the home holding a red-faced Rosie, who extended her arms toward Georgia and wailed for her mother.

Georgia laughed. “Excuse me, Rose. Your namesake wants her mama.” She patted her bosom and leaned toward me, murmuring, “She still wants her milkie a few times a day. I know she’s almost two, but I don’t mind. She’s my last baby.”

“Go then,” I said, smiling.

“Are you headed home from here?” she asked me.

“Yes.”

“Wilson, please drive Mrs. Dodge to her house when you’re done talking. She’ll direct you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wilson touched the brim