Stephanie Grace Whitson - [Quilt Chronicles] by Shadow on the Quilt Page B

“But Goldie’s is a …” She wiped her brow with a trembling hand. “No. He would never—” She began to cry. “We were going away. We were going to start a new life together. You know that. He … he was going to—” Sobs smothered the words.
    Johnny began to wail. The cries carried down the hall. Jenny got up and went to him. Pulled him close and carried him back into the parlor.
    Mr. Duncan avoided looking at the baby.
    “Wh–what’s to happen to us?” She could barely speak. How could Sterling be gone?
    “You won’t be named in the will, if that’s what you’re wondering. You need to be thinking about what you’re going to do.” He frowned. “You might think about contacting your uncle.”
    “He doesn’t care about me. He sent me packing as soon as he found out. If it hadn’t been for Sterling, I’d have been out on the street.” A cold chill crawled up her spine. She shivered and pulled Johnny closer. He’d fallen back to sleep as soon as he was in her arms. She looked down at the precious round face, the silky eyelashes, the pink cheeks.
    “If it hadn’t been for Sterling,” Mr. Duncan said, “you wouldn’t be in this mess.”
    “He loved me.”
    “Fine. Have it your way. He loved you. But that’s not going to do you any good now, is it?” Duncan took a deep breath. “I’ll see what I can do. You think about what you want to do. Where you want to go. I’ll make discreet inquiries. I’ll get back out here as soon as I can. Do you need supplies?”
    Jenny shook her head. She’d been feeling poorly for a few days, but it was nothing to worry about. She’d always been the picture of health. And now she had to be. For Johnny. She stroked the sleeping baby’s cheek. “We’ll be fine.”
    “All right, then.” Mr. Duncan turned to go. “I guess I should say I’m sorry for your loss. I am sorry for”—he gestured around them—”all this.” He looked at the baby. Shook his head. And he was gone.

    Margaret had just scrambled three eggs and toasted a piece of bread for her lunch when Mr. Meyer stumbled in the back door carrying a stack of boxes so tall it was a wonder he could see to walk.
    “Good afternoon,” he huffed as he plopped the boxes on the table. “I hope that you slept well.”
    “I did,” Margaret said, then answered Meyer’s unspoken question. “Sadie’s still asleep.”
    Meyer nodded. He laid an open hand atop the stack of boxes. “I have brought things for you both. Dresses. Bonnets. Shoes. And—” He blushed as he tapped the bottom box. “Other things.”
    Margaret smiled at the man’s inability to say the word
unmentionables.
    He motioned to Margaret’s plate. “But please. Don’t let me interrupt your lunch.” He sat down abruptly. “May I speak with you while you eat?” He blushed as he glanced over his shoulder at the room where Sadie lay sleeping.
    “Of course. What is it?”
    “I wish to ask for Sadie’s hand in marriage. And I will also ask Mr. Gregory’s permission this evening. I should. Is that correct? It seemed correct, but yet—” He stopped. Reached up to adjust his spectacles. “Please forgive me. I am nervous and ignorant of the custom here. Perhaps this is not the correct way to do this?”
    Margaret stared at him. “You truly want to
marry
Sadie.” It wasn’t so much a question as an amazed statement. It wasn’t unheard of for men to blather about such things at Goldie’s. But no one ever took them seriously.
    Meyer fidgeted. “It is not often that we Germans speak of what we feel,” he said. “But ever since that first night—when she was so kind—and ever since—She is so beautiful.” He nodded. “Yes. If she will have me, I want to marry.” His expression changed. “Do you think she will have me?”
    “I don’t have any idea.” Margaret had given up understanding Sadie a long time ago. It was impossible to read the girl’s mind and doubtful she would trust a man enough to marry him. She didn’t