A Basket Brigade Christmas Read online

  “A cutting table,” Martha said. “Of imported rosewood.”

  “It’s—probably not a good idea.”

  Martha’s tone was slightly mocking as she said, “What were you thinking, dearie? Using all this space for the good of our boys? Creating a place where the ladies of Decatur could work together to relieve misery?”

  Lucy allowed a little smile. “So you don’t think it’s a terrible idea?”

  “I’d call it inspired. I’ll put a pot of soup on every morning. We’ll offer soup and fresh rolls to anyone who cares to come and stay over the noon hour. And endless tea and cakes to the rest.” Martha nodded. “Your mother would be so proud, Lucy. So very proud.”

  “And Father?”

  Martha didn’t answer for a moment. Finally, she said, “He would understand—eventually.”

  Chapter 4

  A few days after Jonah Kincaid’s funeral, Silas began his day at the mercantile as usual—by opening the weekly Decatur Magnet newspaper to check the store’s quarter-page advertisement for accuracy. As he scanned the page, his attention was drawn to an announcement that appeared just above the mercantile ad. He read it more than once.

  LADIES

  who wish to participate in a special project

  intended to expand the ministry of our beloved Basket Brigade

  are invited to attend an organizational meeting on

  Tuesday, October 7, at ten o’clock in the morning

  at the home of Miss Lucy Maddox,

  6 Poplar Street.

  A light luncheon will be served.

  Mrs. Tompkins stepped in the back door. One glance at Silas and she asked, “Something of particular interest in the Magnet, Mr. Tait? A unique announcement, perhaps?”

  “You are aware of Miss Maddox’s plan?”

  “Not until I read the paper. Then I remembered. Miss Maddox was singularly moved by something that happened on the train the last time she and I shared duty in one of the hospital cars.” Mrs. Tompkins hung her bonnet on the hook beside the storeroom door and donned her blue-and-white work apron. “Whatever she has planned, though, I imagine she’ll get plenty of interest. It’s not every day the hoi polloi are invited to a mansion for tea.”

  “Not any day, when it comes to the Maddox place,” Silas said, folding the paper as he spoke. “Do you have any idea what she means by ‘expanding the ministry’ of the Basket Brigade?”

  “No, sir.” Feather duster in hand, Mrs. Tompkins proceeded to the front display window then glanced back at Silas. “But in about two minutes you’ll be able to ask the lady herself. Miss Maddox is headed this way.”

  Silas shoved the folded newspaper onto a shelf just beneath the counter. He smoothed his thinning hair and straightened his cravat. Tugging at each of his sleeves so that precisely the right amount of cuff was showing, he strode to the door and pulled it open just as Lucy reached for the handle. “Good morning, Miss Maddox. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  Miss Maddox’s cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink. “I’ve done something—well—impetuous. At first I thought it was the perfect solution to Mrs. Kincaid’s quandary about the Ladies Aid. And then, once I’d decided I might open the house for meetings—the idea grew.” She glanced over at Mrs. Tompkins. “You were there—on the train—those poor men.”

  Mrs. Tompkins nodded. “Yes. And I could tell that you were unusually moved by what you saw that evening.”

  “I was.” She gave a nervous little laugh, put one gloved palm to her waist, and took a deep breath. “And I only have a week to finish preparations before that meeting at my home.”

  She looked over at Silas. “If it’s to be a success, I’ll need the mercantile’s support, as well.”

  “As always, Miss Maddox, I am at your service.” You sound like a butler, you idiot. Ah, well. Stuffy as it was, the response garnered another pretty smile. That was something. “It would help, however, to know exactly what it is you’re talking about. The announcement mentions expanding the ministry of the Basket Brigade.”

  “Exactly.” Quickly, Lucy told Silas about the men who’d teased one another over poems for socks and odes for blankets. “And it occurred to me after I returned home that evening, that while the collections and drives have had wonderful results—as far as we know—that there are men coming through Decatur every evening with needs we might meet—with a little planning and a lot of hard work.” Her warm brown eyes lit up as she laid out her plan to transform her mansion into a production center for the benefit of the wounded soldiers on the daily train.

  “You mean to turn your home into a factory?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said, and followed it quickly with, “and I know that Father would have trouble with the idea.” She lifted her chin. “I’ve thought about that. Carefully. I don’t mean to be disrespectful to his memory, but he entrusted everything to me. If I want to use it for good, shouldn’t that be my decision?”

  Silas looked over at Mrs. Tompkins, who immediately busied herself with dusting. With all the dignity he could muster, he said firmly, “No one with any sense at all would dare question your devotion to your parents. I do not think it possible for someone as kind as you to dishonor their memory.” He clenched his hands behind his back as he continued. “As to your plans to serve the men, it seems to me a superb way to honor the memory of one of the greatest civic servants this region has ever been privileged to know—the late Mrs. Maddox. In my opinion, your plans merely expand upon your own gracious habit of following in your mother’s beloved footsteps.” He could feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck as he spoke. Had he said too much? Had he betrayed himself? Lucy must not see him blush. In desperation, he looked toward Mrs. Tompkins, dismayed by the older woman’s expression. She knows.

  Retreating to a safer spot behind the counter, Silas quickly changed the subject. “You said that you would require the mercantile’s support. May I ask you to elaborate on the specifics?”

  Lucy had just opened her mouth to answer when the door burst open to admit Mrs. Collins. The feather adorning the woman’s stylish bonnet bobbed as she scanned the interior. She nodded at Mrs. Tompkins, ignored Lucy, and addressed Silas. “I’ve just come from the Maddoxes’, where Martha informed me that I’d find Lucy here. If you’d please give us just a moment”—she acknowledged Lucy’s presence with a well-fixed glare—“Miss Maddox and I have important business to discuss. Ladies Aid business.”

  Silas looked toward Lucy for guidance. He saw the joy she’d just displayed fade. In its place came uncertainty, shown by the way she clenched her gloved hands and glanced down at the floor. He was reminded of a child about to endure a scolding. How he would have loved to step to her side and put an encouraging arm about her. Squelching the thought, he stayed put behind the counter.

  Mrs. Tompkins, bless her, spoke up. “You were speaking of the mercantile’s role in the new project, Miss Maddox? I’m certain Mrs. Collins would be pleased to offer her support for such a worthy cause—her being someone the entire city looks up to.” She glanced at Mrs. Collins. “If you don’t mind my saying so, ma’am.”

  It was clear the domineering Mrs. Collins did not mind. In fact, she fairly preened beneath the implied praise. “Mr. Collins and I are most interested in doing our civic duty.” She peered down her long nose at Lucy. “I was, however, taken aback when I saw the announcement in this morning’s newspaper. When I called late the day of the visitation, Mrs. Kincaid mentioned that she had asked for your help contacting the women of the committee. I had no idea she’d asked you to take over.” She sighed. “I don’t blame her, of course. Anyone in her position can be forgiven the oversight. The poor dear. But surely you know, Miss Maddox, that there are bylaws in place. The president cannot simply hand over the running of the Ladies Aid to whomever she wishes.”

  “Of course not,” Lucy said quickly. “I have no intention of doing so.”

  “Really?” Doubt sounded in Mrs. Collins’s voice. “This morning’s newspaper would seem
to indicate otherwise.”

  “My announcement didn’t mention the Ladies Aid,” Lucy said.

  “Not specifically.” Mrs. Collins sniffed. “But it’s obvious you’re making rather impressive plans.”

  “I hope so,” Lucy said. “In the end, that will be up to the ladies who attend the meeting.”

  “Yes, well.” Mrs. Collins tapped the floor with the tip of her parasol. “I’m here to offer my assistance in advance. If you’ll be so kind as to tell me what you have in mind, I’ll know how best to lend my support.”

  Silas shot a sympathetic glance Lucy’s way and then pretended to study the ledger open before him on the counter. Poor Lucy. Her first attempt at leadership had put her in the crosshairs of one of the most intimidating women Silas had ever met.

  Lucy, however, seemed to be recovering from an initial bout of self-doubt. “In truth, I’ve come to the mercantile to consult with Mr. Tait regarding the matter. It’s much too early in the planning for me to ask anything of others. But I do appreciate your kind offer of assistance.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence before Mrs. Collins said, “Well then. Perhaps I shall call later today. After you and Mr. Tait have spoken.”

  “As you can imagine,” Lucy said, “my enthusiasm for the cause has outstripped my experience. I’m afraid I’m a bit overwhelmed at the moment. I’m not certain I’ll be able to receive callers today.”

  Mrs. Collins peered at Lucy with all the intensity of a gambler sizing up his opposition. “I see. Well, accept this bit of advice at least, and have your people prepare for a large crowd.” She gave a deep sigh. “There will always be those who attend these things simply to take note of the drapes and the wall coverings in our fine homes, and I have had occasion to hear yours wondered about more than once. Be advised that many in attendance will be there merely to gawk. They will depart without committing to the cause—but only after consuming more than their fair share of refreshments.”

  A low clearing of Lucy’s throat—Silas thought it sounded suspiciously like a stifled laugh—preceded Lucy’s response. “I shall be certain to have Mrs. Jefferson prepare accordingly, Mrs. Collins.” She crossed to the door and opened it, inviting the woman to leave even as she smiled sweetly and said, “I hope it isn’t imposing on your time to ask that you personally reassure Mrs. Kincaid that you have the Ladies Aid matter well in hand. She may not be accepting callers, but you could perhaps stop by with a note?”

  Mrs. Collins frowned. “I’m not certain that I do have things ‘in hand.’”

  Lucy sighed. “I’m not plotting a takeover, Mrs. Collins. The Ladies Aid membership will hopefully want to attend my gathering. I did intend to speak with you about conducting a meeting in concert with my event, simply as a matter of convenience to them. However, if you object, then please be prepared to announce the next meeting date and location at my gathering. I hope I can count on you to attend?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I’ll look forward to seeing you then. Now, if you will excuse me, I do have some private business to conduct with Mr. Tait and Mrs. Tompkins.” The moment the sputtering Mrs. Collins bustled out the door, Lucy flipped the OPEN sign in the window to read CLOSED. She looked from Mrs. Tompkins to Silas. “Did you ever?”

  “Only several times a week,” Silas replied. “Mrs. Collins is a woman of very pronounced opinions and tastes, and she is a frequent customer.”

  “And a good one,” Mrs. Tompkins added, “as long as she gets exactly what she wants.”

  “I see that with greater clarity now,” Lucy said. And then she grinned. “I never quite understood how you could let her purchase all those yards of bright blue plaid last fall. I mean—the scale of it on such a … large frame.”

  Mrs. Tompkins chuckled. “I did everything I could to steer her away from that plaid and toward an understated vertical stripe, but Mrs. Collins is not easily steered.”

  Lucy sighed. “I suppose I’ve just bought myself a world of trouble by refusing her offer to help with the meeting.”

  “You mean her offer to take over?”

  “Yes, but—she’s probably right about ladies attending merely to see the house.” Lucy frowned. “I really don’t want gawkers. I need workers.”

  Silas spoke up. “How can we help?”

  Lucy described the plan that had resulted from what Silas could only think of as an epiphany. It would have taken something that dramatic to effect such a change. The Maddox mansion opened to the public? Transformed into a wartime production center? When Lucy mentioned that Martha Jefferson had offered to serve luncheon every day to whoever was there working, Silas interrupted with applause. “Bravo, Miss Maddox. It’s a superb idea. Inspired.”

  “You really think so?”

  “With not one scintilla of doubt.” The confident approbation earned him the kind of smile he had grown to cherish. “Mrs. Collins was right about one thing, though. Expect a very large crowd at that first meeting.”

  Lucy nodded. “It’s a shame public curiosity can’t benefit the cause.”

  “Perhaps it can,” Mrs. Tompkins said. “You could charge admission.”

  “I couldn’t!” Lucy sounded horrified.

  “Hear me out,” Mrs. Tompkins insisted. “It’s going to take a lot of fabric and yarn to accomplish what you want to do.”

  Lucy looked over at Silas. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. Would you agree to donating older stock to the cause?”

  “It is your mercantile, Miss Maddox. You can ‘donate’ the entire dry goods department if you so wish.”

  “I don’t,” Lucy said. “I just want to get off to a good start, but the point isn’t to draw attention to the Maddoxes. We need others to invest in the effort.”

  “And so,” Mrs. Tompkins began again, “you ask them to invest from the beginning. Admission to the first meeting is gained by donating a bag of scraps or a twist of yarn.”

  “I wish I’d thought to suggest that in the announcement. It’s too late now.”

  “We can put up a notice in the store window,” Silas said. “Decatur has a very active grapevine. And you needn’t require it. Merely suggest it.” He reached up to pull down a few bolts of the older stock and then swept his hand over the surface of the top bolt of fabric. “A few women working together cutting these up into, say, four-inch squares while another few stitch them together could piece cot-sized quilt tops rather quickly, don’t you think?”

  Mrs. Tompkins nodded. She glanced over at Lucy. “You’d want to tie comforters, though, instead of quilting—assuming speed is important.”

  “It is,” Lucy said. “We don’t know that the trains will continue much past December.”

  “Depending on how many ladies offer their assistance, it might be possible to tie several comforters in a day. Of course, someone would still need to bind them.”

  “It’s a shame you don’t know a good tailor,” Silas said.

  “Why a tailor?” Lucy asked.

  “Because a good tailor with a sewing machine could apply binding in a fraction of the time required to stitch it by hand.”

  Lucy nodded. “How many sewing machines do you suppose there are in Decatur?”

  “I’ve ordered two for customers,” Silas said, “but only one is still here in the city. Mrs. Jenkins ordered a machine last winter after visiting the aid society in Salem and seeing firsthand what could be accomplished with one.”

  “Jenkins,” Lucy murmured. “Didn’t they move this past summer?”

  “They did. The other machine belongs to Mrs. Collins. She ordered hers about a week after Mrs. Jenkins’s was delivered. With more attachments and a nicer cabinet.”

  Mrs. Collins. Again. “I don’t dare ask Mrs. Collins to loan hers,” Lucy said.

  “I doubt it’s been used once,” Mrs. Tompkins said. “It was more the principle of the thing.”

  “What principle?”

  Silas interrupted, hoping that his explanation showed due respect for poor M
rs. Collins, never satisfied and rarely happy. “She is somewhat … competitive … when it comes to things like fashion and the latest innovation. She wishes to be at the forefront of everything. I believe she sees it as part of her role as a community leader.”

  Mrs. Tompkins chuckled. “That’s a very kind way to put it, Mr. Tait.” She smiled at Lucy. “It’s too bad the ladies of Decatur can’t be enticed to compete over something like comforter tying or sock production.”

  “Perhaps they could,” Silas said. “Especially if public recognition for their accomplishment were part of it.”

  Lucy was doubtful. “Wouldn’t they object to something like that? I mean … being singled out in a public way?”

  “Object?” Mrs. Tompkins laughed. “They’d love the attention. In fact, recognition would likely entice scores of the women in our fair city to participate.”

  “We could publish the winner’s name in the Magnet,” Lucy said.

  Silas was half joking when he proposed a “Golden Needle Award” for “the most pairs of socks produced by one fair lady’s knitting needles.”

  “That’s a superb idea,” Lucy enthused. She looked over at Silas. “Would you be willing to have socks submitted here at the mercantile? Someone would need to keep an official count.”

  “We could string up a clothesline across the front window,” Mrs. Tompkins said. “Hang each pair on display. To keep the interest going.”

  “And a count. A board in the window announcing the total number of pairs thus far. No names attached, to keep the mystery of who will win alive.”

  “What’s a reasonable end date?” Lucy asked. She glanced over at Mrs. Tompkins. “Do you think Miss Evans would allow the winner to be announced at her Christmas musicale?”

  “We can but ask,” Mrs. Tompkins said, “but first I’d like to return to something Mr. Tait said.” She glanced at Silas. “I know you were joking about the ‘Golden Needle Award,’ but what if the award itself were more than just an announcement and mention in the newspaper? What if it were something that would make the recognition more lasting. Perhaps something wearable?”