5
Lorna

WEAVERVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
SEPTEMBER 1923

Her feet ached, and she’d gotten mud all over her skirt. The streetcar ride to Weaverville hadn’t been cheap, and now this walk was taking much longer than she’d anticipated. At first she’d enjoyed the lovely scenery passing from wide bottomlands to steep mountains and narrow valleys. She’d even gotten a look at the Reems Creek Milling Company’s gristmill with its huge waterwheel turning beneath a rush of water. She’d enjoyed their cornmeal at Mrs. Brady’s table time and again.

It had all felt like quite an adventure. But now she was beginning to worry that she’d miss the last streetcar back to Asheville. And then what would she do?

The woman at the market had not brought her another piece of cloth. Instead, she’d given her instructions for finding the weaver. Initially, Lorna had felt this was excellent news. But as the day wore on, she was less certain.

Her instructions had been to follow Reems Creek from the mill until she came to the Brank Cemetery. From there she was supposed to follow a smaller stream to the left until she came to the third cabin up Pink Fox Cove. She’d seen two cabins and was beginning to wonder if there really was a third. Or had she simply been sent on a wild goose chase?

“Serves me right,” she muttered, slipping along a muddy stretch of what was little more than a dirt track. Never mind the cardinal flowers shining with the purest red she’d ever seen. Never mind the cascades of frothy virgin’s bower growing along fence lines. She was past finding inspiration in her surroundings. She just wanted to find this weaver and be on her way again.

“Who in the blue blazes are you?”

Lorna froze when she heard the voice above her among the trees. She’d already been feeling thirsty, but now her mouth went so dry she could hardly swallow. Turning slowly, she spotted what she could only describe as the classic picture of a bearded mountain man, pointing a gun at her. Some sort of rifle, although she wasn’t certain.

Fisting her free hand in her skirt, she tried to wet her lips. “I’m looking for a weaver. I was told she lives up this way.”

“You’ve got no business being up here.”

She reached into her basket and pulled out the shawl. “I need to find the person who made this cloth,” she said, surprised that she could get the words out.

“Need? I doubt that. This world’s full of needs, and that doesn’t sound like much of one.” He made a jabbing motion with the gun. “Now be gone.”

“But I—” The sound of the explosion made Lorna feel as though her heart had stopped, and for a moment she feared a bullet had done that very thing. But no. The man had missed her. “You shot at me!” she blurted.

“No, ma’am. I shot around you. Stay a little longer and you’ll understand the difference.”

Before she realized she’d decided to do anything, Lorna hiked her skirts and sprinted back the way she’d come. She darted a look over her shoulder, tripped, and sprawled across the rough path, dropping her basket. The heels of her hands burned where they slammed into rocks and dirt, and her knee throbbed. Nonetheless, she regained her feet, scooped up her basket, and continued her speedy retreat along the nameless stream. It wasn’t until she saw the cemetery that had been her first landmark that she finally slowed and took stock of her situation.

Her hands were scraped and bloody with two nails broken. Her skirt was even dirtier than before, and there was a tear where her knee must have bashed into a sharp stone. She braced a hand against her side and panted until she was able to slow her breathing and calm her racing heart.

Well. That had not gone according to plan.

Lorna found a pinecone and used it to brush as much dirt from her clothing as she could. It would seem the woman at the market didn’t know what she was talking about. Or maybe she did and these people simply didn’t trust an outsider who walked in unannounced. She washed her hands in the creek and patted them dry with a handkerchief, wincing as she brushed the abraded flesh. She lifted the watch pinned at her breast and saw that if she hurried, she could still make the last streetcar.

She rushed back along Reems Creek, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in her knee. “Such a waste,” she said to the sky. “Of both time and money.”

All right then. She was going to need help if she intended to track down this mysterious weaver. And while she knew exactly who to ask, she was afraid he might say no. She suspected she’d had something to do with his up and leaving Biltmore Industries like he did. She tried to remember the last time she’d done more than nod at him on a Sunday morning. Right. It had been on a chilly March Sunday a year and a half ago. And he’d suspected the truth about her then.

Lorna thought that the building she was approaching more closely resembled a cozy English cottage than a woodworking shop. She checked the slip of paper she’d written the address on one more time. Yes. This was the place.

She wet her lips as she raised her gloved hand to knock on the door. She pressed her other hand to her stomach to still the fluttering. She’d intentionally avoided Arthur for too long. Seeking him out now, she realized how much she’d missed him.

She dared not examine the why of that too closely.

A young man flung the door open, releasing the smell of fresh lumber and linseed oil. “Can I help ya?”

Lorna took a deep breath, finding the aromas unexpectedly comforting. “I’m looking for Arthur Wescott.” She craned her neck to see past him. “I believe this is his shop?”

“Yes, ma’am, but he’s occupied at the moment.” The man brushed wood shavings from the front of his shirt. “If it’s a commission you want, I can take the order.” He stuck his hand out. “I’m Donnie.”

“Do you get many commissions?” she asked.

“Oh, all the time. Cain’t hardly keep up with ’em. Arthur, he likes to talk to clients himself, but I’m okay to get the ball rolling.” He mimed rolling a ball from his palm.

“Could he make me a shuttle?” Lorna was surprised by her own audacity. She’d had no notion of asking Arthur to do any such thing.

Donnie furrowed his brow. “A what?”

“For weaving—the wooden shuttle that carries the weft thread between the warp threads.” She tried to demonstrate with her hands, but it didn’t seem to be helping.

“You’d better come in.” Donnie held the door open wider, and she entered a small front room comfortably furnished with mission-style furniture much like they had at Grove Park Inn. “You can sit if you want,” he said, waving at one of the chairs before disappearing into the recesses of the cottage.

Lorna perched on the edge of a chair with her hands clasped over tightly pressed knees. She was grateful her gloves hid her injuries from the day before. She brushed a thread from her skirt and noticed her hand was shaking. She wove her fingers together and tried to be still even though her heart and mind were racing.

She heard footsteps approaching, and the sound stirred a memory she couldn’t quite place. She looked toward the door just in time to see Arthur appear. His smooth expression burst into a smile. “Lorna? Is that you?” He hurried to her side in that hitching gait she’d forgotten. That was the memory—the sound of one foot hesitating to follow the other. She would never have claimed to associate it with Arthur, but seeing him now, it brought back memories—and shame—that made her clench her hands even tighter.

“Hello, Arthur.”

“When Donnie said a pretty woman wanted me to make her a shuttle, I had to come see.” He dropped into the chair beside her and braced his hands on his knees. “Generally, I don’t tend to every commission—I’d never get anything done if I did—but I’m so glad he fetched me this time.” He stopped talking and shook his head, smiling. “My goodness. How are you? You must still be weaving if you need a new shuttle.”

Lorna blushed and smoothed her skirt over her knees. She began pleating the fabric between her fingers, then caught herself and reclasped her hands. “I don’t really need a shuttle. It’s just the only thing I could think of at the moment.”

Arthur tilted his head to one side. “Then you’ve come for another reason?”

“I . . . I need your help.”

“Few things would make me happier than being of service to you.”

She wanted to believe his words but couldn’t imagine that they were true. She’d shut him out. Accused him. And he’d left Biltmore Industries. Left a position he’d worked long and hard to build. Although, looking around, she considered that he might have done well enough in business on his own to have no regrets. “I need to find a weaver.”

He laughed. “I’d think you’d trip over them every day.” He considered her more seriously. “Or have you left Biltmore Industries, too?”

It stung a little that he didn’t know. She’d known exactly where to find him—known precisely what he was doing. “No, no, that’s not it.” She retrieved the shawl from her bag. “I found this at the market in Biltmore Village.”

Arthur whistled long and low. “Well, now that is a beaut.” He took the cloth and ran it between his fingers. “You say you bought it at the market? Did the seller not tell you who made it?”

“She claimed she didn’t know, but I think she was keeping the weaver’s identity from me. Then she sent me on a wild goose chase.”

“Why would she do that?”

Lorna shrugged one shoulder. “I assumed the weaver is one of those types who live back in the hills somewhere, refusing to have anything to do with society. Perhaps she’s backwards or shy. Or maybe the woman who sold me the cloth wasn’t supposed to have it.” She sighed. “I’ve thought of all sorts of scenarios, but in the end, I just want to find this weaver.”

“Why? And why would you need my help?” Arthur handed the shawl back.

Lorna took it, running her hand over the soft cloth with its rich colors. She just couldn’t get enough of how it stirred her imagination. Even now, the simple act of holding it gave her the sense of tasting crisp apples while a cool breeze teased her hair. She knew it was precisely the sort of pattern she needed to impress Mrs. Harshaw. “I tried to go to the place along Reems Creek where the weaver is supposed to live, but I wasn’t particularly welcome. I understand you source wood from that area, and I thought you might have some knowledge that would help me.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice that she hadn’t exactly answered his question.

Arthur chuckled. “Folks back in the hills aren’t always eager to welcome strangers.” He winked. “Even pretty ones.”

Lorna was taken aback by the compliment. She hadn’t been certain she’d be welcome here, and Arthur was not only welcoming and kind but . . . dared she think he was pleased to see her? “Yes, I’m afraid the fellow I encountered made it abundantly clear that he expected me to leave. With haste.”

Arthur frowned. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No. He did have a gun, but I don’t think he would have actually shot me.” She refrained from mentioning that he’d fired his weapon in her general direction.

Arthur made a humming sound. “Probably not, but you never know.” He clapped his hands together. “Basil Howes has been drying some cherry for me. I can take you with me when I go to see him on Saturday. He knows everyone along Reems Creek and can surely point us in the right direction.”

Lorna blinked in surprise. “I . . . that would be most helpful.”

“Good.” He winked again. “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning at seven.”

“I could meet you—” she began, but he jumped in.

“No need. I go right by Biltmore Village on my way to Weaverville.”

She nodded, then something struck her. “How do you know I still live in the village?”

Arthur flushed and shoved his hands in the sagging pockets of his jacket. “I, well, I was just supposing you hadn’t moved.”

“I haven’t,” she said slowly.

“Good, good. Saturday then?” He stood, and she knew that was her cue to leave.

“Thank you, Arthur. This means a great deal to me. Maybe even to Biltmore Industries.”

He smiled, drawing his shoulders back. “And it means a great deal to me that you would come here for help.” He exhaled, his voice dropping. “I’ve missed you.”

She ducked her head. “You’re missed as well. It’s not the same without you around the shops.”

His smile slipped a notch, and she wondered if she’d said something wrong. But then he escorted her outside, and they shook hands as she took her leave. His hand was rough with calluses that caught on her thin gloves. It felt like the hand of someone who could keep her safe. Of course, she’d thought the same thing about her father’s hands . . .

“Say,” Arthur said, interrupting her thoughts, “wouldn’t it be something if the weaver turned out to be Gentry?” He chuckled. “Don’t suppose she ever turned back up, did she?”

Lorna felt her head swim. “No. No, she never did.” She forced a laugh of her own. “I’m sure she’s far away by now. Probably gave up weaving for music. She certainly used it as an excuse to shirk her work when she was here.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes, she never did have the patience for all the steps required. But she sure did have a gift for color and design.”

Lorna’s laugh sounded nervous to her own ears. “Yes, well, the weaver I’m looking for would certainly have to be meticulous, and I’m not sure Gentry would ever have been that.”

“I guess not,” Arthur agreed. “Well, see you Saturday.”

She took her leave, moving slowly until she heard the door click shut behind her. She stood for a moment on the street, one hand pressed to her throat. What if the weaver was Gentry? The notion would never have occurred to her. But now that Arthur had planted the seed, fear coiled in her belly. She had to have a new design to save her job. Maybe to save all of Biltmore Industries. But not at the cost of facing Gentry again after all these years.