13
Lorna

BILTMORE VILLAGE
SEPTEMBER 1923

“Mr. Tompkins wants to see you.”

Lorna’s head jerked up. She hadn’t seen Bernice approaching. “Pardon?”

Bernice darted a worried look over her shoulder. “Mr. Tompkins. He said you were to come right away, and he didn’t look a bit happy about it.”

Lorna sighed. She wasn’t happy about the request either. She’d been avoiding her supervisor since he’d asked if she could deliver on her promise to provide Mrs. Harshaw with a breathtaking fabric fit for a Vanderbilt. And she feared she was no closer to delivering on that promise.

She held her chin high as she entered Mr. Tompkins’s office. “You asked to see me, sir?”

“Have a seat, Miss Blankenship.” She sat and tucked her hands under her legs, pinning her skirt in place. She could feel the muscles beneath quivering and willed herself to be still. “I’d like an update on your commission for Mrs. Harshaw. I saw her at church on Sunday and found myself in the position of being uninformed as to your progress.” He glared at her over his glasses. “It also came to my attention that you were not in attendance. Were you ill?”

Lorna wet her lips. “I attend irregularly.”

Mr. Tompkins made a tsk-tsk sound. “That simply will not do. But let us discuss the more pressing matter. What is your progress on the fabric?”

Lorna felt sweat prickle beneath her blouse. She thought back to Elspeth’s description of the mountain weaver’s fabric. “I’m working on the draft now,” she lied. “It’s inspired by the mountain vistas that drew Mr. Vanderbilt to this area.”

A wrinkle formed between Mr. Tompkins’s eyebrows. “Yes. Go on.”

“The colors suggest the blues of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and they’re accented with silver and white to reflect the low clouds and mists so common to this area.”

Now Mr. Tompkins was nodding. “Sounds promising. When can I see the draft?”

“It won’t be much longer,” Lorna said, trying to inject a note of confidence into her lies.

“It had better not. Weaving the sort of complex design Mrs. Harshaw expects will take time, and while there has yet to be an announcement, Mrs. Harshaw believes there will be a spring wedding.” He flipped open a diary positioned equidistant from the edges of his desk. “I shall expect to see a finished draft ready for the loom no later than the fifteenth of October.” He tapped the page with a freshly sharpened pencil. “I trust that won’t be a problem.”

“Not at all,” Lorna said in a rush. She stood, clenching her hands behind her back to hide their shaking. “Will that be all?”

Mr. Tompkins made a vague, waving gesture. “Yes, yes. Back to your duties.”

Lorna scurried from the office and made her way immediately to the lavatory. She splashed water on her face and gulped air in an effort not to be sick. What was she going to do? Now she not only had to find her mystery weaver, but she also had to persuade her to create a specific design based on her spontaneous description. And she had only a month to do it.

She slowed her breathing and looked at herself in the glass as she tried to regain control. Pieces of hair clung to her damp cheeks, and the finger waves she’d worked so hard to master had fallen out. She sighed and fished some pins from her pocket to fasten her hair back.

Inhaling deeply and releasing the air slowly, she knew what she had to do. She had to go back to Arthur and plead for his help once more. She had no doubt he’d offer it gladly. She only hesitated because she dreaded the day he learned the truth about her. He’d wanted to meet again, to catch up on the months since they’d last met. She shook her head. She had little to tell him, and not much of it was good.

Thankfully, Lorna didn’t have to contact Arthur again. The next morning, Donnie was waiting on her front porch as she left for Biltmore Industries. It had been so convenient when the business had been right here in Biltmore Village, but since Mr. Seely purchased it, she had to take the streetcar all the way across town.

“Arthur asked me to bring you this,” Donnie said, holding out a folded piece of paper. Lorna accepted it and tucked it in her pocket. “I think he was hoping you’d read it and send him word back,” he added.

“Oh. Well. Yes.” Lorna fumbled for the paper. “Give me just a moment.” She turned to the side and unfolded the page, hoping her hands wouldn’t shake.

Lorna,

I have heard from Basil that he’s found more of your weaver’s fabric. If you are able, we can go fetch it today. If not, I will go alone and bring it to you. Give your answer to Donnie. I hope you can come.

Arthur

Lorna felt her heart stutter and leap. Foolish heart. She gnawed her lip and considered what to do. The only time she had failed to report to work as scheduled was the week after the flood of 1916. She shuddered at the memory and pushed it away. Darting a glance at Donnie and then back to Arthur’s words, she made her decision. She would go. After all, finding the weaver was part of her job.

“Tell Arthur I’ll come with him,” she blurted.

Donnie looked pleased. “He said if you were willing to go, I should tell you to wait right here and he’ll be along as quick as he can.”

Lorna nodded. “I just need to send a note with one of the other girls, explaining why I won’t be in the weaving room today. But I’ll be here when he arrives.”

Lorna jotted a note to Mr. Tompkins, assuring him she was hard at work on her commission and needed to stay home where she could give it her full attention. She stepped down to the streetcar stop and caught one of the girls to deliver the missive. As she returned to her own porch to wait for Arthur, worry began to nibble at her conscience. What if this was a dead end? What if she was risking her job for nothing?

She thumped down on the top porch step and hung her head. Her job was already at risk. She should probably be more concerned about making a fool of herself with Arthur.

“Ready for an adventure?”

Lorna jerked her head up and gaped at the automobile idling in the street. Arthur stood beside it, the passenger door open, a huge grin on his face.

“Where did you get that?”

“A friend,” he said with a wink. “No worrying about catching streetcars today!”

“But I’ve never ridden in one before.” Lorna stood and moved toward the roadster as if in a dream.

“I have, and it’s a treat!” He took her hand and helped her in, snugging the door shut behind her. She ran her hands over the dark seats and touched the cool glass of the windscreen in front of her. A giggle bubbled up from she knew not where, and she let it out.

Arthur slid behind the wheel and laughed with her. Suddenly, Lorna felt as carefree as a child running barefoot through the grass on a summer day. She clapped her hands. “I believe I am ready for an adventure,” she said and leaned over to give Arthur a peck on the cheek. He flushed, did some maneuvering with the car, and they were off. Lorna grabbed the edge of the seat, braced her feet against the floor of the vehicle, and let the wind carry away the last of the caution she’d been clinging to for far too long.

They met Basil in Reems Creek, where he directed them to a house in the community of Weaverville, much to Lorna’s surprise. She had assumed they would once again be heading off into the hinterlands to track down some country bumpkin or yokel. Instead, he pointed to a neat cottage with a white picket fence and a cascade of autumn roses perfuming the air.

“Ma says Virgie might have some fabric like that shawl. I think she knows more about it than she’s letting on. Has her reasons, I guess.” Basil pushed the squeaking gate open, and they passed into a tidy yard where a rainbow of dahlias bloomed. A sprite of a woman was cutting the flowers and laying them in a wooden trug as if each one were made of glass and gold.

“Basil, what fresh delight is this?” the woman called, holding a hand up to shade her eyes from the sun as it climbed toward the noon hour.

“This is Arthur. He’s a wood-carver. And this is Lorna, who’s a weaver like Ma. She wants to see that cloth Ma wrote to you about.”

The woman clapped her hands like a child. She swooped up her trug in one hand while hitching her skirts with the other. “Follow me,” she trilled and led them toward the cottage. Inside, Lorna wanted to clap her own hands. The space was utterly charming with needlepoint cushions in the chintz-covered chairs, antimacassars, and wood laid in the fireplace, ready to lend its warmth on a cool evening. There was even a teapot and a cup suggesting that Virgie had neglected to clear away her breakfast things. And books were everywhere, like a flock of birds that had landed to roost wherever they liked.

“Pardon the mess,” Virgie chirped. “I find a bit of clutter comforting. It prevents me from feeling as though I must keep everything just so.”

Lorna drifted through the room, which, while cluttered, was quite clean. She suspected the place was more organized than Virgie would admit. She resisted the urge to pick up a vase here or a pinecone there. She thought she could remain contentedly in this room forever.

“Find a place to perch,” Virgie said, “while I give my flowers a drink.”

Lorna settled on a chair with a finely knitted shawl draped over its back. Her fingers found their way into the fabric of their own volition, and she sighed with pleasure.

She looked up to see Arthur and Basil clearly feeling less at home. They surveyed the available furniture and finally selected matching wing-back chairs on either side of the fireplace. Basil braced his hands on his knees as though afraid to touch anything.

Virgie bustled back in carrying a tray with sugar cookies on it. “Some might think it too early in the day for sweets, but I say it’s never too early.” She plopped the tray on an oversized ottoman and then settled in a rocking chair with proportions that seemed fitted exactly to her. She swiped up a cookie and took a bite, looking at her guests expectantly.

Lorna laughed. The sound of it surprised her. It also eased the fear and stress she’d been carrying over this fabric, her job, and her future. She took a cookie and sank back into her chair, a sense of peace wrapping around her like the shawl under her hand.

Basil glanced toward the door with naked longing. “How about Arthur and I take our cookies out to the yard?” he said. “Ma mentioned the windlass on your well’s been sticking.”

“Good idea,” Virgie sang. “You boys go do manly things while we ladies discuss fabric and weaving.” Lorna watched Basil lead the way as though he were making a narrow escape. Arthur followed, but as he passed her chair, he patted her shoulder. Tears sprang to her eyes. She blinked them away before anyone could see.

“Men are useful creatures, but I daresay I have done alright without trying to keep one for my own.”

A giggle bubbled up in Lorna, and she let it escape. “Considering your charming home and your obvious ability to take care of yourself, I’d tend to agree.”

Virgie held up a finger. “Not that I didn’t break my share of hearts in my day. But in the end, I couldn’t find anyone who was better company than Mr. Wordsworth or Mr. Dickens.” She sighed and reached for another cookie. “Or, heaven help me, Jack London.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “So handsome, so virile. I’d almost go to Alaska with him. Such a shame he died so very young.”

Lorna could almost forget her reason for coming here. She wished she could forget everything—her promise to Mrs. Harshaw. The fear of losing her position. Biltmore Industries’ flagging sales. Her lost family. Her lost opportunity with Arthur. All of it seemed far away while she sat in this cozy room, nibbling sweet cookies with Virgie.

Yet Virgie remembered her purpose even if Lorna did not. “But you didn’t come to listen to my meanderings.” She dusted the last crumbs from her hands and sprang to her feet. “Wait here, dearest. I gathered the pieces after I received Elspeth’s note.” She trotted up a staircase, and Lorna waited, eyes closed, as relaxed as she could ever remember being.

Lorna’s eyes flew open when a cascade of cloth tumbled into her lap. She’d been on the edge of sleep and for a brief moment thought the fabric in her arms was part of a dream. A tweedy jacket in pale purple gave her the sense she was smelling lilacs while a soft, spring breeze teased her hair. And a plaid skirt in pinks, reds, and oranges was like holding a sunrise at the birth of a new day.

“These are exceptional,” she gasped.

Virgie’s tinkling laughter filled the room like bells. “Aren’t they, though? I ought to wear them every day, but instead I wait until I need cheering and then I put on one of these and recite Lord Byron’s poem.” A dreamy smile spread over her face as she whispered, “‘She walks in beauty . . .’”

“But where did they come from?” Lorna asked.

“It’s a sad story,” Virgie said, moving to her rocker. She set it into motion and leaned her head back. “Sabine’s husband was half French, and he decided to go and fight in the Great War in 1915. He was killed about a year later, and she lost their farm—couldn’t pay the taxes. So she moved here. She said she had family in the area, even though I’d never met any of them. She became a good friend.” Her expression clouded. “The cancer took her . . . oh, I guess it’s been a year and a half. Just before she died, she told me to open a trunk in her room.” She waved at the clothing in Lorna’s lap. “And there was the cloth. It was like opening a treasure chest. I asked why she’d never had them made into clothes. She said she’d always thought they were too beautiful to take a pair of scissors to.” Virgie laughed softly. “I told her they were too beautiful not to take a pair of scissors to. Sabine said that’s why she was giving them to me.

“And so I made them into the prettiest clothes I could dream up with my limited imagination.” She reached over and scooped up a simple blouse. “You see this?” She held up the indigo fabric. “I can’t wear it without feeling as though I’m wearing the sky at dusk just after the sun has set and just before the moon has risen.”

“Tell me about Sabine,” Lorna said. “Was she the weaver?”

“I don’t know.” Virgie set her chair in motion again, the soft swish of the rockers against the rug setting a rhythm for their words. “She didn’t share much about her past. And I didn’t know her all that long before she got sick.” Silence reigned for several beats. “She did mention that she had regrets—something about her sister marrying a man I think Sabine may have cared for herself. She said she’d done her sister a bad turn and had never made it right.” She shook her head, sad and slow. “I took that skirt to show her about a month after she gave me the fabric—not long before she passed.” Virgie waved a hand at the tangle of cloth in Lorna’s lap. “She hugged it tight as if it were a babe in her arms.” Virgie closed her eyes. “Now, let me get this right. She said”—Lorna leaned forward and held her breath—“the fabric reminded her that weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”

Lorna exhaled and stroked the soft fabric of the skirt. “She might have been talking about dying.”

Virgie nodded. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“You said Sabine lost her farm. Where was it?”

Virgie pursed her lips and looked up. “West Virginia,” she said at last. “She mentioned being up there near the Shenandoah Valley.”

“Do you think she brought this fabric from there?”

“Oh, I know she did. She told me the bolts of cloth were among the few things she managed to bring with her.”

Lorna ran her hands over the sunrise of a skirt, examining each square inch. There. What looked like a flaw in the pattern. Or perhaps an intentional signature by her elusive weaver. She pointed it out to Virgie. “Have you ever noticed this?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I’ve found a similar flaw in most of the fabric. I mentioned it to Elspeth, and she said it might be on purpose.”

“Did Sabine know anything about it?”

“She died before I thought to ask.”

Lorna nodded, feeling both excited and frustrated. “So you think Sabine was the weaver?”

Virgie leaned forward and laid a hand on Lorna’s knee. “Maybe.” She hesitated. “This seems awfully important to you.”

“It is. And I’m sorry if I’ve been asking too many questions. It’s just that I need to find the person who wove these.”

“I’ve got some scraps I could let you have. None big enough to do anything with, but I hated the thought of throwing them away.”

Lorna felt hope surge within her. “That would be wonderful—thank you so much.”

A few minutes later, as Virgie pressed a bundle of scraps into Lorna’s hands, she felt as though they were breadcrumbs that would lead her to her mysterious weaver. The one who would save her job, her reputation, and perhaps even Biltmore Industries.