19
Lorna

BILTMORE VILLAGE
OCTOBER 1923

Lorna settled onto the bench seat in the passenger car. She balanced her bag on her knees but quickly realized it was going to be uncomfortable. She looked around. Should she stow it on the floor? Or on the seat beside her? But what if someone else wanted to sit there? Not that she’d welcome a seatmate, but she didn’t want to commit a faux pas either.

“I can take that for you.”

Lorna jolted and looked up into familiar hazel eyes. “Arthur. What are you doing here?”

He lifted her bag and slid it onto a rack over her head, then settled in the seat beside her. The seat that suddenly felt much narrower.

“That’s exactly what I was about to ask you. I’m on my way north to buy wood. Basil has connected me with a fellow who says he has some rare species for me. What about you?”

Emotions warred inside Lorna. She was glad to see Arthur, but how much should she tell him? Being let go still felt too fresh and painful. She settled for the bare-bones version of the truth. “Virgie gave me an address in West Virginia. I’m headed there to see if I can learn anything about my weaver.”

Arthur grinned. “I’m headed almost that far. I’ll change my ticket and come with you.”

Lorna squirmed. She wanted nothing more than to accept his kindness and his company. But she wasn’t worthy of him and should politely decline. She knew she should send him away, should save herself the heartache that would surely come if he ever learned the truth about her, but she lost the battle.

“I can’t ask you to come with me,” she said at last.

Arthur’s smile lit the carriage. “You didn’t ask,” he said and took her hand as naturally as if they’d been holding hands for years. His voice deepened. “You didn’t need to.”

Tears welled, and Lorna didn’t fight them. It was such a relief to give in, to let someone take care of her. “Thank you, Arthur,” she whispered. “I don’t deserve your help.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Yes. You do. You deserve so very much.”

She swallowed past a rising lump and smiled at him. If only he knew. But for now, he didn’t know, and she would rest in this moment, grateful to receive it and hopeful that it would sustain her when he was gone. As he inevitably would be.

Lorna jolted awake as the train’s brakes screeched. They were approaching the station where they would disembark. Arthur stirred and stretched, as well. Thank goodness he hadn’t been watching her sleep. “Is this our stop?” he asked, yawning.

“Yes, we’ve arrived in Ronceverte.”

“Now, that’s a funny name for a town,” he said as he rubbed his eyes.

A nervous laugh bubbled up, and she gulped it back down. “Isn’t it, though? I looked it up before I left. Turns out it’s French for greenbrier.”

Arthur grinned. “A troublesome plant. That’s one way to fancy up a problem.” He clapped his hands. “So, where to from here?”

“The address Virgie gave me says Pickaway.” Lorna produced a slip of paper from her bag. “She said it’s ten or twelve miles south of town.”

As the train thrummed to a full stop, Arthur stood and retrieved her bag. “Well then, let’s see if we can hire a wagon. I’m thinking that’s too far to walk.”

Thirty minutes later, Lorna wished they’d decided to walk no matter how long it took. No one had a wagon they could use, so Arthur had drummed up the use of a roadster that had seen better days. What was left of the top was in tatters, and the passenger door was attached with baling wire. Lorna feared for her life, but Arthur seemed delighted by the opportunity to drive the stuttering motorcar south on a rutted road to Pickaway.

Lorna kept one hand on her hat and gripped the edge of the seat with the other. She wanted to close her eyes but quickly discovered that not seeing was worse than the juddering view through the cracked windscreen.

Thankfully, they soon reached the community of Pickaway, which was little more than a scattering of farms anchored by a school, a church, a blacksmith shop, and a combination store and post office. They stopped at the store to get their bearings and then headed out Hillsdale Road toward the Goodwin family farm.

Arthur brought the automobile to a stop near a barn. Or perhaps the engine simply died. Lorna couldn’t tell. The barn leaned toward the road like an old woman peering nearsightedly over someone’s shoulder. Lorna felt oddly judged by it. She wanted to hop out and get away from the looming presence but couldn’t figure out how to operate the automobile door with its baling wire hinges. Finally, Arthur came around and helped her out.

She stumbled to the ground and hurried around the looming barn. A little red house sat in a tangle of a garden on the far side. All was still.

“Should we knock on the door?” Arthur asked. “And who exactly is it we’ve come to see?”

“Olive Goodwin. She’s a relation of the Goodwins, who ran a weaving mill here in Greenbrier County for years. It’s no longer in operation, but Virgie said Olive still teaches people to weave and would likely know about other weavers in the area.”

“Doesn’t sound like much to go on,” Arthur said. He flashed her a smile. “Here’s hoping!” He took her hand, and they walked together to the door.

Lorna was so flustered by the fact that Arthur was holding her hand that she barely registered the woman who flung open the door. She looked young—perhaps in her twenties—although the spectacles she wore and the way her hair was pulled back into a high twist aged her.

“If you’ve come for the cover lid, it’s not done yet.” She blinked at them from behind round lenses.

“I . . .” Lorna tried to remember what she’d planned to say.

“Are you Olive Goodwin? If so, we’ve come to ask you about a weaver we think might be living around here. Or maybe did at one time,” Arthur explained smoothly and calmly, the pressure of his hand firm and comforting against her own.

“I’m Olive, and I reckon I know every weaver within a hundred miles.” The woman smiled and it lit her face, making her look younger. “Come on in. You can talk while I weave.”

Arthur gave Lorna a little tug to start her forward, then released her hand once they were inside. She missed his touch instantly. But at the same time, she found she could focus again.

The room was small with a loom taking up more than half the space. The remaining sliver of room offered mismatched chairs that flanked a fireplace, with a little table holding a tumbler and a plate with crumbs on it. Where Virgie’s house had been cozy, this one was spartan. Nonetheless, the tension Lorna had carried with her all the way from Asheville began to drain away. She sank into one of the chairs. Arthur took the other. Olive settled at her loom and set her shuttle flying. The familiar rhythm and cozy atmosphere made Lorna’s eyelids feel weighted. She began to suspect she was falling under some sort of enchantment.

“Who’s this weaver you’re searching for?” Olive asked.

Lorna blinked slowly and tried to remember.

“You have some fabric to show Olive, don’t you?” Arthur’s voice penetrated her haze, and Lorna felt herself come awake again.

“Yes, that’s right. I have it right here.” She pulled from her bag the shawl she bought at the market as well as the pieces Virgie had given her.

Olive stilled her shuttle and took the cloth. Her face clouded. She ran her fingers over the pattern as though tracing letters only she could read. “Where did you get these?”

“The shawl was a purchase I made at a market in Asheville, North Carolina. The other pieces were given to me by a friend, who got them from a woman named Sabine. She lived somewhere around here, I think.”

“Sabine Brooks.” Olive whispered the name. “I heard she died.”

“Yes, that’s what my friend said.”

“So you didn’t meet her?” Olive turned hopeful eyes on Lorna.

“No, she’s been gone a while now.”

Olive sighed heavily and shook out the shawl. “She and her sister Vivian were the best weavers I ever saw. And if I weren’t opposed to swearing, I’d swear one of them made this.”

“Do you think so?” Lorna asked. “I bought it recently, but I suppose it could have been made some time ago.”

Olive frowned and examined the piece inch by inch. “It doesn’t have a flaw,” she mused.

At the words, Lorna felt as though she’d been electrified. “Did Sabine have some sort of mark she included in her designs?”

The other woman flicked a suspicious look at her. “It’s one way to keep patterns and designs from being stolen. Not foolproof, certainly. Other weavers can imitate the flaw, but most people don’t notice.”

Lorna’s stomach tensed. “But a skilled weaver could copy a pattern without needing the draft,” she said. “Patterns are for sharing anyway.”

Olive sniffed. “Common patterns maybe. But this.” She held up the shawl. “This is special.” She swirled it in the air and settled it around her shoulders. “I’d be willing to bet the secret to my grandma’s pumpkin pie that one of the Brooks girls made it, flaw or no.”

Lorna’s heart nearly stopped. “You’re sure?”

“No, but it’s likely.” She unwound the shawl and handed it over, clearly sad to let it go.

“What do you know about Vivian? Is she still living around here?”

Olive gave an unladylike snort. “She was a wild thing. Ran off and got married when she was fifteen years old. Although she could already weave like a dream. Sabine used to get letters from her now and again. I don’t recall from where, though.”

“Who did she marry?” Lorna asked.

“Some sheep farmer passing through. I doubt anyone other than Sabine would even remember his name.” She got a twinkle in her eye. “I hear he was devilishly handsome.”

Lorna felt as if she might cry. “I was so hoping—”

“Wait.” Olive held a finger up in the air. “I have one of Sabine’s drafts. It’s not her fanciest work, but she was kind enough to give it to me before she left for North Carolina.” She popped up from her seat at the loom and darted through a doorway. Lorna could hear her rummaging around and muttering. “Aha!” she sang at last. She marched over to Lorna and presented the slip of paper with a flourish. It was yellowed and torn where the page had been folded over and over again.

Lorna took it with a shaking hand. Her mouth was so dry she didn’t think she could speak. The fragile paper crackled in her fingers as she opened it and took in the pattern with greedy eyes. Might it be good enough to please Mrs. Harshaw?

Silence reigned in the room that had gone from feeling cozy to suffocating. Finally, Lorna licked her lips, mustering the courage to say something, anything. “It’s simple but obviously a lovely design.”

“Yes, I’ve made it so many times, I know it by heart. You’re welcome to take that if you think it might be a help.”

“Thank you,” Lorna said, refolding the paper and slipping it into her bag, along with the shawl. “You’ve been very kind.” The words sounded stiff, but she couldn’t think what else to say.

“I doubt that. Seems like all I did was confirm what you already knew.” She slid back onto her stool at the loom. “I hope you find whoever made that shawl.” One corner of her mouth turned up. “And if it’s Vivian, tell her to drop me a line.”

“I’ll do that,” Lorna said refraining from mentioning that if Vivian was who she thought she was then . . . she was dead. She stood and headed for the door. She was outside in the fresh, early autumn air before she remembered that Arthur was with her.

He took her elbow. “I’m thinking that wasn’t as helpful as you hoped,” he said.

Lost in her own world, she barely registered the words. “No. It wasn’t what I expected at all. We may as well see if we can catch the evening train back to Asheville.”

They climbed into the ridiculous automobile, and Lorna left Arthur to the joy he clearly took in driving it. She leaned back in the seat, pondering what she had learned. She slipped one hand into her bag and touched the crackling paper with its simple but unique design. It felt hot under her hand, the paper and handwriting exactly like the drafts she had back home, hidden away, so no one would ever know she had them.