43
Arthur

ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
FEBRUARY 1924

Arthur watched Lorna arrange the fabric across the table one more time. She’d asked if she could invite Mrs. Harshaw to his shop to collect her commission. He wasn’t sure why she wasn’t handing off the fabric at Biltmore Industries. Then again, he considered that Lorna hadn’t gone to the weaving room for quite some time. She’d mentioned to him that she was taking a sabbatical, but now he wondered if perhaps she and Mr. Tompkins had parted ways. He wanted to ask but told himself it wasn’t really any of his business.

The finished cloth was stunning. He’d never seen anything like it before. And yet Lorna seemed nervous.

“Mrs. Harshaw is going to be thrilled when she sees this,” he said, touching a fold of the undulating fabric. “It’s incredible.”

Lorna bit her thumbnail. Something he’d never seen her do before. “Yes. It is exceptional. I’m sure she’ll be delighted.”

Arthur tilted his head. “Then why do you seem uneasy?”

“Do I?” Lorna pressed her hands to her stomach. “I suppose it’s been such a long journey, and I can hardly believe we’re finally at the end.”

Arthur smiled and took one of her hands. It was cold and clammy. He gently rubbed her fingers. “You’ve worked so very hard, and you’ve accomplished what you set out to do. I wish I could be there when Cornelia sees this for the first time.”

Lorna tugged her hand away and fiddled with the cloth some more. “Yes, well, there hasn’t even been an engagement announced. I’m not altogether certain Cornelia is getting married.”

“Rumors suggest she is.” Arthur flushed at Lorna’s look of surprise. “I don’t mean to listen to gossip, but the ladies who come to shop often chatter on and, well”—he shrugged—“one can’t help but overhear. They say he’s British royalty.”

Lorna raised her eyebrows. “Wouldn’t that be something. A prince come to live in the North Carolina castle.”

“I don’t think he’s a prince, but you never know.”

Lorna knotted her hands together as though to stop them from fussing with the cloth again. “I doubt a royal will appreciate our mountain homespun.” She frowned. “What if Mrs. Harshaw changes her mind? What if this isn’t the right sort of gift after all?”

This time Arthur captured both her hands and tugged her closer. “Then Mrs. Harshaw is a fool.” He pressed a quick kiss to her mouth and saw a smile bloom, then just as quickly fade away. He released her before she could pull away again.

The bell jangled above the door, and Lorna turned with a smile he could tell she had pasted across her face. Mrs. Harshaw swept into the room wearing a broad hat with an oversized bow that Arthur wasn’t sure was her wisest fashion decision.

“Mrs. Harshaw, it’s lovely to see you,” Lorna said. “And thank you for meeting me here.”

The matron waved a dismissive hand. “It’s closer to my home, so really it was quite convenient.” She bore down on the table covered in fabric. “Is this it? Is this what I have waited for so long to see?”

Arthur saw Lorna go pale and stiffen her spine. Was Mrs. Harshaw not pleased?

“Yes, ma’am. It’s intended to be representative—”

“Of the estate’s Blue Ridge Mountain view,” Mrs. Harshaw inserted. She tugged off her gloves and ran her fingers over the fabric. “Oh, my dear, it’s absolutely exquisite.”

Lorna exhaled and sagged against the edge of the table. Then she recovered herself and smiled, more genuinely this time. “Thank you. I’d hoped it was what you had in mind.”

Mrs. Harshaw got a glint in her eye. “And it will most certainly be the only gift of its kind.” She looked around the room as though someone might be spying. “The engagement is to be announced within the month.” She lowered her voice another notch. “I understand the wedding will be soon thereafter.”

“Shall I wrap this for you?” Arthur asked.

“That would be lovely. We don’t want anyone to see it before it’s time.” She turned to Lorna. “I’ll deliver the payment to Mr. Tompkins, but here’s a little something for your trouble, my dear.” She slid an envelope across the table to Lorna. “Your design is exceptional. I’ll be sure to tell Mr. Tompkins what a treasure he has in you.” She tapped the envelope. “And I’ll be certain to send my friends to you for future commissions.”

Arthur watched emotions play across Lorna’s face, but he couldn’t pin down exactly what she was feeling. Elation? Pride? No, it was a look of . . . determination.

Lorna pushed the envelope back toward Mrs. Harshaw. “I appreciate the gesture, ma’am, but I can’t accept this.”

The matron frowned, clearly unaccustomed to being thwarted in any way. “Whyever not?”

“It’s not my design.”

Now Arthur could clearly read the look on Lorna’s face. Fear.

“What do you mean? Didn’t you weave this fabric?”

Lorna swallowed, and for a moment Arthur didn’t think she’d get any more words out. “I helped, yes, but a dear friend designed the fabric, and it was woven on her loom. All of my best patterns are actually hers.”

Mrs. Harshaw huffed a breath. “I don’t understand you, and I don’t have time for this kind of nonsense. Is this person going to come forward and claim the fabric? Is my gift for Cornelia somehow in jeopardy?”

Lorna blinked. “No, ma’am, the fabric is yours, and there’s not another like it anywhere. She was happy to let me have it. It’s just that I thought she should get the credit. Not me.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, what do I care who came up with the design? Just so long as it’s exclusive to my purpose.”

Arthur finished wrapping the cloth as the two women spoke. Mrs. Harshaw scooped up the oversized package and nodded toward the envelope still lying on the table. “Do with that what you will. Give it to this other weaver. Keep it for yourself. It matters not to me.” She spun toward the door and was about to exit when she turned. “Although perhaps I won’t be sending you additional commissions. This has all been a bit too dramatic for my taste.”

The bell jangled, and she was gone. Lorna sagged against the table.

“Why did you tell her?” Arthur asked.

Lorna buried her face in her hands and spoke through her fingers. “I don’t know. I just couldn’t stand pretending anymore.”

Arthur eased to her side and placed a tentative arm around her shoulders. “If it matters, I think you did the right thing.”

Her hands fell away. “Do you really?” She turned her face up to him.

He reached over and caressed her cheek. “I do,” he said, his voice husky. “I’m proud of you.” He was about to kiss her when she turned away.

“I don’t see how you can be. All I did was confess that I lied. That’s hardly admirable.”

Arthur turned her face back to him. “I think it’s often harder to confess something than it would have been to do the right thing to begin with. What you did was brave.” He smiled. “And right. It’s never too late to do what’s right.”

Her eyes shone with such hope that he couldn’t help himself, and this time he did kiss her. He felt the tension drain away as she relaxed in his arms. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

Lorna stiffened and pulled free. The tears he suspected had been close all afternoon spilled over. “No,” she said. “I don’t deserve you.” She turned, ran through the workshop, and disappeared out the back door.

Arthur stood there in shock. What had he done wrong? Then he charged toward the door, determined to go after her and correct his mistake.

Angus entered as he was reaching for the knob. He laid a restraining hand on Arthur’s arm. “Let her go, my friend. She needs to sort this out for herself.” He chuckled. “Not that I’ve had much luck with women, but most of my bad luck has come from pushing in where I wasn’t wanted. Give her some time, then go after her.” He patted Arthur’s arm. “She’s still got some sorting to do on her own.”

“What’s the deal with you and Lorna?” Boyd liked to talk as he painted the wooden toys they sold in the shop. “You know, the girl who came with you to get me.” Boyd slid his brother a cagey look. “Because you were afraid to come on your own.”

“How did you guess?” Arthur said with a chuckle. “But as to ‘what the deal is,’ I don’t know.”

“She likes you, but she’s afraid.” Boyd spoke as if his observation should be obvious to anyone.

“Afraid of what?”

“Probably that you’ll die or run off on her or something like that.”

Arthur set his carving tools down. “What in the world makes you say that?”

“I’ve been talking to her—she’s nice. Anyway, her mother died real sudden. Then her dad died in that big flood. Man, that’s a heckuva story. And since then, it sounds like she hasn’t had anyone she could lean on.” He dabbed some more paint. “Guess I know what that’s like.”

Arthur felt like he’d been delivered a blow. “And now I think her job’s in danger.”

“Oh, she doesn’t have a job. That Mr. Tompkins told her to hit the road a while back.”

Arthur slumped onto a stool. “That’s why she had Mrs. Harshaw come here. How do you know all of this?”

Boyd set down his brush and eyed his brother. “For somebody who’s sweet on Lorna, you don’t seem to talk to her much.”

Arthur hung his head. Boyd was right. He’d been so busy trying to wrangle the lives of the people he cared about that he hadn’t stopped to find out what they cared about.

“Boyd,” he said, raising his head, “how’s it going for you now that you’re not—”

“In the loony bin?” Boyd finished for him. He pulled another toy close and dipped his brush again. “Mostly good,” he said, then focused on his work. “I guess there’s a time now and again when I get kind of thirsty for something more than water to drink.”

Arthur wet his lips. He’d opened this can of worms. He’d better be willing to sift through it. “You haven’t, uh, acted on that, have you?”

Boyd frowned. “Of course not.”

Arthur took a breath. He wasn’t doing this right. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to make things worse. “I didn’t think you had.” He cracked his knuckles, drawing a narrow-eyed look from his brother. “I just want you to know that you can . . . well, if you’re ever having a hard time, you can talk to me. Like Lorna said that day we picked you up.”

Those eyes like slits again. “Can I? You won’t get mad and stick me in that place again?”

Arthur blew out a breath. “No. I’d like to think you and I could work it out without needing the doctors at Highland Hospital.”

Boyd nodded slowly. “That’d be good. We could just take care of each other.”

A lump rose in Arthur’s throat. “Yeah.” He laughed, and the tension began to slide away. “After what you just told me about Lorna, guess maybe I need some taking care of.”

Boyd chuckled. “Women. They sure do cause a lot of trouble.”

“That they do,” Arthur said with a wink. “The very best kind.”