I felt my face get hot. “Professor Burbridge didn’t get the chance to give me the drawings he had located for me. I needed them to finish the curtains for the living room.”
Randall slowly straightened up from the doorjamb and advanced into the room. “So you found them? Anything else of interest?”
I shrugged, trying to look unconcerned by his insinuation that I was snooping. “All I needed were the drawings.” I slipped past him, and headed upstairs for the sewing room.
I spent the next hour measuring and cutting the filmy curtain fabric, all the while kicking myself for feeling like I had to explain myself to Randall. I resolved to avoid him as much as possible. Good thing I liked Fiona so much, or I might be tempted to sabotage her wedding gown or charge her double to try to get back a little of what Randall stole from me. I pushed aside thoughts of revenge, and considered whether I needed to warn Fiona about Randall’s questionable character. I’d hate to see him take advantage of her like he did to me. Of course, Fiona was a bright law student who could probably deal with Randall in court if she had to. I hoped, for her sake, that she never would.
I was just about to start hemming the curtains, resigned to the prospect of setting in each hem by hand, when Louise Pritchard appeared in my doorway.
“You’re wanted in the living room,” she proclaimed, clearly put out by the indignity of having to come upstairs to fetch the seamstress.
I followed her down to find the entire household gathered in the living room. The two elderly sisters sat in the wingback chairs by the hearth, leaving the rest of the assembled people to stand. Randall leaned an elbow on the mantel, looking like he owned the place. Jamison Royce stood on the other side of the hearth, his jeans grimy from the soil in the garden, his work hat pulled low over his eyes. Carl Harper, the contractor, stood near the door, a nail gun dangling from his hand. Louise walked across the room to stand behind Priscilla’s chair. Two imposing figures faced this group: the producers of the TV show, My House in History.
A petite woman in her early thirties with brown hair cropped close to her head, dressed in multicolored pastel leggings and a clingy tunic blouse, Cherry Stamford radiated nervous energy. Next to her stood Stillman Dertz, a giant of a man who gnawed on the stub of a cigar and avoided eye contact with anyone. I had met the two of them a week and a half ago, when they had invaded my sewing room and taken footage of me cutting out Priscilla’s gown. They had caught me kneeling down with the fabric spread out on the floor—not the most flattering pose. I hoped they would minimize that segment in the final broadcast.
Cherry held a clipboard in her hand and addressed the group. “We’ve fallen behind schedule, folks. We lost an entire day due to paramedics, coroners, and whatnot tramping through the house. We did take footage of the disturbances, and I don’t know if we’ll use them or not, but the fact remains that we’re woefully behind at this point. The renovations are slated to be finished by next Wednesday so we can wrap up filming on the finished product.”
Stillman shifted his weight beside her and removed the cigar stub from his mouth. “Tell them about the new arrangements.”
Cherry barely paused for breath. “We’ve decided to take hour-by-hour footage of the run to the finish. Everyone will need to accelerate their work accordingly.” She clapped her hands. “It’s settled. We’ll be following each of you with cameras from now on. Back to work, folks!”
I stood up with the rest, intrigued by this new development. It would be interesting, and maybe a bit daunting, to have cameras following my every move.
Randall sidled up to me on his way out of the living room. “Do you have a minute, Daria? I have some things I’d like to talk over with you.” He ran his fingertips lightly up my arm in a caressing gesture that I used to love.
I flinched away from his touch, my mind racing. Who did he think he was? He was engaged to be married, for goodness’ sake!
He didn’t notice anything amiss. “Can you join me in the library?”
I shoved my hands in my pockets and drew myself up. My five feet three inches were hardly impressive, but the gesture helped me calm my frazzled nerves. “I’m sorry, I have to get back to my sewing. Maybe some other time?”
As soon as I said it I knew it was a mistake. The gleam in Randall’s eye as he turned away with a polite “Fine, some other time” told me I was in for a prolonged tussle with the master of manipulation.
* * * *
I spent the rest of the afternoon handstitching the hems in the living room curtains. The filmy fabric frayed terribly. Normally I would have finished the edge with my serger and then set in the hem, but such modern methods would be glaringly obvious in this attempt for historical accuracy. I reminded myself of the romance involved in recreating a lost era, and soldiered on with the hems.
Hemming doesn’t take any kind of mental attention, which left my mind free to wander. I tried to focus on the seamstresses who might have made such curtains in the olden days, wondering what they would have thought about their work. But my mind kept returning to the image of Professor Burbridge sprawled on the faded library carpet.
I clipped the end of one thread and threaded another long length onto my needle. It took me another forty-five minutes to finish the last hem on one set of curtains. I stood up and stretched, shaking out both hands to alleviate the cramps from the repetitive work of hand stitching. I still had one more set to go. Feeling the need for company, I gathered up fabric, needle, and thread, and zipped downstairs in the hopes of finding Priscilla at leisure to engage in a good gossip.
I dodged past the open door to the library. I had no desire to “talk things over” with Randall, either now or at any other time. Luckily he was intent on his work at the desk and didn’t notice my passing.
Priscilla sat on the front porch, rocking slowly in her maple rocker just as she did when I was a child. She wasn’t knitting—her knotted hands lay still in her lap. She just sat, watching a trio of little girls across the street setting out leaves and sticks for their dolls to have tea. I sat down beside her.
“Mind if I join you? Hems get tedious after a while with no one to take my mind off them.”
She smiled, looking genuinely pleased to see me. “Of course, my dear. Are those the curtains? They look lovely. You asked the professor for his drawings, then?”
“Well, I didn’t get the chance before he died. I found the drawings in the library.” I looked over at Priscilla, gently rocking in her porch chair.
Priscilla’s rocking never slackened. “Poor, dear man. Such a sad day it was. It’s always a tragedy when the young go before their time.” She picked up a small photo album that had been lying on the doily-covered side table next to her. Her bony fingers caressed the cracked spine, and then she laid the album open flat on her lap. One gnarled finger pointed to the studio portraits within. I saw two black-and-white pictures of young men, so similar in appearance that at first I thought they were two pictures of the same person. Both had crew cuts and wore suit and tie to pose for what looked like their high school graduation pictures.
Priscilla tapped the photo on the right. “Robby was gone too young. This is the last picture I have of him.”
I leaned over her shoulder to gaze at the clean-shaven young man. “Robby?”
“Johnny’s big brother.” She shook her head sadly. “I gave him some homemade fudge for Christmas that year. I told him to save some for his father, but he ate the whole batch that very night.” She closed the book and replaced it on the table. “You never could tell Robby anything.”
I thought of the family pictures I’d seen in the library. “What happened to him?”
Ruth came out onto the porch as I spoke. She frowned at me. “So