Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Niece,” said Uncle Jacob suddenly. “If you truly need work to occupy your idle hands, and since you are so inclined to give away your quilts, maybe you would make one for me.”

  Dorothea and her mother exchanged a look of surprise. “Of course,” said Dorothea. “Did you have a certain pattern in mind?”

  She expected him to say no, since few men admitted to being able to distinguish one quilt pattern from another, but instead he nodded. “A scrap quilt like one my mother once made,” he said. “I will draw it for you. And I will need it by winter.”

  THE NEXT EVENING after the chores were done, Dorothea was making the most of the fading daylight by reading the last chapter of a borrowed book when Uncle Jacob interrupted to show her a sketch of a block he wanted in his quilt. Dorothea had not thought he would expect her to begin the quilt so soon, but she hid her reluctance and set the book aside. He lit the lamp and gestured with his pen as he explained the various features of his small, neat drawing.

  “It resembles the Delectable Mountains pattern,” remarked Dorothea, studying the arrangement of large right triangles set at right angles to each other, with smaller right triangles lining their shorter sides. Uncle Jacob nodded brusquely, frowned at the interruption, and directed her to make the blocks exactly as he had drawn them, with clear and distinct points.

  Dorothea declined to assure him that she was not known for sloppy piecing. “I assume you mean for me to fill in these blank places with light-colored fabric?” she inquired, indicating a diagonal row of squares from the upper left corner to the center of the quilt. In an ordinary Delectable Mountains quilt, those squares would have been part of larger triangles of background fabric.

  “Do no more and no less than you are told,” said Uncle Jacob. “I’ll need more time to sketch those squares. Make the part of the quilt I have drawn first and do the rest later.”

  Delicately, because her uncle had clearly given his design a great deal of thought, she said, “It will be difficult to assemble the rest of the quilt with these important blocks missing, especially the center. Perhaps I should wait until you have completed your drawing.”

  “I’ve watched you sew,” her uncle retorted. “I’ve seen how long it takes you to stitch two little triangles together. If you wait until my drawing is done, you’ll never finish the quilt in time.”

  Dorothea managed to keep from sighing. “Very well,” she said. “What colors would you like?”

  “Serviceable colors. Whatever scraps you have in your sewing basket will be fine.”

  “You have said nothing about how large you would like your quilt to be.”

  “The usual size will do.”

  Abruptly as that, he departed for the barn, calling over his shoulder for Dorothea’s father. Dorothea watched the men go, mystified. A quiltmaker would never spend so much time on the design for a quilt only to dismiss qualities as important as color and size. Of course, Uncle Jacob was no quiltmaker, despite the care he had lavished on his drawing, or he would have known it was no simple matter to leave empty spaces in a quilt top to fill in later. Perhaps he did know, but did not mind the extra work and difficulty it created, since he was not the one to sew it.

  Since her uncle had neglected to douse the lamp, Dorothea got to work, beginning by calculating how large one Delectable Mountains block should be in order to make a finished quilt suitable for Uncle Jacob’s bed. Then she made templates out of stiff paper, trimming the edges carefully, since even an error the width of a pencil mark, when multiplied over the many pieces that made up a quilt top, could alter a quilt’s size considerably.

  “I hardly know what colors to select for such a quilt,” said Dorothea to her mother as she set the completed templates aside.

  “I believe some bright pinks and blues and cheerful butter yellows will suit your uncle nicely,” advised Lorena, looking up from her darning to grin at her daughter.

  Dorothea laughed and opened the scrap bag. She searched through the pieces of cloth and retrieved scraps of brown, tan, Turkey red, and somber blue, as well as lighter shirting fabrics for the background; Uncle Jacob typically wore such colors, so she supposed they could be considered his favorites. The fabrics were serviceable, just as he had requested, since they were the leftover scraps from the household sewing.

  Every evening thereafter Dorothea took up her needle and triangular scraps and worked on the quilt. If she happened to take up mending instead, she felt the weight of her uncle’s disapproving glare until she switched to his quilt. She forced herself to think of it as a gift, since the task was more tolerable if she pretended he had not all but commanded her to make it.

  Within three days she had completed two blocks and Uncle Jacob had brought her another sketch, a lopsided, four-pointed star. One point was longer than the others, reaching from the center of the star all the way to the upper left corner. Uncle Jacob asked for the original drawing and indicated that the new block was to be inserted in the very center of the quilt. When she asked if the other blank spaces in the design were to be filled with similar stars, he said, “You have plenty of work to do now without worrying about the work that will come later.”

  “It would be easier—and faster—to make your quilt if I knew the entire design,” she told him.

  “You’ve made more difficult quilts than this one,” he said shortly. “But if you can’t manage on your own, get your mother to help you.”

  It was her uncle’s cooperation, not her mother’s help, that Dorothea needed, but of course she could not say so. After he left, Dorothea studied both drawings and realized that her uncle’s design was not as well crafted as she had first thought. While the lines were straight and precise, she detected some accidental variation among the Delectable Mountains blocks. Most of the larger triangles had four smaller triangles along each side, but a very few had only three, and some five. Dorothea was tempted to point out his error to him, since he took so much grim pleasure in finding the faults of others, but such impertinence would alarm her parents, who were sure that one single offense would be enough to compel Uncle Jacob to strike the Grangers from his will. Instead Dorothea decided to spare his pride and correct his mistake without drawing attention to it.

  Sunday came, bringing with it the promised diversion of Cyrus Pearson’s visit. He arrived promptly at two, and at the sound of his horse’s hooves on the road, Uncle Jacob broke his customary rule about keeping the Sabbath as a day of rest and made excuses about harnesses that needed mending. He withdrew to the barn, but it was Dorothea’s father who met Cyrus and helped him tend to his horse.

  Dorothea and Lorena sewed in the parlor while they waited for Dorothea’s father to bring in Cyrus. When she heard their boots on the floor, Dorothea wondered fleetingly what Cyrus would think of Uncle Jacob’s austere furnishings compared to the grandeur of his stepfather’s home, but when he entered wearing the same cheerful grin with which he greeted her in brighter surroundings, she forgot her worries.

  Lorena invited him to sit, and Dorothea went to the kitchen for tea. “Tell us, Mr. Pearson,” said Lorena as Dorothea poured. “What do you have in mind for the library?”

  “Yes, do tell us we are finally going to expand beyond a single shelf of books,” said Dorothea, taking the chair beside her mother. “I believe I could recite all sixteen verbatim.”

  “You needn’t boast of your cleverness,” said Cyrus, a naughty twinkle in his eye. “You are famous in Creek’s Crossing for your prodigious memory.”

  “I was not boasting,” protested Dorothea. “I merely meant because I have read them so often, lacking other choices.”

  “Mr. Pearson, please do not tease my daughter or I shall have to ask you to leave,” said Lorena, smiling. “I would hate to do that, because you’ve piqued our curiosity. What is this grand scheme of yours?”

  “I cannot take all the credit for it,” said Cyrus, accepting the cup Dorothea handed him. “My mother is the catalyst that motivates me. Her new husband is so occupied w
ith matters of business that my mother needs other diversions. She insists that a few volumes of poetry and novels would not sustain her for long, but her new husband has neither the funds nor the space in his home for the number of books that would suffice. Therefore, expanding the town library seems the best solution.”

  “Agreed,” said Dorothea. “Unfortunately, the good people of Creek’s Crossing seem far abler at settling upon a solution than implementing one.”

  “Dorothea,” said her mother, gently chiding. To Cyrus, she added, “Perhaps we could look to local benefactors to donate funds.”

  “My stepfather has already agreed to a substantial gift,” he replied. “More to appease my mother than out of any literary interest of his own. Other prominent families have also promised donations, although not enough for a separate building. In fact, we will need quite a bit more if we are to afford an addition to the school and new books to fill it.”

  “It is perhaps too much to hope that one wealthy patron would contribute enough for an entire building,” said Dorothea. “Even for the privilege of having his name over the door.”

  “Have you asked Mr. Nelson?” Lorena asked Cyrus. “After all, his father did pay to have the school built.”

  “Ah.” Cyrus allowed a polite cough. “I believe—well, I did approach Thomas Nelson and was rebuffed.”

  “But he’s the schoolmaster,” said Dorothea. “He has a decided interest in the establishment of a proper library in Creek’s Crossing. Think of the benefit to his pupils.”

  “I did remind him, but he was unmoved.” Cyrus shrugged apologetically and looked almost as embarrassed as he had the night of his mother’s party. “I do not think we can rely on his support.”

  “How disappointing,” said Lorena. “When I think of how his father supported intellectual pursuits in the Elm Creek Valley, I confess I am surprised by his son’s disinterest.”

  “We do not need the younger Mr. Nelson’s support,” said Dorothea determinedly. “Perhaps no one person can afford to donate an entire building, or even an addition to the school, but many could surely donate something a trifle smaller but no less essential. Those who contribute three dollars, for example, could have their names engraved on a plate affixed to a bookshelf.”

  When Lorena and Cyrus nodded their approval, Dorothea continued. “We could ask those less able to donate the gift of their labor. We will need people to build the addition.”

  “Of course,” said Lorena. “Mr. Pearson, you should consult Mr. Wright. His carpentry skills are unparalleled in the valley and I’m quite certain he would design your addition free of charge. He would be an excellent choice for construction foreman.”

  “Mr. Wright?” said Cyrus, puzzled. “Do you mean Abel Wright?”

  “The same. He’s a good friend of ours. Use my name when you call on him and I’m sure he’ll agree to help.”

  Cyrus looked dubious. “I cannot imagine he would be interested.” He shrugged, his smile returning. “I think that we should impose only upon members of the community, people who would be likely to use the library.”

  “The Wright farm is not that far away,” said Lorena, regarding Cyrus curiously. “I’m sure the Wrights will use the library as much as anyone else.”

  Dorothea thought of Constance Wright, how she was only just learning to read, and how she had declared she had seen as much of Creek’s Crossing as she cared to see. She wondered if Cyrus had already met Constance or if he was simply more insightful than he appeared.

  “These are all excellent ideas,” said Cyrus. “I knew you would come through for me, Miss Granger. This is precisely why I told my mother you should be named secretary of fund-raising on the new library board.”

  “Secretary of fund-raising?” asked Dorothea. Lorena beamed at her.

  “Of course. You would be ideal. My mother insisted on assuming that role herself, naturally, but she would very much appreciate your assistance.”

  “While I would like to help—” Dorothea shook her head, uncertain. “I was not expecting to play such a prominent role. I have my obligations to my uncle—”

  “Surely he would release you from your chores occasionally so you might assist in such an important community effort.”

  “Mr. Pearson,” said Lorena dryly, “have you met my brother?”

  “I suppose it was too much to expect that you could be spared. I continue to underestimate the amount of work required by every member of a farmer’s family, including the ladies.” Cyrus looked endearingly disappointed. “I had so hoped you would be able to assist us. Your status as the schoolteacher lends credibility to a cause that has often floundered, and I had looked forward to seeing you more often in town.”

  “I am only the former schoolteacher,” Dorothea reminded him. “Considering how briefly I held that position, I suspect I have little credibility to lend.”

  “You underestimate the esteem this town holds for you.” The familiar mischievous light returned to his green eyes. “And my esteem, too. But very well. If the thought of a well-functioning lending library does not tempt you, if the prospect of escaping the drudgery of farm chores for what I hope you would consider pleasant company does not move you, if my personal appeals to your generous nature do not persuade you—” He rose. “I confess the latter wounds me the most, but—”

  “Mr. Pearson,” said Dorothea, laughing. “You have persuaded me. I want a library as much as your mother does, and I will assist in the effort as much as I am able.”

  “I cannot tell you how much this pleases me. My mother would like you to call on her at three o’clock Thursday afternoon for the first meeting of the library board. May I tell her you will be there?”

  Dorothea nodded. She would obtain her uncle’s approval somehow.

  “Perhaps I might also escort you to the meeting?”

  “Thank you,” said Dorothea, “but I do not believe that will be necessary.”

  “I think that is a fine idea,” said Lorena. “It is possible you will not be able to take our wagon. Your uncle may need the horses.”

  Dorothea reconsidered. Her mother was wise to anticipate an objection that might prevent her from attending. They agreed that Cyrus would come for her a half-hour before the meeting and bring her home afterward.

  Cyrus lingered long enough to finish his tea, but left soon thereafter, citing other necessary errands. Dorothea changed out of her Sunday dress and met her mother in the kitchen garden. That morning at breakfast, Uncle Jacob had announced that he did not want any preening young peacock of a man to interfere with the gathering of the potatoes. Dorothea was determined to show her uncle she could have callers and still complete her chores.

  “What are you thinking, Mother?” Dorothea asked when her mother worked a long while in silence.

  “I’m thinking that it seems as if the new library may at last become more than a fond wish,” she said, brushing clumps of soil from a potato. “I also think it is very fine that you are wanted so badly on the library board. However …”

  “Yes?” prompted Dorothea.

  Her mother hesitated a moment longer before saying, “Nothing. I suppose it is good that Cyrus is so devoted to his mother.”

  Dorothea laughed. “You would fault him for being attentive to his mother’s needs?”

  “Only if it means he neglects the needs of others. Of course, there is no reason to assume he will.” Lorena smiled ruefully. “I suppose if I did not dislike his mother so, his attentiveness would not bother me in the least.”

  Dorothea’s mirth dimmed. She had not considered that joining the library board would mean more time in the presence of Cyrus’s formidable mother.

  DOROTHEA AND LORENA HURRIED, but they did not finish in the garden by the time they needed to begin making supper. Since only the potato rows were left, Lorena suggested they finish in the morning, since Uncle Jacob would likely not notice the neglected garden but would certainly notice a late meal. They washed quickly at the pump and ran to the kitche
n, but although they raced through supper preparations, Uncle Jacob still sat at the table a full five minutes before his plate was set before him. They learned soon enough a further reason for his displeasure: As he cut into his bread, he announced that Lorena would return to the garden after her regular chores were through and remain there until the last potato was collected.

  Lorena nodded without a word; Dorothea took a drink of water and tried to maintain the appearance of calm. Later, when her mother went to the back door, Dorothea followed.

  “Where are you going?” said Uncle Jacob, reading his Bible in the fading daylight.

  “To the garden with Mother.”

  “You have other work to do.” He gestured to her sewing basket on the floor behind her usual chair.

  “It’s my fault we didn’t finish the potatoes. I should help her.”

  “You should attend to your own business.” He returned his attention to the page, holding the book close.

  “It will be dark before she finishes.”

  “Dorothea.” Lorena shook her head and reached for the lantern hanging on the peg beside the door.

  “Leave it,” said Uncle Jacob.

  “It will take her twice as long in the dark as in the light,” said Dorothea.

  “Dorothea,” said her father. “Mind your uncle.”

  “It’s all right,” murmured her mother. “I won’t be long.”

  Lorena threw a shawl over her shoulders and slipped out the door. Simmering with anger, Dorothea stormed across the kitchen to her seat by the fireplace, unlit now though the early autumn evening was cool. She sat, fuming, hands clasped in her lap.

  Uncle Jacob closed his Bible and put away his reading glasses. “You ought to get to work on that quilt.”

  “I ought to be helping my mother,” said Dorothea. “Better yet, she ought to come inside. The garden can wait until morning.”

  “And fall behind on every chore entrusted to her tomorrow?” Uncle Jacob countered. “That is no way to run a farm, niece. I should think your father’s failure would have taught you that.”