Her father never looked up; Uncle Jacob might have been speaking of a stranger for all he seemed to care. “Thrift Farm was lost to a flood,” said Dorothea tightly.
“Thrift Farm was in serious decline long before the waters claimed it. Elm Creek merely put it out of its misery.”
“I have the milking,” said Dorothea’s father suddenly. He touched Dorothea’s shoulder in passing and left out the back door, taking the lantern. Dorothea yearned to follow, but she understood her father’s unspoken request and grudgingly opened her sewing basket. She sewed the pieces of her quilt block in silence, glancing at the door at the slightest noise for her parents’ return. Her father entered first, without the lantern; she guessed where he had left it and, unfortunately, so did Uncle Jacob. He ordered her father to go and fetch it, but Dorothea announced that she would do it and left her sewing behind on her empty chair.
She found her mother on her hands and knees in the potato plot, working by lantern light. Dorothea swiftly knelt to help her.
“You should get back inside,” said Lorena. “Your uncle will be furious.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will care well enough if he should see fit to switch you.”
At her words Dorothea could almost feel the sting of the hickory branch. “He hasn’t switched me since I began wearing corsets and long skirts. I don’t believe he will do so now.”
Lorena sighed, pulling furiously at the weeds. “The older you get, the more you provoke him.”
“Someone ought to stand up to him.”
“Dorothea—” Lorena sat back on her heels. “You don’t understand.”
“I do understand. How long must we endure this? We don’t need Uncle Jacob or his farm. We can go out west, to Kansas, to California. We can stake a claim and make our own farm.” She was almost in tears. “We can summon Jonathan. He will come. Surely they need doctors in the west.”
“That’s a very romantic notion, but your brother is only sixteen. We cannot interrupt his training now, and he is unlikely to receive a proper education in unsettled country.” Lorena picked up the spade and stabbed at the earth. “Your uncle is right in one respect: Your father and I were very poor farmers. We would have no chance of establishing a farm in unfamiliar climate, on ground that has never felt a plow.”
“We have learned a great deal in eight years.”
“Not enough to risk our lives when we stand to inherit a well-tended farm right here.”
Dorothea knew the argument was useless. She yanked on a fistful of weeds and said, “Uncle Jacob is likely to leave the farm to someone else just to spite us.”
“To whom would he leave it? He has no friends and no other relations.”
“Then he will probably live forever.” Her anger spent, Dorothea listlessly brushed soil from a potato, shadowed and strange in the flickering light. “He sent me to fetch the lantern.”
“Then you should take it to him.” When Dorothea hesitated, Lorena smiled. “Go ahead. I’m almost finished.”
“Very well,” said Dorothea, but she stayed with her mother until the last potato was harvested.
DOROTHEA WAITED UNTIL THURSDAY morning at breakfast to tell Uncle Jacob she had been specifically requested as the former schoolteacher to assist with the creation of a new library.
“Why don’t they ask the new schoolmaster?” asked Uncle Jacob.
“They did. Mr. Nelson refused.”
“So once again you are their second choice.”
Dorothea refused to be baited. “I suppose I am. Nevertheless, the request is a great honor, and I am obliged to assist them.”
Uncle Jacob shook his head. “I cannot spare the horses to take you into town.”
“That is your only objection?” asked Lorena, piling more flapjacks on her brother’s plate.
“It is.” Uncle Jacob waved her away before she buried his plate entirely. “But it is reason enough.”
“Then you will be pleased to know Dorothea does not require the horses,” said Lorena brightly. “Mr. Pearson has offered to escort her.”
Uncle Jacob’s jaw tightened. “I see.” He knew he had been tricked, but he could not retract his words. “See that you return home promptly afterward. Your chores will be finished before you go to bed if you must stay up all night.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” said Dorothea, but he spared her only an irritated glare as he pushed back his chair and rose from the table.
“Never mind him,” said Lorena as they cleared the table. “I will finish your work as well as my own. You are a young girl and you deserve a pleasant outing.”
Riding into Creek’s Crossing to attend a board meeting at the home of Mrs. Violet Pearson Engle was hardly Dorothea’s idea of a pleasant outing, but she was interested in the library, and Cyrus never failed to be an engaging companion. For all the friendliness between them when they met in town, they did not truly know each other well. They had attended school together only one year, a brief interval immediately following the Granger family’s arrival in Creek’s Crossing and preceding Cyrus’s departure for a boys’ academy in Philadelphia. When they were in school together, Cyrus had sat in the back row with the other older boys who thought themselves too old for school, laughing in whispers and genially ignoring the teacher, the sweetly befuddled Miss Gunther. Dorothea did not care for such disrespect and laziness, and she had ignored Cyrus and his friends except when her best friend Mary’s lovesick admiration forced her to notice him. While Mary mourned when Cyrus left Creek’s Crossing, Dorothea never missed him. To her pleasant surprise, however, when she encountered him during his rare visits home for holidays and summers, it was evident that his time back east and abroad had greatly improved him. He behaved in a far more gentlemanly fashion than he had as a boy, and if he did tend to tease, a manner Mary now derided, Dorothea found it a welcome and refreshing departure from Uncle Jacob’s mercurial tempers.
Cyrus arrived, not in a wagon as she had expected, but driving a gleaming black carriage pulled by two lively Morgans. Uncle Jacob glared balefully from the barn door as Cyrus helped her inside, neither bidding them good-bye nor forbidding her to go. “He’s not an easy fellow to live with, I presume,” Cyrus said as they rode away.
“He has given us a home,” said Dorothea, reluctant to appear ungrateful. “But he can be … difficult.”
Cyrus grinned. “I’m sure you’re being kinder than he deserves.”
They chatted easily as they rode, and when they crossed on the ferry, Cyrus placed a hand on her elbow to steady her—unnecessarily, for she was quite comfortable on the river—and alternately alarmed and amused her with stories of his boyhood exploits on the riverfront. “It’s a wonder your mother survived such a mischievous son,” she remarked as they climbed back aboard the carriage and left the ferry.
“It is indeed, but my mother is a wonder herself.” Cyrus’s grin turned rueful. “I suppose I should be grateful that Mr. Engle recognized that as well.”
Dorothea regarded him curiously. “You objected to the marriage?”
“I did not. Mr. Engle is a decent sort, and my mother cares for him. Still …” He shrugged. “She did not need to marry again. I was rather surprised she did not realize that.”
“Perhaps she did not marry for need, but for love.”
Cyrus looked as if the thought had not occurred to him. “I suppose it’s possible. I also suppose that if I had been engaged, the promise of my upcoming wedding would have been inducement enough to encourage her to remain unmarried.”
Dorothea laughed. “Now you say she married because she longed for the gaiety of a party! Goodness, Cyrus, can you not admit it is possible she loves your stepfather?”
Cyrus frowned thoughtfully at the horses. “When you put it that way, I suppose she must adore him. I feel quite foolish for not noticing before.”
“Now you’re teasing me.”
“Not merely now, Dorothea. I tease you every chance I get.”
They had
left the older section of town behind and were just about to turn on to the Engles’ street when a man seated unsteadily on horseback rounded the corner at a canter. His clothes were dusty as if he had taken a hard fall or two on the road into town, his filthy hat pulled down low over unkempt hair. In the moment it took Cyrus to avoid a collision, Dorothea recognized the rider as Amos Liggett.
His bloodshot eyes widened at the sight of them. “Pearson,” he rasped, wheeling his horse around. Tobacco juice dribbled into the dark stubble of his beard. “I was just coming to talk to you.”
Cyrus straightened. “To me?”
“Yes, yes. That matter we talked about. I took care of it. I mean, I will take care of it. But I need a little money first. Just a bit more, like last time.”
Cyrus’s brow furrowed, but his voice was polite when he replied, “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The man sawed at the horse’s reins. “You remember. At the tavern. You asked me—” Suddenly his eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted to Dorothea. “Say. Ain’t you the Granger girl? When’s your uncle gonna pay me what he owes?”
At once, Cyrus chirruped to the horses and the carriage pulled away. “Call on me at my office if you have business to discuss,” he called over his shoulder as they continued around the corner. To Dorothea, he said, “Please accept my apologies. I never should have paused long enough for him to address you.”
“What business would you have with Amos Liggett?” said Dorothea, shaken.
“No business at all. I have no idea what he is talking about. However, sometimes it is expedient to humor men in his condition.” He shook his head, frowning. “I don’t know what Creek’s Crossing is coming to when drunkards can accost young ladies in the street.”
Dorothea managed a smile. “I hardly feel as if I had been accosted.” She did not care for Mr. Liggett, especially after what he had done to Charley Stokey, but she had to admit he was right: Her uncle ought to pay him something for the days he had worked. She turned around to see what Mr. Liggett would do next, but he was nowhere to be seen. “He seemed convinced you had hired him for some chore.”
“Either the liquor has confused him or he has pride enough to disguise the request for a handout. Or …”
“Yes?” prompted Dorothea.
“I should not bring it up. I would hate to be accused of spreading tales. But perhaps he has mistaken me for someone else. After all, he could not have been on his way to call on me. He already passed my house.”
“Who, then?”
He leaned closer and grinned. “If I tell you, will you think me a vile gossip?”
“If you do not tell me, I will be quite furious with you.”
“I could not bear that. Very well. Thomas Nelson.”
“Mr. Nelson? Why?”
“Some people claim we bear some resemblance to each other.”
Dorothea had to laugh. “I do not see it.”
“Really?” Cyrus pretended to be wounded. “But most women of my acquaintance say Mr. Nelson is a handsome man. Do you mean to say I am not?”
“I mean to say nothing on that subject at all. You will not trick me into flattering your vanity.”
“And yet you have done so, by revealing it would be flattery.” Cyrus stopped the carriage in front of his stepfather’s house and smiled wickedly at her. “Perhaps you are not as clever as your reputation would have us believe.”
Dorothea opened her mouth to protest and felt heat rise in her cheeks as she realized he was right. His grin broadened at her speechlessness, and he jumped down from the carriage. “I have heard that Mr. Nelson has recently been hiring farmhands,” she said as Cyrus assisted her down from the carriage. “But why would he hire a man of Mr. Liggett’s reputation?”
Cyrus shrugged and offered her his arm. “A man hires another man to do what he cannot do, or what he will not do. But he usually hires a man of like mind.”
Not in Uncle Jacob’s case, Dorothea thought. “If you are right, I fear for the pupils of Creek’s Crossing.”
Cyrus laughed, but Dorothea’s misgivings ran deep. Mr. Liggett was bad enough. It was unsettling to think of what a like-minded man in a position of influence and authority might do.
TO HER DISAPPOINTMENT, CYRUS departed shortly after seeing her inside, promising to deliver her home once the meeting concluded. She had assumed he would be on the library board as well.
Five women had already gathered in the parlor, which with its furniture and rugs restored looked much different than it had on the night of Mr. Nelson’s welcoming party. Mrs. Engle sat on the overstuffed sofa by the front window with the others seated in pairs on her right and left hand, giving her the air of a queen presiding at court. The others glanced up as Dorothea entered: Mrs. Deakins, the mayor’s wife; Mrs. Collins, married to the banker; Miss Nadelfrau, the timid dressmaker; and Mrs. Claverton, who smiled a welcome and beckoned Dorothea to come and sit beside her. Dorothea murmured an apology and seated herself; she had not realized she was late.
“Before you entered, Miss Granger,” said Mrs. Engle, “we had just decided that your suggestion about selling nameplates for bookshelves was inspired.”
“Thank you,” replied Dorothea. Cyrus must have told his mother, for Dorothea had not.
Mrs. Engle smiled graciously. Her glossy black hair was piled in formal curls on top of her head and tied with a white velvet ribbon. Her skin was very fair, and her slight plumpness gave her an appearance of softness despite her sharp green eyes, which were as haughty as her son’s were mischievous.
“Still,” piped up Miss Nadelfrau, the dressmaker, who was known to be good with figures of all sorts, “it will not be enough.”
“So, assistant to the secretary of fund-raising,” said Mrs. Claverton, nudging her. “What ideas have you brought us?”
“I think we would be wise to consider a social event,” said Dorothea as they watched her expectantly. “Something so splendid no one would dream of missing it.”
“And no one would mind spending their money to attend,” added Mrs. Claverton.
“I know the very thing,” declared Mrs. Engle. “An evening of musical celebration. My cousin is a former soloist with the Philadelphia Opera. I’m sure I could persuade her to donate her services.”
The other women murmured their agreement. “That does sound wonderful,” agreed Dorothea, thinking of how much her mother would enjoy it. Unfortunately, they had no suitable auditorium large enough to suit a soloist and still accommodate the crowds Dorothea hoped to draw. “But I thought perhaps a celebration with dancing and a covered-dish supper.”
Mrs. Collins tittered. “One does not dance to opera.”
“I also would not expect my guests to bring covered dishes,” said Mrs. Engle. “My cook is capable of a truly remarkable feast.”
As the others discussed a possible menu, Dorothea gradually understood. “You mean to hold the event here?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Engle waved a plump hand gracefully. “Unless one of you would prefer to offer your home.”
Miss Nadelfrau, Mrs. Collins, and Mrs. Deakins hastened to assure Mrs. Engle that no one would prefer their homes to hers, while Mrs. Claverton watched Dorothea with a tolerant smile, waiting to see what she would say.
“As lovely as your home is, Mrs. Engle,” said Dorothea, “and it is, truly, the loveliest in Creek’s Crossing, it would not accommodate the entire town.”
The other women exchanged glances. “You mean to invite everyone?” asked Mrs. Collins.
“Yes,” said Dorothea. “After all, it is a fund-raiser. The greater the attendance, the more money we shall raise.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Deakins. “We cannot expect common farmers to be interested in a library. It is unkind to take the hard-earned money of people who will never peruse the collection.”
“I expect quite the opposite will happen. I am sure many people will make use of the library who were not able to offer a cent at the fund-raiser.”
All
but Mrs. Claverton, who hid a smile behind her handkerchief, regarded her incredulously. Then a nervous smile flickered on Mrs. Collins’s lips. “You must excuse young Miss Granger,” she said. “She is an idealist. As a former schoolteacher she has an exceptionally high regard for books and assumes all others feel the same.”
“She has a very good point, however,” said Mrs. Claverton. “As the wife of a common farmer, I plan to visit the library frequently. Since most of the citizens of Creek’s Crossing are farmers, we would be foolish to ignore the potential of their accumulated contributions.”
“I suppose it would do no harm to open the event to the whole town,” said Miss Nadelfrau. “If they are interested enough in a library and if they can pay the admission charge, I suppose they should be welcome.”
“Just as everyone will be welcome at the library,” said Dorothea, fervently hoping that she would not have to argue that point, as well. “The more people who are involved in creating the library, the more community support we will have, and the greater our chances for success. Which brings me to my second idea.”
The others looked wary. “And what would that be?” asked Mrs. Engle.
“An opportunity quilt.”
The others looked so relieved that Dorothea was tempted to ask them what they had expected her to say. “What a charming idea,” said Mrs. Engle. “I believe I might have a quilt I could donate.”
“I’m sure everyone in the Elm Creek Valley would be thrilled to own a quilt made by your hands,” said Mrs. Deakins. “We will sell a thousand tickets, surely!”
Dorothea hid her exasperation. “That is very generous of you, Mrs. Engle, but I believe this occasion calls for something unique. I thought instead we might make a quilt of Album blocks.”
Mrs. Claverton and Mrs. Nadelfrau nodded, intrigued, but Mrs. Deakins glanced nervously at Mrs. Engle, who said, “A what? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“I’m sure you have,” said Mrs. Claverton. “Any variety of patterns might be used, as long as there is a piece of plain muslin at the center, upon which the quilter signs her name, her place of residence, the date, and so forth. A lady might collect a variety of such blocks from the ladies of her circle, then embroider over the ink, sew the blocks together, and quilt a delightful remembrance of her friends.”
Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt Page 8