But when his letter arrived a week before Christmas, she did not have to read it to know that her hopes were in vain. Her mother’s expression as she scanned the lines told her that he would not be coming home. One of his mentor’s patients, a young boy with unexplained recurring fits, took more comfort from Jonathan than the doctor himself. The boy’s parents begged Jonathan to remain in Baltimore so that their son’s final days would be eased by the presence of a trusted friend. Jonathan apologized for canceling a second visit and assured them he would find some excuse for the boy’s parents should his parents find themselves unable to do without him. Lorena, though obviously disappointed, said that she did not have the heart to deny the grieving parents their one small measure of comfort, and she wrote back to tell him he should remain.
Lorena asked Uncle Jacob’s permission first, of course. He told her that Jonathan might as well stay in Baltimore where he might do some good, since he had already missed spring planting and the harvest, when he was needed on the farm the most. Lorena tried unsuccessfully to hide her dismay at his apparent indifference to his nephew and presumptive heir, and both she and Robert were especially attentive to Uncle Jacob for the next few days, a display Dorothea regarded with disgust.
Her disappointment over Jonathan’s prolonged absence made her ever more determined to finish Uncle Jacob’s quilt so that it would not annoy her any more, and so she fixed herself a deadline of Christmas Eve. That way, she thought somewhat meanly, she would not be obliged to get him any other present, and she could enjoy the holidays without him hovering over her at the quilt frame. Besides, already a few authors had returned autographed pieces of muslin to the library board, and she was eager to join in the work of piecing Album blocks. She had not forgotten her uncle’s decree that she sew no other quilt until his own was complete. The more blocks she sewed, the greater her role would be in determining which authors were included—and since she had disregarded Mrs. Engle’s instructions and sent invitations to her own authors as well as those assigned to her, she could not afford to be left out of the selection process.
She sewed the last stitch into the binding of Uncle Jacob’s quilt on the morning of Christmas Eve. She concealed the finished quilt in her attic bedroom until the next morning, wistfully recalling long-ago Christmases on Thrift Farm, the curious amalgam of tradition and whimsy, solemnity and joy, the fragrance of candles and gingerbread and Yule log, the sound of Bach’s Christmas cantatas on dulcimer, fiddle, and organ. One of the founding members of the community would read the story of the Nativity, bringing it to life for Dorothea and Jonathan and the other children so vividly that Dorothea was filled with a rush of awe and reverence and gratitude. They would exchange gifts, but only things they had made or had found in nature. Looking back, Dorothea had to smile recalling how her father had once given her mother the second of the Four Brothers, the mountains framing the north end of the Elm Creek Valley, and how it had seemed a perfectly normal thing to do.
The gift of a handmade quilt would have met with approval on Thrift Farm, but Christmases at Uncle Jacob’s were a more subdued affair. He permitted the giving of gifts since the magi had brought gifts to the Christ Child, but there was no music save the hymns at church services, and certainly no parties. Dorothea had been invited to several Christmas Eve gatherings, one at her best friend Mary’s new home with her husband Abner, but Uncle Jacob would not allow her to attend. He emphatically forbade her to attend a sleigh riding party with Cyrus; anticipating this, she would not have bothered to ask him except Cyrus repeatedly entreated her, and she had promised she would.
Christmas morning church services were too festive for Uncle Jacob’s taste, but he could not very well forbid the family to attend church on Christmas. Dorothea could almost forget her longing for Jonathan in the merriment of the day. The people of Creek’s Crossing were cheerful and smiling as they wished one another a Merry Christmas, forgiving disagreements and past quarrels, if only for the day. The Ladies’ Auxiliary had arranged for a magnificent Christmas tree to adorn the sanctuary, and when services concluded, all were invited to take ribbon-tied oranges and wrapped parcels of roasted nuts down from the boughs. Most of the congregation lingered in the pews to share fellowship and laughter, but just as he did every year, Uncle Jacob urged his family toward the door as soon as the final hymn was sung. They had nearly reached it when Lorena spotted Abel and Constance Wright amidst the throng and broke away to greet them; as Uncle Jacob scowled after her, Dorothea felt a tap on her shoulder.
She turned to find Cyrus dangling a small parcel by its ribbon, so close it almost brushed her cheek. “There were toys on the tree for the children, too. Dolls for the girls and drums for the boys. Didn’t you get yours?”
“I must have forgotten,” she said, returning his smile.
“I thought you might, so I took the liberty of fetching yours for you. And now, before the crotchety old geezer turns around, I’ll have my Christmas present from you.”
Before she knew it, he kissed her swiftly on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.
Too astonished to worry that Uncle Jacob had seen, she stood rooted in place. A moment later her mother was at her side. “Constance brought chestnuts for the dressing and said she’ll make the pudding at our place.” Lorena peered at her daughter. “What’s that in your hand?”
Dorothea glanced down and saw the ribbon-tied parcel. “A gift. From Cyrus.”
She quickly slipped it into her coat pocket, but not before Uncle Jacob turned around and spotted it. He scowled and urged Dorothea and her parents outside.
The parcel seemed heavy for its size as it weighed down Dorothea’s pocket on the ride home. The Wrights, having been invited for Christmas dinner, followed in their own wagon. Her parents conversed cheerfully, even laughing aloud as they rode, but Dorothea was as silent as Uncle Jacob. She had not expected that Cyrus would give her a gift. It had not even occurred to her to get him one.
At home, as the men tended to the horses and the women went to the kitchen, Dorothea slipped away to her attic bedroom to unwrap Cyrus’s gift. She untied the ribbon, unwrapped the paper, and discovered inside a hand mirror and comb, intricately worked with carvings of vines and roses, gilded in silver.
She had never owned anything so fine.
She sat on the bed with the gifts in her lap, then, hesitantly, lifted the mirror and ran the comb through her hair. Her reflection showed flushed cheeks and startled eyes; with a sudden jolt of embarrassment for her vanity, she quickly wrapped the comb and mirror in the paper and tucked them into the drawer of the pine table that served as her nightstand.
She hurried back to the kitchen and tied on her apron. Her mother and Constance were so engrossed in a discussion of the best way to dress a goose that they did not seem to notice her absence. The men returned from the barn and settled in the parlor, where Uncle Jacob took up his Bible and Dorothea’s father and Mr. Wright played draughts. After a game, Mr. Wright came into the kitchen, stole a kiss from his wife, and offered to help the women prepare the meal. At first they refused, but when Robert drawled, “Better let him help, if it will get the meal on the table faster,” they laughingly tied an apron on Mr. Wright and threatened to put Robert in one, too. Lorena and Constance teased Mr. Wright as he picked up a paring knife and offered to take care of the vegetables, but he worked diligently if not swiftly. Dorothea surmised he had gained a great deal of practice living as a bachelor. She doubted Cyrus would be so proficient in the kitchen, having first his mother and then a housekeeper to cook for him, but she quickly severed that train of thought.
At Lorena’s request, Dorothea set the table with the fine china her grandparents had brought over from England, the plates and bowls and tea service that spent most of the year wrapped in linen and tucked away in a lined chest decorated in golden fleur-de-lis. Translucent white with a border of roses, they were so delicate she was almost afraid to handle them, knowing that a single place setting was worth more than she was
likely to earn in her lifetime. She had once asked her mother why people prosperous enough to own such treasures would have left their homeland to immigrate to the New World. Lorena had told her that the china had been the entirety of her grandparents’ fortune. Her grandfather, a soldier, had been given the trunk and its contents for saving the life of his commanding officer in battle in France. Upon his discharge, he sold enough pieces to purchase second-class passage to America for himself and his wife, determined to start a new life far from the seemingly endless warfare of Europe.
Plainer fare adorned the table service than its original owners could have imagined, but the food was plentiful and delicious. Even Uncle Jacob’s dour blessing seemed heartfelt that night, and although Dorothea ached for her absent brother, she could not dwell on her own misgivings after Constance remarked that she had never sat at a finer table. It suddenly occurred to Dorothea that this was Constance’s first Christmas in freedom. Truly it was a blessing, Dorothea reflected, to have Constance among them at Christmas, as a reminder that so many people still waited to be redeemed from their suffering.
After the meal, they exchanged gifts. Her parents had bought Dorothea a fine edition of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s anthology, The Poets and Poetry of Europe, and an autobiography, Narrative of William W. Brown, an American Slave. Dorothea wondered how welcome the latter would be on the shelves of the Creek’s Crossing library, but Constance took a special interest in it and reflected that one day she might write her own story. Dorothea was pleased to hear this, for her gift to Constance, as yet unwrapped, was a pen with several nibs, a primer, and a copybook.
Uncle Jacob gave his sister and brother-in-law nothing, but he offered the Wrights two large cakes of his best maple sugar; since the Wright farm did not have enough maple trees to support their own sugaring, the gifts were much appreciated. To Dorothea he gave a collection of the Proverbs, with a narrow strip of brocade fabric marking the thirty-first. Since the verses praised the pious, thrifty, industrious wife, Dorothea knew the placement was no accident.
Then Dorothea returned to her attic bedroom for the Delectable Mountains quilt. “For you, Uncle,” she said, placing the folded bundle in his arms. “I trust it is exactly as you wished it. I hope it pleases you.”
He unfolded the quilt and studied it. “I think it will do. You did justice to my drawings. Thank you, niece.”
“It is lovely handiwork,” said her mother, since her uncle did not.
Dorothea thanked them both. She had hoped for more pleasure in her uncle’s expression, but she should have expected no more than his taciturn approval of her accurate reproduction of his sketches. He took no true delight in anything and was not capable of offering greater appreciation.
The Wrights were examining her quilt—out of politeness, she thought. Mr. Wright looked over each of the blocks in turn, and Dorothea could see him pausing to count the triangle points on the blocks that had three or five when most had four. He looked over the other, odd squares her uncle had drawn, arranged in a diagonal line amidst the Delectable Mountains blocks, looked at Uncle Jacob, then glanced at Dorothea. “Sure looks warm,” he said, returning the quilt to its new owner.
“You did not need to make it so fine,” murmured Constance to Dorothea, so low no one else knew she had spoken. Dorothea glanced at her in surprise and hid a smile. She used her finest quilting skills out of pride, not because her uncle deserved them.
“It’ll do,” said Uncle Jacob, folding the quilt and placing it on the back of his chair. There it sat for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, while they told stories of Christmases past, while the women brought out pie and tea for dessert, when the Wrights bade them good-bye and headed home, and after Uncle Jacob and Robert left to do the chores. It remained there still when Dorothea came down to help her mother prepare breakfast the next morning.
After all of his demands, after all of Dorothea’s exacting labor, he had not even put it on his bed. “Perhaps he is saving it for company,” suggested Lorena, trying to spare Dorothea’s feelings.
“When do we ever have company?” said Dorothea. “Constance was right. Uncle Jacob did not deserve my best handiwork.”
She deliberately chose not to resent his indifference. The quilt was finished, she had done her best, and now she could move on to a project much more pleasing to her. Seven autographed pieces of muslin had already arrived at Mrs. Engle’s home, and two more belonging to authors that Mrs. Engle had rejected had been sent to Dorothea directly.
At the previous meeting of the library board, Dorothea had been assigned the task of sketching a plan for the quilt, something that would suit the varying skills of the participating quiltmakers and something that could be adapted easily according to the number of Album blocks they made. She and Miss Nadelfrau had joined forces to convince the others to use the traditional Album block, even though Mrs. Engle had balked when Mrs. Deakins remarked that she knew the pattern by another name, Chimney Sweep. Dorothea had needed five minutes of her most tactful persuasion to reassure Mrs. Engle that the block’s association to another, less distinguished profession would not offend the authors, should they learn of it. Miss Nadelfrau’s point that the block would be easy to assemble since it had no curves or set-in pieces ultimately won the argument. Mrs. Engle was less willing to consider that she might receive fewer than the eighty blocks she wanted, as she was accustomed to receiving everything she desired. She insisted that the eighty blocks would be arranged in ten rows of eight, the most pleasing rectangular ratio, and cut short any “pessimistic” suggestions to the contrary. Dorothea decided not to waste breath on further argument and to plan alternative settings secretly, just in case.
At the same meeting where Dorothea would present her sketch, Miss Nadelfrau would bring swatches for them to consider, and—assuming they could reach a consensus—the meeting would adjourn to the dry-goods store, where they would purchase and divide up the fabric. Board members would piece blocks at home, completing all blocks by the end of January and the entire quilt top by the last week of February in time for the dance. Dorothea was confident she would find some way to sneak her banned authors into the quilt at an intermediate step.
Dorothea and her mother were so busy making up for the usual chores they had neglected the previous day that it was almost suppertime before Dorothea noticed that Uncle Jacob’s quilt had been removed from the back of his chair. When she was sure he was out of the house, she passed by his bedroom and peered inside, but she did not see it. She was tempted to ask if he had put it in his chest for safekeeping or passed it on to one of the horses, but knew any reply he gave was unlikely to please her.
That evening, as she worked on the drawing and idly pondered more polite ways to inquire about the whereabouts of the quilt, her mother suddenly said, “Goodness, Dorothea. I had completely forgotten Cyrus’s Christmas gift. Have you opened it?”
“Yes,” said Dorothea, wishing her mother could have chosen a different time to ask, preferably when Uncle Jacob could not overhear.
“What was it?” asked Robert.
“A silverplated comb and mirror.”
Uncle Jacob snorted. “That would be a fine gift for himself. I have never met a young man more likely to enjoy gazing at his own reflection.”
“I cannot imagine you know him well enough to determine that.”
“Dorothea,” said her father mildly.
Dorothea set down her pencils. “I am sorry, Uncle, but I do not care to hear my friend so unfairly maligned, especially when he is given no opportunity to defend himself.”
“Then by all means, let us give him opportunity,” said Uncle Jacob, a hard glint in his eye. “Tomorrow when he calls for you, let us have him stay for supper. We will have him make both his character and his intentions plain.”
“He is not coming to call,” said Dorothea. “He is coming to take me to the library board meeting.”
“After he brings you home, then,” thundered her uncle.
&n
bsp; Dorothea could not see any way out of it. “I shall ask him.”
“See that you do.”
The room was silent for the rest of the evening. The others went to bed—first her uncle, then her parents—but Dorothea remained to finish her sketch by candlelight. She was nearly done when she heard a creak on the floorboards behind her. She turned to find her uncle, still in his nightshirt and cap.
“Niece,” he greeted her gruffly.
Dorothea hurriedly drew a last stroke and began clearing the desk. “I am sorry if the light kept you awake.”
“I am only looking out for what is best for you.” Uncle Jacob crossed the room in long, slow strides. “He is no good for you and I know you do not love him.”
So he wanted to speak of Cyrus. She almost smiled. She had never known him to be kept awake, troubled by an argument. Usually his confidence in his own perfect judgment provided him sufficient righteousness to sleep soundly every night.
“I have seen nothing to persuade me he is not good,” said Dorothea, “and I never claimed to love him. We are friends. Nothing more.”
“Don’t be coy. A young man does not call on a young lady so many times unless he has intentions.”
Dorothea gathered up her papers. “If he has any, time will reveal them.”
“By then it might be too late.” He clasped her shoulder and spoke earnestly. “Niece, if you must marry, choose a good, God-fearing man. If you can’t find one in Creek’s Crossing, then go out west, where a woman is valued as much for her strength as for her beauty.”
The steadiness in his voice turned to trembling as he spoke; his eyes were strained and pleading as they pooled with tears. A tear slipped from his eye, ran down his cheek, and disappeared into his scruff of beard. Dorothea stared at him in stunned disbelief. Suddenly he seemed to come to his senses; he glanced at his hand resting on her shoulder and snatched it away. Dorothea clutched her papers to her chest, too astonished to speak as her uncle hurried from the room, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his fist. In another moment he had disappeared down the hallway. She heard the door to his bedroom close and the latch fall into place.
Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt Page 11