Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Dorothea hesitated. “It is what I would have wanted to do.”

  “But would you have?”

  “I—I don’t know. I like to think I would have shown sufficient courage. I suppose I cannot know for certain, having never been confronted with such circumstances.”

  “Well.” Uncle Jacob almost smiled, but no mirth touched his eyes. “An honest answer at last.”

  “Leave her alone,” snapped Lorena. “At least she considers such actions, which is more than you have ever done for the abolitionist cause. Mr. Schultz is a better man than you by far.”

  Uncle Jacob opened his Bible again. “Then you will be gratified to learn he is coming home.”

  They all stared at him. “Coming home?” echoed Robert.

  “Yes, I heard it from Abel Wright this afternoon. The ransom has been paid and Mr. Schultz was set free. He is on his way home if he is not there already.”

  Dorothea and her mother exchanged a look of astonishment. “How did Mrs. Schultz obtain the money?” asked Lorena.

  Uncle Jacob turned a page and drew the lamp closer. “It did not occur to me to ask such an intrusive question.”

  Dorothea was too overcome to speak at first, but then she snapped, “You knew he had been released and yet you did not tell us. Instead you prolonged our worry and tormented us with this silly argument.”

  “Such cruelty is beneath you, brother,” said Lorena in a softer tone. “What you did to your niece’s quilt was bad enough, and now this—”

  “I needed a quilt to keep up at the sugar camp. I did not ask for finery.”

  “You were very particular about every detail,” countered Lorena. “If you had told us your purpose I could have given you any number of suitable quilts. You did not need to mock my daughter’s efforts by treating the work of her hands so indifferently.”

  “Take a lesson from Mr. Schultz,” growled Uncle Jacob. “Keep to your own affairs.”

  Dorothea wanted to declare that the matter of the quilt was her affair, but when Lorena pressed her lips together and turned away, she knew the argument was over. She helped her mother finish cleaning the kitchen, then took her sewing basket to a chair by the fire. Only then did she remember the envelope she had received at the post office earlier that day. She retrieved it from her coat pocket and discovered inside a piece of muslin bearing the signature of William Lloyd Garrison. He had also enclosed a brief letter. “What an immense pleasure it is to assist in a benefit for the town that has recently become the home of a longtime acquaintance,” he had written. “Please give my regards to Mr. Thomas Nelson if you should meet him.”

  Dorothea read the letter over, thunderstruck. How could it be that Mr. Nelson was acquainted with Mr. William Lloyd Garrison, newspaper editor and renowned abolitionist? She read the letter a second time, scrutinizing each line. Mr. Garrison had called him a “longtime acquaintance,” not a friend. Perhaps Mr. Garrison was a friend of Mr. Nelson’s more amiable father, and knew little of the son’s quite different inclinations. Or perhaps Mr. Garrison had indulged in a bit of sarcasm; after all, he did not say to give Mr. Nelson his “best regards” or “warmest regards.” The greeting could have been a taunt, mocking Mr. Nelson in his exile.

  It did not matter, as Dorothea had no intention of delivering the message, should she be so unfortunate as to have the opportunity.

  AN EVENT DOROTHEA HAD anticipated with almost as much eagerness as the quilt raffle fell upon the following Saturday: the Creek’s Crossing school annual exhibition. Last year she had directed the students in their recitations and various displays of their academic accomplishments, and was pleased to hear it declared a resounding success. She was determined to attend this year’s program and satisfy her curiosity regarding how her students fared under Mr. Nelson’s tutelage.

  Like nearly everyone else in Creek’s Crossing, her parents also wanted to attend, but on the evening of the exhibition, Uncle Jacob found additional work for them that he insisted must be completed before morning. Robert accepted this without a word of complaint, but Lorena protested on her daughter’s behalf. Dorothea’s absence would be conspicuous since she was the former schoolteacher, and that would reflect badly upon the entire family. At first Uncle Jacob resisted, saying that even if he did not object to Dorothea driving into town at night alone, he needed the wagon himself, but Lorena convinced him to leave Dorothea at the schoolhouse before his errands and pick her up afterward.

  Dorothea was reluctant to ride alone with her uncle, but since the alternative was to remain at home, she accepted the arrangement. They rode in silence until they had nearly reached the ferry, when her uncle said, “My sugar camp quilt washed up well.”

  “Yes, Mother managed to rid it of nearly all the stains.” She could not help emphasizing nearly all.

  “I told you to use scraps and serviceable colors.”

  “You have reminded me of that already. You might be surprised to discover what beautiful works may be created from those same materials.”

  They reached the ferry. Uncle Jacob drove the wagon on board, but Dorothea ignored his hand as he reached to help her down. He scowled at the rebuff, but followed her to the railing. “If I had known you and your mother would be so upset, I would have made my intentions more clear.”

  Dorothea sighed. “If that is an apology, Uncle, then I accept.”

  “You’re right, too, what you said about your aunt. Rebecca.”

  He spoke her name carefully, as if it were a word in an unfamiliar language, a taste he had craved and never thought to savor again. Dorothea was so astonished to hear it she could not form a reply, only stare at him as he gazed out upon the creek. She hoped he would say more about the aunt whose passing had left him so crippled with grief that the Grangers understood implicitly they were never to mention his lost family, but if he intended to speak, their arrival at the schoolhouse rendered further confessions unspoken.

  He left her at the door with a warning to be ready to leave at half-past eight even if the exhibition was not over. Dorothea went inside and tried to find a seat in the crowded schoolroom. Even the choir loft, included in the design at the senior Mr. Nelson’s request so that the building could double as a church on Sundays, was full of eager spectators—and numerous parents giving last-minute instructions to their nervous children. Dorothea spotted Mary waving to her on the main level. Mary had saved her a seat with her and her husband, and as Dorothea sat down, she observed that Mary clutched Abner’s arm tightly as if to reassure herself that he had indeed returned from his dangerous journey to Maryland.

  “How is your father?” asked Dorothea.

  “He is faring well,” said Mary, “but my mother will not let him out of her sight.”

  “You did not have to mortgage the print shop to raise the ransom?”

  “Oh, no. Didn’t you hear? They released him without receiving a penny from us. I don’t know what Mr. Nelson said to them, but it was evidently very persuasive.” Mary gave a little shudder and drew her shawl around her shoulders, tightening her grasp on Abner’s arm. “One scarcely knows what to think about that man.”

  “On the contrary, one knows precisely what to think,” said Dorothea. “No doubt he threatened violence, and with his prison background, I’m sure he knew how to make the threats convincing.”

  Abner leaned forward. “I don’t care what he said or did. He obtained Mary’s father’s release, and that is good enough for me.”

  Mary and Dorothea exchanged a look of knowing exasperation. Men too often confused success with moral worth. They could say no more about it, though, for at that moment, Mr. Nelson stepped up to the front of the schoolroom and introduced himself, an unnecessary formality given the size of their town and the speed with which news traveled when there were few other novelties to distract its citizens. His spectacles caught the lamplight, emphasizing his scholarly air, though he was neither as pale nor as slender as he had been upon his arrival in Creek’s Crossing. Apparently the climate of th
eir little hamlet agreed with him. If he did not manage to escape, in a few months he might become almost robust.

  Mr. Nelson introduced his twenty-two pupils in ascending order according to age, then led them through an exercise in grammar. Next followed an examination in arithmetic, with the youngest pupils solving simple addition and subtraction problems, and the very eldest presenting geometric proofs. Dorothea was surprised by this; she had not taught them any advanced geometry, but she would have, she told herself, if she had been given the opportunity. The students made so few errors that she whispered to Mary that they had surely been given the problems in advance. Mary giggled and whispered back that they simply remembered all Dorothea had taught them. Someone shushed them, so Dorothea contented herself with silently correcting the pupils’ errors before Mr. Nelson did, and guiltily wishing there were more of them.

  She forgot to criticize when the students began their recitations in history and poetry. The youngest children were so earnest, their voices so sweet as they carefully repeated the pieces they had memorized. The eldest class, nearly all girls, recounted the history of Pennsylvania so well that she found herself regretting the end of the presentation. She applauded as loudly as anyone present, putting aside, for the moment, Mr. Nelson’s part in the students’ success.

  “They did very well,” remarked Abner.

  Dorothea had no choice but to agree. Despite his other faults, Mr. Nelson was apparently an adequate teacher. Perhaps better than adequate. Mary must have sensed her ambivalence, for she hastily added that the students would have performed just as well, if not better, had Dorothea been their teacher.

  After a few closing remarks, Mr. Nelson dismissed his pupils to another round of applause. Dorothea accompanied Mary to the cloakroom, but when she did not see Uncle Jacob in the vestibule, she gathered her wraps and returned to the warmth of the schoolroom. Others filed past her. Mothers and fathers praised their children; young men met young ladies at the door to see them home. The schoolhouse steadily emptied, but although the clock on Mr. Nelson’s desk read a quarter to nine, still Uncle Jacob did not appear.

  Dorothea checked the vestibule again, and even peered outside to see if he had decided to wait in the wagon rather than push against the departing throng, but he was nowhere to be seen. She returned to the classroom, but stopped short at the sight of Mr. Nelson, alone, wiping down the blackboard.

  She decided she preferred the chilly vestibule, but before she could turn to go, Mr. Nelson looked up. “Is there something you require, Miss Granger?”

  “I did not mean to disturb you. My uncle is coming for me, but he has not yet arrived.”

  His eyebrows rose slightly. “Your uncle, not Cyrus Pearson? I rarely see you in town except upon his arm.”

  Something in his tone made her bristle. “Yes, my uncle. Mr. Pearson had a pressing business engagement that prevented him from attending your exhibition. You should not consider it a slight.”

  “On the contrary, I consider it a stroke of good fortune.” Mr. Nelson nodded at the coal stove in the corner. “I will keep the fire going until I have finished straightening the classroom. You are welcome to wait in here.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and took a seat at the desk nearest the stove. She sat in silence, staring at the door rather than watch Mr. Nelson dust off the chalk railing and replace books on the shelves. The clock chimed the hour just as she realized Mr. Nelson was straightening the bookcases slowly and methodically, postponing the completion of his tasks rather than put her out of the schoolhouse.

  She rose and began putting on her wraps. “It appears my uncle has been delayed. I’m sorry to have kept you. Good evening.”

  “You can’t mean to walk home.”

  “I have a friend in town. I will leave a note on your door for my uncle and stay with her until he comes for me.”

  “Nonsense.” Mr. Nelson closed the dampers on the stove, dousing the light. “You do not need to impose on your friend. I will take you home.”

  “So that I might impose on you instead?” Dorothea laughed shortly and wrapped her muffler around her neck. “I think I would prefer Mary.”

  He followed her into the vestibule, pausing only to snatch his coat from the cloakroom. “I will have to escort you wherever you decide to go. I would prefer to escort you to my horse and carriage, which is just next door, rather than to the edge of town and back on foot.”

  “My uncle’s farm lies to the north. Your farm is to the west.”

  “If you mean that I will be traveling out of my way, I cannot dispute that.” Mr. Nelson reached up to turn down the oil lamp hanging beside the door. “If we are fortunate, we will encounter your uncle along the way, and he can carry you the rest of the way home.”

  His manner was so abrupt, so completely without courtesy, that she almost told him she would rather spend the night in Mary’s rocking chair than in debt herself to him, but she knew her parents’ worries would increase the longer she stayed away. “Very well, Mr. Nelson,” she said. “You may take me home.”

  He frowned at the condescension in her tone, but he offered her his arm.

  His horses were a perfectly matched team of Arabians; his carriage not new, but well fashioned and comfortable. The wind had picked up, and though it blew from the southwest, it was biting. The ride home would have been much colder in Uncle Jacob’s wagon, the company only a trifle more pleasant. She wondered if her uncle had forgotten their arrangements. Perhaps she had not accepted his apology regarding the sugar camp quilt graciously enough, but of course, it had not been graciously given.

  When they turned on to Water Street, Dorothea suddenly remembered. “I forgot to leave a note for my uncle.”

  “I will do so upon my return.”

  “Thank you.” Dorothea felt that she ought to say more. “Your students conducted themselves quite well this evening. You must be proud.”

  “They performed adequately, but they are no match for their counterparts in the east,” said Mr. Nelson. “It is not through any fault of their own. Their intellectual capacity is comparable, but they have lacked the necessary resources and guidance.”

  “I see.”

  He glanced at her. “And I see that you have chosen to take offense. Do so, if you insist, but be aware that I do not blame you for their deficiencies. You could hardly be expected to pass on a better education than you received.”

  She smiled thinly. “That is generous of you.”

  “Furthermore, you were their teacher for only six months, which is hardly long enough to have much influence upon them.”

  “It was eight months, actually. Please, Mr. Nelson, do desist. If I hear any more of such praise I shall be compelled to fling myself into the creek.”

  “It was not my intention to praise you.”

  “Then you have succeeded,” said Dorothea. “Oh, and before I forget, I was asked to pass along a message to you. Mr. William Lloyd Garrison sends his regards.”

  Mr. Nelson did not so much as flinch. “How did you come to possess a message from Mr. Garrison to me?”

  “He was kind enough to respond to my request for an autograph for the library board’s opportunity quilt. However did you come to meet Mr. Garrison?”

  Mr. Nelson gave the barest of shrugs. “Our acquaintance is long-standing. I do not recall how or when we met.”

  “Perhaps you met him in prison,” exclaimed Dorothea, as if inspired. “I understand Mr. Garrison has quite a reputation for engaging in charitable works. Perhaps he visited you there to offer you words of comfort.”

  Mr. Nelson kept his gaze fixed on the horses. “You are quite right,” he eventually said. “Mr. Garrison was kind enough to visit me in prison. Several times, in fact.”

  He said nothing more, but it was confession enough. Dorothea was torn between triumph and astonishment. She had not expected him to so readily acknowledge the criminal past he surely had assumed was unknown in Creek’s Crossing. Part of her had even disbelieved the rumors as to
o shocking to be true. Now she had his own admission, but he made no attempt to excuse his crimes or beg her to tell no one. Perhaps at last he regretted his offensive behavior since his arrival in their town. If he had been less insulting, less arrogant, she might have agreed not to reveal what she had discovered, had he asked.

  They reached the ferry dock. The pilot had left the craft for the warmth of the boathouse, but he soon emerged and allowed them to drive the carriage aboard. “You got here just in time,” he remarked. “I was about to go home for the night.”

  “Has my uncle crossed recently?” asked Dorothea.

  The ferryman shook his head. “Not since earlier this evening when you both came over together.”

  Troubled, Dorothea asked him to tell her uncle, if he should appear before the ferry ceased operating for the night, that she was already on her way home.

  “I gather this is not typical behavior for your uncle,” said Mr. Nelson after the ferryman left them to push away from the shore.

  “Not at all. Ordinarily he is as conscientious as he expects everyone else to be.”

  But he had not been his usual self for months. His forgetfulness, his outbursts of anger—perhaps her mother was right and he was not well.

  Mr. Nelson seemed unconcerned. “It is likely he has preceded you home.”

  “Yes.” She forced confidence into the words and settled back into her seat. “Very likely.”

  When they reached the road up the hill to Uncle Jacob’s farm, the distant light from the house’s windows offered a soft welcome. Mr. Nelson asked if he could water his horses in the barn before departing. Dorothea consented, and as soon as he swung open the doors, she saw that neither Uncle Jacob’s wagon nor his horse was inside.

  “Thank you for seeing me home,” said Dorothea, climbing down from the carriage. “Please take whatever you need for your horses.”

  She ran toward the house, in her haste forgetting to invite Mr. Nelson to warm himself by the fire before he left. She opened the door with a bang, startling her parents, who looked up from their chairs in alarm, which faded when they saw her. Lorena set down her knitting and smiled. “How was the exhibition? We did not expect it to run so late.”