An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler

by Jennier Chiaverini

  I screwed up my nose. “What if it’s a boy?”

  Claudia folded her arms. “I like pink, white, and green, and I get to choose, remember?”

  “But what if it’s a boy?”

  “It’s a baby. It won’t care.”

  “If he’s a boy he’ll care. Let’s pick something else.”

  “You picked the pattern. I get to pick the colors. You can’t pick everything.”

  “Compromise, girls.” That was Mother. She shook her head and gave me that disappointed smile again. In all those years I don’t think Claudia ever received one of those looks.

  I looked away. “Okay,” I said to my sister. “Then you pick the pattern and I’ll pick the colors.”

  Claudia beamed at Mother. “Then I pick Turkey Tracks.”

  Just for a moment, my heart seemed to beat more quickly, and I gasped. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “Yes, Sylvia, what’s wrong?” Mother looked surprised. “You’ve made blocks like it before.”

  “She doesn’t think I can make it, that’s what’s wrong.” Claudia glared at me. “But I can, as good as you, too.”

  “Sylvia, is that so?” Mother asked.

  I shook my head no.

  “What is it, then?”

  “Turkey Tracks.” My voice held a fearful tremor as I said the name. “It’s also called Wandering Foot, remember? Remember what Grandma used to say?”

  Mother and Claudia stared at me. Then Claudia began to giggle. “That’s just a silly superstition, silly.”

  Even Mother smiled. “Sylvia, you shouldn’t let Grandma’s old stories worry you so. I think it’s a lovely pattern.”

  I bit my lip. I didn’t like being laughed at, and I didn’t like being called silly, but I still knew it wasn’t a good idea. It would have been better to make a pink quilt and hope Mother had a girl than to do this.

  “How about if we make the Bear’s Paw instead?” I said. “We can use pink if you want.”

  Claudia shook her head. “No, I like this idea better.”

  “Come now, what colors would you like?” Mother beckoned me over to her scrap basket.

  I took all the blue and yellow pieces from the overflowing basket. If we had to make a Wandering Foot quilt, and I didn’t see any way out of it, then at the very least I was going to make it from my lucky colors.

  I think it was about two months later when we finished the quilt. It was very pretty, but I still had misgivings. And a few months after that, in January, Mother had a baby boy. Father named him Richard after his brother who died in the Great War, and we all adored him.

  Mrs. Compson finished cleaning out the closet and stood, rubbing her lower back. For a moment Sarah only watched her, puzzled. “I don’t understand,” she finally said.

  “Don’t understand what?”

  “The quilt pattern. What was wrong with Turkey Tracks?”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Compson sat on the bed, her thin figure barely compressing the mattress. “Some people think that by changing a block’s name you get rid of the bad luck, but I know that bad luck isn’t so easily fooled. Turkey Tracks is the same pattern as Wandering Foot. If you give a boy a Wandering Foot quilt, he will never be content to stay in one place. He’ll always be rest-less, roaming around, running off from home to who knows where—and I can’t even begin to tell you what that pattern will do to a girl.” She shook her head. “What a silly choice. Claudia should have known better.”

  Sarah nodded, but secretly she sympathized with Mrs. Compson’s mother. She wouldn’t have pegged Mrs. Compson as the superstitious type, especially over something like a quilt.

  Mrs. Compson studied Sarah’s expression and frowned. “Now, I’m not superstitious, mind, but why take unnecessary chances? Life will give you plenty of necessary ones on its own. And I was right, too, as it turned out. But that’s no consolation. I would have preferred for Claudia to be right this time.”

  “What do you mean? The superstition came true?”

  Just then she heard voices downstairs.

  “My hearing isn’t what it used to be, but that sounds like Matthew. Let’s go see if I’m right.” Mrs. Compson rose and left the room.

  Sarah followed, wishing Mrs. Compson had answered her question. But it was a stupid question anyway. A quilt pattern couldn’t bring bad luck, unless … Annoyed and exasperated with herself, Sarah shook her head as if to clear it of such illogical thoughts.

  Eleven

  Matt and another man Sarah recognized from Exterior Architects were waiting just outside the front entrance. “We didn’t want to track mud all over the place,” Matt explained as his friend gestured sheepishly at their muddy work boots. “We’re going to head on in to town to grab some lunch. Is there anything you need us to do for you while we’re there?”

  “You needn’t go into town. I’ll make lunch for you.”

  “There’re six of us, ma’am,” the other man said. Joe, that was his name. “We don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

  “Even so. What a poor hostess your friends will think me.”

  “Not at all.” Matt grinned. “Besides, for what our boss charges you, we should be making you lunch.”

  “Is that so? Very well, then. In that case, I won’t insist. As for your offer to run errands for me, thank you, but no. The grocery store delivers weekly and I don’t need anything else right now.”

  “If you ever do, just ask.” Matt gave Sarah a quick kiss, and he and Joe left.

  Mrs. Compson turned to Sarah. “Perhaps we should be thinking about lunch ourselves.”

  “Do you want me to finish upstairs first?”

  “Leave it until tomorrow. I’d prefer to work on our quilts for a while. In fact, I believe I feel like seeing the old gardens. Would you like to take our lunch and our quilting outside?”

  “Oh, I’d love to. I haven’t seen the gardens yet.”

  “Don’t expect much. I doubt if they’ve been tended for a long time. I should have been to see them before now, if only to tell Matthew what to do there.”

  They went to the kitchen and packed a small wooden basket with sandwiches, fruit, and a plastic jug of iced tea. Mrs. Compson fetched an old quilt and a wide-brimmed hat from the hall closet while Sarah collected the quilt blocks and the tackle box Mrs. Compson used to store her sewing tools. Then Mrs. Compson led her down the hallway toward the front foyer, but instead of turning right toward the front entrance, they turned left. Several doors lined the hallway until it ended at an outside door at the corner of the L-shaped manor. The door opened onto a gray stone patio surrounded by lilac bushes and evergreens. At the edge of the patio, a stone path continued north into the bushes.

  Mrs. Compson paused in the center of the patio. “Out of all the lovely places on the estate, this was my mother’s favorite. In fair weather, she would have her afternoon tea out here. It was so pleasant in springtime when the lilacs were flowering. She called this place the cornerstone patio.”

  “Why did she call it that?”

  “You wouldn’t need to ask if these bushes were properly pruned. Here, help me with this.” She went to where the edge of the patio met the north-west corner of the manor and struggled to push the branches aside. Sarah hurried to help her.

  “See there?” Mrs. Compson pointed to a large engraved stone at the base of the building.

  Sarah pushed through the branches and kneeled on the stone patio so that she could read the carved letters. “ ‘Bergstrom 1858.’ Was that when the manor was built?”

  “Yes, but only the west wing, of course. Hans, Anneke, and Gerda laid that cornerstone with their own hands. My grandfather was only a toddler then, and my great-aunt was not yet born.” Mrs. Compson sighed. “Some-times I picture them, so young and hopeful and brave, laying the foundation of Elm Creek Manor, and of the Bergstrom family itself. Do you suppose they ever dreamed they would accomplish so much?”

  Sarah thought for a moment.
“From what you’ve told me about them, I think they probably did. They sound like the sort of people who dreamed big and had the fortitude to match.”

  Mrs. Compson looked thoughtful. “Yes, I believe you’re right.” Then her gaze swept around the patio, taking in the tangled bushes, the weeds growing up between the stones, and the peeling paint on the door. “I suppose they never thought their heirs would neglect what they had worked so hard to build.”

  Sarah rose and brushed off her knees. “I think they’d understand.” She let the branches fall back into place in front of the cornerstone.

  “Hmph. That’s kind of you, dear, but I don’t even understand, and I’m one of those neglectful heirs myself. Come along, now.” She continued across the patio to the stone path, which disappeared into the surrounding bushes. In another moment, the foliage hid her from view.

  Sarah pushed after her, only to find herself standing on the lawn on the north side of the building. She spun around, but could not see the patio or the door through the thick brush. The other day when she had passed this side of the manor while mulling over Mrs. Compson’s job offer, she had not even suspected an entrance was there.

  “What’s keeping you?” Mrs. Compson called. She had already crossed the lawn and was waiting where the stone pathway continued into the woods. Sarah followed her down the shaded, meandering path until it broadened and opened into an oval clearing surfaced with the same gray stone. In the foreground were four round planters, each about fifteen feet in diameter and three feet high; the lower halves of their walls were two feet thicker than at the top, forming smooth, polished seats where visitors could rest. The planters, which now held only rocky soil, some dry branches that might once have been roses, and weeds, were spaced evenly around a black marble fountain of a mare prancing with two foals. Beyond them was a large wooden gazebo, paint peeling and gingerbread molding sagging dejectedly. Through the wooden slats Sarah could see terraces cut into the slope of a gentle hill on the other side, but their supporting stones had long since fallen away, allowing the beds to erode. As Sarah watched, a bird flew from inside the roof of the gazebo, alighted on the mare’s head, then flitted away.

  Mrs. Compson draped the quilt over the nearest planter’s seat and sat down. “It used to look much nicer than this,” she said dryly. Sarah nodded, thinking that her employer had a gift for understatement. They unpacked the basket and ate their lunches in silence. As usual, Mrs. Compson only nibbled at hers. Most of the time she sat with her hands clasped in her lap as she looked around the garden. Occasionally her lips would part as if she were about to speak, but then she would sigh and press them together again, shaking her head in regret and disappointment.

  “You should have seen it when I was a girl,” she finally said as Sarah packed up their leftovers and trash. “The planters were full of roses and ivy, the fountain would sparkle, the terraces held bulbs that bloomed with every variety of lovely blossom. What a shame. What a shame.”

  Sarah touched her arm. “Matt can restore it. You’ll see.”

  “It never should have been allowed to fall into such disrepair in the first place. Claudia could have easily afforded a gardener—a whole staff of gardeners. She should have had better sense.”

  “Mrs. Compson, why do you want to sell the manor? I know it needs some fixing up, but it could be such a wonderful place again, and Matt and I will help.”

  “I could never be happy here. Even if it were as beautiful as it once was, it could never be what it was supposed to be. You couldn’t possibly under-stand, a child your age.”

  She frowned so gloomily that Sarah looked away. Certainly the garden needed a lot of work, but Matt had restored places in even worse disrepair. If Mrs. Compson just gave him a chance—

  “Besides, I already have a buyer.”

  Sarah whirled on her. “You what?”

  Mrs. Compson studied the stone bench beside her. “A local real estate company has already expressed a great deal of enthusiasm. A gentleman from University Realty visited me Tuesday afternoon, while you were at your interview. Of course, we haven’t agreed to any terms yet, but I’m sure we’ll strike a fair bargain.” Mrs. Compson surveyed the garden with a critical eye. “That’s why I’m investing so much in the restoration, to increase the estate’s value.”

  “I see.”

  “Now, don’t sound so dejected, Sarah. I’ll be here all summer. That’s plenty of time to teach you how to quilt.”

  “But what will you do after that?”

  “Sell the manor, auction off the contents, and return to my house in Sewickley. Don’t look so surprised. You do recall why you were hired, don’t you?” Abruptly, she rose. “If you’re finished eating, I have something else to show you.”

  Sarah followed her to the gazebo. The steps creaked tiredly, as if they would have collapsed except it required too much effort. Wood benches resembling rectangular wooden crates lined the walls of the octagon-shaped structure.

  Mrs. Compson pointed to the top of each bench in turn, and cocked her head to one side. “What do you think?”

  Sarah peered closer. Inlaid in the middle of each seat was a pattern of interlocking multicolored wood rectangles fitted around a small center square. Some benches had a yellow center square—yellow pine, perhaps—while the rest had a red center square. The colors might have been vivid once but were now weathered and faded. Sarah traced one of the blocks with a fin-ger. “This pattern looks familiar, but I can’t place it.”

  “It’s a quilt pattern called Log Cabin. Supposedly it was invented to honor Abraham Lincoln, but that might just be a myth. According to tradition, the quilter should always put a red square in the middle, to symbolize the hearth, or a yellow square, to represent a light in the cabin window.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  “That’s true, but there’s more. Look carefully.”

  Sarah carefully examined each bench in turn, not sure what she should be looking for. Then she saw it. “This one,” she said, pointing. “Its center square is different. It’s black.”

  “Good girl.” Mrs. Compson nodded. “Lift up the bench.”

  “It lifts up?” Sarah grasped the edge of the bench. She saw no hinges, nothing to distinguish it from the other benches.

  “Carefully, now. Lift up the edge and slide it back.”

  The wooden seat creaked in protest and stuck, but Sarah jimmied it lose. As she eased it away from her, the wooden slats folded into a hidden recess beneath the bench, almost like a rolltop desk. “What in the world—” The seat had covered some kind of opening. Sarah saw narrow boards nailed in a column, like a ladder leading down from a child’s treehouse.

  “In the Civil War era, Elm Creek Manor was a stop on the Underground Railroad,” Mrs. Compson explained in a conspiratorial tone. “A Log Cabin quilt with a black center square was a signal. If an escaped slave saw a log cabin quilt with black center squares hanging on the washline, he knew it was safe to knock on the door.”

  “But wouldn’t bounty hunters or whatever see the quilt, too?”

  Mrs. Compson regarded her with mock astonishment. “Why, who pays attention to women’s work? Laundry, hanging on the line? Sorry, we can’t be bothered. We’re out doing important man things.”

  Sarah bent forward, trying to make out the ground below in the darkness. “So people would see this design on the bench and know it was a hiding place. This is amazing. Does it go underground?”

  “Just deep enough so that one can stand comfortably beneath the gazebo. My grandmother told me that every evening someone would come out to check if anyone was in the hiding place and see to their needs. Then when it was safe, they could be brought inside the manor.”

  “I’m going to check it out.” Sarah sat on the adjacent bench and swung her legs through the opening.

  Mrs. Compson placed a hand on her elbow. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Who knows what could be down there now—snakes, rabid squirrels—better let Matthew take care of it.”

&
nbsp; Quickly, Sarah withdrew her legs, then pulled the seat back to cover the opening. If a rabid squirrel had made the hiding place its home, she didn’t want Matt to go down there, either. She rose and dusted off her hands, “You can’t tell me there’s anything this interesting in some house in Sewickley.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never been there,” Mrs. Compson replied, but then she sighed. “Very well, I won’t pretend to think Elm Creek Manor is any less wonderful than I know it truly is. But Sarah, my dear, don’t wish for excitement. Interesting doesn’t always mean good. Sometimes the most ordinary things are the ones we learn to miss the most.” Mrs. Compson sighed again more deeply, placed her hands on the gazebo rail, and looked out over the garden. “Why don’t you fetch our things, and we’ll quilt for a while until it’s time for you to go.”

  Twelve

  That evening Sarah went to her first Tangled Web Quilters’ meeting. As she drove downtown, she realized that this was the first time she had gone out in the evening without Matt since they moved to Waterford. Driving without him made her feel strange, as if she had forgotten something at home but couldn’t remember what.

  She found a parking spot across the street from Grandma’s Attic, picked up the white cardboard box of chocolate chip cookies she had baked after work, and left the truck. She was halfway across the street before she remembered her quilting supplies. Exasperated, she went back for them. She’d been less nervous going to PennCellular the other day. The Tangled Web Quilters had already invited her to join their group, and since they hadn’t said anything about a trial membership, she had no reason to be so anxious. Just because they were the only people in Waterford who wanted to be her friends …

  Her thoughts went to Mrs. Compson as she walked down the alley between the building that held Grandma’s Attic and a similar three-story building next door. Didn’t Mrs. Compson have any friends? She never spoke of any, and no one ever came to visit her while Sarah was there. The last time Sarah had been at Grandma’s Attic, Diane had hinted at some kind of conflict. Maybe tonight Sarah could get her to explain more. Diane would probably enjoy talking about it—if Gwen let her.