Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  In those years, I wanted to believe E. the cruel victim of his parents’ contempt for my family’s lack of rank. Now I realize that if he had truly wanted to be my husband, he would have followed me to America. That would have meant abandoning the wealth and social position that had prevented us from marrying, and apparently he had no wish to do so, or the thought never occurred to him. Either way, his inaction proved that either our love was not true, or it was, but he was unworthy of it.

  Time, hard work, and the newness of my life in America eased the pain of my grief, and I reconciled myself to being no more—and no less—than Hans Bergstrom’s spinster sister. As our first autumn passed in a frenzy to make Elm Creek Farm livable for the coming winter, I realized I did not mind the role as much as a properly brought up girl ought to have done. Anneke and Dorothea were fortunate in their choice of husbands, but other women of my acquaintance were not, and I soon learned that an unmarried woman can do and say things a wife cannot. In any event, I envisioned a future doing my part to make Elm Creek Farm prosper, looking after Hans and Anneke and their children yet to be born, being a part of their family, and never desiring one of my own.

  Winter snows had cut us off from contact with all but our closest neighbors, but the coming of spring brought a renewed liveliness to the town. Our dependence upon the kindness and generosity of others had impressed upon Anneke the importance of friends, and she became determined to establish the Bergstroms in Creek’s Crossing. Being well regarded in society would help Hans’s business, she said, and she prodded me to do my share to socialize with the wives and daughters of important men who might be in a position to help Hans later. At first I shuddered at the very notion of society, remembering how it had cost me my dearest love, but society in Creek’s Crossing bore little resemblance to that of my homeland. As one would expect, however, it remained the province of the oldest and wealthiest families, but in a land where anyone willing to work hard could prosper, no obstacle remained to prevent the meanest immigrant from elevating his status.

  “Unless the immigrant is colored,” observed Dorothea, when I remarked upon this.

  I could not refute the obvious truth in her words, and her reflection soured the appeal of the town for me. While Pennsylvania was a Free State, and most of us took pride in our righteousness and disdained the Southern slaveholder, freedmen were not, it must be said, any more welcome here than elsewhere, except among themselves and, perhaps, the Abolitionists. As for myself, although I was a staunch opponent of the institution of slavery, I had never actually befriended a colored person, former slave or freeborn.

  This troubled me, but when I repeated Dorothea’s comment to Anneke, she merely laughed and said, “Only Dorothea would say such a thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, of course the coloreds can’t rise in society. I don’t condone slavery,” she added with great haste, because she knew my views, “but we want to keep to ourselves just as they want to keep to themselves. Only Dorothea would look upon this as a crime.”

  I did not think Dorothea was thinking of parties and balls when she talked of elevating one’s status, but rather of bettering oneself through hard work and education. The latter interested her far more than the former, as she attended few society gatherings, instead dedicating her spare hours to charity and the women’s suffrage movement.

  I must admit, the issue of women’s suffrage sparked a passion within me as well, and as time passed, and I read more of the books and newspapers Dorothea shared, I became her equal in desire for the right to vote. I even endured sewing to learn more about the movement, because as the weather improved, Dorothea welcomed to her home numerous prominent speakers of the women’s rights movement, acquaintances from back East. Invariably, since they could not drum up enough interest in our little village to fill a meeting hall, these women would speak at Dorothea’s quilting circle.

  One would suppose, perhaps, that a woman from a family of textile traders would have known of the art and craft of quilting, but I had never heard of it until emigrating to America. Dorothea and the other women of Creek’s Crossing discussed their needlework with great interest and exchanged new patterns with delight. I could not muster up such enthusiasm, but even I could see the appeal in the cunning designs Dorothea and her fellow quilters created in patchwork, and I respected the frugality of not wasting a single hard-earned scrap of fabric. I will admit, however, that I gritted my teeth as Dorothea taught me to make my first quilt, and I accomplished little when I was meant to be piecing a Shoo-Fly block, but instead hung on every word of the speakers’ passionate lectures on the Rights of Women.

  Anneke did not attend the quilting bees, for as I said, she was not so fond of Dorothea as I, was embarrassed by her poor English, and thought politics unwomanly. Hans found Dorothea’s ideas amusing and her visiting friends harmless—a view which, I must confess, annoyed me a great deal, though I suppose it was preferable to that of some of the townsmen, who forbade their wives to join Dorothea’s sewing circle. However, I suspected some in Creek’s Crossing objected not so much to Dorothea’s position on women’s suffrage as to the Nelsons’ firm and unabashed Abolitionist views. While there were those in Creek’s Crossing who silently agreed with them, far more felt that on the issue of colored people, objecting politely to slavery sufficed, but one needn’t make such a fuss about it.

  Every other week I attended Dorothea’s sewing circle, where I forced myself to take up needle and thread so I could engage in enlightening discourse. I returned home glowing with visions of a future justice, but Anneke saw only the patchwork block in my hand, inattentively and reluctantly pieced. On one such evening, she took the Shoo-Fly block, smoothed it on her lap, and studied it, back and front. “Your hands were not meant to sew,” said she mournfully, as if I would be grieved by the pronouncement. Then, to my astonishment, she asked if she might join me at the next meeting.

  So Anneke and I began to attend the sewing circle together, I for the edification of my social conscience, Anneke for the lessons in patchwork. A gifted needlewoman, she took to the craft immediately and became Dorothea’s most eager apprentice. Within weeks she had mastered setting in corners, sewing curved seams, and appliqué, and completed an entire sampler in the time it took me to finish a few haphazard Shoo-Fly blocks.

  But I did not care. My days were full of hard work and the satisfaction of seeing Elm Creek Farm flourish with our labors; my evenings full of borrowed books and lectures and interesting people. Dorothea’s guests included many whose activities would later make them famous—or infamous, some would say: Mrs. Sarah Grimké, Mrs. Susan Anthony, Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Not all of our speakers were women—nor were their interests limited to suffrage. Frederick Douglass spent the night on his way from one speaking engagement in Philadelphia to another in Ohio, and other prominent figures such as William Lloyd Garrison, editor of the Boston Abolitionist newspaper Liberator, also graced the Nelson household. Nor were all of those in attendance women. The men did not deign to join us for sewing, of course, but they often appeared after our meetings and drew our guests aside for brandy or cider, the Nelsons being teetotalers.

  A most frequent visitor was Jonathan Granger, Dorothea’s younger brother, whose farm lay to the northeast of Creek’s Crossing. He often found occasion to visit Dorothea and occasionally accompanied her to Elm Creek Farm. His somber, direct manner reminded me of his sister. Like Thomas, he did not believe woman’s intellect inferior to man’s, but spoke to me as if he expected an intelligent reply. Hans, for all his fine qualities, was not infallible in this regard, and I admit I found Jonathan’s company refreshing.

  At first, however, I had mistaken him for the postman.

  From overheard conversations, I learned he traveled around the county quite a bit, and when he attended the gatherings at his sister’s, he occasionally distributed letters to her guests. I wondered that someone with his keen mind had chosen to become a postman instead of attending univers
ity, but shrugged off my puzzlement, choosing instead to admire him for delivering the post as well as managing his father’s small farm. Only after he was called away from a lecture on the troubles in Kansas to deliver Mrs. Craigmile’s third child did I discover that he was the town’s physician, and carried letters as a favor to his neighbors, who did not travel as much as he. I grew very red in the face, for thankfully I had been spared much embarrassment, as I had in my pocket a letter that I had planned to ask him to carry to Philadelphia. I suspect he might have done it and thought nothing of the request, as he was a generous, unassuming sort.

  We spoke often, discussing philosophy or the politics of the day; Jonathan recommended books to me, and I to him. Through my discussions with him, as well as with Dorothea, I began to see how inextricably intertwined were the Rights of Women and the Rights of the Slave, simultaneous battles in the same war.

  I write so much of our evenings one would think I was a woman of leisure and did nothing all day but read and anticipate conversations with engaging companions. That would be far from the truth, for never had I worked so hard as I did in those first few years in America. And not only for my brother’s happiness was I glad for Anneke’s presence, for I cannot imagine how we would have managed without her. Our work began before dawn, and although we never allowed ourselves an idle moment except on Sundays, we fell into bed at night having completed only the most necessary of our chores. Sometimes, I admit, exhaustion and the relentless flood of duties needing my attention threatened to overwhelm me, but something spurred me onward. Perhaps it was the knowledge that our neighbors had managed, proving that it could be done. Perhaps it was the fear of disappointing Hans and Anneke. All I know is that I persisted, undaunted, sustained by Hans’s vision for Elm Creek Farm and those precious times with Dorothea and Jonathan.

  By the end of our second summer in Pennsylvania, Hans had purchased two thoroughbreds, a mare and a stallion, thus fulfilling part of his promise to Anneke, that she would once again have horses as lovely as Castor and Pollux.

  “Those must have been the first Bergstrom Thoroughbreds,” said Sarah. She had read the passage aloud as Sylvia worked on her latest project, an English paper pieced Tumbling Blocks quilt in homespun plaids. It was Sunday morning, in the last peaceful time they would enjoy together that week, the interval between breakfast and the arrival of the new group of quilt campers.

  “I suppose so.” Sylvia wondered that she did not feel more intrigued at the thought. Bergstrom Thoroughbreds, the business founded by Hans and Anneke—and Gerda, she added, amending the family history—had made the family’s fortune. Later generations had sustained and expanded the business, but it had all been lost in Sylvia’s time, when her sister, Claudia, and Claudia’s husband had sold off the horses and parcels of land to pay the debts of their lavish lifestyle. Sylvia did not blame them alone. If she had not abandoned her family home, she would have continued to run Bergstrom Thoroughbreds. If the war had not claimed her husband and brother—and indirectly, her father and unborn daughter—she never would have left, and perhaps she would have passed the business to the next generation. But instead she had left it to her sister, knowing full well Claudia could not manage on her own, but too proud to return home and seek reconciliation, even to preserve Hans’s and Anneke’s legacy.

  And Gerda’s, she added silently, for based upon what Sarah had read, Sylvia could not believe that Gerda had left Elm Creek Manor to become a slave owner in the South. Perhaps she had left to marry Jonathan, but it sounded as if his farm was relatively near, certainly near enough that Gerda’s strong will and temperament would have continued to influence the family. Sylvia had become certain that Gerda had been as instrumental as Hans and Anneke in shaping the Bergstroms’ history.

  “Gerda has never been given enough credit for what she contributed to this place,” said Sylvia.

  “Neither have you.”

  “You must be joking. Our campers would have you believe I laid each stone of Elm Creek Manor with my bare hands.”

  “Our campers give you plenty of credit, but you don’t. You shoulder all the blame for the demise of Bergstrom Thoroughbreds, but you don’t take enough credit for Elm Creek Quilts.” Sarah gestured, indicating not only the sitting room but the entire manor. “Take a good look at this place. Think of what we’ve accomplished here.”

  “Our success has been your doing. Yours and Summer’s and the other Elm Creek Quilters.”

  “You’re the heart and soul of Elm Creek Quilts, and you know it,” declared Sarah. “Or you ought to.”

  But I’m merely paying back a debt, Sylvia almost said. Her ancestors had created something great, and she had allowed it to be destroyed. She was merely trying to earn back what she had squandered. The burden had weighed heavily upon her heart for the more than fifty years she had been estranged from her sister, but although the success of Elm Creek Quilts had alleviated it a great deal, when she read in Gerda’s own words how they had struggled to establish Elm Creek Farm, she felt her failures to her family anew.

  Suddenly Sarah took her hand. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Sylvia, as Sarah helped her to her feet and led her from the room.

  Sarah guided her through the kitchen and out the back door. “We’re going to find the cabin.”

  Sylvia laughed. “If the cabin were still around, I think I would have noticed it.”

  “There might be something left.” Sarah tugged her arm to get her moving again. “Gerda said Hans built the barn twenty paces east of the cabin. So let’s go to the barn and pace.”

  Despite her doubts, Sylvia felt a stirring of anticipation. The barn still stood, so perhaps something of the cabin remained after all. Of course, Hans, a far more able carpenter than the hapless Mr. L., had built the barn, and the structure had been carefully maintained. And yet . . .

  She quickened her steps as she and Sarah crossed the bridge over Elm Creek.

  Sylvia watched from the shade of the barn as Sarah measured off twenty paces west and carefully searched the ground. Since her steps had taken her to the edge of the well-worn dirt road, Sylvia was not surprised when, after a moment, Sarah rose and shook her head. She returned to the barn and tried again, heading off at a slightly different angle. Again she searched the ground, and once more she found nothing.

  “Gerda describes herself as tall,” said Sylvia. “Maybe you should lengthen your strides.”

  Intent on her task, Sarah nodded and tried again, stepping in exaggerated, long paces through the grass, leaving the barn from different places and varying her angles slightly, but always heading west. One attempt finally took her to a small rise at the edge of the orchard, and this time, when she stooped over to search the ground, she suddenly grew very still. “I think I’ve found something. It’s wood.”

  “Likely it’s just a tree root.”

  “No, I don’t think so.” Sarah scuffed the ground with her shoe, then looked up with wide eyes. “There’s a log here, embedded in the ground.”

  “Trees look remarkably like logs,” scoffed Sylvia, but she felt a tremor of excitement as she went to look for herself. Kneeling on the ground, Sarah pulled up clumps of dead grass and brushed aside dirt around what appeared to be a faint depression in the ground. At first Sylvia thought it was nothing more than darker soil, but as she drew closer, she perceived the fibrous splinters of what could only be wood and that the portion Sarah had uncovered lay in a nearly perfect straight line.

  “My word,” breathed Sylvia. She kneeled on the ground and gingerly began brushing aside decades’ worth of accumulated soil. Sarah ran off to find some tools and returned with Matt and Andrew, carrying whisk brooms and trowels. Sylvia extrapolated a straight line extending in both directions from the exposed part of the log and directed her friends to positions along it. Quietly and quickly they worked, their eagerness to uncover the find tempered by wariness that they might damage whatever lay beneath.

  “Look here,” called
out Andrew from his place at the end of the line. “I think I’ve reached a corner.”

  The others hurried over. Andrew had indeed reached a place where the first wood line ended and another commenced at a slightly obtuse angle. As Matt helped Andrew dig around the bend, Sylvia saw to her amazement that there the direction of the wood grains varied, first tending horizontal, then vertical.

  “The pieces dovetail,” said Matt, and then Sylvia could envision perfectly the corner of a cabin, perpendicular logs interlocking.

  They had found it. The cabin where Hans, Anneke, and Gerda had first lived, the place where they had dreamed and planned and built their legacy, lay within arm’s reach. She could touch the very walls that had first sheltered them.

  4

  Sylvia grudgingly acquiesced when Matt suggested they break off their excavation until they could consult a specialist who would help them preserve their find. If not for the concern that she might ruin what remained of the cabin, she almost thought she could dig it up with her fingernails, so exhilarated was she by their discovery. Somehow the cabin made Gerda’s story real in a way her words had not. It was proof, something tangible, that made the memoir ring true.

  In their excitement, they had lost track of the time. The morning had waned, and the sun shone almost directly overhead. Sarah raced off to shower and change before the new quilt campers arrived while Matt gathered their tools. Sylvia was perspiring and out of breath from excitement and labor, but she tried to hide her fatigue as she and Andrew returned to the manor, knowing Andrew would worry if he thought she had overexerted herself.