Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  By the time she had tidied herself, the other Elm Creek Quilters had arrived and were preparing for registration. Summer and her mother, Gwen, a stout woman with hair the exact shade of auburn as her daughter’s, were placing chairs behind a long table to one side of the manor’s elegant foyer. Gwen was a professor at Waterford College, as was Judy, who was arranging forms on the table with the help of Bonnie, the owner of Grandma’s Attic. Diane, a strikingly pretty blonde who, along with Summer, occasionally assisted Bonnie at the quilt shop, had just entered with Agnes on her arm. As much as she delighted in all her friends, Sylvia’s heart warmed most at the sight of Agnes, the closest thing to an actual relative Sylvia supposed she had. Long ago, Agnes had married Sylvia’s younger brother, and long ago both women had been made war widows on the same day. Friendly fire, the officials called it, the senseless accident that had taken their husbands’ lives on a remote Pacific island. The euphemism, meant to protect them, hurt worse than the truth, for it mocked their grief.

  How Sylvia regretted that she and Agnes had not come together in their mourning and made the burdens of their grief lighter by sharing their losses. Instead Sylvia had fled Elm Creek Manor, unable to live there haunted by memories. She had returned home only after the death of her estranged sister, Claudia, but at least she and Agnes had forgiven each other—more than that, they had become friends. Still, as much as this consoled Sylvia, whenever she thought of Claudia, she tasted the bitterness of reconciliation sought too late.

  With a sigh, Sylvia pushed aside her regrets. She could not change the past. She could only make her future as happy and worthwhile as possible. That was how to best honor those she loved and had lost.

  She honored them a great deal, she thought, on Sundays when quilt camp was in session, when she and the other Elm Creek Quilters opened the manor to their guests. Sarah rushed downstairs, her hair still slightly damp, just as the first campers arrived. Soon the foyer was so full of activity that Sylvia hardly had a moment to catch her breath, much less share the discovery of the cabin with her friends. She and Diane shared the task of distributing the class schedules, a job that always involved last-minute adjustments as campers decided their interests had changed or requested a switch so they could be with people they already knew. Sylvia was reluctant to make changes for the latter reason, for one of the most important points of camp was to make new friends, and how could they if they went around in little cliques? Honestly. But since she wanted her guests to be happy, and being comfortable accomplished that for most of them, she adjusted their schedules. The evening programs would get them mixing properly.

  The flood of new arrivals eventually slowed to a trickle, then ceased. It was time to clear away the registration tables and prepare for the welcome banquet. As Sarah went off to supervise the kitchen and banquet hall, Sylvia was finally able to share the news. Her friends’ surprise and delight rekindled her eagerness to excavate the cabin, but she remembered Matt’s warning and promised herself she would get the job done in due time with the proper supervision.

  Gwen offered to contact a professor of archaeology she knew at Penn State, explaining that she knew of no one at Waterford College with the expertise they needed. Sylvia thanked her and wished she and Andrew weren’t leaving first thing in the morning. But Andrew was itching to get on the road again, and she could not ask him to withdraw from the trout fishing competition he had entered, not when he was the defending champion in his age group. Besides, she had scheduled two speaking engagements for the return trip.

  Sylvia could hardly swallow a bite of the delicious meal served at the welcome banquet, so distracted was she by thoughts of the cabin. When she glanced out the window and fretted aloud about the likelihood of rain, Matt assured her he had covered up the logs with a tarp, adding, “That should do until we hear from Gwen’s expert.”

  “The cabin’s lasted this long,” said Sarah to Sylvia, with a teasing smile. “It will last through the night.”

  “It’s the next night and the next that concern me,” retorted Sylvia. “I won’t be here to keep an eye on it.”

  “We’ll be here,” said Matt.

  “Yes, but who’s going to keep an eye on you?”

  Matt clasped a hand to his chest and winced as if she had wounded him. “I’m the caretaker,” he said with an exaggerated woe that provoked laughter from the others at the table. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “But it’s my responsibility. I can’t let anything happen to it.”

  Sarah remarked, “You say that as if you wish we hadn’t found it.”

  Sylvia found herself speechless. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she managed at last, and was glad when Andrew quickly changed the subject. How close were Sarah’s words to the truth? Sylvia was pleased they had found the cabin; the thrill of its discovery nearly had her racing outside just to be sure she had not imagined it. Still, she worried and wondered if they should have left the log alone as soon as Sarah uncovered the first portion. She couldn’t bear destroying yet another part of the Bergstrom legacy, not when so much had fallen into ruin on her watch.

  After the banquet, she returned to her room to pack, but she was so accustomed to filling her suitcase that she quickly finished. As twilight fell, she knew she ought to go to bed—Andrew wanted to get an early start the next day—but she decided to attend the welcome ceremony instead. It seemed appropriate to visit the cornerstone patio on the same day she had discovered an even earlier foundation of the Bergstrom family at Elm Creek.

  The quilt campers had already finished their dessert and had gathered in a circle on the gray stone patio when Sylvia arrived, but they eagerly made room for one more chair. The murmur of excited voices hushed as Sarah rose and lit a candle in a spherical crystal holder.

  “At Elm Creek Quilt Camp, we always conclude the first evening with a ceremony we call Candlelight,” said Sarah, meeting the eyes of each camper from her place in the center of the circle.

  Sylvia smiled, remembering how nervous Sarah had been the first time she took a turn leading the Candlelight. Now Sarah spoke with serene confidence, her voice somehow both comforting and inspiring.

  “Elm Creek Manor is full of memories,” continued Sarah, with a look that told Sylvia the younger woman intended a special meaning for her. “Some we know well, but others, like the memories you will make here this week, have yet to be discovered. The Elm Creek Quilters are enriched by your experiences here, and we thank you for sharing your stories with us.”

  As Sarah explained the ceremony, Sylvia sensed the quilters’ conflicted emotions. The campers would pass the candle around the circle, and one by one, each woman would hold the candle and explain why she had come to Elm Creek Quilt Camp and what she hoped to gain from the experience. They had been asked to bare their hearts to people they hardly knew. Some of the women around the circle, Sylvia knew, would not be entirely honest; some would choose to keep their secrets, as was their right. But those who shared the truth, those who were ready to share the truth, would find themselves accepted and affirmed more than they could have imagined possible. This was what Sylvia had learned after so many Candlelight ceremonies, that the truth, however painful, though sometimes hard to say and difficult to hear, had to come out.

  Suddenly she was struck by the realization that this, surely, was how Gerda had felt, bearing the weight of the family history alone, determined to see that the heirs to the Bergstrom legacy should know more than just a partial truth about themselves and their origins. No matter how difficult those truths were for Sylvia to learn, she owed it to Gerda to read with an open heart, as accepting and nonjudgmental as the women who now sat around the circle, their faces illuminated by a single candle.

  And, finally, as the women around her shared their secrets, she admitted to herself what she was too proud to say aloud: She feared herself inadequate to the responsibilities Gerda demanded of her. She who had always prided herself on her strength now doubted the one quality that had always sustained her. B
ut Great-Aunt Lucinda had trusted her, even though Sylvia had been only a small child when she had been given the key to the hope chest. In her way, too, Gerda had trusted her, by having faith that a future descendant to whom she could confide her secrets would one day find the memoir. If Lucinda and Gerda both had found Sylvia a worthwhile heir, Sylvia would not fail them.

  Besides, she had no choice. There was no one else. For good or ill, these heirlooms belonged to the Bergstroms, and she was the last remaining.

  Autumn 1857—

  in which we have unexpected visitors

  Our first harvest season arrived, and though we would reap but a modest bounty, we were exceedingly proud of our first efforts in farming. The corn had done well, and by Hans’s estimation we would have plenty of hay and oats to see our stable of horses through the winter. My garden had thrived, and I worked long days putting up stores and selling what I could in town. I had an agreement with the owner of the general store Hans had first visited upon our arrival in Creek’s Crossing: He would display my wares in exchange for a share of the profits. He sometimes chose to take my wild raspberry jam instead of money, but that suited me fine.

  Anneke had not forgotten her original scheme to open a seamstress shop, and I believe she envied me my mercantile success, modest though it was. When we were in town together, I spied her gazing wistfully at the rows of storefronts; once she remarked in an offhand manner that extra income would permit Hans to obtain more horses without hurting our efforts to economize. Silently I agreed that any money Anneke might earn would not go to waste in our household, but I did not see how she could afford to bring in outside sewing when we had so much work to do already. As for opening a shop, Hans had neither the capital nor, I fear, the inclination to help his wife find employment outside the home. He never said so aloud, but I suspect he wanted every cent of his dream to be funded by his own efforts. My earnings were acceptable, since I was a spinster sister and ought to contribute to my keep. It was another matter entirely to send his own wife out to work.

  Jonathan and I discussed this, and he agreed that I would not be interfering too much if I tried, discreetly, to encourage my brother to put Anneke’s wishes ahead of his pride. Sometimes I would bring to Hans’s attention the other women of Creek’s Crossing who helped support their households:

  “Mrs. Barrows runs the inn on First Street,” said I.

  “Only because Mr. Barrows is a shiftless lout.”

  And another day: “I hear Miss Thatcher and Miss Bauer run the school exceptionally well.”

  “As soon as they get married, they’ll have their own children to look after.”

  And yet another occasion: “Mrs. Engle may expand her dress-making shop, or so I hear.”

  Too late I realized Mrs. Engle was the worst possible example I could have mentioned. Not only did Hans remark that it was a shame that Mr. Engle had died without leaving her better off, because a widow with three young children and a grown son should not have to work so hard, but he also pointed out that a town the size of Creek’s Crossing hardly needed yet another seamstress, now, did it, and wasn’t it fortunate that Anneke would not feel obligated to provide that service to the community?

  How fortunate, indeed.

  “Anneke should just tell Hans she wants to open her shop,” Jonathan told me.

  But that was not Anneke’s way. She demonstrated exceptional talent in subtle remarks and sidelong glances that conveyed deeper meaning than the words themselves contained, tools she used to bring Hans around to her way of thinking more successfully in other matters. I, as ungraceful in speech as I was in dancing and sewing and all other pursuits feminine (save cookery, in which I excelled), was the one for straightforward, blunt statements. But as I told Jonathan, Hans was as stubborn as his sister, and if he did not wish his wife to work in town, she would not.

  They had been married not even a year, and already this pattern, which was to last throughout their married life, was well established. Watching them, I wondered what sort of husband E. would have been to me. Would he have expected me to submit to him in everything, obey him in everything? I could not have borne that yoke, not even for love. This was what I told myself when I remembered E., and when I saw how happy Anneke and Hans were together, and Dorothea and Thomas.

  In the middle of harvesttime, an unfamiliar wagon came to Elm Creek Farm. I recognized the driver, a slight, sour-faced man with greasy blond hair and tobacco-stained teeth who worked odd jobs on the waterfront. Hans was in the fields, and the mistress of the house, embarrassed by her poor English, hid inside as always, so I greeted him.

  He looked me over suspiciously before speaking. “This the Bergstrom farm?”

  I assured him it was. “Do you have a delivery for us?”

  “I’m supposed to give this to the Bergstroms at Elm Creek Farm.”

  “I am Gerda Bergstrom, and this is Elm Creek Farm,” said I, with some impatience, because the large wooden crate in the wagon behind him had captured my interest.

  “That’s what I don’t understand.” He studied me with sullen belligerence. “I thought this here’s the L. place.”

  I had not heard the name of Mr. L. in so long that the remark caught me off guard. “Indeed, Elm Creek Farm did once belong to Mr. L.,” stammered I, “but it has since passed to my family.”

  “Passed how?”

  I was suddenly conscious of Hans’s absence. “Quite legally, I assure you. My brother has the deed, if you require proof.”

  “I’m only askin’ because . . .” He shrugged. “L. still has friends in these parts. They might not like it if they thought you ’uns took his farm out from under him.”

  “Certainly not,” said I primly. “Though I must say, they must not be especially good friends if they have not missed Mr. L. before now. If there’s nothing else—” I made as if to retrieve the large crate myself.

  “I’ll get it,” grumbled he, setting the reins aside and climbing down from his seat. With great effort, he lifted the crate from the wagon, but rather than carry it into the cabin, he left it on the ground beside the front door. I paid him and gave him my thanks, but without another word, he drove away, casting one sullen backward glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the forest.

  Anneke immediately joined me outside. “What did he want?”

  “Only to deliver this,” said I lightly, not wishing to worry her, and then excitement drove the surly man from my thoughts, for upon examining the crate, I discovered it had been sent from Baden-Baden. Anneke ran off to tell Hans, and they quickly returned, Hans bearing his tools. He brought the crate indoors and pried off the lid, and Anneke cried out with delight, for inside, tightly packed, were bolts of fabric—velvets and wools, even silks—as fine as anything I had ever seen in Father’s warehouse.

  There were letters, too, for all of us. Mother’s to Anneke welcomed her into the family and informed her the fabrics were a wedding gift. Father’s to Hans congratulated him on taking a bride and expressed hopes that Hans would be able to obtain a good price for the fabrics. Father’s letter to me cautioned me to be sure my younger brother invested the profits into Elm Creek Farm rather than squandering them unwisely. Mother’s to me was full of news of home; she provided the latest gossip on all of my acquaintances, except, of course, for E., who became the more conspicuous for his absence.

  Our siblings had written as well, and as I hungrily read their letters, Anneke knelt on the floor and withdrew the fabrics from the crate, delighting anew with each bolt. Suddenly she looked up at me, stricken. “Oh, my dear Gerda. I’m so sorry.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Your parents sent me all these nice things, but they sent you nothing.”

  I indicated the pages in my hands. “They sent me letters.”

  “Yes, of course, but . . .” She hesitated. “Don’t you feel slighted?”

  Until that moment, I had not. “Of course not,” said I, thinking a crate so large surely could have accommodated a
small book or two.

  Anneke forced a smile. “Likely when you marry, they will send an even finer gift.”

  Hans guffawed. “Likely they will, once they recover from their shock.”

  I poked Hans in the ribs as if we were children again and laughed with him, but Anneke merely shook her head at us, astounded and scandalized that we would treat my spinsterhood with such an inappropriate lack of shame.

  “This is really a gift to us all,” added Hans, in a nod to Anneke’s concern for my feelings. “With what we can earn from the fabric, I can buy another two horses, and next spring, I can build us a real house.”

  Anneke rewarded him with a smile, but she ran her hand lovingly over each bolt as she returned it to the crate, and I could not help thinking that she would prefer to keep the fabric for herself, to create clothing for the townsfolk of Creek’s Crossing in a shop of her own and piece quilts from the scraps.

  But I soon forgot Anneke’s thwarted ambitions as the most arduous labor of the harvest set in. By sharing work with Thomas, Jonathan, and other neighbors, Hans soon had our crops in, and they theirs. Elm Creek Farm had provided only enough to see us through the winter, and not a surplus to sell in town, as Hans had hoped, but at least we would not have to rely on the generosity of friends as we had the previous year.

  Creek’s Crossing was an industrious community, so our more experienced neighbors had fared even better than we neophytes on Elm Creek Farm. Everyone seemed content and satisfied, eagerly anticipating the Harvest Dance in mid-November, where, Dorothea said with a gentle smile, the women would wear their finest dresses and bring their tastiest recipes, which they would disparage until one would think they had worn rags and served slop, while the men would exaggerate the yield of their crops and the quality of their livestock until one was convinced the farmers of Creek’s Crossing alone could provide for the entire Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. I, too, looked forward to the Harvest Dance, for Jonathan had danced with me at the previous year’s celebration, and I was hopeful he would be my partner in even more dances this year.