Anneke tore herself away from him. “I am neither that stupid nor that careless.”
I knew Hans would not care for her disrespectful tone, but it was too late to warn her.
“Be that as it may,” said my brother sternly, “we cannot take that risk. I forbid you to speak to Mr. Pearson as long as Elm Creek Farm is a station on the Underground Railroad.”
Anneke stared at him. “You cannot mean that.”
“I do.” Hans returned to his chair, his back to us.
“And how am I to avoid speaking to him when I resume working for Mrs. Engle? He is her son, you recall, and he does upon occasion visit his mother at her shop.”
“Then you will not resume working for her,” said Hans tiredly. “You have too much to do as it is, with the baby.”
Anneke stood motionless, the baby in her arms. Her mouth opened and shut without a sound, as if she longed to argue but was too astounded by his demands to muster up a retort.
Hans was oblivious to her fury. “When we no longer harbor runaways, our lives will return to normal. Then, if you still wish to, you may resume working for Mrs. Engle without fear.”
“How long will that be?”
“I do not know. Until the crisis passes. Until we are no longer needed.”
Without a word, Anneke left us, the baby in her arms. I heard her steps light on the stairs and on the floor above as she went to the room she and Hans shared. “You have angered her more than you realize,” said I. “Do you think forbidding her to work was necessary?”
“I thought you would have been the first to support my decision,” said Hans, surprised. “Do you truly think allowing her near Mr. Pearson and Mrs. Engle is wise?”
Of course I did not, and I could not deny I was relieved Anneke would be protected from their influence. Still, the way Hans had ordered Anneke to accept his decision made me uneasy. He did not treat her as an equal, but as an inferior subject to his will. I did not doubt he loved her, and that he was a good man with a good heart—and yet he wielded his authority as the man of the household in a way that made me wonder what he would do or say if I or Anneke challenged him. Unlike Anneke, I would not be able to defer to him if his choices went against my conscience or good judgment.
Troubled, I excused myself, and after washing and changing into clean clothes, I went to see Joanna. She was sleeping when I entered, her tiny son nestled beside her beneath the Shoo-Fly quilt I had made, still swaddled in his own quilt. Joanna had told me the pattern was called Feathered Star, and that she had chosen it because often she had used the North Star as her guide out of the land of slavery. “When he old enough to understand,” said she, “I show him this quilt and tell him how his mama brought him North to freedom.”
Remembering the pride and love that had shone in Joanna’s eyes as she had spoken of the babe within her womb, I stroked his head and marveled at the perfection of his features; I touched his little hand and felt my heart swell with delight as he seized my fingertip in a strong grip. This beautiful boy was a precious child of God, but if Josiah Chester of Wentworth County, Virginia, could see him, he would think only of his worth on the auction block. If he were to feel the baby’s grip, he would think with smug satisfaction of how strong a field hand he would one day become.
Joanna stirred in her sleep, and I placed my free hand upon her brow, stroking her hair to soothe her, watching her as she slumbered. The scar from the burn of the flatiron would forever mar her face, but nothing could diminish the beauty of her spirit. She had shown more courage than any of her protectors, not only in fleeing her captors but also in finding the strength to endure sickness, fear, and unimaginable danger to win the freedom that should have been her right; and in finding the strength to love the child she had not wanted, the child who had come from herself but also from her greatest enemy.
Joanna slept peacefully now, sheltered at Elm Creek Farm, knowing no one could tear her child from her arms, confident that she would soon resume her journey north to Canada and freedom. As I looked upon them, I knew I could never consent to abandoning the good work we had begun by responding to Joanna’s knock upon our door. Not only for Joanna and her child, but for every woman who had been raped by a man who dared call himself her owner, for every mother who had ever wept as her child was sold away from her, for every son who had been powerless to defend his mothers and sisters and friends who cried out in pain and grief—for them we must continue, despite the risks. What were our risks compared to those of the people who sought shelter with us? Let slave catchers suspect and challenge us. Let cowards burn our cabin in the night. They would not deter me from doing my small part to forward the cause of freedom and equality for all in this new land.
I had left the stratified society of the Old World behind only to find it, steadily and surely, being reproduced in the New. This was not the America I had envisioned as I crossed the sea; this was not the America I had learned to love as we Bergstroms tilled the soil and laid the cornerstone of our home. That America had not been waiting for us, so we must build it with the sweat of our brow and the work of our hearts, as surely as we had built Elm Creek Farm.
“Why can’t you tell me where we’re going?” asked Sylvia, clutching her purse in her lap and hoping she wasn’t overdressed in her beige striped suit.
Summer kept her eyes on the road. “It’s a surprise.”
“Hmph. It will be a fine surprise indeed for our friends if we aren’t back in time for our business meeting.”
She glimpsed the smile Summer tried to hide, and couldn’t help allowing some of her grouchiness to ease—but only some. A cloud of foreboding had hung over her thoughts ever since she had put down Gerda’s memoir the previous day, and the agenda for the Elm Creek Quilters’ upcoming business meeting only worsened her gloom. Granted, she didn’t like to dwell on the bittersweet conclusion of the camp season, but she usually enjoyed helping plan the annual end-of-the-season party, where the faculty, staff, and their families would celebrate another successful year. This year, though, her mood was so melancholy she almost wished she could miss the whole affair rather than risk ruining everyone else’s fun, but she was supposed to be the hostess, so she couldn’t very well dodge her responsibilities.
She eyed Summer suspiciously. Maybe her friends suspected her misgivings and had contrived this little jaunt with Summer to keep tabs on her. “I have no intention of avoiding the meeting,” she told Summer firmly, just in case. But Summer merely laughed and assured her she wouldn’t miss it either, and she’d be sure to have them back in plenty of time.
The car turned onto a residential street near the downtown, into a neighborhood populated by the families of Waterford College faculty and administrators. “Are we going to Diane’s house?” asked Sylvia, admiring, despite her mood, the changing colors of the maples and oaks lining the streets.
“No.” Just then Summer pulled into the driveway of a neat white colonial house with black shutters. She shut down the engine and turned to her passenger. “We’re here.”
“Where’s here?” demanded Sylvia, but Summer merely bounded out of the car and came around to open Sylvia’s door. Sylvia grumbled under her breath as they walked up the stone path to the front door, but Summer’s mystifying behavior had piqued her curiosity, and as her young friend rang the doorbell, she waited eagerly to see who would answer.
A woman in her middle years opened the door. “Yes?”
“Kathleen Barrett?” said Summer. “I’m Summer Sullivan, and this is my friend Sylvia Compson.”
Kathleen smiled. “Oh yes. You wanted to see Mother.” She opened the door wider and beckoned them inside. “She’s been looking forward to your visit ever since you phoned. She doesn’t get many callers. She’s a little tired today, but when I asked her if I should postpone your meeting, she absolutely forbade it.”
“We won’t keep her long,” promised Summer.
Kathleen nodded and led them into the living room, where a woman who looked to be in he
r late eighties sat in an armchair, an antique Dove in the Window quilt pieced from indigoes and turkey-red cottons draped over her lap. Her daughter introduced the visitors to her mother, Rosemary Cullen, then disappeared into an adjoining room.
“What a lovely quilt,” exclaimed Sylvia, taking a seat beside Rosemary. “May I have a closer look?”
Rosemary beamed and held out the quilt to her. As Sylvia and Summer admired it, Kathleen returned with a tray of tea and cookies. After the women had served themselves, Summer at last revealed the purpose behind their visit. “Sylvia,” said Summer, “Rosemary is the great-granddaughter of Dorothea Nelson.”
Sylvia gasped. “I don’t believe it.” She looked from Summer to Rosemary to Kathleen and was delighted to find them all smiling and nodding. Sylvia clasped Rosemary’s hand. “My word, dear. I feel like we’re old friends.”
“We ought to be,” said Rosemary. “If what your young friend here says is true, my great-grandmother and your great-grandfather’s sister were very close.”
“They were the best of friends,” declared Sylvia. “Gerda wrote of Dorothea quite often in her journal. Dorothea taught Gerda how to quilt—although Gerda was a reluctant student.” Suddenly she gasped and clasped her hands together. “My goodness—I suppose this means Dorothea and Thomas had children. They had none at the time of the memoir.”
“My grandmother was born shortly after the Civil War began,” said Rosemary. She gestured to a sepia-toned portrait hanging above the fireplace. “She’s the baby, there, sitting on her mother’s lap. The man is my great-grandfather.”
Returning the quilt to Rosemary, Sylvia rose and drew closer to the portrait. “This is Dorothea?” The woman looked kind but ordinary. From Gerda’s description, she had expected Dorothea to be beautiful, her serenity and benevolence evident in every line of her features. Suddenly it occurred to her that she had no basis for that assumption. Gerda had never described Dorothea’s appearance, only her spirit.
Sylvia’s gaze shifted to the man, a slight, scholarly fellow who nonetheless had an air of steadiness and strength. “Now Thomas, on the other hand, looks exactly as I imagined him.”
“We’re fortunate to have any picture of them together,” said Kathleen. “Not only because of their era, but also because Thomas died a few years after this picture was taken.”
“He fought with the Forty-ninth Pennsylvania in the Civil War,” said her mother. “He was killed in the Spotsylvania campaign, in May 1864.”
“Oh, dear.” Sylvia felt a pang, as if she had just heard of the recent passing of a dear friend. “I know it happened so long ago, but my heart goes out to Dorothea. From what Gerda writes, she and Thomas seemed devoted to each other.”
“They were,” agreed Rosemary. She stroked the fragile quilt on her lap gently but lovingly, and her gaze grew distant. “This was one of the quilts Dorothea pieced as a young wife. She sent it off with her husband when he went to war. After he died, the quilt was not among the possessions returned to the family. Dorothea assumed it had been lost.”
“But it wasn’t?” prompted Summer when the older woman’s voice trailed off.
Rosemary roused herself. “No, indeed. It was stolen. Perhaps ‘found’ is a better word. Thomas lost it somehow—in the chaos as they retreated from the enemy, or it was taken from him after he died—we’ll never know. But somehow it ended up in the hands of a Confederate soldier.” She shrugged. “I can’t blame him for keeping it once he had it. It is a lovely quilt, and it must have seemed a godsend to a weary soldier on a cold night.
“The soldier’s conscience must have plagued him, though, for several years after the war ended, he sent the quilt back to Dorothea with a letter. He wrote that his wife was a quilter, and knowing how much love she put into every stitch of her creations, he couldn’t rest until this quilt was returned to its proper owners.”
“I think his wife must have made him write that,” said Kathleen.
Rosemary smiled. “Be that as it may, Dorothea had her husband’s quilt restored to her, and it has remained in our family ever since.”
Summer looked intrigued. “How in the world did he know where to send it?”
“Well, I’ll show you.” Carefully Rosemary turned the quilt over to reveal a small section of embroidery. “Dorothea put her name right here.”
“‘Made by Dorothea Granger Nelson for her beloved husband, Thomas Nelson, in our sixth year of marriage, 1858. Two Bears Farm, Creek’s Crossing, Pennsylvania.’” Sylvia sat back in her chair, pleased. “At last, someone who knew how to properly label her quilts.”
“Too bad she didn’t pass that lesson along to Gerda and Anneke when she taught them to quilt,” said Summer.
Sylvia was about to agree when she saw that Rosemary’s eyes had taken on a faraway look again. “My great-grandparents were true sweethearts. He wrote to her often from the front lines, very affectionate letters, and she saved them all.” She shook her head. “The poor man. He was not meant to be a soldier. He was too gentle and good to ever become accustomed to killing his fellow man. But he believed completely in the Union cause, and he was determined to fight for what he believed in. That much is evident from his letters.”
“I would like very much to read them,” said Sylvia, without thinking, and hastily added, “That is, unless you wish to keep them within the family.”
Rosemary looked uncertain. “Well, I hate to let them out of the house. They’re so fragile, you see. But I think I might be willing to share them with you in exchange for a peek at that memoir of your great-great-aunt’s.”
Sylvia hesitated, unwilling to promise to divulge Gerda’s secrets before she knew what they were. Before their hostesses could have detected her discomfort, Summer quickly spoke up to cover for her. “What about Dorothea’s brother, Jonathan Granger?” she asked. “Do you know what became of him?”
“Oh yes, Jonathan.” Rosemary pursed her lips and thought. “I’m not certain whether he survived the war. He and Thomas weren’t in the same unit, so Thomas had no news to pass along about him. Thomas mentioned Jonathan only to ask Dorothea if she had heard from him, and to say he was keeping Jonathan in his prayers.”
“Jonathan became a soldier?” asked Summer in disbelief.
“He joined the army as a doctor, not to fight,” explained Kathleen. “From what Thomas says, Jonathan was as passionate about the Union cause as he was, but it was his devotion to medicine that inspired him to enlist. Doctors were needed desperately, and so he went.”
“I understand Jonathan and his wife had children,” said Sylvia.
“Oh my, yes,” said Rosemary. “Four or five, I believe. Anytime I hear the last name Granger, I always wonder if we’re related somehow.”
Sylvia nodded, because it would have been rude to scold her hostess for not maintaining better ties with her distant relations. Besides, Sylvia could hardly criticize Rosemary for losing track of a third cousin twice removed when Sylvia herself had allowed fifty years to pass without speaking to her own sister.
Instead Sylvia took a deep breath. “Did Thomas ever mention the Bergstrom family in his letters?” She prepared herself for a disappointing reply.
“I don’t recall offhand,” said Rosemary apologetically. “I’d have to go back and read them again. He did mention neighbors and friends occasionally, but since the names were unfamiliar, I always skimmed right past them.”
“Dorothea would be the one to have news about the Bergstroms,” said Summer to Sylvia. “What we really need are Dorothea’s letters to Thomas.”
Kathleen shook her head, regretful. “I’m afraid we don’t have any of those. I’m sure Dorothea wrote to her husband at least as often as he wrote to her, but his letters were the ones to survive, since they were mailed to Dorothea at home. Dorothea’s letters could easily have been lost or destroyed on the battlefield.”
Sylvia nodded glumly, thinking of the precious information lost forever. “I suppose we ought to be grateful we have any of the
se fragile paper records to remember our ancestors by. My memoir and your letters aren’t nearly as durable as most monuments to the past. It’s quite a responsibility now that they belong to us, isn’t it, to make sure they endure so that we can pass them on to future generations?”
Rosemary and Kathleen exchanged a look. “Did you hear that, Kathleen?” inquired Rosemary.
“I heard it,” said Kathleen, with a laugh. To her guests she added, “You’ve stumbled upon a little family disagreement.”
“In my will, I’ve left the letters and the Dove in the Window quilt to Kathleen. She’s my eldest.” Rosemary patted Kathleen’s hand. “It’s just as you said, Sylvia: I want to pass these treasures on to future generations, and I know Kathleen will be a faithful steward until it comes her time to pass them on.” She leaned forward and confided, “Kathleen thinks I should leave them to a museum. Can you believe it? The very idea. Giving our family heirlooms to strangers.”
“A museum would know how to properly care for them,” said Kathleen. “Part of good stewardship is ensuring that something lasts so that it may be passed down. Those papers are getting more fragile every day, Mother, and the quilt is, too.”
Sylvia decided it would be prudent to stay out of the argument, but Summer said, “I’ll bet Waterford College would love to have them.”
“That’s exactly what I suggested.” Kathleen turned to her mother. “Think of what the students could learn from Thomas’s letters. And think of your great-grandparents’ contribution to history and to the cause of freedom. Shouldn’t some part of their memory be preserved, and in a way that would teach others about all they did?”
“You just want to brag about your family,” admonished Rosemary. “Well, I think Dorothea and Thomas would be the last people to brag about themselves.”
“I don’t want to brag, but I am proud of them.” To Sylvia and Summer, Kathleen explained, “They ran a station on the Underground Railroad.”
“Yes, I know,” said Sylvia, delighted to have another detail of Gerda’s journal confirmed. “Gerda and my great-grandparents operated one, too, on Elm Creek Farm. The Nelsons and the Bergstroms each knew about the other family’s station, but they didn’t speak about it openly.”
Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt Page 24