Round Robin

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Sylvia, please. I was just upset about Matt and my mother. I didn’t mean—”

  “You meant every word, just as Matthew did when he spoke his piece.” Sylvia sighed, and the sound wrenched Sarah’s heart. “Well. This won’t do. Such unhappiness won’t do.” Her voice was bleak. “I’ll say good-night now. I’ve had enough of being a meddling old busybody for one day. Thank you for letting me know how you feel.”

  “But that’s not how I feel, not really,” Sarah said, but it was too late. Sylvia was already leaving the kitchen, her shoulders slumped, her footsteps slow.

  Sarah called after her, but the words caught in her throat, and only sobs came out. She clung to the kitchen counter, sick with remorse and shame.

  A moment later, a movement caught her eye. It was Andrew, standing in the doorway of the west sitting room. He gave her a long, steady look as he passed her on his way through the kitchen after Sylvia. He spoke not a word, but she could sense his profound disappointment in her.

  Never before in her life had she found herself so deserving of anyone’s censure. Never before had she been more aware of her own selfishness, her potential for cruelty. Never before had she been so alone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sylvia slept poorly. Andrew’s words had been kind, but they had not comforted her. “She’s just a young woman,” Andrew had said. “She loves you dearly. Don’t hold this one moment against her.”

  Sylvia promised him she wouldn’t, but how could she ever forget how Sarah had lashed out at her? How could they go on as if nothing had happened? This could be the end of everything, everything, not just the hopes for a reconciliation between Sarah and Carol, but Elm Creek Quilts, the new life and joy they had restored to the manor, all of it.

  Her dreams tormented her and shook her awake long before dawn.

  As she lay in bed, waiting for the early morning grogginess to leave her, she felt uneasiness stirring, expanding until dread and worry filled her. Slowly she realized that there was something she had to do that morning, something urgent, something regarding Sarah and Carol. But what was it? What was it? She felt as if she had gone into a room to fetch something, only to realize she had forgotten what she had come for.

  Sometimes retracing her steps helped her to remember. Yes. She would wake Sarah. As soon as Sylvia saw her, she would remember what it was that she must do. In the semidarkness, she sat up and groped for her glasses on the nightstand.

  Just as her fingertips touched the fine silver chain, a searing pain shot through her skull.

  She gasped.

  Her left hand was numb, the left side of her face was numb, but her head was on fire.

  This was wrong. The thoughts came slowly. Something was very wrong with her.

  She should lie down and wait for it go away.

  No. No. She couldn’t.

  Somehow she made herself sit upright. She tried to force her feet into her slippers, but she could not get her legs to move properly. She could see her slippers there on the floor beside her bed, and yet somehow she could not determine where they were. She tried to focus, but nothing would obey her, not her perception, not her limbs.

  Afraid now, and barefoot, she forced herself to stand. She fell twice on her way to the door. She fumbled with the knob, slamming her shoulder on the frame as the door finally opened into the hallway. The blow registered, but not the pain.

  Sarah, help me, she screamed, but no sound came out.

  Leaning against the wall, she shuffled down the hallway toward Sarah’s room. Right foot, left. Again, though she had no strength for it. Right foot. An eternity passed. Left foot.

  She was nearly blind from pain.

  “Sharuh,” she called out.

  Her mouth was frozen stiff. She took as deep a breath as she could. She would have one more chance. That, and no more.

  “Sharuh!”

  It was the haunted wail of a stranger. It could not have been her own voice.

  It was useless, useless. She could go no farther.

  Then, as if in slow motion, she saw two doors open, one on either side of the hall. Sarah and Carol stepped from their rooms. Slowly their heads turned her way. Their eyes went wide with horror.

  The last thing Sylvia saw as she collapsed was the mother and daughter running toward her.

  Then she fell into darkness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Agnes was already awake when Sarah called from the hospital at six o’clock in the morning. The poor girl was so upset she could hardly get the words out, but the dreadful news was all too clear: Sylvia had suffered a stroke. The doctors did not yet know how serious.

  “I’m coming,” Agnes told her. “I need to be there.”

  Sarah must have anticipated this. “Matt’s already on his way to pick you up.”

  Agnes hung up the phone, numb. They didn’t need her there, getting in the doctors’ way. If Sylvia was going to be fine, they would have asked Agnes to postpone her visit until the afternoon at least. This was their way of telling her she would be coming to the hospital to say good-bye.

  Agnes collected her appliqué patches, carefully folded the round robin center, and placed everything into her sewing box. Hospitals meant long waits, so she would take her quilting with her to keep her thoughts focused away from her grief.

  Life was just one extended series of partings. She could not bear many more. She supposed she would not have to bear many more.

  She put on a sweater and went to the living room, where she could see the driveway from a chair near the window. Was Sarah calling the other Elm Creek Quilters? Someone else should do it for her—Matt, perhaps, or Carol. Diane had made the calls for Agnes when Joe died, and Agnes had not been nearly as distraught then as Sarah sounded now. It wasn’t that Agnes hadn’t loved Joe; she had. But he had suffered so terribly for so many months before finally succumbing to cancer that his death was, in a sense, a relief, though she wouldn’t dream of telling her daughters that. And, too, no matter how much she had loved those who passed, every loss since Richard’s had been diminished in comparison. No other loss could compare to that enormous, overwhelming pain, that severing—but Sylvia’s passing would come close.

  Suddenly she remembered Andrew, and her heart went out to him. How would he bear this? He had admired Sylvia since he was a child, and had fallen in love with her as a young man. Agnes remembered a time so long ago when Richard had teased him after the two boys returned to Philadelphia following a long weekend at Elm Creek Manor.

  “Andrew here is sweet on my sister,” Richard told her, nudging Andrew.

  “Is that so?” Agnes asked. She had not met Richard’s family yet. Secretly she envied Andrew and wished Richard had invited her to come on the trip, too. “And how does she feel about you, Andrew?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He shrugged, disconsolate. “She’s married.”

  “You mean you like Sylvia?” She thought Richard had meant Claudia, the pretty one, the eldest.

  Richard grinned. “At least Sylvia’s closer to his age.”

  “Yes, but she’s married,” Agnes said, scandalized.

  “I didn’t tell her,” Andrew protested. “What kind of a fellow do you take me for?”

  Laughing, Richard patted him on the back and said, “We’ll have to find a pretty girl to keep his mind off my sister.”

  “I have a few friends who might be interested,” Agnes teased, and Andrew’s blush deepened.

  They were such good friends in those days, young and carefree, with all their days yet before them, or so it seemed. No wonder she had fallen in love with Richard. He was so handsome and confident and kind. She had never met anyone like him, not at the silly cotillions her parents forced her to attend, not at dancing school, not at any of the other society functions. The boys she met there, the boys her mother firmly steered her toward, were virtually interchangeable in their backgrounds, their educations, their interests—even their mannerisms seemed identically practiced and polished. But Ric
hard had a wild energy about him she had never sensed in anyone else. And to her amazement, she realized that he saw something unique in her, as well. He saw a part of her she had almost forgotten, a spirited girl with a mind of her own and the confidence to follow it wherever it led. For as long as Agnes could remember, her mother had labored to shape that girl into a carefully decorated, overrehearsed debutante—like her sisters, like the women her brothers would eventually marry. But her mother’s idea of what Agnes should be was imposed from without, not brought forth from within. Richard had seen through the façade, and she knew she would never be the same.

  Naturally her parents hated him. They pitied Andrew, the poor scholarship student who would be educated beyond his station and relegated to a life as a tutor to rich men’s sons, but they despised Richard. Not that he was anything but respectful to them during those few times they were together. In fact, his manners were impeccable—which incensed her parents all the more, and delighted Agnes. Oh, but she would have loved him even if he had not been forbidden. Something in her soul recognized his, and they both knew from the moment they met that, somehow, they completed each other.

  A red pickup truck pulled into the driveway, drawing Agnes from her reverie. She didn’t wait for Matt to come to the door, but met him halfway up the path. Matt’s expression was grim as he helped her into the truck.

  “Is there any change?” she asked when he came around the other side and took his own seat.

  “Nothing yet.”

  Her hopes wavered, but she forced confidence into her voice for his sake. “Sylvia’s a fighter. If anyone can pull through this, she can. She will.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  A roughness in his voice made her look at him. For the first time she noticed that his eyes were red.

  When they reached the hospital, they found Sarah and Carol in the waiting room. Sarah was staring straight ahead and crying without making a sound, so stricken that Agnes was frightened for her. Carol was by her side, speaking to her in a low voice. Once Sarah nodded slowly, but otherwise she seemed oblivious to her surroundings.

  Agnes and Matt joined them, and not long afterward the other Elm Creek Quilters began to arrive in pairs and alone. Frequently, Carol would approach the reception desk and ask about Sylvia, then return to the group, shaking her head.

  “When can we see her?” Agnes asked.

  “Not until she’s stable. Or—” Carol’s voice broke off. She tilted her head toward her daughter, indicating that she did not want to say anything about Sylvia’s worsening condition in front of Sarah. Sarah was still staring straight ahead, unaware. She had stretched out the hem of her T-shirt and was twisting it into a rope.

  Agnes rose, glancing toward the emergency room doors, just beyond the reception desk. She had seen how the paramedics hit that large red button on the wall to make the doors swing open. If she summoned up her confidence, perhaps no one would challenge her if she walked through them. But what good would sneaking in to see Sylvia do? The last they had heard, Sylvia was unconscious. She would not know that Agnes was there. But if Agnes held her hand and whispered to her, perhaps something would reach her. Perhaps she would be comforted.

  If Sylvia were awake and alert, she wouldn’t want anyone to see her in such a state, confined to a bed, doctors and nurses fussing and scolding, tubes going every which way. She’d order her friends out of the room and not let them return until she was properly dressed and standing on her own two feet. Agnes almost smiled at the thought. As long as Agnes had known her, Sylvia had possessed a regal, almost imperious air, though it had softened over the years.

  When Agnes first came to Elm Creek Manor, though, Sylvia had played the lady of the manor indeed.

  Agnes was fifteen then; she had known Richard for only a few months, and she liked him more than any other boy she had ever met. Her parents’ coldness toward him hurt her deeply, and she was determined to change their minds.

  Every Christmas the Chevaliers threw an enormous ball, the most eagerly anticipated social event of the year in Philadelphia and beyond. Anyone who was anyone came—with the exception of a few “muckraking newspapermen” who published unflattering articles in the newspapers they owned, editorials about Mrs. Chevalier’s father, the former senator, and her brothers, judges and senators all, any one of whom could become president one day. In hindsight Agnes realized she had grown up surrounded by wealth and power, but at the time, occasions such as the Yuletide Ball were merely parties, with pretty ladies and handsome gentlemen, beautiful music, delicious food—and the opportunity to wear a lovely gown as she danced with Richard.

  She would ask her mother to permit Richard to attend as her guest. He would charm everyone there, she was certain of it. He had such an easy way with people, with none of her own stammering bashfulness. His secret was that he was genuinely interested in whatever his companion of the moment had to say. It was no act with him. He was fascinated with the world and everything in it. Any chance to meet someone he had never met or to try something he had never tried delighted him. Surely her parents would come to like him as much as everyone else did if they would just give themselves that chance.

  “Absolutely not,” her mother declared. “Agnes, how could you ask such a thing? It’s simply unthinkable.”

  “But why? You’ve always allowed me to invite friends before.”

  “Don’t be stupid. This is the Yuletide Ball. We can’t have a stable boy running around smelling of horses’ dirt.”

  “He’s the heir to Bergstrom Thoroughbreds, and his family is as good as any in Philadelphia. But even if he were a stable boy, I would still want him to come. He is a very dear friend.”

  “Indeed,” her mother said dryly. “You won’t want for friends at the ball. The Johnson sisters are coming, and young Mr. Cameron will be there.”

  “Oh, how delightful. The young Mr. Cameron.” Agnes plopped down on an overstuffed sofa in a most ungraceful fashion. “Will he spend the entire evening talking about his damned greyhounds, like he did last year?”

  “Agnes,” her mother gasped, shocked.

  It took Agnes a moment to realize her mistake.

  Her mother’s face was white with fury except for two scarlet blotches in the hollows of her cheeks. “Where did you learn such a filthy word?”

  From Father, Agnes almost said, but she managed to hold it back.

  “I know you didn’t learn that at Miss Sebastian’s Academy. Did your noble stable boy teach it to you?”

  Agnes’s anger got the better of her. “Yes, he did,” she snapped. “That, and a great many other things.”

  Her mother nearly fainted. Too late, Agnes realized her second mistake. She had meant that Richard had taught her other curse words—which wasn’t exactly true—but her mother had understood her meaning quite differently.

  “You are such a trial to me,” her mother said, seizing her by the arm and marching her from the drawing room. It did not occur to Agnes to resist. “You’ll stay in your room until you remember how a young lady should behave.”

  Mrs. Chevalier had to let Agnes out to go to school, but she was watched so carefully that she couldn’t run off to meet Richard and Andrew all that week. The following Monday as she left Miss Sebastian’s, she spotted Richard just outside the tall wrought iron gates. Her heart quickened with nervous pleasure as she went to meet him, hoping her father’s driver was not paying attention.

  “You haven’t come to see us all week,” Richard said, his brow furrowed in concern. “What’s the matter, don’t you like that café anymore? Or did Andrew say something to offend you?”

  Agnes laughed at thought of Andrew’s saying anything offensive—but she was thrilled. Richard had missed her. She had feared he had forgotten her.

  “I wanted to come. There have been—” She hesitated, wanting to protect him. “Some complications.”

  Richard’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t ask for more details, which was a relief. As angry as she was with
her parents, she loved them and was loyal to them. She couldn’t bear to disparage them before anyone, especially Richard.

  “Any chance these complications will sort themselves out soon?”

  Agnes tried to smile. “Anything is possible.”

  He nodded, then looked past her to the waiting car. Her father’s driver had opened the door to the back seat and stood with his hand upon it, waiting.

  “Andrew and I will be at the café as usual,” Richard finally said. “Come see us when you can.” He gave her one quick smile before turning and walking away.

  Her heart sank to see him go.

  Two weeks went by, and not once could she slip away. Richard met her once again outside Miss Sebastian’s, but only once. After that, she had no word from him. Her hopes dwindled as the Christmas holidays approached. Both her school and the boys’ school would be closed for a month, and Richard would be going home to Elm Creek Manor. She knew his travel schedule—which train he would take, what time he planned to leave—and as that hour approached, she realized what she had to do.

  Swiftly she packed a suitcase and left a note for her parents with the butler. Then she hired a cab to take her to the train station. She bought a ticket and hurried as fast as she could to the platform, where she searched frantically for Richard.

  Then she spotted him in the center of a knot of passengers waiting to board the train.

  “Richard,” she called to him. Her voice was swallowed up in the noise of the station. Frantic, she screamed his name. He jerked his head in her direction, his face lighting up with recognition and astonishment.

  He left his place in line and made his way through the crowd to her side. “Agnes, what are you doing here?” He glanced at her suitcase, but said nothing about it.

  “May I come home with you for the holidays?”