The Wedding Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Sarah knew that from Gerda’s memoir. “And when the Civil War began, Abel joined an African-American regiment?”

  “Not immediately, of course,” said Patricia. “African-Americans weren’t allowed to form regiments until well into the war. Abel Wright joined the Sixth United States Colored Troops at Camp William Penn in Philadelphia in July 1863, and he served honorably until he lost an arm fighting in the trenches at Petersburg about a year later.”

  “Oh, how terrible,” exclaimed Sylvia.

  Patricia nodded. “If not for his wound, however, he might not have become a writer. He gave a famous speech at Howard University in which he explained how he had reconciled himself to the loss of his arm, not only because it was in service to his country and helped prove the valor of men of color, but also because ‘in being obliged to set down the rifle,’ he ‘took up the pen.’ You really should read his books if you’re at all interested in local history. They’re out of print now, of course, but the Rare Books Room at the Waterford College Library has a copy of each.”

  Sarah had a sudden thought. “Does he mention the Bergstroms in his books?”

  Sylvia let out a soft gasp, as if that had not occurred to her, while Patricia and Leslie exchanged a startled glance. “I honestly don’t recall,” said Leslie. “He mentions many friends and neighbors, and the occasional enemy, but I wasn’t looking for references to the Bergstrom family when I read his books, so I wouldn’t have taken note of it.”

  “It would be easy enough to find out if he did,” said Agnes. “I’m good friends with the librarian in charge of the collection, and I’ve visited the Rare Books Room quite often. I know exactly where to look for Abel Wright’s books.”

  “I’d love to hear the results of your research, but we have another task we’d like you to take on first,” said Patricia, looking from one Elm Creek Quilter to another. “We hope you’ll be willing to help us in what is turning out to be—well, I don’t think it’s overstating things to call this our most desperate hour.”

  “None of us wants to see Union Hall torn down,” said Sylvia staunchly as she motioned for Agnes to help her fold the appliqué sampler, “and we’re not very fond of the man who wants to do it. We’ll help however we can.”

  As Sarah, Maggie, and Agnes chimed in their agreement, Patricia breathed a sigh of relief and Leslie smiled, blinking away tears.

  “What do you need?” asked Sarah. “Helpers for your next workday?”

  “A raffle quilt?” asked Agnes. “That’s always a good fundraiser.”

  “We’ll gladly take you up on both of those offers,” said Leslie. “But more than anything, we need you to help us prove that Union Hall is worth saving, and we think these quilts are the key.”

  “Sprucing up the place won’t be enough to protect us from the zoning commission,” Patricia added. “Not if they go along with Mr. Krolich and recommend that the city council exercise their power of eminent domain. A building’s age isn’t enough to grant it special protection. We need to prove that Union Hall bears unique historical significance. If we can find evidence that it does, Union Hall could be added to the National Register of Historic Places, and that would bring us tremendous benefits—not only protection from the wrecking ball, but tax breaks, so we could afford to maintain the building properly.”

  “And we could apply for grants so that we could finally turn Union Hall into a museum,” said Leslie with longing. “That’s been a part of the mission of the Waterford Historical Society since its inception. It would be so wonderful to finally do it.”

  Sarah needed no time to reflect upon the value of the goal—of course it would be better to preserve Union Hall as a museum rather than destroy it and put up yet another score of condos in its place. But if the building’s age alone wasn’t evidence enough of its historic value, what could be? “You said you believe these quilts are the key,” she said. “How would they prove that Union Hall is historically significant?”

  Patricia hesitated. “We don’t know. That’s what we hope you’ll discover.”

  Leslie gestured to the two beautiful antique quilts, one in Maggie’s arms and the other in Sylvia’s. “You agree that these are two unique and remarkable quilts, don’t you?” The Elm Creek Quilters nodded. “Well, the first sampler was completed in this very building during the Civil War in the same year Union Hall was built, and it was donated to the historical society. The other quilt was appliquéd by a renowned local abolitionist and suffragist, and quilted by the wife of the Elm Creek Valley’s most revered author of the day—and it, too, found its way into our collection. This can’t be mere coincidence.”

  “Somewhere in the intertwined histories of the Bergstrom, Wright, and Nelson families is the telling detail that will prove the historical significance of Union Hall,” said Patricia emphatically. “I don’t know what that detail is, but I know it’s out there. We just have to find it.”

  “We don’t have much time,” said Agnes, frowning worriedly. “Of course we’ll help you. You can count on us. Whatever evidence we need, we’ll find it before that dreadful man can knock a single chip out of a single stone of the foundation of this wonderful building.”

  Sylvia raised her eyebrows at her sister-in-law in what was, perhaps, a mild rebuke for promising more than anyone could guarantee, but she quickly concealed any concern she might have felt as Patricia and Leslie thanked them profusely for joining their cause.

  The Elm Creek Quilters were eager to get to work, but first they carried the Loyal Union Sampler outside, placed a clean cloth over the portico railing, and gently draped the quilt over it so Maggie could take snapshots of the entire quilt and each individual block. She planned to research the unfamiliar blocks to see if their names or origins offered any clue about the quilt’s history. Afterward, Agnes accompanied Leslie back inside to continue taking inventory, but the other Elm Creek Quilters returned to the manor, where Sylvia went straight upstairs to the library for Jeremy’s book. After finding Matt in the orchard with the twins and telling him about the day’s astonishing discoveries, Sarah went to her room to call Jeremy.

  Anna answered the phone, and in a strained and hushed voice she explained that Jeremy was spending a rare Sunday afternoon working in the yard and watching movies with Gina instead of toiling away in his office. The tenure committee had met, they had presented their case to the senior faculty, and their votes were due the next day. There was nothing more Jeremy could do to prove himself. Even those faculty members who had not yet turned in their ballots had already made up their minds. Now all he could do was wait and try to rest.

  Sarah didn’t want to bother him, so she told Anna to tell him that everyone at Elm Creek Manor was pulling for him, and that when he had a chance, she’d like to ask him a few questions about Abel Wright. Anna immediately brightened. “That’ll make his day,” she said. “He loves it when friends show an interest in his research. I’ll bring him to the phone.”

  “No, it can wait,” said Sarah, although it couldn’t wait long. “Let him enjoy a few days off. I’ll talk to him about Abel Wright when he calls to share the good news about the vote.”

  “I hope it’s good news,” said Anna fervently. “But either way, he’ll call you later this week.”

  For the next few days, Sarah waited for the phone to ring and for Sylvia to finish reading Abel Wright’s biography so she could borrow it. While she waited, she reread Gerda’s memoir to refresh her memory about the Bergstrom family’s first years in Creek’s Crossing. Meanwhile, Gretchen and a few other volunteers resumed taking inventory of the remaining boxes and cartons in the east gallery, but they found nothing as remarkable as the quilts, and nothing to prove that Union Hall had made a significant contribution to local history. Agnes joined Gretchen for a few hours each day, but she spent most of her time calling council members to plead the historical society’s case, researching Krolich’s previous dealings with the city online, and poring over the minutes from previous city council meeting
s to see if she could spot any trends, signs of unsavory dealings, or hints that particular members might be sympathetic or hostile to their cause. Maggie concentrated on the Loyal Union Sampler. She searched through the pattern reference books in the manor’s library and in her friends’ personal collections, but found less than a third of the Loyal Union Sampler blocks in published sources. That she tracked down so few suggested—astonishingly—that the unidentified blocks were original to that quilt. The names of those that she did discover—Emancipation, Fort Sumter, Gettysburg, the states of the Union—revealed a distinct pattern that mirrored the quilt’s title.

  On Wednesday, Jeremy e-mailed Sarah with the long-awaited news that the faculty vote had gone as he had hoped rather than as he had expected: His colleagues in the College of Arts and Letters had apparently given more credit to his record of scholarship and teaching than to his department chair’s review, for they had voted to grant him tenure. “I don’t know this officially, of course,” he added. “The whole process is shrouded in secrecy. In these situations, though, the college grapevine is rarely wrong.”

  Sarah would have been jubilant in Jeremy’s place, but he sounded only guardedly optimistic. The vote was merely advisory, he explained; although the dean very rarely countermanded the faculty vote, he could still decline to forward Jeremy’s case to the provost. In a situation where the tenure committee’s opinion strongly disagreed with the faculty vote, the dean might prefer to err on the side of caution and save his recommendations for junior faculty who received unanimous praise—especially considering that at the end of the day, he would have to face the chair of the tenure committee across the dinner table. But at least Jeremy wasn’t out of it yet.

  “Anna said you’re interested in Abel Wright,” he wrote. “I heartily encourage you to pick up my book (or borrow Sylvia’s copy), and I’d also be happy to answer any questions you might have. E-mail or call, whatever works best.”

  Sarah decided that e-mail would probably be more convenient for him, so she clicked “Reply” and explained the plight of Union Hall and the historical society’s urgent effort to save it. She described the quilts and asked him if he could shed any light on them, or offer any other leads that might help them find the elusive evidence they sought. “The city council is expected to decide whether to exercise their right of eminent domain within the next few weeks,” she concluded, “so please get back to me as soon as you can.”

  Rather than sit in front of the computer impatiently awaiting a response, she forced herself to go about the ordinary business of her day—which on that day meant maintaining the Elm Creek Quilts Web site, responding to campers’ inquiries, paying bills, and her least favorite perennial task, editing the previous year’s help-wanted ad to begin the process of recruiting a new chef. Later, the twins came home from school, the manor’s permanent residents ate supper together, and as evening fell, Caroline settled down to write an extra-credit report for her earth sciences class while Matt took James to his Cub Scout meeting. Sarah was fixing herself a cup of tea and considering how to pass her solitary evening when, to her surprise, she glanced out the window over the sink and spotted the headlights of a car crossing the bridge over Elm Creek. Soon thereafter she heard someone enter through the back door, and then, astonishingly sprightly for eighty-three, Agnes hurried into the kitchen carrying a manila envelope, her hound’s-tooth wool coat unbuttoned as if she had been in too much of a hurry to button it.

  “You’ll never guess what my friend the librarian found,” she cried as Diane entered at a far more leisurely pace, set her purse on the table, and draped her long leather coat over the back of a chair with an air of patient resignation. Agnes relied upon Diane for rides around Waterford, and she would never impose after dark unless she thought it was very important.

  “Tell me,” said Sarah as the kettle began to whistle shrilly. “Tea?”

  “Nothing for me, dear, thank you,” said Agnes breathlessly, taking a few pieces of paper from the envelope and laying them out side by side on the table.

  “Decaf green tea with lemon and honey for me,” said Diane. “If you have it. Agnes, let’s at least get you out of that coat.”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course.” Agnes shrugged out of it and hung it over the back of a chair. “Sarah, is Sylvia awake? She can’t miss this.”

  “She went to bed an hour ago. Should I wake her?”

  “No, no.” Agnes seated herself, a trifle disappointed, and motioned for Sarah to come over. “It can wait until morning.”

  “Then why couldn’t it have waited until morning for us?” protested Diane.

  “Oh, hush,” chided Agnes. “You weren’t doing anything anyway.”

  Diane shrugged as if that were true but beside the point. Curious, Sarah carried two steaming cups of tea to the table, with lemon and honey for Diane, milk for herself, and a spoon for each of them. “So what did your friend find?” she asked, taking the seat beside Agnes. “This is the friend who works at the Rare Books Room, right?”

  “Of course,” said Diane, stirring honey into her tea. “How many librarian friends do you think she has?”

  “One can never have too many librarian friends.” Agnes nudged the papers closer to Sarah. “A few days ago I told her about our investigation, and this afternoon, when I stopped by the Rare Books Room to read more of Abel Wright’s first book—you can’t check out books from the Rare Books Room, you know, you have to read them right there. Some books in their collection are so fragile you have to wear white cotton gloves when you handle them, and some you’re not allowed to touch at all. A librarian will turn the pages for you when—”

  “Agnes,” Diane interrupted mildly. “My TiVo is paused and waiting for me back at home. The point?”

  “Oh, yes, of course.” Agnes tapped one of the black-and-white pages, which appeared to be a photocopy of a page from an old magazine. “I told my friend about our quest, and she said the name ‘Loyal Union Sampler’ sounded familiar. She searched the archives, and lo and behold, she discovered this article from the November 1863 issue of Harper’s Monthly.”

  “‘Pennsylvania Ladies Wield Their Needles for the Union,’ ” Sarah read aloud, but then she fell abruptly silent, transfixed by the illustration beneath the headline, a meticulous black-and-white engraving of the Loyal Union Sampler. “This is it. This is the quilt from Union Hall.”

  Agnes nodded, beaming. “Read on.”

  “Diane, would you go get Maggie?” Sarah asked. “She’s researching patterns in the library. She should see this.”

  While Diane went to fetch Maggie, Sarah read the entire article, an account of how a group of ladies from the Elm Creek Valley had collected donated quilt blocks to make the elaborate sampler. Once it was complete, they had raffled off not only the quilt, but also the patterns and templates for its blocks, to raise money to build Union Hall, a grand edifice in Water’s Ford, Pennsylvania. The Union Quilters, as they called themselves, had hosted many successful fund-raisers in the hall’s theater, garden, and galleries, with the proceeds benefiting the 49th Pennsylvania, the 6th United States Colored Troops, and the Veterans’ Relief Fund for the infirm soldiers of the Elm Creek Valley and their families. Not only that, the women had formed a body corporate, meaning they themselves owned and operated Union Hall, a remarkable accomplishment for the fairer sex, which they would not have been obliged to undertake if not for the absence of their brave husbands, sons, and fathers serving in the war. The story of the Union Quilters served as yet another example of how patriotic women of the North proudly used their feminine talents to serve their country.

  “Feminine talents,” said Agnes indignantly. “Remarkable accomplishment for the fairer sex, indeed. I’d say that was a remarkable accomplishment for anyone, woman or man.”

  “Unfortunately the article doesn’t mention any of the women by name,” said Sarah just as Diane and Maggie entered the kitchen. “But if these Union Quilters formed a corporation and owned the building—not onl
y owned it but organized every stage of its construction—there must be official records somewhere.”

  She handed the photocopies to Maggie, who read them eagerly. “This is astonishing,” Maggie said. “You have no idea how much I wish I had this much historical documentation of the Harriet Findley Birch quilt. This article places Union Hall at the heart of Waterford’s Civil War history. A building constructed by local women to support the local regiments at war and the wounded veterans who had come home—what could be more historically significant than that?”

  “I’m going to Union Hall first thing in the morning to share the good news with Patricia and Leslie,” declared Agnes, returning the photocopies to the envelope. “We’ll start the application process for the National Register of Historic Places right away. Krolich wouldn’t dare try to destroy the building now.”

  “Let’s not congratulate ourselves too soon,” cautioned Diane, putting on her coat. “If Krolich hears that we have a plan in the works, he might pressure the city council to push the measure through so he can destroy Union Hall before it’s designated an official historically important building.”

  Sarah agreed. “We’ll have to keep this a secret. Don’t tell anyone about the article or our plans to have Union Hall added to the register. Let Krolich think the way is clear, and he might lower his guard.”

  “That doesn’t sound like him,” said Agnes.

  “I don’t think secrecy works in our favor,” said Maggie. “I think we should tell everyone what we learned and what the historical society wants to do. We should send certified letters to the city council members and the press, and include copies of the Harper’s Monthly article in each one. That way, they won’t be able to condemn Union Hall and later pretend they had no idea how important it was.”

  “Maggie’s right,” said Sarah. “I’ll run upstairs to the office and make the copies right now.”