Apparently there wasn’t, Sylvia thought, unless she was at fault. But she said nothing as the sisters worked from the ends toward the middle until the tear was mended with a seam of pinched dough. Afterward, Claudia circled the rectangle one last time, trimming off the thick frame with a knife.
“What are you doing?” asked Sylvia. On every side, the dough rectangle fell several inches short of the edge of the table.
“It wasn’t going to stretch any farther.”
“It’s not big enough.”
“But it is almost thin enough, and it will taste the same.” Sylvia wasn’t so sure. What if whatever alchemy had made the dough more difficult to stretch had also affected its flavor?
“I’ll get the apples,” she said instead, careful to allow no trace of annoyance or worry into her voice. At least they would have extra noodles for soup.
The dough rolled around the apples as easily as ever, to their unspoken relief, and soon their first strudel was baking in the oven. They did not have nearly as much difficulty stretching the second ball of dough—in part because they had learned from their mistakes and took care not to leave a thick rope of dough around a thin center rectangle—but when they could stretch the dough no more, it still was thicker than their mother’s, and it did not come within two inches of the table’s edges.
Still, the first strudel came out of the oven a beautiful golden brown, and the aroma of baked apples and cinnamon drew other members of the family into the kitchen. Most of them praised the sisters and declared that they couldn’t wait to taste the strudel on Christmas morning, but Uncle William took one look at their first attempt cooling on the table and said, “Looks like the runt of the litter.”
“We won’t bother saving any for you, then,” Sylvia teased right back, but Claudia busied herself at the sink full of dishes until he left the kitchen so he would not see her scarlet face.
“Eight more to go,” Sylvia remarked on her way to the cellar for more apples.
“Maybe two are enough,” said Claudia wearily.
Sylvia stopped short on the stairs. “You don’t mean that. Uncle William was just teasing.”
“No, it’s not that. I suppose I had no idea how difficult this would be without8212;” Claudia composed herself. “Even when Mama was ill, she managed everything with such ease. Next year-maybe next year we can try to do more.”
Sylvia was surprised by her sister’s admission of weakness, or at least the closest thing to an admission of weakness Claudia was likely to let slip. As for herself, she hated to abandon any task until she had no choice but to admit defeat—but she also did not relish the thought of spending the rest of the day in the kitchen. The temptation to leave the kitchen overruled her perseverance, and so Sylvia agreed that the two strudel they had already made would be sufficient, as it meant one for the Bergstroms and one for Andrew to take home to his family. Their friends and neighbors had not received the famous Bergstrom strudel since Eleanor’s last Christmas and would not expect it this season. Next year, Sylvia and Claudia promised each other, they would be pleasantly surprised.
The next morning, Christmas Eve morning, Andrew arrived at the back door while the Bergstroms were finishing breakfast. Sylvia’s father, who had planned to pick him up later that afternoon in the car, joked that the boy’s haste would do nothing to speed Santa’s visit, but as the boy cast a longing gaze toward the remains of the meal, there could be no mistaking what had sped him to their door. Lucinda welcomed him to the table and signaled for Claudia to bring an extra plate, and soon the scrawny boy was bolting down everything they set before him.
After breakfast the boys ran off to play. The women tidied the kitchen then sent Uncle William and Aunt Nellie out to find a tree. “Isn’t anyone else in this family ever going to get married?” Uncle William grumbled as he shrugged into his coat.
“Don’t look at me,” said Lucinda.
He peered hopefully at Claudia. “How old are you again?”
“Sixteen,” she said, straightening proudly.
“Forget it, Will,” said her father. “The job is yours for at least ten more years.”
“Daddy,” protested Claudia.
“We don’t mind,” Aunt Nellie assured the girls’ father. She linked her arm through her husband’s and smiled up at him.
“In fact, this year, we’re going to pick out the best tree Elm Creek Manor has ever had.”
The couple left through the back door, following a trail broken through the soft layer of snow on their way toward the bridge over Elm Creek. Watching through the kitchen window, Lucinda remarked to Sylvia’s father, “Looks like it’s going to be another four-hour search this year.”
“I’m sure William hopes so,” he replied, grinning.
“Well, the ornaments are ready in the ballroom,” said Claudia, missing the implications. “Whenever they do get back, we can begin decorating.”
“In the meantime, I’ll fix lunch,” said Lucinda.
Claudia nodded. “And I have some sewing to do.”
Sylvia had small gifts to wrap, knitted socks and scarves she had completed the night before. She left her festive packages in the ballroom, not surprised to find that her aunt and uncle had not returned, then went looking for Claudia. Her sister sat in the front parlor, in their mother’s favorite chair, threading a needle. At her feet lay piles of fabric she had sorted by color.
“What are you working on?” Sylvia drew closer to the familiar-looking scraps. “Is that the Christmas Quilt?”
Claudia nodded, holding the needle between pursed lips while she tied a knot at the end of the thread.
Sylvia looked from the triangles on her sister’s lap to the stack of Feathered Star blocks on the table at her right hand.
“Those pieces are too big for a Feathered Star. They should be less than half that size.”
“I’m not making Feathered Stars.” Claudia took the needle from her mouth and speared its tip into a white triangle and a green one. She nodded to their mother’s old sewing basket, which she had long ago adopted. Upon its open lid Sylvia spied a few red-and-green Variable Star blocks.
Sylvia picked up one and immediately spotted the mistakes. The tip of one star point had been lopped off by an adjoining seam. A pair of green star points did not meet at the tip of the central red square. On the back of the block, instead of pressing her seams flat and smooth, Claudia had folded them over carelessly, creating a thick lump of fabric layers that would be difficult to quilt through later. Sylvia compared the block to a second.
“Did you do this on purpose?” asked Sylvia, matching the top corners of the blocks and holding them together to estimate the difference in size. “Did you mean for this one to be a half-inch smaller than the other?”
Claudia snatched the blocks from her grasp. “Don’t be ridiculous. I used the same templates for all of them.”
She must have varied her seam allowances, then. “You’ll have to block them with the iron. You’ll need a lot of steam—” “I know how to block a quilt.”
“You could have avoided that step if you had sewed more accurately. Why are you making Variable Stars instead of—” Sylvia broke off, remembering just in time that the last thing she wanted to do was encourage her sister to attempt a far more difficult pattern when she could barely manage one of the simplest star blocks in her repertoire. “If you try to sew these blocks together, you’ll be able to match up either the star points or the corners, but not both. Does Aunt Lucinda know what you’re up to? She won’t appreciate it if you ruin her quilt.”
“I will not ruin her quilt, and yes, I already asked her if I might finish it.”
“And she said yes?”
“Of course she said yes, or I wouldn’t be sitting here working on it. Honestly, Sylvia.”
Sylvia thought of the time and talent their mother and Great-Aunt Lucinda had sewn into their Feathered Stars and holly plumes. All of their work would go to waste if Claudia distorted their handiwork with her poor
ly constructed Variable Stars. “Maybe you should let me help.”
“Maybe you should find something of your own to work on.”
Why should she? The Christmas Quilt was as much hers as it was Claudia’s. “If I make some of the blocks, we’ll finish more quickly. That way you’ll also have an example to follow when you’re steaming or trimming your blocks to the right size. I think your trouble is your seam allowances—”
“My trouble is that I have an annoying little sister who doesn’t have anything better to do on Christmas Eve than criticize me. Great-Aunt Lucinda said I could finish the quilt and that’s what I’m going to do. You’re just angry because you didn’t think of it first. If you had, you wouldn’t have let me help you, and you know it.”
Every word struck home, and Sylvia’s temper flared. In the distance she heard the double doors to the foyer slam, followed by the happy clamor of voices. Uncle William and Aunt Nellie had returned with a tree and the sisters were needed in the ballroom, but Sylvia couldn’t resist one parting shot: “The word ‘variable’ in your ‘Variable Stars’ shouldn’t refer to their size.”
She hurried from the parlor before Claudia could have the last word.
Richard and Andrew must have flown down from the nursery. She tried to keep them out of the way as Uncle William and her father hauled the tree into the ballroom and set it up in its familiar place on the dais. Great-Aunt Lucinda brought in trays of food so they could lunch while they trimmed the tree, and someone switched on the radio. Suddenly the room was filled with music and laughter, and Sylvia felt a pang of longing for her mother. Her eyes met her father’s, and she knew he shared her thoughts. In his arms he carried the paper angels she and Claudia had made years before in Sunday school. He put Claudia’s on a high branch and placed Sylvia’s exactly even on the opposite side of the tree—not one branch higher, not one lower. His great deliberation signaled to Sylvia that he had seen Claudia’s stormy expression and had identified Sylvia as its source.
She flushed guiltily and looked away, pretending to be absorbed in the boys’ antics as they wrapped garlands of popcorn and cranberries around the lower branches of the tree.
Wait until she finishes piecing the top of the Christmas Quilt and wants help layering and basting it, Sylvia thought bitterly.
Sylvia would not lift a finger or a needle to help her. And she was through with letting Claudia carry on as if she were the lady of the house. If anyone held that role with Mama gone, it was Great-Aunt Lucinda, not a silly sixteen-year-old girl.
The tree was all but finished when Great-Aunt Lucinda noted that someone ought to hide the star. “I’ll do it,” said Claudia, smiling as she removed the eight-pointed ruby-and-gold star from its box.
“No, I will,” said Sylvia, snatching it from her hand.
“You could do it together,” their father and Lucinda said in unison.
Sylvia smothered a groan. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and she raced from the room before Claudia or anyone else could object.
But where to hide the star? She would have been tempted to choose an especially difficult hiding place for the pleasure of tormenting her sister, but she suddenly doubted Claudia would take up the search. Richard was younger, but that did not mean Sylvia should choose a more obvious location for his sake. He knew all the manor’s secret places and would be disappointed if he found the star too soon. Then Sylvia remembered Andrew, and she decided that she wanted him to win. Even the competitive Richard would be pleased if his friend won the game and could add a prize to the gifts Santa would leave for him beneath the Bergstroms’ tree.
Perhaps Sylvia could help him in the search the way cousin Elizabeth had once helped her. Andrew had no pillow of his own in the Bergstroms’ home to look beneath, and he was not likely to run crying to Richard’s room as Sylvia had fled to hers so many years before. Andrew spent most of his time at Elm Creek Manor in the nursery. Perhaps, if that was where he felt most comfortable, he would begin his search there.
Taking the steps two at a time, Sylvia raced upstairs to the third floor and burst into the nursery. Andrew loved Richard’s model trains. Sylvia hurried across the room and hid the star in the wooden crate that held the engine and its cars, leaving only one golden tip visible.
She returned to the ballroom, pleased with herself, but her satisfaction fled with one look from her father. She glanced at Great-Aunt Lucinda, who shook her head even though a faint smile quirked at her lips.
“I hid the star,” she announced, managing a weak grin. Her father sent the younger children out to search for it, and Sylvia busied herself with rearranging a few of the ornaments upon the tree, more to conceal her blush than any aesthetic purpose. She resolved to avoid provoking Claudia or anyone else until Christmas was over. With any luck, the sight of her snatching the star from her sister’s hand would fade from the adults’ memories. She knew Claudia would never forget.
They finished trimming the tree, all but the very highest bough, and then they were left with nothing to do but listen to the radio, admire the tree, and chat, as no triumphant child had returned with the glass star held tightly in a small fist.
“You did hide itin the manor, right, Sylvia?” asked Uncle William after an hour had passed. “You didn’t throw it out a window into a snowbank?”
“It’s in the manor,” said Sylvia, glancing toward the door worriedly. At first she had hoped only Andrew would find the star; now she would be glad if anyone did.
“Did you hide it where a child would think to look?” asked Claudia. Her tone, her stance, her look of disappointed resignation pointedly telegraphed that she was not at all surprised her younger sister had found a way to ruin a beloved holiday tradition. If Claudia had been allowed to hide the star, it would be shining on the top of the tree by now.
“Of course.” The crate of model trains was right there on the floor of the nursery, not on a high shelf or tucked away in a closet. Surely she had not hidden it too well.
Just then the ballroom door burst open. “We can’t find it,” said Richard, panting from his sprint through the manor.
“It’s a big house,” said Uncle William. “Keep looking.”
Richard shrugged and ran off again. “Maybe I should give them a hint,” Sylvia appealed to her father. At his assent, she dashed after Richard and told him to look on the third floor-and to make sure he passed the message along to the other children. He promised, grinning because his sister knew him so well, and soon the ballroom echoed with the thunder of many feet racing up the stairs.
A half hour later, Richard returned to the ballroom, Andrew at his heels. “When you said third floor, did you mean the attic? Because I thought we weren’t allowed up there.”
Claudia whirled on her sister. “You didn’t put it in the attic, did you? Someone could get hurt on those stairs.”
“No! Richard, the attic would be the fourth floor. Did you try the nursery?”
“Yes. Everyone’s been in the nursery for at least an hour.”
Sylvia knew he was exaggerating, since it had been only a half hour ago that she had given him the hint. Even so, with so many children in the nursery, someone should have stumbled upon the star within minutes.
With Richard and Andrew leading the way, Sylvia, Claudia, their father, and Great-Aunt Lucinda climbed the stairs to the third floor. The nursery lay directly above the library—an unfortunate oversight in planning that Sylvia’s grandfather had not noticed until the first time his reading was disturbed by noisy play overhead. Like the library, the nursery stretched the entire width of the south wing and welcomed in sunlight through east, west, and south facing windows. In the twilight, large flakes of snow blew against the glass, but the children were too busy playing to notice. Uncle William’s daughter served tea to Sylvia’s old dolls, two boys were engaged in a battle with Richard’s toy soldiers, and other cousins read or built block towers or played games of their own invention.
After an hour and a half of fruitless s
earching, perseverance had finally succumbed to the allure of toys. The quest for the star had been abandoned.
But no child was playing with the model trains.
“You haven’t given up already, have you?” asked Sylvia.
The little girl cousin to whom she had given the Nine-Patch quilt looked up and smiled, but the other children were too engrossed in their play to hear.
“Perhaps another hint is in order,” suggested Lucinda. “Animal, vegetable, or mineral?”
Richard and Andrew looked up at Sylvia, hopeful.
“Mineral,” she said. “A form of transportation.” The two boys began to wander the room, moving aside scattered toys, heading in the opposite direction from the crate of model trains. “Think of something used to transport passengers or cargo over long distances. Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Desperate to salvage the game, she made train noises, mimed the movement of wheels, and tugged on the cord of an imaginary steam whistle.
Richard brightened and ran across the room to his model trains, Andrew right behind. They dug through the crate, emptying it of engines and boxcars with amazing speed, until the last one lay on the floor. The boys looked across the room at Sylvia, expectant and puzzled.
“Great hint,” Claudia scoffed. “You sent them to the wrong place.”
But she hadn’t. Quickly Sylvia joined the boys and peered into the crate to see for herself. It was empty.
Lucinda saw trouble in her expression. “This is where you hid the star?”
Sylvia nodded, puzzled. She scanned the clutter of train cars to see if the star had accidentally been set aside in the boys’ haste, but it was not there. “I don’t understand. I put it right here.”
“Among the trains,” said Claudia, skeptical. “Then where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure you hid it here?” asked her father. “Perhaps you had second thoughts and returned later to move it to a more difficult hiding place. Think hard.”
“I’m certain.” The question stung. She wouldn’t have forgotten where she had hidden the star.
Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt Page 11