Bitter Harvest

by Sheila Connolly

Their waitress, a middle-aged woman with a weary face and no makeup, walked over. Gail greeted her by name. “Hi, Donna. How’ve you been?”

  “’Bout the same. You two ready to order?”

  “I think so. Meg, have you met Donna Taylor? She lives about half a mile down the road from you.”

  “I don’t think I have,” Meg said. “I haven’t met a lot of my neighbors, I’ve been so busy until now. It’s nice to meet you, Donna.”

  “Yeah. You’re at the old Warren place—nice house you’ve got.”

  “Thank you. Wait—are you John’s mother? I just met him the other day.”

  “Yeah,” Donna said ungraciously. “What you want for lunch?”

  Sandwiches and drinks requested, Gail pulled a folder out of her bag and started laying papers out across the table.

  “What’ve you got for me, Gail?” Meg said impatiently.

  “I’m getting there, and I think you’ll be happy. So, we started with a name for the girl—Violet Cox—and the date on the sampler, 1798, and a register with some other people, presumably family members, right? And the piece was found here in Granford, in a house built by the Warrens and continuously occupied by them until a couple of decades ago. So either that was a cosmic coincidence, which would be no fun at all, or there’s some connection to the Warren family. Right?”

  “That’s what I’ve been hoping for.” Meg nodded.

  “Now, you know who lived in your house in 1800, right?”

  “Eli Warren senior,” Meg said promptly.

  “Right, and then his son Eli after him.”

  Meg nodded. “The first Eli was the grandson of the original owner, Stephen Warren. But all that line stayed right here in Granford, and I couldn’t find any Coxes in the bunch. What does this have to do with the sampler?”

  “Patience, Meg. Stephen the builder had two sons: Stephen junior, who was Eli’s father, and Eleazer. Stephen’s descendants stayed right here, as you know. Eleazer did, too. But he had six kids, and they didn’t all stay. They were all born here, but then four of them don’t appear again in the records.” When Meg tried to interrupt, Gail plowed on. “But! There’s a note in the town records that three of the sons and a daughter all removed to Pittsford, Vermont.”

  “What? Why? When?” Meg sputtered.

  “Looks like the 1780s. As I keep telling you, the records are kind of patchy for that period, and I’m surprised I found even that much. But it was a small town then, so I guess the departure of three able-bodied men made a difference. Oh, hang on,” Gail said, when Donna reappeared with their food.

  She and Meg tucked into their meals, and after Gail had made half her sandwich disappear, Meg said, “So you’re telling me I need to look at Vermont records?”

  “Yup. I warn you, you’re already getting spoiled, working on Massachusetts families. For other states there’s still a lot of stuff that isn’t available online. You’re going to have to do some digging, maybe even head up to Pittsford.”

  “So you don’t have a clue how and why Violet, or at least her sampler, ended up in my house?”

  “You’re in luck. I can’t tell you the why, but I can prove that Eli Warren took her in, in 1796.”

  “What?” Meg couldn’t believe the twists and turns this story was taking. “How on earth would you know that? The census is no help—it lists only heads of household at that point.”

  “It’s in the Granford town records, believe it or not. The selectmen had to vote funds to cover the annual expenses for Violet Cox, payable to Eli, until she came of age or married, whichever came first. Eli petitioned for the money. Kind of a cheapskate, since he had only two kids of his own, and a house with plenty of room. To be fair, at least Eli sent Violet to a nice school, which is presumably where she learned needlework. Maybe that’s what the money went for—school fees are mentioned in the town minutes. That’s as far as I’ve gotten, but I wanted to leave something for you to do. Isn’t that half the fun? I haven’t had time to track down the details of Violet’s marriage yet—assuming she stayed around and married someone in Granford—but I haven’t given up. Here’s what I’ve got so far.” Gail handed her photocopies of what Meg recognized as pages from the town’s records.

  “You’ve done an incredible job, Gail, in a very short time. It would have taken me a lot longer to get this far on my own.”

  “Well, I’ve got the original documents to work with—that helps. And you can see that you never would have found this on your own, because it’s not published, in any way, shape, or form. That’s why I have this job—that, and the thrill of the hunt.”

  “I can’t thank you enough. I wonder why the sampler ended up jammed in the back of a closet?”

  “That I can’t tell you—you may never know. Maybe the old aunts your mother inherited from just kept stuff in front of the closet and never looked in the back. Nor did any of your renters, apparently.”

  Meg giggled. “So nobody cleaned out that closet for over a hundred years? That makes me feel a lot better!”

  “Heck, the Warren ladies might not even have known it was there, or that it existed. It looks like Violet died about ten years before the elder Warren sister was born.”

  “Complicated, isn’t it? I still need to know why Violet ended up here, and why she has a different surname. Oh, did I tell you that I finally have a new furnace?”

  “Congratulations! I’m sure you really appreciate it now.”

  “Believe me, I do. Thanks so much for your help on this, Gail. It’s one of those things that would have nagged at me. I guess I’ve got the genealogist’s itch.”

  “There’s no known cure for that, you know. Ah, here she is at last!” Gail waved at a woman who was headed for their table in a rush.

  “Sorry, sorry—I got delayed. Hi, I’m Janice Fayerweather. And you must be Meg Corey?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Sorry, we went ahead and ate without you, Janice,” Gail said, “but I’ve got to get home in time to meet the school bus.”

  “No problem.” Janice turned to Meg. “Gail says you’ve got something juicy for me to look at.” Donna appeared and waited, pad at the ready. “What’s good here?”

  “Everything. But the sandwich special today is great,” Meg said.

  “I’ll go with that. And coffee, please,” Janice said. When Donna retreated to the kitchen, Janice said, “I guess we should eat before looking at the piece.”

  Gail glanced at her watch. “Oh, shoot—I’ve got to run. Listen, you two have fun, and I want a full report.”

  “Of course. I’ll get the check,” Meg volunteered.

  “I won’t argue. Good to see you, Meg! Janice, I wish we had more time. Maybe I can drag Meg over to your place one day and we’ll have lunch there.”

  “Always good to see you, Gail, even if only for a second. We’ll do that.”

  Gail collected her winter coat and scarf, gloves, and hat and bustled out the door, leaving Meg and Janice at the table. Janice’s food appeared promptly, and she gave it the attention it deserved, but not before asking, “So, how do you know Gail?”

  Meg’s story of her arrival in Granford took them through the rest of the meal. When Janice had drained her cup one last time, she looked around at the now-empty restaurant. “You think they’d let us use a table so we can spread out the sampler?”

  “I’m sure they will,” Meg said. When Donna appeared to clear off their plates, Meg explained what they wanted, and in short order a table near the window had been wiped down for them. Janice took another napkin and made sure it was really clean and dry.

  Then she turned to Meg, with an eager gleam in her eye. “Okay, let me see it.”

  19

  Meg retrieved the sampler and unrolled it carefully, laying it down on the table. Janice stalked around it, viewing it from all sides, mumbling to herself. “Silk on linen . . . good condition . . . interesting combination of motifs . . .” Meg watched, amused and intrigued.

  Finally Janice stra
ightened up and looked at Meg. “This is really special. How do you come to have it?”

  “I found it in the back of a closet in a house my mother inherited, where I’m living now. From what Gail tells me, and what I’ve found doing my own family research, I think the girl who made it could be a relative, but that’s about all I know. I don’t know anything about samplers, beyond what I’ve looked up online since I found it. What can you tell me about it?”

  “I think we need to sit down again.”

  “There’s nowhere else you have to be?”

  Janice laughed. “There are six other places I should be, but this is a lot more fun. It’s not often something as good as this comes along. What do you know about needlework, Meg?” she asked.

  “I think ‘nothing’ about sums it up.”

  “Okay, I’ll start at the beginning. Fancy needlework was a pursuit of young girls who attended schools in New England, and the early nineteenth century was the heyday. There were several noteworthy schools not far from here, in Northampton and South Hadley, although I don’t think your example comes from either of them. Did the maker come from around here?”

  “I haven’t done all the research yet,” Meg said. “Were these samplers done for any particular purpose?”

  “To show off the young ladies’ talents, for one,” Janice replied promptly. “Even in this one you can see the variety of stitches—this girl was good. And family registers were popular. They were often hung in the parlor, for public viewing, as were mourning samplers. Which, of course, means a lot of them didn’t survive—sunlight is murder on needlework. Not only do the colors fade, but the materials literally can disintegrate. You said you found this in a closet? Any idea how long it had been there?”

  Meg shook her head. “None. Apparently Violet was in Granford before 1800, and she lived in the house, probably until she married, so that’s the most likely time frame. You’re saying that being in the closet helped preserve it?”

  “I’d say so. As I mentioned, there are various types of sampler. The family register form is obvious—it lists the births and deaths within one family, and sometimes, but not always, marriages. You see a lot of them that someone has started with all the births, but they never get around to filling in the rest of the dates. The top section of this sampler is a family register, but it looks as though they all died out—well, except for the young woman who made it. So this sampler is kind of a hybrid—it combines the family register with the mourning imagery. Poor Violet—she must be that sole mourner by the tombstone there. Do you know anything about the family?”

  “I only found it a few days ago,” Meg admitted. “Gail just filled me in on a lot of it. It’s likely that Violet’s mother came from Granford here, and then moved to Vermont, and that’s where Violet and presumably the other children were born. Those may have been from a second marriage.”

  “You know, the mourning component here is really interesting. There are a lot of examples of mourning samplers, but in general the iconography is pretty standardized.” When Meg looked puzzled, Janice said, “The symbolism. You’re probably familiar with it without even knowing it—the tombstone or a large monument with an urn on top, combined with one or more weeping willow trees, and varying numbers of mourners drooping all over each other. I’ve only seen a few that incorporate individual tombstones, and this one is even more intriguing because these appear to be actual stones, rather than just a row of generic ones—you can see they’re all different.”

  “I read about the symbolism online, but I hadn’t realized that tombstones were so rare in samplers. You think I could actually find the stones?” Meg asked.

  “It’s possible, if you know where to look. Now, as for the rest . . .” Janice walked around the sampler again, then pulled out a magnifier. “This is really unusually fine. Incredible detail. If you look closely, you can even see apples on the trees, although they’ve faded a bit.”

  “I thought that’s what they were! Could it have been made based on my house? It’s a pretty standard Colonial, but the profile of that side addition looks right, and I do have an orchard near the house.”

  Janice shrugged. “Maybe. Remember, a lot of Colonial houses follow the same pattern, and back around 1800 everyone had an orchard, so that’s not significant. But I will say that a lot of samplers incorporate houses, and often we can link the image to a particular family home, so I wouldn’t rule it out. Now, take a look at the border here.” She beckoned Meg closer. “This is unusually delicate and precise—see the leaves and the stamens? On the other hand, some of these flowers look almost geometric rather than organic. Of course, often these are just standardized motifs, rather than representations of anything specific. Still, it’s unusual. I wonder if we could match it up with any local plants . . . looks like a vine with four-petaled flowers, and they’re two different colors, maybe pink and white. I could ask a botanist who specializes in regional plants.”

  “You mean, that might tell you where it was made?” Meg asked.

  “It’s a long shot, but you never know.”

  Nicky came out from the kitchen. “Meg, you’re still here! You want more coffee or something?”

  Meg glanced at Janice, who shook her head. “I think we’re good. This is Janice Fayerweather—Gail asked her to look at this sampler that I found in my house. Janice, this is Nicky Czarnecki, the chef-owner here.” Meg pointed to the adjoining table. “Check this out, Nicky.”

  Nicky walked over to the other table and leaned over it to peer at the sampler. “Nice. Hey, is this your house, Meg? It has a building attached, that could be Seth’s workshop.”

  “I’ve wondered about that, but it’s hard to prove.”

  Nicky straightened up. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Was lunch all right?”

  “Terrific, as usual,” Meg replied. “Thanks. See you later!”

  After Nicky had disappeared back into the kitchen, Janice picked up where they had left off. “As I said, some schools can be identified based on their style, but this one’s not familiar to me. I can do a little more digging, if you like—I don’t claim to know everything!” She laughed. “What do you plan to do with it?”

  “I haven’t really thought that far. I was just trying to figure out why it ended up in my house. Should I be worried about conservation?”

  “Always,” Janice said, then smiled. “You were lucky—it was protected from direct sunlight and damp, both of which can have devastating effects. So it’s in good shape, all things considered. That’s a start. There are a few spots on it that could use some attention, and I’d recommend a professional cleaning. Note that I say ‘professional’—don’t you dare try to wash it yourself, or I’ll come back and strangle you with whatever’s left of it.”

  Meg laughed in return. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of it. What about longer-term storage?”

  Janice sighed. “I know most people want to slap it in a frame and hang it on the wall, but I wish you wouldn’t. If you want it to last, it should be stored in an acid-free box with acid-free paper, and kept in a dry place. OSV’d be happy to take it off your hands,” she finished wistfully.

  Did she want it to be available to the public, in a collection like Old Sturbridge Village’s? Meg wasn’t sure. At the same time, it seemed selfish to keep it. But she didn’t have to decide immediately, and she wanted to know if it had any family connections before she made any decision. “I’ll keep that in mind. If I were to sell it, what do you think it would be worth?”

  Janice looked disappointed. “I hate to talk about money. It depends on the condition and quality of the piece, the reputation of the auctioneers, if you go that route, the timing of the sale, the general economy, what’s hot that week, and probably sunspots, for all I know. And if you know the history of the maker, it helps. The best I can tell you is, probably five figures, but low or high, I just don’t know.”

  “Wow, that’s more than I expected. I know that on Antiques Roadshow the owner always says som
ething dumb like, ‘It’s a family piece—I wouldn’t think of selling it.’ I always thought that sounded fake—I figured the minute the cameras were off they asked the appraiser what he would offer. I’m just kind of intrigued by it.”

  Janice gave the sampler one last longing look. “Well, if you do decide to sell, will you at least let me know? It’s a real beauty, and I’d love to have it for our collection. Why don’t you come by the Village sometime and I can show you some of our other samplers? It might give you a better appreciation of what you have here.”

  “I’d love to. If you could recommend some good books or other resources on the subject, too, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sure, no problem. Can I e-mail the references? And I’ve got the photos of it that Gail sent on, so I’ll keep looking, too. I must say those photos didn’t convey the quality of the work. It’s a delightful piece, and I envy you. Well, I need to get back. Thanks for letting me see it.”

  “Thanks for making the trip, Janice. You’ve given me a lot of information in a very short time, and I appreciate it.”

  “Thanks for the opportunity to see it, and for the lunch! I’ll be in touch.” Janice gathered up her things and headed for the door. Meg took another look at the sampler, seeing it with fresh eyes. She’d known it contained a lot of detail, but the messages of “mourning” and “family” came through loud and clear. With some reluctance she carefully rolled it up in its towel. If it had survived in such good shape for two hundred years, she’d never forgive herself if she allowed any harm to come to it now.

  When she arrived home after lunch she found Seth standing in the driveway talking to John Taylor.

  “Where’ve you been?” Seth asked, his tone worried, when Meg approached them.

  “I had lunch with Gail’s friend from Sturbridge Village—she told me great stuff about the sampler. I’m sorry, was I supposed to report to you? Bree knew where I was going.” She stopped suddenly and thought about what she had just said: she sounded rude. Maybe she was more distracted by recent events than she wanted to admit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I didn’t stop to think that you might worry.”