Within moments her mother was at her side. “What is it?” she gasped. “Contractions? Are you in pain? Are you bleeding?”
“No, no. I’m okay. But the baby—I think the baby’s having a seizure!”
“What on earth—” As her mother placed her hands on her abdomen, Gwen tried to hold perfectly still but couldn’t stop shaking. Then she watched the fear drain from her mother’s face. “Is that what you’re talking about, honey? That movement?”
“Yes, yes. That—” Gwen choked out, stricken. “What’s wrong with my baby?”
“Oh, honey.” Gwen’s mother smiled through her tears. “It’s nothing. Your baby has the hiccups. That’s all.”
“The hiccups?” Gwen stroked the top of her belly, where she imagined the baby’s head was. “They can get the hiccups in there?”
“Of course they can. You used to get them all the time.”
The hiccups. Gwen almost laughed, and yet—“Should we call the doctor just to be sure?”
“No, we shouldn’t,” her mother replied firmly, drawing up the covers and pulling the quilt over her. “It’s four o’clock in the morning. The doctor is sleeping and you should be, too.”
“I’ll try.” Gwen took a deep breath and willed her pulse to stop racing. “I’m sorry I woke you.”
“It’s all right. This isn’t the first time a baby’s woken me in the middle of the night, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.”
Gwen’s mother smoothed back her hair and kissed her on the forehead, then quietly left the room, leaving the door ajar. Gwen drifted back into dreams, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of her baby’s hiccups.
In the morning, Gwen endured some good-natured teasing served with her breakfast, but she could see that her parents were as relieved as she was that her nighttime fears had been unfounded. She could not find the words to tell them how grateful she was that she had been at home, that her mother had raced to her side. If she had still been on the road with Dennis, she doubted she would have been able to rouse him from his drugged stupor; even if she had, he would have offered her no help or comfort. As humiliating as it was to be the Hester Prynne of Brown Deer, Kentucky, for the moment there was no place Gwen would rather be.
Gwen spread the quilt on the living room floor where the light was better and spent the morning studying the quilt’s foundations, struggling to piece together the quiltmaker’s story, certain that the very clues she needed must have been written plainly on the twenty foundations that had disintegrated long ago. She felt as if she were trying to write a thesis with the letters H through P missing from her typewriter: Try though she might to compensate for the absences, no matter what she wrote, it would inevitably be incomplete.
Her mother, quilting nearby, said, “Think of what you have rather than what you’ve lost. Seventy-six foundations, each with something to tell us about our mysterious quiltmaker. Surely there’s enough here to identify her, even if we never learn the whole story behind her quilt.”
“We should start in Richardsport,” said Gwen, indicating the envelope with a partial address. “Are you up for a road trip?”
“I’d love to go, honey, but I have to finish this block before the next Brown Does’ meeting.” Without looking up from her sewing, Gwen’s mother added, “You may borrow the car. I won’t need it today.”
For a moment Gwen did not know what to say. “I’ll be back in time for supper.”
Her mother smiled. “I know you will.”
With a road map spread open on the front passenger seat, Gwen drove alone to Richardsport, the Pineapple quilt carefully folded and tucked into a pillowcase in the back seat. “Seems a little late to start treating it well,” her father had remarked as she departed, but Gwen disagreed. It was never too late to offer something the respect it deserved.
Gwen had often passed road signs to Richardsport but had never visited, so upon her arrival, she drove along the main streets, sizing up the town. It was considerably larger than Brown Deer but much smaller than Lexington, so she easily found city hall and a library, on opposite sides of the street near a small park on the river. Gwen stopped by city hall first and asked a clerk for directions to Juniper.
“Juniper Street or Juniper Lane?” the clerk asked, reaching for a pen and paper. Her tone was frosty, and her glance lingered on Gwen’s naked ring finger.
Gwen resisted the urge to slip her left hand into her pocket. “Both, please.”
The clerk scrawled a few lines and slid the paper across the counter. “They’re within walking distance from here, even for someone in your condition.”
“Thanks.” Gwen had other questions, but she gave the clerk a tight smile and left, pulling on her mittens, drawing her mother’s winter coat over her belly, the loop closures straining.
The sidewalks had been cleared of snow, so Gwen headed east on foot until she came to Juniper Street. She walked its length—only four blocks—but there was no house numbered 714. Retracing her steps, Gwen passed the city hall and turned south, making her winding way past shops and businesses into a neighborhood of stately homes with broad, snow-covered lawns. Juniper Lane, lined with bare-limbed trees, climbed a hill and ended in a cul-de-sac, where Gwen halted in front of an impressive white stone Georgian home with black shutters and three chimneys. Two stone gateposts flanked the long driveway. One was engraved with the number “714,” and both were topped by identical stone pineapples.
Gwen needed no other inducement. She pushed open the wrought-iron gate and made her way up a cobblestone footpath to the front door. A woman who looked to be a few years older than her parents answered the bell, and she did not seem the least bit surprised to have a stranger at her front door asking questions about her home.
“I assume you missed the walking tour last month,” Mrs. Eldridge remarked as she led Gwen into the parlor, and Gwen did not correct her. “I do wish that blizzard hadn’t forced us to cancel. The houses looked so lovely and festive decorated for the holidays, and oh, the hospital would have benefited so much from the auction. Fortunately, most people considered their tickets to be charitable donations and they were content to let the hospital foundation keep the money. The Historical Society would like to reschedule for the spring, but it’s not easy for the Society Hill families to coordinate schedules.”
“Society Hill?” Gwen echoed, taking the seat in a high-backed, tapestry covered armchair her hostess offered.
“The unofficial name for our neighborhood. Back in its day, Richardsport’s most prominent citizens built their homes here, where they could enjoy the view of the river.” Mrs. Eldridge gazed around her parlor fondly. “Joseph Wainwright built this home in 1890 as an anniversary gift for his beloved wife. Martha designed every room down to the last piece of crown molding, and Joseph spared no expense in fulfilling her dream. He had built a fortune as a successful lawyer and circuit court judge, and he became quite a philanthropist in his retirement. He donated the land for the Wainwright Library downtown, and his wife was one of the founding members of the St. Luke’s Hospital board.”
“Do any of their descendants still live in Richardsport?”
“They had only one son, Thomas. They adopted him late in life, and by all accounts he was their pride and joy. Joseph hoped Thomas would follow in his footsteps, but Thomas became a doctor instead. He set up a practice in Louisville, and some of his descendants still reside thereabouts. You don’t have to track down the Wainwrights’ descendants if you have more questions about the family, however. The Wainwright Library has quite a nice selection of books on local history.” Mrs. Eldridge glanced at the mantel clock and smiled apologetically. “I wish I had more time to chat, but I was just on my way out when you rang the bell.”
Gwen rose and thanked her for her time, eager to be on her way. The wind had picked up, and she buried her chin into her scarf as she made her way back downtown. Could Mrs. Wainwright be the anonymous quilter, her husband the owner of the law books? That did not fit with the tale of mari
tal bliss Mrs. Eldridge had woven, but every marriage held its secrets. Surely their adopted son, Thomas, was responsible for the child’s papers and drawings, and perhaps he had sent the envelope that had led Gwen to Richardsport. So many tantalizing details had emerged, and yet so many unanswered questions remained
As if the baby sensed her excitement, Gwen felt a strong kick. She laughed and rubbed her tummy. “Settle down, kiddo,” she said. “You’ll give yourself the hiccups.”
The library was warm and well lit, with dark oak desks and shelves that smelled of lemon furniture polish. The librarian either didn’t notice Gwen’s lack of a wedding ring or she had a more generous heart than the clerk at city hall, for she cheerfully led Gwen to a small room devoted to local history. “This book contains a lengthy biography of Joseph Wainwright, and this history of the county describes many of his most important legal decisions,” she said, pulling two weighty tomes from their shelves. “This book is a more recent history of the Society Hill families, assembled from documents preserved by the Richardsport Historical Society.” The librarian placed a thinner, folio-size book on top of the pile. “It doesn’t explore any single family in great depth, but the period photographs are wonderful, and they give you a real sense of the era.”
Gwen thanked her and carried the books to a nearby table. Then she was struck by a sudden thought. “I understand that Joseph Wainwright provided the land for the library, but did his family donate anything such as personal papers or books?”
“We do have some of his legal papers in special collections. I could pull those for you, but you’d have to fill out a request form and give me a day’s notice.”
That wouldn’t help Gwen today, but perhaps she could make a return visit. “How about other artifacts, household items like quilts? Do you think your historical society might have preserved anything of that sort?”
The librarian considered. “It’s possible. I can give you the name of the Historical Society president, and perhaps he could help you. I don’t believe Mrs. Wainwright would have been a quilter, however. For a lady of leisure, she was very busy promoting her philanthropic efforts, supporting her husband’s career, and raising her son. She might have made a crazy quilt to be fashionable, but she employed domestic help to take care of all the household chores such as sewing.”
Gwen thought of the Brown Does and almost pointed out that quilting was often more than a simple household chore, but the librarian seemed certain. Perhaps in Mrs. Wainwright’s day, few wealthy women quilted for pleasure. Her mother might know.
Gwen thanked the librarian and settled down to read. She wasn’t sure how accurate a picture of Joseph Wainwright would emerge from the dry legalese, so she read the biography carefully but only skimmed references to his legal decisions. Both accounts appeared to concur that as a judge, Wainwright had scrupulously followed precedents and was inclined to rule on the side of justice rather than mercy. He had been considered a pillar of the community, a regular churchgoer and philanthropist. Gwen could not find even the faintest hint of scandal about him—no suggestion that he had ever given preferential treatment to his wealthy friends, that he had ever given his wife any reason not to adore him, that he had not been a doting father. The only tragedy spoken of was his wife’s barrenness, but even that sorrow had ended happily upon their adoption of an infant boy.
“Thomas,” murmured Gwen, and she reached for the historical society’s photographic history of Society Hill. She paged through the book until she came to a sepia-toned photograph of the Wainwright family. A well-dressed couple who looked to be in their late forties sat in the lavishly furnished parlor Gwen recognized from her visit with Mrs. Eldridge earlier that day. A fair-haired toddler sat on the woman’s lap, while the man stood beside them, his hand resting on the back of the chair. There were no other references to Thomas in the book, and only two additional photographs of his adoptive parents: one of Joseph Wainwright in a judge’s black robe standing solemnly in a courtroom, and one of Mrs. Wainwright at a garden party with seven other women clad in summer gowns and wide-brimmed hats. Gwen found only a single quilt pictured in all three books, and that was barely visible, tucked over a young couple seated in a horse-drawn sleigh.
Gwen browsed the shelves and skimmed other sources the librarian had not pulled, but none contained as much direct information about the Wainwrights as those first three books. As the afternoon waned, she filled out a request form for the material in special collections and arranged to return to read them the following week.
Over supper, she told her parents what she had uncovered in Richardsport. Her father remarked that she looked rather downcast for someone who had had such a successful outing.
“I guess it was partially successful,” Gwen replied. “I did learn a lot, but I wish I’d found some corroborating evidence that the Pineapple quilt was connected to the Wainwright family. Mrs. Wainwright apparently loved her husband and didn’t quilt. It doesn’t seem logical that she would have ruined his law books to make foundation patterns.”
“But she must have made the quilt,” said Gwen’s mother. “I can’t explain the law book pages, but speaking as a mother, I can say with absolute certainty that no one would be interested in saving a child’s penmanship practice and Mother’s Day verses except for that child’s mother. Or, I suppose, a father, but I think it’s even more unlikely that Judge Wainwright was the quilter of the family rather than his society wife.”
“Thomas’s mother,” Gwen gasped. “Of course. She could have been the quilter.”
“But you believed that Mrs. Wainwright…” Then Gwen’s mother nodded, her thoughts leaping ahead to catch up with her daughter’s. “You mean the woman who gave birth to Thomas. But how in the world would she have had access to Mr. Wainwright’s law books and Thomas’s school papers?”
“Maybe she lived in the house with the family. The librarian said that the Wainwrights had servants. Maybe Thomas’s birth mother was one.”
Gwen could imagine how it might have unfolded: A young, unmarried domestic had found herself pregnant and had gratefully accepted her childless employers’ offer to conceal her secret shame and adopt her child. It might have sounded like a blessed arrangement, at first, but as the years passed and she watched her son grow, unable to hold him or kiss him or confess the truth that she was his mother—how her rage and despair must have grown. Perhaps she threatened to reveal the carefully guarded secret and was fired, or perhaps she left the household after her son grew up and moved away. The quilt had grown out of her grief and anger, piece by piece, an expression of the secret she dared not confess.
“It could be so, I suppose,” her father said slowly after Gwen wove her fantastical tale. “But you don’t have any proof that those pages came from Wainwright’s law books—”
“But the envelope with his address…” Gwen sighed. “Could mean nothing. Maybe Mr. Wainwright was the quilter’s lawyer. Or a cousin. Or maybe it really was the return address that she had intended to preserve in the quilt.”
“Could be.” Her father took Gwen’s hand and gave her a kindly look. “What’s more, if the Wainwrights’ housemaid did make this quilt, how did it end up in the lost and found of a church in Brown Deer?”
Gwen had no answer for him, but she was determined to return to Richardsport and search Joseph Wainwright’s papers for the answers.
But her hopes were swiftly dashed when she returned to the library the next week and learned that the archive of personal papers fit inside a single file carton. Most of the documents concerned Judge Wainwright’s storied legal career and his role as a civic leader. She found blueprints of the house on Society Hill and a newspaper account of Thomas’s wedding, but very little about Mrs. Wainwright, despite her prominence in the town, and nothing at all about their domestic help. If the carton had contained a receipt for fabrics purchased, Gwen might have been able to conclude whether Mrs. Wainwright had been a quilter. If it had included a record of wages paid to a servant, the lis
t of names might have offered possibilities for the identity of Thomas’s birth mother. But the archive preserved Judge Wainwright’s life and accomplishments and all but ignored everyone else within his household. The absences spoke with unmistakable clarity of what—and whom—was considered an important part of the historical record and what was not.
Resigned, she returned the documents to the carton and carried it back to the reference desk, where the librarian who had helped her the week before waited, smiling expectantly. “Did you find what you needed?”
“Almost,” said Gwen, unwilling to lie, reluctant to reveal her disappointment to the one person in Richardsport who had done the most to help her. “I was hoping to find an adoption record for Thomas Wainwright, but I didn’t see anything like that.”
“Have you checked at city hall?” the librarian asked. “The records might be sealed, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. While you’re there, you might want to stop by the glass case near the courtroom entrance. Judge Wainwright’s law library and some photographs from his time on the bench are on display there.”
With renewed hope, Gwen thanked her and hurried across the street to city hall, hand pressed to her belly in a silent apology for the sudden jostling. To her dismay, the same sour-faced clerk sat behind the desk. Though Gwen wore mittens, the clerk obviously remembered her, for her mouth pinched in disapproval as her gaze flicked from Gwen’s hand to her belly to her face.
Gwen quickly explained her errand, but even as the words left her lips, the clerk began shaking her head. “All adoption records are sealed,” she said. “I’m not saying that we have any papers about the Wainwright case here, but if we did, you couldn’t see them.” She lowered her voice. “You of all people should understand why the people involved would want to keep such affairs secret.”
Gwen felt a flicker of anger, but she knew she couldn’t speak her mind to this woman and still obtain the answers she sought. “I’m doing a historical research project on the Wainwrights. Is there some protocol I can follow to have the records opened?”
Elm Creek Quilts [12] The Winding Ways Quilt Page 16