She pressed a hand to her forehead and paced the length of the room. As impossible as it seemed that someone could care for her, surely Mr. Bergstrom—Fred—had not meant merely to be kind to the poor invalid. Mere kindness could not explain all he had done simply to have an excuse to visit the Lockwood family. To visit her .
“I cannot think about this,” she said to the empty room. Pushing Fred from her thoughts, she sat down at the quilt frame and threaded a needle with shaking hands. She popped the thread through the three layers twice before she was able to fix the knot in the batting, then slipped her thimble on her finger and quilted a feathered plume in the background of one of the Rocky Mountain blocks. She waited for the familiar, repetitive motions to soothe her, but her thoughts remained an unsettling mix of pleasure and despair. Abigail, not Eleanor, was the beauty of the family, the cherished daughter who inspired affection in all who saw her. Abigail was the one who was meant to love and be loved, to leave home and have a family of her own—
At a flash of pain, Eleanor gasped and withdrew her left hand from beneath the quilt to find a spot of red on her fingertip. If she had stained the back of her quilt, she would never forgive Fred.
She bit back a sob and flung her thimble across the room. Blinking away tears, she fumbled for her handkerchief and pinched it against her fingertip. Fred's affection for her—if it was affection, and she had not in her loneliness allowed herself to misinterpret his friendship—changed nothing. Her health rendered her unfit for marriage, and Mother still needed her. Whatever Fred's intentions were, Eleanor could not fulfill them.
By the time she returned to her room to dress for dinner, she had regained her composure and had resolved to distance herself from Fred. She could not bring herself to tell him to stay away, but eventually he would make that decision for himself.
As Eleanor went downstairs, she heard voices from the parlor. When she entered, Fred rose from his armchair near the window and gave her a warm smile, which she could not return. On the opposite side of the room, Abigail and Edwin sat on the divan, their parents and Edwin's two sisters arrayed around them. Mother, who had apparently decided that impressing the Corvilles was more important than nursing her wounded feelings, broke off her conversation at the sight of Eleanor. “Where on earth have you been?” she exclaimed. “You missed Edwin's gift to his bride.”
Abigail's hand went to her throat, and only then did Eleanor see the beautiful string of pearls that encircled it. “It's exquisite,” she said.
“It is not half as lovely as the woman who wears it,” said Edwin, his eyes earnest behind his glasses.
“Well said, young man,” said Father gruffly, and Abigail flushed pink.
They were summoned to supper; Abigail murmured something and rose to walk out with Father. In a flash of panic, Eleanor feared Fred would escort her, but to her relief, Edwin fell in step beside her instead. “I brought a gift for you, too,” he told her, producing a wrapped parcel from behind his back.
“For me?”
“Of course. You are going to be my sister-in-law, aren't you?” They stopped in the corridor and allowed the others to continue on past them. Eleanor carefully unwrapped the colored paper and discovered a fine leather-bound book. “Bleak House,” she said, reading the spine. “Oh, Edwin, you know how much I enjoy Dickens.”
“It's a first edition.” Edwin opened the cover and pointed. “Inscribed by the author.”
“How on earth did you find this? Thank you. I believe I'm going to enjoy having you for a brother-in-law.”
Edwin laughed and said he certainly hoped so, and they continued on to the dining room together.
As the first course was served, Eleanor did her best to ignore Fred. She made every effort to join in the conversation, but as the meal progressed, she realized only the Corvilles seemed perfectly at ease. Father sat stiff and tense in his chair, and Eleanor had no doubt that if it were up to him, he would have rushed off to find a minister to marry Abigail to Edwin that very hour rather than risk letting the partnership fall through. At the foot of the table, Mother chatted with her guests, so energetic and merry that the Corvilles, at least, seemed thoroughly charmed. Fred gave the appearance of polite engagement, but frequently he looked Eleanor's way, a thoughtful expression on his face. Abigail did not eat a morsel, but sat pensive and anxious in her chair, so distracted that she did not respond to the conversation until prompted.
Afterward, as the men retired to the drawing room and the women went off to the parlor, Fred surprised Eleanor by taking her by the elbow and murmuring close to her ear. “What's wrong? Are you afraid I'll step on your feet when we dance on Saturday?”
“Of course not.”
“Then what's wrong? Tell me what it is or I'll follow you into the parlor and call you Eleanor in front of all those women.”
She whirled to face him. “You wouldn't dare.” Then she thought of Mr. Drury and Diamond. “Please don't. I—I regret that I might have misled you in the stable earlier today. Let me make myself plain: My feelings for you extend no farther than friendship. I hope you will forgive me for any misunderstanding.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “Of course, I still expect to dance with you at Abigail's wedding.”
“Did you not hear a single word I said?”
He held a finger to her lips. “I heard you, and if you're not careful, everyone else will, too. I traveled a long way to dance with the maid of honor at the wedding of the century, and I'm not going home until I do. That's a promise.”
With that, he left her and stormed down the hall to her father's study. His touch lingered upon her lips.
Later, alone in her study, Eleanor stitched on the Rocky Mountain quilt until her eyes teared from the strain. Once Harriet called through the locked door that her mother wished her to come to the parlor immediately, but Eleanor sent her back with her apologies and the excuse that she was not feeling well. Sometime after midnight, someone tested the doorknob but did not knock. Eleanor assumed the others had gone to bed hours ago, so she froze in her chair until she heard footsteps moving off down the hall. She did not know if the would-be visitor was Harriet again, Mother herself, or Fred, but she put away her sewing tools quietly just in case she—or he—had doubled back on tiptoe and waited outside. Only when she was certain she was alone did she steal down the stairs to her bedroom, where she soon drifted off into a troubled sleep.
She woke not long after dawn to soft rapping on her door. “Eleanor,” called Harriet softly. “Wake up.”
She could not bear to see Fred after what she had said to him. “I don't want any breakfast. I'll come down when the dressmaker arrives.”
“Get up and go to your mother at once. She needs you.”
At the fear and alarm in the maid's voice, Eleanor bolted out of bed and threw a dressing gown over her nightdress. “What is it?” she asked, opening the door. “Where's my mother?”
“Downstairs. Be quiet or you'll wake the Corvilles.” Then Harriet's sharp eyes darted to the floor. “What's this?”
Eleanor looked and discovered a small white envelope. It must have been slipped beneath her door while she slept. She reached for it, but Harriet was quicker. “Someone obviously meant that for me,” said Eleanor sharply, thinking of Fred.
Harriet tucked it into her pocket. “It may be your door but it's your mother's house. You can have it if she says you might.”
They hurried downstairs. Mother paced in the foyer, wringing her hands. At the sight of Eleanor, fury sparked in her eyes. “You put her up to this, didn't you? Where has she gone?”
Eleanor took in her mother's red-rimmed eyes, the note of hysteria in her voice. “Where has who gone?”
“Your sister.” Mother resumed pacing, wringing her hands. “As if you didn't know. She took a horse, the bridal silver, and most of her clothes, but she left the pearls Edwin gave her.”
“She also left a note.” Harriet handed Mother the envelope. “In Eleanor's room.”
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Mother quickly withdrew a sheet of Abigail's monogrammed stationery. “Dear Eleanor,” she read aloud. “I hope someday you will see that this is best for both of us. Edwin is a good and kindly man. I do not leave because he would not be a good husband, but because I love someone else. Please pray for me. Please forgive me. Your loving sister, Abigail.”
“Give me that,” said Eleanor, snatching the note.
“Why should she ask you to forgive her?” demanded Mother. “She should be begging me for forgiveness, me and her father.”
“Where is Father?”
“Searching,” said Harriet. “He'll call at the homes of all the young men Abigail knows. If he doesn't find her, at least he'll find out who else is missing.”
“You're the only one she saw fit to bid farewell,” said Mother. “You must have helped her. You must know the man.”
“I don't.” Eleanor was at an utter loss for a single likely name. “She has been distracted lately, but I thought she was just nervous about the wedding. I knew nothing of her intentions. You read what she wrote to me; you ought to see that.”
Mother stopped short, a hand to her throat. “Merciful God, what if they have run off, but not married?” She inhaled sharply, drew herself up, and resumed pacing. “No matter. In fact, that might be best. We can bring her back. We will watch her so she cannot run off again.”
“Mother! Whatever else Abigail has hidden from us, she clearly does not wish to marry Edwin.”
“Do not cross me today, Eleanor. I will see them married, and you will keep quiet.”
“Even if you could find Abigail and convince her to go through with it, you would be making a terrible mistake. Edwin would eventually learn of the deception. The scandal would force him to divorce her.”
“Rumors. He would hear rumors only, and those will fade with time. The Corvilles want this marriage as much as we do. They will ignore what they do not wish to see.”
Suddenly the door burst open and Father strode in, his face a thundercloud. Mother reached for him, but he brushed her aside. “We couldn't find her,” he growled, “and none of the young men are missing.”
Mother groped for his arm. “You were discreet? We cannot have your inquiries stirring up rumors.”
“For God's sake, woman, we are beyond fearing rumors.”
“Abigail's missing?”
Eleanor turned instinctively, but she knew Fred's voice.
“This does not concern you,” said Mother, waving at Fred as if she could shoo him back up the stairs.
Father barked out a bitter laugh. “It is his concern. It was his horse Abigail stole.”
Fred and Eleanor exchanged a look, and she knew they shared the same thought. “Did you inquire at the homes of Abigail's girl-friends?” she asked her father.
Mother clasped her hands together, a new hope appearing in her eyes. “Then you believe her letter was meant to send us searching in the wrong direction? Then perhaps there is no other man. Perhaps all will be well.”
“Mr. Lockwood,” said Fred, “I will need to borrow a horse. I know where we should continue the search.”
The men left too quickly for Eleanor to call Fred back. Regardless of the consequences to the family, Eleanor did not want Fred to assist in Abigail's recapture.
Eleanor half expected Mother to take to her bed, but instead she set herself to the task of keeping the Corvilles ignorant of Abigail's flight. Mother hid the letter and the necklace and instructed Harriet and Eleanor to say that Father, Fred, and Abigail had gone riding to see if Abigail approved of the horse the Bergstroms intended as their wedding gift.
Eleanor remained silent rather than lie, but Mother's explanation was enough to satisfy the Corvilles. After breakfast, Edwin and his father went into the city on business and Mother amused Mrs. Corville in the parlor. Eleanor withdrew to her study, but she was too heartsick to quilt, so she sat in the window seat and watched the front gates. Some time later, Edwin and his father returned from their errand; surely when they found Abigail still gone, they would grow suspicious. The Drury estate was close enough that Father and Fred could have made the round trip twice by then. What could be keeping them?
At last, the front gates swung open and two riders on horseback approached the house. She raced downstairs and out the front door just as Father and Fred dismounted and handed off the reins to a stablehand. Father stormed past Eleanor and into the house without a word, more furious than she had ever seen him.
“Was Abigail with Mr. Drury's daughter?” she asked Fred.
“No. She was with Mr. Drury.”
For a moment Eleanor did not understand, then the shock of it struck her. She placed her hand on her heart and took a deep breath. “Are they married?”
“They will be before the day is out. Your father and I convinced him it would be prudent to do so.”
Eleanor sank down upon the top step. “Oh, Abigail.”
Fred climbed the stairs and sat beside her. “She asked me to give you a message. She begs your forgiveness and hopes you will call on her at her new home when the uproar has settled down.”
Eleanor let out a bleak laugh. “Once again she asks for my forgiveness.”
“She must realize what a scandal she's created. She left you here all alone to deal with the consequences.”
“She and Mr. Drury will have consequences of their own to face.” But at least Abigail would have a home, and the affection of the man she loved, while the Lockwoods would be ruined. “And poor Edwin. She should have told him. Leaving him like this is cruel.”
“I'll tell him.”
“No, Fred.” She placed a hand on his arm to stop him from rising. “It should be someone from the family.”
“I saw your sister at the Drury place often. I should have realized what was happening, but I didn't. Let me at least do this much.”
Wordless, Eleanor nodded. Fred went into the house.
Eleanor hugged her knees to her chest and wondered what to do next. She dreaded going inside and facing the ugly scenes that were sure to unfold. She closed her eyes and wished she, too, could leap on a horse and flee to the side of the man she loved.
There would be no wedding, she suddenly realized, no dance with Fred. And now that Father knew of Fred's deception with Mr. Drury's horse, no Bergstrom would be welcome on Lockwood property—if any property remained to the Lockwoods now that the partnership with the Corvilles would dissolve.
She waited long enough for Fred to deliver the unhappy news before returning inside. The door to her father's study was closed, but she found Mother in the parlor conversing in hushed tones with Harriet. They broke off at Eleanor's entrance. “Sit down,” commanded Mother, her face drawn but determined.
“Did Mr. Bergstrom—”
“Yes, he told Edwin, and somehow he managed to make the circumstances seem less dire than they are.” She sighed and touched her hair. “I suppose I ought to thank him.”
Eleanor frowned and sat down. “I suppose you should.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” snapped Mother. “Today of all days you must try to be pleasant.”
The front bell rang. Harriet leapt up to answer it, and returned to inform them that the dressmaker had arrived.
“She came to finish fitting Abigail's gown.” Eleanor rose. “I'll dismiss her.”
“I told you to sit. Harriet, have the dressmaker wait for us in the conservatory, then fetch Abigail's gown. I will meet you there shortly.”
Harriet nodded and fled from the room.
“Eleanor,” said Mother. “We must have a wedding.”
Eleanor felt the blood drain from her face.
“If Edwin and his parents agree, you will marry him in Abigail's place on Saturday.”
“Even if he does agree, which I sincerely doubt, there will be no wedding because I will never consent to it. Edwin loves Abigail, not me.”
“He is very fond of you.”
“As a sister, and I think of him as a brother.”
> “Good marriages have been based upon less.”
Eleanor stared at her mother in disbelief. “It is incomprehensible.”
Mother's voice was acid. “Your father's business is so deeply in debt that without this partnership, we will not survive another year. We will have no home, no means of support.”
“Father will find other work,” said Eleanor, her voice shaking. “I will find work.”
“You? What would you do? Do you think someone would pay you to read books or stitch quilts?”
“Perhaps-perhaps Abigail and Mr. Drury”
“Absolutely not. We will take nothing from them.” Mother rose and grasped Eleanor by the shoulders. “You must fulfill the obligations your sister abandoned.”
“I cannot marry. You know this. I'm sure Edwin knows.”
“The doctors have been wrong about you before. They thought you would die as a child, and yet here you are, as well and strong as any of us.”
“That is not true.”
“You are healthy enough for Edwin.” Mother squeezed Eleanor's arms painfully. “What would you sacrifice in marrying him? A life alone with your books and your needle? Edwin loves books as much as you, so he will spare you ample time for reading. He will come to accept your patchwork fetish as well. You will have a husband and a home of your own. Don't you want that?”
“Mother—” She did want that; of course she did. But she was not Abigail, and the idea that she could simply step into her sister's place as easily as donning her wedding gown sickened her.
“Think of the alternatives. You may enjoy satisfactory health for years. Do you want to spend them impoverished and hungry?”
Eleanor tore herself away. “It would not come to that. We have friends, relations—”
“You will see how much affection our friends bear us when we are ruined.”
“If I marry, it will be for love.”
“I married for love,” said Mother venomously. “And you can see what good it has done me. Never marry for love. Marry for position and security, as your father did. As I should have done. That is the only way you will not be disappointed. That is the only way you will receive exactly what you were promised.”
The Quilter's Legacy Page 11