Sylvia complied, and as she hurried upstairs, she met Andrew coming down, wearing his new suit. “You look very handsome,” she told him in passing.
He laughed. “No time for a kiss?”
“You'll get your kiss later,” she promised, and hurried off to her room.
Her suit lay on the bed, freshly pressed and waiting. Beside it sat a small bouquet of ivory roses tied with a plum velvet ribbon. “Oh, Andrew,” she said, smiling. He had not left a card, but only Andrew would have thought to give her flowers.
She dressed quickly, but took time for powder and lipstick. She put on earrings and a pearl necklace that had once belonged to her mother, and fussed with her hair longer than usual. She was not vain, but tonight she wanted to look her best. She scrutinized herself in the mirror, frowning critically. “That will have to do,” she said, but she gave her reflection a nod of approval. She thought she looked rather nice, if a trifle flushed from the excitement.
She returned downstairs, smiling with delight when she saw the Christmas tree lit up in all its splendor. Sixteen feet high, it would have seemed enormous in any other room but the grand foyer. Andrew and Matt had needed a day to string the small white lights upon it, and the better part of another to decorate the boughs with ornaments. Ordinarily Sylvia preferred a smaller tree, just the right size for the parlor, but this year called for something special.
At that moment the front door opened. Matt appeared in the doorway, stomping his feet to clear the snow from his boots. He spotted Sylvia and grinned. “There's still time to put up the blinking colored lights if you like.”
“Not on your life,” retorted Sylvia, taking his coat as he came inside. “How's the driveway?”
“It's clear. The snow wasn't too deep,” said Matt. “Don't worry, Sylvia. The weather's fine. Everyone will be here.”
“Not quite everyone,” said Sylvia, rueful. But it could not be helped.
Matt had other chores to attend to before the guests arrived, so Sylvia left his coat in the cloakroom and went alone to the ballroom, where Sarah had just finished lighting the last hurricane lamp centerpiece, blowing out the match as she inspected her work.
Sylvia took a few steps toward her and stopped short, enchanted by the transformation candles, poinsettias, ribbon, and evergreen boughs had wrought on the ballroom. Andrew had built a fire in the large fireplace at the far side of the room, and nearby was the Nativity scene her father had brought back from a visit to the Bergstroms' ancestral home in Baden-Baden, Germany. Earlier that day, Summer had stopped by to set up her CD player at one end of the dance floor, and Christmas carols wafted on air fragrant with the scents of pine and cinnamon and roasted apples. Just across the dance floor, the cook and two assistants—his daughter and her best friend, or so Sylvia had overheard—were placing silver trays of hors d'oeuvres and cookies on a long table, and preparing the buffet for hot dishes still simmering in the kitchen. Someone had opened the curtains covering the floor-to-ceiling windows on the south wall, and snowflakes fell gently against the window panes.
Sarah joined her as Sylvia took in the sight. “What do you think?” she asked.
“It's absolutely splendid,” declared Sylvia, putting her arm around her young friend. “I can't imagine a lovelier or more festive place to spend a Christmas Eve.”
“If you had given me more time, I could have done more.”
“Nonsense. It's perfect the way it is.” Sylvia hugged her. “Thank you, dear.”
Sylvia had Sarah show her to her seat so she could leave her flowers at her place. She wanted to seek out Andrew so they could share a moment alone before the festivities began, but just then, the front bell rang, and a few moments later, their guests began to fill the ballroom. First Summer arrived with her boyfriend and her mother, Gwen, and then Judy entered with her husband and young daughter. Next came Diane, stunning in a black crushed velvet dress, accompanied by her husband and two teenage sons. Bonnie and her husband followed close behind; with them were a number of young men and women Sylvia recognized as their adult children and their spouses. The precious bundle cradled in the pink-and-white Tumbling Blocks quilt was surely Bonnie's new granddaughter, and in her eagerness to meet the baby, Sylvia forgot all about finding Andrew.
More guests arrived, including the rest of the Elm Creek Quilts staff and faculty and their families, other friends from Waterford, college students Sylvia had befriended while participating in various research projects, and Katherine Quigley, a prominent local judge. As soon as Katherine and her husband arrived, Sylvia made a point of welcoming them to Elm Creek Manor and thanking them for coming. Since the Quigleys were not a usual part of Sylvia's circle of friends, Sylvia had been concerned about making them feel comfortable, but when nearly a dozen people called out greetings the moment Katherine entered, Sylvia had to laugh at her worries.
Cocktails were served, and then a delicious meal of roasted Cornish game hen with cranberry walnut dressing that reminded Sylvia all over again why some quilters claimed they came to Elm Creek Quilt camp for the food alone. Afterward, Summer put some big band tunes on the CD player and led her boyfriend, Jeremy, onto the dance floor. Other couples joined them, and soon the room was alive with laughter, music, and the warmth of friendship.
As the first notes of “Moon River” played, Andrew found Sylvia chatting with a few of the Elm Creek Quilters and asked her to dance. “You're so popular, I've hardly had a moment alone with you,” he teased.
Sylvia laughed. “You've never been the jealous type. I certainly hope you don't plan to start now.”
He promised he wouldn't, and she closed her eyes and touched her cheek to his as they danced. He had become quite a fine dancer since the previous summer, when he had promised to learn to dance if she would learn how to fish. She still hadn't caught anything, but Andrew said, “Fishing isn't just about having a trout on the fire at the end of the day.” She replied that she felt exactly the same about quilting.
“I don't think I've ever had a happier Christmas Eve,” said Sylvia. “I hate to see it end.”
“Is that so?” He regarded her, eyebrows raised. “Does that mean you've changed your mind?”
“Of course not,” she said, lowering her voice as the song ended. “In fact, I was just about to suggest we get started.”
He brought her hands to his lips. “I was hoping you'd say that.”
Sylvia signaled to Sarah, and while her young friend found Judge Quigley in the crowd, Sylvia picked up her bouquet and met Andrew at the opposite end of the dance floor from where the judge waited with Sarah and Matt. Sylvia took a deep breath and swallowed.
“Nervous?” asked Andrew, smiling.
“Not at all,” she said, and cleared her throat. “I just hope our friends will forgive us.”
Andrew chuckled. “They'll have to, once we remind them that you and I never said anything about waiting until June.”
“May I have everyone's attention, please?” called Sarah over the noise of the crowd. Summer turned down the volume on the stereo. “On behalf of Sylvia and Andrew and everyone who considers Elm Creek Manor a home away from home, thank you for joining us on this very special Christmas Eve.”
Everyone applauded, except Andrew, who straightened his tie, and Sylvia, who took his arm.
“It is also my honor and great pleasure,” said Sarah, “to inform you that you are here not only to celebrate Christmas, but also the wedding of our two dear friends, Sylvia Compson and Andrew Cooper.”
Gasps of surprise and excitement quickly gave way to cheers. Sylvia felt her cheeks growing hot as their many friends turned to them, applauding and calling their names.
“You said June,” said Diane, her voice carrying over the celebration.
“No, you said June,” retorted Sylvia.
“But I already bought my dress,” wailed Diane, “and picked out your gown!”
The gathering of friends burst into laughter, and, joining in as loud as anyone, Sarah held up her h
ands for quiet. “If you would all gather around, Andrew would like to escort his beautiful bride down the aisle.”
The crowd parted to make way for them, and Summer slipped away to the stereo. As the first strains of Bach's “Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring” filled the air, Sylvia nodded to Andrew, and they walked among their friends to where the judge waited.
To Sylvia, every moment of the simple ceremony rang as true as a crystal chime. They pledged to be true, faithful, respectful, and loving to each other until the end of their days. They listened, hand in hand, as the judge reminded them of the significance and irrevocability of their promises. They exchanged rings, and when they kissed, the room erupted in cheers and applause. As Sarah and Matt came forward to sign the marriage license, Sylvia looked out upon the gathered friends wiping their eyes and smiling and knew that she and Andrew had wed surrounded by love, exactly as they knew they should.
If only Andrew's children and grandchildren were there to share this moment. If only they were as happy for Sylvia and Andrew as their friends were. Sylvia looked up at her new husband and saw in his eyes that he shared her wistful thoughts.
She reached up to touch his cheek. He put his hand over hers and smiled.
Sylvia woke Christmas morning in the arms of her new husband.
She watched him as he slept, reminiscing about the previous night. It had truly been a marvelous wedding, exactly the sort of celebration she and Andrew had wanted. Even the Elm Creek Quilters had enjoyed themselves too much to complain that their own plans for the wedding would now have to be abandoned. “I feel sorry for Judy's daughter,” Summer had confided to Sylvia as the celebration wound down. “The Elm Creek Quilters are going to do the same thing to her that they did to you, and they won't be fooled by a surprise early wedding twice.”
“Emily?” echoed Sylvia. “I'd be more concerned about yourself.”
“I think I'll elope,” said Summer, blanching. “Or stay single.”
“Good luck, dear,” Sylvia had told her, knowing Summer was unlikely to escape that easily.
Sylvia muffled a laugh at the memory and carefully sat up in bed. Andrew slept on, undisturbed, warm and snug beneath her old Lone Star quilt. It suited the master suite perfectly, just as Sarah had assured her it would. Except for moving their clothing and other personal items into the suite they would share, Sylvia and Andrew had decided to keep their old rooms as they were. Everyone needed a private retreat every now and then, even newly married sweethearts.
She put on her glasses, slipped on her flannel robe and slippers, and seated herself at the desk near the window. More snow had fallen overnight, but the flakes were fluffy and light, and once the snowplows made their rounds, the roads ought to be safe for travelers.
The family Bible lay on the desktop where she had left it the previous afternoon after moving her things into the new room. First, she read the story of the Nativity from Luke, a Christmas tradition of her own.
She reflected on the words, then glanced at Andrew, smiled, and retrieved a pen from one of the desk drawers. She turned back to the front of the Bible, to the record of important milestones in the Lockwood family written in several different hands. The last entries were in her mother's small, elegant script. She had recorded her own marriage to Sylvia's father, her sister's marriage and death, her parents' passings, and the births of all three of her children. No one had written in the date of Sylvia's mother's death, nor those of the loved ones who had followed.
The familiar melancholy that stole over Sylvia whenever she contemplated the record touched her only lightly that morning and then, as she took a second look at a name that had caught her eye, it vanished entirely.
“Herbert Drury?” she exclaimed. “Abigail Drury is Aunt Abigail?”
“Who's what?” asked Andrew sleepily, sitting up in bed with a yawn.
“The quilt designer, the one from the magazine. The woman whose name seemed so familiar. My goodness, she was my aunt. My mother's sister. I didn't recognize her married name.”
Andrew grinned and put on his robe. “You forgot your own aunt's name?”
“I did, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. She died long before I was born, and my mother always referred to her as her sister, or Abigail, but never Abigail Drury.”
“So your Aunt Abigail designed the whole cloth quilt.” Andrew pulled up a chair and stroked her back as he read over her shoulder. “That's one more mystery solved.”
“No, I don't think so,” said Sylvia. “My mother told me on several occasions that she was the only quilter in her immediate family. An aunt or a family friend taught her. I can't recall which.” Sylvia thought for a moment. “I'll bet half my fabric stash my mother designed that quilt and gave her sister the credit.”
“Why?”
“Well …” Sylvia considered, then indicated the record of her aunt's death. “I suppose because Aunt Abigail had died only a few months before the pattern's publication. Perhaps my mother used her sister's name in tribute, to immortalize her, in a sense.”
Andrew leaned closer for a better look. “April fifteenth, 1912. Did you know that's the same date the Titanic sank?”
“Of course I know. No one in my family could ever forget. Of course, we're not sure whether Aunt Abigail died on the night of the fourteenth or the morning of the fifteenth.”
Andrew stared at her. “Your aunt died aboard the Titanic ?”
“She and her husband, yes.”
He shook his head in amazement. “Now, that's a Bergstrom family story I haven't heard.”
Sylvia supposed it was, but since her mother had told her only those few spare details, she had little more to share with Andrew.
Andrew touched the page where the date of Aunt Abigail's death was written. “This is your mother's handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Your grandmother didn't pass on until several years later. Why didn't she make this entry? Come to think of it, she should have put down your mother's and aunt's weddings, and the births of you and your siblings, but it looks like your mother did those, too.”
“My grandmother abandoned the record after both of her daughters ran off to marry against her wishes,” said Sylvia lightly.
“Your grandmother didn't approve of your father?” asked Andrew, incredulous. He had admired Sylvia's father since childhood. “Why not?”
“I don't know. My grandmother never spoke an ill word about him in my presence. Of course, I know little more about her than about Aunt Abigail. I met her for the first time when I was seven years old and she came to live with us. She died less than two months after her arrival.”
“All this talk about death, marriages the family doesn't approve of …” Andrew shook his head and gave her a rueful smile. “This isn't a very cheerful project for the first morning of your honeymoon.”
“Don't you worry,” she told him, smiling. “I believe it will have a happy ending.”
She took up her pen and finished the record her mother's great-grandmother had begun. Her mother's death, a date she would never forget. Her marriage to her first husband, James. The death of James and her beloved little brother, on the same day in the same tragic accident far from home. Claudia's marriage and passing, which she should have witnessed, but learned of through letters from mutual friends.
She concluded her entry by recording her marriage to Andrew. Then she set the pen aside. She did not know who, if anyone, would continue the record after her. She would not be dismayed if no one did. It would not bother her in the least if the record ended on a note of joy and promise, the union of two dear friends.
When Sylvia and Andrew finished packing, they went downstairs for breakfast. Sarah and Matt were lingering over coffee in the kitchen, waiting to wish them a Merry Christmas and safe journey before leaving for Sarah's mother's house. Sarah and Matt had prepared the newlyweds a special breakfast: blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, a pot of lemon tea for Sylvia, and good strong coffee for Andrew. And as they sat down to eat
, Sarah placed a brightly wrapped box on the table. “Your Christmas present,” she explained. “It's a wedding gift, too.”
Inside Sylvia discovered a digital camcorder. “My goodness,” she exclaimed.
“It's to record all your honeymoon memories,” said Sarah.
“Maybe not all of them,” said Matt, winking at Andrew. Sarah rolled her eyes. “What? That's the closest thing to a bachelor party the poor man's going to get. I think I'm allowed one tasteless joke.”
“That's the best you can do?” inquired Sylvia. “I've heard worse at your average quilting bee.”
They all laughed, and Andrew, who loved gadgets, eagerly opened the box. “This is great, kids. Thanks.”
“Yes, thank you,” added Sylvia, though the device looked so complicated she decided not to touch it until she read the manual. “We'll enjoy documenting our travels for you.”
“Will you spend your whole honeymoon in the Poconos?” asked Matt.
“No, just tonight,” said Sylvia. “Tomorrow morning we're continuing on to New York.”
Sarah's face lit up. “To see some Broadway shows? To go shopping?”
“That, and we're going to visit my mother's childhood home. I've never seen it. I wrote to the current residents, and they graciously offered to give us a tour.”
Andrew caught Sylvia's eye and smiled. “After that, we're going to Connecticut.”
Sylvia smiled back at him. If Amy wouldn't come to them, they would go to her.
When the last bite of Sarah's delicious pancakes was gone and the dishes were washed and put away, they exchanged the rest of their gifts. Then, to put their young friends' minds at ease, Sylvia wrote down their itinerary, including the number of her new cellular phone, a Christmas present from Andrew.
Sarah and Matt helped them carry their luggage to the Elm Creek Quilts minivan. “Will you call me at my mother's house when you get to the inn?” asked Sarah.
“If you promise to stop worrying,” said Sylvia, climbing into the passenger's seat and shutting the door. Andrew started the engine, and Sylvia waved good-bye through the window.
The Quilter's Legacy Page 29