The Quilter's Apprentice

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  She squeezed Sarah’s hand, then let go. “The only right action is for me to pass the estate to another family who will make the place live again. I have no direct descendants, only second and third cousins scattered who knows where around the country. I’m the only Bergstrom left, and I can’t bring Elm Creek Manor back to life by myself. I’m not strong enough, and I don’t have enough time left to reverse the effects of years.”

  Mrs. Compson paused. “Perhaps it would be best to let Krolich hand it over to the students. A bunch of young people certainly would liven up the place, and that’s what I said I wanted, didn’t I? What do you suppose old Great-Grandfather Hans would think of that?” She laughed quietly.

  Sarah couldn’t join in. “If Elm Creek Manor does comes back to life, don’t you want to be here for it?”

  Mrs. Compson said nothing.

  “I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

  “I could never be too hard on myself in this matter.” Her voice was crisp. “That’s enough of this. Let’s go to the library and take care of my lecture materials. I have several boxes of slides to sort through. When we’re finished, we can have a quilt lesson. I believe you said you’re ready to start a new block?”

  Sarah saw that the confidences were over, for now. “I finished the LeMoyne Star last night.”

  “Good. Good.” Mrs. Compson rose and left the kitchen.

  Sarah followed her upstairs, thoughts racing and worries growing.

  Eighteen

  The several boxes of slides turned out to be four large cartons of slides, photographs, and newspaper clippings. Mrs. Compson explained that for over thirty years she had photographed every quilt she had made.

  “Gwen’s lucky you brought all this with you from Sewickley,” Sarah said.

  “Luck has nothing to do with it. I still have some of these quilts, but most of them have been sold or given away. I’d no sooner leave this record of my life’s work unattended than I’d sleep outside in a snowstorm.”

  As Mrs. Compson opened the first box of slides, Sarah unfolded one of the newspaper clippings. The headline announced WATERFORD QUILTING GUILD TO RAFFLE ‘VICTORY QUILT.’ Beneath it was a photo of several women holding up a quilt pieced from small hexagons.

  “Are you in this picture?” Sarah asked.

  “What do you have there?” Mrs. Compson took the clipping. “Oh, goodness. Wasn’t that a long time ago.” She pointed to one of the women. “That’s me, holding on to the corner.”

  Sarah looked closely at the slender young woman in the photo. She was holding her chin up and looking straight into the camera, a determined expression on her face. “What’s a Victory Quilt?”

  “It’s not a particular block pattern, if that’s what you mean. That’s a Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt.”

  “It looks like a honeycomb.”

  Mrs. Compson laughed. “I suppose it does. The small pieces were well suited to using up scraps, though, and with the war on, not even the Bergstroms could afford to waste a single thread. We ladies made this quilt and raffled it off to raise money for the war effort. You can’t see it in this picture, but each of the light-colored hexagons was embroidered with the name of a local boy in the service. We stitched a gold star near his name if he had given up his life for his country.” She sighed and handed back the clipping. “We embroidered so many gold stars that summer.”

  Sarah studied the picture a little while longer before returning it to the box.

  “Let’s see, now,” Mrs. Compson said as she took a slide and held it up to the light. “Yes, this is a good one. Sarah, take that slide projector wheel out of that box and dust it off, would you? This slide should be the first.”

  Two hours passed as Mrs. Compson examined slides, considered them, and either rejected them or told Sarah where to place them in the slide projector wheel. Mrs. Compson explained that she planned to discuss the history of quilting. The slides would show Gwen’s students how quilting had changed over time and how it had stayed the same.

  “Are you going to tell them the Wandering Foot story?”

  “Yes, and perhaps a few others like it, if there’s time.” Then Mrs. Compson sighed and pushed the last carton away. “That’s all the slides I’ll need. I’ll prepare my lecture notes another day, but now it’s time for another quilt lesson.”

  They put away the cartons and returned to the sewing room, where Sarah got out her template-making supplies.

  “This time I’ll show you how to make the Bachelor’s Puzzle block,” Mrs. Compson said, a smile flickering in the corners of her mouth.

  “What’s so funny?” Sarah asked, wondering if there was a superstition attached to this block, too. Next thing she knew, Mrs. Compson would be telling her that a quilt with a Bachelor’s Puzzle block in it would doom the maker to eternal unemployment.

  Mrs. Compson’s smile broadened. “It’s nothing, really. An inside joke between Claudia and me. Not a very nice joke, I’m ashamed to say.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense. What’s the joke?”

  “I did say you didn’t know all of the manor’s stories or all of its occupants,” Mrs. Compson murmured as if thinking aloud. “And she was a very important person here once.” She sighed and focused on Sarah again, her cheeks slightly pink, her expression almost embarrassed. “Very well, I’ll explain while we work on this new block. But I’ll warn you, this story puts me in a rather bad light. I admit I was not always kind when I was younger.”

  “Gee, that’s hard to believe,” Sarah replied in a dry tone rivaling Mrs. Compson’s own.

  As I told you before, Richard was not fond of school. If Father had not repeatedly told him that he must have a proper education if he wished to run Bergstrom Thoroughbreds someday, he probably wouldn’t have gone at all. Our semester at the Pennsylvania State College had not satisfied his thirst for travel and adventure, either. Richard often complained to me that Waterford High School was stifling him, the teachers were horrendous, the town was dull, et cetera, et cetera. When Richard turned sixteen, he and Father reached a compromise: if Richard kept his marks up, he would be allowed to attend school in Philadelphia.

  “If you blame this on that baby quilt,” my sister told me when we heard the news, “I’ll never forgive you.”

  “Why, Claudia, I haven’t said a word,” I replied, all innocence. My amusement lasted only a moment, however. The thought of Richard’s absence left me feeling hollow inside. I tried my best to feel happy for him, but I could never be so, not entirely.

  So Richard went to Philadelphia to continue his education. Father had friends in the city who agreed to take him in while he was in school, so my worrying about him was really quite unwarranted. He wrote to me often, and when I read his letters aloud to Claudia and the rest of the family, it eased our hearts but made us miss him all the more.

  Fortunately, James was there to brighten my spirits. He and Father were two of a kind—kindhearted, virtuous, determined men. With James’s help, Bergstrom Thoroughbreds was better than it had ever been. James handled many of the more dangerous tasks that were now becoming more difficult for Father.

  We had been married three years, each day happier than the last. What carefree times we had then. But of course you know what I mean, being newly married yourself, and to such a fine young man as Matthew. We were eager for children, and even after three years we weren’t worried. James would always stroke my head and tell me that we had all the time in the world, that we had forever. Young brides still like to hear that sort of thing, I suppose.

  So, as much as Richard’s departure made my heart ache, I knew he would return when his education was complete. Maybe he would even be an uncle by then, I would think to myself, hiding a smile so that Claudia wouldn’t pester me to share my thoughts. Remember, too, that it was the autumn of 1943. With so many families losing brothers and sons every day, I had no right to complain when my brother was merely away at school.

  After what seemed like the longe
st time, the Christmas holidays finally approached. You can imagine the bustle and excitement around here then. Christmas at Elm Creek Manor was always such a lovely time, but now we had the added joy of Richard’s homecoming. We had to be more creative than ever with our celebrations, due to rationing and shortages and all that, but we pushed troubling thoughts from our minds for a while. Richard was coming home at last.

  On the day of his arrival, the family’s impatience and expectation seemed to fill the house. All day I paced around, taking care of last-minute preparations and moving from window to window, looking out through the falling snow for him. Suddenly one of the cousins ran downstairs from the nursery shouting that a car was coming up the drive.

  It seemed as if everyone was in the front entry at once, laughing and arguing over who would get to open the door for him, who would get to take his coat, who would get to sit next to him at dinner. Father reached the door first, with me at his elbow. Father swung open the door, and there he was.

  “Richard,” I cried, leaping forward to embrace him. And then I froze.

  A small figure peeked out from behind him. The biggest blue eyes I had ever seen peered up at me from beneath a white fur hood, the rest of the small face hidden behind a thick woolen muffler.

  “Well, sis? Are you going to let us in or keep us standing out here in the snow?” Richard demanded, grinning at me as I stood there gaping. He took the bundled-up figure by the elbow and guided her into the house, giving me a quick peck on the cheek as he passed.

  I followed them inside, still dumbfounded. Everyone tried to hug Richard at once, and their welcomes created quite a din. The bundled figure stood apart, looking anxiously from one strange face to the next.

  Then Richard broke free from the crowd and turned to his companion. “Still bundled up, are you?” he teased gently, and the eyes seemed to smile over the muffler. Mittened hands fumbled clumsily with the hood and the coat buttons. Richard shrugged off his own coat and began to help.

  The family fell silent. Even the little cousins watched them expectantly. Richard turned to face us, draping their wraps over his arm. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet my—I’d like you to meet Agnes Chevalier.” He said her name just like that—Ahn-YES instead of the normal way, AG-nes.

  “Hello,” Agnes said, her smile trembling a little. I already told you she had the biggest blue eyes I had ever seen. She also had the longest, darkest hair I had ever seen, longer than mine, even. Her skin was so fair, except where the cold had brought roses to her cheeks, and she was so small that the top of her head barely reached my shoulder. I remember thinking she looked just like a little porcelain doll.

  “Welcome to Elm Creek Manor, Agnes,” Claudia said, stepping forward to take their things. She handed them to a cousin with instructions that they were to be hung someplace where they would dry. Then she turned to Richard and Agnes, placing an arm around the tiny girl’s shoulders. “Let’s get you two by a nice warm fire, shall we?” As she guided Agnes down the hallway toward the parlor, two cousins seized Richard’s hands and pulled him after them.

  Father and I trailed along behind the crowd. We exchanged a quick glance, enough to confirm that the other had not known about Richard’s traveling companion either.

  As they warmed themselves with hot tea and warm quilts, Richard told us that Agnes was the sister of a classmate, and they had met when he went to his friend’s home for dinner two months before. Her father was a successful attorney and her mother was from an enormously wealthy and prominent political family—although Richard put it more politely than I have done. They had been distressed to learn that they would not be spending the holidays with their only daughter, but they sent the Bergstroms their warmest holiday wishes.

  “Maybe Agnes should be put back on the next train to Philadelphia to spend Christmas with her own family,” I whispered to Claudia. I said the girl’s name AG-nes, without the affected French pronunciation.

  Claudia sighed. “We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough, but in the meantime, you mustn’t be rude.” She turned away from me and smiled brightly across the room at our unexpected guest.

  It wasn’t until the next afternoon that I was able to pull Richard aside for a private chat. “Isn’t she just wonderful, Sylvia?” he exclaimed, his eyes dazzled. “She’s just the best girl I ever met. I couldn’t wait for you to meet her.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything in any of your letters?”

  Richard looked abashed. “I knew you’d tell Claudia and Father, and I didn’t want them to think I was neglecting my studies. I haven’t been,” he hastily added, probably seeing my eyebrows rise in inquiry. “My marks are good, and I’m learning a lot, I think.” He hesitated. “She’s only fifteen. I know she’s just a kid, but she’s really special, and—”

  “And you’re just sixteen yourself, too young to be serious about a girl. What were her parents thinking, letting her travel across the state unchaperoned like that?”

  Richard scowled. “You know me better than that. I’d never take advantage of a girl.”

  “Hmph. Maybe she’d take advantage of you.” He bristled, and I held up a hand in apology. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. But goodness, Richard, couldn’t you have given us some kind of warning?”

  He grinned, and looked over his shoulder as footsteps approached. “I know you’ll love her, too, once you get to know her,” he whispered, giving my hand a squeeze before sauntering down the hall.

  You can imagine how I felt about that. “You’ll love her, too,” he’d said, which meant that he loved her, or at least he thought he did. I squared my shoulders and returned to the rest of the family, hoping for the best.

  Before long, I determined that just as surely as Agnes was the prettiest girl I had ever seen, she was also the silliest, most spoiled, and most childish creature ever to step foot into Elm Creek Manor.

  She pouted if her tea was too cold, then batted her eyelashes at Richard until he leaped up to fetch her a fresh cup, only to send him racing back to the kitchen again because he had added too much sugar. We gave her the finest guest room, only to hear that it was “unbearably cold, not like in Philadelphia.” She picked at her food, remarking that one could not expect to find Philadelphia’s fine cookery so far out here in the country. She would try to participate in dinner conversation, prefacing each inane chirping remark with “Papa says . . .” And the way Richard treated her, as if she were made of priceless, delicate china, giving her the best seat nearest the fire, carrying everything for her, taking her arm as she went upstairs, hanging on to her every word as if it fell from the lips of Shakespeare himself—my, it was tiresome.

  I was not the only one who found her insufferable. We adults would exchange amazed looks at each new piece of foolishness, and even the children screwed up their faces in bewilderment as they looked from their favorite cousin to this strange creature from the apparently heavenly land of Philadelphia. We all pondered the same question: yes, she’s lovely to look at, but what on earth does our dear Richard see in her?

  James warned me that I had better get used to her, just in case Agnes became a permanent addition to the family. Oh, I tried to like her, and I vowed to keep my feelings hidden for Richard’s sake. Surely, I told myself, once we knew Agnes better, we would come to see her as Richard did.

  One afternoon Claudia and I invited her to join us as we quilted. “How charming,” she exclaimed, fingering the edge of my latest quilt. Do you remember the pictures of the Baltimore Album style quilts I showed you? Well, that’s what I was working on then. I much prefer piecing to the intricate appliqué required for that style, but one of my closest school friends was planning to be married in the spring. This style was not quite as fashionable as others then, but it was my friend’s favorite. The quilt was going to be a surprise, you see. Her husband-to-be was fighting in Europe, and they were to be wed as soon as he came home.

  But as I was saying, Agnes fingered the edge of my quilt and exclaimed, “How ch
arming.” Then she added, “In Philadelphia we can buy our own blankets, but I don’t suppose you can do that out here in the country, can you?”

  I removed the edge of the quilt from her tiny, grasping hand. “Quite right. There isn’t a single store within a hundred miles of here. I hope you remembered to pack everything.”

  “Sylvia.” Claudia’s voice held a note of warning.

  “Really?” Agnes’s mouth fell open in a way that made her look quite foolish. “Not a single store?”

  “Not a one,” I replied. “In fact, I had never even heard of a store until Richard described them to me in one of his letters. At first I thought he was just making them up, but Father told me he was telling the truth. To me it sounded like the stuff of fairy tales, but then, I’ve never been to Philadelphia.” I picked up my needle and continued sewing.

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Agnes staring at me in confusion, her cheeks growing pink. Then she turned on her heel and flounced out of the room.

  “Sylvia, that wasn’t very nice.”

  “After that remark, she’s lucky I didn’t say worse. Why make a quilt when you can just buy a blanket? Honestly.”

  “I agree she could be more tactful, but even so—”

  “What does Richard see in her?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a puzzle.”

  “She’s the puzzle,” I retorted, and that’s how it started. From that time on, whenever Claudia or I referred to Agnes, we called her Bachelor’s Puzzle. Sometimes we called her BP, or the Puzzle, as in “I wonder if Richard will bring the Puzzle home for spring break?” or “Richard writes that he and BP are going to the Winter Ball.” Or “Dear me, I hope Bachelor’s Puzzle can remember her own name today, indeed I do.”

  We never said it to her, or when anyone else other than Claudia and I could hear. But we said it all the same, and it wasn’t very nice, and I’ll never forgive myself for giving her that dreadful nickname.