by Carla J Gade
Pattern for Romance
Other Books in the Quilts of Love Series
Beyond the Storm
Carolyn Zane
(October 2012)
A Wild Goose Chase Christmas
Jennifer AlLee
(November 2012)
Path of Freedom
Jennifer Hudson Taylor
(January 2013)
For Love of Eli
Loree Lough
(February 2013)
Threads of Hope
Christa Allan
(March 2013)
A Healing Heart
Angela Breidenbach
(April 2013)
A Heartbeat Away
S. Dionne Moore
(May 2013)
Pieces of the Heart
Bonnie S. Calhoun
(June 2013)
Raw Edges
Sandra D.Bricker
(September 2013)
The Christmas Quilt
Vannetta Chapman
(October 2013)
Aloha Rose
Lisa Carter
(November 2013)
Tempest’s Course
Lynette Sowell
(December 2013)
Scraps of Evidence
Barbara Cameron
(January 2014)
A Sky Without Stars
Linda S. Clare
(February 2014)
Maybelle in Stitches
Joyce Magnin
(March 2014)
Pattern for Romance
Quilts of Love Series
Carla Olson Gade
Pattern for Romance
Copyright © 2013 by Carla Olson Gade
ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-7639-7
Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202 www.abingdonpress.com
Published in association with MacGregor Literary Agency.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been requested.
Scripture quotations are taken from The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press.
Printed in the United States of America
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 / 18 17 16 15 14 13
For my amazing husband, Brad—
Our Master Quilter designed a beautiful story for us, His-story.
With every stitch of love,a beautiful pattern has emerged!
Delight thyself also in the Lord:
and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.
Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him;
and he shall bring it to pass.
Psalm 37:4-5
Acknowledgments
After a vehicle accident that injured my writing wrist, I found completing this novel to be no small task. I’m so grateful to all those who helped, prayed, and encouraged me through it.
Ramona Richards, my Abingdon editor, for your patience. Joyce Buckley, my mom and copy editor, for your tenacity. Susan Page Davis, my mentor, for your skillful assistance. Chip MacGregor, my literary agent, for your guidance. Amanda, my occupational therapist, for your perseverance. Colonial American Christian Writers, for your knowledge. Brad Gade, my husband, for your encouragement and support. Jesus, my friend, for your grace, healing, and strength.
Dear Reader and Quilt Lover,
Pattern for Romance will be unlike most of the Quilts of Love novels, in that the whole-cloth quilt featured in this book is not piecework. During my research, I was blessed to view firsthand authentic examples of this type of quilt at the New England Quilting Museum and in Colonial Williamsburg. I came to adore these beautiful quilts and often found myself poring over photographs of the beautiful extant samples for pure enjoyment!
Whole-cloth quilts originated in fourteenth-century Italy and were popularized in France. The English and other European cultures were highly influenced by French styles, and by the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, skilled quilters in England were manufacturing the whole-cloth technique. Whole-cloth quilting was the first type of quilting found in early America in the form of bed coverings and quilted clothing such as petticoats, jackets, waistcoats, and robes. The term “quilt” was often used interchangeably for a bed quilt and women’s quilted petticoat. Outer petticoats, worn as the skirt of a woman’s gown, were not considered an undergarment. Open-robe gowns parted in the front and sometimes gathered at the sides into a polonaise to show the elegant needlework of the outer petticoat.
Quilted clothing and bed quilts featured exquisite motifs that were traced onto paper and transferred onto the fabric. Holes were poked through the paper and ground cinnamon sifted onto it. When the paper was removed, the design was left behind. Curves and swags of vines, ferns, ivy, and acanthus leaves, mixed with reliefs of roses, grapes, pomegranates, fleur-de-lis, geometric shapes, birds, and animals provided all manner of beautiful designs and borders. Bed quilts were not always square, but often a T-shape to fit over the side and footboards of the bedstead correctly. One husband in Colonial America has been known to have designed a bed quilt pattern, while his wife provided the stitching. Surely, many of the great works were a labor of love.
Yet the average colonial woman did not have the privilege of leisurely time for quilting. Many quilted garments and bedcoverings were stitched by professional quilters who were paid meager salaries, though wealthy ladies with the time and means to develop their fine needlework may have enjoyed the task. Regardless of who did the handiwork, the beauty of their careful stitches was often highlighted by the textile used for the quilt. Dyed in bright colors such as deep crimson and blues, worsted wool blends given a glazed treatment by pressing the fabric with hot rollers or an iron resulted in what is known as calamanco. Silks and satin-weaves were also chosen for garments. White fabric was rare and costly, and therefore, many bridal quilts were made of a satin-weave cotton/woolen blend with linen backing. Sometimes small bits of batting were painstakingly stuffed into the pattern to provide a raised relief for the white work, in modern terms called trapunto, a method still used today by hand-quilters.
Although quilting in Colonial America has been idealized, it was indeed rare in the founding years of our country, particularly in New England, when women worked spinning and weaving, leaving precious little time for leisurely activities. It is only in the late eighteenth century that we begin to see medallion style and chintz applique piece-worked bed quilts when textiles became more readily available, but more so in the early nineteenth century. The stitching patterns used on whole-cloth quilts were sometimes applied to the piecework quilts, lending to the dense and comfortable bedding. Yet, the beautiful and rare solid whole-cloth quilts we find from early to mid-Colonial America birthed an appreciation of quilting, which has endured for centuries and may for centuries to come.
Come, join me in Colonial Boston as we see a Pattern for Romance emerge through the story of an exquisite white-work whole-cloth quilt and its humble quilter. Please visit me online at http://carlagade.com and http://pinterest.com/quiltsoflove to see historical quilting samples and research materials that
inspired me while writing Pattern for Romance.
Blessings,
Carla
1
Boston, Massachusetts
July 31, 1769
The crack of musket fire resounded through the clouded sky. Hailstones, the size of goose eggs, pelted the cobbled thoroughfare as people ran for shelter. Thunder clapped and an onslaught of shouts and shrieks echoed nature’s vehement warning. Honour Metcalf sank to her knees in a puddle of quilted petticoats and toile—her mitted hands encased her head, vying for protection against the artillery of hail and confusion.
“Miss Metcalf, Miss Metcalf . . .”
A muffled voice reached her ears and she dared peek at the one towering over her. Blue eyes—those eyes—flashed concern, then vanished as a dark cloak enveloped her. Strong arms scooped her up, pressing her against the firm chest of her rescuer.
Honour could scarcely make out the blur of damaged brick and clapboard as Joshua Sutton’s long strides carried her away in haste. Glazed windows popped and shards of glass flew as hail continued to wreak havoc on shops and offices. Fallen birds littered the street amidst the frozen ammunition. Lightning flashed and Honour squeezed her eyes shut, willing away the shrill neighs of horses and the cracking of the icy brimstone beneath carriage wheels.
The pair entered through a heavy wooden door into a dimly lit foyer. Mr. Sutton rested Honour upon a long bench and stooped beside her. With trembling hands, she pushed back her taffeta calash. The boned collapsible bonnet provided some measure of protection from the torrent, but what would protect her from him?
“How do you fare, Miss Metcalf?” Mr. Sutton asked.
Honour’s heart pounded, much the same as Mr. Sutton’s had, as she hovered against his chest. Her eyes darted around the room before her frightened gaze locked on his. Darkened and dampened by the storm, his hair spread wildly about his shoulders, and his ocean blue eyes awaited her answer.
“Miss Metcalf. I asked if you are well.”
The edge in his voice lifted her out of the fog and she rubbed her temple. “Mr. Sutton? Aye, I am well enough. Where . . . why are we here?” Honour glanced at the small leaded glass window, a piece of golden glass missing from a corner and other sections cracked.
“I found you in the street getting pummeled by hailstones. We took shelter here in the meeting house.” Thunder rolled again and Mr. Sutton’s eyes shot toward the door.
“How long will it last?” Her young sister was safe at the dame school, or so she hoped.
“That, only the Almighty knows.” He surveyed her as if assessing a length of cloth. “Are you certain you are uninjured, Miss Metcalf?”
“I am . . . I must go.” She attempted to rise, but a wave of dizziness overcame her.
“Please rest for a moment. You cannot go back out there.” His mouth drew into a line. “Perhaps we should pray.”
“Surely I did, as you carried me here.” A warm blush rose on her neck.
“I prayed, as well. Then we shall trust the good Lord for the outcome, shall we? After all, we have found refuge in His house.” The corners of Mr. Sutton’s eyes crinkled with reassurance.
Honour replied with a simple nod and regarded his kind face. “It is you who are injured, Mr. Sutton.” She extended her hand toward his bruised cheek, and retreated.
He instinctively found the bruise on his cheekbone, and felt his temple. A trickle of blood mixed with rainwater streamed down the side of his face. He looked at the blood on his hand and shrugged. “’Tis nothing. Perhaps some feverfew tea will help.”
“You might as well have been lambasted by rocks thrown by town delinquents. If your head hurts, as mine is beginning to, it will take more than tea, I fear.”
“The tea would warm me more. It hurts little.” The corner of his mouth curved.
“This is no time for mirth, Mr. Sutton.” Honour said, searching about for her satchel. “I would offer you a handkerchief, but I’ve none in my pocket and cannot find my workbag. I must have dropped it in the street.”
Mr. Sutton gestured toward her cloak pocket. “May I?”
Only then did Honour notice his greatcoat draped awkwardly around her shoulders, her short chintz cape beneath, which she’d hastily donned, perchance it rained. He must have covered her when he whisked her away from the harsh elements—including British officers. When they came rushing toward her, she had crumbled to the ground, and her legs turned to porridge despite her urge to flee. But the dark sky and giant balls of ice caused her to succumb to nature’s assault. Like the fire and brimstone punishment of the ancients, God had thrown water and ice to execute judgment upon her.
She attempted to remove the coat, but he stayed her hand with his. Though cold, his firm, yet gentle clasp exuded the warmth of one who cared. Or was it her mere imagination? Her heart dared not hope.
“No. You need it for warmth. One would scarcely know ’tis a summer day.” He retrieved a handkerchief from his coat and wiped at his cut. He refolded the linen cloth and placed it inside a pocket of his damp-about-the-shoulders waistcoat. “Now tell me about this satchel of yours. Is it of great importance?”
She worried her lip and nodded.
“Perhaps we can yet find it. If not, you might obtain a new one from my father’s store, if you’d allow me to replace it.”
Honour wrinkled her brow. “Though I do appreciate your offer, Mr. Sutton, it must be found. ’Tis not only my workbag, but of special value to me. It was a gift from my late mother.”
“Let us hope, then, it may be retrieved . . . once the storm has passed.” He glanced upward to the vestibule’s high ceiling, and her gaze followed—the hail continuing to pound the slate roof of the church in an unnerving staccato.
“Yes, I do hope. My mother taught me to quilt and the embroidered bag once belonged to her. It is dear to me, indeed, as far as material things. Though I do hope you do not think me selfish to speak of such a small matter whilst people may yet be out there in the storm, injured and dealing with the damage.” She rubbed the base of her skull, the dull ache intensifying, yet she wished not to concern Mr. Sutton.
The man grinned, and a darling crease appeared by his mouth. “I do not think there is one thimbleful of selfishness inside you, Miss Metcalf.”
“Then you do not know me well enough, Mr. Sutton.” Honour smiled shyly and lowered her gaze, her heavy lids beckoning her to succumb to the drowsy feeling tugging at her.
“Perhaps we may remedy that.”
“Mmm.” Her eyes grew leaden as an aura of slumber descended upon her.
“Miss Metcalf!”
Honour’s head bobbed up. “Yes?” She felt as though she were floating in the ocean—submerging one moment, and above a wave another.
Joshua Sutton still knelt before her, his eyes stayed on hers, as if he could hold her up by sheer will. Then he peered down at her quilted outer petticoat. Aye, she’d worn her favorite blue silk quilt today, with her blue and yellow toile polonaise gown. Did he find her attractive? She felt her damp skirt. Mercy, how could he? She must look like a shipwreck.
“Your quilt, Miss Metcalf. It is sublime. Is it your own handi-work?” he asked.
“Aye, thank you,” she whispered, trying to remain alert. “I learned from my mother. There was never a finer quilter than she.”
“I have heard you are an adept quilter, but I have never seen evidence of it until now. Your mother taught you well. Perhaps my father can make use of your services for men’s banyan robes and waistcoats, since we are no longer able to obtain quilted cloth from England.”
Honour stared through him, her vision blurring him into two.
“Dare I say, it is a pity your hem got wet . . . Miss Metcalf, are you listening?”
Honour leaned over to inspect the hemline of her petticoat. But instead of seeing the quilted cloth, she found darkness, as the sound of hail and Mr. Sutton’s smooth voice faded into nothingness.
“Who goes there?”
Joshua recognized the deep
baritone voice at once. He looked up as the parson entered through the vestry doors, only to greet him with Miss Metcalf slumped against his chest. “Reverend Cooper, we have come to seek shelter, though the lady has just now swooned.”
Lantern in hand, the reverend’s eyes widened as he came near. “Good heavens . . .”
“Please help me lay her on the bench. She was battered by the hailstorm and it seems to have done her in.”
“Why, of course.” The parson set the lantern on a small table and shuffled over to help.
After laying her down, Joshua stood and faced the minister. “Thank you, sir.” Joshua had never seen this man of the cloth in such disarray—without his powdered bob wig and crisp black suit. Instead, he wore breeches and a plain linsey-woolsey waistcoat.
Reverend Cooper became aware of his disheveled state. “You must forgive my appearance. When there was a short reprieve from the storm, I went out to assess the damage, as the sexton is away, then it started up again and soaked me through. I found these old clothes to put on.”
Reverend Cooper swiped an errant lock of hair into place over his balding head, and replaced his cap. “Now what happened to the young lady? Who is she, pray tell?”
“I found her collapsed in the street being accosted by the hail. A few British officers were about to give her aid, then I arrived. I told them that I recognized her as Miss Honour Metcalf, an employee of Mrs. Wadsworth, the mantua maker. Before I could say more the officers fled to help others.”
“Mmmph.” Reverend Cooper’s brow wrinkled with concern. He pursed his lips and signaled Joshua to continue.
“Most of the shopkeepers locked their doors in the chaos and we were far from either of our own. I was greatly relieved to find refuge here,” Joshua said.
Reverend Cooper clamped his index finger across his jaw. “Rather fitting, I say, to find a safe haven in the the Lord’s house when mysterious elements from heaven descend.”
Joshua released a slow breath. “Indeed it is.”
