Remembering the reportorial technique she had learned in her journalism seminar at Waterford College, Summer identified the town’s name change as the “what”—now she needed to learn when and why. The “who,” of course, were the Bergstroms.
Whether the family had played any role in the transformation of Creek’s Crossing into Waterford, she could only guess, but her instincts—and her knowledge of how Sylvia’s family had influenced the town’s fortunes in later years—told her she was not pursuing a false lead.
Summer through winter 1856—
in which we become farmers, and I am unwittingly courted
So passed our first evening at Elm Creek Farm. By morning’s light, my companions had gained more resolve, while I felt my own weakening, as I began to realize how very far I was from home and everything familiar. But, I reminded myself, that was precisely what I had wanted, and since I could not bear to return to Germany in defeat even if I could afford the passage, I had to make the best of it.
By the end of the day, we discovered that our circumstances were not quite as dire as we had imagined. Mr. L. had put in a kitchen garden, so we would soon have fresh vegetables. We learned that an acre of corn had been planted, and this news cheered us immensely. Since much of our land had not been improved, our woods were full of game, and thus we celebrated our second night at Elm Creek Farm with a feast of venison and seed potatoes, eaten by the fireside under the stars.
As the weeks passed, we set the cabin to rights as best we could; Anneke and I filled the spaces between the logs while Hans repaired the roof enough to keep out the rain. Each day I marveled anew at the changes in my brother. He had left my father’s house seven years before knowing a great deal about the textiles trade in Baden-Baden but little of horses and nothing of farming. Now he put in late crops and drove the team as if he were born to it.
Castor and Pollux did not pull the plow, of course. One of Hans’s first acts as master of Elm Creek Farm was to trade them with the owner of a livery stable for a team of till horses, a pig, and a flock of chickens. We were all downcast to part with the elegant creatures, especially Anneke, who grew teary-eyed whenever she saw them prancing before a carriage in town. Hans promised her that one day, when his business was established, he would give her far superior horses, born and bred on our own land. Anneke didn’t quite seem to believe him, but the promise pleased her just the same.
When our immediate needs were seen to, Anneke asked Hans to turn his attention to improving our little cabin. He had made us each a bed by stringing rope between oak posts, upon which Anneke placed straw ticks she had sewn, but only a curtain separated our beds from his, and we had no fireplace, which would surely be a problem come winter. I added my voice to Anneke’s, but Hans instead set himself to work on the barn.
He had met a neighbor, a Mr. Thomas Nelson, whose land abutted ours to the north. His wife, Dorothea, befriended me, and in later years became my dearest friend and confidante—closer to me in many ways than Anneke ever was. Anneke thought Dorothea too solemn and bookish, but I admired her keen mind and sensible temperament. After the day’s work was finished, we enjoyed many evenings discussing literature and politics, and I learned a great deal about our new country from her. Often we gathered at the Nelsons’ home, which despite its simplicity seemed a palace compared to our cabin, but I had too much pride not to reciprocate their kind invitations, and we entertained our neighbors nearly as frequently as they did us.
We spoke English with the Nelsons, since they did not speak German. Anneke would have preferred to sit silently with her sewing rather than have Hans or me translate the conversation, as her inability to speak English shamed her, but Hans said, “You will never learn if you don’t try, and you need English in America.” He was right, of course, and though Anneke’s attempts at conversation were at first reluctant, she gradually acquired a rudimentary knowledge of English. But in those first years, she spoke rarely to strangers, a behavior that some of the women in town misinterpreted, considering her aloof and unfriendly. Later these same women were to decide that they had been mistaken: Anneke was the friendly and charming one, while I was arrogant and full of strange notions. Their opinions might have troubled me if I had not made other friends through Dorothea, but since I had, I cared not what Anneke’s acquaintances thought of me. Perhaps I was a bit arrogant after all.
Hans and Thomas often exchanged work, and after Hans helped Thomas bring in his harvest, Thomas helped Hans lay the foundation for the barn, about twenty paces east of our front door, between ourselves and the creek. I did not think this a wise location, for although the winds typically blew from the south-west, placing the cabin upwind of the animals’ odor, I did not relish the thought of passing the barn several times a day to fetch water. I did not mention this, of course, as I knew this to be a ridiculous complaint from someone who fancied herself a settler. It was not until the men began to raise the walls that I understood my brother’s thinking and realized what a marvel of architecture he had designed. He ingeniously built the barn into the hillside with one entrance at the foot of the hill and a second at the crest, so that one could drive the team into either story with equal ease.
The occasion of our barn raising drew the aid of other neighbors: the Grangers, the Watsons, the Shropshires, the Engles, and the Craigmiles. How warmly I regarded them as I saw their carriages and wagons emerging from the forest onto Elm Creek Farm. Some I still hold in high esteem, but to others, my heart has turned to cold stone.
But, of course, I did not know then how I would come to feel later. Neither, I daresay, could they have imagined what scandal we Bergstroms would bring into their midst. If they had suspected, some of them would have brought down that barn upon our heads. It amazes me now, gazing back into the past, that nothing distinguished future friend from foe, and that I never would have imagined who would later shun us and who would prove true.
I race ahead in my eagerness to unburden myself, but I must not allow my urgency to muddle this history.
After the barn, Hans put in a corral, intending, to my surprise, to pursue horse breeding after all. I had thought he had abandoned this idea with the loss of Castor and Pollux, but if anything, his interest had grown. “Mr. L. did not make such a good go of it,” ventured I, when I saw that Hans was determined.
Hans merely grinned at me and said, “Sister, I think I’ve shown you I’m much more clever than Mr. L.”
So I said nothing more to dissuade him, although to this day I do not believe Hans gained Elm Creek Farm through cleverness.
As for Anneke and me, in addition to assisting Hans with the crops as needed, we divided our women’s work in shares that suited us both. Anneke, with her gift for needle and thread, took care of all the mending and sewing. Relieved to be rid of those detested chores, I was glad to care for the kitchen garden. In those days I was happiest working outside, the bright sun on my cheek, the fresh soil between my fingers. Anneke washed and tidied the cabin, while I cooked our meals. We took turns caring for the chickens and, after Dorothea instructed us, milking the cow.
Daily we improved Elm Creek Farm, and daily, too, did Anneke and Hans grow more fond of each other. Theirs was a peculiar courtship, indeed, conducted while they lived in the same small house, with only an elder sister as chaperone. I had always imagined true love to be as mine was for E., evolving slowly over time as friendship transformed from the sweetness of childhood affection into steadfast and respectful devotion. But Hans and Anneke seemed to admire each other from the start, with only a token reluctance on Anneke’s part to abandon thoughts of her first intended. They married six months after their meeting in New York, before the first snow fell.
As a wedding gift for his bride, Hans added to our cabin a fireplace, a root cellar, and a second room. Not long after her own marriage, perhaps because she wished me to know a happiness like that she had found with my brother, or perhaps because she sought greater privacy than my presence would allow, Anneke began enter
taining thoughts of finding a husband for me.
Among those who had come to help us those early days was Mrs. Violet Pearson Engle, the twice-widowed dressmaker, and her grown son from her first marriage, Cyrus Pearson. Mrs. Engle was a stout woman, domineering and loud-voiced, whose main contribution to the barn raising had been to bark orders at we women laboring over our outdoor cooking fires to prepare enough food for all those men. As for Mr. Pearson, upon our first meeting I found him polite, if somewhat disdainful, with a quick grin that some might have called a smirk. But that impression might have been merely my own prejudice, as I never fully liked or trusted handsome men, perhaps because they rarely expressed interest in plain girls such as myself. Still, since he seemed pleasant enough, I thought nothing of it when Anneke suggested we invite him for supper.
On the appointed evening, Mr. Pearson arrived, bearing an apple tart his mother had baked for us, and a bouquet of wild-flowers which he presented to me—in error, I thought, assuming he had meant them for the lady of the house. I promptly handed the flowers to Anneke and took his coat, while Hans offered him a chair by the fire. Since the fireplace was also my cookstove, I necessarily passed between it and the table several times as the men talked about their horses and crops. Before long, I noticed that every time I approached the table, Mr. Pearson bounded out of his chair. At first I thought it charming, but when he persisted in the ridiculous formality, I entreated him to remain seated for fear he would be bouncing in and out of his chair all evening like a jumping jack. He agreed with a smile that did not completely conceal his displeasure, but he no longer rose when I did, although he tensed in his chair as if it took all his strength to remain seated.
“I did not notice it before,” I murmured to Anneke in passing, “but Mr. Pearson has a haughty temperament, don’t you agree?”
“He’s a perfect gentleman,” hissed Anneke, glancing at him to be sure he had not overheard. “And he’s a guest, so mind your manners.”
“I have no intention of doing otherwise,” I protested in a whisper, but Anneke merely glared at me.
The meal itself was an even more baffling affair, with Hans the only one of us perfectly at ease. Anneke interrogated Mr. Pearson about his education and prospects with a directness that would have seemed rude if not for her charming manner and lack of fluency in English, but Mr. Pearson did not seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to relish the opportunity to talk about himself, but instead of responding to Anneke, he directed his replies to me. I was embarrassed for him, that he should slight Anneke and Hans so, when suddenly it occurred to me that he was behaving exactly as eager suitors did in novels.
This realization so astounded me that I could not reply when Mr. Pearson remarked for at least the seventeenth time how wondrously sublime my cooking was. Perhaps I should have perceived Mr. Pearson’s intentions sooner, but E. had been my first and only love, and we had known each other since childhood. Our courtship had possessed none of the silly rituals with which adult men and women torment each other. I was not accustomed to the language of romance, nor did I ever expect it to be directed toward me. Nor, I knew with great certainty, did I wish to hear any more of it from Mr. Pearson. I looked from Anneke to Hans and back again, pleading silently for their aid, but Hans appeared oblivious to my distress, and Anneke seemed to enjoy it.
“You’re so accomplished, Mr. Pearson,” said Anneke then, disarmingly, “that I must wonder why there is no Mrs. Pearson.”
“I have not yet found a woman deserving of that title.”
“Oh, you must keep looking,” said I, thinking, But not at Elm Creek Farm. “I’m sure you’ll find her.”
Some of the brightness faded from his smile, and he looked to Anneke for an explanation. Before she could speak, Hans said, “Tell me, when you find your Mrs. Pearson, will you give her a home of her own or bring her into your mother’s house?”
“My mother’s home will be her home, as it is mine.”
“Come now,” persisted Hans. “You know how women are. Asking two to share a kitchen is like throwing two wet cats into a sack and tying it shut. Asking them to share a home is asking for trouble, unless it is clear from the start who will be mistress of the household.”
Anneke gave her husband a slight rebuke, but Mr. Pearson chuckled. “Mother will not be dictated to in her own home.”
“So your Mrs. Pearson will have to know her place?”
“Indeed.”
“You couldn’t have her speaking her mind or acting contrary to Mrs. Engle’s judgment.”
“Of course not, but I do not anticipate any conflict. The only woman I could love would be of such purity of heart and generosity of spirit that she would love my mother as if she were her own. She would tend to my mother’s needs with the same tender, unselfish eagerness as she would to mine.”
Anneke twisted her pretty features into a frown. “You sound as if you are looking for a nurse or a housekeeper, not a wife.”
“It would only be for a little while,” said Mr. Pearson, with a hasty glance at me. “Once Mother passes on, my wife will be the mistress of the household, but until then—”
“Until then she is to be a servant in her own home?” said I, indignant on behalf of this unfortunate bride, forgetting, for the moment, that Mr. Pearson hoped I would be she. “My goodness, but you require a great deal of patience and forbearance in a wife. I do not think half the women of my acquaintance could manage it.”
“It would not be as bleak as I have made it seem,” said Mr. Pearson.
“I should hope not,” said I. “If I were to marry into such circumstances, I might be tempted to hasten your mother’s demise.”
“I hope your future bride lacks my sister’s temper,” said Hans to Mr. Pearson in a confidential tone. “If not, you’d better find someone else to do the cooking.”
Mr. Pearson glanced down at his plate in alarm as if expecting to find some deadly poison amid the mashed turnips. As Hans and I laughed merrily, he grew red-faced and said, “Yes, I’ll be sure to do that.”
“Your bride will be a lovely woman,” said Anneke soothingly, glaring at Hans and me in turn. “Do not let their silly jokes trouble you.”
Mr. Pearson let out a thin laugh as if to show us he understood our joke. Anneke steered the conversation to other matters, but for the remainder of the meal, Mr. Pearson spared no opportunity to avoid looking in my direction. Afterward, he thanked Anneke for her kind hospitality, shook Hans’s hand, gave me a curt nod, then made some excuse about needing to tend to a sick horse.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Hans and I burst into laughter again.
“I fail to see what is so amusing,” said Anneke.
I tried to speak. “The thought of that man—”
“—and my feisty, opinionated sister,” finished Hans. “Married!”
Anneke folded her arms and pursed her lips, but eventually she, too, allowed a small smile. “Perhaps they would not be such a good match after all.”
“Perhaps not, my love,” said Hans, smiling tenderly. “But I can’t blame you for trying.”
“I can,” said I. “I cannot imagine why you thought we were well suited for each other.”
“You’re both unmarried.”
“True enough, but I would hope to base my future happiness on something more substantial than that.”
“I agree,” said Hans. “But I thought it would be easier for Mr. Pearson, and for our friendship with his family, if he realized on his own that you would not make him a good wife rather than hearing it in your refusal.”
Only then did I understand that my brother had deliberately prodded Mr. Pearson into revealing his weaknesses as a husband for me so that I might better reveal my inadequacies as a wife for him. All the while I had thought Hans oblivious to the drama of manners playing out before him, he had been directing the action from behind the scenes. I studied him with new respect. Hans Bergstrom of Baden-Baden was not known for subtle calculation, but this man was Hans Bergs
trom of America. I resolved not to underestimate him again.
“Mr. Pearson might not make Gerda a proper husband,” declared Anneke, “but someone will.”
Thus I learned, to my dismay, that Anneke was not easily daunted, and that despite the evening’s failure, she was resolved to see me happily wed.
“The more things change,” said Sylvia, “the more they remain the same.”
Andrew looked up from his newspaper. “What’s that?”
“Gerda’s sister-in-law wants to marry her off.” Sylvia slipped off her glasses and stretched her neck, which had an painful kink in it, so intently had she been reading. “Honestly. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman without a husband is eager to find one, no matter what she says to the contrary, and that all her married friends and acquaintances are obligated to help her nab some poor fellow before he knows what hit him.”
Andrew peered at her over his bifocals. “You know, not everyone is as opposed to marriage as you are.”
“I’m not opposed to marriage in principle. I was very happily married myself once, I’ll remind you. Marriage is fine for youngsters with their whole lives ahead of them, who want to build a future with the one they love. I have no objection to that, if that’s what they want.”
Andrew returned his gaze to the newspaper and said, “If you ask me, people ought to build their futures with the ones they love no matter how old they are, even if that won’t add up to as many years as the young folks get.”
Sylvia was about to concur, but she thought better of it and said nothing. If she agreed with his principles, one of these days she might find herself accidentally agreeing to a proposal.
Winter 1856 into summer 1857—
in which we complete our first year at Elm Creek Farm and begin a second
I had not told Anneke about E., and although Hans might have told her I had been disappointed in love, I was certain he had not explained the intensity of my sorrow. He could not have, since I do not believe he thought his sensible elder sister capable of such depth of feeling. How could either of them, entranced as they were with each other upon first sight, know what it was to have a love slowly blossom over time, only to have it crushed beneath the heel of parents who cared more for class distinctions than for the happiness of their son?
Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt Page 6
