Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Sylvia studied the pieces for a moment before she could see the similarity. “Goodness, yes. Do you mean to say that a quilt such as this was called Underground Railroad, but a later quilter saw the secondary pattern within the arrangement and determined that the block’s name had been changed?”

  “It’s possible. I’m afraid it’s another theory.”

  “You and your theories.”

  “I wish I could give you definitive answers, but I can’t. I don’t even know for certain if this quilt was called Underground Railroad. I’m surmising that since it was found with the Log Cabin.” Grace frowned and returned her gaze to it. “Which, I’ll admit, does puzzle me.”

  Sylvia hated to let go of the folklore that had enchanted her for so many years. “Allow me to play devil’s advocate, if you please.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Based on all the other evidence, but excluding Anneke’s choice of the Log Cabin pattern, when would you have dated these quilts?”

  “I can’t ignore the pattern. It’s one of the most important clues.”

  “Indulge an old woman’s fancy, would you, please? Just this once?”

  Grace smiled wryly and conceded, “I’d say somewhere between 1840 to 1860.”

  “Now, just because no one has ever found a Log Cabin quilt predating the Civil War, that doesn’t mean they never existed, correct?”

  Grace hesitated. “Well, no, but lack of evidence to the contrary isn’t reliable evidence.”

  “But it is possible, however improbable, that Anneke’s quilt does predate the Civil War, and that it could have been used as a signal on the Underground Railroad? Here, at Elm Creek Manor, if nowhere else?”

  “I suppose it’s possible, but—”

  “Thank you,” said Sylvia, triumphant. “You can stop there.”

  Grace laughed and shook her head. “Okay. You win. Your quilts pose an interesting puzzle, and I’ll need more time to figure it out.”

  “More time and more evidence,” said Sylvia. “I do wish you could have seen Margaret Alden’s quilt in person. All I have are photos.”

  “I can look at those, at least.”

  Sylvia went to fetch them, unable to keep the smile off her face. Grace had done all she could to caution her, and Sylvia knew she ought to reserve judgment until they had more evidence, but she couldn’t help feeling elated. Despite all the qualifiers and contradictions, Grace had admitted that Sylvia might have stumbled upon the one remaining Log Cabin quilt that had served as a signal on the Underground Railroad.

  Surely Gerda’s memoir would prove the folklore true.

  December 1857 through January 1858—

  in which I encounter hints of future unhappiness and signs of ill times to come, and ignore them all

  Within a month of the Harvest Dance, Anneke began working for Mrs. Engle at her dress shop in Creek’s Crossing. Once a week I drove her into town, delivered my preserves and bread to the general store and collected my earnings, and completed whatever errands the farm required before rewarding myself with a visit to friends from Dorothea’s sewing circle. The mornings flew by as we exchanged books and gossip, and all too soon I would have to hurry away to fetch Anneke home again, her newest sewing projects in a neat bundle on her lap, in time for me to make Hans his dinner. He did not mind his wife’s enterprising spirit as long as it did not postpone his mealtimes.

  The first snow of the season fell around that time, but the worst harshness of winter held off, and so we enjoyed cold but sunny days until the end of December. Our Christmas was an especially joyous one; Hans’s business had begun to grow, Elm Creek Farm was flourishing from our attentive labors, and all around us were signs of our imminent prosperity. We Bergstroms were well liked by our neighbors, and we never suffered from loneliness, despite the relative isolation of our home.

  The Nelsons remained our closest friends, and to this day I thank the Lord for blessing us with such generous neighbors. Dorothea was such a practical, capable woman, and in countless ways she helped Anneke and me better manage our household. Although Creek’s Crossing was not the Kansas wilderness I had planned for, it was frontier enough for women of Anneke’s and my inexperience. Without Dorothea’s gentle guidance, we would not have fared nearly half so well.

  Anneke made other acquaintances, too, by virtue of her days spent at Engle’s Draper and Fine Tailoring. The young ladies of the finest families in town frequented the establishment, and while some snubbed Anneke as an “illiterate immigrant,” their more practical friends, who recognized the wisdom of an alliance with such a gifted seamstress, befriended her. Mrs. Engle grew quite fond of her and introduced her to her circle of friends, the matrons of the town, and before long each had exacted a promise from her husband that he would consider purchasing one of Hans’s Bergstrom Thoroughbred foals come spring.

  I was so pleased that Mrs. Engle had given Anneke employment that I felt guilty when I could not bring myself to like her more. I did try to like her, at least at first: I ignored the small jokes she made about immigrants and clenched my teeth when she spoke of the necessity of slave labor to the economy of the South, especially cotton, the cultivation of which directly affected her business; I told myself that if Anneke could bear the tone of self-important condescension with which Mrs. Engle addressed her, surely I could as well. But I lost my temper when she published a letter in the Creek’s Crossing Informer denouncing the vote for women and beseeching men to guide their daughters with a firm hand lest they, too, succumb to corrupting influences. “Women’s suffrage and the desire for the right to vote render our young ladies argumentative, unfeminine, and unsuitable for marriage,” wrote she. “We doom our precious daughters to embittered spinsterhood if we do not teach them humility and obedience.”

  “She was not speaking of you,” said Anneke when I grumbled over this. “She knows you tried to marry.”

  “And how would she know that?” asked I, too astounded to say that whether Mrs. Engle referred to me personally was irrelevant.

  “I told her how you came to be unlucky in love.”

  Thus I had embarrassment to compound my outrage.

  Mrs. Engle’s letter concluded on a note that would have been ominous if it had not been so prim and ridiculous: “Certain Factions, especially those which bring in outsiders to inflame our minds and hearts, ought not to imagine they speak for all the Ladies of Creek’s Crossing, or they may find themselves without Friends.”

  Her letter set the sewing circle all abuzz with indignant calls for us to compose a rebuttal for immediate publication in the Informer, and we all clamored for Dorothea, the obvious target of Mrs. Engle’s last rebuke, to author it. “I will write to explain my position and the righteousness of our cause,” replied Dorothea, “but I will not engage in petty argument simply for the sake of defending my injured pride.”

  “We cannot allow her insults to go unanswered,” protested one of our circle. “She should not have been allowed to write such things.”

  We others chimed in our agreement, but Dorothea merely smiled and said, “Remember, we also fight so that Mrs. Engle may vote.”

  That sobered us. We had assumed that all women, once secured the right, would naturally vote as we would have them do, and that together we would bring about a new renaissance of justice and peace in our country. But when we could not forge solidarity even among ourselves, how could we hope to transform the entire nation?

  A few of our sewing circle vowed never again to patronize Mrs. Engle’s shop, a decision that pained me for Anneke’s sake until I discovered this would account for the loss of only two dresses a year. Still, I was relieved that Anneke had not joined us that evening, and my heart was troubled when I thought of how she would react to news of the resolution. But some of my good humor was restored by our second declaration, which was unanimous: We would henceforth call our little group the Certain Sewing and Suffrage Faction of Creek’s Crossing, Pennsylvania.

  After that, I could not bring my
self to enter the dressmaker’s shop out of fear I would tell Mrs. Engle exactly what I thought of her and cost my sister-in-law her employment, but left and collected Anneke at the door without stepping inside even to warm myself for the drive home. “Without Friends,” indeed. Dorothea and I had friends enough among the Certain Faction, and would scarcely notice the absence of Mrs. Engle and her cronies.

  Only then did I realize how rarely the two circles mixed. I, who prided myself on my powers of observation and inference, had not noticed until prompted by Mrs. Engle’s letter the schism that divided the women of the town. Anneke alone seemed capable of traveling freely in both circles, earning the respect of one with her perseverance and determination to learn, charming the other with her beauty, skill, and eagerness to please.

  When I remarked on the divide to Hans and Anneke, Anneke claimed, rather sharply, that it was nothing a little pleasantness and restraint on Dorothea’s part wouldn’t mend.

  Said Hans, more soberly, “It’s worse among the men.”

  The following week, Dorothea’s reply appeared in the Informer; Anneke reported that it was not well regarded in the dressmaker’s shop, nor was Dorothea. But with the coming of Christmas, the women of Creek’s Crossing set aside acrimony in the spirit of the season, and the tensions between us settled once again beneath the surface, unspoken and unnoticed.

  As they had the previous year, the Nelsons invited us to spend Christmas Day with them, and what a joyous holiday it was indeed. Jonathan came, as I had hoped he would; he brought his and Dorothea’s parents in the senior Mr. Granger’s sleigh, which pulled up to the house soon after ours with a jingling of merry bells. Mrs. Granger treated me with such kind affection that I allowed myself to hope that her opinion of me had been formed as much by Jonathan’s reports as by Dorothea’s.

  After a delicious meal, Dorothea and her father entertained us with the music of organ and fiddle, respectively, and we sang Christmas carols. I recollect that evening as the most joyful I had yet spent in America, and it was to remain one of my happiest memories. We laughed and joked and shared stories of Christmases past in lands far away. No one regretted the evening’s end more than I, but Mr. and Mrs. Granger needed to return to their farm, so Jonathan and Hans went to the barn to hitch up their horses.

  They observed storm clouds gathered in the southwestern sky, so urged us not to delay our departure. As Anneke and I rose to don our winter cloaks and scarves, Jonathan murmured in my ear that he should like to speak with me alone for a moment.

  My heart seemed to tremble, but I nodded, and we slipped into the kitchen while the others said their farewells. I was too nervous to speak, so I stood in silence and waited.

  Jonathan did not meet my eyes as he fumbled in his pocket and said, “I had hoped for a better moment to give you this.” He withdrew a small paper-wrapped parcel and placed it in my hands.

  Speechless, I looked from the parcel to Jonathan.

  “Please open it,” said he, glancing over his shoulder.

  Mindful that our time alone might be brief, I quickly unwrapped the gift and discovered a beautiful hair comb embellished with mother-of-pearl. “It’s lovely, Jonathan. Thank you.” He smiled to see me so pleased with his gift, as I truly was. I did not have many fine features, but my hair was thick and dark, and fell below my waist when unbraided, and I admit to being a trifle vain of it. I thanked him for the gift, and warmly wished him a merry Christmas.

  He wished me the same, and I thought he might say more, but behind us, someone cleared her throat. Dorothea stood in the doorway, watching us. “I thought I might send you home with some of my dried apples, Gerda, if you think you might use them?”

  “Of course I would,” said I. “Thank you.”

  She nodded and passed between us on her way to the root cellar, glancing at her brother as she went, but Jonathan did not look at her, and instead excused himself to help his parents prepare for the trip home.

  By the time Dorothea returned, I had composed myself and had hidden Jonathan’s gift in my pocket. We both remarked on how delightful the evening had been, but then Dorothea fell silent, her expression troubled. “Gerda,” said she at last, “I do not wish to speak out of turn, but . . .”

  “But?” prompted I, when she hesitated.

  “I hope you are not setting your cap for my brother.”

  The colloquialism puzzled me. “Setting my cap?”

  “She means, do you think to marry him,” said Anneke, who had entered the room in time to hear the exchange.

  “I don’t mean any offense,” said Dorothea.

  “Of course not,” said I. “I assure you, I don’t plan to set my hat for anyone.”

  “You needn’t worry about my sister,” said Anneke, grinning naughtily. “She’s often said she will never trade her freedom for the bondage of matrimony. She does not wish to become old married women like us, and subject to the whims of a man.”

  Dorothea’s eyebrows rose.

  “I did not say it in quite that manner,” said I with haste, embarrassed. “Anneke misrepresents me.”

  “Your words, perhaps, but not the sentiment,” said Anneke.

  “Sometimes the yoke is not so difficult to bear,” said Dorothea with a small laugh. “It depends upon the husband.”

  I wondered, did Dorothea think Jonathan would make a poor husband? Or did she think I would make him a poor wife? I was so conflicted by her unexpected remarks and Anneke’s teasing that I could not bring myself to give voice to my questions. Dorothea and I were friends. If I had indeed set my cap for Jonathan, why would Dorothea find this objectionable?

  Suddenly I was relieved that we were leaving. The mother-of-pearl comb felt heavy and conspicuous in my pocket, even when concealed beneath my outer wraps. I couldn’t meet Jonathan’s eye as Hans, Anneke, and I bid our friends good-bye and climbed into our wagon. I buried my chin in my scarf to ward off the cold and said not a word as Hans drove the horses back to Elm Creek Farm, and when we reached home, I hid the comb in my hope chest before Anneke could see it.

  When at last I showed it to her, a few days later, she squealed with delight and commanded me to tell her every word Jonathan and I had exchanged. This I accomplished soon enough, as we had had little time alone. Dorothea’s interruption had been so troubling that I had forgotten the pleasure Jonathan’s gift had first brought me, but Anneke’s enthusiasm soon rekindled it. That he had given me any gift was a promising sign, she insisted, but such a beautiful ornament surely indicated he wished to increase our intimacy.

  As always, I feigned disinterest. “Jonathan is my friend’s brother, and so naturally he is my friend as well, but you mustn’t imagine he is anything more.”

  “Hans and I are his friends, too, but he didn’t give us Christmas presents.”

  This I could not deny, but I did my best to assure her I had no interest in Jonathan beyond friendship.

  You may wonder why I insisted on this deception, which was in all likelihood becoming transparent, or perhaps you will have guessed the reason to be my disappointment with E. I was determined not to become an object of pity in my new country as I had in my homeland. If my heart were to be broken a second time, my one consolation would be that no one save myself would know it. True, I cherished our conversations, looked forward to our meetings, and noted with pleasure the signs of Jonathan’s increasing affection for me, but until he made some declaration of his intentions, I must assume he had none.

  The New Year came, followed by a series of January snowstorms that for several days kept us confined to Elm Creek Farm. Hans had his endless chores and Anneke her sewing for Mrs. Engle, but I longed for the companionship of the Certain Faction. When Anneke complained at my stalking about the cabin, I took up my sewing basket and worked on my Shoo-Fly quilt to appease her. To my surprise, the hours passed quite pleasantly as Anneke and I sewed side by side in the firelight. She told me stories of her childhood in Berlin, and I told her about my family’s life in Baden-Baden. By the
time the storms broke, I had nearly finished enough blocks for a quilt top, and Anneke and I had deepened our understanding of each other. I reflected then that I had known my younger sisters all my life, and I missed and loved them dearly, but Anneke and I had shared hardship and hope in a strange land, and that bound us closer than any ties of blood or affection ever could.

  In later years, only by recollecting the closeness we shared in those days was I able to set aside my hatred and remember that once I had loved Anneke. If not for my resolution to try to love her again, I might have left my family forever rather than share a home with her.

  But I must remember to record this history in the order in which it transpired, or it will make no sense at all to my reader, even if by your day, these events are well known to every Bergstrom.

  Our first visitor after the weather cleared was Jonathan. He met Hans in the barn, to discuss a horse he intended to buy, but then he came to the cabin. I was pleased to see him, and glad that I had worn the hair comb; though I had intended to save it for special occasions, seeing the sun again had made the day special enough. He accepted the tea I offered him and joined me and Anneke by the fire, but his attempts at conversation were un-characteristically awkward.

  Eventually Anneke made some excuse and left us, and soon we heard her sewing machine whirring as she worked the treadle with her foot. “I’m glad you ventured out to see us,” said I. “I wished to return the book you lent me. It was quite good. Thank you.”

  He nodded and took it absently. “Gerda, I must speak with you on a difficult subject.”

  In the other room, the treadle ceased abruptly. “Not until I give you your Christmas gift,” said I, quickly. My heart pounding, anticipating his words, I retrieved and presented his gift. “It’s belated, but I think you will like it all the same.”

  Slowly he unwrapped the book and read the title. “Franklin’s Autobiography.”