It seemed no matter what I did, the people of Creek’s Crossing were likely to see a scandal simply because they wished to. Since I could not win, I took Hans’s caution as a challenge and decided to attend the quilting bee.
Anneke, whose imperfect English remained a source of embarrassment for her, asked me to respond to the invitation, and so I did, feeling a curious mixture of eagerness and dread with each stroke of my pen. I missed my friends, even Dorothea, who had betrayed me with her silence, and longed for the warmth of their company. I grew weary when I imagined maintaining a pretense of contentment all day under the scrutiny of gossips, but I convinced myself that once that day had ended, the whole sad business would be in the past. And, although many women in my situation would have wished to avoid their rival in her moment of triumph, I hungered to see Charlotte Claverton. We had never spoken except for our brief exchange at the Harvest Dance, and I wanted to take my measure of her. I was convinced that everything I learned about her would confirm that she was a selfish child and a poor match for Jonathan, and that he would have been infinitely happier with me. I needed to confirm this—and I wanted Charlotte Claverton to know me, so that she would reach the same conclusion.
At last the day of the quilting bee arrived, so Anneke and I rolled up our thimbles, needles, and spools of thread in clean aprons and rode to the Nelson farm. I wondered how Dorothea would address me—if she would act as if nothing ill had passed between us, if she would pretend as I was forced to pretend that her brother meant nothing to me. Thomas greeted us when we arrived and took care of the horses while we went inside to join the ladies. I did not realize until that moment how much I had hoped to find Dorothea so eager to apologize that she had waited on the front porch or, better yet, had come halfway down the road to meet me.
Inside, Anneke and I were greeted by joyful embraces of the Certain Faction and friendly welcomes from what seemed to be all the womenfolk living within twenty miles of Creek’s Crossing. How like Dorothea, I thought, to invite so many that the house seemed full to bursting, rather than hurt anyone’s feelings by excluding them. And not long after, I discovered how inclusive Dorothea’s invitation had been: Not only was Mrs. Engle present, but so, too, was Mrs. Constance Wright, a colored woman whose family owned a farm about fifteen miles southwest of ours, as well as a number of other colored women I did not know. I forgot my own turmoil for a moment in looking forward to making their acquaintance—but I will confess, instead of contemplating how I could make these women feel welcome when some present would surely scorn them, I instead looked forward to enjoying Mrs. Engle’s discomfort at their presence.
Fortunately, Dorothea treated them with more than enough friendly intimacy to compensate for my defects of character.
The two front rooms of the Nelson home had been given over to the party, and in each a large quilting frame had been set up and chairs arranged alongside. “We seem to have far more willing hands than necessary,” I murmured to Anneke, secretly pleased that I might be spared the insufferable chore of helping Charlotte Claverton complete her wedding quilts.
“We will take turns,” retorted Anneke, knowing my thoughts, “and you will do your fair share.”
I frowned and scanned the crowd in vain for Dorothea or Charlotte. Over the din I heard laughter coming from the kitchen, and I knew at once that I would find Dorothea within. Just then I saw Mrs. Engle approaching, full of smiles for my sister-in-law. Given the choice between confronting Dorothea or forcing polite conversation with the mother of Cyrus Pearson, I decided to brave the kitchen.
Dorothea spotted me as soon as I entered; she immediately broke off a conversation, dusted her hands on her apron, and approached me. “I’m so sorry, Gerda,” said she in a murmur so that we would not be overheard.
“You could have told me,” said I, shortly, for I still resented her. “You would have spared me a world of pain.”
“It was not my secret to tell.” She placed a hand on my arm, and her eyes were full of tears. “Gerda, so many times I urged him to tell you the truth. So many times I tried to convince him to reconsider his engagement. He is a fool to marry Charlotte when his heart belongs to you. I told him so, but he would not listen.”
Her words—and the heartfelt sorrow with which she spoke them—melted my anger. I had lost Jonathan, but I would not allow my dearest friendship to perish because of it.
Somehow I endured the day. Despite the many eager workers, there was a great deal of quilting to be done, and although the more experienced quilters set a pace far more brisk than I was accustomed to, I was determined to keep up. I meant to show with every stitch I put into those quilts that I did not covet Charlotte Claverton’s husband-to-be.
And although my bitterness had eased with Dorothea’s apology, as we finished all thirteen of Charlotte’s beautiful quilts, I could not help appraising Charlotte’s every word and action. She was obviously my superior in beauty; I provided not the least competition in that regard. She was charming and seemed kind, and everyone from Dorothea to Mrs. Engle was fond of her, although of course Mrs. Engle’s esteem hardly held much merit with me. She was, thankfully, an Abolitionist in spirit, although her behavior more closely mirrored Hans’s isolationist stance than Dorothea’s activism. However, she was unlearned, and reluctant to express an opinion differing from whomever she happened to be speaking with at the moment. With Jonathan’s help she could learn, if she was willing, and if she applied herself, but her unwillingness to speak her mind would be more difficult to overcome. I thought of all the conversations—heated debates they were, sometimes—Jonathan and I had shared, and when I pictured him attempting to draw out the same intellectual passion from Charlotte, my heart grew troubled. By the end of the evening, I concluded that indeed Jonathan and I were of like minds and would have made a far more excellent match. But this realization, which I had thought would bring me satisfaction if not peace, instead made me sadder yet.
In the interim between the quilting bee and the wedding, I prayed that the engagement would be called off, that Jonathan would sacrifice his honor to my happiness, or that Charlotte Claverton would release him from his ill-made promise. I wished no harm to befall either one of them, but I sometimes prayed to die before they exchanged wedding vows, for witnessing that, I was certain, would kill me.
It did not, of course. Such ill strokes occur only in romances or in song.
Jonathan and Charlotte married on Christmas Eve, before all their happy friends and one plain woman from Germany who closed her heart around her grief and tried to wish her beloved happiness with the fate he had chosen. Instead, she hoped—I hoped—that he would come to regret his decision, and that he would be as desperately unhappy in marriage as he had made me in my spinsterhood. Today I am ashamed of my bitter thoughts, but on his wedding day, which should have been ours, I could not feel otherwise.
Jonathan took his bride into his parents’ home, and when the couple’s parents passed on, Dr. and Mrs. Jonathan Granger’s inheritances combined to form the largest farm in the county, just as their parents had wished. They fared well, and had four children, and many grandchildren as well, although I do not remember exactly how many. There is no reason why I should remember, since it had nothing to do with me.
Perhaps you wonder, Reader, why I bothered to record these events here. Since I did not marry Jonathan and he did not join the Bergstrom family, it would seem his life had little bearing on the Bergstrom legacy. I assure you, I do not relive those painful days for my own amusement, but because it is important that you know what sort of man he was. Anneke made the choice that condemned us, but with Jonathan’s help, she brought about what I hope will be our redemption.
Sylvia sat lost in thought, the memoir resting open on her lap. She longed for some magic that would allow her to reach back into the past and comfort Gerda, whose pain she understood all too well. Their circumstances differed, of course, but both she and Gerda had been forever separated from the men they loved: Sylvia by d
eath, Gerda by marriage.
Memories of her own husband suddenly sparked Sylvia’s indignation. Gerda wished the Bergstrom descendants to know what sort of man Jonathan Granger had been—and Sylvia knew, all right. He was a spineless, selfish fool. Even in her anger Gerda seemed to want to excuse his behavior, but Sylvia wasn’t buying. He should have told Gerda about the engagement the moment he sensed the growing attraction between them. And what utter nonsense, to marry because one’s parents wanted to join two farms together! Gerda was better off without such in-laws, and certainly better off alone than linked for life to a dishonest rascal. Sylvia couldn’t imagine why Gerda thought it would be important for future Bergstroms to know about Jonathan, except to warn the young ladies of the family about deceitful young men.
She glanced down at the last page she had read, and frowned when she read the final sentence in the entry. More cryptic allusions that Anneke had done something dreadful. Wondering what on earth her great-grandmother had done to provoke Gerda’s harsh judgment was enough to drive Sylvia to distraction.
“Then why don’t you just flip through the book until you find the section where she explains?” asked Sarah later that week. The Elm Creek Quilters had gathered in the formal parlor for their weekly business meeting after the Wednesday evening camp activities, and as usual, after these matters had been discussed, they caught up on their personal news.
“She doesn’t want to spoil the suspense,” said Gwen.
“It would be like peeking at her presents before Christmas morning,” added Agnes with a smile.
“That’s not it,” said Sylvia. “I’m also looking for information about the quilts, something Gerda might have mentioned in passing or something that can only be deduced based upon the context. If I don’t read carefully, I might miss the one piece of evidence I need.”
“You can always read it more thoroughly later,” said Sarah. “Won’t you at least skim through it until you find out how Gerda and Jonathan ended up together?”
“Yes, do it,” urged Diane. “I mean, was the ceremony invalid for some reason? Did Charlotte die, or what?”
Sylvia studied them. “What makes you think Gerda and Jonathan eventually married?”
They exchanged a look. “I don’t know,” said Sarah. “I just assumed they did.”
“Well, I think it’s quite evident they did not.” Abruptly Sylvia rose. “Honestly, Sarah. These were real people living real lives, not characters in a storybook. Don’t expect a happy ending.”
Without another word, she left the room, leaving her friends gaping in astonishment. Halfway to her bedroom, Sylvia regretted letting her temper get the better of her. She considered returning to apologize, but she was in a foul mood, and whatever she said was likely to come out wrong and make matters worse. Fortunately, the Elm Creek Quilters weren’t ones to hold grudges. After all, they’d forgiven her for far worse.
Sure enough, the next morning at breakfast, Sarah acted as if nothing had happened. Sylvia was glad her young friend didn’t ask her to explain her outburst, because Sylvia wasn’t sure what had made her temper flare. She was angry at Jonathan and frustrated that she could do nothing to help Gerda—and she felt foolish for allowing events of the far distant past to affect her so.
Later that afternoon, she returned to her sitting room determined to read on as objectively as she imagined Professor DiCarlo approached an archaeological dig. She had just picked up the memoir and had settled into her favorite armchair when Summer knocked tentatively on the door frame. “Is it safe to come in?”
“Of course, dear. I’ve vowed not to act like an ogre today.”
Summer grinned. “That’s a relief. I left my ogre repellent at home.” She sat down on the footstool and placed her backpack on the floor between her feet. “I stopped by the library today.”
“And what did you discover?”
In reply, Summer removed a manila folder from her backpack and handed it to Sylvia. Inside was a document, a certificate of some sort, reproduced from microfiche. Quickly Sylvia slipped on her glasses and scanned the page. “Oh, my word.”
“It’s their marriage certificate, isn’t it?” asked Summer, eager. “It has to be them.”
“I don’t see how it could be anyone else.” Sylvia ran a finger along each line as she read aloud. “Dr. Jonathan Granger, Miss Charlotte Claverton—the date is correct, too. December twenty-fourth.” Sylvia set down the folder and beamed at Summer. “My dear, you are a wonder.”
“You say that, and you didn’t even see what else is in the folder.”
Quickly Sylvia looked under the first sheet and found a second. “Mr. Hans Bergstrom, Miss Anneke Stahl—” She gasped. “You found my great-grandparents’ marriage record!”
“It wasn’t difficult, once I found Jonathan’s and figured out the filing system.” Summer grinned. “But you can go ahead and call me a wonder again, if you like.”
“You are certainly that, and many other delightful things as well.” Sylvia gazed at the paper and suddenly gasped again. “Anneke Stahl—my goodness, I know her maiden name now. Even my mother didn’t know that.”
“Now you can add it to your family Bible.”
Sylvia nodded as if she had intended to do so all along, but Summer’s suggestion caught her by surprise. It had not occurred to her to finish the record her mother had begun, and she could not explain why. Was it a sense of prohibition lingering from childhood, or did she wish to preserve the Bible exactly as her mother had left it? Sylvia had no descendants who would chastise her for failing to fill in the gaps in the family history, and yet leaving the record incomplete didn’t feel right.
“I think my mother would have wanted that,” said Sylvia slowly. Yes, she was sure of it.
“Sylvia . . .” Summer hesitated. “Because of what Sarah and Diane said, I looked for a marriage record for Gerda and Jonathan. I didn’t find one.”
“Of course not, dear. I would have been astonished if you had.”
“But just because I didn’t find the record, that doesn’t mean they didn’t marry eventually,” added Summer hastily. “They could have married after the years I searched, or they could have married somewhere other than Creek’s Crossing, or maybe the record was lost—”
“Now, now, Summer. You don’t need to keep my hopes alive.” Sylvia closed the folder and set it on the table beside her armchair. “Jonathan married Charlotte and that’s that. Gerda said quite explicitly that she did not marry Jonathan and he did not join the Bergstrom family. I don’t know why Sarah and Diane assumed otherwise.”
“Maybe because they wanted it to be true. I know I did.” Again Summer paused. “I thought you should know, I also looked for a marriage record for Gerda and Cyrus.”
“What?” Sylvia stared at her. “Why on earth for? They despised each other.”
“They did in 1858, anyway.”
“What do you mean? What did you find?”
“Nothing,” said Summer quickly. “I didn’t find a record for them.”
“Well, my heavens.” Sylvia tried to compose herself. “Goodness. You could have said so at the beginning.”
“I only meant that their feelings could have changed with time,” said Summer, looking as if she was choosing her words carefully in order to avoid alarming Sylvia again. “Would it really be that extraordinary if they fell in love? He did try to court her once. Now Jonathan has abandoned her, she’s lonely, and you have to admit, she and Cyrus do have rather intense feelings for each other.”
“Yes, intensely negative. Don’t you remember what Mr. Pearson wrote in the Creek’s Crossing newspaper? How could an Abolitionist like Gerda marry someone like that?”
Summer shrugged, uncomfortable. “Remember that Jonathan and Dorothea were the ones who first introduced Gerda to the Abolitionist movement. They betrayed Gerda. Maybe in anger she turned against everything they believed in.”
“I don’t accept that.” Sylvia frowned and shook her head. “Remember, she was wr
iting in 1895, so she knows how things turned out, even if we don’t. There would have been some sign of it in her memoir.”
“You’re right. It was just a thought. Anyway, it turned out not to mean anything, because I couldn’t find a record for them.”
“And thank goodness for that,” declared Sylvia, as if that put an end to the matter.
But in her heart she knew the question was far from settled. Sylvia’s mother had written a comment in the Bible that could mean that she was uncertain of Gerda’s married name, unsure whether she had married at all, or both. Cyrus Pearson and his mother had apparently expressed interest in moving to the South. If they had done so, and Gerda had left Elm Creek Farm to marry Cyrus, she might have made a quilt in memory of the home and family she had left behind . . .
No. Quickly Sylvia closed her mind to such thoughts. Even in her disappointment, Gerda would not have turned her back on her principles. Sylvia would not believe it, despite the many inconsistencies and questions a marriage between Gerda and Cyrus would explain.
Sylvia closed the book and shut it firmly away in her desk drawer. If Gerda had married Cyrus, Sylvia would rather not know.
8
If Sylvia’s friends noticed she left the memoir untouched the rest of the day, they said nothing about it. Only Andrew mentioned the book, when he reminded Sylvia to pack it for an extended weekend trip to Door County, Wisconsin. They were well into Ohio before Andrew suggested she read aloud from it as he drove, and when Sylvia told him she had left it at home, he merely nodded and turned on the radio instead. Sylvia didn’t tell him she had left it behind on purpose, but she suspected he knew.
They spent two days in Sturgeon Bay, where they enjoyed a traditional fish boil and boating on Lake Michigan as the guests of one of Andrew’s army buddies and his wife. Then they drove north and west to a campsite overlooking Green Bay, not far from the quaint shops and charming restaurants of Egg Harbor and Fish Creek. Andrew persuaded Sylvia to join him on a tandem bicycle for a jaunt through Peninsula State Park. Sylvia half feared she was in for a teeth-chattering ramble over rocky hiking trails, but Andrew knew all the paved routes from previous visits and only occasionally made her shriek with alarm by steering too close to a tree.
Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt Page 16
