“Christmas is over, so you’re putting the Christmas Quilt away?” asked Sylvia, amused in spite of herself. “I see you’re following in Great-Aunt Lucinda’s footsteps.”
“Exactly,” said Claudia shortly. “To the letter.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m quitting, too. I suppose that pleases you.”
Strangely, it did not please Sylvia at all. “Why quit when you’ve already made five blocks?”
“Because I’ve already wasted too much time on this wretched thing.” Claudia closed the box and rose, then stood there with the box at her feet, regarding her sister challengingly, as if daring her to continue the conversation.
“Maybe you’ll feel differently next Christmas,” said Sylvia. “Maybe that’s how you’ll follow Great-Aunt Lucinda’s example, by working on it only during the Christmas season.”
“I will never sew another stitch of this quilt,” Claudia vowed. “I don’t want anything to remind me of this miserable Christmas.”
Sylvia stared at her, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sylvia, don’t pretend you don’t know. It isn’t like you to sympathize with me and I’m not fooled. This Christmas has been a disaster from start to finish, from the moment the strudel dough turned rubbery until ten minutes ago when I tried to sew two of my Variable Stars together and couldn’t get the points to match. I used the exact same templates and measured each before I cut, and yet it still would not come together properly.”
The trouble was her seam allowances, not her templates, Sylvia thought, but she decided to wait for a better moment to mention it. “The strudel was fine, and the proof is that only crumbs were left. And one bad quilt block isn’t a disaster.”
“It’s not just that. It’s everything.”
Sylvia knew she was thinking of the missing Christmas tree star, Aunt Abigail’s doll, Sylvia’s embarrassing show of affection in the choir loft—everything. Or nearly so. Apparently she had forgotten the beautiful Christmas tree alight with candles, Great-Aunt Lucinda’s delicious Christmas dinner, the sublime joy of the church service, the unbridled happiness of the children, and the loving company of their aunts and uncles and father. How could any of that be branded a disaster?
“When Father took Andrew home,” said Sylvia, “the little boy told him that this was the most wonderful Christmas he had ever known.”
Claudia looked away. “Well, of course it would be, for him.”
Sylvia wanted to argue that it had been so, not only for Andrew, but for all of them, but she ached with longing for her mother and could not honestly say that any Christmas was as full of joy and hope as those Eleanor had shared with them. Of course that could not be so. But this Christmas had been full of blessings, and she could not understand why her sister could not see them.
* * *
Great-Aunt Lucinda was certain the ruby-and-gold glass star would be discovered when the family put away the trappings of the holiday after Twelfth Night, but it was not. Sylvia never saw the star again, and she doubted Claudia ever stopped suspecting she played a role in its disappearance.
In the year that was to come, Sylvia’s father discovered that his instinct to remove Andrew and Sally Jane from their unhappy home was justified. Richard and Andrew were eight years old when Andrew ran away from home and hid out for days in the wooden playhouse Sylvia’s father had built for Richard near the stables and exercise rings. Richard smuggled blankets and food to his friend, but he inadvertently led Sylvia right to him one early autumn night when she woke to the sound of her brother creeping past her bedroom door. When Sylvia’s father contacted the authorities, whatever they discovered about the Cooper home compelled them to take Andrew and Sally Jane from their parents the first day of their investigation. Sylvia’s father immediately offered to take them in, but an aunt was found in Philadelphia, and while the local authorities respected Frederick Bergstrom, the law said that the children belonged with family.
Andrew and his sister were sent away to the city. For months after his sudden departure, Richard missed his friend and wrote him letters, but the Bergstroms did not know where to send them. For years thereafter, the Bergstroms counted Andrew and his little sister among those absent loved ones with whom they longed to spend Christmas once more.
And on every one of those Christmases, Sylvia hoped her sister would reflect upon that year and realize that it had truly been a joyous time despite the mishaps and misunderstandings, and that she would finish the Christmas Quilt, even with her well-intended but imperfect stitches. If Claudia ever did see the Christmas of 1934 in a different light, she never shared that epiphany with her sister, nor did she ever add another stitch to the Christmas Quilt.
Chapter Four
SYLVIA KEPTSARAHcompany in the sitting room as she finished attaching Claudia’s Variable Stars to the Feathered Stars and holly plumes. As the disparate sections of the Christmas Quilt came together, Sylvia began to see a pattern emerging, but whether Sarah would succeed in creating something harmonious and beautiful, Sylvia could not yet determine.
The sight of Claudia’s handiwork intermingled with their mother’s and great-aunt’s gave her mixed feelings. While Claudia’s piecing skills were inferior to those of her predecessors, her pattern choice simpler, Sarah had arranged the Variable Stars so that they set off the complexity of the other blocks without competing for the observer’s attention. They seemed to fit with an ease that made Sylvia question her reaction to her sister’s pattern choice so many years before. Perhaps Sarah had not chanced upon a flattering arrangement. Perhaps this layout was what Claudia had intended all along.
It remained to be seen how Sarah would accommodate the blocks Sylvia had made, or whether a Bergstrom sister would be excluded from the quilt after all—just not the sister Sylvia would have predicted.
In a moment when the clattering of the sewing machine had paused, Sylvia asked, “Would you care to help me finish putting up the Christmas decorations?”
“When I finish this section,” Sarah promised, winding a new bobbin. “I’ll meet you in the foyer, okay?”
Sylvia shrugged and left her to it. She returned to the boxes of Christmas decorations scattered across the marble foyer, and she cast a critical eye upon the work they had already completed. She made a few changes, made a mental note to have Matt collect some greenery, and, in armfuls she could manage, brought the rest of the decorations to the kitchen. On one of her trips, she discovered that the sewing machine had fallen silent, and that Sarah and Matt were discussing something in hushed voices within the sitting room.
She considered eavesdropping, but reminded herself that she rarely learned anything pleasant that way. So she went to the doorway and regarded the pair, who were speaking earnestly, their heads bent close together. She caught a few words—“mother,” “impossible,” and “never”—just enough for her to identify the topic of conversation.
“I hate to interrupt,” she said, hiding a smile when they sat up too quickly. “But if we’re going to finish decorating, I’ll need your help.”
“You’re not interrupting anything,” said Matt.
“We were just debating … which Christmas carol is the most depressing,” said Sarah. “Matt says ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ because it’s about longing for home rather than actually being there, but I think ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ is more melancholy. What do you think?”
“What an odd way to pass the time.” Sylvia didn’t believe her for a moment, but she decided to play along. “My vote goes to the ‘Coventry Carol.’”
“Which one is that?”
“It’s a traditional piece.” Sylvia hummed a few measures. “It’s about King Herod’s slaughter of the innocents in his attempt to kill the Christ Child.”
“You win,” said Matt.
“Naturally. I have experience and wisdom on my side.” Not to mention years of practice debating Claudia on every conc
eivable topic. “Now then. If Sarah is willing to take a break from her sewing, I believe it’s time you two went out and found us a tree.”
Sarah and Matt agreed, so Sylvia reminded them of the borders of the Bergstrom estate, which had contracted significantly since her youth due to Claudia’s sale of parcels of land in Sylvia’s absence. She described a particular region of the woods that had yielded many fine Christmas trees in the past, advised them to take the old toboggan along, and sent them on their way.
Sylvia watched from the back stairs as they trudged off across the parking lot—empty of cars in the off-season, although Matt kept it cleared of snow in case of unexpected visitors—and crossed the bridge over Elm Creek. So many other couples had made that trek before them. It was a tradition that had begun with Hans and Anneke Bergstrom, as they went off to find a tree while Gerda, the superior cook, remained at home to attend to their Christmas Eve supper. Their simple, practical decision became ritual as younger generations married and the family grew. Once Sylvia’s parents had been the newlyweds sent off to find the Christmas tree, their love steadfast and hopes for the future bright despite the doctors’ grim prediction that Eleanor’s health would not allow her to bear children. Years later, their daughter Sylvia set off for the snowy wood with her beloved husband, James.
Dear, wonderful James.
They met at the state fair when Sylvia was sixteen. Every year she and Claudia entered their quilts in the show in hopes of winning a ribbon, and Great-Aunt Lucinda entered her best preserves. Their father showed his prize horses and spent hours debating the merits of various breeding and training practices with other men in the business, some of whom were his rivals. Nine-year-old Richard shadowed his father, absorbing every word the men exchanged. Like Sylvia, he had always known that one day he would take his place beside his father and uncle with Bergstrom Thoroughbreds.
Although Sylvia cared as much about the business as her brother, at the fair, she was too absorbed in her riding competitions to pay much attention to business trends and competitors’ rivalries. She took first place in nearly every competition she entered, which she attributed as much to her father’s fine horses as to her own skill. When she saw her father beaming at her proudly as the judges awarded her ribbons and draped a wreath of flowers around her mount’s neck, she knew she was doing her part to strengthen the reputation of Bergstrom Thoroughbreds. After years of struggling, the family business was steadily regaining its former prominence. Recent outstanding showings in the Preakness had brought them new customers, and just as Uncle William had always predicted, many of their former clients had returned when they could afford to once again.
That year at the fair, a young man she did not recognize came often to the practice ring and leaned against the fence to watch while Sylvia rode Dresden Rose. Once, when he caught her eye and called out a greeting, she replied with a nod and pretended to ignore him. She had come to find his presence disconcerting and wondered if a rival had sent him to ruin her concentration and leave her vulnerable to mistakes in the ring. With dismay she realized that the plan, if it was a plan, had a good chance of succeeding. The young man was undeniably handsome, tall and strong with dark eyes and dark, curly hair, impossible to ignore.
Later, as she tended to Dresden Rose, the young man from the practice ring joined her in the stable. He complimented the mare, which he immediately recognized as a Bergstrom Thoroughbred, and inquired if Sylvia often rode their horses.
“Of course,” said Sylvia.
“They’re supposed to be the finest horses around.”
“A lot of people think so.”
He smiled. “I know I shouldn’t admit this, but the best of my family’s stable can’t match the worst of Old Bergstrom’s.”
“Oh, really?” Sylvia was so astonished she nearly laughed. “I suppose ‘Old Bergstrom’ would be delighted to hear that.”
“I bet he already knows.” The young man went on to confide that his father intended to catch up to Old Bergstrom in a generation, but that he did not believe his father would succeed. One day, however, he himself would breed horses even finer than the best Old Bergstrom had to offer.
After that admission, when he asked for her name, Sylvia thought it prudent to offer only her first. When he introduced himself, she was startled to learn he was James Compson, the youngest son of her father’s strongest rival.
James did not discover who Sylvia’s father was until her next riding competition later that day. From atop Dresden Rose, she spotted her family cheering in the spectators’ seats and waved to them, her confidence bolstered. Then, as she looked away into another part of the stands, her eyes met James’s. His gaze was so steady and intense that the encouraging grin he offered completely unsettled her. She looked away and fought to compose herself as the announcer called out the names of the riders.
When it was her turn, the announcer’s voice rang out so that all could hear. “Our fifth competitor—Sylvia Bergstrom!”
As Dresden Rose trotted into the ring, Sylvia risked a glance at James Compson and was pleased to see him staring at her with an expression of shock, bewilderment, and chagrin. Later, when he did not reappear at the practice ring, she regretted having fun at his expense. She should have told him who she was the moment he identified Dresden Rose as coming from her father’s stables. Surely he did not believe she had run to her father with his idle talk about his father’s plans—although part of her felt disloyal for not divulging what she knew.
James must have forgiven her, for the next time they met a few years later, he was as warm and friendly as ever. They struck up a correspondence that lasted several years as their friendship blossomed into love. When Sylvia was twenty and James twenty-two, they married, and James joined the Bergstrom family and the family business at Elm Creek Manor.
Their first Christmas as husband and wife marked a time of renewed hope and happiness in the Bergstrom household, which had grown smaller since the year Claudia had attempted to finish the Christmas Quilt. Great-Aunt Lucinda, the last child of Hans and Anneke Bergstrom, had passed away after a brief illness. Uncle William died after being thrown from a horse, and when Aunt Nellie remarried, she moved away with her children. Other cousins left the Elm Creek Valley, too, pursuing the promise of better jobs elsewhere when the family business faltered. Elm Creek Manor, which had once seemed so full and bustling with life, suddenly became unbearably large and empty to its few remaining residents. Though the threat of a war in Europe loomed on the horizon, James’s arrival in the household promised that they had reached a turning point, that he would help the business to thrive, and that one day the manor would be restored to its former glory.
On their first Christmas Eve as husband and wife, Claudia hid her jealousy poorly as Sylvia and James pulled on their coats and boots in preparation for their snowy trek into the woods, but Sylvia gave her credit for trying. Claudia had known her beau, Harold, since high school and in all fairness should have been the first sister to marry, but Harold had yet to ask her. No one doubted that he would get around to it eventually, but it chafed Claudia that once again her younger sister had preceded her. “It’s true you get to be first to bring in the tree,” she had remarked as they made the famous Bergstrom strudel earlier that day. “But I will get to be the newlywed until Richard marries, which means I will have more turns than you.”
Sylvia was in such good spirits that she had conceded Claudia’s point and pretended to be annoyed that her term as the most recent bride might soon end. She did not mention that Harold did not seem to be in much of a hurry, and that if he didn’t propose soon, Richard might very well be old enough to marry before Claudia did.
With the rest of the family wishing them good luck from the back door, Sylvia and James headed out, stopping first at the barn for the ax, a coil of rope, and the toboggan. “Give you a ride?” James offered, inclining his head to the toboggan, his face lighting up with his smile.
“This is for the tree,” Sylvia remind
ed him, placing a mit-tened hand close to his around the towrope.
A thick blanket of snow as soft as powder had fallen overnight, and though the sky was concealed behind thick clouds, the air was clear and still. They walked in a companionable silence until James stopped short at the base of a thin white pine. “How’s this?”
“It’s tall enough, but the branches are too sparse,” replied Sylvia. “I like a fuller tree, don’t you? The ballroom is so large, if we don’t have a full tree, it disappears in the space.”
“Then let’s keep looking.” James gave the rope a tug and they continued on. “In my parents’ house, my father always wanted a floor-to-ceiling tree, but my mother preferred a small one to stand on a table top. She said that was the way her family had always done it, and to please her, my father went along with it. Over the years they collected too many ornaments to fit on one small tree, but instead of getting a larger one, they chose two small trees and kept them in different rooms. By the time I was in school, we had small trees on tabletops in almost every room of the house. When visitors came, my next-oldest sister and I would lead tours to make sure they didn’t miss any of them.”
Sylvia smiled at the image of her beloved husband as a boy on Christmas morning. “We could do that instead if you like, choose several little trees instead of one large.”
“No, this is the Bergstrom home and we’ll do it the Bergstrom way.”
“This is the Compson home now, too.” Sylvia linked her arm through his. “Compson children will be born here and live here. We must give Compson traditions their pride of place.”
“Some Compson traditions,” James conceded. “I will miss Christmas Eve church services and staying home Christmas morning, opening presents in my pajamas.”
Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt Page 14
