The Quilter's Legacy
Chiaverini, Jennifer
Simon and Schuster (2003)
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SUMMARY:
Readers of Jennifer Chiaverini's popular and engaging Elm Creek Quilts series are treated in each successive volume to storytelling that expertly weaves the joys and intricacies of history, quilting, and family ties. In The Quilter's Legacy, a daughter's search for her mother's treasured heirlooms illuminates life in Manhattan and rural Pennsylvania at the turn of the last century.When precious heirloom quilts hand-stitched by her mother turn up missing from the attic of Elm Creek Manor, Sylvia Bergstrom Compson resolves to find them. From scant resources -- journal entries, receipts, and her own fading memories -- she pieces together clues, then queries quilting friends from around the world. When dozens of leads arrive via the Internet, Sylvia and her fiancé, Andrew, embark on a nationwide investigation of antiques shops and quilt museums.Sylvia's quest leads her to unexpected places, where offers of assistance are not always what they seem. As the search continues, revelations surface about her mother, Eleanor Lockwood, who died in 1930, when Sylvia was only a child. Burdened with poor health and distant parents, Eleanor Lockwood defied her family by marrying for love. Far from her Manhattan home, she embraced her new life among the Bergstroms -- but although warmth and affection surrounded Eleanor at last, the Bergstroms could not escape the tragedies of their times.As Sylvia recovers some of the missing quilts and accepts others as lost forever, she reflects on the woman her mother was and mourns the woman she never knew. For every daughter who has yearned to know the untold story of her mother's life, and for every mother who has longed to be heard, The Quilter's Legacy will resonate with heartfelt honesty as it reveals what tenuous connections bind the generations and celebrates the love that sustains them.
Also by Jennifer Chiaverini
The Quilter's Apprentice
Round Robin
The Cross-Country Quilters
The Runaway Quilt
SIMON & SCHUSTER
Rockefeller Center
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2003 by Jennifer Chiaverini
All rights reserved, including the right of
reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON & SCHUSTER and colophon are registered
trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Chiaverini, Jennifer.
The quilter's legacy : an Elm Creek Quilts novel / Jennifer Chiaverini.
p. cm.
1. Compson, Sylvia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Quiltmaking—Fiction.
3. Art thefts—Fiction. 4. Aged women—Fiction. 5. Quilters—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.H473 Q58 2003
813′.54—dc21
2002030930
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8734-7
ISBN-10: 1-4165-8734-9
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
To my mother, Geraldine Neidenbach
Acknowledgments
I owe a deep debt of gratitude to Denise Roy, Maria Massie, and Rebecca Davis for their ongoing support of my work. Thank you for doing what you do so well.
Thank you to Janet Finley and the staff and volunteers of the Rocky Mountain Quilt Museum for generously sharing information about their museum and city.
Many thanks to Anne Spurgeon for her research assistance, but most of all, for her friendship.
I am grateful for the unwavering encouragement, faith, and tolerance of my friends and family, especially Geraldine Neidenbach, Heather Neidenbach, Nic Neidenbach, Virginia and Edward Riechman, Leonard and Marlene Chiaverini, Martin Lang, and Rachel and Chip Sauer. Thank you, Vanessa Alt, for playing with Nicholas while I wrote this book.
My husband, Marty, and my children, Nicholas and Michael, have enriched my life with their love and laughter. I could not do it without you.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter One
Sylvia supposed all brides-to-be considered eloping at some point during the engagement, but she had never expected to feel that way herself, and certainly not a mere few weeks after agreeing to become Andrew's wife. She shook her head as she flipped through the magazines someone had left on the desk—Bride's, American Bride, Country Bride—and dumped the whole stack into the trash can. Unless they came out with an edition of Octogenarian Bride, she would leave the pleading overtures of the bridal industry to the younger girls. Surely she could fend for herself when all she and Andrew wanted was a small, private ceremony in the garden.
The door to the library swung open, and in walked her young friend and business partner, Sarah McClure, neatly dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, the glasses she wore only reluctantly tucked into the breast pocket. She carried a small white box in one hand. “Do you have a moment?”
“Yes. I was just doing some light housekeeping.” Sylvia gestured to the trash can. “Are you responsible for this?”
“Are you kidding? After you scolded me for offering to take you shopping for your wedding gown?”
“I'm glad you learned your lesson.” Sylvia frowned. Who could it have been, then? All of the Elm Creek Quilters had free run of the office. Summer spent more time there than anyone other than Sarah, but she was not the bridal magazine type. “Diane,” she declared. “Just yesterday I overheard her say that this will be her only chance to plan a wedding because both of her children are boys. Do you suppose she forgot the magazines or left them deliberately, hoping I would be caught up in the wedding planning frenzy that seems to have captivated everyone else around here?”
“Ask her yourself,” said Sarah, smiling. “She and Agnes are coming over to discuss new courses for next season.”
“Already? Elm Creek Quilt Camp won't open until spring.”
“Would you rather have them work ahead on next year's classes or plan your wedding?”
“I suppose you're right.”
“You can't blame us for being excited. After you turned down Andrew the third time, most of us gave up hope that you two would ever get married.”
“If you were disappointed, it was your own fault for treating our relationship like a spectator sport.”
Sarah laughed. “I wasn't disappointed. I always knew it would happen eventually. In fact, I've been saving something for you for months with this occasion in mind.”
She set the box on the table.
“What is it?” asked Sylvia, wary. “I distinctly said we did not want any engagement gifts.”
“This doesn't really count.”
“How could it not count? It's in a wrapped box; it's quite obviously a gift.” But Sylvia smiled and unwrapped it. Inside was nestled a pair of silverplated scissors fashioned in the shape of a heron. “My goodness.” She slipped on her glasses and studied the scissors, astonished. “My mother had a pair exactly like these. Where on earth did you find this?”
“In your attic, earlier this summer when we were looking for your great-grandmother's quilts,” said Sarah. “You ordered me ba
ck to work every time I got sidetracked, so when I found them, I set them aside to show you later. When you found the quilts, I forgot about the scissors in all the excitement.”
“In the attic. Then—” The weight and shape of the scissors felt so familiar in her hands that, even with her eyes closed, she could have described the pattern of nicks on the blades. “Then these must be my mother's. I should have known them immediately. Did you know these were given to her by the woman who taught her to quilt? An aunt, or someone. My mother was just a girl when she used these scissors in making her first quilt.”
“I thought you might like to use them when you make your bridal quilt.”
Sylvia nodded, scarcely hearing. She could picture her mother slicing through fabric with a sure and steady hand, cutting pieces for a dress or a quilt. She remembered sitting beneath the quilt frame as her mother and aunts quilted a pieced top, eavesdropping on their conversation, watching as they worked their needles through the layers of fabric and batting. The weight of her mother's scissors as they rested on the quilt top made the layers bow at her mother's right hand, the depression vanishing and reappearing, accompanied by a brisk snip as her mother trimmed a thread. Those were the same scissors Sylvia and her elder sister, Claudia, had fought over as they raced through their first quilt project, each determined to complete the most Nine-Patch blocks and thereby earn the right to sleep beneath the quilt first. It was a wonder the scissors had not been damaged beyond repair that wintry afternoon, the way Claudia had flung them across the room in frustration when she tried to pick out a poorly sewn seam and jabbed a hole through her patches instead.
“What pattern are you going to use?”
Sylvia looked up. “Hmm?”
“What pattern are you going to use for your wedding quilt?” Sarah regarded her, curious. “You are planning to make one, aren't you?”
“I honestly hadn't thought about it,” said Sylvia. “Do you think Andrew expects a wedding quilt?”
“‘Expects’? No, I don't think he expects one, but don't you want one? You'll need something for your new bed anyway, unless you're planning to squeeze both of you into your bed or Andrew's.”
“Oh, of course,” Sylvia said. “You're right. We'll need something.”
Sarah's eyebrows rose. “Did you forget about that part? Most married people, you know, cohabit. Unless you were planning on twin beds a discreet distance apart?”
“Our sleeping arrangements are none of your business.” Then Sylvia paused. “Actually, I suppose this sounds foolish, but I forgot we would be sharing a room.”
Sarah put an arm around her. “I know it's probably been a while, but there's nothing to be nervous about. Especially with Andrew. I'm sure he'll be—”
“No, you don't understand,” said Sylvia. “I'm not talking about what you think I'm— You're going to force me to say it, aren't you? Very well, then. Sex. I'm not talking about sex. I said share a room, not share a bed.”
“I think you should be prepared to do both,” said Sarah carefully. “Andrew might be disappointed if you don't want—”
“I said I'm not talking about sex,” exclaimed Sylvia so forcefully Sarah jumped back in surprise. “Andrew and I will be fine in that department, and that's the last I'll say on the subject. My concern is with my room. I haven't shared a bedroom since—well, since James passed. Before then, even. Since he went overseas.”
“I see. You're used to having a room of your own. Your own space.”
“Precisely.” If her bedroom didn't reflect Andrew's tastes and interests as well as her own, he would feel more like a visitor than an occupant. Hardly anyone but herself ever entered the adjoining sitting room, one of her favorite places to read or sew when she wanted solitude. Would she have to shove her fabric stash aside to make room for Andrew's fishing gear? “I don't think there's enough space in my suite for two people.”
“Didn't you manage to make room for James when you married him?”
“That was different. I was younger. I didn't have so many things, and neither did James.” When Sarah looked skeptical, Sylvia added, “Besides, when James came to live at Elm Creek Manor, I left my old bedroom and we moved into the suite together. That made it our room, not merely mine.”
“Why don't you and Andrew do the same? You could move into the master suite on the third floor.”
“I couldn't. That was my parents' room.”
“But it's just sitting there empty and it's the largest suite in the manor.”
“I suppose,” said Sylvia, reluctant. But that would not solve the problem. She was content with her room as it was. It was private and it was hers. She did not want to change it or move somewhere else, but what was the point of getting married if they meant to leave things exactly as they were?
Sylvia stroked the heron scissors with a fingertip and carefully returned them to the box. She would just have to get used to the idea. If she told Andrew how she felt, he might think she was having second thoughts about marrying him.
Whatever they decided about the room, they would still need a quilt. Sylvia could no longer sew as swiftly as she had before her stroke, and she did not want a half-finished quilt covering their bed on their first night as husband and wife. She could ask the Elm Creek Quilters for help, or—
“I know just the thing.” Sylvia rose from her chair, tucking her mother's scissors into her pocket. “Thank you, Sarah. Your gift has inspired me.”
“Where are you going?”
“Up to the attic, to look for my mother's bridal quilt.”
Sylvia stifled a laugh, amused by Sarah's baffled expression. It was nice to know that, in spite of their closeness, Sylvia could still surprise her young friend.
Sylvia went upstairs to the third floor, then climbed the narrow, creaking stairs to the attic. Rain drummed on the roof as she fumbled for the light switch Sarah's husband, Matt, had only recently installed. The overhead light illuminated the attic much better than the single, bare bulb it had replaced, but even now the sloped ceiling and the stacks of trunks, cartons, and the accumulated possessions of four generations cast deep shadows in the corners of the room.
Directly in front of her stretched the south wing of the manor, added when her father was a boy; to her right lay the older west wing, the original home of the Bergstrom family, built in the middle of the nineteenth century by her great-grandparents and her great-grandfather's sister. Only a few months before, Sylvia had searched the attic for the hope chest her great-aunt Lucinda had described, the one containing her great-grandmother's quilts. One of those quilts, the family stories told, had acted as a signal to runaway slaves in the years leading up to the Civil War, beckoning fugitives to the sanctuary of a station on the Underground Railroad. Sylvia had found the hope chest and much more, for it had contained three quilts made by her ancestors and a journal, a memoir written by Gerda Bergstrom, her great-grandfather's sister. Within its pages Gerda confirmed that Elm Creek Manor had indeed been a station on the Underground Railroad, but the particular circumstances differed greatly from the idealized tales handed down through the generations.
Despite these new uncertainties, Sylvia still knew much more about her father's side of the family than her mother's. Until that summer she had excused her ignorance as a consequence of growing up on the Bergstrom family estate; naturally her father's family tended to talk about their own. Her mother died when Sylvia was only ten years old, and the few stories her mother had shared about her youth were almost certainly edited for a young girl's ears. Her mother spoke of strict, wealthy parents who raised her to be a proper young lady, and since this was the very sort of well-behaved child Sylvia invariably failed to emulate, her mother's stories seemed like dull morality tales. Sylvia eventually decided that the Bergstrom family was far more interesting than the Lockwoods and paid little attention when that distant look came into her mother's eyes as she remembered events long ago and far away.
The events of the past summer had pricked Sylvia's c
onscience, and for the first time in her life, she regretted neglecting an entire half of her heritage. Sarah's gift—the silverplated scissors Sylvia had so often seen in her mother's hand—had flooded her mind with images and conversations long forgotten and a warmth of remembered love. Mother had tried to pass on more than quilting skills as she taught Sylvia how to work a needle. If only she had paid more attention to her mother's reminiscences, she might feel as if she had truly known her, and known her family. Now all Sylvia had were her memories and the incomplete list of names, birthdates, baptisms, marriages, and deaths recorded in the Lockwood family Bible.
She surveyed the attic. Somewhere in one of those trunks or cartons were her mother's quilts. Claudia must have stored them up here, for upon Sylvia's return to the manor after Claudia's death, only a few of Mother's most worn utility quilts had been spread on beds in the rooms below, awaiting guests who never came. Her mother's bridal quilt was sure to be among those that had been put away for safekeeping.
“Now, where to begin?” mused Sylvia. The search earlier that summer had focused on a specific hope chest, so she had ignored those that did not fit the description. Still, she had opened enough, just in case, to detect a pattern within the clutter. The newest items were closest to the stairs, as if Claudia or her husband had merely stood on the top step and shoved the boxes inside. Moving deeper into the attic was like stepping back in time, with an occasional object from another era juxtaposing the past and present: an electric lamp missing its shade rested on top of a treadle sewing machine; a pile of Sylvia's schoolbooks sat on the floor beside a carton of clothing from the seventies. For the most part, however, the pattern held true, and since Sylvia had found Gerda Bergstrom's journal in the deepest part of the west wing, possessions from her mother's era ought to be somewhere in the middle of the south wing.
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