The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  She chose a trunk at random, tugged it into the open, and had just lifted the lid when she heard the stairs creaking. She turned to find Agnes emerging from the opening in the floor. “Oh, hello, dear,” Sylvia greeted her. “Did you finish your business with Sarah and Diane?”

  “We didn't even get started,” said Agnes, touching her curly white hair distractedly. “Once Sarah told me what you were up to, I came right upstairs.”

  “If you came to help, you're a brave soul. It took me weeks to find Gerda's hope chest.”

  “Sylvia.” Agnes hesitated, removed her pink-tinted glasses, and replaced them. “About your mother's quilt—”

  “Oh yes, of course,” exclaimed Sylvia, suddenly remembering. “You've seen it—the burgundy, green, black, and white New York Beauty quilt. It was on the bed of your guest room when you visited us that first time.” She chuckled at the memory. “We used it for only our most important visitors, but you apparently had no idea how we had honored you. The next morning, when you complained about how cold you had been all night, I wanted to snatch it off your bed and give you a few scratchy wool blankets instead. I would have, except my brother would have been furious.”

  “I don't remember complaining …” Agnes shook her head and began again. “Sylvia, dear, I hope you don't have your heart set on using your mother's bridal quilt.”

  “I don't plan to, not every day. Just on our wedding night.” She sensed Agnes's dismay and amended her words. “I wouldn't damage an antique quilt just to indulge a whim. If it seems too fragile, I'll just display it at the reception instead.”

  “I'm afraid that won't be possible, Sylvia.” Agnes took a deep breath. “The quilts aren't here.”

  “Of course they are. They must be.”

  “I don't mean they aren't in the attic. They aren't in the manor. Claudia sold them.”

  “What?”

  “She sold them. All of them, except for the utility quilts.”

  “I don't believe it.” Sylvia steadied herself with one hand on the trunk, then slowly closed the lid and sank to a seat upon it. “Not even Claudia could have done such a thing. Not even Claudia.”

  “I'm so sorry.” Agnes worked her way through the clutter and sat down beside her. “After the family business failed, the money ran out. Claudia and Harold sold off the horses, acres of land, furniture, anything to raise cash. I—I did, too, of course, but mostly to keep them from selling off the rest of the land and the manor with it.”

  “She sold Mother's bridal quilt?” Sylvia repeated.

  “And the others, her other fine quilts.” Agnes took Sylvia's hands. “I would have prevented it if I could have. I wish you knew how hard I tried.”

  “I'm sure you did.” Sylvia gave Agnes's hand a clumsy pat and pulled away. She rarely allowed herself to imagine what life in Elm Creek Manor had been like after her angry and abrupt departure, but for Agnes, it must have been a nightmare. Sylvia suspected she owed the survival of what remained of the estate to her sister-in-law. Agnes never spoke of those days, which Sylvia considered a kindness. What she imagined pained her enough.

  She never should have run away.

  “When Claudia made up her mind, there was no reasoning with her,” said Sylvia. “The quilts were hers to do with as she wished, since I abandoned them. It's not your fault she sold them.”

  “But—”

  “It's not your fault.” Suddenly the attic seemed dark and confining. “It's mine.”

  Sylvia left the attic without another word, without looking back. She retreated to the sanctuary of the sitting room adjoining her bedroom. Ordinarily she preferred to quilt in the bright cheerfulness of the west sitting room on the first floor where friends came and went as they pleased, but she was too distressed now to welcome company. She brooded as she worked on her Tumbling Blocks quilt, piecing the diamond-shaped scraps together and thinking about her sister.

  The fading light reminded her she had spent too much time alone with her thoughts. Tonight was supposed to have been her turn to prepare supper for herself, Andrew, Sarah, and Matt, but Agnes's revelation had driven all thoughts of eating from her mind. Finally, she set her quilting aside and hurried down the grand oak staircase, across the marble floor of the foyer, and down the west wing toward the kitchen. When camp was in session, they served breakfast in the banquet hall off the foyer, but in the off-season, they preferred the intimacy of the kitchen.

  Andrew and Matt were setting the long wooden table for four when she entered. “Glad you could join us,” said Sarah as she took a steaming casserole dish from the oven.

  Andrew took her hand and kissed her on the cheek. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked in an undertone.

  “Who said I was feeling poorly?”

  “You shut yourself in your room all day,” said Andrew. “That's usually a pretty accurate sign.”

  “It's nothing,” she said, giving his hand a pat and forcing a smile. “I'll explain later.”

  But Sarah's curiosity would not wait. They were barely seated when she gave Sylvia a searching look and said, “Did you and Agnes have an argument? She came down from the attic upset about something, but when I asked what was wrong, she just shook her head and asked Diane to drive her home.”

  “We didn't argue,” said Sylvia, and told them what she had learned about the fate of her mother's quilts.

  “Oh, Sylvia,” said Andrew, his brow furrowed in concern. “That's a real shame.”

  “It can't be helped,” she said briskly when Sarah and Matt nodded in sympathy. “What's done is done, and I have only myself to blame. If I hadn't run away—”

  “Don't blame yourself,” said Sarah.

  “Oh, don't worry, dear. I've set aside plenty of blame for my sister, too. I don't understand how she could have parted with our mother's quilts.” She waved her hand, impatient. “I've sulked about this enough for one day. May we please change the subject? I'd rather talk about anything else, even the wedding.”

  “That's good,” said Sarah, “because Diane wants Andrew to find out how many of his grandchildren are coming in case we need to set up a special playroom for them during the reception.”

  “She's moving right along, isn't she?” said Sylvia. “I suspect she'll have my dress picked out soon.”

  Andrew looked dubious. “I think my grandkids are too old to be interested in a playroom unless it has video games, but I'll ask.”

  “I suppose we ought to set a date before Diane does,” said Sylvia. “Did you find out when the grandkids will be out of school for the summer?”

  Andrew shrugged. “I forgot to check.”

  Sylvia gave Sarah and Matt a knowing look. “What he means is that he still hasn't summoned up the courage to tell his children we're engaged.”

  “That's not the kind of news you spring on someone over the phone,” protested Andrew.

  Sarah's eyebrows rose. “You say that as if you don't expect them to be happy for you.”

  “They will be,” said Andrew, “once they get used to the idea.”

  Sylvia patted his arm. “I love you, dear, and I promise I'll marry you with or without your children's blessing, but I think we should tell them soon, before they hear about it from someone else.”

  “I want to tell them in person.”

  “Do you really think that's necessary?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “Very well. Shall we break the news together?”

  “I'd like you to travel with me, but I'll tell them myself, alone. Bob first, and then Amy. Bob knows how to keep a secret, but Amy would be on the phone to her brother within five minutes.”

  Clearly he had given the matter a great deal of thought. “I'm sure we'll have a lovely visit and they'll be delighted for us,” said Sylvia. She smiled encouragingly and squeezed his hand, wishing she felt as certain as she sounded.

  The next day, Sylvia attended to her household chores and made mental notes about what she should pack for the upcoming trip. Bob lived in South
ern California, which at this time of year meant warm, sunny days and cool evenings. If they left tomorrow, as Andrew wished, and took time to see the sights along the way, they would arrive the following Friday.

  After calling his son to arrange their visit, Andrew spent the day working on the motor home, checking the engine and purchasing supplies. He and Sylvia kept so busy that, except at lunch, they barely had time to exchange a word. Sylvia found herself uncomfortably relieved by their separation. She knew she shouldn't take Andrew's concerns personally, but she couldn't help it. If Amy and Bob were going to be unhappy, how would telling them in person change anything? They had no business giving Andrew anything less than their wholehearted support of his decision to remarry.

  Just when she had worked up enough irritation to tell him so, Andrew appeared at the door of the laundry room and said, “Sylvia, may I speak with you a moment?”

  “You certainly may, but I want to speak first.” She closed the lid to the washing machine and was just about to give him a piece of her mind when she saw that Summer Sullivan, Sarah's codirector of Elm Creek Quilts, had followed him into the room. “Oh, hello, dear. I didn't know you were working today.”

  “I'm not,” said Summer, smiling. The youngest of the Elm Creek Quilters, the auburn-haired beauty was also their Internet guru and most popular instructor. “I came over to help you look for your mother's quilts.”

  “Look for them?” Sylvia barked out a laugh and punched the buttons on the washing machine. “Didn't anyone tell you? They aren't here. They've been gone for more than forty years. Nearly fifty. We'll never find them.”

  Andrew placed a hand on her shoulder. “You ought to hear what the young lady has to say.”

  Sylvia frowned at him, but he and Summer looked so hopeful that she gazed heavenward and sighed. “Oh, all right. If you make it quick. I have work to do.”

  “I'll help you with the laundry after,” said Summer, taking Sylvia's hand. With Andrew bringing up the rear, she led Sylvia to the library, where the computer was already connected to the Internet. Summer pulled out the high-backed leather chair and motioned Sylvia into it. “There's this awesome Web site—”

  Sylvia raised a hand. “You know I don't do e-mail. I appreciate what the Internet has contributed to our business, but I will not drive another nail into the coffin of the fine art of letter writing.”

  “No one will force you to send e-mail.” Summer guided her into the chair. “This is a Web site. It's different.”

  “Go on,” urged Andrew. “It's important.”

  Sylvia sat down, slipped on her glasses, and peered at the computer. The title at the top of the screen read, “The Missing Quilts Home Page.” Down the left side ran a list of phrases: “Home Page,” “Help Find Missing Quilts,” “Report Your Missing Quilt,” and “Reunions! Quilts Found.” Other quilt-related topics followed, including articles about protecting quilts from theft and how to properly document quilts—which had long been one of Sylvia's pet causes.

  “Perhaps this is worth a look,” she admitted.

  Summer slid the mouse into Sylvia's hand. “Use this to move the pointer over the links, and if you want to read the article, click the mouse.”

  “I have used a computer before, dear,” said Sylvia dryly, but she did as instructed. First she read the page about documenting quilts and was pleasantly surprised to discover the author provided a clear and thorough description of the appropriate steps. Next she clicked on the “Help Find Missing Quilts” link. On the screen appeared the names of at least fifty quilts, accompanied by pictures too small to be seen clearly even with her glasses.

  “Click on the thumbnail.” Summer took the mouse and clicked on the first tiny picture. That took them to a new page, which included a larger photo of the quilt, a list of the quilt's dimensions, colors, pattern, and fabric, and a brief narrative describing how it had disappeared from the quiltmaker's car after an accident. The quilter had been taken from the scene in an ambulance, and by the time she could arrange to have her possessions secured, the quilt was gone.

  “How terrible,” exclaimed Sylvia. “What kind of person would steal a quilt, especially from someone in such circumstances? It's outrageous.”

  “Keep reading,” said Summer, and used the mouse to direct Sylvia to the previous page.

  From there, Sylvia linked to each of the missing quilts in turn and read about quilts taken from summer cottages, vanished from the beds of residents of nursing homes, fallen from baby strollers or left behind at schools, stolen from quilt shows or lost in the mail en route to and from quilt shows, and, perhaps most troubling of all, more than two hundred children's quilts made by a Michigan church group for an orphanage in Bosnia, taken in the theft of the truck hired to transport them to the airport.

  “It's tragic,” muttered Sylvia, shaking her head. All those precious quilts so lovingly and painstakingly made, separated from their proper owners, perhaps forever. “Please tell me there's some good news.”

  “Try that Reunions link,” said Andrew.

  Sylvia clicked on “Reunions! Quilts Found,” which linked to a photo gallery of quilts that had eventually found their way home. The stories of their discoveries were comforting, but few.

  “They don't find many, do they?” said Sylvia, pushing back her chair and removing her glasses.

  “But they do find some,” said Andrew. “That red-and-white one was missing for thirty years, and it was finally found.”

  “My mother's quilts have been missing longer than that.”

  Summer sat on the edge of the desk. “You'll never find them if you don't look.”

  “Chances are I won't find them this way, either.”

  Summer frowned. “You know, you sound exactly the way you used to, before Elm Creek Quilts, back when you first returned to Waterford. Contrary and negative and pessimistic about everything.”

  “I most certainly do not. Not now and not then. I'm just being realistic.” Indignant, she added, “How would you know anything about my temperament back then? We didn't become friends until months later.”

  “True, but I worked at the quilt shop, remember? When you came to Grandma's Attic to buy supplies and to sell your quilts on consignment, I would overhear you talking to Bonnie. ‘I don't know why I bothered to bring this quilt downtown. No one will want it.’ ‘I have no business buying so much fabric. I won't live long enough to use it up.’”

  “Sylvia,” protested Andrew.

  “I never said any such thing,” declared Sylvia, but she remembered, vaguely, entertaining similar thoughts, and it was possible she had given voice to them. “Even if I did, I have changed considerably since then.”

  “That's a relief,” said Andrew.

  “Then don't be such a cynic,” said Summer. “If you really want to find your mother's quilts, let's look for them.”

  Sylvia pursed her lips, unconvinced, but wavering. “They were never photographed that I can recall.”

  “We don't need photos.” Summer pulled up a chair beside Sylvia's and took over the computer. “I'll use my drawing software to create illustrations based on your descriptions. You write down everything you remember about your mother's quilts—colors, sizes, any unique identifying marks—”

  Suddenly, with a flash of insight, Sylvia remembered: “My mother always embroidered her initials and the year on the backs of her quilts. She wrote with a pen, then backstitched over the writing with contrasting thread.”

  “Perfect,” said Summer, typing rapidly. “That's a start.”

  “This might take a while.” Sylvia glanced at Andrew. Now that she had decided to proceed, she didn't want to delay the search until they returned from California. “I still have to pack if we're going to leave tomorrow.”

  Andrew smiled and patted her shoulder. “I think this is important enough to delay our trip a day or two.”

  Sylvia placed her hand over his and thanked him with a smile.

  At first Sylvia wanted to concentrate on he
r mother's wedding quilt, but Summer soon persuaded her that by broadening their search, they increased their chances of finding at least one. While Summer produced an illustration of the burgundy, green, black, and white New York Beauty quilt from notes she jotted as Sylvia described it, Sylvia carried a pad of paper and a pen to a chair beside the fireplace and tried to coax memories of the quilts to the forefront of her mind. Eventually the clattering of Summer's fingers on the keyboard became a distraction, so Sylvia went outside to the cornerstone patio where she could be alone.

  She was glad for her sweater. The day was sunny but cool, and the leaves on the trees surrounding the gray stone patio had already begun to turn. The cornerstone patio had been her mother's favorite place on the estate, but Sylvia's memories almost always placed her there in spring, when the lilacs were in bloom. The door leading to the patio had once been the main entrance, back in the day of Sylvia's great-grandparents. The patio's name came from the cornerstone Hans, Anneke, and Gerda had laid in 1858, when the west wing of the manor was built. Sylvia's grandfather added the south wing when her father was just a boy, after the hard work of their immigrant forebears had paid off and the family prospered. Now evergreens and perennials hid the cornerstone from view, but every time Sylvia visited the patio, she recalled the passage from Gerda's memoir that described how her ancestors had built their home upon it.

  Sylvia seated herself on a teak armchair, pen in hand, and let her mind wander. Her mother had made so many quilts over the years, most of them simple utility quilts pieced from scraps. Some she had given away to charities sponsored by her church; others had kept Sylvia and her siblings warm throughout the cold Pennsylvania winters. Her mother's skill truly shone, however, in her five “fancy quilts,” as Sylvia had always called them. Mother devoted years to their making, and often purchased fabric especially for them rather than selecting from her scrap bag.