The first, the oldest of the five, was a Crazy Quilt of silks, wools, brocades, and velvets, heavily embroidered and appliquéd. Mother had displayed it draped over a small table beside her bed, but since Sylvia was only rarely permitted to enter her parents' bedroom, she remembered little except its dark, formal colors and its heaviness. She closed her eyes and concentrated, willing the vague impressions to clarify.
She wrote down all she remembered: the diamond-shaped blocks covered with crazy patchwork; the appliquéd horseshoe, chess piece, and the silhouette of a woman; the embroidered spider-web and initials; the one block cut from a single piece of fabric, a linen handkerchief monogrammed with the monogram ALC. The L surely stood for Lockwood, but Sylvia had no idea what the A and C represented, since she had found no A. C. Lockwood listed in the family Bible. Although she could not recall her mother telling her so, she knew, somehow, that while the Crazy Quilt appeared to be the work of an accomplished, experienced quilter, it was one of the first her mother had completed. Her grandmother had disapproved of it.
Sylvia sat stock-still. The idea had sprung into her head from heaven knew where, but Sylvia was certain it was true, albeit mystifying. Why would Grandmother Lockwood have disapproved of such a beautiful piece? It was impossible to believe she had found fault with her daughter's handiwork. Crazy Quilts by their nature were more for show than for warmth or comfort; had Grandmother Lockwood thought her daughter's efforts would be better spent on a more practical project?
Sylvia frowned and tapped the pen on the arm of her chair, wishing she knew.
Eventually Sylvia decided to set that puzzle aside for another time. She turned to a fresh page on the pad, and, although she had already told Summer most of what she knew, she jotted a few additional notes about her mother's wedding quilt. Given the complexity of the pattern and the length of time Mother typically devoted to her showpiece quilts, she had probably begun the New York Beauty by 1904 in order to have it finished for her wedding in 1907. But had she even known her future husband then? She would have been only fourteen. Sylvia wished she knew for certain. She wondered if her mother had dreamed about her wedding day as she hand-pieced the hundreds of narrow fabric triangles into arcs. As she set the quarter-circles into the arcs, she might have imagined embracing her husband beneath the finished quilt. Perhaps she hoped the quilt would grace their wedding bed throughout the years, as she and her husband grew old together.
“Sentimental nonsense,” scoffed Sylvia, ignoring a twinge of guilt that perhaps she had wronged Andrew by not indulging in such romantic daydreaming. She reassured herself by noting that her mother probably hadn't, either. Most likely, the New York Beauty was already in progress before Father proposed. Knowing she would not have enough time to start a new quilt from scratch, Mother had simply decided to make the New York Beauty her wedding quilt. It was an option Sylvia would do well to consider.
Sylvia's notes on the New York Beauty filled only half a page, but Summer's computer illustration would supplement them. Summer would need better drawing skills than Sylvia possessed to create a picture that would do justice to Mother's third quilt, a white whole cloth quilt. A masterpiece of intricate quilting, it was so much smaller than the others that Sylvia might have assumed it was a crib quilt except that no infant had ever slept beneath it. Sylvia's memory and the quilt's pristine condition concurred on that point. It could have been intended for a fourth child wished for but never conceived, or even a grandchild, but Mother had completed it several years before Claudia had been born. Sylvia had always wondered why Mother had not given that beautiful quilt to her eldest child, and why she had not embroidered her initials and date on the back, the last, finishing touch she had added to all her other quilts. Perhaps it was not a crib quilt at all, but a stitch sampler where Mother had practiced her hand-quilting and auditioned new patterns. If that were true, Mother might have thought a practice quilt too humble to commemorate the birth of her first child, despite its beauty. Claudia certainly would have been offended if she had learned of it, so perhaps Mother made the right choice.
At the top of a fresh page, Sylvia started to write “Sick Quilt” before she caught herself and wrote “Ocean Waves.” Better to call it by its traditional title, since no one else would be able to identify her mother's blue-and-white quilt with the nickname Sylvia and Claudia had given it. Sylvia was not sure how the family custom developed, but whenever children in the family fell ill, Mother would take the Ocean Waves quilt from her cedar chest and allow them to use it on their beds until they felt better. In hindsight, Sylvia assumed the privilege of using the special quilt was supposed to boost the sick child's spirits and thereby hasten recovery, but she recalled that when she was particularly queasy, the arrangement of blue and white triangles resembled an ocean's undulating surface enough to make her feel worse rather than better. She would kick off the quilt rather than look at it, but Grandmother Bergstrom, her father's mother, would replace it while Sylvia slept. Grandmother Bergstrom never admitted it aloud, but she seemed to believe the quilt had miraculous curative powers. Sylvia once asked her mother if this were true. Mother said that Grandmother's ideas were merely harmless superstitions, and Sylvia shouldn't let them trouble her. Then her eyes had taken on a faraway look, and she said that she had prayed for the safety of her family every moment she worked on that quilt, and perhaps an answer to her prayers lingered in the cloth.
Sylvia turned to a new sheet and sketched the Elms and Lilacs quilt, smiling as she worked. The Elms and Lilacs quilt was Sylvia's favorite of all her mother's quilts; indeed, it was quite possibly her favorite out of all the quilts she had ever seen. A masterpiece of appliqué and intricate, feathery quilting, the Elms and Lilacs quilt displayed her mother's skills at their finest. The circular wreath of appliquéd elm leaves, lilacs, and vines in the center gave the quilt its name; a graceful, curving double line of pink and lavender framed it. The outermost border carried on the floral theme with elm leaves tumbling amid lilacs and other foliage, and intertwining pink and lavender ribbons finished the scalloped edge. The medallion style allowed for open areas, which Mother had quilted in elaborate feathered plumes over a delicate background crosshatch. Then an image flashed in Sylvia's thoughts: her mother quilting the Elms and Lilacs quilt in the nursery while Sylvia, Claudia, and baby Richard played nearby.
Sylvia laughed, remembering how her father and Uncle William had struggled to disassemble the quilt frame and carry it up the stairs. The Elms and Lilacs quilt had been a gift for Father on her parents' twentieth anniversary, and Mother had brought it to the nursery so she could work on it unobserved. It was a wonder she finished it in time with Sylvia at her elbow begging to be allowed to contribute a stitch or two. Sylvia hesitated, her pen frozen in mid-stroke. She vaguely remembered that Mother had, in fact, allowed her to work on the quilt, and Claudia, as well, but something had brought their work to an abrupt halt. Perhaps it was an argument; many a quilting lesson had ended prematurely thanks to the sisters' rivalry. Or perhaps their mother had been too ill to continue for a time. Mother's slow decline had already begun by then, and she had been forced to set aside many of her favorite pastimes. Quilting had been among the last she relinquished. She had quilted until the very end, when she could do little more than sit outside on the cornerstone patio and admire the garden Father had made for her.
Sylvia finished her notes on the Elms and Lilacs quilt with a description of its colors and fabrics and an estimate of its size. She wrote down all she remembered. She had her doubts about Summer's Internet, but the tiniest detail might prove to be the key to locating the quilts and determining their identity. And if, through some fortunate turn of events, the quilts could be restored to her, Sylvia might learn more about the woman who had made them.
Chapter Two
1899
Eleanor stole down the hallway past her sister's room, where Abigail and Mother struggled to open Abigail's trunk. Eleanor heard Mother wonder aloud how the latch had acquired that
peculiar dent, but she did not hear what excuse her sister invented. She doubted Abigail would admit she had kicked the trunk when she could not close the latch. Eleanor had been standing on the trunk at the time, helping her sister compress her clothing enough to squeeze in one more dress, more than willing to postpone her own packing and delay their return home.
She raced down the stairs to the front door and darted outside, picking up speed as she ran down the length of the porch. She scrambled over the railing and leapt the short distance to the lawn. The grass was damp on her stocking feet; it must have rained that morning. At the summer house, the morning had dawned clear and breezy, with no hint of autumn.
Eleanor felt a pang that had nothing to do with her bad heart. She missed the summer house already, and it was only their first day back in the city. Mother permitted things in summer she allowed at no other time—dancing, brief games of badminton or croquet, long strolls outdoors. The previous three months would have been perfect if Eleanor had been allowed to learn to ride horseback. Abigail had learned when she was two years younger than Eleanor was now, and Eleanor had hoped and prayed that this would be the year Mother and Father would relent. Every Friday evening when Father joined them at the summer house, Miss Langley had tried to persuade him, but he returned to the city each Sunday without overruling Mother's decision.
A cramp pinched her side. Eleanor dropped into a walk, gasping for air, sweat trickling down her back. Her stockings itched; her long-sleeved sailor dress felt as if it had been woven from lead. Mother dressed her daughters by the calendar, not the weather—“Or common sense,” Miss Langley had murmured as she tied the navy blue bow at the small of Eleanor's back—and September meant wool. Her short sprint had left her faint; she blamed the sultry air and her heavy, uncomfortable clothing. She refused to blame her heart.
Everyone knew Eleanor had a bad heart. They called her delicate and fragile and, when they thought she wasn't listening, spoke of her uncertain future in hushed, tragic voices. Eleanor did not remember the rheumatic fever she had suffered as a baby and did not understand how her heart differed from any other. It seemed to beat steadily enough, even when she woke up in the night fighting for breath. If it pounded too fiercely when she ran, it was only because she was unaccustomed to exerting herself. Sometimes she placed her head on Miss Langley's chest and listened, wondering how her own flawed heart would compare to her nanny's. Her imagination superimposed the wheezing of steam pipes and the clanging of gears.
It was Miss Langley's responsibility to make sure Eleanor did not run, or climb stairs too quickly, or overexcite herself, or take a fright. Miss Langley was English, and before coming to America to raise the Lockwood children, she had traveled to France, Spain, Italy, and the Holy Land. Eleanor thought New York must seem desperately dull after such exotic locals, but Miss Langley said every land had its beauties. If Eleanor learned to find and appreciate them, she would be happy wherever life took her.
Eleanor agreed with her in principle, but everyone knew she would never be strong enough to go anywhere, except to the summer house for three months every year. It was a fact, just as her bad heart was a fact.
If Miss Langley had not been occupied unpacking her own belongings, Eleanor could not have slipped away. She regretted deceiving her nanny, since Miss Langley was her only ally in a household that expected her to collapse at any moment. If not for her, Eleanor's life would have been even more limited, since Mother had not even wanted her to attend school. Mother had feared exposing Eleanor to the elements and the jostling of her more robust classmates, even when Miss Langley reminded her that Eleanor's fellow pupils would be from the same respectable families as the young ladies in Abigail's class, well-bred girls unlikely to jostle anyone. When Mother would not budge, Miss Langley ignored the sanctity of Father's study and emerged twenty minutes later with his promise that Eleanor would be permitted to attend school. Eleanor doubted Mother ever learned about that clandestine visit; if she had known Miss Langley had persuaded Father, Mother would have yanked Eleanor from school just to spite her.
The cramp in Eleanor's side eased as she walked. She had fled the house not caring where she went as long as it was away from Mother and Abigail, and now she did not know where to go. They had chattered about the upcoming social season all the way home from the summer house, and Eleanor couldn't endure another word. She was not jealous, not exactly, but she was tired of pretending to be happy for her sister.
She saw the gardener and quickly veered away before he spotted her. Ahead, the stable seemed deserted; by now the horses would have been curried, watered, and fed, and the stable hands would have left for their dinner. No one would think to look for her there, since she could not ride and was not even allowed to touch the horses' glossy coats. Only when no one else could see did Miss Langley let her brush Wildrose, the bay mare Father had given her for Christmas. Mother had called the gift an extravagance unbefitting Miss Langley's position, but her friend Mrs. Newcombe had said Mother could not get rid of the horse without raising uncomfortable questions.
Eleanor slipped inside the stable, took two apples from the barrel near the door, and tucked one into her pocket. “Hello, Wild-rose,” she called softly, polishing the second apple on her sleeve. She heard an answering whinny from a nearby stall—but no stern questions from a lingering stable hand, no alarmed shouts for her mother. Emboldened, Eleanor approached the mare, who poked her head over the stall door, sniffing the air. Eleanor held out the apple, and when Wildrose bent her neck to take a bite, Eleanor stroked the horse's mane. “I'm sorry we had to come back to the city. You and I like the summer house better, don't we?”
Wildrose snorted, and Eleanor blinked to fight off tears. She would not cry. She might be fragile, as everyone said, but she wasn't a baby, crying over rumors. “Father would never sell the summer house,” she said, feeding Wildrose the rest of the apple. “We'll go back every year until we're old, old ladies. You'll see.”
Wildrose whickered as if she agreed—and suddenly Eleanor felt a prickling on the back of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder to find Jupiter watching her.
She quickly looked away, then slowly turned again to find the stallion's deep, black eyes still upon her. No one but Father rode Jupiter, and only the most trusted stable hand was allowed to groom him. “That's what the Lord can create when He's had a good night's sleep,” Father had proclaimed last spring as he admired his latest purchase. Only Eleanor saw the disapproving frown Mother gave him. She disliked blasphemy.
Father said Jupiter had gained a taste for blood in the Spanish-American War and would rather trample a little child beneath his hooves than take a sugar cube from Eleanor's palm. She fingered the apple in her pocket—and jumped when Jupiter tossed his head and whinnied. She caught her breath and took one soft step toward him. She drew closer, then stretched out her hand and held the apple beneath Jupiter's muzzle.
He lowered his head, his nostrils flaring, his breath hot on her skin. Then he took the apple from her hand and backed away, disappearing into his stall.
Delighted, Eleanor lifted the latch to the stall door to follow—and then felt herself yanked back so hard she nearly fell to the ground. “What are you doing?” cried Miss Langley. She quickly closed the stall and snapped the latch shut. “You know you're not allowed near your father's horse. You could have been killed.”
“I only wanted to feed him,” said Eleanor, shaken. “He kept looking at me, and I felt sorry for him, since none of us ever play with him—”
“Jupiter does not play, not with you children or anyone else.”
“Please don't tell,” begged Eleanor. “I won't do it again. I know I should stay away from the horses. I'm delicate.”
“Jupiter is a proud creature, and very strong. He is not safe for children. I would have given Abigail the same advice though she is four years older.”
“You wouldn't have needed to. Abigail's afraid of him.”
“Don't be saucy.” But Miss La
ngley almost smiled as she said it, and she brushed a few stray pieces of straw from Eleanor's dress. “Your father is a formidable man. Don't cross him until you're old enough to accept the consequences.”
It had never occurred to Eleanor that anyone might intentionally cross Father. “How old is that?”
“I suppose you'll know, if the occasion ever arises.”
Miss Langley took Eleanor by the hand and led her outside.
As they returned to the house, Eleanor looked up at Miss Langley and asked, “Do you really think Father will sell the summer house?”
“I know he does not want to.” Miss Langley absently touched her straight, blond hair, as always, pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. “However, it would be more frugal to maintain only one household.”
Eleanor had hoped for something more encouraging, but Miss Langley never lied, and Eleanor knew her father was concerned about debt. She had overheard him say that the family business had never completely recovered from the Panic six years earlier. It would surely not survive another unless he took on a partner.
“If he has to sell a house, I wish he'd sell this one,” said Eleanor.
“You might find the summer house rather cold in winter.”
“Mother would bundle me in so much wool I'd never notice the cold,” said Eleanor, glum, then stopped short at the sight of her mother, holding up her skirts with one hand and approaching them at a near run.
“Miss Langley,” Mother gasped. “What on earth are you doing?”
Abruptly, Miss Langley released Eleanor's hand. “Walking with Eleanor.”
“I can see that.” Mother knelt before Eleanor, held her daughter's face in her hands, and peered into her eyes. “Why would you bring her outside after such a hard day of travel, and without a word to anyone? My goodness, where are her shoes? Have you given no thought to this poor child's health?”
The Quilter's Legacy Page 3
