The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Eleanor could endure no more. She turned and fled from the room, but before she could reach the stairs, Father exited the drawing room and closed the door behind him.

  “The Corvilles have agreed,” he told her. “You are a very fortunate girl.”

  Eleanor gaped at him. “How am I fortunate?”

  “You have narrowly escaped the shame of spinsterhood. Do you need any other reward for fulfilling your duty to your parents?”

  “What of my duty to myself? And what of Mother? For years you have told me it is my obligation as the unmarried daughter to care for her in her infirmity.”

  “Your obligations have changed. Once you marry Edwin, we will be able to hire a score of nurses to care for your mother.”

  “You are both mad.” Eleanor picked up her skirts and fled to the sanctuary of her study. Once inside, she locked the door and barred it with a chair. She felt faint. She lay on the sofa and buried her face in her hands, anguished. Now she understood the reason behind Abigail's apologies. Abigail must have anticipated how her decision would affect her sister. She had known, and yet she had still run off.

  A knock sounded on the door. “Eleanor, it's me.”

  “Edwin.” Eleanor rose and opened the door. Edwin stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets. “Oh, Edwin, I'm so sorry.”

  He tried to smile. “Was the prospect of marrying me so horrifying that she had to run off without a word? And for a man twice her age.” He shook his head. “I thought she loved me. She never said so, but I assumed she was just being modest. I found it charming. She agreed to marry me, so I assumed she loved me.”

  “Of course you did,” said Eleanor, though she had long known the truth. “Anyone would have.”

  He nodded and looked off down the hall. “I suppose.” He cleared his throat. “I do wish her well. I hope she will be happy with the life she has chosen.”

  Eleanor's heart went out to him. “That's very generous of you.”

  “Generosity is a fine quality in a husband, or so I am told.”

  “Then you've spoken to my father.”

  He nodded.

  “Edwin, surely you don't wish to marry me. I am not my sister.”

  “I know that, but I am very fond of you. We have much in common—more, I think, than Abigail and I had. I would be a good and faithful husband, Eleanor. I will provide for you and your family, and when the time comes, I will ensure the stability and growth of the business your father founded.”

  “In other words, you want my inheritance, not me. I thought better of you than that.”

  “Don't think ill of me for promising to safeguard my wife's fortune. That's all I meant.” He reached for her hands, and with some misgivings, Eleanor allowed him to take them. “I've been nearly a part of your family for years, long enough, if you'll forgive me for saying so, to know there are no other suitors. We are friends now, and I'm confident we will grow to love each other deeply in time.” He caught her eye and smiled. “I've heard that can happen, haven't you?”

  Eleanor thought of Mother and shook her head. “How can I simply step into my sister's role as if I were an understudy in a play? Won't you be ashamed to stand with me at the altar before those hundreds of people because the sister you wanted ran off with another man?”

  “Far less ashamed than I would be to notify those same hundreds that there will be no wedding at all,” said Edwin. “We both have a duty to our families. It is best for everyone if we marry.”

  “I lack your confidence.”

  “Then why not rely upon my judgment? We have nothing to lose and a great deal to gain.”

  “I usually prefer to rely upon my own judgment,” said Eleanor, knowing they had a great deal to lose. But she could not find words to tell him it was out of the question. He had borne too much humiliation that day. She could decline tomorrow, and perhaps, after the immediate pain of Abigail's flight had lessened, Edwin would see their circumstances more rationally. In the light of a new day, Eleanor's refusal would come as a relief.

  “I cannot answer you now,” she said.

  “Of course not. You need time to grow accustomed to the idea, to discuss the situation with your parents.”

  Eleanor nodded, although she wanted nothing less. Her mother's words still haunted her. Eleanor yearned for a husband, a family, a home of her own—but she did not wish to obtain them under these circumstances. Nor was Edwin the man who had figured in her wistful imaginings.

  Still, she had learned to compromise in other difficult situations. All her life, she had been forced to make do with the scraps she was given. She had even managed to piece together some contentment for herself.

  “I will give you my answer tomorrow,” she told him.

  He nodded and quickly kissed her cheek before releasing her hands and disappearing down the hallway. Eleanor shut the door and leaned back upon it, closing her eyes. She wished she could run to Miss Langley's embrace and pour out all her grief and worry as she had done as a child. If Miss Langley were here to offer advice, she would tell Eleanor to do what was right. But what was right?

  A knock on the door startled her out of her reverie. “I told you I would give you my answer tomorrow,” she said.

  “You can't mean you're seriously considering marrying him.”

  Fred. Eleanor flung open the door and he stormed in. “I have to consider it,” she said. “You don't know what is at stake.”

  “I do know that you aren't property to be bartered between families.”

  Eleanor turned her back on him before he could perceive how he had wounded her. His words had laid plain what she already knew, that the woman Eleanor Lockwood mattered little in the upcoming nuptials. Her parents said she could not marry—except when they needed a bride to seal a contract. They said she could not leave home—except when saving Father's business took precedence over tending to Mother. They did not care how agreeing to marry Edwin would degrade her, and they craved their own comfort and security more than her happiness.

  But she loved them, and she could not bear to be the agent of their misery. “I am not being bartered. It is my decision whether to accept or decline.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They cannot force me. On the other hand, if my choices are between marrying a decent man and seeing my family rendered destitute, I suppose there is only one choice after all.”

  “There are other alternatives.”

  “Such as?”

  “If you're going to marry, marry for love. Marry me.”

  For a moment she couldn't breathe. “What makes you think I love you?”

  He spun her around to face him. “Why did you tell me your father never intended to buy my horses?”

  “It's not fair to answer a question with—” Then he kissed her, and she clung to him for a moment before pulling away. “I can't. My family needs me.”

  “Only because Abigail broke her promise, not that I blame her. Your parents will have to make their own way.”

  “I cannot bear children. Do you still wish to marry me?”

  For an instant, pain flashed in his eyes, but he said, “I do. We'll have so many nieces and nephews around that it will be as if we have children of our own.”

  She did not believe any man would be satisfied with that. “How could I refuse Edwin and then marry you?”

  “Because I love you. Edwin does not.”

  “Love is not the only factor to consider. Edwin cares for me in his way.”

  For a moment he just watched her. “If that's good enough for you, then there's nothing more I can say.”

  He went to the door. “Fred—”

  “Try on your sister's wedding gown,” he said roughly. “Maybe I don't know you as well as I thought. Maybe it'll fit you.”

  He slammed the door behind him.

  Fred's visit had shattered the serenity of her study, so as much as Eleanor longed for solitude, she composed herself and returned downstairs. Mother met her on the landing and steered
her to the conservatory, where the dressmaker had been waiting all morning. Numb, she allowed herself to be undressed like a doll. Her corset was tightened, a cloud of white satin was thrown over her head—and there she stood, a pale beauty motionless in the mirror, just as Abigail had been.

  “Who would have thought she was so pretty after all,” marveled Harriet.

  The dressmaker assured Mother the gown would be ready by Saturday morning.

  The day passed in a blur. Eleanor was only vaguely aware that Edwin hovered in the background and Fred avoided her altogether. Occasionally she overheard snatches of conversation—her mother and Mrs. Corville quietly discussing how their guests should be informed, her father touting the strength of Lockwood's to Mr. Corville, Harriet asking Mother what she should pack for Eleanor's honeymoon. Not a word was spoken of Abigail, and as she had been the dominant subject in their discourse for months, her absence was conspicuous, and made their talk seem to Eleanor as if they spoke a foreign language.

  At supper she discovered Mr. Bergstrom was gone. From the conversation, she learned he had lingered for hours before departing abruptly and without the apologies he owed them for his part in concealing Abigail's true affections. Eleanor could not believe how easily he had left her. She sat at the table without speaking or eating, and when the meal was over, it occurred to her that eventually there would be no distinguishing between herself and her sister.

  She passed the evening in the parlor with the women and allowed Mother to escort her to her bedroom afterward.

  “Your father and I are pleased you have come to your senses,” said Mother as she turned down Eleanor's bedclothes. Eleanor could not remember her ever having done so before.

  “I don't know that I have. I still haven't given Edwin my decision.”

  Mother turned away from the bed and regarded her with something very like pity. “You don't really believe you have a choice, do you?” She strode from the room, and with her hand on the doorknob, she said, “Marry Edwin. How will you pay for your physicians if you are destitute?”

  She shut the door.

  Shivering, Eleanor sat down on the bed. She saw at once how the rest of the week would unfold. She would go nowhere unaccompanied; she would be watched and threatened and scolded until her wedding day. Her parents could not force her to marry Edwin, but they could make it impossible for her to refuse.

  She lay back and stared up at the ceiling. For hours, while night fell and the house grew still, she tried to convince herself to marry Edwin. She reminded herself of her duty, of her illness, of Edwin's promises to make her happy. Fulfilling those needs might be enough. She reminded herself that Fred had abandoned her.

  She could not do it.

  Mother was wrong. Eleanor did have a choice. Miss Langley would take her in. Somehow Eleanor would find a way to help her parents, but not by marrying Edwin.

  She glanced about and spotted the suitcase Harriet had begun packing for the honeymoon. Eleanor hastily added a few more necessities. She snatched up her jewelry box, which contained the valuables her grandmother had bequeathed her and what little money of her own she had managed to accumulate, and tucked it in with her clothes. Hefting the bag, she slowly opened the door and stole into the hall. The darkness seemed watchful and accusing as she descended the stairs. Any moment she could be discovered, any moment—

  She stopped short. Once she left that house, she could never return. She could not leave behind every cherished thing.

  She hid the suitcase behind a statue on the landing and hurried upstairs again, heart pounding as she entered her study for what she knew would be the last time. There was no time to reason out what she could carry. She pulled the Rocky Mountain quilt from the frame and gathered it like a sack. Into it she bundled her sewing kit, the Crazy Quilt, and the box containing Miss Langley's letters. She could not look at the shelves full of beloved books without wanting to weep. She added the diary she had kept as a child, her first embroidered sampler, a silk shawl that had belonged to her grandmother, and, with a pang, a photograph of her family. Then she slung the awkward bundle over her shoulder and left her beloved sanctuary forever.

  Eleanor descended the stairs at a near run, as fast and as silently as her burdens allowed. Already she mourned precious belongings left behind: the smooth stones from the shore near the summer house, the notebook in which she had written the addresses of her school friends, the sewing machine that had brought her so much pleasure. Eleanor pushed the thoughts from her mind and quickened her pace. She reached the door and fled outside—and froze at the edge of the porch in shock.

  An automobile was slowly creeping up the drive.

  As she stood rooted in place, staring, it slowed and stopped. Fred got out and ran to her. “Are you leaving?”

  She nodded, thoughts of Boston and Miss Langley fading.

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said. Before the words left her mouth, Fred snatched up her suitcase and bundle and strode back to the automobile. Eleanor hurried after him as he tossed her things inside. He helped her into the passenger's seat before taking the wheel, and in moments, they were under way.

  Eleanor did not want to look back, but something compelled her. As they passed through the front gates, she glanced back and saw the house, dark and silent, as if no one lived there anymore.

  She shuddered and turned forward. “They will come after me, as they did my sister.”

  “I hope they won't know where to look. They may think you ran away on your own.”

  Then Eleanor understood why he had left the Lockwood home earlier that day. “You knew if we were both missing in the morning …”

  “This way, Elm Creek Manor won't be the first place they look.”

  “Likely they'll think I ran off to Abigail.” Then she shot him a look. “I thought you lived on a horse farm.”

  “I do.”

  “Elm Creek Manor is a rather grand name for a farmhouse.”

  He did not look at her, but even in the darkness she detected his broad smile.

  They went to the train station, where Fred and Mr. Drury had agreed he would leave the automobile. Fred purchased two tickets for the next train west and they waited for their train, for pursuers. Eleanor's absence would be discovered by sunrise.

  The train arrived first. She and Fred found two seats in an empty compartment and stowed her belongings. Exhausted, Eleanor rested against Fred and closed her eyes.

  “Try to sleep if you can,” said Fred. “We'll have to change trains in Philadelphia.”

  “You should rest, too. The conductor will wake us before our stop.”

  “I couldn't sleep a wink, but I'll try if you insist.”

  She assured him she did, and she left her seat to take down her belongings. She transferred the items from her bundle into her suitcase, unfurled the Rocky Mountain quilt, and, returning to the comfort of Fred's arms, she spread the quilt over them.

  “It's not finished yet,” she said, “but I think I have all the needles and pins out of it.”

  “It's beautiful.”

  It's our wedding quilt, Eleanor almost said, and realized she had always known it would be.

  Chapter Five

  Sylvia and Andrew drove east through the foothills of the Rockies toward Golden, Colorado. Andrew had said little about Bob and Cathy since the motor home pulled out of their driveway, as if he preferred to pretend the visit had never occurred. Apparently, despite his concerns about informing his children of their engagement, he had still hoped for a much happier reaction to the news.

  She sighed and glanced at her map. The enthusiasm of Sarah and the other Elm Creek Quilters would have to compensate for what Andrew's children lacked, or their wedding would be a dismal occasion indeed.

  “We just passed a sign for Golden,” said Andrew. “Can you direct me from here?”

  “Absolutely.” Sylvia had last visited in 1993, when Golden had celebrated its first Quilt Day, but the landmarks were
too remarkable to forget. “Just follow the M and the arch.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  In response, Sylvia smiled and pointed out the window to a large letter M on one of the more prominent mountains. “Head that way, and turn south on Washington.”

  Andrew grinned and complied. “Is that M for ‘museum’?”

  “I think of it that way, but it's actually for the Colorado School of Mines.”

  They drove into downtown Golden, a charming place that, in Sylvia's opinion, looked exactly as a Western town should. The distinctive flat-topped mountains in the near distance resembled something straight out of a movie about the Wild West, and Sylvia would not have been surprised to see men on horseback kicking up a cloud of dust as they raced along the slopes.

  They passed a statue of Buffalo Bill in the median strip, and just ahead, they spied a sign on an arch over the street. “‘Howdy, Folks,’” Andrew read aloud. “‘Welcome to Golden, Where the West Lives.’ And to think I left my six-shooter at home.”

  “I want you on your best behavior,” scolded Sylvia. “I don't see why anyone here should help me find my mother's quilt if you're going to joke about their town.”

  “Sorry, ma'am,” said Andrew meekly, but his eyes twinkled and he tugged at the brim of an imaginary cowboy hat. “I guess this must be the arch you mentioned.”

  “It is indeed. The museum entrance is almost directly beneath it. Park wherever you like.”

  “You mean wherever I can,” said Andrew. He twisted around in his seat to view the street behind him. “The kids were right about one thing. Sometimes this behemoth is more trouble than it's worth.”

  “Only when you have to parallel park.”

  “And when I have to fill up the tank.” Andrew grimaced as he maneuvered the motor home into a place across the street from the museum. “Sometimes I wish I'd settled for a nice SUV.”