The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Perhaps she will learn better, learning from her mistakes,” Elizabeth had said with a sigh.

  “Perhaps,” Lucinda had agreed, “and perhaps this quilt will be a gift for their tenth anniversary instead of their first.”

  Eleanor had joined in the laughter. It had been so much easier to laugh then, when she had just begun to feel life stirring within her womb and every stitch she put into the soft, white whole cloth quilt was another prayer for the health and safety of the precious child she carried.

  Eleanor gazed at the quilt. “I don't like to leave work unfinished.” In a flash of inspiration, she added, “I've decided to give this to my sister when her child is born.”

  “You can't do that,” said Lily in dismay. “You've worked so hard on it, and you're going to need it yourself someday.”

  Eleanor smiled fondly at her sisters-in-law, her earlier bitterness forgotten. Lily's characteristic optimism was as welcome as Lucinda's frankness. “Perhaps I will,” she said, “but my sister has such a good head start that her child will definitely be born first, and I have no quilt for him. Or her. The only other quilt I have under way is the Turkey Tracks—”

  “Absolutely not,” said Elizabeth, not even looking up from her work. “Under no circumstances should a child be given a Wandering Foot quilt.”

  Lucinda caught Eleanor's eye and grinned. “She said Turkey Tracks, not Wandering Foot.”

  “You know very well that they are one and the same.” Elizabeth looked up from her work and realized they were teasing her. “Suit yourselves, then,” she said, shrugging. “If you want to condemn a poor innocent child to a lifetime of restlessness and wandering, then I can't stop you.”

  “Quilt or no quilt, I would not be surprised if the child has a bit of wanderlust,” said Lucinda. “It seems to run in the family.”

  The other women laughed, and even Eleanor managed a smile.

  Later that evening, after she prepared for bed, she read Abigail's letter again, hungry for news of their parents. Mother was alive if not well, Abigail had written, but Eleanor had read enough similarly derisive comments to know that the remark pertained to Abigail's general opinion of their mother and not to her current health. She was not surprised to hear that their parents still avoided Abigail in society, or that Abigail still seemed genuinely astonished that their parents did not appreciate how she had resolved their financial difficulties. Within months of marrying Abigail and the dissolution of any possible agreement with the Corvilles, Mr. Drury had purchased Lockwood's and had assumed responsibility for Father's debts. He had made Father a vice president, and in an overture of reconciliation that Eleanor had found remarkable at the time, he had kept the Lockwood name in the title of the new company. Since then, as she pieced together the scraps of information her sister let fall, Eleanor had come to believe that Mr. Drury's ostensible generosity had masked one last stab of revenge against his former rival. As best as Eleanor had been able to determine, Father had been given very little work to do, and although he received an impressive salary, he had no influence whatsoever. Sometimes Eleanor wondered if Father would have preferred to go into bankruptcy with his pride intact, but she knew her mother never would have allowed it. It was bad enough that their position in society had been irreparably damaged by the scandal; they should not also have to endure financial ruin.

  Eleanor had pen and paper in the nightstand; she could write to Abigail and ask outright how their parents fared, and satisfy both her curiosity and Abigail's request for a letter at the same time. She would have, except she knew Abigail would ignore her questions or respond so breezily that she might as well not have bothered.

  She climbed into bed and blew out the lamp, pulling the Rocky Mountain quilt over her. She and Fred had slept beneath it every night of their marriage, even when it was not yet complete. Lately she had fallen asleep beneath it alone more often than not.

  She was not sure how many hours later Fred inadvertently woke her as he pulled back the covers. When she stirred, he kissed her and murmured an apology. “It's all right,” she said as he lay down beside her at last. “I'm glad you woke me. I haven't seen you all day, except at supper.”

  “I'm sorry. I've been busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You could come outside and see for yourself tomorrow.”

  “Or you could simply tell me, if you weren't so stubborn.”

  “Oh. So I'm the stubborn one.” He kissed her gently and shifted onto his back, settling against the pillow. He let out a long sigh.

  Eleanor knew he was exhausted, but she could not let go just yet. “I heard from my sister today.”

  “Is she well?”

  “She is. She and Herbert are returning from Europe soon.” She steeled herself. “She wants me to come when her child is born. I thought I might go. If I can be spared.”

  She did not mean if Bergstrom Thoroughbreds could do without her. Although everyone was expected to contribute to the family business, the others would divide up her work so that her absence would be little noticed. She meant if Fred could spare her, if the man who had sworn never to leave her side would willingly or eagerly let her go so far away.

  “That would be in the middle of August?”

  “Unless the child is early. I thought I should be prepared to leave at the beginning of the month, if necessary.”

  “That's not a good time for me to be away.”

  “Well, no,” said Eleanor, surprised. “I assumed I would go alone. Perhaps Clara could accompany me.”

  “My sister's a level-headed girl, but she's still just a child,” said Fred. “I was thinking of someone who might look after you.”

  “I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself.”

  “I know you are,” he said quickly. “Well, Clara would be thrilled, and she's a good helper. How long will you be gone?”

  She had not decided. “A month, perhaps more.”

  “That long?” He drew her into his arms. “Maybe I can get away for a few days and visit you in New York.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “We could see your parents, if you like.”

  “I don't think we would be welcome.”

  “Would they turn us away at the door?”

  “I doubt they would even let us pass through the front gates.”

  He stroked her hair and held her close. “Then we'll leave them alone.”

  Clara was as thrilled by the upcoming trip to New York as Fred had predicted, and Elizabeth readily granted her permission to accompany Eleanor. The women of the family agreed that at such a time as Abigail would soon face, no woman fortunate enough to have a sister wanted to be without her. “Or without her mother,” added Lily, and blushed, remembering too late the state of affairs among the Lockwood women.

  “I cannot imagine my mother would be much comfort,” said Eleanor, smiling to show Lily she had not taken offense.

  “Then you must go, as much as we will miss you,” said Elizabeth. “Have you ever assisted in childbirth?”

  “No, but fortunately Abigail won't need to rely entirely upon me,” said Eleanor with a laugh. “A doctor and at least one nurse will be present. I don't plan to do anything more than comfort my sister and be one of the first to cuddle the newborn.”

  “Even the best doctors sometimes overlook important remedies,” said Elizabeth. “Or rather, they dismiss them as silly folk tales. If you do arrive in time for the delivery, remember to place a knife beneath your sister's bed. That will cut the pain.”

  “Cut the pain?”

  “Will any sort of knife do, or does it have to be a special knife?” inquired Lucinda. “What would happen if you used a spoon instead?”

  “Tease me if you must,” retorted Elizabeth, “but there was a knife beneath my bed for every child I bore except for Louis, and his birth was by far the longest and most painful.”

  “Of course it was,” said Maude. “He was nearly ten pounds.”

  “He's your husb
and, so your children will probably be large, too. You'll be begging for a knife then, and it would serve you right if I made you do without.”

  “I'll put a knife under your bed for you, Maude,” said Clara loyally, but after glancing at Eleanor, added, “Maybe it doesn't help, but it couldn't hurt, either.”

  Clara spent the next several days in the library, reading everything she could find about New York City. Within a day she had composed an impressive list of all the sights she wished to see, and Eleanor was pleased to discover that many of her favorite museums and landmarks were included.

  “We'll have plenty of time for sightseeing,” Eleanor promised one evening later that week as the women of the family gathered in the west sitting room for a last bit of quilting before bed. “Unless I can't finish this quilt in time and have to sneak away to complete it while Abigail tends to the baby.”

  “A whole cloth quilt is the perfect choice for a baby's first quilt,” said Elizabeth. “Its unbroken surface suggests purity and innocence. Whole cloth quilts are well suited for newborns and for brides.”

  “What does it matter, as long as the quilt is pretty?” asked Lily.

  “It matters a great deal,” said Elizabeth. “Think of the symbolism, the omens in a quilt. What would you think if a bride pieced her wedding quilt in the Contrary Wife or Crazy House or Devil's Claws pattern? It would be far better for her to choose something like Steps to the Altar or True Lover's Knot.”

  “You're absolutely right,” said Lucinda.

  Elizabeth regarded her with surprise. “Why, this is a novelty. You agree with me?”

  “Of course,” said Lucinda. “Can you imagine, for example, if a bride chose Tumbling Blocks? That pattern is also called Baby Blocks, and everyone would gossip about why she had to get married.”

  “Lucinda,” said Elizabeth over the others' laughter, “if you weren't my dear husband's baby sister, I would give you the scolding you deserve.”

  “Don't let that stop you.” Lucinda shrugged. “What do I care what pattern a bride chooses for her wedding quilt, so long as it isn't yet another floral appliqué with bows and birds and butterflies and—oops. Sorry, Maude.”

  “This isn't my wedding quilt,” said Maude primly, struggling to put a sharp point on the petal of another Sunflower block. “And while I might add a few butterflies if I am so inclined, you won't find any birds or bows here. Not that I'd let you influence me. If it's good enough for the Ladies' Home Journal, then it's good enough for me, and it would be good enough for you, too, if you weren't so prideful.”

  “Who's prideful?” protested Lucinda. “I like the Ladies' Home Journal. I like it even more now that they're going to publish Eleanor's whole cloth quilt pattern.”

  “What?” exclaimed Eleanor.

  “Now look what you made me do,” Lucinda complained to Maude. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

  “It is a surprise,” said Eleanor. “Believe me, it is.”

  Maude shook her head. “This must be another one of Lucinda's jokes.”

  “Not at all,” said Lucinda. “I thought we could all use a bit of cheering up around here, so I copied Eleanor's pattern and sent it to the editor. It's such a beautiful, original design, so I thought, why not share it with the world?” She smiled kindly at Eleanor. “I didn't know if you would have the heart to finish your own quilt, and it seemed a shame not to have someone, somewhere completing it.”

  Eleanor reached out and clasped her hand. “That was thoughtful of you.”

  “Not really. I just wanted to brag about my famous niece.”

  Clara said, “Eleanor's going to be famous?”

  “Of course,” said Lucinda. “This is the Ladies' Home Journal, after all. Eleanor's name will be right up there at the top of the page with the picture of her quilt, just like Marie Webster and that Sunflower quilt Maude is making.”

  “Will her picture be there, too?”

  “I don't think I want my picture in a magazine,” said Eleanor, a nervous quake in her stomach. “Or even my name.”

  “Why not?” asked Clara.

  Eleanor forced a laugh. “I suppose so no one will know where to send their criticism. Can't they show my quilt without mentioning me?”

  She regretted her words when she saw the disappointment in their faces. “I suppose I should have asked your permission first,” said Lucinda. “But I'm sure they would let you use merely your initials, or a pseudonym, if you prefer.”

  “Aren't you proud of your quilt?” asked Clara. “I think you should be.”

  “I am proud of it,” said Eleanor. “And I'm very grateful that Lucinda thought enough of my quilt to send it to the magazine. And I'm thrilled that it's going to be published. However, I would prefer to be all those things and anonymous, too.”

  She saw from the looks they exchanged that they did not understand, but they let her be. Elizabeth would think her too modest; Maude would think it false modesty and another sign of her pride. Lucinda and Lily would respect her decision, but they would wonder why she had made it. Dear, insightful Clara would probably figure out the reason before anyone else, perhaps before Eleanor herself.

  She wondered what Fred would think.

  Fred worked through supper and missed Lucinda's announcement to the rest of the family. The other men congratulated Eleanor and agreed that publication in a national magazine was quite an accomplishment, although her father-in-law looked bemused and remarked that he thought quilters did not like others to duplicate their unique designs. “My mother, especially, was adamant about not copying other women's quilts,” said David. “Though I remember my Aunt Gerda once whispered to me that my mother had done her fair share of copying when she was a new quilter.”

  “Everyone learns to quilt by copying other quilters' patterns,” said Lily. “Just like painters learn by studying the old masters.”

  Louis and William guffawed at the comparison, earning themselves frowns from the quilters at the table. Those for William were milder because he was only a few years older than Clara; Louis, however, knew better, as his wife's steely glare made clear. Eleanor hid a smile and wondered if Maude would now consider adding a few Contrary Wife blocks to her Sunflower quilt.

  “Perhaps copying another quilter's work without permission is wrong,” said Eleanor, “but duplicating her quilt with her consent is another matter entirely. I wouldn't allow my quilt to appear in a magazine if I didn't want other quilters to make it.”

  In fact, now that the shock of Lucinda's surprise had passed, she was becoming more excited about the thought of opening a magazine and seeing a picture of her quilt inside. She knew, too, that Abigail would be all the more thrilled by the gift, knowing that her baby's quilt had been featured in a national magazine. Eleanor's desire for anonymity would be thwarted in New York, at least, for Abigail was certain to tell everyone she knew.

  For a very brief moment, she considered sending her mother a clipping with a note pointing out that none of Mrs. Edwin Corville's quilts had ever received such an honor, but given her mother's distaste for quilting, that would only prove how low Eleanor had fallen.

  After supper, she finished quilting the whole cloth quilt and trimmed the batting and lining even with the scalloped edges of the top. For the binding, she cut a long, narrow strip of fabric along the bias rather than the straight of the grain so that the binding would ease along the curves and miters of the fancy edge. Fred came in as she was pinning the binding in place, hair windblown, hands dirty from working outdoors, but he had only stopped by to say hello, so there was no time to tell him her good news. He kissed her on the cheek and told her he wouldn't be late, then left the room as quickly as he had entered.

  Later that night, Fred roused Eleanor just moments after she doused the lamp. “Come with me,” he said. “It's done. Let me show you.”

  “Show me what?” she asked. “A new fence? That addition to the stable you and your brothers are always talking about?”

  “No, something m
uch better.” He pulled back the quilt and took her hands. “At least I hope you'll think so.”

  Curious, she climbed out of bed and dressed for the chilly spring night. Quietly, Fred led her into the hallway past his siblings' rooms, and as they descended the stairs, Eleanor was struck by a sudden remembrance of another night five years earlier and another flight of stairs she had stolen down in the darkness. Eleanor wondered if Fred ever thought of that night and wished her family had awakened and prevented her from leaving with him. She did not doubt his love for her, but he would have had children if he had married any other woman.

  He led her across the foyer, into the west wing of the manor, and paused at the west door. This had once been the front entrance of the Bergstrom home, before Fred's father had added the grand south wing with its banquet hall and ballroom. Fred took both of her hands in his and watched her expectantly. “Are you ready?”

  “Of course,” she said, but as he opened the door, she dug in her heels. “Fred, no. It's so late. It's too dark and cold now. You can show me in the morning.”

  “Eleanor.” His voice was gentle, but commanding. “You're coming outside.”

  With no other choice, she took a deep breath and stepped outside—but instead of bare earth, her foot struck smooth stone. A patio of gray stones nearly identical to those forming the walls of the manor lay where rocky soil and sparse clumps of grass had been only weeks before. Surrounding the expanse of stone were tall bushes and evergreens, enclosing the intimate space completely except for one opening through which Eleanor spied the beginning of a stone trail winding north.

  “That path leads to the gazebo in the gardens, and to the stables beyond them,” said Fred. “The lilac bushes don't look like much now, but when they flower in the spring, this place will be so pretty—you'll see. We'll have flowers before then, though.” He gestured to the freshly turned earth lining the patio. “Those are dahlias and irises, and these over here are gladiolus. They'll come up before September.”