The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “I love lilacs,” she said, slowly turning and taking in the patio. It felt enclosed, sheltered. Safe. “Dahlias, too.”

  “Look over here.” He knelt and pointed to the northeast corner of the manor. “That's the cornerstone of Elm Creek Manor. The entire estate was founded on this very spot.”

  “‘Bergstrom 1858,” Eleanor read aloud, and as Fred continued to describe the features of the garden he had created just for her, Eleanor could picture in her mind's eye how lovely it would be in midsummer when the bulbs bloomed, and how the evergreens would bring a spot of color to the landscape even in the depths of winter. A year hence, the lilacs would fill the air with their fragrance.

  “I'll make some chairs next,” said Fred. “I also thought about putting some benches along the two sides, or maybe along the house. What do you think?”

  “Why, Fred?”

  He pretended not to understand. “So we can have some place to sit.”

  “No, Fred. Why? Why did you do all this—for me?”

  “Because I love you, and I can't stand to see you making the house into your prison. I would make you a thousand gardens if that's what it took to get you to come outside again.”

  She stared at him. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “Don't you? Eleanor, you haven't set foot beyond the foyer since the day we lost the baby. You've wondered why I wouldn't tell you what I was working on all this time. I had hoped your curiosity would compel you outside. Two months ago, you never would have watched from the windows instead of coming out to see what I was doing.”

  “I've been tired.” Her voice shook, and she turned away from him. “I'm still recuperating.”

  “I'm not asking you to work with the horses yet, just to leave the house for a while.” He spun her around to face him. “Eleanor, it's not your fault. You heard what the doctor said. You didn't do anything to harm the baby.”

  “But I did. I did. I should have rested, I should have taken care of myself—”

  “You took excellent care of yourself.”

  “No. No. I didn't. I came outside, I took walks, all for selfish reasons. I wanted to see the new colts, or I wanted to play in the snow with Clara … I should have stayed inside, in bed or by the fire—”

  “Nothing you did hurt the baby. My own mother rode horseback and worked the farm when she—”

  “But your mother had never lost a child. I had, so I should have known better. After I lost our first two babies, I should have done everything—everything—to make sure I didn't fail you again.”

  “My God, Eleanor, you didn't fail me.” He reached out for her, but she avoided his embrace. “You nearly died. Do you think I could ever be angry with you after that? Do you think I care more about being a father than about spending the rest of my life with you?”

  “I'm so sorry, Fred.”

  “Listen to me. You didn't do anything wrong. Maybe we aren't meant to have children. If that's true, we still have each other, and that's all I ever wanted.”

  “Fred.” She steeled herself. “I told you before we married that I did not think I could bear children. You said it didn't matter, but it does. If you want to divorce me—”

  “Never.” For the first time, she heard a trace of anger in his voice. “Don't ever say that again. Did you marry me only to become a mother?”

  “I—” No. She had thought only of him, of choosing her fate instead of letting her parents and Edwin Corville determine it for her. But the assumption that she could not have children mattered less to her as a girl of seventeen than it did now that she had built a life with the man she loved. “I married you because I loved you.”

  “The reasons we married are reasons to stay married. Please don't ever suggest we divorce unless it's what you truly want.”

  “It will never be what I want.”

  She buried her face in his chest and wept as she had not when she lost the last baby, for she had been too stunned for tears, too unable to comprehend that God could visit this same terrible grief upon her a third time.

  Fred held her and murmured words of comfort, but his voice trembled, and she knew he also wept.

  “Life goes on, Eleanor,” he said. “I know it sounds trite, but it's true. Life goes on not only for us, but for our family.”

  She nodded. A faint hope kindled in her heart. Life went on—Fred's siblings would have children. Abigail's child would enter the world by late summer. Life would go on, and she and Fred would be a part of those lives.

  “We've already been through the most difficult, most painful times we will ever face,” he said. “From this point forward, we don't have to fear anything, because we've already survived the worst.”

  “I hope you're right.” She prayed he was right.

  Less than a week later, she sat on the smooth stone of the cornerstone patio enjoying the first truly warm, sunny day of that rainy spring. She sat with the women of her family chatting and planning for the summer, for the summer and beyond. She put the last stitch into the binding of the whole cloth quilt and held it up for the others to admire. They praised her, and Eleanor felt warmth returning to her heart as she imagined cradling her little niece or nephew within its soft folds.

  Clara sat by her side, working on her most difficult quilt yet, and Eleanor was so engrossed in helping her with the appliqué and answering her questions about New York that a few moments passed before she realized that the others had fallen silent. She looked up to discover Louis whispering into his mother's ear; Elizabeth suddenly went pale, and her hand went to her throat.

  “What is it?” asked Lucinda as Louis raced off down the stone path toward the stables.

  Elizabeth pressed her lips together tightly and fumbled for her handkerchief, lowering her head so none of them could meet her gaze. Louis rode into town each day for the mail and the papers; he must have brought home terrible news. Clara's face was full of worry. Eleanor stroked her hair reassuringly and tried to resume their conversation, but Clara was too distracted to respond.

  Eleanor grew faint when, barely minutes later, Louis returned with Fred. Both men's faces were grave, but behind Fred's eyes she saw a pain she had not seen since her last baby died.

  “What is it?” she tried to ask, but the words dried up in her throat.

  “Eleanor.” Fred knelt beside her and took her hands in his. They felt almost unbearably warm against the ice of her skin. “Your sister sailed from Southampton on the twelfth, isn't that right?”

  “Yes.” She looked from him to Louis and back. “They're probably still at sea. Why?”

  “Do you remember the name of her ship?”

  “I—I don't recall. I would have to check her letters. Why? What has happened?”

  “Two nights ago, a ship sailing from Southampton to New York struck an iceberg and sank in the North Atlantic. Only a few hundred souls were spared.”

  “No. No.” She shook her head. “That could not be Abigail's ship. She wrote me—Herbert told her it was a marvel of engineering. It was designed to be unsinkable. It could not be Abigail's ship. Mother would have sent a telegram.” Despite their estrangement, Mother would have sent word, Eleanor repeated silently to herself, though she knew such things took time, and if the accident had only just happened, there would be passenger lists to be sorted out, next of kin to notify—Abigail. Abigail and her baby.

  “Eleanor.” Fred's voice called to her, quietly insistent. “Was her ship called the Titanic ?”

  “I don't remember.” She did not want to remember. She could not believe it; she would not believe it. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes to clear her head of dizziness. It swept over her, crowding out her resolve to forget the name of her sister's ship for as long as possible, and in the space between breaths she went from believing that Abigail's ship was not the one that sank to praying that Abigail had been among the handful of survivors. Women and children were always the first into the lifeboats; surely a woman in Abigail's condition would
have been among the very first even of these. Surely Mr. Drury, with his wealth and influence, would have seen to Abigail's safety.

  In the days and weeks that followed, Eleanor would read reports of women who refused seats in half-filled lifeboats rather than leave their husbands behind. She would hear rumors that near the end, survivors had witnessed a beautiful, golden-haired woman sitting on the first-class deck, staring out at the sea with unseeing eyes, one hand absently stroking her swelling abdomen, her husband weeping on her shoulder.

  Eleanor prayed for a miracle she knew would not be granted.

  The family gathered in the parlor on the day the passenger manifest they had requested finally arrived. With it was the list of survivors. Abigail and her husband were not among them.

  “Why did she not leave when she had the chance?” said Eleanor. Fred's arm was around her, sustaining her; the whole cloth quilt lay upon her lap. She had scarcely let it from her grasp since first learning of the disaster. The papers from the White Star Line lay on the floor where they had slipped from her fingers.

  “Her love for her husband was too great,” said Lily in a soft voice. “She could not bear to be parted from him.”

  “Not even for their child?” Eleanor could not believe it of Abigail; she could not bear to believe it. Perhaps Abigail refused to take her place in the lifeboat because she did not fully comprehend the danger. Perhaps she thought her child more at risk on the open sea. Perhaps by the time she understood, it was too late. “I know my sister,” said Eleanor firmly, though her voice trembled. Instinctively, she clutched the quilt to her chest. “She would not have chosen death with her husband over her child's life. Never.”

  “Will you let go of that thing?” shrilled Elizabeth. Before Eleanor could react, Elizabeth had crossed the room and snatched the quilt away. “I will throw this wretched thing on the fire. You should have destroyed it after you lost the first baby.”

  “Give that back to me.”

  “I won't. Don't you see? Every baby you intend it for has died. It's bad luck.”

  “Mother,” said Fred, rising, “this quilt had nothing to do with any of these tragedies.”

  “Elizabeth, you don't know what you're saying.” David's voice was calm, but firm, as he addressed his wife. “Return the quilt to Eleanor at once.”

  Elizabeth clenched her teeth against a low moan, but she did not struggle as Fred and David pried the quilt from her white-knuckled grasp. Eleanor examined the quilt for rents and folded it with shaking hands. Her heart pounded, and a sudden flash of pain left her breathless.

  “Destroy it or I will,” Elizabeth choked out. “I swear to you, no grandchild of mine will ever sleep beneath that quilt.”

  “Be quiet, Elizabeth,” commanded Lucinda. To Eleanor, she murmured, “Get the quilt out of her sight until she comes to her senses.”

  Eleanor nodded and fled upstairs to her bedroom to hide the quilt, knowing the light of day would not shine on it while Elizabeth lived. The risk that she would destroy Eleanor's only remembrance of Abigail's child was too great. Her heart ached as she buried the quilt at the bottom of her cedar chest, blinded by tears. Oh, Abigail. How could she have spurned the lifeboats, knowing that her death meant the death of her child?

  The pounding ache in her heart subsided, and a fire kindled within Eleanor as she locked the trunk and wiped her eyes, her resolution stronger even than that which had compelled her to leave her parents' home forever. She would have a child, and she would live for that child. And Abigail's name would not be forgotten.

  No telegram from her parents ever came.

  Chapter Seven

  “She knows,” said Andrew as he and Sylvia watched through the windshield as Amy approached the motor home.

  “I'd imagine so,” said Sylvia dryly. “I thought you said Bob can keep a secret.”

  “He can. I don't understand it. He promised me he wouldn't tell.”

  “Did you remember to get that same promise from Cathy?”

  Andrew drew in a breath and winced. “Put your seat belt back on. We're getting out of here.”

  “I'm afraid it's too late for that.” Sylvia rose, shouldered her tote bag with the Crazy Quilt and library printouts inside, and nudged Andrew to his feet.

  Amy met them halfway to the house, her arms crossed, her mouth a thin, worried line.

  “Amy, dear,” said Sylvia. “I suppose it's too much to hope that you've come all this way to congratulate us.”

  In lieu of an answer, Amy reached for one of the suitcases her father carried. “Let me help you with that.”

  Andrew set one of the suitcases on the ground, but he continued on to the manor without a word for his daughter. Sylvia gave Amy an apologetic look and fell in beside him.

  Amy trailed after them. “Dad, I want you to be happy. I want to be happy for you, but …”

  “But what?”

  “This isn't a conversation I wanted to have in front of Sylvia.”

  Sylvia did her best to conceal her annoyance. “Pretend I'm not here.”

  Amy frowned and shrugged as if to say Sylvia had been fairly warned. “Dad, we all know you care about Sylvia.”

  “I don't just care about her. I love her.”

  “Of course you do. We understand that.” Amy reached for his hand, but Andrew merely opened the back door and waved her inside. “But we wonder if you've thought about what marriage would mean.”

  “Considering I was married to your mother for more than fifty years, I think I have a good idea.”

  “I think maybe you have a selective memory,” countered Amy. “You and Mom were very happy for a long time, but think about those last three years. Dad, we can't bear to see you go through that again.”

  Andrew took the suitcase from her and set the pair down with a heavy thud in the hallway. “You mean when your mother had cancer.”

  “You never complained, but we know how difficult it was to care for her.” Amy glanced at Sylvia, then quickly looked away. “Do you really want to put yourself through that again?”

  “Sylvia does not have cancer.”

  “No, but she's already had one stroke and could have another any—” “All right. Enough,” said Andrew. “Sylvia is in excellent health, and so am I, but even if that were to change tomorrow, I would still want to marry her. That's what marriage is about—in sickness and in health, remember?”

  “You've already grieved for one wife. You shouldn't have to mourn a second time.”

  “How do you know that I will? For all you know, Sylvia will outlive me.”

  Amy gave Sylvia a guarded look. “Maybe she will. We all would love for you to have many, many years together. But the end is going to be the same.”

  Andrew shook his head. “And it's the same end you and Paul are going to face, and Bob and Cathy. Does that mean you shouldn't have gotten married? If being by your mother's side throughout her illness taught me anything, it showed me that nothing matters but sharing your life with the people you love. Your mother had a great love of life. I'm ashamed that in her memory, you want me to curl up in a corner and wait to die.”

  Amy flushed. “That's not what I meant—”

  “Listen—and you can pass this along to your brother—I don't know how many years I've got left, and neither do you. I'm going to spend them with Sylvia with or without your approval.”

  “Dad—”

  “I love Sylvia, and my feelings aren't going to change. I'm going to mourn her whether she's my wife or my friend, so she might as well be my wife.” He strode down the hall, but paused at the door. “I'm going to get the rest of our gear and check the engine. Amy, you're a good girl and I love you, but you ought to know better. You're welcome to stay as long as you like, but I expect you to treat Sylvia with respect. Your mother and I didn't raise you to be rude to people when you don't get your own way.”

  Amy's cheeks were scarlet as she watched her father depart.

  Sylvia sighed and reminded herself it would be unwi
se to take Amy's reaction personally. Andrew's children would be just as difficult if he were engaged to a woman half her age—in fact, in that case, they might be even more upset. She doubted, however, that telling Amy to count her blessings would help matters.

  “Amy dear,” said Sylvia carefully. “I have no intention of becoming a burden to your father. Yes, I did have a stroke several years ago, but my doctor assures me I am in good health. However, should that change, I have resources enough to ensure that the burden of my care will not fall upon your father. Sarah and Matt are like my own children, and they will see I am looked after.”

  “It's not just the caregiving. It's the emotional toll of losing you that we're most worried about.”

  Sylvia raised her eyebrows. “So you would prefer for him to lose me now? I'm sorry, dear, but that's not living. Your father and I have each lost a beloved spouse. We know—better than you, I think—what we're risking. We also know what we stand to lose if we let fear paralyze us.”

  “We understand all that,” said Amy so quickly that Sylvia knew they didn't understand at all.

  “Then let's not have any more of this nonsense.” Sylvia smiled sympathetically to show she did not hold Amy's words against her. “I'm sure you mean well, but we've made our decision, and I'm afraid you're going to have to live with it.”

  In answer, Amy regarded her in silence for a moment, then turned and left through the back door. Sylvia went into the kitchen and sank down upon the bench, deeply troubled. Amy had always been so kind to her—a bit chilly when they first met, perhaps, but she had certainly seemed to warm to Sylvia as they had become more acquainted over the years. Sylvia had even taught her to quilt. She never would have expected Amy to look upon her as if she were the enemy.

  She roused herself and rose to fix herself a cup of tea. She must not blow Amy's remarks out of proportion. Amy might not relent easily or soon, but eventually she would see reason. Right now she was still dealing with her surprise, and perhaps some hurt, too, at hearing the news secondhand. After they had some time to adjust, the children would accept their marriage for Andrew's sake. What alternative did they have?