The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  When the time came to bury her, Eleanor gently asked Elizabeth if she felt well enough to join them and say a prayer over the grave. Elizabeth did, but she said not a word until the end, when she fixed Eleanor with an icy stare. “My daughter gave her life for your daughter,” she said. “Never forget that.”

  She took Claudia from Eleanor's arms and returned to the manor.

  Slowly David, William, and Lucinda recovered, and as they did, the absence of their loved ones became a tangible pain. Elizabeth held Claudia almost constantly, and Eleanor, remembering how Elizabeth had already lost three of her children and might yet lose her eldest son, could not bear to take the baby from her.

  No word came from Waterford. In the bleakest hours after Clara's burial, Eleanor sometimes wondered if all there had perished, if they alone had survived the plague.

  “Someone needs to go into town,” said David, still in his sickbed.

  “I'll go,” said his son. At fifteen, William seemed a shriveled old man with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes.

  Elizabeth grew frantic and insisted that none of them must leave the manor, especially William, who was still too weak to sit a horse. They placated her, but they knew that eventually, someone must go.

  The thought of news from town reminded Eleanor of a letter she had never opened. Frank Schaeffer's appearance had so unsettled her that she had forgotten all about the slender envelope that had brought him, and the contagion, to Elm Creek Manor. She found it where she had left it weeks ago, a relic from a different age. She hesitated before opening it, gripped by the sudden fear that she would unleash more disease upon her family like Pandora lifting the lid to her box of evils.

  Within the envelope Eleanor found a single clipping from The New York Times, her father's obituary. He had died in September of influenza.

  Days passed. When still no one came to Elm Creek Manor, Lucinda insisted that Eleanor, ironically now the strongest of the family, go into town. Even Elizabeth did not object.

  Eleanor rode alone. She did not wear her mask; she did not know what miracle had protected her and Elizabeth when all around them had fallen ill, but she assumed it protected her still. She did not stop at any of the other outlying farms and passed no one on the road or working in the fields. She saw no one at all until she reached Tenth Street. The people she encountered waved excitedly, smiling and laughing. They wore no masks. She wondered at their rejoicing. Perhaps they were merely happy to be alive.

  From far away she heard voices crying out in joy. When she rounded the corner of Main Street, she saw that the square between the library and town hall was filled with people. From everywhere came the sounds of celebration—music, raucous cheering, firecrackers, voices raised in song and laughter.

  Someone called to her; she searched but could not find the speaker in the crowd.

  “Eleanor!”

  Then she saw the frantic waving; it was a woman from the quilt guild. Eleanor knew her name but could not call it to mind; all she could think of was the Starburst block the woman had made for the charity quilt.

  “Eleanor!” the woman shouted again, crying tears of joy. “Did you hear? It's the armistice! The war is over!”

  The war was over.

  Freddy was coming home.

  Chapter Nine

  November was one of the busiest months of the year for Elm Creek Quilts, rivaled only by the first month of the new camp season. Although summer probably seemed a long time away for their campers, Sylvia and her colleagues were already deciding what classes and seminars to offer, assessing their staffing needs, printing up brochures and registration forms, and running new marketing campaigns. Sylvia wondered why they bothered to advertise since hundreds of registration forms had already arrived, but Sarah insisted the investment would pay off later. Sylvia shrugged and decided to have faith in Sarah's and Summer's judgment. She couldn't argue with their success, and besides, the activity kept her friends from talking about wedding gowns and bouquets day and night.

  When she could spare time from Elm Creek Quilts, Sylvia continued the search for her mother's quilts from behind her father's oak desk in the library. The flood of letters and e-mails in response to Summer's post on the Missing Quilts Home Page had slowed to only one or two a week, but Sylvia followed each trail until she was sure it had reached a dead end. Unfortunately, virtually all the newest leads did so, for whenever Sylvia called or wrote to verify certain details, her questions brought forth new information that confirmed the quilt in question could not be her mother's.

  Other leads that had once seemed promising had faded away. Even her friend Grace Daniels, the quilt historian from San Francisco, responded to Sylvia's e-mail with bad news.

  TO: Summer.Sullivan@elmcreek.net

  FROM: Grace Daniels

  DATE: 10:10 AM PT 6 Nov 2002

  SUBJECT: Your Quilt Investigation

  (Summer, please print out this note for Sylvia.)

  Sylvia, I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to you, but I'm afraid I have bad news. I checked the San Jose Quilt Museum as you requested, but they do not have any New York Beauty quilts on display or in storage. I also called my contacts at the New England Quilt Museum and the Museum of the American Quilter's Society with the same result. We'll keep spreading the word and eventually some better information will surface.

  I wonder if you might want to modify your inquiries to include the alternate names for the pattern. As you probably know, the New York Beauty did not acquire that name until the 1930s, when its pattern was included in the packages of a certain brand of batting. Until then, it was known as Rocky Mountain, Rocky Mountain Road, or Crown of Thorns.

  I'll talk to you soon, and remember, don't give up!

  Grace

  PS: You really ought to get your own e-mail address.

  Sylvia had never heard of the alternate names for the New York Beauty pattern, but when she searched her memory, she was forced to admit she could not think of a single occasion when her mother had referred to her version as anything but her wedding quilt. Sylvia's earliest memory of the name was a time several years after her mother's death, when Great-Aunt Lucinda showed Sylvia's father a similar quilt in a magazine and remarked how appropriate it had been for Sylvia's mother to choose that pattern for her bridal quilt, as she had been a New York beauty herself. Tears had come to her father's eyes, and he agreed.

  Sylvia doubted that adding the alternative names to the description of her mother's missing quilt would help where an illustration had failed, but with so little else to go on, she decided it wouldn't hurt to try.

  The only clues that still gave Sylvia any hope were the check Gloria Schaeffer had used to buy the Ocean Waves quilt, the name of the auction house that had purchased the Elms and Lilacs quilt from Mary Beth Callahan's mother, and—despite Grace's disappointing reports—the few responses that placed the New York Beauty quilt in a museum. Although none of these responses named the same museum, Sylvia still believed she could not afford to dismiss them. She theorized that the quilt was or had been part of a traveling exhibit, which was why those who spotted it did not agree on the location, and why none of those museums now had the New York Beauty in its possession.

  The one quilt Sylvia had abandoned her search for was the whole cloth quilt. Without her mother's embroidered initials and date, and with so many virtually identical quilts in existence, Sylvia reluctantly had to admit that identifying her mother's version would be impossible. Why, then, did the name of the quilt's designer sound so familiar? At first she assumed that she must have seen other examples of Abigail Drury's work, but Summer searched the Waterford College Library's databases and Sylvia pored over her many quilt books and magazines without finding a single mention of her name besides the October 1912 issue of Ladies' Home Journal. It seemed unlikely that a quilt designer of her considerable talent would have published but a single pattern in her entire career.

  The frustration of this unsolved mystery urged Sylvia on
to likelier prospects. The auction house in Sewickley kept excellent records, including who had purchased the Elms and Lilacs quilt and when, but it also had a strict confidentiality policy and would not release the name of the current owners without their permission. After a few anxious days, the auction house called back to inform her that the owner's niece, who had inherited the quilt upon her aunt's death, had agreed to take Sylvia's call. The niece traveled often, so Sylvia left several messages on her answering machine before finally reaching her, only to learn that the niece had sold the Elms and Lilacs quilt two years before.

  “I hated to give it up,” the young woman said. “Unfortunately, in her will, my aunt left the quilt to me and my husband. Ex-husband. She never thought we would split up or she would have left it to me alone. Our divorce negotiations dragged on for months longer than necessary just because he would not give up that quilt.”

  “He must have been very fond of it.”

  “Not at all. He preferred the duvet. He just wanted to hurt me.”

  “I suppose you're better off without him, then.”

  “You have no idea. Eventually I just couldn't deal with the struggle anymore, so I offered to sell the quilt and divide the money. He considered that a victory since I would lose my quilt. We agreed to have an independent appraiser from some organization, the Association of Quilters of America or something—”

  “The National Quilters Association?”

  “Yes, that sounds right. Would you believe she said the quilt was worth three thousand dollars? I'll never forget my ex's face when he heard that. He practically danced around the room with dollar signs in his eyes and cash registers ringing in the background.” The young woman sniffed. “But he wasn't laughing long.

  “I offered to find a buyer for the quilt, and since in addition to being a jerk my ex is also lazy, he agreed. I took it to the quilt shop in downtown Sewickley, but they were having financial problems and weren't buying quilts. From there I went to two different antique stores. One offered me a thousand and the other, two.”

  “But you knew it was worth much more.”

  “That wasn't the point. So I took it to Horsefeathers.”

  “Where?”

  “The Horsefeathers Boutique. It's a funky arts and crafts store in downtown Sewickley. The owner is a local artist and you would not believe the stuff she makes. I showed her the quilt, she oohed and ahhed and agreed it was beautiful—and offered me thirty dollars for it.”

  “That's all? Did you tell her about the appraisal?”

  “No, I told her it was a deal. I handed over the quilt, she gave me the cash and a receipt. Then I drove right over to the apartment my ex was sharing with his new girlfriend and gave him his fifteen bucks.”

  Sylvia closed her eyes and sighed. “I suppose I can understand why you did that, but it sounds like a bitter triumph to me.”

  “So it wasn't my proudest moment. At least I showed him he couldn't walk all over me and get away with it. He knew I loved that quilt, and that's why he took it from me.”

  “If you cared for it so much, why didn't you buy it back after the terms of the divorce negotiations were satisfied?”

  “I couldn't. That quilt became a symbol of everything wrong in our marriage.” Suddenly her tone shifted. “This doesn't mean you'll never find your mother's quilt. It might still be at Horsefeathers, and if not, they'll know who has it.”

  Unless it had changed hands once again. “I'll try to contact them right away. Thank you very much for the information.”

  “No problem. Oh, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “When you make out your will, don't leave something to a couple when you really just mean for one of them to have it. And if you know anyone who's getting married, your grandchildren or whatever, make sure they have a great prenup.”

  “Thanks,” said Sylvia. “I'll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  Sylvia had lived in Sewickley for many years, but she had never heard of the Horsefeathers Boutique, and she would have sworn there was a toy store at the street corner the young woman had described. Still, she knew better than to rely upon her memory alone, and sure enough, when Summer searched on-line, she found a phone number and address for the store. When Sylvia called, the owner was not available but the sales clerk said the Elms and Lilacs quilt sounded familiar. Sylvia decided to take this as a good if ambiguous sign. She left her name and number and asked for the owner to call her at her convenience.

  Following the trail of Gloria Schaeffer's check proved easier. Gloria's old phone number was no longer in service, as Sylvia had expected, and the house and land had been razed decades ago to make way for a shopping mall. Fortunately, one of her two sons still lived in Waterford and was listed in the phone book. When Sylvia called, she reached Philip Schaeffer's wife, Edna, a friendly woman close to her own age. She seemed fascinated by Sylvia's tale of the search for her mother's quilts and explained that the two sons had divided up the quilts they had inherited from Gloria. “My husband and I don't own any quilts that sound like your Ocean Waves quilt, so it must have gone to his brother, Howard,” said Edna. “He lives in Iowa now, but he and his family are coming here for Thanksgiving. I'll ask him to bring the quilt if he still owns it, but I'm afraid I can't promise he'll sell it to you.”

  “I understand,” Sylvia assured her, and they made plans for Sylvia to stop by on the Friday after Thanksgiving. She could not expect everyone to part with their quilts as readily as Mona Niehaus had. The Schaeffers had owned the Ocean Waves quilt for more than fifty years, longer than the Bergstroms themselves. They likely considered it one of their own family heirlooms by now. After the disappointment of the whole cloth quilt, Sylvia would be satisfied just to see the quilt again and to know it was treasured.

  As Thanksgiving approached, Sylvia waited for Andrew and his children to decide how they would spend the holiday. Sometimes Sylvia and Andrew joined his children and their families at Amy's home in Connecticut, but on alternate years, Sylvia invited everyone to Elm Creek Manor. She enjoyed those celebrations the most because Sarah's mother and Matt's father also joined them for the weekend, and the other Elm Creek Quilters always found time to stop by for some coffee and pie. This year was supposed to be Sylvia's turn to play hostess, which Sylvia considered especially fortuitous because she knew she would have few opportunities to make peace with Andrew's children before the wedding. Welcoming them into her home would, she hoped, show them how much she cared about them and their father.

  But as the days grew colder and shorter, and the first light snow fell, Andrew said little about the upcoming holiday. When Sylvia pressed him, he would say that they had not had a chance to discuss it, or that his children had not made up their minds. Finally Sylvia insisted that he call them and make a decision, because in a few days she would either need to buy a turkey or pack her suitcase and she would appreciate a little advance notice. Andrew apologized and went off to the parlor to phone them, but returned shaking his head.

  “They're not coming?” asked Sylvia.

  “Not this year. It's too far to drive round trip in four days and they don't want to fly. Since they know it wouldn't be fair to ask me to choose between them, they thought it best if we all spend Thanksgiving at our own homes.”

  Sylvia heard Amy's voice echoed in Andrew's words. “I can't believe Bob is afraid to fly,” she said. “If your children want to get together with you at Amy's, I'll stay home. I don't want to rob you of a holiday with your family.”

  “Absolutely not.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “Like I told Amy when she was here last month, you're my family.”

  He kissed her, and Sylvia knew he meant what he said, but she felt sick at heart thinking about the widening divide between Andrew and his children. She thought of his grandchildren and wondered how the holiday plans would be explained to them. She wondered what excuses they would invent for Andrew's absence, year after year, if the disagreement grew into estrangement.

&n
bsp; A shadow darkened their Thanksgiving feast that year, and not even the presence of Sarah's mother and Matt's father could lift it entirely. Sylvia knew that Andrew missed his family; he glanced at the clock throughout the day, as if imagining what his children and grandchildren were doing at that moment. He left shortly after dessert to call them, but he returned a mere fifteen minutes later to say that they were well and that they gave Sylvia and her friends their best regards.

  Privately, Sarah tried to reassure Sylvia that the disagreement would not last long. The chill must be thawing already, or Andrew wouldn't have phoned Amy and Bob at all. “By Christmas everyone will be on good terms again,” she said, giving Sylvia a comforting hug. “You'll see. We'll invite everyone here and have a wonderful time. We'll wine and dine the adults and slip the kids candy when their parents aren't looking. Before long they'll start to see the advantages of having you as a stepmother.”

  Sylvia had to laugh. “You're absolutely right. Why didn't I resort to bribery long ago?”

  She was joking, of course, but although she wouldn't admit it to a soul, she might have tried to win them over with gifts if not for her pride—and her certainty that it wouldn't work. Nothing Sylvia could do or say or give could change the facts that she was seven years older than Andrew and had once had a stroke. It would be easier to persuade his children to give the marriage their blessing if they merely disliked her.

  The next morning, Sarah drove Sylvia to Edna and Philip Schaeffer's house, a red-brick ranch with two large oak trees in the front yard and four cars parked in the driveway. Three young children ran through scattered leaves on the lawn, shouting and laughing, while an older boy, rake in hand, called out orders they ignored. The four watched with interest as Sylvia and Sarah got out of the Elm Creek Quilts minivan and approached the front door. “Hewwo,” called the youngest, a boy not quite two.