The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Sylvia looked dubious, and Eleanor held her breath, certain Sylvia would ask why Grandmother Lockwood had not turned to them before, such as when Grandfather Lockwood died, but Sylvia said only, “When is she coming?”

  “I don't know,” said Eleanor. “I will ask her. Now, off you go to the nursery. I have letters to write.”

  Sylvia gave her a curious look, but she picked up Richard and went off after her sister. Eleanor watched them climb the stairs, longing to run after them as she once had. Lately climbing the stairs tired her so much that she remained on the first floor from breakfast until retiring for the night. Fred had to help her, and more often than not, he simply lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs, effortlessly, as if she were one of the children.

  After she had transformed her study into a nursery, the library had become her favorite place to linger over a book or compose a letter, but over the past year she had moved her favorite books and writing papers to the parlor. She was not surprised to find the room empty at that time of day, since Elizabeth preferred the sitting room off the kitchen and everyone else was working outside, tending to the horses, absorbing her former duties into their own. She had not ridden in ages. Even the walk to the stables exhausted her now.

  At the bottom of her stationery case, Eleanor found a few sheets of black-edged paper left over from when Fred's father passed away. She would observe the rituals out of respect for her mother. Mother would expect it.

  She rehearsed her words in her head rather than waste paper and ink searching for the appropriate phrases. Mother was easily offended, and her present circumstances would render her even more sensitive. But after twenty unproductive minutes, Eleanor steeled herself and wrote the first words that came to mind, as quickly as she could.

  May 14, 1927

  Dear Mother,

  The Bergstrom family is honored that you would consider coming to reside at Elm Creek Manor. You will have a comfortable room and bath of your own and all the privacy you wish. Your three grandchildren will be thrilled to finally meet you.

  I have indicated the nearest train station on the enclosed schedule. Please let us know when you shall arrive so Fred and I may meet you.

  I would be grateful if you would extend our sincere condolences to Cousin Claire's family.

  Your Daughter,

  Eleanor Lockwood Bergstrom

  She read the letter over as the ink dried. Despite her attempts to sound cordial and welcoming, the words were as stiff and remote as anything her mother could have written.

  The second letter was easier to write, for all Eleanor regretted the need to do so.

  May 14, 1927

  Dear Mrs. Davis,

  Now it is my turn to instruct you to sit before reading on. I believe I have news that will give you one shock to equal all those you have sent me throughout the years.

  My mother is coming to Elm Creek Manor, not merely to visit, but to live. I still cannot quite believe it, but she would not have asked unless she was in earnest, and I have her request written in her own hand.

  She must vacate her current residence by the end of the month, so I suppose she will be among us by June. I tell you this not to warn you away but to prepare you. Promise me you will not cancel your visit on her account. You would not visit me at my parents' house because of her, but this is my home, not hers, and you will always be welcome in it. I will lock her in the attic if you cannot bear the sight of her, but please do not deny me the pleasure of your company. With my mother in the house, I am certain I will need you more than ever.

  My children do not believe you are real and never will unless they finally meet the former nanny of

  Your Affectionate Friend,

  Eleanor

  PS: If you simply cannot bring yourself to visit with my mother here, please consider coming before her arrival. We still have two weeks left in May. What more can I say to persuade you? Tell me and I will say it.

  Eleanor sent off her letters, hoping for the best. When Mother arrived, everything would change. She would have to shield the children from Mother's cutting tongue. Claudia was lovely and usually obedient and thus might earn her grandmother's grudging approval, but Mother would shudder at Richard's noisy play and proclaim him incorrigible within minutes of meeting him. As for Sylvia, she stood little chance of earning her grandmother's favor. Bright and moody and perceptive, she was everything her grandmother disliked in a young lady, and her appearance was unlikely to help. Her hair always seemed a tangle no matter how often Eleanor instructed her to comb it, and she could not step out of doors without getting grass stains on her dress and dirt on her face.

  She was seeing them through her mother's eyes, Eleanor realized, but those very things that her mother would find so offensive were what endeared them to Eleanor most.

  All that week, she waited anxiously for replies to her letters. As before, as always, she found solace in quilting. Not in the way Elizabeth did, numbing her pain with the repetitive motions of the needle, but in the act of creation, in piecing together beauty and harmony from what had been left over and cast aside. Her art would not endure as long as painting or sculpture, but it would outlive her, and every time her descendants wrapped themselves in one of her quilts, she would be with them, embracing them.

  Months ago, Fred and William had moved the quilt frame into the nursery so that she might quilt while she looked after the children. That was the excuse she made, but in truth, she did not want Fred to see the quilt she worked upon, a gift for their twentieth anniversary. Once she had not thought it possible she would live twenty years, and in a few weeks, she would have been married that long, more than half her life. It was a miracle, and she had Fred's love and God's grace to thank for it. She did not have the words to tell her Freddy what those twenty years had meant to her, so she stitched her love, her passion, her longing into the soft fabric, which was as yielding as they had learned to be with each other, and as strong, as closely woven together. She was the warp and he the weft of their married life, two souls who had chosen each other, not knowing the pattern their lives would form.

  One morning she climbed the stairs to the nursery, resting every three steps before continuing upward. The children were surprised to see her; the girls ran to hug her, and Richard toddled after them, crowing with joy. Sylvia begged Eleanor to read them a story, which she did, then gathered them all into her arms for one big hug and asked them to play without her for a while. They were so glad to have her in the nursery again that they did not complain.

  Eleanor removed the sheet she had placed over the quilt to keep off dust and sticky fingers. Two years in the making, the Elms and Lilacs quilt was truly her finest work. She had appliquéd each lilac petal and elm leaf by hand, using fabrics in the new lighter hues that were coming into fashion. She had quilted around the floral motifs in an echo pattern, as if the leaves and petals had fallen into a pond and sent out gentle ripples. In the open background fabric, she had quilted feathered plumes over a crosshatch. Every stitch and scrap of fabric she had put into that quilt had a meaning she knew Fred would understand. The elms came from Elm Creek Manor, of course, but everything else symbolized the cornerstone patio. As Freddy had given it to her, so would she share it with him.

  Only the last corner of the quilt, a square less than a foot wide, remained unquilted. When it was complete, she would need to finish the scalloped edge with binding. A straight edge would take less time, but in such situations she preferred to sacrifice her deadline to her design.

  She threaded a needle, slipped her thimble on her finger, and soon was engrossed in her work, the children's play a happy murmur in the background. Then Richard toddled over and demanded to be picked up. She laughed and settled him on her lap, but she put only two more stitches into the quilt before he began to squirm. “Richard, darling,” said Eleanor, sliding the heron-shaped scissors out of his reach, “this will work only if you hold still.”

  “Let Mama quilt,” said Claudia. “Don't b
e naughty.”

  “He's not being naughty,” said Sylvia. “He's just being a baby. That's what babies do.”

  “But Mama needs to finish her quilt.”

  “I need to play with Richard, too,” said Eleanor quickly, before the fight could escalate. Claudia could be as imperious as Abigail had once been, but Eleanor had known to ignore Abigail's bluster and let her have her way. Sylvia ought to do the same with her sister, but she would rather be right than give in to get along.

  “We could take turns,” said Sylvia, brightening. “One of us could quilt while the other two play with Richard. This way he gets to play with everybody and the quilt still gets finished.”

  Claudia regarded her with scorn. “You just want to work on Mama's quilt.”

  “So what if I do? As long as Richard's happy and the work gets done—”

  “That is the point, isn't it?” interrupted Eleanor. “I think it's a fine idea. I've already taken my turn, so Claudia, would you like to quilt next?” Claudia nodded, and Sylvia, who had already reached for the spool of thread, snatched her hand back. She shot Eleanor a look of protest, but Eleanor shook her head to remind Sylvia she did not reward bickering.

  “Mama, pay,” beseeched Richard, tugging on her hand. “Pay bock.”

  “Very well.” Eleanor allowed herself to be led away, with only one glance back at Claudia and her quilt. “Let's go play with your blocks.”

  Sylvia joined her, helping Richard stack his wooden blocks and building towers for him to knock over. Sylvia threw herself into their play, pretending to have forgotten her sister, but after ten minutes she looked up at Eleanor with such woebegone hope that Eleanor agreed she could take her turn. Claudia relinquished the needle with only a small pout, and though she dragged her heels a little, she brought over one of Richard's favorite storybooks and offered to read it to him. He climbed into her lap, stuck a finger in his mouth, and stared at the pictures while Claudia told him the story. Eleanor sat back and watched, grateful for the chance to rest. The tranquil scene made her forget the time until Claudia set the book aside and reminded her Sylvia's turn was over.

  Sylvia traded her place at the quilt frame for Richard's storybook, and she continued reading from where Claudia had left off. Eleanor studied her daughters' handiwork, pleased to discover that both girls had used their very best quilting. Claudia, especially, had far surpassed her usual efforts, so that her stitches were virtually indistinguishable from her sister's, even though Sylvia's work was ordinarily finer. Freddy wouldn't care even if their stitches were an inch long and uneven, of course; he would be prouder of a quilt bearing his daughters' imperfect stitches than a flawless quilt they had no part in making.

  The climb upstairs to the nursery must have taxed her more than she had realized, for she was ready for a rest when Claudia's turn came again. Claudia took the needle eagerly and set herself to work with enthusiasm, the tip of her tongue visible in the corner of her mouth.

  Sylvia's turn came once more, and then Eleanor's, and then Claudia's again. The girls no longer made faces when Sylvia took over for Claudia, and Richard was content, enjoying play time with all three of them. Eleanor was congratulating herself for resolving the latest in her daughters' long series of disagreements when Claudia suddenly shrilled, “What is she doing?”

  “Hmm?” Eleanor looked up from Richard's wooden train in time to see Sylvia quickly set down the scissors. “What's wrong?”

  Claudia stormed over to the quilt frame. Sylvia folded her arms over her work, but Claudia shoved her aside. “She's ruining my work,” cried Claudia. “She picked out all my stitches.”

  Sylvia thrust out her lower lip. “I didn't ruin her work.”

  “Liar! She did!” Claudia pointed at the quilt. “Come and see for yourself.”

  Suddenly Eleanor felt too exhausted to do anything more than pull Richard onto her lap. “Sylvia, did you remove Claudia's stitches from the quilt?”

  “Only the bad ones,” said Sylvia. She glared at her sister. “I can't help it that most of them were bad.”

  Claudia shrieked and Sylvia shouted back. Eleanor closed her eyes and kissed the top of Richard's head. “Stop it.” She covered the baby's ears and raised her voice. “Girls! Stop it. Sylvia, that was a very naughty thing to do—”

  “But it's a present for Daddy,” said Sylvia, chin trembling. “It should be just right.”

  “My quilting is just as good as yours,” said Claudia.

  “Now who's the liar?”

  “Sylvia,” said Eleanor, stern. “What you did was wrong, and being saucy about it only makes matters worse. Apologize to your sister, and go to your room.”

  Sylvia shot her a look of shame and frustration before mumbling something that might have been an apology and fleeing from the nursery. Eleanor sighed and sank back into her chair, patting Richard to soothe him, although he seemed not half as troubled as she.

  The room fell silent. Eleanor closed her eyes and felt weariness overtake her. She had almost fallen asleep when she heard Claudia say, “I'm finished now. Do you want a turn?”

  “No, thank you, darling.”

  She heard Claudia's chair scrape the floor and soft footsteps. Then, near her ear, Claudia whispered, “Richard's asleep.”

  Eleanor nodded. Even with her eyes closed she had known, not only by the sound of his breathing, but because only when asleep did her son hold still for so long.

  “Shall I take him downstairs to his crib?”

  “Would you, please?” Eleanor opened her eyes and allowed Claudia to take him. “Be careful on the stairs.”

  “I will.” Claudia regarded her curiously. “Mama, are you all right?”

  Eleanor smiled. “I'm just tired.”

  “Why don't you go to bed and take a nap? I'll get Richard if he cries.”

  She was tempted, but the thought of all those stairs was too daunting. “I think I'll just rest here for a moment and then quilt some more.”

  Claudia looked dubious, but she nodded and carried Richard away, sleeping on her shoulder.

  When the door closed behind them, Eleanor curled up on the sofa, pulled an old scrap quilt over herself, and drifted off to sleep.

  Eleanor's mother sent a telegram: “June 2, 3:15 PM.”

  From the moment the terse reply arrived until the hour Eleanor and Fred went to meet her at the station, Eleanor felt an urgent need to warn her family about her mother, to instruct them how to behave in order to divert her wrath. In the end, she said nothing. She could not find the words.

  Fred held her hand as they waited on the platform. As the passengers began to disembark, Eleanor scanned the faces and wondered how she would recognize her mother after twenty years, how Mother would recognize her. Then Fred squeezed her hand. “There,” he said, and nodded. Eleanor looked, her throat constricting with emotion—apprehension, anticipation. Hope. Her eyes met her mother's, and hope faltered.

  Gertrude Drayton-Smith Lockwood wore black from head to toe; even the ostrich feathers bobbing on her hat had been dyed black to match the black wool of her coat. Her mouth hardened into a thin line as she descended from the train and gestured for the porter to fetch her trunk and satchel. The soft plumpness that had given her girlish beauty had been burned away, so that her features and dark eyes stood out sharp and prominent against her pale skin. She clasped her gloved hands and waited for Eleanor and Fred to come to her, her mouth displeased, her shoulders squared in longsuffering resignation.

  Eleanor could not move until Fred gently guided her forward. Should she embrace her? Apologize in advance for everything Mother would find wanting in her new home? The crowd parted, and before Eleanor could force a smile, she found herself face to face with her mother.

  “So.” Mother eyed her, ignoring Fred. “I can see you're not well.”

  “It's good to see you, Mother.” Eleanor kissed the air near her mother's cheek. She smelled of rose water. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

  “I abhor trains,
and this one in particular was crowded and uncomfortable and unsanitary, but since you could not be troubled to come to New York for me yourself, I had little choice.”

  An icy smile played on Eleanor's lips. Her mother had had a choice: Elm Creek Manor by train or the asylum for destitute women on foot. That choice remained.

  “The rest of the way will be more comfortable,” said Fred

  Mother grunted as if she certainly hoped so but doubted it. She bent stiffly and reached for her satchel, but Eleanor picked it up first. Fred moved to lift her trunk, but Mother pretended not to see him and waved for a porter. Fred wisely said nothing, but dismissed the porter with a shake of his head and carried the trunk himself.

  Mother sniffed at the sight of their car and refused the front seat beside Fred to sit in the back with Eleanor. “My goodness, this is provincial,” she muttered, peering out the window at the passing scenery.

  “It is, isn't it?” responded Eleanor, ignoring the insult. “It's very restful after the noise of the city. You'll adore the town. It's quaint, very charming.”

  “I doubt I'll find much charm in it.” Her mother folded her hands in her lap and turned her head away from the window, but glanced back again as if forcing herself to accept her new, diminished circumstances. Her frown deepened as they left the town behind, and she drew in a sharp breath at the sight of a herd of cows grazing in a pasture. Eleanor wanted to assure her Elm Creek Manor was not some mean farmhouse, but even more, she wanted to shake her mother and ask her how she could be so blind to the amaranthine sky, the rolling green hills, the lush forests that in autumn would be ablaze with color, breathtaking in their beauty.

  Instead she sat back in her seat and watched the landscape roll by.