The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  When Elm Creek Manor came into view, Mother straightened in her seat for a better look. She sat perfectly still, then she arched her brows and gave a derisive sniff that somehow lacked conviction. Fred parked the car, opened the door, and offered her his arm, which she ignored, or perhaps this time she truly did not see him, for her gaze was fixed on the manor.

  Eleanor led her inside, and only then did Mother speak. “Well, Eleanor,” she said, inspecting the grand front foyer. “I see you did not entirely come down in the world after all. Perhaps there was more calculation than romance in your choice.”

  Eleanor stiffened, and she was about to snap back with all the anger she had kept in check since leaving the train station when she heard footsteps pattering on the black marble. Lucinda and Elizabeth ushered in the children, freshly scrubbed and dressed in their second-best. Eleanor hid a smile, imagining Elizabeth and Claudia debating their wardrobe and deciding that their very best might seem too formal and off-putting, while second-best would acknowledge Mother as a member of the family while still marking the significance of the day.

  Elizabeth came forward, smiling warmly, and kissed Mother on both cheeks. She had shed her mourning clothes for the day, and in her dark blue appeared almost festive next to Mother. “Mrs. Lockwood, how good it is to meet you at last,” she said. “I'm Elizabeth Bergstrom, Fred's mother. I cannot tell you how grateful we are that you let us keep Eleanor to ourselves so selfishly all these years. We hope you will let us make it up to you by making our home your home.”

  With some satisfaction, Eleanor noted that Elizabeth's graciousness had utterly confounded Mother. “Thank you,” Mother managed to say, and nodded to Aunt Lucinda as Elizabeth introduced her sister-in-law.

  Claudia, who had been shifting her weight from foot to foot, could wait no longer. “Welcome to Elm Creek Manor, Grandmother,” she said, throwing her arms around her. “I'm Claudia. I'm the oldest. I'm so glad you're going to live with us. Mama's told me all about you.”

  Mother started and patted Claudia awkwardly. “Has she, indeed?”

  Sylvia hung back, holding Richard by the hand, until Eleanor surreptitiously beckoned her forward. “Welcome to Elm Creek Manor, Grandmother,” said Sylvia, her voice a hollow echo of her sister's. “I'm Sylvia, and this is Richard.”

  “Yes. Well.” Mother pried herself free from Claudia and caught Eleanor's eye. “I believe I would like to be shown to my room now.”

  At least Mother did not complain about her rooms, not even at the sight of a patchwork quilt on the bed. Perhaps hard times had forced her to reconsider her disdain for the beauty of thrift.

  Eleanor oversaw dinner preparations with care, supervising the reproduction of her mother's favorite French recipes while Elizabeth and Lucinda attended to the best table linens and silver. William snatched an éclair on his way through the kitchen and remarked that he hoped that they ate like this every night of her mother's visit.

  Elizabeth shooed him away with a wooden spoon. “It's not a visit. She's here for good, and those are for dessert,” she added in a shout as he grabbed a second éclair and ran.

  “Please tell me we aren't going to eat like this every night,” said Lucinda, frowning at a spot of tarnish on a salad fork.

  “Just tonight,” promised Eleanor. Tonight, and then perhaps tomorrow, at breakfast. By then, first impressions would be over and Mother would have made up her mind how she felt about them. Little could alter her opinions after she had formed them, so these first few hours were crucial. Elizabeth seemed to be faring well, as did Claudia, but Fred might as well not exist as far as Mother was concerned.

  Claudia offered to call Mother for dinner, and Eleanor gratefully accepted, wanting a few moments to freshen up. All was ready in the formal dining hall, which Eleanor usually regarded as cold and imposing, but tonight it seemed just the thing. If Mother's favorite foods failed to impress her, the china and silver and crystal would not.

  But when Mother entered on Claudia's arm, carrying her satchel, she did not seem to notice the tokens of wealth she once thought she could not live without. Fred rose to pull out her chair, but she waved him off and gestured for Claudia to assist her. An uncertain smile flickered on Claudia's face, as if she was proud to be chosen but dismayed that her father had been slighted.

  Conversation was careful, polite, and stilted. Only Richard seemed perfectly content, banging his spoon on his high chair and stuffing his mouth with potato and sweet peas. Suddenly he reached into his mouth, scooped out a handful of chewed vegetables, and dropped them on the floor. “All done!”

  “Yes, darling, I see that,” said Eleanor, bending over to wipe up the splatter. Sylvia giggled.

  “Disgraceful,” said Mother.

  Eleanor sat up quickly. For that moment, she had forgotten her mother's presence. “What is?”

  “That urchin of yours, wasting good food when so many in the world go hungry.” Mother set down her fork and pushed her plate away. “I cannot abide such rich dishes. A clear broth would have been much better.”

  “That's easily granted,” said Elizabeth, smiling. She rose and left the room to speak to the cook.

  “I thought you loved French cuisine,” said Eleanor, wiping Richard's face.

  “I did, once, before we had to let our cook go after we lost the business.” Mother sighed and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “We lost everything, but I suppose you knew that.”

  “I did not,” said Eleanor. “I thought Father became Mr. Drury's partner.”

  “In name only, but I am not talking about the merger. This happened later, after Mr. Drury died and his children inherited the company.”

  “The entire company?” asked Fred.

  This time it suited Mother to acknowledge him. “Of course. After all, Mr. Drury owned the entire company, for all that he retained the Lockwood name at the stores. He only did that to profit from our good reputation, since he had ruined his own by seducing an innocent young girl into betraying her family.”

  Her words were met with silence.

  “Well?” inquired Mother, eyebrows raised. “What did you think would happen? Did you think ownership of the company reverted to your father?”

  “That is what I assumed,” said Eleanor.

  Elizabeth returned with Mother's broth. Mother tasted it and set down her spoon. “Even if your sister had lived to bear Mr. Drury a child, the children from his first marriage still would have been the primary beneficiaries of his estate, since he failed to make a new will. If he had preceded her in death, she would have been left destitute unless his children were generous enough to provide for her, which, considering how they treated us, seems unlikely.” She took another sip of broth. “So as you can see, Mr. Drury betrayed Abigail in the end, just as he betrayed us.”

  “He did not betray her.” Eleanor's voice shook with anger. “He would have seen she was provided for. How could he have been expected to predict such a disaster?”

  “He did not have to. All he had to do was take stock of his own mortality, as every responsible husband should. Five years they were married before they died, and yet he could not spare one day to change his will. Either he was shamefully negligent or he never intended to change it.”

  “He must have made other arrangements.”

  “Nonsense. You simply can't bear to see the romance tarnished. You ought instead to take heed of his poor example and see to your own affairs. If I am not mistaken, you have little time to waste, for all you have exceeded the doctors' expectations until now.”

  Someone gasped. Claudia blanched, and Sylvia turned to Eleanor, stricken and confused. Eleanor felt the blood rushing to her head. She tried to speak, but could not.

  “That's enough,” said Fred, his dark eyes glimmering with anger. “You've said enough for one evening.”

  Mother looked incredulous. “You haven't told them?”

  “Told us what?” asked Sylvia in a whisper.

  “The children may be excused,” said E
lizabeth. “Eleanor?”

  “Yes—yes, of course. The children may be excused.” Clumsily, she lifted Richard from his high chair and handed him to Claudia, but Sylvia had not left her seat. Her dark eyes went from Eleanor to her grandmother and back, questioning and afraid.

  “Don't send them away before dessert,” said Mother. “I brought presents.”

  “We don't want any presents,” said Claudia in a small voice.

  “Nonsense. What child doesn't want presents? Give the baby back to your mother like a good girl and come here.”

  Obediently, Claudia returned Richard to her mother's arms, but before she could take a single step, Fred spoke. “There's a little matter to clear up first. You made a careless remark that obviously frightened the girls. Why don't you explain to them what you meant?”

  Mother's hand flew to her bosom. “You want me to be the one to tell them?”

  “You're the one who misspoke.” Fred's voice was ice. “In this family, whoever makes the mess cleans it up.”

  Mother's eyebrows arched. “Misspoke?” She forced out a brittle laugh, but she could not hold Fred's gaze long. She glanced at Eleanor, but just as quickly looked away. Perhaps something in their expressions reminded her that the train ran east as well as west.

  “What I meant to say, children, was that we all have our time,” said Mother. “We—we—sometimes we pass on before we are prepared. That's all I meant to say, that your parents should be prepared.”

  Claudia was visibly relieved, but Sylvia's eyes remained steadily fixed on her grandmother. “Who is Mr. Drury?” she asked. “What did he do to our grandfather?”

  “Goodness, don't they know anything about our family?” asked Mother. Eleanor could see Claudia wanted to assure her that she, at least, knew something, but whatever stories Claudia repeated would only reveal her ignorance of the truth.

  When no one answered her, Mother waved her hand impatiently. “Never mind. Now that I am here, I will remedy that. You will learn all I can teach you about the Lockwoods, and my gifts will be a fine start.”

  Claudia almost smiled, but Sylvia's expression hardened, a reflection of her father that seemed too old for such a little girl. Eleanor knew at once that Sylvia had resolved never to listen to her grandmother's stories, never to learn about the Lockwood family history. Eleanor felt a twinge of grief, but she had turned her back on the Lockwood family, and she could not expect Sylvia to embrace it.

  “Ah.” From her satchel, Mother withdrew a small, white box. “Come, Claudia. This is for you.”

  Claudia left her mother's side and took the box from her grandmother. When she lifted the lid, her eyes widened in surprise and admiration.

  Mother smiled. “Do you like it?” Claudia nodded and reached tentatively into the box, glancing up at her grandmother for permission. “Of course you may pick it up, silly girl, it's yours.” Eleanor caught a glimpse of silver flashing in her daughter's hand. It was her mother's silver locket, an heirloom passed down to her from her own mother.

  Claudia opened the locket. “Who are these people?”

  “The woman is my mother, and the man, my father. I will tell you all about them. Would you like to try it on?” When Claudia nodded, Mother fastened the locket about her neck. “There. It suits you.”

  Claudia fingered the locket and smiled. “Thank you, Grandmother.” “You're quite welcome.” Mother reached into her satchel and produced a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Be sure you take good care of it. Sylvia, this is for you.”

  When Sylvia did not leave her chair, Mother handed the parcel to Claudia and gestured for her to take it to her sister. Sylvia slowly unwrapped the gift, and when the paper fell away, Eleanor saw a fine porcelain doll with golden hair, dressed in a gown of blue velvet. It was a beautiful doll, but Sylvia did not care for dolls. She never had.

  “Thank you, Grandmother,” said Sylvia, solemn, and hugged the doll.

  “She was your mother's. They were inseparable until she decided she was too old for dolls. Then she sat on a shelf in the nursery gathering dust, the poor, neglected thing.”

  “I didn't neglect it,” said Eleanor. “You're thinking of Abigail. That was her doll, not mine.”

  “That's not so,” said Mother. “I recall very clearly giving it to you for Christmas when you were four.” “That was Abigail. She said Santa brought it.” Eleanor could still see Abigail cradling the doll, brushing her fine hair, dressing her in the frocks Miss Langley sewed. “When Abigail no longer wanted her, she gave her to me, but by then I was not interested in dolls, either.”

  “You would have liked them still if Abigail had.” Mother turned her gaze on Sylvia. “Well, my dear, it seems I've given you the doll no one wanted. I suppose you, too, will abandon her.”

  Sylvia shook her head.

  Mother studied her for a moment, assessing her, then frowned and reached into her satchel. “This is for you, Eleanor, if you want it.” Mother placed a black, leather-bound book on the table. “It was to go to Abigail, as the eldest girl …”

  She left the sentence unfinished. Eleanor knew what the book was, but she was immobile, unable to rise from her chair. It was Claudia who, unasked, brought it to her.

  “What is it, Mama?” asked Sylvia, who always took interest in a new book.

  “It's the Lockwood family Bible.” Eleanor traced the gilded letters on the cover, then turned to the first few pages, to the records of births, baptisms, marriages, and deaths her father's mother had begun. With a pang of sorrow, she noticed that her mother had not written in either of her daughters' marriages, or Abigail's death.

  “I leave it up to you to complete the record,” said Mother. “You are the only one who can.”

  She meant, You are my only surviving child. There is no one else. But Eleanor understood that, and what it meant that her mother had given her this inheritance now. “I will not complete it, merely continue it,” she said, closing the Bible. “As Claudia will continue it after me.”

  “Why Claudia?” asked Sylvia. She had placed the doll on the table and had leaned closer to her mother for a better look at the Bible, but at the mention of Claudia's name, she sat up.

  “That's the tradition,” explained Eleanor. “The family Bible always goes to the eldest daughter.”

  She regretted the words when she saw the smug look Claudia gave her sister, and the resentful glare Sylvia gave her in return. She remembered how the unfairness of the custom had stung when she realized the Bible would belong to Abigail one day, and not herself. Now she would give almost anything to be able to place it in her sister's hands, and sit by her side as she wrote down the names of all of their children in her round, girlish script.

  “I have no gift for you, Fred,” said Mother. “But I have already given you my daughter, and my children were always my greatest treasures.”

  Fred inclined his head, a gesture of respect, of recognition. Eleanor wondered if Mother had prepared her remarks on the train or if she had spoken them as an afterthought, a token of gratitude for Elizabeth's generosity.

  The rest of the meal was subdued, but Eleanor was thankful enough that the hostility had passed, and that the girls had apparently forgotten their grandmother's cryptic references to her health. Mother retired immediately afterward, without a good night to anyone, much less the thanks anyone else in her position would have gratefully offered. Elizabeth made the excuse that she was surely exhausted from her long day of traveling, but they all knew better, and Lucinda told Eleanor that her rudeness was the first of many bad habits they would rid her of for the sake of family harmony.

  “I forgot something,” Lucinda added, handing Eleanor an envelope. “This came for you while you were at the station.”

  Its postmark read Lowell, Massachusetts, where Miss Langley had resided for the past six years.

  May 28, 1927

  My Dear Eleanor,

  I am so sorry I did not respond sooner, but your letter arrived while I was tr
aveling, and I only just received it. Please accept my heartfelt apologies, but I must decline your kind invitation. I will come to visit you as soon as your mother departs, for New York or the great hereafter, whichever comes first.

  All the reasons that delayed my travels in the past seem trivial now that our separation has been extended indefinitely. I regret all the missed opportunities, all the postponements, as I am sure you do, but we must not dwell on them. I am resolved to see you again, Eleanor, or I am not

  Your Affectionate Friend,

  Amelia

  She was not coming. Eleanor crumpled up the letter and put it in her pocket. If Miss Langley would not come now, when Eleanor needed her the most, she would never come.

  The next morning, Eleanor served her mother a delicious breakfast she barely touched. Eleanor offered to show Mother the estate, but she declined, saying that she would spend the morning finishing her unpacking.

  “When do you expect the rest of your things to arrive?” asked Eleanor, accompanying her mother upstairs, fighting to conceal how the effort drained her.

  Mother fixed her with a withering glare. “There are no other things.” Eleanor flushed. “I didn't realize—”

  “What? That I did not exaggerate when I said we lost everything?” Mother reached the top of the stairs and waited for Eleanor to join her. “You grew up in a beautiful house full of lovely things, and if you had married Edwin Corville, you would have inherited them all one day.”

  “Instead I married the man I loved, and now I have my own house full of lovely things.” Eleanor spoke coolly, but felt a sudden stab of sympathy for her mother as she imagined her selling off the accumulated treasures of generations of her family. The sympathy faded, however, when she recalled all that Mother and Father had been prepared to do to hold on to that way of life rather than accept the limits of their fortune and live within their means.

  They walked down the hallway in silence. “Obviously your marriage, or this climate, or something out here in the country agrees with you,” Mother said when they reached her door. “You lived much longer than anyone expected.”