The Quilter's Legacy

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Get a shot of us pulling away from the manor,” said Andrew as they crossed the bridge over Elm Creek.

  “Oh, for heaven's sake,” grumbled Sylvia cheerfully, but she took the camera from its case. “I hope you won't have me doing this the whole way there.”

  “Of course not,” said Andrew. “The batteries will run down.”

  Even so, she did spend quite a bit of time behind the camera as they traveled, sometimes at Andrew's request, sometimes on her own initiative, when a particularly lovely valley or snow-covered mountainscape inspired her. When they stopped for lunch or to stretch their legs, Andrew took his turn, and to Sylvia's amusement, he spent more time training the camera on her than on the sights of the journey.

  “I'm coming with you,” she teased when he had her stand right in front of a historical marker, so that no one watching the video would be able to read why it was so important. “You don't need a picture of me.”

  He replied that he was capturing their honeymoon memories, as instructed, and whenever she tried to step out of the way, he followed her with the camera. She eventually gave in, realizing that if she didn't play along, their entire vacation video would consist of her complaining and ducking out of camera range.

  They arrived at the Bear's Paw Inn by early afternoon. The proprietors, Jean and Daniel, were pleased to see them again, and were thrilled to discover that they were on their honeymoon. They showed Sylvia and Andrew to their usual room, where they relaxed until suppertime.

  They joined their hosts and two other vacationing couples in the dining room, and Daniel began the meal by offering a toast to the newlyweds. The food was delicious, the company pleasant, and eventually the conversation turned to quilting when a new guest inquired about the quilts displayed throughout the inn. Jean, an avid collector, was pleased to entertain them with stories of how she had acquired her favorite pieces and what she knew of their history. For Sylvia, the details of the quilts' makers and prior owners called to mind her own quest to find her mother's quilts. Thinking of what those fragile heirlooms had endured reminded her how fortunate she was to have found the Crazy Quilt whole and sound, and how generous Mona Niehaus had been to part with it. She was grateful to have the Elms and Lilacs quilt, too, for despite its altered condition, her mother's love for her family and willingness to endure any hardship for their sake was still evident in every stitch. While the Ocean Waves quilt had been lost forever, its beauty would survive in her memory, and she would learn from the example of Gloria Schaeffer's sons and not put off acts of healing and forgiveness. The whole cloth quilt, too, was beyond her reach, but knowing her mother had created it after all, and that she had lovingly offered it to the world in her sister's name, brought her as much comfort as the quilt itself would have done. And while the New York Beauty quilt still eluded her, she would continue to search. That was one lesson her mother had taught her well: Persevere, hope, and do all things with love, for then the attempt would be successful even if it fell short of the goal.

  “Have you ever been to the New England Quilt Museum?” one of the new guests asked Sylvia.

  “Indeed I have,” said Sylvia. “Although not recently.”

  “If you have a chance to visit again soon, you should,” said Jean. “We spent Thanksgiving with our son in Boston, and we made a day trip out to Lowell. The museum had just set up the most beautiful exhibit of Christmas quilts. If you're heading east, it's definitely worth going out of your way.”

  “Lowell's only about two hours northeast of Amy's house,” said Andrew.

  “Some of their quilts are even closer than that,” said another guest, an avid quilter who had come running into the inn when she returned from a day of skiing to discover the Elm Creek Quilts minivan in the parking lot. “The Penn State branch campus in Hazleton has some pieces from the New England Quilt Museum in their library gallery. It was a special themed exhibit called—oh, what was the name again?”

  “The Art of Women Pioneers,” offered her husband.

  “Yes, something like that. There were quilts, of course, but also other needlework, pottery, weaving, and other media, all on loan from museums across the country. The stories of the women who made those pieces were fascinating. I highly recommend it.”

  Sylvia nudged Andrew. “Not only recommended, but highly recommended. Surely you don't expect me to resist that.”

  “I don't, but we already passed Hazleton. Should we see it on our way home?”

  “That sounds like a fine idea.”

  “I wish my film wasn't still in the camera,” the other guest lamented. “I took a picture of an absolutely stunning quilt in a pattern I had never seen before. I'm sure you would be able to identify it.”

  “Perhaps I still can,” said Sylvia. “Describe it for me.”

  “Well, it looked to me like a cross between the Sunflower and the Grandmother's Fan pattern. Imagine a quarter circle with narrow spires branching out from it like sunbeams—”

  “Were the blocks separated by sashing?” interrupted Sylvia.

  “Very distinctive sashing, as a matter of fact. The strips had spires similar to those in the blocks, and at the junction of the sashing strips were small pieced stars. Do you know the pattern?”

  “I do,” said Sylvia, nearly breathless from excitement. “In fact, I think I may know the very quilt. Do you recall how long the exhibit will be there?”

  She shook her head. “I don't, sorry. We just stopped by on our way north from Harrisburg.”

  “I would hate to miss it,” said Sylvia, giving Andrew a significant look. “I simply can't miss it. By the time we come home, the pieces in the exhibit might have been returned to their owners.”

  “I don't mind a detour if you don't,” said Andrew, with a good-natured grin. “After all, you are the bride.”

  The next morning, they bid their hosts good-bye and backtracked west for an hour through a light flurry of snow, then turned south. As they drove, Sylvia mulled over the other guest's words. A special themed exhibit, she had called it, comprised of pieces from several different museums. While Grace Daniels's contact at the New England Quilt Museum had confirmed that there were no New York Beauty quilts on display or in storage, Sylvia had not thought to have Grace specifically inquire about pieces on loan to other galleries.

  Sylvia laughed, and when Andrew asked her why, she said, “I couldn't find the New York Beauty quilt among large quilt collections or even on the entire Internet, and yet here I am hoping it will be among these few quilts.”

  “You never know,” said Andrew. “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Not this strange,” retorted Sylvia, and yet she could not shake a sense of hope that ran contrary to all common sense. Her mother was not a pioneer, so her work would not even fit the exhibit's theme. It was too much of a coincidence that Sylvia would happen to stay at the same inn as a woman who happened to see her mother's quilt, and who just happened to mention it in passing conversation. And yet it might not be such a coincidence after all. The other guest had sought out the Hazleton exhibit because she loved quilts, and she and Sylvia had both selected the Bear's Paw Inn for that same reason. Indeed, tracking down her mother's quilt by chatting with other quilters was similar to Summer's search on the Internet, only on a much smaller scale. Was it really so wrong for Sylvia to hope, as long as she didn't set her expectations so high that she forgot to enjoy what was right before her?

  “It will be a lovely exhibit either way,” she said firmly. Andrew grinned and shook his head as if she had spoken her entire argument with herself aloud.

  Following the directions the couple from the inn had provided, Andrew drove on to the campus and found the library with the help of a graduate student trudging along the snow-dusted sidewalk, bent over from the weight of his backpack. They parked in an empty lot just as the wind began to pick up and the flurries turned into a light but steady snow shower. Sylvia pulled up the hood of her coat and put on her gloves as Andrew came around to her side to
help her from the minivan.

  They spotted the sign posted on the glass door from the sidewalk. “That can't be good,” said Sylvia, glancing over her shoulder at the empty parking lot. Sure enough, when they drew closer to the sign, they learned that the library would be closed for another week for the semester break.

  “That's too bad,” said Andrew. “We can still visit the museum in Lowell, though.”

  “That New York Beauty quilt won't be in the museum,” Sylvia reminded him. “I'm not giving up yet, not after turning back especially to see this exhibit. I had my heart set on seeing some quilts today, and I'm determined to do so.”

  “We could drive around town until we found a quilt shop,” suggested Andrew, but Sylvia cupped her hands around her eyes and pressed them against the glass. She thought she saw a light coming from one of the rooms on the other side of the front desk.

  “Come on,” she said. She made her way along the sidewalk for a few paces, then stepped off into ankle-deep snow.

  “Careful,” Andrew said, and gave her his arm.

  They circled the building, stopping to look in each window. Andrew worried aloud that a security guard might haul them off for trespassing, but Sylvia figured the risk was worth it. “Who would pick on two senior citizens on their honeymoon?” she teased, peering into what must have been a staff lounge. “Aha! Look on the counter, beside the refrigerator. See that red light? Someone made coffee this morning.”

  “Or they left the pot on from the end of the semester.”

  Sylvia knew he could be right, but was unwilling to admit it. The next two windows looked in upon shelves of books, but the third revealed a large cluttered office containing several computers, carts of tagged books, and one young woman sipping from a coffee mug as she collected sheets of paper emerging from a printer.

  Sylvia tapped on the window. The woman jerked her head up, her long blond braid slipping over her shoulder. Sylvia smiled and waved, but the woman shook her head, mouthed some words, and turned back to the printer.

  “I think she said they're closed,” said Andrew.

  “That would be my guess, too.” Sylvia rapped on the glass again, and when the woman looked up, Sylvia beckoned her to come closer.

  The woman sighed and came over to the window. “We're closed,” she called, her words barely audible through the glass but her meaning unmistakable.

  “Please?” shouted Sylvia. “We won't take but a moment of your time.”

  Sylvia wasn't sure if the woman understood, but after a moment, she nodded and pointed toward the front of the building. “Hurry,” said Sylvia, taking Andrew's arm again. “Before she changes her mind.”

  The woman was waiting for them inside the front foyer. As they stomped their feet to shake off the snow, she unlocked the door and held it open. “May I help you with something?”

  “We understand you have an art exhibit here,” said Sylvia, breathless from racing around the building. “May we please see it?”

  “I was hoping you just wanted to use the bathroom,” said the woman. “I'm afraid the library's closed until next week.”

  “We won't be here next week,” said Andrew. “We're just passing through on our way to New York.”

  “We heard your exhibit is not to be missed,” said Sylvia. “May we just take a brief look at the quilts, if nothing else? We won't disturb your work.”

  “We're on our honeymoon.”

  The woman blinked at Andrew. “You're what?”

  “We're on our honeymoon,” repeated Andrew, and Sylvia nodded.

  “No kidding.” The young woman eyed them. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you, dear,” said Sylvia. “Now, I'm sure it's against the rules, but it's cold out here and we've come a long way. May we please come inside?”

  “We promise we won't touch anything,” said Andrew.

  The woman hesitated, then pushed the door open wider. “Oh, all right,” she said. “I can give you fifteen minutes. But if anyone catches us, I only let you in to use the bathroom.”

  They thanked her and wiped their feet thoroughly on the foyer mat so that they would leave no trace of their visit. The young woman introduced herself as Claire and led them into the library gallery.

  Sylvia glimpsed paintings, woven baskets, silk embroidery, pottery, but mindful of the limited time, she continued to search the room instead of admiring them. “The quilts are along that wall,” said Claire, pointing, at the same moment Sylvia spotted them.

  Sylvia could only nod in reply.

  The Crazy Quilt had caught her eye first, for it was so like her mother's, composed of unusual diamond-shaped blocks. It had held her attention for only a moment, though, for beside it hung a New York Beauty quilt.

  The colors were right. That much registered as Sylvia crossed the floor, slowly, as if in a dream. The number and arrangement of blocks were right. So was the pattern of hand-quilted stitches flowing in feathered wreaths and plumes as only her mother could have worked them.

  She felt Andrew's hand on her elbow just before she ran into the velvet rope stretched before the display. “That's the one, isn't it?” he asked softly.

  Sylvia nodded.

  Claire had followed them across the room. “Isn't it beautiful?”

  “Yes.” Sylvia cleared her throat. “It is indeed. What do you know about it?”

  Claire shrugged. “Only what I read in the brochure and heard from the art professor who arranged the exhibit.”

  “I'm afraid I have bad news for your professor,” said Sylvia. “I know for a fact that this is not a pioneer-era quilt.”

  “Oh, he knows that,” said Claire, with a laugh. “We use the term ‘pioneer’ metaphorically. All of the artists featured here were pioneers in their fields—medicine, psychology, child development, politics, and in this woman's case, social reform.”

  Sylvia's eyebrows shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Social reform. She was a key figure in the women's suffrage and labor rights movements. Hold on a moment. Let me get an exhibit guide.” Claire hurried off and returned holding a small booklet, which she handed to Sylvia. “Her name was Amelia Langley Davis.”

  Sylvia accepted the guide, shaking her head at the unfamiliar name. She turned the pages until she came to a brief biography of the artist credited with her mother's work. Amelia Langley Davis was born in England, immigrated to the United States, and worked as a nanny for several years in New York, where she became involved in the workers' rights movement. Upon moving to Boston, and later, to Lowell, Massachusetts, she played a key role in the labor union organizing among garment workers. After serving a prison sentence for “seditious utterings” at a labor rally, she devoted herself to improving the conditions for incarcerated women, including the establishment of several “residential work-houses,” where recently released female convicts lived and learned a trade as they adjusted to life outside prison walls.

  “She sounds like a remarkable woman,” said Sylvia when she finished reading, “but I assure you, she did not make this quilt.”

  “I know,” said Claire, regarding her curiously. “I guess you heard. Well, you're not the only person to think this quilt doesn't belong in this exhibit. I thought so, too, until I heard the story behind it and had some time to think it over.”

  She turned the page in the exhibit guide and indicated that Sylvia should read on.

  New York Beauty Quilt

  Pieced, cotton and wool c. 1920-1930

  This item is unique among those selected for The Art of Women Pioneers exhibit in that it was not made by the artist, but is instead a piece that she owned and treasured. While the identity of the actual quiltmaker is not known, she is believed to have been one of Amelia Langley Davis's earliest students, most likely a former convict who resided in the first residential workhouse Davis established in Lowell, Massachusetts. It is not certain if Davis supervised the making of this quilt, but the style, pattern, color design, and material selection suggest that she was in
fluential in the quiltmaker's development, almost certainly as her teacher.

  According to Davis's journal for April 4, 1950, she acquired the quilt in the town of Waterford, Pennsylvania, from the quilt-maker's daughter. Only one cryptic reference confirms that Davis and the artist knew each other: “It was with a heavy heart that I at last traveled to Waterford, knowing I had delayed my journey too long. I came too late to see her, but I did meet one of her daughters, the eldest. The brother was killed overseas and the other sister's whereabouts are unknown. The eldest sells off her family's possessions. I managed to purchase the New York Beauty, which I knew at once from her letters, although she called the pattern Rocky Mountain. I would have rescued more but her daughter had none left to sell me. It is a cold comfort that at least my dear friend did not live to see her children estranged, her handiwork scattered.”

  It is known that Davis kept the New York Beauty quilt with her throughout the rest of her life, but the story of its creation has been lost. This piece was included in this collection not because it was precious to her, however, but because it represents Davis's commitment to her students, a crucial facet of the art in which she was a pioneer.

  Sylvia looked up from the guide, her gaze fixed on the New York Beauty quilt, but her thoughts far away. Whoever this Amelia Langley Davis was, she must have known Sylvia's mother. The details from her journal could not possibly have referred to any family but the Bergstroms. But if she was such a “dear friend,” why had Sylvia's mother never mentioned her—or had she, and had Sylvia carelessly allowed the stories to pass by unheard?

  Her mother had confided little about her life before coming to Elm Creek Manor—but Amelia Langley Davis had also lived and worked in New York. Could she have been Sylvia's mother's nanny? Could she have been that distant relative or family friend who had taught her to quilt?

  Grief came over Sylvia, for the stories lost, for those pieces of her mother's life she would never know. Now only her quilts remained, silent and steadfast testaments to the woman she had been.