They drove out to Elm Creek Manor in silence. When the truck pulled up behind the manor, Sarah jumped out and slammed the door without a word. The truck sped away, its tires kicking up a shower of dirt and gravel.
Sarah went inside and paused in the back hallway, fuming. He was right, and she knew it. She shouldn’t have confided in Tom Wilson. But the other things he’d said were so wrong. He had no right to criticize her for not finding anything yet. Hadn’t she left her job in State College for his sake? Matt’s new job didn’t pay any more than Sarah’s old one had, so they weren’t any better off financially. Matt was better off—at least, he seemed happier—but what had Sarah gained?
“We should’ve stayed in State College,” Sarah said aloud.
The manor’s silence absorbed her words.
She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, her stomach tightening. Moving to Waterford had been a mistake. They should have stuck it out in State College a little while longer; surely Matt would have found something. He was more likely to find a job in State College than Sarah was to find something in Waterford.
She knew this as certainly as she knew that she could never tell Matt how she felt.
It was too late, anyway. She’d made her choice and she had to live with it. It would be a lot easier to live with, though, if Matt appreciated her sacrifice. Sometimes she thought he didn’t even realize she’d made one.
She took slow, deep breaths until most of her irritation subsided. She felt the manor surrounding her, comforting and quiet, more like home than the duplex would ever be.
Another quiet minute passed before Sarah opened her eyes and went upstairs.
She found Mrs. Compson in the suite next to Aunt Clara’s. She was sitting on the floor on top of a folded quilt and removing faded clothing from the bottom drawer of a bureau.
“I’m here,” Sarah said as she came into the room.
“So I see.” Mrs. Compson eyed her. “Should I not ask how it went, then?”
“Hmm? Oh. The interview. No, the interview was fine.”
“Of course. That explains why you’re so cheerful this afternoon.”
Sarah almost smiled.
Mrs. Compson set aside a flannel work shirt. “Well, then, since you clearly aren’t in the mood for working today, why don’t we have a quilt lesson instead?”
“But I haven’t done any work yet today.”
“True, but I’ve been working all morning.”
Sarah shrugged. “Okay. You’re the boss.”
“Indeed I am,” Mrs. Compson said. She motioned for Sarah to help her to her feet. “You’ll be starting a new block today, the Contrary Wife.”
Sarah snorted. “Got one called the Contrary Husband instead?”
Mrs. Compson raised an eyebrow. “Do I detect a note of discord? That can’t be, not with the two lovebirds.”
“Matt was being a pain today. I told him about my interview, and all he could do was pick apart everything I said.”
“That doesn’t sound like him.”
“And I didn’t even do anything wrong.” Sarah explained what had happened.
Mrs. Compson drew in a breath and grimaced. “I’m afraid I have to agree with Matthew.” She raised a hand when Sarah opened her mouth to protest. “With what he said, not with how he said it. He should have been more tactful. But I think he’s right to caution you against speaking too freely with others who are competing for the same jobs.”
Sarah plopped down on the bed. “I knew you’d take his side.”
“Oh, is that what I’m doing? I thought I was merely offering my opinion.” Mrs. Compson sat down beside her. “If I am taking his side, it’s because he’s right. This Tom Wilson didn’t need to know how you feel about your profession.”
Sarah sighed. Maybe Mrs. Compson and Matt were right. She’d really blown it this time.
“I don’t think this Tom Wilson will divulge your secret, however,” Mrs. Compson said.
“I hope not, but why wouldn’t he?”
“Because he’ll seem terribly unprofessional if he does. Why should they believe him, anyway, someone spreading rumors about another applicant?”
“That’s probably true.”
“However, I do hope you’ve learned a lesson. Be careful to whom you divulge your secrets. You never know—” Mrs. Compson paused, smiling to herself.
“What? What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing.” Mrs. Compson’s smile grew. “I was just thinking about how I met my husband.”
“You met him at a job interview?”
“No, no.” Mrs. Compson laughed. “But the day we met, he was even less discreet than you were today, much to his later embarrassment.”
I told you before how every year at the state fair Claudia and I would show our quilts, and how I would compete in the riding events. Father would show his prize horses and spend hours debating the merits of various breeding and training practices with the other gentlemen. Richard hung on every word; he wanted to be ready for the day he would take over Bergstrom Thoroughbreds. He spent nearly every moment with Father and the horses. Despite my efforts, however, he did not have the same diligence for his schoolwork. I suppose that isn’t unusual for a nine-year-old boy.
I was sixteen, and I loved the fair. And I loved to ride. I must have annoyed some of the other girls, since I took first place in every competition I entered. But I didn’t care as much about the ribbons and trophies as they thought I did. What I loved was flying like the wind, feeling the horse gather all its strength before soaring over a jump, the delicate power of the flashing hooves and flowing manes—oh, it was wonderful. Seeing the pride in Father’s eyes when I won on his horses—well, that was wonderful, too.
One morning I was riding Dresden Rose in the practice ring when I noticed a young man leaning against the fence, watching us exercise, just as he had for the past two mornings of the fair. After returning his greeting with a nod I pretended to ignore him, but it was difficult not to watch him out of the corner of my eye as I rode. It was also rather annoying to have him there again. I had my first competition coming up and needed to concentrate, and I couldn’t do so very well with someone staring.
Afterward in the stable, I was brushing Dresden Rose, checking her feed, and murmuring to her encouragingly to build up her confidence for the afternoon’s events. Then I heard the stall door open behind me.
I whirled around, startling Rose. The young man from the practice ring stood there grinning at me.
“Beautiful animal,” he said.
“Yes, she is,” I replied, my voice tinged with irritation. I stroked Rose’s neck and spoke soothingly to calm her.
The man reached over to stroke her muzzle. “A Bergstrom?”
“Yes.” Then I realized he meant Rose, not me. “Yes, she is.”
His admiring gaze turned to me. “You’re a fine rider.”
My cheeks flushed, although I willed them not to. He was quite handsome, tall and strong with dark eyes and dark, curly hair. I was very aware that there was no one else around, and how I probably looked to him. I was never the beauty Claudia was, but in my own way I was quite pretty back then, or at least he seemed to think so.
“Thank you,” I finally managed, half hoping that Richard or Father would suddenly appear, and half afraid that they would.
He moved along Rose’s side, and I stepped back involuntarily even though the horse was between us. “Don’t worry,” he murmured to Dresden Rose as he stroked her neck. “I don’t mean you any harm.” He ran a hand along her flank, looking her over with a practiced eye. “Do you get to ride Bergstroms often?”
I looked at him in disbelief. “Of course.”
“They’re supposed to be the finest horses around.”
“A lot of people think so.”
He grinned at me. “I know I shouldn’t admit this, but the best of my family’s stable can’t match the worst of old Bergstrom’s.”
“Oh, really?” I was so surprised I almost laughed. “W
ell, I suppose ‘old Bergstrom’ would be delighted to hear that.”
“I bet he already knows.” He had continued around Rose’s hindquarters and was now on my side of the stall. “My father has plans, though. He thinks he’ll catch up to Bergstrom in a generation.”
“Those must be some plans.” My voice trembled as he drew closer, and I busied myself with Rose’s mane. “Will they work?”
He shook his head. “Not a chance. His ideas are a good start, but they don’t go far enough. And you can’t get anywhere in this life without taking a few chances.”
“My father would agree.”
“No, no one will catch Bergstrom for a while yet. But someday I’m going to breed horses that will rival his. Maybe even surpass them.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise and challenge. “Do you really think you can?”
“Oh, sure. Not soon, but someday. I have some ideas.” He stepped closer and took the brush from my hand. “May I?” I nodded, and he continued Rose’s grooming. “Hard to imagine there could ever be a finer horse than you, though, isn’t it?” he murmured in Rose’s ear. She nuzzled his face.
“Her name is Dresden Rose.”
“And what’s yours?”
I paused for a moment. “Sylvia.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Sylvia. Lovely name.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m James Compson.”
I took in a breath. “One of Robert Compson’s sons?” Robert Compson raised horses in Maryland. He was my father’s nearest rival.
His smile turned wry. “The youngest of many.”
“I see.” I reached out for the brush.
He dropped the brush and took my hand in both of his. Startled, I moved as if to pull away.
“Please, don’t run off,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s taken me two days just to get up the courage to speak to you.”
“My father will be here soon.” My voice shook and I felt very strange, but I didn’t back away.
A hurt look flashed in his eyes, and he released my hand. “Do you want me to leave?”
I shook my head, and then I nodded, and then I just looked at him in dismay. I wanted him to take my hand again, and I wanted him to be gone.
“I’m sorry. This was foolish of me.” He opened the stall door and left.
By the time I finished caring for Dresden Rose, my hands had stopped shaking. By the time Father, Claudia, and Richard arrived to help me prepare for the competition, I was able to appear calm. I didn’t fool Claudia, though; she knew something had happened, but she wouldn’t press me to explain, not with Father and Richard there.
The competition began, and soon it would be my turn. I spotted my family cheering in the spectators’ seats, and I grinned as I waved back, my confidence bolstered.
Then, as I looked away from my family and into another part of the stands, my eyes met James’s. My stomach flip-flopped. His gaze was so steady and intense, and it so unsettled me, that I sawed on Rose’s reins. She whinnied in protest, jolting me back to alertness.
Then it was my turn. “Our fifth competitor,” the announcer’s voice rang out so that all could hear. “Sylvia Bergstrom.”
There was just enough time before I trotted into the ring for me to see James’s jaw drop.
“You see, he didn’t know who I was.”
“Yes, I figured that out,” Sarah managed to say through her laughter. “But when he asked for your name, why didn’t you say Sylvia Bergstrom instead of just Sylvia?”
Mrs. Compson looked abashed. “I was having too much fun at his expense, I’m afraid.” She laughed. “My goodness, how embarrassed he must have been. Can you imagine?”
“But everything worked out fine in the end, didn’t it?” Sarah teased. “I mean, you did marry him, right?”
Mrs. Compson smiled. “Yes, I did. So maybe everything will work out just fine for you, too, but I do hope you’ll be more cautious.”
“I will.”
They went downstairs to the sewing room, where Mrs. Compson helped Sarah draft her new templates. As they worked, Sarah realized that most of her anger had faded, but Matt’s criticism still stung. Was it because she knew he had been right—not just about divulging secrets but about everything? Was she subconsciously screwing up her search for a real job?
Sarah thought about it and decided that it couldn’t be true. Why would she want to do that, subconsciously or otherwise?
She concentrated on her quilting—and on figuring out a way to get Matt to apologize before she confessed that he’d been right.
Fifteen
That week Sarah and Mrs. Compson finished the second suite and started a third, working on the manor in the mornings and quilting in the afternoons. On Thursday, Sarah completed the Contrary Wife block and began another, which Mrs. Compson called the LeMoyne Star. Mrs. Compson must have liked the pattern herself, since it appeared in several of the quilts she had taken from the cedar chest.
Thursday was also the day Sarah remembered Gwen’s request. “You know that group of quilters I told you about?” she asked as she traced a figure onto the template plastic.
Mrs. Compson kept her eyes on her quilting. “No, I’ve never made their acquaintance.”
“Actually, you do know one of them, Bonnie Markham. But you know what I mean. Do you remember them?”
“How could I remember them if I’ve never met them?”
Sarah decided to start over. “Last week when I went to the Tangled Web Quilters’ meeting, I met a woman named Gwen Sullivan. She’s a professor at Waterford College.”
“How very nice for her.”
“She’s teaching a course on the history of American folk art, and she wondered if you might be willing to be a guest speaker.”
“Really.” Mrs. Compson set down her quilt hoop. “Does she want me to teach the class how to quilt or to teach them about quilt history?”
“I think she wants you to talk about quilt history and folklore and stuff.”
“If Gwen is a quilter herself, why does she need me?”
Sarah hesitated. “Well, sometimes it’s more fun for the students to listen to someone other than the professor. And you tell good stories.”
Mrs. Compson smiled. “Very well, then. You may tell your friend it would be my pleasure to speak to her class.”
“Great. Gwen will be glad to hear that.” Sarah paused. “You could come to the Tangled Web Quilters’ meeting with me tonight and tell her yourself.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m sure you’re responsible enough to carry the message.”
“Of course I am, but—”
“Then it’s settled.”
Sarah gave up.
They worked without talking for a few minutes until Mrs. Compson broke the silence with a chuckle. “So I tell good stories, do I?”
“Of course you do. It’s too bad you don’t like to tell them.”
Mrs. Compson looked astonished. “Why, what on earth do you mean?”
“Getting information out of you is like pulling teeth, or—or like setting in pieces.”
“That’s not so.”
“It is too. You started to tell me about James on Monday, and here it is Thursday already and you still haven’t explained how you ended up together. I’ve been wondering about it all week, but you haven’t said a word.”
“My, all week,” Mrs. Compson teased. “If you think that’s long, I have to wonder if you have the diligence and perseverance it takes to finish a quilt.”
“It’s not the same thing and you know it.”
“Very well, then. If only to prove that I’m not as reticent as you think.”
James avoided me for the rest of the fair that summer. I know, because I looked for him everywhere, but I saw neither hide nor hair of him the rest of the week. I supposed he must have been terribly embarrassed, and perhaps he thought I had been making fun of him by not telling him who I was. And perhaps he felt that he had
insulted me by suggesting he could one day challenge Father’s business. I wasn’t insulted, however; I just knew he was wrong. The very idea—to surpass Bergstrom Thoroughbreds.
In autumn Father was invited to teach a course in the agricultural school at your alma mater, though it was called Pennsylvania State College then. Richard begged and pleaded to be allowed to accompany him. Oh, how Richard wanted to see the world, even at that age. Father refused, saying that he would not have time to care for a young boy and that Richard could not miss school. But he refused so reluctantly—he hated to be away from his son—that Richard must have thought there was still a chance.
He came running out to the garden, where Claudia and I were having a party with some of our friends. It was a picnic of sorts, to say a sad good-bye to the summer and welcome in the new school year. One fellow was especially fond of Claudia, though he was too shy to even look her in the eye, much less speak to her. I used to tease her about him mercilessly, of course. She was not the only one who interested the boys, either. I had two young men who adored me, too, although I was indifferent to them both and had told them so. They still insisted on courting me, though, which I found highly irritating—did they think I didn’t know my own mind? Honestly. Since they were determined to pine away rather than heed my words, well, I decided to let them. I used to enjoy watching them glower at each other when I would seem to prefer one more than the other, and would pretend not to notice when they fought for the next dance or the empty seat by my side.
One of the young men was telling a joke when Richard burst into the party. “Sylvia, Sylvia,” he cried, tugging at my hand.
“What is it, darling? Are you hurt?”
“No, no.” He glared, impatient. I had forgotten that he had made me promise not to call him “darling” in front of the older boys anymore. “I figured out how to get Father to take me with him.”
I pulled him onto the gazebo seat by my side. “I thought Father already told you no.”
“But we can change his mind. If you come, too, Sylvia, you can look after me. Then Father has to say I can go.”
“But what about school?”
The Quilter's Apprentice Page 13
