Grandma’s Wedding Quilts - The Prequel
A Present Day Romance | Prequel to a Sweet and Clean Historical Western Romance Multi-Author Series
Kate Cambridge
Contents
The Prelude
About the Author
The Sweet Americana Book Club
GRANDMA’S WEDDING QUILTS
THE PREQUEL
A Sweet & Clean Prequel to the Multi-author Sweet
Americana Club Series
By Kate Cambridge
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Copyright © 2016 by Kate Cambridge
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or book reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used or embellished fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Property of Kate Cambridge, December 2016
The Prelude
There it was, that musty smell that filled Hannah Quinn with excitement. It was the same aroma that drifted off the pages of books that hadn't been opened in centuries. To her, it signaled an opportunity to time travel, a chance to obtain knowledge that might have been lost for centuries, a story waiting to be told.
Only today, it drifted from the surface of an old trunk. It wasn't the oldest thing she'd ever laid eyes on, not by far, but it was interesting. The trunk itself was quite large, and heavy. It had likely traveled across open seas along with immigrants from another country. With its faint scuff marks and worn latches, it whispered a story about being moved, and used, throughout the years. It wasn't just tucked away, at least not at first; it was an important part of someone's household, perhaps several households.
“Can I touch it?”
“Sure, Hannah, it's already been processed and ready to be opened. Just be gentle with the latches; they're so old they might break off. In light of the fact that we don’t know what’s inside, it could be the trunk that holds value.”
“I'll be careful, Sheena, ugh… Dr. Wagstaff.”
“Let’s open it, Hannah,” she sighed, peering at her assistant over the top of her glasses. “I know you can't wait.”
Hannah smiled and ran her fingers over the smooth, dusty surface of the trunk. The moment she touched it, a sense of warmth filled her and made her shiver at the same time. She had the feeling that this trunk was very loved, and that its contents would be just as sentimental. A part of her hoped it would hold some expensive antique, as the museum was under pressure to come up with funds to stay open. But her instincts and experience told another story. This was a family heirloom, something passed from parent to child for decades.
The detailed brass work and latches were exquisite, and scratches on the corners suggested it had once been stored somewhere tight. Maybe mounds of belongings had been piled around it and on top of it. Maybe in an attic, maybe in a basement, maybe in an old storage room. Now, magically, it was right in front of her, and Hannah couldn't wait to find out why.
“Do you have any information about who donated it?”
“Yes, we have the paperwork; it came with a few other things, as well. It sounded like it was a clean-out of someone's home and Malcolm believes this holds the most potential value.”
Malcolm’s track record with accuracy regarding perceived value had been wrong before, but this wasn’t the right time to bring that up. With the museum being tight on funding, there wasn’t the money to hire a collections specialist with advanced degrees and experience. And although protocol mandated that all potential donators complete intake forms for consideration at the monthly board meeting, Malcolm was known for bypassing all of that from time to time—if people were willing to sign the Deed of Gift form, transferring ownership to the museum with no regard for monetary value or tax deductions. This was one of those times.
“I wonder what's inside. Did the paperwork say?”
“No. They simply listed the trunk and a few other items on the form. Malcolm said it appeared the donor couldn’t wait to just be rid of it. I know you're excited, Hannah, but keep in mind, often linens were stored in trunks like these, at the foot of the bed. Or it could be filled with old newspapers.”
“Yes, Dr. Wagstaff,” was all she replied. But Hannah had a feeling about this one—she couldn’t let it go. She had learned over the past year of working with Dr. Wagstaff that, although brilliant, she stayed very detached from the items that were donated. Items standardly went into what Hannah fondly thought of as the “Wagstaff Hierarchy of Value”—the last of which being “Space-Filler.” Lately, most of the donations had found themselves in that category.
Hannah met Dr. Wagstaff’s eyes and she watched resignation filter through them.
“You look like you might burst if I make you wait any longer, Hannah. I do admire your enthusiasm that never seems to dampen, regardless of how many times you go through the accession process.
I feel compelled to remind you, though, that the trunk alone may be worth more than anything inside of it.”
Hannah watched as the museum director traced the latches, testing them gently, and then surveyed the hinges. “It's actually in decent shape. It may just open right up. Why don't you do the honor?”
“Really? Are you sure?” Hannah asked cautiously.
“You've been my assistant for over a year now, Hannah. I think you know how to open a trunk.” She nodded her head. “Just take it easy, open it slowly.”
“Okay,” she took a deep breath. “Thanks, Dr. Wagstaff.” Ever since Hannah had been hired at the museum, she'd worked directly under Sheena Wagstaff, Ph.D. She enjoyed unearthing her colleague’s voluminous knowledge as an experienced curator almost as much as she enjoyed learning about the antiques and artifacts that paraded through the walls of the museum. With a gentle touch, Hannah tried to ease the latches open; they resisted, as though comfortable in their current state and unwilling to budge.
With her next breath, she pried them open and lifted the lid of the trunk. It creaked ever so slowly open, and she was greeted by another scent. It was musty, thick, and peppered with perfume. “Wow, look at this, Dr. Wagstaff.” She stepped back so that she could see the multi-colored fabric inside of the trunk. “It looks like a quilt, but a unique one. I’ve not seen this pattern before.”
“Just as I suspected, a linen trunk. Not much of value in there,” the doctor’s voice lilted low, discouraged.
“Oh, but it's gorgeous! Look at the detail in all of these different patches.”
“It's beautifully stitched, that's for sure, but quilts are easy to come by, regardless of how old they are. What else does the trunk contain?”
“It looks like there's another quilt, and some household items. A teapot, some silverware, and a little wooden dog.”
“Well, it is what it is. The trunk is still a good find, with highly unusual detail.”
“I think the quilts are amazing. We should lay them out and take a closer look.”
“Sure. You can use the table Malcolm cleaned earli
er. But, Hannah, don't get too caught up in them. Let's not forget that we are searching for a way to keep this museum funded, and a couple of quilts aren't going to do that.”
“Yes, you're right. I'd just like to see the stitching, and maybe figure out when they were made.”
“We need to prioritize, Hannah. Let me know if you find anything interesting. Otherwise, I prefer that you work on the latest list we have from Malcolm and prepare to present on each item at the board meeting next week. We have an exhibit to plan, and it needs to be a success.”
Dr. Wagstaff turned to walk away, paused, and turned back, peering past Hannah into the trunk. “You know, quilts were once used as a way to record family history. Many women would sew in pieces of clothing, tablecloths—some would even weave in locks of hair from their children.”
“Really? I knew women often had to reuse fabrics in many forms, but I didn’t realize they used hair. That's a little strange; I’m not sure how I missed that detail.”
“Time and experience teach us things that often books can’t, Hannah. For some, quilting was one way to record memories at a time when many women were not permitted to learn how to read or write. The quilts were often placed on the laps of the elderly, both to keep them warm and to allow them to travel through the memories the quilt contained. Too often now, we rely on technology to store our memories. But if we are no longer lucid enough to work a computer, how will we relive our memories?”
Hannah kept her face passive; moments like these when she caught a glimpse of the human Dr. Wagstaff were few and far between.
“That's a great perspective, Doctor. I'd never looked at it quite like that. I take the tools that I use to catalog and document for granted, although part of what I love most about what I do is finding and recreating the story behind the pieces we deem valued enough to trace their past. I imagine it would be very comforting for a woman in her final years to be able to run her fingers along locks of her children’s hair, or recall the clothes that they liked to wear, or the meals shared on a particular tablecloth. This makes me even more curious about the stitching on the corner of each of these squares. I look forward to determining if they have significance.”
“Maybe they do, Hannah.” Dr. Wagstaff smiled, with a tinge of sadness in her eyes. “Just because something has little to no monetary value, doesn't mean that it's not valuable or even priceless to the one who holds it close.”
The rise of her eyebrows was involuntary, and Hannah tried to cover it with a cough. “Yes, of course, that is very true.” In the next motion, she pulled on some gloves, reached toward the trunk, and ran her hands gently over the top of the quilt. The stitches seemed strong, and even through the gloves she could feel the softness of the fabric, and the variations from the beautifully crafted patterns; it truly was exquisite. When she lifted one corner of the quilt, she was surprised by how heavy it was. More accustomed to the light and fluffy comforters that had always covered her bed, she wondered at the variety of materials that were stitched into the quilt. Some were light and thin like silk, and others were thick and a little rough. Each square was almost exactly the same size, which led her to believe that only one person created the quilt. She likely used one square as her guideline to cut out another.
What was most remarkable to her was that every single square was a different material, yet each beautifully crafted. She'd seen quilts prior to this in the process of her research that contained a single, repetitive pattern, but this quilt appeared to be designed to tell a story, rather than simply accent a space, as so many blankets do today.
On each patch of material, a design had been sewn into the cloth in the lower right corner. Each square contained a pattern with various shapes and colors. The only similarity was their approximate size. She carried the quilt over to the waiting table and spread it out across the surface. As she smoothed it down, she was enchanted by the embroidered area in the lower corner; to her, they seemed almost like hieroglyphics, an ancient language with a story to tell, yet in all likelihood, they were simply frayed from wear.
“The majority of this quilt is in remarkable condition,” Hannah said to no one in particular.
“It must have been in climate controlled environments for some time.” Dr. Wagstaff’s voice behind Hannah startled her; she was so engrossed in the quilt, she hadn’t realized she’d followed her to the table.
“Yes, it must have. What do you think these embroidered areas mean?”
“I have no idea, but that's your project, right?” Dr. Wagstaff raised an eyebrow, “I have some carbon dating to do. Let me know if you find anything of true interest.”
After she left the room, Hannah sighed. The old Dr. Wagstaff was back.
She turned back to the trunk to explore the other items. She couldn’t wait to explore the second quilt. As she lifted it out, she noticed how different it was from the first. This one had a repeating pattern. Although each square was made of a different material, many of the colors were similar and alternated to create a pleasant design. After staring at it for a few moments, she realized the design was familiar. She settled the quilt back into the trunk and walked over to the first one. As she suspected, an identical design was on one of the large squares of the first quilt.
“What are you trying to tell me?” She smiled as she ran her gloved fingertips over the quilt again. There was no question in her mind that these quilts had a story to tell, and she was going to find out exactly what that was. Although Hannah would never admit this to anyone, she often felt the life of the story behind an item even before her research began. After six years of education, internships, and now a position as assistant director in a prestigious museum, she was beginning to recognize and honor her own intuitive sense when an item held more value than what initially met the eye, and she had yet to find it fail her.
After documenting each of the items in the trunk, she requested the original paperwork from the office and sat down to review it. The donor’s name and phone number were listed, but no the address of where the items were found. She dialed the number on the form and hoped someone would pick up.
“Hello.” A woman’s voice answered, deadpan.
“Delores? Hi, my name is Hannah Quinn. I work for the Nelson-Atwell Museum where you recently donated some items.”
“Yes?” Her tone was impatient.
“I was just wondering if you could tell me a little bit about the items that you donated. The trunk contained some beautiful quilts—”
“Yes, I know about the quilts. Trust me.” She groaned.
“You do? Great! Could you tell me a little bit about their history?”
“Honestly, I don't know that much about their history. I just know that my mother refused to allow me to get rid of them. Now that she's gone, I was happy to donate them. I don't know if they're worth anything or not, but that's for you to find out, right?”
“Yes, it is. I'm curious about the corner markings on the quilts. Do you know who made the quilts?”
“I have no idea. My mother was very protective of them. But she was always a little… off.”
“She never mentioned where they might have come from? If she bought them, or if someone gave them to her?”
“No, but then she never said much to me. I left home when I was a teenager and we hadn't spoken since. Then I got a call that she was dying, so I did my duty and came back here to make final arrangements. Once she passed, I emptied the house. That trunk was the only thing that didn't go in the estate sale, so I donated it to the museum. I want nothing to do with it, those quilts, or anything that has to do with my mother.”
“I'm sorry; this must be very difficult for you. I don't mean to upset you.”
“It's all right, but I donated it for a reason. I want everything about that part of my life in the past. If you really want to know more about it, you could try contacting her sister, Audrina Bell. She is still pretty with it, as far as I know, and she might know more about the quilts.”
“Than
k you, I'll do that. I appreciate your help.”
“I understand you have a job to do, but I really don’t want to be involved with your research. Is that clear?”
“Yes, of course. I won’t bother you again.”
As she hung up the phone, Hannah wondered what could have happened between a mother and daughter that would lead to such animosity. Because she had been adopted, she often wondered about the biological connection between a mother and daughter. Though she adored and loved her own adoptive mother, she couldn't help but be curious if their own love and connection might be different or intensified somehow if they were biologically connected. Based on this conversation, it was clear that biology did not guarantee a bond.
As the day came to a close, she decided to take one last look at the quilts and resolved to try to locate Audrina Bell in the morning. When she stepped into the room where she had the quilts spread out, that scent greeted her again, only now it was peppered with the aroma of the quilts. She had yet to place exactly what it was. It seemed to have a flowery twinge, while still being rich and very familiar. She searched her memory, trying to figure out where she had smelled that in the past, but nothing came to her. She knew enough to let it go for now; her subconscious would continue to work on it, and those kinds of details often came back to her when she least expected it.
Before she even had time to consider the action, her fingertips grazed the surface of the quilt. Her fingers tingled and her heart fluttered the moment she touched the cloth. Suddenly aware that she didn't have gloves on, she knew that she should pull her hand away, the oils from her skin could permanently damage the quilt. She knew better, yet she couldn't pull away. Her fingers traveled across the stitches, and her eyes fell shut. A soft hum began to brew deep in her throat. It was a song she'd hummed many times before, but she didn’t know a single word, or where the melody even came from. As her fingertips continued along the quilt, she realized she touched each square in a certain order that seemed to correlate with the rise and fall of her humming. When the door to the processing room opened, she jolted out of her dazed state and drew her hand away.
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