A Quilt for Christmas (7 page)

Luzena fetched slippers for her mother, telling Eliza to sit by the fire and warm her feet. Missouri Ann removed the basket from Eliza's arm and began putting away the contents. Then she held up the letter. “You got another letter?” she asked. She shook her head in wonder. “I never knew anybody that got two letters.”

“It's from Will,” Eliza replied. She turned to Luzena. “The storekeeper thinks it's a valentine.”

“A what?” Missouri Ann asked, and Eliza laughed, explaining what a valentine was.

“Sometimes they have lace pasted to them and colored paper, red, I think.”

“Imagine that,” Missouri Ann said. “If I had one of them, I'd put it in a picture frame and hang it on the wall.”

“Of course, I don't know for sure that's what it is,” Eliza said.

“Let's see, Mama. Open it,” Luzena begged. But Eliza replied they would wait until after supper so that she could read it aloud.

As they ate, both Eliza and Luzena glanced at the envelope that Missouri Ann had propped up on the mantel. After they were finished with the meal, Luzena cleared the dishes and brought the envelope to her mother, saying they had waited long enough. Nodding her approval, Eliza took the envelope and stared at the writing. The postmaster had slipped it into her basket, and this was the first time Eliza had seen the writing. The letter was big and twice the weight of Will's other letters, and it had been placed in a real envelope that was sealed on the flap with red wax. Eliza turned it over and stared at the handwriting again, realizing with a start that it was not familiar. “Oh,” she said, disappointed. It had not even occurred to her that the letter might be from someone besides Will. “This is not from your father at all.” At first, she was curious. Who could have sent her a letter? Then she felt a wave of apprehension, but she shook it off. Most likely, the letter was from one of her relatives. Of course, she thought, relieved. She broke the seal with her little finger, drew out the letter, and opened it. A second letter fell onto the table, facedown. Eliza let it lie there.

“Read it, Mama,” Luzena said.

“Read it out loud,” Davy added.

“Yes,” Eliza said. She opened the folded piece of paper and stared at it. “This is dated January 7, 1865.”

“Read it,” Missouri Ann said softly.

Eliza nodded. She took a deep breath and began.

January 7, 1865

Dear Mrs. Spooner

I trust you have been informed by now of the death of your husband, William Spooner—

Eliza dropped the paper as if it were on fire and gripped the edge of the table, looking up at Davy and Luzena, who were staring at her.

“Death?” Luzena asked. Her eyes were wide, and she gripped Nance's arm so hard that the child cried out.

“Death,” Davy repeated.

Eliza put her hands over her eyes, then shook her head. Will wasn't dead, she thought. He couldn't be. Will had said he would come back. She needed him. They all needed him. He had promised he would be safe. Besides, she had received no official notification. Will's name had not been listed among the dead in the newspaper. “No, of course not. This is meant for someone else,” she said.

She was not aware that Davy rose and put his hand on her shoulder, that Luzena moved beside her and took her hand. She looked up, glancing at each of them, even Baby Nance, and said, “It's a mistake. With all the men dying in battle, it happens all the time. Will is too good a man to lose. We need him.” She paused. “Yes, it is a mistake.”

“No, Mama,” Davy said softly, the letter in his hand. “It's Papa. It says so right here. I'll read it.”

Dear Mrs. Spooner

I trust by now—

Will skipped the rest of the sentence.

His death came on the day of December 21 in the second Battle of Saltville in Virginia, and by his sacrifice and God's grace, we won the fight. He died a hero's death, in the discharge of his duty. Just before he passed on, he asked to tell you he was happy to sacrifice his life for a noble cause.

It was the same sentiment contained in Missouri Ann's letter telling her of Hugh's death, Eliza thought, and she had not believed it about Hugh then, nor Will now. Will didn't want to die. He wanted to come home. He'd never said such a thing. Someone else had died, and they'd thought it was Will. That was it.

Your name was on his lips as he breathed his last.

I had the honor of serving as Billy's superior officer and knew him right well.

Not if you call him “Billy,” Eliza thought.

There never was a better soldier or one who held his family more dear. Once, he told me after a battle where the air was so heavy with smoke you could barely see that he wished he was in a Kansas snowstorm, riding in his new sleigh.

Eliza gasped. Still, she couldn't accept the death. After all, there were other men from Kansas, other men who had sleighs.

The enclosed letter was discovered on your husband's person, and I believe he intended it be sent to you in case of his death. I have found that soldiers often write such letters before battle. I did not take the liberty of reading the letter, for I believe it may be intended for your eyes only.

Eliza reached for the letter on the table and turned it over, recognizing Will's handwriting. And then she knew. There had been no mistake. Will was dead. She started to cry and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes to stop the tears, but they kept flowing.

“Why didn't the army tell you? Why wasn't it in the paper?” Davy asked, slapping his hand against the table, but Eliza could only shake her head.

Madam, you have the condolences of the President of the United States and the citizens of this country as well as myself. You have our thanks for your husband's part in this cause of liberty. Please know his death was not in vain.

I remain your servant

Randal S. Browne

They sat there stunned for a moment, even Baby Nance, who seemed to understand that something bad had happened. She crawled into her mother's lap, as Missouri Ann reached over and took Eliza's free hand. “I'm sorry. It ain't right. That man's said it true. Will Spooner was too good to die.”

Eliza didn't hear her. Will was dead. She let the tears run down her face as she repeated it over and over to herself as if to accept the truth of it. She'd known from the day he joined the army that Will could be killed, but in her heart, she hadn't believed it possible.

“I wonder how many letters that man's had to write,” Missouri Ann said, and Eliza realized that death wasn't hers alone. How many times had Randal S. Browne penned those same words to other widows? Will's death affected everyone—Mr. Browne, herself, the children. They needed her now, just as much as she needed Will. Eliza put her arms around Davy and Luzena and held them close.

Davy cussed under his breath, muttering, “Damn Secesh,” while Luzena cried and asked who would care for them now.

“I will,” Eliza said, realizing the awful burden that had been placed on her.

“You going to read Will's letter?” Missouri Ann asked.

“What?” Eliza had forgotten the missive that was enclosed in the envelope. Now she looked at the second letter, which lay on the table, folded up to form its own envelope. She picked it up and read her name, written in the handwriting she loved.

“Open it,” Davy said.

Eliza started to unfold the paper, but then she stopped. “I couldn't. He must have had hours, maybe only minutes, to live when he wrote it. I couldn't stand to read his letter, knowing he was alive then and maybe only minutes later, he was dead. Maybe we'll read it later, but not now. I couldn't bear it.”

She sat in the chair clutching the letter, while the others cleared the table and washed the dishes. After a time, Missouri Ann put Nance to bed.

“You go to bed, too,” Missouri Ann told Davy and Luzena. “I'll sit with your ma.”

The children, tired from grief, went up the ladder to the loft and were quiet except for sobs that broke the stillness from time to time.

“You want your Bible?” Missouri Ann asked. She reached for the leather volume on the mantel, near where the letter had rested.

Eliza shook her head. Her eyes were too tired to read. Besides, what words of comfort were in the Bible that she didn't already know? What comfort could any words give her now?

“Get you on your night dress then,” Missouri Ann, said, helping Eliza to stand. “Raise up your arms.” Eliza let her friend undress her and slip the white cotton shift over her. Then Missouri Ann went to the trunk and took out Eliza's Sunshine and Rain quilt and wrapped her in it. She blew out the candles, and now, only the dying fire lit the room.

“I'll sit for a moment. You go to bed,” Eliza said, still clutching Will's letter. She sat down in the rocker, the one Will had made for her when she was expecting Davy.

Missouri Ann started to protest, but it was clear that in her sorrow, Eliza wanted to be alone. So Missouri Ann lay down on her side of the bed, and after a time, her breath slowed in sleep.

Eliza rocked back and forth in a rhythm that ought to have made her sleepy. But she was wide awake, tears silently rolling down her face. Will had been dead more than a month. She had done the milking, had fixed supper, had fed the animals and quilted with Missouri Ann, and all that time Will was dead. They had celebrated Christmas, had read his letter, and Will was dead. Each time she'd heard a horse in the lane, she had half expected the rider to be Will, home from the war, but Will was in his grave. Would she ever know where it was, or would his resting place go unmarked? He wouldn't even be buried on the farm he loved, where she could erect a stone and tend the mound of dirt over his coffin. She remembered the Christmas letter and how happy Will had been with the quilt. Was it now his shroud? Would he wear it for all eternity? Or had it been left to rot in the mud of the battlefield?

Eliza rocked a long time, thinking of Will, of herself, of the children. The fire was dead when she rose, opened the door, and looked out at the snow. It had fallen all day and been swept into white drifts by the wind. But the wind had stopped, and the snow fell straight down. Another time, she would have found the night magical, but now she could only wonder about Will far away, lying under a blanket of white. He had died in Virginia, the letter said. Eliza tried to think where that was. Did it snow in Virginia? Maybe there was rain, a hard wild rain that washed away the dirt over his grave.

Will had loved the snow, the cleanness of it, the quiet, the sense of peace it brought, had loved it even though winter meant hard chores. Eliza was not aware of the cold as she stepped outside, one hand clutching Will's letter, the other raised to catch the falling flakes. They covered her hand and the white night dress as she stepped off the porch. She remembered how Will had looked when he came in from the barn in a snowstorm, the pale flakes on his dark hair, his face cold as he hugged her against him, savoring her warmth. She remembered he'd once tied a rope between the house and the barn so that he wouldn't get lost in a blizzard. Eliza thought about death in that pure white cold, a cleansing death. She would simply go to sleep and never wake. She remembered something else, too.

Eliza moved into the yard and raised her head, as if she were looking up at Will. Then slowly, she took a step forward, raised her arms, and began to dance.

 

CHAPTER FOUR

March 31, 1865

“My, such pretty pieces and perfectly put together,” Ettie Espy observed, running her hand over the quilt top. The five women were seated around Eliza's quilt frame, stitching on a top that she and Missouri Ann had pieced during the winter.

Missouri Ann had found the cut out pieces after they learned of Will's death and taken them out and given them to Eliza, saying quilting would help her with her sorrow. Eliza had worked on her sewing as if by rote, stitching together the pieces that Missouri Ann laid out for her. Her tears had dropped onto the fabric strips, as she realized Will would never sleep under one of her quilts again. She used the half-finished top to wipe her eyes, then Missouri Ann took it from her and ironed the damp places between her fingers. Eliza wondered how Missouri Ann could be so much more accepting of her own husband's death, but maybe the girl was just grateful to be away from the Starks.

Although it was only March, the women had moved the frame outside so that they could sit in the shade of the apple trees that were budding in the orchard. The light was better there, and they could pretend to smell blossoms, a scent that meant spring after a long and lonely winter. Not that the women weren't aware that it was spring.

In fact, they should have been planting and tending to other duties on their farms, but they had taken a break for a day. The five called themselves “war widows,” although only Eliza, Missouri Ann, and Mercy Eagles had lost their men. The husbands of the other two were off fighting the war, and the women had been left behind to care for farms and children. Farming was hard enough with the men at home, but it was time-consuming, backbreaking work for women with only their children to help them—and all their normal household duties to attend to. Nonetheless, they had plowed and planted, sometimes joining forces to help each other, for there were no men to hire and no money to pay them even if they could be found. The women should have been attending to farm duties that day, but they had decided just after Christmas that they would meet one day each month, no matter how wasteful of their time it might seem, to share their lives over the quilt frame. At first, she had refused to attend the quiltings, saying she was in mourning, but the others had insisted. Now, Eliza was grateful her friends were there, would make her put away her sorrow for a few hours. Because of them, she might go five or ten minutes without thinking about Will.