Bitter Harvest (21 page)

“I’d say so. As I mentioned, there are various types of sampler. The family register form is obvious—it lists the births and deaths within one family, and sometimes, but not always, marriages. You see a lot of them that someone has started with all the births, but they never get around to filling in the rest of the dates. The top section of this sampler is a family register, but it looks as though they all died out—well, except for the young woman who made it. So this sampler is kind of a hybrid—it combines the family register with the mourning imagery. Poor Violet—she must be that sole mourner by the tombstone there. Do you know anything about the family?”

“I only found it a few days ago,” Meg admitted. “Gail just filled me in on a lot of it. It’s likely that Violet’s mother came from Granford here, and then moved to Vermont, and that’s where Violet and presumably the other children were born. Those may have been from a second marriage.”

“You know, the mourning component here is really interesting. There are a lot of examples of mourning samplers, but in general the iconography is pretty standardized.” When Meg looked puzzled, Janice said, “The symbolism. You’re probably familiar with it without even knowing it—the tombstone or a large monument with an urn on top, combined with one or more weeping willow trees, and varying numbers of mourners drooping all over each other. I’ve only seen a few that incorporate individual tombstones, and this one is even more intriguing because these appear to be actual stones, rather than just a row of generic ones—you can see they’re all different.”

“I read about the symbolism online, but I hadn’t realized that tombstones were so rare in samplers. You think I could actually find the stones?” Meg asked.

“It’s possible, if you know where to look. Now, as for the rest . . .” Janice walked around the sampler again, then pulled out a magnifier. “This is really unusually fine. Incredible detail. If you look closely, you can even see apples on the trees, although they’ve faded a bit.”

“I thought that’s what they were! Could it have been made based on my house? It’s a pretty standard Colonial, but the profile of that side addition looks right, and I do have an orchard near the house.”

Janice shrugged. “Maybe. Remember, a lot of Colonial houses follow the same pattern, and back around 1800 everyone had an orchard, so that’s not significant. But I will say that a lot of samplers incorporate houses, and often we can link the image to a particular family home, so I wouldn’t rule it out. Now, take a look at the border here.” She beckoned Meg closer. “This is unusually delicate and precise—see the leaves and the stamens? On the other hand, some of these flowers look almost geometric rather than organic. Of course, often these are just standardized motifs, rather than representations of anything specific. Still, it’s unusual. I wonder if we could match it up with any local plants . . . looks like a vine with four-petaled flowers, and they’re two different colors, maybe pink and white. I could ask a botanist who specializes in regional plants.”

“You mean, that might tell you
where
it was made?” Meg asked.

“It’s a long shot, but you never know.”

Nicky came out from the kitchen. “Meg, you’re still here! You want more coffee or something?”

Meg glanced at Janice, who shook her head. “I think we’re good. This is Janice Fayerweather—Gail asked her to look at this sampler that I found in my house. Janice, this is Nicky Czarnecki, the chef-owner here.” Meg pointed to the adjoining table. “Check this out, Nicky.”

Nicky walked over to the other table and leaned over it to peer at the sampler. “Nice. Hey, is this your house, Meg? It has a building attached, that could be Seth’s workshop.”

“I’ve wondered about that, but it’s hard to prove.”

Nicky straightened up. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Was lunch all right?”

“Terrific, as usual,” Meg replied. “Thanks. See you later!”

After Nicky had disappeared back into the kitchen, Janice picked up where they had left off. “As I said, some schools can be identified based on their style, but this one’s not familiar to me. I can do a little more digging, if you like—I don’t claim to know everything!” She laughed. “What do you plan to do with it?”

“I haven’t really thought that far. I was just trying to figure out why it ended up in my house. Should I be worried about conservation?”

“Always,” Janice said, then smiled. “You were lucky—it was protected from direct sunlight and damp, both of which can have devastating effects. So it’s in good shape, all things considered. That’s a start. There are a few spots on it that could use some attention, and I’d recommend a professional cleaning. Note that I say ‘professional’—don’t you dare try to wash it yourself, or I’ll come back and strangle you with whatever’s left of it.”

Meg laughed in return. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of it. What about longer-term storage?”

Janice sighed. “I know most people want to slap it in a frame and hang it on the wall, but I wish you wouldn’t. If you want it to last, it should be stored in an acid-free box with acid-free paper, and kept in a dry place. OSV’d be happy to take it off your hands,” she finished wistfully.

Did she want it to be available to the public, in a collection like Old Sturbridge Village’s? Meg wasn’t sure. At the same time, it seemed selfish to keep it. But she didn’t have to decide immediately, and she wanted to know if it had any family connections before she made any decision. “I’ll keep that in mind. If I were to sell it, what do you think it would be worth?”

Janice looked disappointed. “I hate to talk about money. It depends on the condition and quality of the piece, the reputation of the auctioneers, if you go that route, the timing of the sale, the general economy, what’s hot that week, and probably sunspots, for all I know. And if you know the history of the maker, it helps. The best I can tell you is, probably five figures, but low or high, I just don’t know.”

“Wow, that’s more than I expected. I know that on
Antiques Roadshow
the owner always says something dumb like, ‘It’s a family piece—I wouldn’t think of selling it.’ I always thought that sounded fake—I figured the minute the cameras were off they asked the appraiser what he would offer. I’m just kind of intrigued by it.”

Janice gave the sampler one last longing look. “Well, if you do decide to sell, will you at least let me know? It’s a real beauty, and I’d love to have it for our collection. Why don’t you come by the Village sometime and I can show you some of our other samplers? It might give you a better appreciation of what you have here.”

“I’d love to. If you could recommend some good books or other resources on the subject, too, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure, no problem. Can I e-mail the references? And I’ve got the photos of it that Gail sent on, so I’ll keep looking, too. I must say those photos didn’t convey the quality of the work. It’s a delightful piece, and I envy you. Well, I need to get back. Thanks for letting me see it.”

“Thanks for making the trip, Janice. You’ve given me a lot of information in a very short time, and I appreciate it.”

“Thanks for the opportunity to see it, and for the lunch! I’ll be in touch.” Janice gathered up her things and headed for the door. Meg took another look at the sampler, seeing it with fresh eyes. She’d known it contained a lot of detail, but the messages of “mourning” and “family” came through loud and clear. With some reluctance she carefully rolled it up in its towel. If it had survived in such good shape for two hundred years, she’d never forgive herself if she allowed any harm to come to it now.

When she arrived home after lunch she found Seth standing in the driveway talking to John Taylor.

“Where’ve you been?” Seth asked, his tone worried, when Meg approached them.

“I had lunch with Gail’s friend from Sturbridge Village—she told me great stuff about the sampler. I’m sorry, was I supposed to report to you? Bree knew where I was going.” She stopped suddenly and thought about what she had just said: she sounded rude. Maybe she was more distracted by recent events than she wanted to admit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I didn’t stop to think that you might worry.”

“And I’m sorry if I jumped on you—Bree wasn’t here when I arrived, and I didn’t know where to find you.”

“I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking.” She turned to John, who looked embarrassed by the exchange he had just witnessed. “Hi, John. Thanks for plowing the driveway. I just met your mother, at Gran’s.”

“Yeah, she’s been working days there since it opened. Nice place. Seth, I’d better get going. Let me know when you need me. Nice to see you again, Meg.” He climbed into his ageing pickup and pulled out onto the road.

Meg turned back to Seth. “You actually have jobs at the moment? The town or your business?”

“I do. That blizzard, combined with the melting that’s going on now, has revealed a whole lot of structural problems to people. If we get a wet spring, I’ll bet there’s a run on French drain installations.”

“If you say so,” Meg said dubiously. “Is it supposed to be wet?”

“How should I know? You’re the farmer—you tell me.”

“Ha. You’d do better to ask Bree. I’m going to go inside and try to write down what I learned today about the sampler, and see if I can find a trail of my own there. Gail’s been a tremendous help—she gave me some great leads on how to find out who the people in it are.”

“Is there a Warren connection?”

“It looks like it, but I’ve got some more work to do. And I do want to keep Gail happy—why do you think I volunteered to do that cataloguing for the Historical Society? I can see that there isn’t time enough in the world to upload to the Web all the information that exists, stuffed in boxes in old societies like the one here. Which means we see the barest outlines of our history, and a few tantalizing hints, but not all the wonderful details that make it human, and more real to us. Gail’s lucky to have access to some of that for Granford. When you have time, I’ll tell you about the sampler and how it connects to the Warrens here.”

“Over dinner?” Seth looked hopeful.

“Sure, no problem. After I get done on the computer.”

Meg threw together a hurried dinner. Seth’s greeting earlier had startled her: she didn’t expect to have to account for her whereabouts, even to him. Nor did she like the feeling that she was looking over her shoulder all the time, waiting for the next incident, not knowing what it would be or what direction it would come from. And it was absurd: she’d moved from a big city where violence was an expected part of daily life, to the peaceful countryside where she had mistakenly thought she was safe.

Bree called to say she was still at Michael’s and planned to stay the night. While dinner was simmering, Meg seized a moment to check maps on the computer. Pittsford, Vermont, wasn’t that far away. According to the town’s Web site, there was a Pittsford historical society; when she clicked on that link, she got the impression that it was small, and there was little said about local records. Worse, the Web site said it was closed between November and April, and open only limited hours the rest of the year. Meg sighed. Some part of the answer lay in Pittsford, but she wasn’t sure how she could find it, or when.

She spent some time online trolling for historic information about Pittsford, and she was still mulling over her options at dinner, when Seth broke into her thoughts. “Earth to Meg?”

“Huh? Oh, did you say something?”

“I just wanted to know if you were still in there. No aftereffects from your night in the barn?”

“Not even a sniffle. I was thinking about the information Gail gave me today, and trying to figure out how I can see if there’s any relevant information in Pittsford, Vermont.”

“You’ve lost me,” Seth said.

“Oh, sorry—I haven’t told you about it yet. At lunch today Gail told me that there was a mention in the Granford records that a bunch of the local Warrens packed up and headed for Vermont as a group. Since one of them was a daughter, it’s possible she married a Cox up there. And if he died after Violet was born, mom could have remarried. At least, that’s the most likely scenario I can think of. Then we know from the sampler that they died in 1795, and there’s another town record that says that Eli Warren took her in—and then asked the town for money. So that puts her in Granford about the time she made the sampler. Anyway, that reinforces the idea of the Warren connection, or why else would he have done that?”

“Makes sense to me. And there’s more you want to know?”

“Well, actually, yes. So let’s say that Violet made the sampler in honor of her mother’s second family—the children listed must have been half brothers and sisters. And then everyone in the family died, and poor Violet got shipped down here to her Uncle Eli, which is how the sampler ended up in this house, most likely. We can prove that she was here. But she must have had uncles in Pittsford—why did they send her away?”

“And you think you can find an answer to this?”

Meg laughed ruefully. “Maybe that’s too much to ask. But at the very least I could check the vital records in Pittsford—which aren’t online. Shoot, I don’t know what to do. I want an answer
now
, but it’s a long drive, and the historical society there won’t even be open until spring, and there’s no guarantee they’ll have anything useful anyway. But by spring I won’t have time to do this kind of research.”

“Is there a library in Pittsford?”

“Yes, of course. I was looking at the town’s Web site—you know, it looks a whole lot like Granford.”

“Is the library open on Saturday? If so, we could take a road trip tomorrow.”

Meg grinned at him. “Let me check!” She went back to her computer and pulled up the town’s Web site and then the library’s, which mentioned a local history collection. Miracle of miracles, the library was in fact open on Saturdays—that would be tomorrow. Maybe there wasn’t much else to do in Vermont in winter than read, unless you were into skiing? When she returned to the kitchen, Seth had half finished washing the dishes. “You don’t have to do that. And, yes, the library is open tomorrow, noon to four. We can be there by lunch. But don’t you have other things you need to do?”