Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt (16 page)

He wished me the same, and I thought he might say more, but behind us, someone cleared her throat. Dorothea stood in the doorway, watching us. “I thought I might send you home with some of my dried apples, Gerda, if you think you might use them?”

“Of course I would,” said I. “Thank you.”

She nodded and passed between us on her way to the root cellar, glancing at her brother as she went, but Jonathan did not look at her, and instead excused himself to help his parents prepare for the trip home.

By the time Dorothea returned, I had composed myself and had hidden Jonathan’s gift in my pocket. We both remarked on how delightful the evening had been, but then Dorothea fell
silent, her expression troubled. “Gerda,” said she at last, “I do not wish to speak out of turn, but . . .”

“But?” prompted I, when she hesitated.

“I hope you are not setting your cap for my brother.”

The colloquialism puzzled me. “Setting my cap?”

“She means, do you think to marry him,” said Anneke, who had entered the room in time to hear the exchange.

“I don’t mean any offense,” said Dorothea.

“Of course not,” said I. “I assure you, I don’t plan to set my hat for anyone.”

“You needn’t worry about my sister,” said Anneke, grinning naughtily. “She’s often said she will never trade her freedom for the bondage of matrimony. She does not wish to become old married women like us, and subject to the whims of a man.”

Dorothea’s eyebrows rose.

“I did not say it in quite that manner,” said I with haste, embarrassed. “Anneke misrepresents me.”

“Your words, perhaps, but not the sentiment,” said Anneke.

“Sometimes the yoke is not so difficult to bear,” said Dorothea with a small laugh. “It depends upon the husband.”

I wondered, did Dorothea think Jonathan would make a poor husband? Or did she think I would make him a poor wife? I was so conflicted by her unexpected remarks and Anneke’s teasing that I could not bring myself to give voice to my questions. Dorothea and I were friends. If I had indeed set my cap for Jonathan, why would Dorothea find this objectionable?

Suddenly I was relieved that we were leaving. The mother-of-pearl comb felt heavy and conspicuous in my pocket, even when concealed beneath my outer wraps. I couldn’t meet Jonathan’s eye as Hans, Anneke, and I bid our friends good-bye and climbed into our wagon. I buried my chin in my scarf to ward off the cold and said not a word as Hans drove the horses back
to Elm Creek Farm, and when we reached home, I hid the comb in my hope chest before Anneke could see it.

When at last I showed it to her, a few days later, she squealed with delight and commanded me to tell her every word Jonathan and I had exchanged. This I accomplished soon enough, as we had had little time alone. Dorothea’s interruption had been so troubling that I had forgotten the pleasure Jonathan’s gift had first brought me, but Anneke’s enthusiasm soon rekindled it. That he had given me any gift was a promising sign, she insisted, but such a beautiful ornament surely indicated he wished to increase our intimacy.

As always, I feigned disinterest. “Jonathan is my friend’s brother, and so naturally he is my friend as well, but you mustn’t imagine he is anything more.”

“Hans and I are his friends, too, but he didn’t give us Christmas presents.”

This I could not deny, but I did my best to assure her I had no interest in Jonathan beyond friendship.

You may wonder why I insisted on this deception, which was in all likelihood becoming transparent, or perhaps you will have guessed the reason to be my disappointment with E. I was determined not to become an object of pity in my new country as I had in my homeland. If my heart were to be broken a second time, my one consolation would be that no one save myself would know it. True, I cherished our conversations, looked forward to our meetings, and noted with pleasure the signs of Jonathan’s increasing affection for me, but until he made some declaration of his intentions, I must assume he had none.

The New Year came, followed by a series of January snowstorms that for several days kept us confined to Elm Creek Farm. Hans had his endless chores and Anneke her sewing for Mrs. Engle, but I longed for the companionship of the Certain Faction. When Anneke complained at my stalking about the cabin, I took
up my sewing basket and worked on my Shoo-Fly quilt to appease her. To my surprise, the hours passed quite pleasantly as Anneke and I sewed side by side in the firelight. She told me stories of her childhood in Berlin, and I told her about my family’s life in Baden-Baden. By the time the storms broke, I had nearly finished enough blocks for a quilt top, and Anneke and I had deepened our understanding of each other. I reflected then that I had known my younger sisters all my life, and I missed and loved them dearly, but Anneke and I had shared hardship and hope in a strange land, and that bound us closer than any ties of blood or affection ever could.

In later years, only by recollecting the closeness we shared in those days was I able to set aside my hatred and remember that once I had loved Anneke. If not for my resolution to try to love her again, I might have left my family forever rather than share a home with her.

But I must remember to record this history in the order in which it transpired, or it will make no sense at all to my reader, even if by your day, these events are well known to every Bergstrom.

Our first visitor after the weather cleared was Jonathan. He met Hans in the barn, to discuss a horse he intended to buy, but then he came to the cabin. I was pleased to see him, and glad that I had worn the hair comb; though I had intended to save it for special occasions, seeing the sun again had made the day special enough. He accepted the tea I offered him and joined me and Anneke by the fire, but his attempts at conversation were un-characteristically awkward.

Eventually Anneke made some excuse and left us, and soon we heard her sewing machine whirring as she worked the treadle with her foot. “I’m glad you ventured out to see us,” said I. “I wished to return the book you lent me. It was quite good. Thank you.”

He nodded and took it absently. “Gerda, I must speak with you on a difficult subject.”

In the other room, the treadle ceased abruptly. “Not until I give you your Christmas gift,” said I, quickly. My heart pounding, anticipating his words, I retrieved and presented his gift. “It’s belated, but I think you will like it all the same.”

Slowly he unwrapped the book and read the title. “Franklin’s
Autobiography
.”

“You’ve often said you admired him, and you enjoyed the French version,” said I, wondering why he did not smile. “This is the English version his grandson published later, with additions to the manuscript.”

“Thank you,” said he. “I’m sure I will enjoy it.” Only then did he look up and meet my eye, but just as quickly his gaze alighted on the ornament in my hair. “You’re wearing the comb.” Involuntarily I touched it, my cheeks growing warm, and I nodded. “It suits you.”

“It suits my hair,” said I, attempting a laugh. “It keeps it out of my eyes, which is a great benefit when one is trying to sew, I assure you.”

“Or to dance.” His voice grew distant. “At the Harvest Dance, that lock above your ear kept slipping out of place and tumbling across your cheek.”

“I did not think you had noticed,” said I, nervous, and trying once again to tease him out of his serious mood. “As I recall it, we saw little of each other that night. You danced with your sister and with Charlotte Claverton as much as with me.”

“Yes.” He looked up at me gravely. “I suppose I did.” Then he took a deep breath and stood. “Gerda, there are things I must tell you, but perhaps you have guessed them already.”

I shook my head.

At that moment, someone pounded on the door. “Dr. Granger,” a young voice shouted. “Dr. Granger, are you there?”

Alarmed, I flew to the door and opened it. In tumbled a boy of about thirteen, gasping for breath, his face red and frightened.

“Daniel?” said Jonathan.

“Mrs. Granger said you would be here,” said the boy, panting so hard I could barely make out his words. “It’s my pa. He’s been shot.”

Jonathan was already throwing on his coat. “Where is he?”

“Home. Susanna’s looking after him.”

Susanna, I was to learn later, was the boy’s ten-year-old sister. Daniel’s mother had died two years before while giving birth to his youngest brother.

“When did this happen?” asked Jonathan, as he followed the boy out the door.

“Same day the storms hit. He was out in the barn—” Daniel swallowed hard. “They hit him in the stomach. He was bleeding real bad, but I couldn’t get to your place any sooner. The snow—”

“It’s all right, son. We’ll get back to your place in no time.” Suddenly Jonathan looked at me. “There’s no time to stop for Dorothea—”

“I’ll come.” Quickly I threw on my wraps, my mind racing. The same day the storms hit, Daniel had said, which meant his father had been suffering for four days.

Anneke, who had returned to the room at the pounding upon the door, fled to the barn, where Hans saddled a horse for me and one for Daniel, whose mare was spent from the long run first to the Granger farm and then to ours. In minutes we were on our way.

As we rode, Daniel gasped out the story. When the storm worsened, his father had gone to the barn to check on the live-stock, and discovered two men engaged in stealing his horses. Unarmed, Daniel’s father attempted to flee, but before he could escape, one of the pair fired upon him.

“Did your father recognize the men?” asked Jonathan.

“He said he didn’t, but I know who they were,” said the boy, his voice full of hate and exhaustion. “Only one kind of people shoot a man for his horses then run off without the horses.”

But the road and our pace prevented him from saying more.

We raced on, north through the woods to the Wilbur farm, which lay to the northwest of Creek’s Crossing. At last we arrived, expecting the worst, only to find a familiar wagon in the yard. Jonathan’s parents had come.

His mother met us at the door, relieved to see her son but still anxious. Her husband, she reported as Jonathan hurried inside, was upstairs, distracting the other children. Nodding, Jonathan requested soap and two basins of water, which his mother quickly made ready. “Wash your hands,” he instructed me, and did so himself before racing to his patient’s side.

I obeyed, then quickly joined him in the other room. Mr. Wilbur lay on a bed, eyes closed and pale, a blood-soaked dressing covering his abdomen. He moaned in pain as Jonathan lifted the bandage to inspect the wound. I glimpsed raw, seeping flesh and felt my head grow light, but Mrs. Granger held me steady and whispered that I should not think of what I saw, but must steel myself and provide what assistance Jonathan required of me.

I gulped air, nodded, and followed Mrs. Granger to the bedside, where we helped Jonathan as he fought to preserve Mr. Wilbur’s life. My memory is a blur of blood and flesh, but I know I followed Jonathan’s instructions automatically, rapidly and without thinking, numb and frightened. I had cared for ailing relatives, I had assisted in childbirth, but never had I witnessed a struggle to repair so great a wrong done to the human body, and my mind was numb with disbelief that any man could knowingly inflict such agony on another.

It seemed hours until Jonathan stepped away from the bed,
exhausted, and said that he had done all he could. He withdrew to wash himself and rest, while his mother and I tried to make Mr. Wilbur more comfortable by changing his soiled bed linens. Mr. Wilbur little noticed our efforts, as he had long ago fallen unconscious from the pain.

Mrs. Granger offered to watch by his bedside. I thought then of the children whom I had not yet seen, and since I could do nothing else, I went to the kitchen to prepare them something to eat.

Jonathan was in the kitchen, slumped in a chair, his head in his hands.

“You saved his life,” said I, quietly, as I scrubbed my hands clean.

“I did nothing of the sort.” His voice was oddly emotionless. “I came too late.”

“He’s alive. We’ll care for him until he recovers.”

“No. He’s lost too much blood. The bullet remained in him too long. The wound was not closed, nor was it covered well enough to prevent infection. He will not live out the week.”

I could not bear to think of those children left without their only remaining parent. “He has survived four days already. He may make it.”

Jonathan did not reply. I knew he disbelieved me but was either too tired or too kind to contradict.

When the meal was ready, Mr. Granger brought the children downstairs to eat. They wanted to see their father, but Jonathan told them he was sleeping, and they must be good little children and let him rest. They ate somberly, even the youngest, still just a baby. Jonathan beckoned to his father, and quietly they slipped outside to the barn, where I imagined them looking over the scene of the terrible act.

Later, I put the three youngest children to bed and returned downstairs to find Jonathan gently asking Daniel to tell them all
he remembered about the two men. Daniel repeated the story, adding little to what he had told us earlier, but I listened intently to each detail, certain he would confirm what I had already decided: The two men must have been the two slave catchers who had visited Elm Creek Farm the previous autumn. The greatest evil I had ever heard of and the greatest evil I had ever seen had become intermingled in my mind, so that I could not picture the crime without seeing those two slave catchers in the place of the horse thieves.

I waited for Daniel to provide the details that would prove my convictions true, but once more he said although he had run outside at the sound of the gunshot, he had glimpsed only the men’s backs as they rode off, heading west, away from Creek’s Crossing.

“Did your father have any enemies?” asked Mr. Granger.

“Yes,” said Daniel venomously. “Those g——Abolitionists.”

Shocked, I looked to Jonathan, who gave me the barest shake of his head to warn me to be silent. “Why would Abolitionists wish to kill your father?” asked Jonathan.