Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt (2 page)

When her sister, Claudia, died childless at the age of seventy-seven, Sylvia Bergstrom Compson became the last living descendant of Hans and Anneke Bergstrom and the sole heir to what remained of their fortune. Or so she had thought. She had certainly searched long and hard enough for someone else who could assume responsibility of Elm Creek Manor, for as difficult as it was to believe now, at the time she had thought the estate in rural central Pennsylvania too full of unhappy memories to become her home again. Her lawyer had told her she was the sole heir, an opinion corroborated by her private detective.

Now she wondered if they had overlooked something, a familial connection lost to memory but documented in a thread-bare antique quilt.

She had never seen the quilt before; that much she knew to be true. She saw it for the first time after a speaking engagement for the Silver Lake Quilters’ Guild in South Carolina. One woman had stayed behind to help Sylvia and her companion, Andrew Cooper, pack up Sylvia’s lecture materials. As the three folded
Sylvia’s quilts and placed her slides carefully into boxes, the woman introduced herself as Margaret Alden and said that they had met before, for she was a former camper.

“Of course I remember you,” Sylvia declared, but after a skeptical look from Andrew, she confessed otherwise. Margaret laughed and said she understood completely. So many quilters attended Elm Creek Quilt Camp each year that it was impossible to remember every one, although Sylvia felt that she ought to at least try. The campers were, after all, guests in her own home.

They chatted about quilt camp as they carried Sylvia’s lecture materials to Andrew’s motor home, but even after Sylvia thanked her for the help, Margaret lingered. “If you could spare me another few minutes,” she said, “I’d like to show you a quilt. It’s been in my family for generations, but I think it might have some connection to Elm Creek Manor.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Sylvia. “What sort of connection?”

“That’s what I hoped you might know.”

Andrew and Sylvia were eager to begin the first leg of their long drive back to central Pennsylvania, but Sylvia rarely passed up the opportunity to see a quilt, and certainly couldn’t resist seeing one so intriguingly described. Margaret hurried to her car and returned carrying a bundle wrapped in a cotton bedsheet. With Sylvia’s assistance, she unfolded it to reveal a quilt—or rather, what remained of one.

The pattern caught Sylvia’s eye first: Birds in the Air blocks, each a square divided along the diagonal, a solid right triangle of medium or dark fabric on one side, three small right triangles surrounded by lighter background fabrics on the other. The blocks were arranged on point so that all the right angles of the triangles, large and small, pointed in the same direction. The fabrics themselves seemed to be primarily muslins and wools, so faded and worn that Sylvia could only guess their original colors. Water stains and deterioration suggested age as well as rough
handling, as did the muted colors of the once bright dyes and the worn binding, through which the cotton batting was visible. Fine stipple quilting held the three layers together—where they
were
still held together. Elsewhere, the thread had been removed or torn out by accident, and the middle batting layer it should have held in place was long gone.

Only a reluctance to appear hypocritical prevented Sylvia from scolding Margaret for risking further damage to the quilt by bringing it to the quilt guild meeting, for Sylvia was very glad to see it. “It’s lovely, dear.” She bent closer and peered through her bifocals at the quilting stitches. There was something unusual about them, something she couldn’t yet place.

“Lovely?” Margaret laughed. “Most people look at it and say, “‘Hmm. Interesting.’”

“You can tell Sylvia’s a true quilter,” said Andrew. “She never fails to see through the wear and tear and find the beauty.”

“True beauty stands the test of time,” said Sylvia, straightening. “Although I must say it’s a pity its previous owners did not take better care of it.”

“I know,” said Margaret apologetically. “But my mother says it was just one of many quilts her grandmother had around the house. They didn’t realize they were sleeping under a family heirloom.”

“Of course not. I’m not faulting you or your ancestors. I’m not one of those who believes quilts should be showpieces kept safely away from anyone’s bed.” Sylvia returned her gaze to the quilt. “It’s a simple pattern, pieced from scraps. It wasn’t intended as the family’s best quilt. I’d say by using it so well, your family was acting well within the quiltmaker’s wishes.”

Margaret smiled, pleased. Then Andrew caught Sylvia’s eye, and she was suddenly aware of how her lecture had wearied her and how long they planned to drive before stopping for the night. She couldn’t imagine what possible connection the quilt
could have to Elm Creek Manor, unless Margaret hoped Sylvia would buy it and display it there. Briskly, she said, “Now, were you looking for an appraisal of the quilt or an estimate of its age? If so, I’m afraid I can’t help you. I could place it in the mid-to late nineteenth century, but you’ll need to consult a textiles expert for a more precise answer. As for what it’s worth in terms of dollars and cents—”

“Oh, I could never sell it,” said Margaret, shocked.

“I’m pleased to hear that.” Sylvia wished all families would show such appreciation for the heirloom quilts their foremothers had so lovingly made. “Then tell me, what did you mean by a connection between this quilt and my home?”

Margaret turned the quilt so that only the solid muslin backing was visible. “When you look at the quilting stitches, what do you see?”

Pursing her lips, Sylvia carefully scrutinized the quilt. Without the distraction of color and pattern, the stitches were more clearly visible. “The stippling pattern isn’t consistent,” she said. “Some of the stitches are long, others quite small, and the small ones seem to be grouped together.”

Margaret’s nod told Sylvia she had responded just as the younger woman had hoped. “When I told my mother I had attended quilt camp at Elm Creek Manor, she told me that she had an old family quilt her grandmother had called the Elm Creek Quilt.”

Sylvia looked up in surprise. “Did she, indeed?”

“At first I thought its name came from the quilting pattern used in the border. See the elm leaf motif, and how these wavy lines look like running water?”

“I suppose.” Sylvia saw the leaves now that they had been pointed out, but in her opinion, the wavy lines resembled a common cable pattern more than a creek.

“It had another name, too. The Runaway Quilt.”

“Runaway?” Andrew chuckled. “I’ve heard of quilters getting carried away with their work, but I didn’t know a quilt could actually run away.”

“Perhaps the quilt turned out much larger than its maker had intended,” said Sylvia. “Perhaps she felt it ran on and on, with a life of its own.”

“Maybe, but my mother says it was most often called the Elm Creek Quilt,” said Margaret hastily.

Sylvia nodded and exchanged an amused glance with Andrew. Margaret seemed most eager to prove her point, but she had said nothing yet to persuade Sylvia.

“Now look at these designs.” Margaret pointed out groups of stitches that she said resembled, in turn, a tobacco leaf, a star, a mountain pass, a group of horses—

“And these,” said Margaret, watching Sylvia expectantly, “form a picture of Elm Creek Manor.”

Sylvia could no longer nod politely at the woman’s wild imaginings. “I’m sorry, dear. I just don’t see it.”

“Remember the quilter was working from the other side,” said Andrew, more mindful of Margaret’s feelings than Sylvia had been. “The designs would be in reverse.”

Sylvia carefully unfurled the quilt before the motor home’s full-length mirror and studied one small section near the top. To her amazement, the reflection revealed a perfect outline of a pass between several low mountains.

She stared at the quilt, speechless. “My goodness,” she finally managed. “I must admit, that bears a striking resemblance to the pass into the Elm Creek Valley.” She held up another section. “This could indeed be the west wing of Elm Creek Manor.”

“You told us at camp that the west wing predates the rest of your home,” said Margaret.

“It would have been the only part standing at the time this quilt was made.” Sylvia traced the design with a fingertip. “The original entrance is in the proper place.”

“So it’s a side view now,” said Andrew. “But back then—”

“This would have been the front view of the house.” Sylvia shook her head, is if to clear it of nonsense. “I admit I’m tempted to believe there’s some connection, but I’m afraid it’s all a bit too fanciful for me. Many houses share a similar design, and elm trees and creeks are hardly exclusive to my family’s estate . . .”

Her voice trailed off in disbelief.

Not far from the image of Elm Creek Manor appeared the outline of another building, one so unique and remarkable that there could be no mistaking it: a two-story barn, partially concealed by the slope of the hill into which it was built, exact in proportion and scale to the barn on the grounds of Sylvia’s estate.

Andrew photographed the quilt, front and back, with close-ups of the quilted images, while Sylvia recorded Margaret’s memories. Margaret surmised, based upon family stories, that her grandmother’s grandmother had sewn the quilt, but the five years Margaret had spent researching her family’s genealogy had turned up little information from that era, since many important documents had been destroyed during the Civil War. Then Margaret added, almost as an aside, “If my grandmother’s grand-mother didn’t make the quilt, I suppose one of her slaves could have.”

“Her slaves?” echoed Sylvia. “Goodness. Your family owned slaves?”

“Yes,” said Margaret, “but you don’t have to look at me like that. I never owned any.”

“My apologies, dear. I didn’t mean to be rude.” Sylvia composed herself. Of course, she had probably met the descendants
of slave owners before, just as she had certainly met the descendants of slaves. It was just unexpected to hear someone admit to one’s ancestors’ moral failings with such nonchalance, especially since Sylvia’s family had treated their forebears with respect bordering on reverence.

“It seems to me, the person who made this quilt must have seen Elm Creek Manor,” said Margaret.

“Could be she was recording memories of a visit,” said Andrew.

“I suppose there’s no way to know for certain.” Sylvia gazed at the sections of the quilt where the thread had been removed. What patterns would they have found within those stitches?

“Sylvia,” asked Margaret. “Did any of your ancestors leave the family estate and move South?”

“Do you mean to say you think our families might be related?”

“I think it’s possible. I had hoped your family records would be more complete than mine.”

“I suppose it’s not entirely unlikely. My cousin Elizabeth left Elm Creek Manor when I was a young girl, but she and her husband went to California . . .”

“Anything else?” prompted Margaret. “Someone earlier?”

Sylvia searched her memory as best she could under the circumstances. Hans and Anneke Bergstrom had come to America in the middle of the nineteenth century, but Sylvia did not know the precise date. She knew they had had several children, but she could not recall how many had survived to adulthood. Surely some of them must have left to start families and households of their own, but if one of them was indeed Margaret’s ancestor—

“I’m afraid I just don’t know,” said Sylvia, and lowered herself into a nearby seat.

Andrew must have seen how Margaret’s questions had affected
her, for he left her to her thoughts. He and Margaret exchanged addresses and phone numbers; then, with a promise to share whatever they discovered, Andrew showed her to the door. A few moments later, Sylvia heard him start the engine. Only then did she rouse herself and move to the front passenger seat beside him.

They drove in silence for nearly an hour before Sylvia spoke. “Do you suppose Margaret and I could have an ancestor in common?”

“It’s possible.” He kept his eyes on the road. “What do you think?”

“I think I was much more content before I learned I might have slave owners in the family.”

“All families have members they’re not so proud of.”

“Yes, but slave owners?”

“Don’t be too hard on them. They were people of their times.”

“Plenty of other people of their times didn’t own slaves. Hans and Anneke, for example. Elm Creek Manor was a station on the Underground Railroad, did you know that?”

He gave her a sidelong glance. “You might have mentioned it once or twice.”

“If I’ve bragged, it’s because I’m proud of them. I should be proud. That was brave and dangerous work. And now I’m supposed to accept that some of my relatives—well, I don’t accept it.” She folded her arms and glared out the windshield at the lights of other cars speeding down the freeway. Night had fallen, but the sky was overcast. She wondered where the North Star was. It ought to be directly overhead, or nearly so. So long ago, it had shown the way to freedom, and her family had offered sanctuary to many of those who had braved the hazards of the path it illuminated.

But Elm Creek Manor was so secluded, the North Star alone would not have been enough to guide a stranger to its door.

“Andrew,” said Sylvia, “I don’t believe the quilt preserved memories of Elm Creek Manor. I think it was meant to show the way.”

She had heard of such things before, quilts with coded messages or even maps revealing safe pathways along the Underground Railroad. The very name of Margaret’s quilt suggested it might be one of those legendary artifacts. But in all of Sylvia’s decades as a quilter and lecturer, she had never seen one of these quilts, only heard lore of them around the quilt frame. Her friend Grace Daniels, a master quilter and museum curator, had once told her that not only had no one ever documented a map quilt from the era, no slave narrative or Abolitionist testimonial she had read mentioned one.

Sylvia respected Grace’s expertise, and yet, in the stillness of her own heart, she yearned for the folklore to be true. Within her own family, a tale had been handed down through the generations about a quilt used to signal to fugitive slaves. Folklore carried a stronger ring of truth when one loved and trusted the person who spoke it.