Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt (40 page)

On a mid-September afternoon, Sylvia Compson
stood in the library looking out the window over the front entrance to her home. On the other side of the sweeping green front lawn, the trees along Elm Creek lifted scarlet, yellow, and orange leaves to the clear autumn sky, but Sylvia scarcely noticed them. Her gaze was fixed on the road, for soon a car would emerge from the forest and bring Margaret Alden and her mother, Evelyn, to Elm Creek Manor.

Sylvia ordered herself to stop pacing around like an agitated cat. Margaret had visited before, as a camper, and her mother was likely to be a pleasant enough woman. Still, in her response to Sylvia’s invitation, Margaret had expressed disappointment that the Bergstrom and Alden families did not appear to be related after all, but had not mentioned Joanna. Sylvia figured Gerda’s last revelation was astonishing enough to merit some sort of response, and she didn’t know what to make of Margaret’s silence.

“Sylvia, do you have a moment?”

Sylvia turned to find Sarah lingering in the doorway,
with Summer just behind her, carrying a large manila envelope. “For you two, I’ll make time,” said Sylvia with a smile. The two young women had been trying to lift her out of her melancholy ever since she had finished reading the memoir. Their jokes and diversions did not cheer her as much as the knowledge that they cared enough about her to try.

Sylvia let the curtain fall back in place as Sarah and Summer joined her at the window. “We know how disappointed you’ve been feeling lately,” said Sarah. “We wish we could find the answers you want, but since we can’t, we thought we’d at least try to find as much information about Gerda as possible.”

“All that time in the library paid off again.” Summer handed her the envelope. “I met someone there who managed to get me into the
Waterford Register
’s archives. They don’t have all the missing back issues, but they do have many.”

Sylvia was already opening the envelope. “Oh, how wonderful, dear.” She removed a handful of microfiche printouts and glanced at the first few headlines. “‘Underground Railroad Unearthed! Eight Citizens Arrested.’ Goodness. ‘Justice and Mercy Triumph! Creek’s Crossing Eight Released from Prison.’ ‘Creek’s Crossing a Haven for Southern Sympathizers? A Righteous Nation Wonders.’ My, they certainly had a gift for hyperbole, didn’t they?”

“It’s all there,” said Summer. “The whole story, just as Gerda recorded it.”

“There’s even a letter to the editor from Mr. Pearson,” said Sarah. “I guess the editors felt they had to show an opposing view.”

“Hmph. I look forward to reading it,” said Sylvia. “What does he say?”

“Exactly what you’d expect from him.”

“Best of all,” added Summer, “the intern who helped me at the paper said I was welcome to come
back anytime, so if you ever want to look up your father or grandmother—”

“Or your great-aunt Lucinda,” Sarah interrupted, “or Claudia, to find out about those years you were away—”

“Just say the word, and I’ll investigate.”

“I might just do that one of these days,” said Sylvia. “Thank you. Thank you both.” As she returned the clippings to the envelope to read more thoroughly later, she noticed Summer and Sarah exchanging mischievous glances. “All right. I know that look. I’m expecting visitors, so whatever you two are plotting, it will have to wait.”

“Actually, it can’t wait,” said Summer. “Because . . . some of your guests are kind of already here.”

“Nonsense. I’ve been watching the front drive.”
For the past hour,
she almost added, but decided against it. No need to let them see how anxious she was. Then she understood. “Oh, I see. This is your surprise. You invited someone else to join us, and you sneaked them in the back way. Well, who are they and where are they hiding?”

“Rosemary Cullen and Kathleen Barrett,” said Sarah. “And they aren’t hiding. They’re having coffee in the parlor.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” exclaimed Sylvia. She left the library with such haste that Sarah and Summer didn’t catch up until she reached the door. “Honestly, you two,” she grumbled as they hurried after her down the stairs. “Haven’t I taught you any manners? You don’t abandon guests so you can come upstairs and have a private chat.”

“Andrew is with them,” said Sarah.

“That’s something, at least,” said Sylvia, but she gave her two young friends an exasperated shake of the head as they crossed the marble foyer and hurried down the west wing to the parlor. There she found the two women chatting with Andrew. “Rosemary and Kathleen. What a delight to see you again.”

“The pleasure is ours,” said Rosemary. She clasped the
hand Sylvia extended to her, and to Sylvia’s relief, she seemed to feel not at all neglected. “I must say, your letter has me more excited than I’ve been in years. It’s wonderful to have so many details about my great-grandparents’ lives verified. I feel like I’m getting to know them so much better, thanks to Gerda and her memoir.”

“I know the feeling,” said Sylvia, smiling. Of course, in her own case, as many details about her grandparents had been proven false as had been confirmed.

“After your visit, I went back and reread Thomas’s letters to Dorothea,” said Kathleen. “He mentions your family in at least a dozen letters.”

“Does he, indeed? You’re certain he meant my family?”

“Absolutely.” Rosemary patted the sofa to encourage Sylvia to sit between her and Andrew. “He mentions them by name, and some of their children, too.”

Sylvia’s heart seemed to skip a beat, and she sat down more suddenly than she had intended. She wondered which children, and what Thomas had said about them. Surely he had been in on the secret. Even if the Bergstroms had not told him, the Nelsons had known Anneke bore only one child, and they had visited Gerda often enough to be aware that she had not been pregnant. They also knew the Bergstroms had sheltered runaways, and Dorothea’s own brother had delivered Joanna’s child.

“I would very much like to see those letters,” said Sylvia to Rosemary.

“Usually Mother doesn’t like to take them out of the house,” said Kathleen, but she reached for her purse. “From what you’ve shared about Gerda’s memoir, we knew this letter would be of particular interest to you, so Mother decided to make an exception.”

With that, Kathleen placed a fragile sheet of paper in
Sylvia’s hand.

“Why . . .” Sylvia’s voice trailed off, and with her other hand, she slipped on her glasses, which hung about her neck on a fine silver chain. She glanced at Summer and Sarah to steel her confidence, and began to read.

November 7, 1863

My Beloved Dorothea,

Dusk approaches, and finding myself with a few idle moments to spare, I improve them in writing to you. Forgive the shaking of my hand. We fought hard today, against as cunning and dangerous an enemy as I ever thought to face in my lifetime. They have entrenched themselves for the night, to wait and rest in expectation of our charge at dawn, but if I am to believe the rumors flying about our camp, we march at dusk. Since I do not know if I will live to see the sun rise, I must imagine the bright warmth of day, which always seems to surround me when I remember your smile and the fondness in your eyes.

I miss you and Abigail with all my heart. Kiss her for me, and tell her Daddy will be home soon. I tell myself the war will surely end by Christmas, but then doubt steals over me, and I fear I will never see you again in this world. But as you have often said, my dearest, I must not dwell on such thoughts, but rather pray for a swift, just conclusion to this conflict.

So, instead I will imagine you are here with me, or rather, that I am there with you, for though I know you to be a woman of remarkable fortitude, I would not wish you to look upon the scene that lies before me.

When I close my eyes and think of home, it is springtime, with the smell of freshly tilled soil in the air. It is evening, our day’s work is done, and I am pushing you and little Abby on the swing your brother hung for us from the oak tree near the pasture. The sun is setting, and the baby shrieks with delight,
and you look over your shoulder at me and smile, and I know that I am still alive.

I pause in my reverie to tell you I have, at last, received word from Jonathan. When he discovered one of his patients would join us here after his recovery, he bade him carry a letter to me, which I very gladly received. He wrote little about his activities, saying, in summary, that battlefield medicine is like nothing he learned at university. When I reflect on the broken bodies we send him, I cannot imagine any education that could have prepared him sufficiently.

Jonathan said he had heard from you, and that your letters gladden his heart. He also mentioned receiving word from our friend Gerda Bergstrom. Apparently Gerda has quite taken to your knitting lessons, for she sent him three pairs of thick wool socks, which, he said, he was quite glad to receive. She also sent him a book of poetry, which he confessed he has not yet opened, for at the end of the day, he is too exhausted from his labors to do anything more than remove his boots and drop off to sleep.

He did not mention hearing from Charlotte. I hope this was an oversight on his part and not an indication that Charlotte’s condition is afflicting her too greatly to write, for as I recall, her confinements with the two eldest were difficult. I suspect, dear wife, that your brother had indeed heard from her, but his thoughts were so full of Gerda that Charlotte was crowded out of his letter.

When I reflect upon our friends, I cannot help but pity Jonathan and pray for his heart to find peace. I know what it is like to find one’s great love, and having been married to her for so many delightful years, I cannot imagine living without her, or being married to another. I know Jonathan respects and admires Charlotte, and I am certain he is a dutiful husband to her,
but it is a pity he cannot spend his life with the one to whom he has given his heart.

I need not tell you to say nothing to your brother or to Gerda of my opinions. These are simply the ramblings of a weary mind, but I know you will indulge me and not chasten me for dallying in idle gossip. Indeed, any talk of those I hold dear, however trivial it may seem, carries great significance in each and every word when I am far from the warmth of their affection.

Now I am told I must douse my light, so I must end my letter in haste. I know you will forgive me for not sending Jonathan’s letter on to you. He wrote that he sent you a letter of your own, and the cheerful tidings of loved ones are a comfort to me in this wretched place, and I would like to keep Jonathan’s to read again at my leisure.

I miss you, my sweet wife, and once more I vow that when I return to the shelter of our little farm in the valley, I will never leave it again.

Kiss Abby again for me, and know that I remain,

Your Loving Husband,
Thomas

Sylvia removed her glasses and cleared her throat, blinking back a tear. “Well.” She carefully refolded the letter and handed it to Kathleen. “I’m glad that Gerda and Jonathan remained friends, although it would have pleased me more to learn they had found some happy ending together.” Her heart ached for them. They could have enjoyed a love as devoted and enduring as that Thomas and Dorothea shared, if only the fates had cooperated.

“But what of Hans and Anneke’s children?” asked Sarah. “Kathleen said some of Thomas’s letters mentioned them.”

“They do,” said Kathleen. “But mostly in passing,
I’m afraid. He refers to gatherings at one family’s farm or the other’s, and recalls games the children played together.”

Sylvia nodded. She longed to read any letter that mentioned the Bergstroms, regardless of how few details they provided, but twice she had asked to read them and had been rebuffed. She did not feel she should ask again.

“I do so hate to let those letters out of my sight,” said Rosemary. “I’m sure you feel the same way about the memoir, Sylvia.”

Sylvia forced a smile, trying to hide her disappointment. “Of course.”

“So I think we ought to arrange to read together. You could bring your memoir to my house, or I could bring my letters here, and we can trade. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

“Are you sure it wouldn’t be an imposition? You must be a very busy woman, with your own business to run. You might not have time to sit and read on a schedule.”

Sylvia glimpsed Kathleen’s slight frown of worry and realized that both mother and daughter were as eager for the social aspect of their arrangement as for the information contained in the memoir. Fortunately for everyone, Sylvia had every intention of accepting their proposal. “I have plenty of time, and I couldn’t think of a better way to spend it.”

Rosemary smiled, delighted, and she and Sylvia soon agreed to meet every Wednesday at noon for lunch followed by an hour of reading, one week at Rosemary’s home, and the next at Elm Creek Manor.

Kathleen looked pleased by the arrangements, but added, “I’m looking forward to seeing more of Elm Creek Manor myself. I might even sign up for a class or two.”

Rosemary regarded her with
amazement. “Did I hear you correctly? After all these years, my daughter finally wants to learn to quilt?”

Kathleen looked so embarrassed that Sylvia half expected to see her squirm like a little girl caught in some mischief. “I thought I might.”

Rosemary laughed and said to the others, “You have no idea how long I tried to get that one to pick up a needle. She told me she’d die of boredom stitching together old scraps all day long.”

Everyone chuckled except Kathleen, but even she managed a sheepish grin. “I’ve had second thoughts,” she explained. “Reading Thomas’s letters again helps me appreciate the Dove in the Window quilt Dorothea made for him. I thought I’d like to make one for myself, in remembrance of them.”

“What a lovely idea.” Sylvia recalled all the quilts Gerda had mentioned, especially those most important in her memoir—the Log Cabin, the Birds in the Air, and the Underground Railroad, of course, but also the Shoo-Fly Gerda had so reluctantly made, and the Feathered Star Joanna had pieced for her unborn child. And Sylvia could not forget Margaret Alden’s quilt, which, as far as Sylvia could discern, Gerda had never seen. Yet it was perhaps the most important of all, because although its origin remained a mystery, it had compelled Sylvia to the attic, where she had found the journal.