Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt (28 page)

“Don’t regret what you say so long as it’s the truth. That’s what I do.” Constance nodded in the direction Mr. Nelson had taken Mrs. Engle. “If you ask me, he’s the one who showed up just in time.”

“Mr. Nelson? Oh, yes. One can always rely on him to appear at the moment of my greatest humiliation.”

Constance had unrolled a huswif on her lap and was frowning thoughtfully at several needles arranged in a neat row. “I’m just glad she’s gone.” She kept her voice too low for the other quilters to hear, which Dorothea considered wise. Mrs. Engle had friends and admirers everywhere.

Constance selected a needle and asked the woman seated at her left to pass the thread. “I think we both know she was about to say she wouldn’t abide no colored folks’ names in her quilt. I don’t think she would abide one stitching on it, either.”

“We’re glad for your help,” said Dorothea, just as she remembered she was no longer on the library board and ought not to say “we.”

“Tell that to the lady at the front door who almost wouldn’t let me in.”

“Mrs. Collins?” Dorothea’s heart sank, but she said firmly, “The library will be for everyone, white and colored alike, and don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise.”

Constance regarded her with weary skepticism. “We’ll see what happens when the library opens. You know the men told Abel they wouldn’t need his help in the building.”

“I didn’t know that. One would think they would be grateful for an experienced carpenter.”

“One might think that if one was a nice young white girl like you who don’t know any better.” The woman on Constance’s left sniffed and abruptly abandoned her seat, her thimble still on her finger. Constance seemed not to notice. “Anyway, I’m here to help so that later, no one can say I can’t borrow books because I had no part in the building of the library. We bought a bookshelf plate, too.”

Another quilter gathered her things and rose. This time Constance glanced up and followed her with her eyes. “I take it your lessons are going well?” asked Dorothea, hoping to distract her.

Constance shrugged. “Good enough.”

“So here is the infamous quilt,” said Mrs. Claverton, approaching with her arm linked through her daughter’s. Charlotte wore a dress of ivory crushed velvet with a rose velvet sash and a matching ribbon around her neck. Her dark hair hung in thick ringlets upon her shoulders.

“Yes. Quilt upon it if you dare,” said Dorothea with a smile. As Mrs. Claverton and Charlotte seated themselves in the vacant chairs, Dorothea clasped Constance’s shoulder and promised to speak with her later.

Dorothea left the quilt frame behind and went in search of her parents to tell them what had occurred with Mrs. Engle before a worse version reached their ears. She spotted them in the supper line, but before she could reach them, Mary called out to her and came hurrying over. “I hoped to warn you,” said Mary, taking Dorothea’s hand, “but I can see from your expression that I’m too late. Please do compose yourself. Don’t give them the satisfaction of knowing they have upset you.”

Dorothea immediately smoothed the strain from her features. “Thank you, Mary. It is my fault, really. I should have been more forthright.”

“Your fault? Why on earth do you believe that?” Mary cast an indignant look over her shoulder. “He’s truly despicable, as I seem to recall warning you. I never liked him—well, not in recent years, anyway.”

“Are you talking about Mr. Nelson?”

Mary regarded her with utter bewilderment. “What? Of course not. Why would I—” She drew in a breath sharply. “Then you don’t know.”

“I don’t know what? If we aren’t discussing Mr. Nelson and Mrs. Eagle—”

“Dorothea.” Mary bit her lip, put her hands on Dorothea’s shoulders, and gently turned her toward the dance floor. “Look over by the window.”

Dorothea complied. “Mr. Hathaway is sipping from his hip flask. You’re right. It’s scandalous.”

“Not there. The other window.”

Dorothea laughed but obliged. She saw men and ladies circling on the dance floor. Farmers she hardly knew and townsfolk she had known for years sat side by side enjoying the covered-dish supper. Against the far wall couples stood chatting near the center window. Among them she spotted Cyrus with his head bowed near the ear of a pretty red-haired young woman Dorothea recognized from church; all Dorothea knew of her was that she had been several years ahead of Dorothea in school and that her father’s farm lay between Creek’s Crossing and Grangerville. Cyrus looked up and met her gaze. She smiled and nodded; he returned a quick, closemouthed grimace and quickly resumed his conversation.

Suddenly she understood. “Am I supposed to be jealous merely because Cyrus Pearson is speaking to another young lady?”

“He is not merely speaking to her. Rumor has it they are nearly engaged.”

“How can they be nearly engaged when Cyrus took me driving only two weeks ago?”

“He is fickle and she is nearly twenty-seven.”

Dorothea laughed. “Oh. Now everything is made clear.” She kept her voice light, but a hollow of confusion and disappointment had formed inside her. “I never had any claim on him, and although I am fond of Cyrus, I do not love him. If he has found happiness with someone else, then I will be the first to congratulate him.”

“No, you will be the second,” said Mary darkly, glaring across the room. “One can tell by the look on his face that he has been congratulating himself for days. Her parents are aged, you see, and she has no brothers and sisters with whom to divide their farm.”

“I see.” Indeed, Dorothea did, now. “Thank you for the warning, but I assure you my heart has not been broken.”

Mary squeezed her hand. “You are too good for him, Dorothea. Don’t lose hope. You will meet a man as fine as my Abner someday, I am sure of it.”

Dorothea smiled. “If I meet a man even half as fine as your Abner, I will snatch him up so quickly he will not know what hit him.”

As Mary peered at her, not certain whether she spoke in jest, Dorothea bade her good-bye and went off to meet her parents, who had carried their plates to a desk near the front of the room. The delicious aromas from the back table no longer appealed to her, but she kept her parents company while they enjoyed their supper. She told them what had passed between herself and Mrs. Engle, but a reluctant embarrassment kept her from mentioning Cyrus.

She resolved not to dwell on Mary’s rumors until Cyrus himself had confirmed or denied them. Before long one of Abner’s friends invited her to dance, and after him another young man, and after that she was rarely without a partner long enough to more than quickly check the progress on the Authors’ Album. Already the rails had been adjusted twice to allow an unquilted portion to replace a section already completed. Miss Nadelfrau had remained beside the quilt nearly all evening, and while she seemed anxious to avoid being seen talking to the disgraced former library board member for too long, she expressed sincere approval for the quality of the quilters’ work.

After one of these brief examinations of the quilt-in-progress, Dorothea found herself face-to-face with an abashed Cyrus. “Hello, Dorothea,” he greeted her. “Would you care for a dance?”

She agreed, so he took her hand and led her to the dance floor as the fiddler began a cheerful polka. Cyrus was uncharacteristically somber as they danced, which told Dorothea that Mary’s tales were most likely true. When the dance was over, Dorothea thanked him and began to move away, but he held fast to her hand.

“I suppose you’ve heard.”

“Indeed.” Dorothea smiled brightly. “I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Well—” He glanced over his shoulder. Dorothea forbade herself to see if the red-haired farmer’s daughter waited there. “Not quite yet, but perhaps soon.”

“I see. Well, I will be sure to congratulate you when the time is right and give the lucky girl my best wishes.”

“Dorothea, I always said you were kindness itself.” His grip on her hand tightened. “I think I should explain—”

“It truly is not necessary.”

“But you see, my father left my mother with little more than her personal belongings, and my stepfather has children of his own from his first marriage. They will benefit from his success, whereas I will receive nothing.” He regarded her with earnest remorse. “A man with property of his own may make choices a man without it cannot.”

“I understand perfectly. You need say no more.” She placed her other hand upon his, smiled encouragingly, and freed herself. “I wish you the best. I sincerely do.”

She turned her back and walked away, willing her features to reveal nothing but glad serenity. Then, the absurdity of how badly the evening had gone struck her, and she could only laugh. She touched a hand to her brow and murmured, “I should have remained at home. Things cannot possibly get any worse.”

“That is where we differ, Miss Granger,” a man’s voice spoke at her side. “I believe that matters can always get worse.”

She closed her eyes, sighed, and turned to find Mr. Nelson. “I must confess, Mr. Nelson, that at the moment I find myself quite unable to dispute that.”

His eyebrows shot up. “And I find myself quite astonished to discover you without an argument at hand.”

Mrs. Claverton chose that moment to walk by. “Oh, she is not always as sharp-tongued as she seems. And she is a fine dancer.” She gave Mr. Nelson a pointed look. “You ought to see for yourself.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Claverton,” said Dorothea, “but I would not want to inconvenience Mr. Nelson.”

“Nonsense! I saw him twirling Mrs. Engle about not long ago. If he will partner an old married woman he would surely consent to dance with a lovely young girl such as yourself.”

Dorothea intended to explain—and to caution Mrs. Claverton not to refer to Mrs. Engle as “old” too loudly given the temper she was in—but Mr. Nelson spoke first. “It would be my privilege to partner Miss Granger.”

Dorothea muffled a sigh and agreed. Mr. Nelson escorted her to the dance floor where couples were forming lines. Mary had taken the floor with Abner, and as the musicians began to play, she stood in place staring at Dorothea with astonished sympathy until another dancer bumped into her. Dorothea smiled ruefully in return to show she was resigned to her fate, but she smothered a laugh when she realized that Mr. Nelson had witnessed the entire silent exchange.

She resolved to be civil company until the dance concluded, but Mr. Nelson made even fewer attempts at conversation than Cyrus had. Finally Dorothea spoke up. “I suppose you expect me to thank you for whisking Mrs. Engle off like that.”

“I expect nothing from you.”

Dorothea did not know quite what to say to that. “Then I will be happy to oblige.”

He nodded curtly.

They danced in silence for a time, an isle of cool civility lapped by waves of laughter and happy chatter.

“Mrs. Claverton is wrong about you,” Mr. Nelson said suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“You are outspoken to a fault.” He scrutinized her. “I suspect you deliberately provoked Mrs. Engle. Surely you could have found some moment to tell her about the unexpected signatures she would find in the quilt, but you chose to wait until she discovered them on her own, knowing it would be too late for her to change anything.”

“That is not true,” retorted Dorothea, but when her conscience pricked her, she added, “Well, perhaps it is partially true. I took the blocks to her home once, but she could not be troubled to look at them. I suppose I could have insisted.”

“Or you could have omitted the authors she objected to, but I suspect that never occurred to you.”

“I did not see any reason to leave them out.” She raised her chin and met his gaze defiantly. “And I do not care who objects to their inclusion.”

“I see. Raising money for the library was a secondary consideration for you. Nevertheless, I commend you on managing to have your own way on this. I do believe it will result in more money for the library after all.”

The dance ended. Mr. Nelson made a perfunctory bow and released her hand. She nodded and left without thanking him for the dance. She was not certain if he had praised or insulted her. It was quite possible he had managed both.

It was no simple matter to avoid Mrs. Engle, Cyrus, and Mr. Nelson in a schoolroom that suddenly seemed much too small, but Dorothea endeavored. Several hours into the dance, a murmur of excitement went up from the people surrounding the quilt frame: The thread of the last quilting stitch had been knotted and cut. Dorothea joined in the work of attaching the binding, and before long Mr. Collins and Mr. Claverton stood upon a small riser at the front of the room and held up the finished quilt for all to see. Dorothea’s heart swelled with pride and pleasure that even Mrs. Engle’s criticism could not diminish. It was a beautiful quilt and honored the people of Creek’s Crossing as well as those whose names had been enshrined upon it—regardless of what Mrs. Engle thought.

Everyone began to clamor for the winner of the masterpiece to be chosen. Mr. Engle brought forth a large locked box with a slit carved into the lid, used as a ballot box in election time. As Mrs. Deakins filled the box with ticket stubs, the other library board members gathered in a half-circle behind her. Dorothea, standing with her mother and father, did not move to join them. Her mother put an arm around her shoulder, but Dorothea felt no need to be consoled. She had already received everything she had sought from making the Authors’ Album. She did not need applause and acclaim as well.