Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt (38 page)

They reached the opposite shore and continued through the streets of Creek’s Crossing. Cyrus and Mr. Liggett had apparently abandoned their blockade. Dorothea noticed a few curious glances as they made their way west along Water Street, but no one called out to them, either to praise or to censure.

They passed the site of the new library. To the sounds of hammer and saw, men pulled on ropes and raised the board frame of the eastern wall. A breeze carried the scent of sawdust and fresh pine. Dorothea breathed deeply and imagined bookshelves filled with enlightening biographies, inspiring poetry, entrancing novels. Thanks to Mr. Nelson, the Authors’ Album quilt would be on display, perhaps hanging on a wall like a great work of art in a museum. She hoped that curiosity would draw new readers to the writings of the authors whose names adorned the quilt, the men and women whose inclusion had sparked such controversy. In the troubled times that were sure to come, she could not allow Mrs. Engle’s caustic letters to the editor of the
Creek’s Crossing Informer
to be the only influence shaping the minds and hearts and opinions of the people of the Elm Creek Valley.

They turned down Creekside Road and spotted Miss Nadelfrau approaching on the opposite sidewalk, her head down and shoulders hunched over a basket she carried in both arms. She cringed like a dog that expected to be beaten, but she looked up at the sound of the wagon and brightened to see Dorothea and Constance. She called out to them and waved; Dorothea pulled the bay to a halt and waited as Miss Nadelfrau ran across the street to meet them.

“This town is all abuzz about the two of you,” she said breathlessly. “Of course, one cannot believe half of what one hears; it’s too fantastic. Is it true you shot a slavecatcher?”

“Good heavens, no,” exclaimed Dorothea.

“Pity. Be that as it may, I wanted to invite you—” Miss Nadelfrau nodded to Constance. “
Both
of you to an organizational meeting at the schoolhouse tomorrow evening.”

“What are you organizing?” asked Constance.

“The Creek’s Crossing Abolitionist Society,” said Miss Nadelfrau proudly. “I assumed you two would be interested in participating.”

Dorothea and Constance exchanged a look of surprise. “We would indeed,” said Dorothea. “I think my parents would like to join, too.”

“Please tell them they will be welcome.” Miss Nadelfrau gave them a cheery wave. “Don’t forget. Six o’clock sharp!”

Dorothea assured her they would come and chirruped to the horses.

“I thought she was going to leave town since Mrs. Engle bought her shop,” said Constance.

Dorothea shrugged. “I suppose she found reason to stay.”

Her heart rose as they turned southwest out of town.

When they arrived at the Wright farm, Abel ran to meet them and climbed into the wagon to embrace his wife rather than wait for her to descend. He held her so long and so tightly that eventually Constance had to ask him to ease up a bit because she could only hold her breath so long. He chuckled and released her, but Dorothea spied tears in his eyes, and he took Constance’s hand to help her down from the wagon and held fast to it long after they had entered the house.

They asked about Old Dan, but Abel could tell them nothing more than what he had already told Dorothea’s parents. Constance asked about Mr. Nelson; Dorothea held her breath until assured that he was on the mend, being cared for by his housekeeper, who still blamed herself for being away at her sister’s that fateful night. “She thinks if she had been there, those men would never have dared to cause so much trouble,” said Abel, shaking his head. “Nelson says she’s a force to be reckoned with when she has a rolling pin in hand and a noble cause.”

They shared a laugh at the image, but their merriment was subdued.

“I am glad you were able to frighten them off in her absence,” said Dorothea to Abel. “To think that such violent men would turn tail at a warning shot.”

Abel Wright regarded her with surprise. “Is that what folks think? Is that what they say?”

After a moment, Dorothea understood. “You mean to say that you missed.”

“Not by much. Cyrus Pearson was using his horsewhip on Old Dan at the time or maybe I would have just fired in the air to get their attention. Instead I nicked the top of Cyrus’s ear. I guess with all the blood he thought he was hit worse than he was, ’cause he yelled for his friends to mount up and run for the forest. They did, too, as if I was the devil himself with an army behind me.” He laughed again, shaking his head. “A warning shot. I guess I did give him a warning, all right.”

“Good thing you aren’t sweet on him no more,” said Constance to Dorothea. “He won’t be quite so handsome with a piece of his ear missing.”

The Wrights laughed, but there was an edge to their mirth, and Dorothea found herself unable to join in.

T
HE
W
RIGHTS INVITED
D
OROTHEA
to stay to supper, but she remained only long enough to feed and water the horse. She still had one call to make before returning home.

Two men she did not recognize were working in the fields with a team of horses when Dorothea arrived at Two Bears Farm. She climbed down from the wagon and, almost without realizing she did so, smoothed her skirt and tucked a stray lock of brown hair back into her bonnet. She climbed the porch stairs and knocked on the door.

A short, motherly woman in a floury apron opened the door.

“Good afternoon,” said Dorothea, smiling. “I am Dorothea Granger. I came to see how Mr. Nelson is doing.”

“Of course. You’re the schoolteacher,” said the housekeeper. She opened the door and welcomed Dorothea inside. Dorothea removed her bonnet and smoothed her hair. “Mr. Nelson is in the parlor. I will take you to him.”

Dorothea thanked her and followed her to the room where only a few days before, Old Dan, Liza, and the girls had warmed themselves by the fire. Mr. Nelson sat in an armchair by the window, a quilt tucked over his legs, an open book resting face down on his lap. His eyes were closed, his glasses folded and lying on a table at his left hand. She thought he was asleep and was about to quietly leave the room when his eyes opened and fixed on hers.

“A Miss Granger here to see you,” said the housekeeper. She gave Dorothea a stern look as if to warn her not to tire her patient and announced that she would be in the kitchen.

“Miss Granger,” said Mr. Nelson. He made an effort to sit up straighter, and he gestured to a chair. “Please sit down.”

She drew closer but remained standing, wishing she had not come. He seemed so pale and ill; she should not have disturbed him. “I stopped by to see how you are faring. I am exceedingly glad that you were not killed.”

“A more unusual greeting from a lady I have never received.” He allowed his head to rest against the high back of the armchair. “The woman and her daughters?”

“They are safe.”

“Good.” He coughed, winced, and involuntarily reached for his shoulder.

“Are you in much pain?” she asked, and immediately wished she had not.

“The wound troubles me very little, thank you.” He looked away, and she knew he was concealing the truth. “At any rate, I am in far better condition than I imagine Old Dan is at this moment.”

Dorothea felt heartsick at the thought of the courageous man, and she had to force herself not to think of him as tears sprang into her eyes. She inhaled deeply, the words she had planned to speak lost to her. “If not for you, the others would have met his same fate. I am grateful to you beyond my ability to describe it. I—I cannot—” Then in a rush she said, “Oh, Mr. Nelson, what is to become of you?”

His eyebrows rose. “I must look far worse than I feel to inspire such alarm.”

“I do not mean your wound. I mean—your probation. A runaway slave was discovered in your home. You concealed and defended him.”

“Not terribly well, as it happens.”

“You did, and it is against the law.” She pressed a hand to her stomach in a vain attempt to settle its fluttering. “Will you be sent to prison?”

“Ah.” He smiled, faintly. “No need to worry. Two of the witnesses who might accuse me have fled with their captive, and the other two are too busy denouncing each other to waste breath on me.”

“What do you mean? Mr. Pearson and Mr. Liggett—”

“Have had a falling out, according to my housekeeper, who has an ear for the gossip of the town. Mr. Liggett is a grasping and greedy man who has learned there is little money to be gained in Mr. Pearson’s employ, while Mr. Pearson does not wish to have his name embroiled in a scandal or associated with a man as disreputable and universally disliked as Mr. Liggett. I do not fear that they will conspire to have me arrested.”

Dorothea felt a dark cloud lift from her thoughts. “That is good news.” She had expected both men to boast of their adventure, but if they had turned on each other, perhaps they would admit little rather than acknowledge their former friendship.

“It is, since I could do runaways little good from inside a prison.” He touched his shoulder and pulled a face. “Next time, however, I will endeavor not to be shot.”

“There … will be a next time?”

“Not another confrontation with slavecatchers, with any luck, but Two Bears Farm will assist any fugitives in need of shelter as long as the need remains. It would be a pity to let the Carters’ tunnel go to waste.” He looked away. “Especially since Old Dan sacrificed his life to conceal its existence.”

Dorothea’s throat tightened. “If only we could discover where he has been taken. Perhaps we could buy his freedom.”

“Even if Pearson or Liggett knows, I doubt they could be compelled to tell you. They would likely deny his existence just as they deny the rest of the truth.”

Dorothea nodded, reluctant to release the fleeting hope that she and her friends might somehow rescue Old Dan. But of course, they could expect no help from Mr. Liggett or Cyrus, no matter how viciously they had turned against each other. “If they deny what really happened,” she asked, “how do they account for Cyrus’s injury?”

Mr. Nelson smiled in grim satisfaction. “Liggett tells of being ambushed by a band of murderous runaway slaves. It is quite a fanciful tale, with himself at the heroic center. I doubt anyone believes him.”

“And Mr. Pearson? Has your housekeeper heard his version?”

Mr. Nelson’s smile vanished and his gaze fell upon the book on his lap. “She has.” He lifted the book, marked his place with a scrap of paper, and set it on the table beside his glasses. “She cannot trace the rumor directly back to him, but it seems he would have people believe I shot him.”

“You?” exclaimed Dorothea. “Well, I suppose it makes perfect sense. You would have been defending your household.”

“That would indeed have made sense, which is probably why Pearson did not think of it. Apparently we fought over a woman.” He paused. “Over you.”

Dorothea’s breath caught in her throat. “Me?”

“Evidently I became enraged when my rival appeared and declared his undying affection for you.” He snorted. “Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?”

“No,” said Dorothea softly. “No one will believe it.”

“Pearson’s fiancée does, but she seems to be the only one. In any event, his engagement is off, and I understand he intends to find solace for his broken heart in another tour of Europe.” He made a sudden, impatient gesture to a chair. “Would you please sit down? Shall I call for some tea? I apologize for being such a poor host. When I think of what I said about you upon the occasion of our first meeting, I cannot consider myself deserving of this visit.”

Dorothea forced a shaky laugh as she seated herself. “So much has happened since then, I hardly remember what words we might have exchanged.”

“I cannot forget them.”

Dorothea flushed and bowed her head. “I have forgotten them, so you must do the same. If we are to keep teaching together, we must attempt to be civil.”

“I do not think I will teach again.”

“What? Why not?”

He indicated his shoulder wearily. “The term will be over before I am fit to stand all day in front of a classroom, and whatever version of recent events he chooses to believe, I doubt that the stepfather of Cyrus Pearson will be inclined to renew my contract.”