Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt (22 page)

Then she thought of what Constance Wright had endured until her husband bought her freedom, and what so many others like her endured every day while Dorothea lived in safety and comfort with her loving family.

She inhaled deeply and sighed. Mrs. Braun studied her. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“Of course,” said Dorothea. “But how can I refuse to help? Whatever I might face is nothing compared to what the runaways have suffered. I cannot turn my back.”

At last, Mrs. Braun smiled with a warmth that lit up her eyes, and Dorothea knew instinctively that she was speaking with a kindred spirit, the sort of woman she would like to become.

“That is precisely how I felt when Aaron and I embarked on this journey together,” said Mrs. Braun. “I have never regretted my decision. May you never have reason to regret yours.”

They talked at length, until Dorothea felt she was as prepared as she could be for the task her family had undertaken. Mrs. Braun sent her husband’s apprentice to saddle Uncle Jacob’s horse while Dorothea put on her wraps, bracing for the cold ride home.

“Do not tarry,” advised Mrs. Braun. “The air smells like snow coming.”

Mr. Braun instructed her to follow a different route home rather than backtracking along the Sugar Camp Quilt trail. The journey home was much swifter on horseback along the main roads, but Dorothea still did not reach home until after noon. Her parents must have been watching the road, for they ran to meet her before she reached the barn. Their relief was so obvious that Dorothea almost wished she had left the Brauns’ at daybreak and spared her parents a few hours of waiting, but she had needed that time with Mrs. Braun.

She recounted for them every detail of her journey from the moment she left the sugar camp until she departed the stable behind the mill. Lorena seemed most interested in Mrs. Braun’s guidance for running their station; Robert, on the fate of Sam. He seemed to accept that the runaway had had no part in Uncle Jacob’s death. Dorothea accepted Mrs. Braun’s word. Robert took as evidence the safe return of the horse.

Dorothea’s parents had news of their own to report. Cyrus Pearson had called for her earlier that day, and he had seemed most disgruntled to discover her absent. He asked to wait for her, but Lorena invented an ill friend and said Dorothea would be tending her for at least the rest of the day. He left, reluctantly, with a message: His mother was eager to complete the quilt and wanted to know when Dorothea would be willing to bring her blocks so they could finish piecing the top.

For a moment, Dorothea thought he meant the Sugar Camp Quilt, and then she remembered the Authors’ Album. She had not thought of the opportunity quilt or the library board since the night Uncle Jacob went missing. For that matter, she had not given a single thought to Cyrus, who had once occupied so many of her idle musings. She might have missed two board meetings, or perhaps three. Cyrus had not come by the farm to fetch her for them or she would have been reminded. He had probably assumed that the family was in mourning and that she would not have gone. Still, it would have been thoughtful of him to pay his respects to Uncle Jacob out of consideration for Dorothea. Perhaps he knew the older man had not liked him and did not want to appear a hypocrite.

“I have only one block left,” said Dorothea. “I will finish it tonight and take the blocks to Mrs. Engle’s house tomorrow rather than wait until next Thursday.” Her mother had not mentioned that Cyrus planned to come for her then, and she was reluctant to ask.

“There is more news,” said Lorena, withdrawing a folded paper from her pocket. “Jonathan has sent a letter. He is coming home.”

Dorothea scanned the letter eagerly. Jonathan apologized for his absence and declared that he planned to come as soon as he was able. The needs of his patients and the difficulty of winter travel rendered him unable to provide his family with the specific date of his arrival. If he would be delayed more than two weeks, he would send them another letter to tell them so, but otherwise they should expect him before the end of January. Dorothea’s happiness at this news dimmed as she read the letter over more thoroughly. He did not say so, but he implied that after the visit, he intended to return to his studies in Baltimore.

“The post must have been delayed,” remarked Lorena, indicating the date written at the top of the page. The letter was almost two weeks old. “Jonathan is probably even now on his way.”

“Or a second letter apologizing for his delay is,” said Dorothea, but she was so pleased by the prospect of his imminent arrival that she could forgive him all the earlier, canceled visits.

The snowstorm the miller’s wife had predicted reached the farm while Dorothea and her mother prepared supper. The flakes flew thick and fast, but after the evening chores were done, Dorothea lit a lantern and made her way to the sugar camp. Inside the sugarhouse, snow had blown in through the weathered boards and had collected in drifts in the corners. Uncle Jacob would have immediately set to work finding and sealing the spaces, but Dorothea could not tarry. The cold nipped at her cheeks as she covered a basket of her mother’s dried apples with the Sugar Camp Quilt, apparently undisturbed since her last visit. She glanced up at the loft and envisioned a runaway hiding above in fearful silence while she and her mother stirred boiling kettles of maple sap below. She hesitated before climbing the ladder to check, but no one now hid among the stored tools.

As she completed the Album block bearing William Lloyd Garrison’s signature that evening, Dorothea pondered the sugar camp and its fitness as a station. Uncle Jacob had chosen it because it provided concealment from other farms and from his own family, not because it was comfortable and safe. Weary fugitives would be far better off in the house, or even in the barn, especially in winter.

She shared her thoughts with her parents, who agreed they must make more suitable arrangements. They needed a place where one or more runaways could rest comfortably, and yet remain entirely hidden from both friendly visitors and slavecatchers.

Lorena shuddered as they all imagined slavecatchers forcing their way into the house. “Perhaps the sugar camp is safest after all,” she said, “for both the runaways and ourselves. If they are discovered, we could pretend we did not know they were hiding there.”

Robert said nothing, and even Dorothea was at a loss for words. She could not imagine Mrs. Braun disavowing the fugitives in her care.

The next morning, Dorothea hitched up Uncle Jacob’s mare and drove the wagon into Creek’s Crossing. Elm Creek had frozen over, the ferry stowed ashore in the boathouse until the spring thaw. Only the tracks of horse’s hooves and wagon wheels marked the crossing over the ice.

At the Engles’ home, the housekeeper took Dorothea’s wraps and led her to the parlor. Mrs. Engle bustled in a few moments later. “I do not usually expect callers so early,” she said, taking her customary place in the armchair near the front window. “It is not time for tea. Will you take coffee instead?”

“No, thank you. I won’t keep you long. I only stopped by to give you my finished blocks for the Authors’ Album.”

Dorothea opened her satchel and steeled herself for the inevitable shriek of horror when Mrs. Engle discovered the signatures of several authors she had expressly banned from the quilt.

“Give your blocks to me?” Mrs. Engle asked, bemused, giving the satchel the barest of glances. “It would seem you’ve misunderstood my son’s message.” She rose and retrieved a muslin-wrapped bundle from behind the divan. “I was not expecting you to come for these until Thursday, but I suppose this is better. Perhaps you will finish the top before our next board meeting.”

Mrs. Engle handed Dorothea the bundle before she was ready for it, and it fell into her lap. “Finish the top?” she echoed.

“Most of the blocks are already stitched, but you will need to assemble the top. Including your own blocks, of course, which I assume will bring the total to eighty.” Mrs. Engle folded her hands and smiled. “We did not think you would mind, since you missed our last three meetings and the rest of us have done so much more work than you have. This quilt was, after all, your idea. We assumed you would want to have at least some hand in the making of it.”

Indignant, Dorothea nonetheless managed a pleasant smile. “You assumed correctly, although I cannot promise I will complete the top by our next meeting.”

“Just so long as you attend.” Mrs. Engle took her chair again, sitting with a grace that belied her stout form. “We have much to do and the quilting bee is only weeks away. You’ll probably want to get started right now.”

Dorothea recognized the dismissal and rose. “Of course. Good day, Mrs. Engle.”

“Good day,” said Mrs. Engle cheerily. “Oh, Dorothea?”

Dorothea paused in the doorway. “Yes?”

“Please accept my condolences on the loss of your uncle.”

“You are very kind.”

“I understand his will has not yet been read?”

“No.” Dorothea tucked the bundle of quilt blocks into her satchel. “My uncle’s lawyer prefers to wait until my brother returns from Baltimore.”

“I suppose that would be necessary. Well—” Mrs. Engle smiled and nodded. “Good luck, dear.”

Dorothea gave her a wordless nod in return and left the room.

T
WO DAYS LATER
, J
ONATHAN
came home, tall and solemn in his black suit, which Dorothea later learned he had borrowed from his mentor’s nephew since he had no suitable mourning clothes of his own. Lorena was so happy to see her son that she flung her arms around him, laughing and crying and clinging to him, impeding his progress through the doorway. He felt so good in Dorothea’s eyes that she almost ached from it.

Her baby brother had grown taller, his face more thin, but the thick shock of brown curls was the same, forever tousled no matter how much he tried to slick down the locks, giving him the perpetually windblown look of someone always rushing off on horseback.

He wanted to visit Uncle Jacob’s grave, but Lorena insisted he eat and warm himself first. “It will be a pleasure to eat good home cooking again,” he said, taking off his coat and sitting down at the table in the chair the family still referred to as his although he had not used it in more than a year.

“Doesn’t Mrs. Bronson feed you?” teased Lorena, setting a plate before him.

“Yes, and she’s a fair enough cook, but I’m usually so busy I take my dinner at the tavern.”

Dorothea saw her parents exchange a look. Jonathan quickly added, “I haven’t taken to drink if that’s what worries you. Taverns are different in the city. The one I frequent is more like an inn.”

“You forget I used to live in a city and I know very well what a tavern is like,” said Lorena dryly.

Jonathan grinned. “Of course, Mother.”

Dorothea and her parents had so many questions and Jonathan so much to tell that they lingered at the table long after he had finished eating. It was late afternoon before he pushed back his chair and reached for his coat. Dorothea offered to accompany him to the gravesite, but he said he preferred to go alone. Dorothea was sewing in the front room when he returned nearly a half-hour later. He paused in the kitchen and as he bent to kiss his mother on the cheek, she said, “We still have a while before dinner. Why don’t you ride over to the Claverton farm and call on Charlotte?”

Jonathan straightened, a barely perceptible frown appearing as he shrugged out of his coat. “I don’t know that Charlotte would appreciate an unexpected visit.”

“Unexpected? You mean you didn’t write and tell her you were coming?”

“I came to see you and pay my respects to Uncle Jacob, not to court a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“She is fourteen.” Lorena dusted flour from her hands and reached for his coat. She helped him back into it, and after a halfhearted attempt to stop her, Jonathan acquiesced. “If you expect Charlotte Claverton to marry you someday, you must at the very least call on her while you’re in town.”

Dorothea watched surreptitiously as Jonathan, about to protest, heaved a sigh and nodded. He promised to return soon and left, reluctant obedience evident in his every step.

Lorena resumed kneading bread dough in silence. A few moments later, she said, “I suppose he needn’t have gone today. He could have waited until tomorrow or the next day, when he would be more inclined to see Charlotte.”

She had spoken as if thinking aloud, but Dorothea ventured a reply. “I am not certain he would be any more inclined tomorrow or any other day.”