An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (21 page)

When he had gone, Mrs. Compson sighed and leaned back in her chair. A troubled frown lingered on her face, and her eyes were tired. “It’s not that I want to see Elm Creek Manor become student apartments,” she told them. “That certainly wasn’t what I had in mind. I thought—well, a nice family, perhaps, with children … ”

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Sarah said after Mrs. Compson’s voice trailed off.

“I have to decide soon.” Mrs. Compson stood and briskly smoothed her skirt. “They’ve made a reasonable offer, one I’d be foolish to simply disregard.”

“What should I do about the outdoor restoration?” Matt asked.

Mrs. Compson thought for a moment. “Continue. He may use the unfinished work as an excuse to reduce his offer later, regardless of what he says now.”

So Mrs. Compson didn’t trust Krolich either, at least not completely. Sarah picked up the two coffee cups and carried them into the kitchen, then joined Mrs. Compson in the front foyer. Matt kissed Sarah good-bye and left for the north gardens.

As they worked upstairs, Sarah and Mrs. Compson made only a few half-hearted attempts at conversation. Sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, Sarah would see Mrs. Compson’s hands drop from her work as she stared unseeing at some corner of the room.

Sarah watched and wished she could think of the right words to convince Mrs. Compson not to sell her home.

At noon Matt joined them for lunch. Sarah longed to take him aside and get his opinion about Krolich when Mrs. Compson couldn’t overhear, but she didn’t get an opportunity. During the meal no one mentioned the real estate agent or the manor’s impending sale, and to Sarah it seemed as if the others were ignoring the morning’s events. She couldn’t decide if that made her disappointed or relieved.

After Matt left, Sarah remembered Gwen’s notes. Mrs. Compson spread them out on the kitchen table and looked them over, nodding. “Everything seems to be arranged,” she remarked. “On Gwen’s end, at least. I still need to work on my own presentation if I am to be ready by the ninth. That’s a Tuesday, I think.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be so soon.”

“Soon? We have more than a week. We’ll be ready. Don’t worry.” Mrs. Compson smiled reassuringly. “Perhaps that’s what we should work on today. That may shake off our gloom.”

Sarah nodded. Gregory Krolich sure knew how to ruin a perfectly good summer day. Knowing Elm Creek Manor was going to be sold was bad, and knowing it was going to be turned into student apartments was worse. But there was something else, something Krolich wasn’t telling them. Or maybe it was all in Sarah’s mind. Maybe she was just looking for reasons to dislike him.

“So. You don’t care for our Mr. Krolich,” Mrs. Compson suddenly said.

Sarah looked up, surprised.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear. You haven’t said anything, and I appreciate that, but your feelings are as clear as could be.”

“I don’t fully trust him,” Sarah admitted. “But I don’t know if I could like anyone who took Elm Creek Manor away from you.”

“Away from you, you mean.”

“That’s silly. Elm Creek Manor isn’t mine to begin with.”

“Of course it is.” Mrs. Compson reached across the table and patted Sarah’s arm. “You’ve worked here, quilted here, heard the stories of its former occupants—though not all of its former occupants, and not all of its stories. That makes Elm Creek Manor partly yours, too.”

“If Elm Creek Manor is partly mine, then I’m not selling my part.”

Mrs. Compson chuckled. “I know how you feel. I don’t want to sell my part, either.”

“Then why are you talking to a real estate agent? If you don’t want to sell, don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.” Mrs. Compson clasped her hands, fingers interlaced, and rested them on the table. “At first, I thought I wanted to sell. I admit that much. But since I’ve spent more time here, with you and Matthew, I’ve found that this is indeed my home and that I’ve missed it very much.”

Sarah jumped to her feet. “Then let’s get this settled,” she exclaimed. “Matt has a car phone. I’ll run out to the orchard and call this Krolich guy and tell him to forget it. I’m so glad you decided to stay, I—”

Mrs. Compson was shaking her head.

“What? What is it?”

Mrs. Compson motioned for Sarah to sit down. “It’s not that I want to sell Elm Creek Manor; I have to sell it.”

“Have to? Why? Is it—”

“No, it’s not the money, and let’s leave it at that.”

“I can’t leave it at that. You know how much I want you to stay. Can’t you at least explain why you won’t?”

“Not won’t, can’t,” Mrs. Compson said. “You’re a very demanding young woman, aren’t you?”

“When I have to be.”

“Oh, very well. Though I doubt if my explanation will satisfy you, here it is. Elm Creek Manor was great once. The Bergstroms made it great. But now—” She sighed and looked around the room. “Well, you see what it is now. Emptiness. Disrepair. And I am responsible for its decline.”

“How can you blame yourself?” Sarah asked. “Claudia’s the one who let things go. You weren’t even here.”

“Precisely. I should have been here. Bergstrom Thoroughbreds was my responsibility and I abandoned it. Oh, I didn’t see it that way at the time, and I didn’t know Claudia would fare so poorly. But that’s no excuse. Elm Creek Manor will never be what it once was, and I can’t bear to live here, reminded every day of what has been lost.”

Sarah reached across the table and took Mrs. Compson’s hand. “That’s not true. You, me, and Matt—together we’re going to make this place as beautiful as ever. You’ll see.”

“Hmph.” Mrs. Compson gave her a fond, wistful look. “We can restore its beauty but not its greatness. Perhaps you’re too young to understand the difference.”

She squeezed Sarah’s hand, then let go. “The only right action is for me to pass the estate to another family who will make the place live again. I have no direct descendants, only second and third cousins scattered who knows where around the country. I’m the only Bergstrom left, and I can’t bring Elm Creek Manor back to life by myself. I’m not strong enough, and I don’t have enough time left to reverse the effects of years.”

Mrs. Compson paused. “Perhaps it would be best to let Krolich hand it over to the students. A bunch of young people certainly would liven up the place, and that’s what I said I wanted, didn’t I? What do you suppose old Great-Grandfather Hans would think of that?” She laughed quietly.

Sarah couldn’t join in. “If Elm Creek Manor does comes back to life, don’t you want to be here for it?”

Mrs. Compson said nothing.

“I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

“I could never be too hard on myself in this matter.” Her voice was crisp. “That’s enough of this. Let’s go to the library and take care of my lecture materials. I have several boxes of slides to sort through. When we’re finished, we can have a quilt lesson. I believe you said you’re ready to start a new block?”

Sarah saw that the confidences were over, for now. “I finished the LeMoyne Star last night.”

“Good. Good.” Mrs. Compson rose and left the kitchen.

Sarah followed her upstairs, thoughts racing and worries growing.

Eighteen

T
he several boxes of slides turned out to be four large cartons of slides, photographs, and newspaper clippings. Mrs. Compson explained that for over thirty years she had photographed every quilt she had made.

“Gwen’s lucky you brought all this with you from Sewickley,” Sarah said.

“Luck has nothing to do with it. I still have some of these quilts, but most of them have been sold or given away. I’d no sooner leave this record of my life’s work unattended than I’d sleep outside in a snowstorm.”

As Mrs. Compson opened the first box of slides, Sarah unfolded one of the newspaper clippings. The headline announced W
ATERFORD
Q
UILTING
G
UILD TO
R
AFFLE
‘V
ICTORY
Q
UILT.’
Beneath it was a photo of several women holding up a quilt pieced from small hexagons.

“Are you in this picture?” Sarah asked.

“What do you have there?” Mrs. Compson took the clipping. “Oh, goodness. Wasn’t that a long time ago.” She pointed to one of the women. “That’s me, holding on to the corner.”

Sarah looked closely at the slender young woman in the photo. She was holding her chin up and looking straight into the camera, a determined expression on her face. “What’s a Victory Quilt?”

“It’s not a particular block pattern, if that’s what you mean. That’s a Grandmother’s Flower Garden quilt.”

“It looks like a honeycomb.”

Mrs. Compson laughed. “I suppose it does. The small pieces were well suited to using up scraps, though, and with the war on, not even the Bergstroms could afford to waste a single thread. We ladies made this quilt and raffled it off to raise money for the war effort. You can’t see it in this picture, but each of the light-colored hexagons was embroidered with the name of a local boy in the service. We stitched a gold star near his name if he had given up his life for his country.” She sighed and handed back the clipping. “We embroidered so many gold stars that summer.”

Sarah studied the picture a little while longer before returning it to the box.

“Let’s see, now,” Mrs. Compson said as she took a slide and held it up to the light. “Yes, this is a good one. Sarah, take that slide projector wheel out of that box and dust it off, would you? This slide should be the first.”

Two hours passed as Mrs. Compson examined slides, considered them, and either rejected them or told Sarah where to place them in the slide projector wheel. Mrs. Compson explained that she planned to discuss the history of quilting. The slides would show Gwen’s students how quilting had changed over time and how it had stayed the same.

“Are you going to tell them the Wandering Foot story?”

“Yes, and perhaps a few others like it, if there’s time.” Then Mrs. Compson sighed and pushed the last carton away. “That’s all the slides I’ll need. I’ll prepare my lecture notes another day, but now it’s time for another quilt lesson.”

They put away the cartons and returned to the sewing room, where Sarah got out her template-making supplies.

“This time I’ll show you how to make the Bachelor’s Puzzle block,” Mrs. Compson said, a smile flickering in the corners of her mouth.

“What’s so funny?” Sarah asked, wondering if there was a superstition attached to this block, too. Next thing she knew, Mrs. Compson would be telling her that a quilt with a Bachelor’s Puzzle block in it would doom the maker to eternal unemployment.

Mrs. Compson’s smile broadened. “It’s nothing, really. An inside joke between Claudia and me. Not a very nice joke, I’m ashamed to say.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense. What’s the joke?”

“I did say you didn’t know all of the manor’s stories or all of its occupants,” Mrs. Compson murmured as if thinking aloud. “And she was a very important person here once.” She sighed and focused on Sarah again, her cheeks slightly pink, her expression almost embarrassed. “Very well, I’ll explain while we work on this new block. But I’ll warn you, this story puts me in a rather bad light. I admit I was not always kind when I was younger.”

“Gee, that’s hard to believe,” Sarah replied in a dry tone rivaling Mrs. Compson’s own.

As I told you before, Richard was not fond of school. If Father had not repeatedly told him that he must have a proper education if he wished to run Bergstrom Thoroughbreds someday, he probably wouldn’t have gone at all. Our semester at the Pennsylvania State College had not satisfied his thirst for travel and adventure, either. Richard often complained to me that Waterford High School was stifling him, the teachers were horrendous, the town was dull, et cetera, et cetera. When Richard turned sixteen, he and Father reached a compromise: if Richard kept his marks up, he would be allowed to attend school in Philadelphia.

“If you blame this on that baby quilt,” my sister told me when we heard the news, “I’ll never forgive you.”

“Why, Claudia, I haven’t said a word,” I replied, all innocence. My amusement lasted only a moment, however. The thought of Richard’s absence left me feeling hollow inside. I tried my best to feel happy for him, but I could never be so, not entirely.

So Richard went to Philadelphia to continue his education. Father had friends in the city who agreed to take him in while he was in school, so my worrying about him was really quite unwarranted. He wrote to me often, and when I read his letters aloud to Claudia and the rest of the family, it eased our hearts but made us miss him all the more.

Fortunately, James was there to brighten my spirits. He and Father were two of a kind—kindhearted, virtuous, determined men. With James’s help, Bergstrom Thoroughbreds was better than it had ever been. James handled many of the more dangerous tasks that were now becoming more difficult for Father.

We had been married three years, each day happier than the last. What carefree times we had then. But of course you know what I mean, being newly married yourself, and to such a fine young man as Matthew. We were eager for children, and even after three years we weren’t worried. James would always stroke my head and tell me that we had all the time in the world, that we had forever. Young brides still like to hear that sort of thing, I suppose.