Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt (5 page)

She then placed the quilts and the journal deep in the back of her closet and shut the door on them as if she could blot Gerda’s words from her memory.

That evening, Sylvia had an unsettling dream about Lucinda. In it, she was a little girl again, sitting on the footstool beside her great-aunt’s chair as Lucinda pieced a LeMoyne Star block.

“Your great-grandmother Anneke wanted the fugitives to know they would be safe here,” said Lucinda as her needle darted in and out of the fabric, joining two diamond-shaped scraps. “They needed a signal, one that the escaping slaves would recognize but the slave catchers would ignore.”

“So she made a quilt?” prompted Sylvia, who had heard the story many times.

Lucinda nodded. “A Log Cabin quilt with black squares where the red or yellow squares belonged. You see, slave catchers thought they knew what signals to look for, so they paid no attention to a quilt hanging out to dry. But the escaping slaves did. They would cross Elm Creek to throw the dogs off their scent, and hide in the woods until Great-Grandmother Anneke hung this special quilt on the clothesline. That told them it was safe to come inside.”

Suddenly Lucinda set down her quilting and said, “I have something to show you.” She took an object from her pocket and lifted Sylvia onto her lap. “Something secret, something you mustn’t share with anyone, not even your sister or your cousins. Will you promise?”

Sylvia quickly did, and Lucinda placed a slender brass key in her hands. “Somewhere up in the attic,” said Lucinda, “in the hope chest she brought over from Germany, Great-Grand-mother Anneke hid her Log Cabin quilt. This key opens the trunk.”

“Why would she hide her quilt?” asked Sylvia, turning the key over in her hands.

“To keep its secrets safe.”

“From who? The slave catchers?”

“From whoever might use them to hurt the people she loved.” Her great-aunt fell silent for a moment. “One day it will be safe to tell those secrets. Maybe you will be the one to tell. Or maybe your granddaughter. I don’t think my mother wanted those secrets kept forever.”

“Do you know what the secrets are?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

But Lucinda merely smiled and busied herself with her sewing.

That was where the dream ended, the dream that was really a memory. But the memory had never unsettled Sylvia until she read the troubling words in Gerda’s book. Sylvia had assumed the secrets were about the Underground Railroad, but now she suspected something more lay behind Gerda’s decision to hide the quilts away and to record her secrets in a journal. Why had Lucinda trusted only Sylvia with the key to the trunk? And why had Gerda’s journal not found its way into Lucinda’s stories?

She woke several hours before dawn, brooding and unable to fall back asleep.

She dragged herself downstairs to breakfast in the kitchen, for on Sunday mornings, in the absence of the campers, they preferred the more intimate space to the banquet hall. She seated herself, bidding good morning to Sarah, Matt, and her own dear Andrew, who knew at a glance something troubled her. She patted his hand, a silent message that she was all right and would explain later, and fixed a smile to disguise her inner turmoil.

But she couldn’t fool Sarah. “What’s wrong?” asked the
younger woman in an undertone as they left the kitchen after the meal. “You seem upset.”

Sylvia regarded her fondly. In the years Sylvia had known her, Sarah had changed so much, but that core of compassion and frankness had always been present, and had grown with the passing of time. It was difficult now to remember that when they first met, Sylvia had found Sarah self-absorbed and unduly dissatisfied with her life. Elm Creek Quilts had been good for Sarah, allowing her to truly shine, to learn the great extent of her gifts. Ever since Sylvia’s stroke, when Sarah had been forced to shoulder the greatest burden of day-to-day camp operations, she had transformed from an awkward, somewhat flighty girl into a confident, self-possessed woman.

Sylvia loved Sarah like a daughter. She owed her nothing less, as Sarah had befriended her after her long, self-imposed exile from her family home, and had saved Elm Creek Manor by proposing they create a quilters’ retreat there. But she had come to love her fellow Elm Creek Quilter Summer Sullivan, too, and when Sylvia compared the two young women—which she knew she shouldn’t do—she couldn’t help thinking of herself and her elder sister. Claudia, the prettier and more pleasant of the two, had been admired and adored by all, unlike Sylvia, with her moods and tempers. Recalling her and Claudia’s bitter sibling rivalry, Sylvia had feared jealousy might ruin the friendship between Sarah and Summer, especially when Summer had assumed a position nearly equal to Sarah’s with Elm Creek Quilts. To her relief, Sarah and Summer proved themselves to be of stronger character than the two Bergstrom daughters. Sarah preferred to operate behind the scenes, working tirelessly on countless financial and managerial tasks, and never minded that Summer, with her more public role directing the teachers and activities, became the appealing face for the company. Neither envied the other her role or thought her own—or herself—superior.

“I’m not upset,” answered Sylvia finally, regretting, as she had for most of her life, that she and her sister had not been friends. Gerda’s cryptic remark in the journal hinted that Anneke had known her share of familial conflicts, too, although all the family tales of her and Hans portrayed them with virtues bordering on heroism. It would not be easy to relinquish those golden tales for the truth, but Sylvia wanted her real family, not idealized heroes.

The longer the ideal remained, the easier it would be to let it linger.

“What’s bothering you, then?” asked Sarah.

“Come upstairs with me,” said Sylvia. “I have something to show you.”

2

Once Sarah got over her surprise, she berated Sylvia for not telling her about the discovery immediately. Sylvia endured the complaints, figuring she had earned them, but as soon as Sarah paused to catch her breath, Sylvia said, “Are you going to scold me all day, or would you prefer to see the quilts?”

Immediately Sarah chose the latter, and after Sylvia retrieved them from the back of the closet, the two women carefully unfolded the quilts on Sylvia’s bed.

Sarah exclaimed over the Log Cabin quilt, for Sylvia had shared Great-Aunt Lucinda’s story with her, and she knew the significance of the black center square. She said nothing as she examined the Birds in the Air quilt, but stole quick glances at Sylvia as if attempting to judge her reaction to it. When Sarah turned her attention to the third quilt, she first noted the fabrics common to all three quilts, then asked, “Do any of these fabrics match those in Margaret Alden’s quilt?”

Surprised, Sylvia said, “I honestly hadn’t thought to look.”

She brought out the photos Andrew had taken and gave them
to Sarah, who scrutinized them carefully against the quilts on the bed. “Some of them look alike,” said Sarah, “but the scale is so small, I can’t be certain.”

Sylvia retrieved a magnifying glass from her sewing kit and handed it to Sarah. “If you see something, don’t think you’re protecting me by pretending otherwise.”

Sarah held the magnifying glass to the photos and studied them at length, but eventually she shook her head, still uncertain. Some of the fabrics looked similar, but as Sarah pointed out, that didn’t necessarily mean Margaret Alden’s quilt had any connection to the quilts in Anneke’s trunk. Quiltmakers of her time did not have the wide variety of prints modern quilters enjoyed, and the fading of the dyes could make even dissimilar fabrics seem alike in a photograph.

“Maybe we can find another connection,” suggested Sarah.

“Isn’t the choice of the Birds in the Air block a clear enough connection for you?”

Sarah dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “It was a common enough pattern. How many thousands of Birds in the Air quilts have been made throughout the years? I’m not going to assume anything based upon that, especially since the blocks don’t even use the same setting.”

Sylvia was glad to hear it, because she had been trying to convince herself that the same pattern choice was, at best, circumstantial evidence. “Very well, what
would
you base an assumption on?”

“Something that would be unique to a particular quilter’s style. Piecing quirks, for example. You know, like how your sister used to chop off all the points of her triangles.”

“Many quilters do that,” said Sylvia. “Our own Diane is a master of the truncated tip. You’ve chopped off a point or two yourself.”

“It’s a shame we don’t have Margaret’s quilt here to compare
to Anneke’s quilts,” said Sarah. “What about theme or symbolism? The Log Cabin block was supposed to represent the home, with the center square being the hearth or a light in the window, with the light and dark fabric representing the good and bad in life. Using the black center square gave it a special meaning on the Underground Railroad—”

“Except some say the Log Cabin block was designed to honor Abraham Lincoln,” interrupted Sylvia. “If so, it couldn’t have been used as a signal on the Underground Railroad.”

“Why not?”

“Heavens. Didn’t they teach you any American history at Penn State? The Underground Railroad operated much differently after the Civil War broke out, not long after Lincoln was elected. Quilts would have been useful as signals only before the war.”

“You’re the one who told me about Log Cabin quilts with black center squares,” Sarah pointed out. “Are you saying you were wrong?”

“I’m saying there are alternative theories, and we can’t have it both ways.”

“I accept that, but my point is still valid. We might find some similarities in pattern choice to suggest that the same person made all four quilts.”

Sylvia folded her arms. “I’m not even convinced that the same person made the three from the attic.”

“Let’s assume they were made by the same person, since they were together in the trunk,” said Sarah. “Did Birds in the Air have any significance in the years leading up to the Civil War?”

“None that I know of.” But then Sylvia reconsidered. “Well, birds migrate. Perhaps that pattern was a code telling slaves to follow the migrating birds as they flew north.”

“Except birds only migrate north at a certain time of the year. In autumn—”

“Yes, I see. Escaped slaves would follow the birds farther south. That wouldn’t do, would it?”

“If it’s a code, it’s not a very helpful one.”

“Unless most escapes took place in springtime, to take advantage of fair weather.”

Sarah nodded to the strippy quilt. “What pattern is this?”

“It’s just a simple four-patch, as far as I know. I haven’t seen it before.”

“Maybe one of the other Elm Creek Quilters would recognize it.”

“Grace Daniels certainly would.” And if the unknown pattern or Birds in the Air carried any special significance, Grace would know that as well. Sylvia needed answers, but she doubted she could wait for Grace’s visit in mid-August.

When Sarah left to return to her camp director’s duties, Sylvia took up Gerda’s memoir and carried it downstairs to her favorite room in the manor, a small sitting room off the kitchen. She settled into an armchair beside the window and, summoning her inner resolve, opened the book and read on.

Spring 1856—
in which my adventure begins