Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt (12 page)

“Since we are raising funds for a library,” said Dorothea, “I thought we might write to our favorite authors and ask them to send us scraps of muslin bearing their signatures. We shall embroider the names and piece the blocks ourselves. Think of the excitement that will grow in town as we announce what illustrious autographs have arrived in the post.”

“The social event can be a quilting bee,” Mrs. Collins guessed, delighted.

Dorothea nodded. “But we’ll make it more than a quilting bee. We will have a dance, a covered-dish supper, and of course, the drawing for the quilt.”

“Such a quilt would be quite valuable,” mused Mrs. Engle. She glanced upon the sofa, as if imagining the Album quilt draped over the back.

Dorothea cast her final hook. “Quite valuable indeed, especially if we include the autographs of local persons of note, including, of course, the president of the library board and the mayor’s wife, if they would condescend to participate.”

Mrs. Deakins beamed, and Mrs. Engle smiled indulgently. “Indeed we would. Well, Miss Granger, I must congratulate myself for including you on the library board. You have already been of great service to us.”

Dorothea thanked her, but confessed that her motives were completely selfish. She wanted a library and was willing to do almost anything to ensure that one was built as soon as possible.

After some discussion—in which Dorothea repeatedly had to gently remind the others that they could not have the quilting bee within a month and call it a Harvest Dance, charming though the idea was, because they had to allow time for writing to the authors, receiving their replies, and piecing the quilt top—they settled on the end of February. It was a dreary month much in need of brightening with festivity, Mrs. Engle thought, while Dorothea and Mrs. Claverton noted that the weather would be favorable for travel, but not mild enough to interfere with spring planting.

Before they parted, Mrs. Claverton assigned everyone a part of the work of planning the event. Dorothea’s task was to compose the letter that would be sent to the authors. Mrs. Engle also instructed each of them to make a list of ten authors who should be contacted. Already Dorothea could think of twice that many, and she was sure her parents would be eager to contribute more names.

On the ride home, she told Cyrus how the meeting had gone and queried him about his favorite authors. “What men and women of letters would you like to see immortalized in our quilt?” she asked. “For whose autograph would you be willing to buy a chance?”

“Shakespeare and Homer.”

“That helps me not at all,” she scolded him.

“The only person of letters whose autograph I would care to possess is your own. If your name is embroidered on that quilt, I would offer twenty dollars.”

“Then you would very likely win the drawing,” said Dorothea, trying to hide her astonishment. “Since the chances will likely cost only twenty-five cents.”

He shrugged. “If that is what I must do to be assured of winning, then that is what I shall do.”

At first, Dorothea could not find the words to reply. She was not certain if he was in earnest, if he only meant to flatter her, if he thought her a silly, giddy girl who would be impressed by such a lavish show. She could not deny being pleased that he would be willing to spend so much money for a quilt with her name on it. “The library board will be very grateful for your contribution,” she eventually said, but he merely smiled.

That evening after chores were done, Dorothea drafted a letter to the authors, then set it aside to revise later. She took up the pieces of a quilt block for her uncle’s quilt, eager to finish it so that it would not interfere with the Authors’ Album once the autographs began to arrive. Lorena worked on her mending on the opposite chair, suggesting writers the library board should contact. “Knowing where to send the letters will be the trick,” she mused, threading a needle. “Some writers are reclusive, others are itinerant, and many are both.”

Uncle Jacob, mending a boot sole in the light of the fire, snorted. “You could sign the names yourself and no one would know the difference.”

“We may resort to that if none of our authors favors us with a reply,” said Dorothea seriously, with a wink for her mother.

Uncle Jacob looked up. “If I thought you might engage in such dishonesty—” He peered at the quilt block in her hands. “What’s that?”

“This?” Dorothea did not understand. “It’s a Delectable Mountains block for your quilt.”

“That’s not right at all.” In two strides Uncle Jacob crossed the room and snatched the quilt block from her hands. Pins scraped her palms. “Why are these triangles pointing this way?” Suddenly he dug into her sewing basket and scattered the completed blocks on the hearth, searching. “All of these squares have four triangles along the side. All of them! Didn’t I make a drawing for you? Didn’t I tell you to follow it precisely?”

“You did.”

“Then why did you deliberately disobey me? Some of the squares were to have three, some five.”

“I did not mean to disobey,” said Dorothea, astounded by his fury. “I thought those were errors. I meant only to correct—”

“Don’t be presumptuous, niece. If I give you a drawing and tell you to reproduce it exactly, it is not your place to add or subtract a single stitch.”

“Jacob, it is only a quilt,” said Robert. “Dorothea meant no harm.”

“I assure you I will fix my mistakes.” Dorothea’s voice shook with surprise and offense. “Your quilt will be precisely as you have drawn it.”

“See that it is,” her uncle growled. He retreated to his chair and took up his torn boot again. “And do not think I will allow you to work on this library quilt until you have finished mine.”

“Of course, Uncle.”

She lowered her gaze so he would not see the anger she could not mask. There was no need; already he had returned his attention to his work, ignoring her. On hands and knees, she gathered the scattered quilt blocks, setting aside those she would have to rip apart to suit her uncle’s whims.

D
OROTHEA RIPPED OUT
the seams and made over five of the Delectable Mountains blocks according to her uncle’s drawing. She had no idea why he insisted on his peculiar design, but in her less charitable moments, she believed his only intention was to be contrary. He provided her with three additional sketches: one with curved pieces like a Fool’s Puzzle in disarray; one with narrow, pieced lines like a braid; and one that resembled the Spiderweb block with eight pieced triangles seamed together to make an octagon. When she remarked that such unique blocks would stand out, surrounded as they were by the traditional Delectable Mountains blocks, Uncle Jacob thought for a moment, jabbed a thumb at a piece of light shirting fabric, and said, “Make those blocks from that lighter fabric.”

“All of the pieces?” queried Dorothea, who had assumed that he wanted his original designs to attract attention.

“Not the star in the middle. It is fine as it is. The other three blocks.”

Dorothea tried to convince him that this was a mistake, since the individual pieces would be indistinguishable from one another, but he refused to listen. “What is the point, then?” she asked her mother after he had left the room. “I might as well use solid fabric if the piecing is going to be all but invisible. He said he wanted a quilt like his mother’s, but I cannot imagine Grandmother making any quilt like this.”

Lorena admitted that she could not recall such an unusual quilt among her mother’s creations.

Dorothea contented herself with using slightly darker tones for some of the pieces so the elements of his designs would not entirely disappear. She also suggested adding a border of blue cotton salvaged from a worn coverlet to frame the quilt. Uncle Jacob considered, and replied, “I guess that wouldn’t do any harm.” It was a less than enthusiastic response, but she decided to add the border anyway, for her own satisfaction if not his.

Dorothea complied with his wishes as well as she could, and once, when he seemed in an agreeable mood, she asked if she might make one slight change to his design to reduce the number of seams. He objected without explanation, so she resigned herself to repeated tests of her sewing dexterity until his quilt was finished—except on one later occasion, when Dorothea forgot prudence and remarked that a certain new sketch resembled a ladder. Uncle Jacob frowned at the paper, then turned it ninety degrees and added four angled lines. “There,” he said, leaving Dorothea with a design that required three additional seams and that still resembled a ladder, albeit a crooked ladder on its side. After that, she learned to keep her artistic commentary to herself.

The first of November came, and the first snowfall. Uncle Jacob grew increasingly impatient for Dorothea to complete the quilt, to her mother’s consternation. “He already has three wool blankets for his bed,” she reminded Dorothea, as they took advantage of one last sunny day to boil the winter bedding in the washhouse. “He is in no danger of freezing without his precious new quilt.”

“I imagine he is eager to see his artistic vision realized,” replied Dorothea. “No, I am quite certain he is simply growing more disagreeable with age. I am glad you and Father have managed to keep your senses of humor, although I suppose Uncle could not be expected to keep something he never had.”

“I never thought I would say this, but I am determined that you should marry.”

“What?”

“You should marry and leave this farm.”

Dorothea forced a smile. “Are you that eager to be rid of me?”

“It is my fault you are not married yet.” A deep groove of worry appeared between Lorena’s brows as she stirred the boiling kettle of laundry with a stick. “Other mothers—and how I disdained them for it—train their daughters from an early age how to attract a suitor and win his undying devotion. In my hubris I thought I should train your mind instead.”

“And I am heartily glad you did.”

“But if you had married, you would have a home of your own now and be out from beneath your uncle’s thumb.”

“Firstly, Mother, I am only nineteen and may marry yet. Secondly, it is entirely possible I would have married into a situation less pleasant than this.” Dorothea fed one of her father’s newly cleaned shirts into the mangle. “Do not despair. I suspect you shall be rid of me eventually.”

She did not tell her mother how often she had imagined having a home of her own, with an affectionate husband rather than a sour old uncle as her companion, but she did not blame her lack of suitors on her upbringing. No man she would consider marrying would disdain an educated wife, so the love for learning they had instilled in her would not have kept a prospective husband away. Her lack of any wealth aside from her saved wages, however, did act as a deterrent. Young men in love did not mind if their beloved lacked thirteen quilts, but their mothers did, and mothers and fathers alike cared if a young woman brought nothing to the marriage except herself.

It was little wonder that Lorena and Robert had cast their principles aside when opportunities arose to secure their son’s future. Charlotte Claverton was demure, lovely, and the only child of one of the wealthiest farmers in Creek’s Crossing. After Jonathan inherited Uncle Jacob’s farm and married Charlotte, he would be master of the largest farm in the Elm Creek Valley. If he preferred, he could continue to practice medicine and leave the management of the farm to his family. Either way he would provide for them—as long as everything came to pass as Robert and Lorena hoped. The engagement, if one could call it that, was an agreement between the parents alone, even though Jonathan or Charlotte would likely find it difficult to refuse when both sets of parents were so eager for them to marry. The Clavertons did seem to favor the match as much as the Grangers, although they had hinted that they would withhold their consent if Jonathan and Charlotte did not learn to be fond of each other, or if Jonathan did not inherit his uncle’s farm. Still, it was a future, one that left Dorothea alternately appalled and envious.

“I have only myself to blame for your unhappiness,” said Lorena.

“Mother, I assure you I am content.”

In truth, she was somewhat less than content. She had been more content by far when she was Creek’s Crossing’s schoolteacher. But she knew marriage was not the only road leading from Uncle Jacob’s farm. And, too, there was Cyrus.

He called for her every other Thursday to carry her to his mother’s house for meetings of the library board. He came even after Uncle Jacob approached as Cyrus was helping her from the carriage and told him gruffly that he need not call for Dorothea anymore. He would drive her himself, and if he was too busy, she was more than capable of driving herself. To her satisfaction, Cyrus declared that he would not think of inconveniencing Uncle Jacob when escorting Dorothea brought him so much pleasure. “Nevertheless, it is not necessary for you to return,” said Uncle Jacob. When Cyrus appeared the following second Thursday as usual, Dorothea enjoyed seeing her uncle thwarted almost as much as she delighted in realizing that Cyrus came for her because he wanted to, not because she had no other way to get to his mother’s house. He was becoming a good friend, even if he did tend to tease and joke any time she tried to engage him in more thoughtful discourse.

Still, his merry conversation was a welcome diversion from Uncle Jacob’s sour grumblings, and planning the library benefit made her feel useful again, as she had when she was the schoolteacher. She knew little of how the school fared without her. If she encountered a former pupil in Creek’s Crossing, she could query him only so much without seeming to be eager for bad news. All she knew was that the students appeared to be progressing in their lessons, their parents seemed satisfied, and, to her chagrin, her darling pupils did not seem to miss her as much as she had secretly hoped.

Dorothea speculated that, since the young people of the town seemed to think well of him, time in Creek’s Crossing must have softened the new schoolmaster’s heart toward its inhabitants. Her theory was soundly disproven one Sunday when Mr. Nelson walked his bay stallion onto the ferry she and Cyrus had already boarded. They had left the carriage to stand by the rail, and when Cyrus called out a polite greeting, Mr. Nelson gave him a curt nod and offered Dorothea a wordless glance before continuing forward. After securing his horse, he took a position at the far opposite side of the ferry near the pilot, although Dorothea and Cyrus were the only other passengers on board.

“How is that dreadful irritation, Mr. Nelson?” Dorothea called to him brightly. His back was ramrod straight, and she knew that he had heard her, though he did not turn around. “You see how he shuns me,” she added in only a slightly lower tone to Cyrus, not caring if Mr. Nelson overheard. “He is so offended by the presence of an ignorant country girl that he must stand at the far side of the ferry.”

“Perhaps he wants to avoid the embarrassment of another intellectual thrashing. If the most agreeable woman in Creek’s Crossing would trounce him at his own welcome party, what might she do elsewhere?”

Dorothea flushed with pleasure and shame. She was pleased that Cyrus found her so agreeable, but until that moment she had not considered that it might have been inappropriate to point out Mr. Nelson’s ignorance of local customs and flora at his first introduction into Creek’s Crossing society. Then she remembered how he had provoked her and she hardened her heart. “I wonder if any mortal creature could hope to win his approval.”

“A more puzzling question is what occasions his travels today,” mused Cyrus. “Do you suppose he is on his way to visit your uncle, or perhaps your parents?”

“I doubt that very much,” said Dorothea with a little laugh. “He has never called upon us before, and my uncle’s reputation is usually enough to keep away even the most determined uninvited guest.”

“If it is any consolation, I strongly suspect he wishes to avoid me, not you.”

“I thought you were friends.” They had seemed companionable enough at Mrs. Engle’s party.

“Merely acquaintances, and recently less than that.” Cyrus shifted so that his back was to Mr. Nelson, an unnecessary gesture since Mr. Nelson’s attention was studiously fixed on the distant shoreline. “His ungentlemanly behavior at my mother’s party concerned me, especially since I know the school board hired him solely on the basis of his father’s recommendation. I hope you will not think ill of me that I decided to inquire into his background.”

“Not at all.” Dorothea could not help feeling wounded that she was so readily replaced by a man about whom the school board had known so little. She hoped for her former pupils’ sakes that he at least had earned the university degree credited to him. “What did you discover?”

“While his father’s reputation is beyond reproach, I regret that Thomas Nelson’s is not. He has some decidedly questionable views on the subject of slavery, opinions that led to certain actions, which, in turn, led to imprisonment.”

“You’re joking.” Astonished, Dorothea stole a look at Mr. Nelson. He chose that moment to look their way, and his gaze locked with Dorothea’s. She raised her chin and met his gaze boldly, determined to show him she was unafraid, despite hearing the worst of the rumors about him confirmed. She had thought from their first encounter that his eyes burned too brightly for the solemn scholar he purported to be, and now she knew why.

“I wish it were not true, but it is.” Cyrus frowned and shook his head. “He spent two years in prison but was released before completing his sentence, it is said, because his father exerted his influence upon the local judiciary.”

Dorothea knew all too well what influence the elder Mr. Nelson wielded. “I assume you told your stepfather,” she said, looking away from Mr. Nelson to Cyrus at a sudden thought. “Surely the school board was not happy to discover he had been falsely represented.”