Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt (14 page)

“You assumed you were among like-minded women,” said Lorena, threading a tapestry needle. She tied a knot on the end of the thread and began basting the three layers of the quilt with large, zigzag stitches.

“I did,” admitted Dorothea. She’d had no reason to, but she had also had no reason to do otherwise. She had never talked politics with any of the women but Mrs. Claverton, whom she knew despised slavery. “They seemed sensible enough, so naturally I assumed they would agree with me.”

In his usual chair by the fire, Uncle Jacob snorted, but did not look up from his Bible. She thought of the often silly prattle of Mrs. Deakins and Mrs. Collins and silently agreed that perhaps sensible was too generous a term.

“Sometimes it is best to keep your opinions to yourself until you have discovered what those around you believe,” said Robert.

Dorothea felt a spark of indignation. Her list had contained several of his favorite authors. “The philosophy of Thrift Farm was to speak one’s own truth, whatever the consequences to oneself.”

Chagrined, her father shrugged and nodded. Dorothea would have been happier if he had scolded her for showing such disrespect.

“The philosophy of Thrift Farm,” muttered Uncle Jacob, shifting in his chair. “Write poetry about the Oversoul, allow your children to run wild, and hope the wheat learns to sow and harvest itself.”

Lorena ignored him. “What of Mrs. Engle? Why did you assume she shared our enlightened ideals? You have read what her husband has published in the
Creek’s Crossing Informer
.”

“Those articles expressed her husband’s views, not hers.”

“She chose to marry the man who holds those views.”

Dorothea hesitated. “I suppose knowing how Cyrus feels, I assumed his mother would be sympathetic to the inclusion of abolitionists, or at worst, indifferent.”

“And how does Cyrus feel?”

She was aware of her uncle’s sudden keen interest, though he had not moved a muscle. “He jokes and teases so much I do not know how he feels on any serious subject,” she admitted. “I do know it distresses him to see his mother offended.”

Uncle Jacob radiated animosity. “In my day we had a word for a young man like that. He squires young ladies about in a fancy carriage, but he hasn’t worked a day in his life.”

“You do not believe any man works if he does not own a farm,” said Dorothea.

“Dorothea,” warned Lorena.

“It is unfair to condemn Cyrus for the political views of his stepfather, a man who did not raise him, a man who has been married to his mother for less than a year.” Dorothea struggled to keep her composure as she worked her needle with broad, furious stitches. “Even if Cyrus’s opinions are not widely known, our family’s are. Surely he would not seek out my company if he found our views in any way objectionable.”

Uncle Jacob slammed his Bible shut. “Maybe he doesn’t seek out your company for your conversation, or haven’t you thought of that? I should forbid him to set foot on my property for your own sake, since you’re apparently determined to be as foolish and as easily deceived as all of your sex.”

They stared after him as he stormed from the room.

“Mother, Father.” Dorothea took a deep, shaky breath. “I have done nothing to provoke such censure. I assure you Cyrus Pearson has never been anything less than a gentleman in his conduct.”

Her mother reached for her hand. “Of course, dear. We know.”

Her parents exchanged a worried look, but her father said, “He’s in a sour temper today because a calf was stillborn last night. Say nothing more, and he will forget about it by morning.”

But if anything, her uncle’s temper worsened overnight. At breakfast he chastised Lorena for serving flapjacks instead of eggs, although Dorothea had heard him request flapjacks before heading to the barn to milk the cows. In the days that followed, his demands became more exacting, his sudden bursts of anger more swift and vengeful. He hovered over Dorothea whenever she sat at the quilt frame, glaring as if he suspected her of quilting slowly just to vex him. He left the house mornings and evenings alone, saying only that he would be at his sugar camp. Once Dorothea was sent there to fetch him, but although the scuffled dirt around the fire pit and a newly mended roof on the shack indicated recent activity, he was nowhere to be found. Another time, while gathering hickory nuts, she could have sworn she heard him arguing with someone, but when she ran to see what was the matter, she found him alone, with no reasonable explanation for wandering about the forest on the westernmost edge of the property after he had said he would be working in the barn. When she asked to whom he had been speaking, he first denied that he had spoken at all, then said he had been praying. Dorothea knew of no psalm that encouraged believers to make an angry noise unto the Lord, but she pretended to believe him.

Uncle Jacob’s increasingly erratic behavior made her long to unburden herself to Jonathan, the confidant of her childhood. She wrote to him often, but found it difficult to strike the appropriate balance of care and confession, to share her concerns with him without provoking any undue guilt or worry. She knew she had failed when he wrote back to thank her for her cheerful letters and praised her for accepting their uncle’s eccentricities with grace and humor. As Christmas approached, she grew ever more anxious for his impending visit. When he came home, he would see for himself how their uncle had worsened with age. Perhaps—she seized upon a wild hope—he might sympathize with her plight and invite her to spend part of the New Year in Baltimore with him.

But when his letter arrived a week before Christmas, she did not have to read it to know that her hopes were in vain. Her mother’s expression as she scanned the lines told her that he would not be coming home. One of his mentor’s patients, a young boy with unexplained recurring fits, took more comfort from Jonathan than the doctor himself. The boy’s parents begged Jonathan to remain in Baltimore so that their son’s final days would be eased by the presence of a trusted friend. Jonathan apologized for canceling a second visit and assured them he would find some excuse for the boy’s parents should his parents find themselves unable to do without him. Lorena, though obviously disappointed, said that she did not have the heart to deny the grieving parents their one small measure of comfort, and she wrote back to tell him he should remain.

Lorena asked Uncle Jacob’s permission first, of course. He told her that Jonathan might as well stay in Baltimore where he might do some good, since he had already missed spring planting and the harvest, when he was needed on the farm the most. Lorena tried unsuccessfully to hide her dismay at his apparent indifference to his nephew and presumptive heir, and both she and Robert were especially attentive to Uncle Jacob for the next few days, a display Dorothea regarded with disgust.

Her disappointment over Jonathan’s prolonged absence made her ever more determined to finish Uncle Jacob’s quilt so that it would not annoy her any more, and so she fixed herself a deadline of Christmas Eve. That way, she thought somewhat meanly, she would not be obliged to get him any other present, and she could enjoy the holidays without him hovering over her at the quilt frame. Besides, already a few authors had returned autographed pieces of muslin to the library board, and she was eager to join in the work of piecing Album blocks. She had not forgotten her uncle’s decree that she sew no other quilt until his own was complete. The more blocks she sewed, the greater her role would be in determining which authors were included—and since she had disregarded Mrs. Engle’s instructions and sent invitations to her own authors as well as those assigned to her, she could not afford to be left out of the selection process.

She sewed the last stitch into the binding of Uncle Jacob’s quilt on the morning of Christmas Eve. She concealed the finished quilt in her attic bedroom until the next morning, wistfully recalling long-ago Christmases on Thrift Farm, the curious amalgam of tradition and whimsy, solemnity and joy, the fragrance of candles and gingerbread and Yule log, the sound of Bach’s Christmas cantatas on dulcimer, fiddle, and organ. One of the founding members of the community would read the story of the Nativity, bringing it to life for Dorothea and Jonathan and the other children so vividly that Dorothea was filled with a rush of awe and reverence and gratitude. They would exchange gifts, but only things they had made or had found in nature. Looking back, Dorothea had to smile recalling how her father had once given her mother the second of the Four Brothers, the mountains framing the north end of the Elm Creek Valley, and how it had seemed a perfectly normal thing to do.

The gift of a handmade quilt would have met with approval on Thrift Farm, but Christmases at Uncle Jacob’s were a more subdued affair. He permitted the giving of gifts since the magi had brought gifts to the Christ Child, but there was no music save the hymns at church services, and certainly no parties. Dorothea had been invited to several Christmas Eve gatherings, one at her best friend Mary’s new home with her husband Abner, but Uncle Jacob would not allow her to attend. He emphatically forbade her to attend a sleigh riding party with Cyrus; anticipating this, she would not have bothered to ask him except Cyrus repeatedly entreated her, and she had promised she would.

Christmas morning church services were too festive for Uncle Jacob’s taste, but he could not very well forbid the family to attend church on Christmas. Dorothea could almost forget her longing for Jonathan in the merriment of the day. The people of Creek’s Crossing were cheerful and smiling as they wished one another a Merry Christmas, forgiving disagreements and past quarrels, if only for the day. The Ladies’ Auxiliary had arranged for a magnificent Christmas tree to adorn the sanctuary, and when services concluded, all were invited to take ribbon-tied oranges and wrapped parcels of roasted nuts down from the boughs. Most of the congregation lingered in the pews to share fellowship and laughter, but just as he did every year, Uncle Jacob urged his family toward the door as soon as the final hymn was sung. They had nearly reached it when Lorena spotted Abel and Constance Wright amidst the throng and broke away to greet them; as Uncle Jacob scowled after her, Dorothea felt a tap on her shoulder.

She turned to find Cyrus dangling a small parcel by its ribbon, so close it almost brushed her cheek. “There were toys on the tree for the children, too. Dolls for the girls and drums for the boys. Didn’t you get yours?”

“I must have forgotten,” she said, returning his smile.

“I thought you might, so I took the liberty of fetching yours for you. And now, before the crotchety old geezer turns around, I’ll have my Christmas present from you.”

Before she knew it, he kissed her swiftly on the cheek and disappeared into the crowd.

Too astonished to worry that Uncle Jacob had seen, she stood rooted in place. A moment later her mother was at her side. “Constance brought chestnuts for the dressing and said she’ll make the pudding at our place.” Lorena peered at her daughter. “What’s that in your hand?”

Dorothea glanced down and saw the ribbon-tied parcel. “A gift. From Cyrus.”

She quickly slipped it into her coat pocket, but not before Uncle Jacob turned around and spotted it. He scowled and urged Dorothea and her parents outside.

The parcel seemed heavy for its size as it weighed down Dorothea’s pocket on the ride home. The Wrights, having been invited for Christmas dinner, followed in their own wagon. Her parents conversed cheerfully, even laughing aloud as they rode, but Dorothea was as silent as Uncle Jacob. She had not expected that Cyrus would give her a gift. It had not even occurred to her to get him one.

At home, as the men tended to the horses and the women went to the kitchen, Dorothea slipped away to her attic bedroom to unwrap Cyrus’s gift. She untied the ribbon, unwrapped the paper, and discovered inside a hand mirror and comb, intricately worked with carvings of vines and roses, gilded in silver.

She had never owned anything so fine.

She sat on the bed with the gifts in her lap, then, hesitantly, lifted the mirror and ran the comb through her hair. Her reflection showed flushed cheeks and startled eyes; with a sudden jolt of embarrassment for her vanity, she quickly wrapped the comb and mirror in the paper and tucked them into the drawer of the pine table that served as her nightstand.

She hurried back to the kitchen and tied on her apron. Her mother and Constance were so engrossed in a discussion of the best way to dress a goose that they did not seem to notice her absence. The men returned from the barn and settled in the parlor, where Uncle Jacob took up his Bible and Dorothea’s father and Mr. Wright played draughts. After a game, Mr. Wright came into the kitchen, stole a kiss from his wife, and offered to help the women prepare the meal. At first they refused, but when Robert drawled, “Better let him help, if it will get the meal on the table faster,” they laughingly tied an apron on Mr. Wright and threatened to put Robert in one, too. Lorena and Constance teased Mr. Wright as he picked up a paring knife and offered to take care of the vegetables, but he worked diligently if not swiftly. Dorothea surmised he had gained a great deal of practice living as a bachelor. She doubted Cyrus would be so proficient in the kitchen, having first his mother and then a housekeeper to cook for him, but she quickly severed that train of thought.

At Lorena’s request, Dorothea set the table with the fine china her grandparents had brought over from England, the plates and bowls and tea service that spent most of the year wrapped in linen and tucked away in a lined chest decorated in golden fleur-de-lis. Translucent white with a border of roses, they were so delicate she was almost afraid to handle them, knowing that a single place setting was worth more than she was likely to earn in her lifetime. She had once asked her mother why people prosperous enough to own such treasures would have left their homeland to immigrate to the New World. Lorena had told her that the china had been the entirety of her grandparents’ fortune. Her grandfather, a soldier, had been given the trunk and its contents for saving the life of his commanding officer in battle in France. Upon his discharge, he sold enough pieces to purchase second-class passage to America for himself and his wife, determined to start a new life far from the seemingly endless warfare of Europe.