Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt (27 page)

“I have enjoyed them, too. It is pleasant to have an outing to look forward to during the week.”

“I hope that means you enjoy the company.”

Dorothea decided to exclude that day’s drive from her assessment. “I have, indeed.”

“Then perhaps we might continue our drives even if they have no practical purpose.”

She had to laugh. “My uncle would have said that is too much of an indulgence, but I think my parents would allow it.”

“Then I will call for you next Sunday as long as the weather is fair.” He paused. “I understand your brother is in town.”

“He was. He left only this morning.”

“I’m sorry I missed him. Did he return to hear the will read?”

“Yes.” A corner of one of the blankets came loose and flapped in the wind. Dorothea tucked it beneath her feet. “We visited the lawyer yesterday.”

“Since I did not see your parents loading the wagon, I assume the news was favorable to your family.”

Did everyone in the Elm Creek Valley know the Grangers’ circumstances? “Yes. My uncle was generous enough to leave his estate to my brother.”

“Splendid,” enthused Cyrus. Then he glanced at her. “You don’t mean the entire estate?”

“Well, no. He bequeathed a substantial gift to the church and provided smaller sums to friends and acquaintances.”

Cyrus’s smile seemed frozen in place. “And to you? Did he leave nothing to you?”

“As a matter of fact, he did leave me a most impressive steamer trunk, a book on the western territories, and more than enough money to purchase comfortable accommodations on the next train headed in that direction.” Dorothea laughed and shook her head. “The message might not be apparent to someone who did not know my uncle well. He thought I should seek my fortune out West.”

“Did he.”

“He told me so, not long before his death.”

“He could not know how hard life out West is for a woman or he never would have suggested it. Surely you need not resort to such drastic measures. Have you no inheritance forthcoming from your father’s side, from your relations in Grangerville?”

“I regret that I do not. My father’s beliefs put him at odds with the rest of his family long ago. When he and my mother asked for their share of the land to build their earthly utopia, his brothers bought him out of his share of the family farm rather than have such an embarrassing spectacle so close to home. It was a substantial portion, enough to buy Thrift Farm, but of course all was lost in the flood. I am sure you have heard that part of the story.”

“Yes,” said Cyrus. “That little I knew.”

Dorothea tried to make light of the family misfortune, knowing how quickly Cyrus wearied of any tale of woe. “We are, as far as I know, the only Grangers forced to leave in disgrace the town my grandparents founded, the town named after our family. Perhaps my uncle has a point, encouraging me to venture farther afield. But of course, I will not follow his advice. If I were to go anywhere, it would be back East, to a city such as Boston.”

“Boston is quite pleasant,” said Cyrus. “As for me, I prefer New York.”

They had turned onto the road up to the Granger farm—how easily the family had begun to think of it by that name, as if it had never been called by any other name, as if Lorena had never suggested they burden it with the title of their first, ill-fated farm. The meeting with the lawyer had indeed changed everything, even though the inheritor was even at that moment traveling eagerly eastward to a city and a life he much preferred.

Cyrus brought the horse to a halt a few paces from the back door. He demurred when she invited him in for tea, saying that he had other messages to carry for his mother. So she bid him a cheerful good-bye and returned inside to finish the housework, work she no longer minded now that the house was the Grangers’ own.

A
HEAVY SNOWFALL
prevented Cyrus from coming on Sunday, and when he did not come the next Sunday, either, Dorothea surmised he had decided it was too cold for a long ride. Still, even without the pleasure of an outing, the two weeks passed swiftly. Dorothea managed to finish the quilt top and, with her mother’s help, she made over her best winter dress for the dance. Though Dorothea declared it perfect, Lorena fretted over the dress, insisting that Dorothea should have used some of her inheritance money to purchase a few yards of silk brocade for a proper dancing gown. When Dorothea decided Creek’s Crossing did not host enough dances to warrant the expense, Lorena said, “You could wear it for other things besides dancing.” Dorothea knew she meant it would be a fine wedding dress, but teased her mother by saying she would wear it to milk the cows, and that she knew Mr. Hathaway could help her find the perfect men’s work boots to wear with it.

She did spend three dollars of her inheritance to purchase a bronze plate for a shelf for the new library. She had heard from Miss Nadelfrau that nearly twenty plates had sold. If the opportunity quilt earned only half as much, Dorothea would be well pleased.

In all that time, only two other fugitives passed through the Grangers’ station. They had come from Virginia, but thankfully had secured warm clothing before entering Pennsylvania. One of the men told Dorothea they had been planning their escape for a year and had intended to wait until spring, but when word came that their master intended to sell them to another plantation owner farther south before spring planting began, they fled. With regret, Dorothea realized she had never asked Zachariah why he had been compelled to flee to the north in the midst of winter. She wondered what had become of him. It was tempting to ride to the Brauns’ mill and ask what they knew, but Dorothea knew she must limit contact between their families to divert suspicion.

She also knew that when spring arrived, traffic through their station would increase. Robert completed the secret room in the cellar and rode out to the Wright farm to tell them to direct fugitives to the house rather than the sugar camp. Runaways could rest comfortably in Uncle Jacob’s old room, only a few steps away from a secure hiding place should they need it. The Sugar Camp Quilt would adorn the bed, giving the runaways ample opportunity to learn its patterns by heart. Dorothea was relieved to know that her nightly treks to the sugar camp would cease, for she always felt as if Mr. Liggett was watching her from the darkness of the maple grove. Even Lorena acknowledged that the new arrangements were for the best, as the increased safety of the runaways was worth the greater risk to themselves.

On the last Saturday evening in February, Dorothea and her parents rode into town dressed in their finest. Lorena had made a chicken pie for the covered-dish supper, and Dorothea carried a sour cream cake in a basket on her lap. The completed Authors’ Album quilt top lay in the wagon, folded and wrapped in a clean muslin sheet. Although Dorothea was tempted to get it in the quilt frame before Mrs. Engle inspected it too closely, she knew it would be wiser to inform Mrs. Engle about the banned authors before she discovered on her own that they had been included in the quilt. Mrs. Engle might not be above ordering Dorothea to rip out stitches even in front of all the assembled guests if she thought Dorothea had intended to deceive her.

Dorothea had not seen any of the other library board members for several weeks, so she was as curious as any other guest to see what the ladies had done to transform the school into a suitable ballroom. Mrs. Collins greeted the Grangers at the door, beaming. The whole town seemed to be turning out for the Quilting Bee Dance, and so many people had purchased tickets for the quilt based on its description alone that they might sell out. Mrs. Collins was so pleased with the board’s success that at first she urged the Grangers to enter without paying the admission fee, but they insisted.

“Where is Mrs. Engle?” asked Dorothea, the quilt bundle in her arms. From inside the school came the sounds of people talking and laughing. A fiddle, banjo, and bass were tuning up, and after the barest pause, they launched into a merry tune.

“She’s meeting with Mr. Schultz to see how long it would take to print another batch of tickets,” replied Mrs. Collins, raising her voice to be heard. “You’ll find Miss Nadelfrau’s quilt frame in the front corner. Mrs. Engle said for you to put the quilt into the frame as quickly as you can.”

“Doesn’t she want to see it first?”

“There’s no time! Ladies are milling about with their thimbles and nothing to do.” Mrs. Collins broke off for a moment to collect money from a small crowd of revelers eager to enter. “She left strict instructions that you are not to waste a moment on anything else until the quilting is under way.”

“You had better do as Mrs. Engle wishes,” added Lorena, unable to conceal her amusement.

“I guess I’ll take this for you, then,” said Robert, indicating the sour cream cake he carried for his daughter.

Dorothea thanked him and followed her parents inside. It was too late to do anything else.

They left their wraps in the cloakroom, and while her parents took their contributions to the covered-dish table, Dorothea hurried to the quilt frame. Miss Nadelfrau stood beside it, fidgeting anxiously with her chatelaine, but she heaved a sigh of relief when Dorothea appeared. Swiftly they layered the backing, batting, and quilt top in the frame as a crowd of admirers gathered about them. Dorothea waited for Miss Nadelfrau to mention the banned authors, but in her haste she seemed not to notice.

Four women sat down to quilt as soon as Dorothea and Miss Nadelfrau pulled up chairs. “It seems everyone wants to be the first to put a stitch in,” said Miss Nadelfrau, with the first smile Dorothea had seen from her that evening. She smiled back, weakly, and excused herself to find Mrs. Engle.

The room was steadily filling with people, but Dorothea did not spy Mrs. Engle among them. All of the desks had been pushed back against the walls and a few were arranged end-to-end along the back wall to hold the covered dishes, from which delicious aromas wafted. Couples took the floor and the musicians began a schottische. Dorothea saw her parents among the dancers and her best friend, Mary, with her husband, Abner. Mary called out something, but Dorothea could only smile and shake her head to indicate that she had not heard.

Just then she heard Mrs. Engle bark out a command near the back of the room. Dorothea wove through the crowd of onlookers lining the dance floor and steeled herself as she approached Mrs. Engle, who was giving directions to a group of frightened-looking girls apparently drafted into service as servers, judging by their aprons and the speed with which they scurried to the back tables once Mrs. Engle dismissed them.

Dorothea touched her lightly on the arm. “I beg your pardon—”

Mrs. Engle spun about, the skirt of her royal blue velvet dress swirling. “Ah! There you are, my dear. Is the quilt in order?”

“Yes, but there’s something I—”

“Let’s have a look at it, then, shall we?”

With an indulgent smile, Mrs. Engle turned and made her way toward the quilt frame. The crowd parted before the formidable woman and closed just as quickly behind her so Dorothea was forced to dodge passersby and groups gathered in conversation. She tried to call out to Mrs. Engle, but her voice was lost in the din.

When she finally caught up to Mrs. Engle, she was standing rigid and wide-eyed at the side of the quilt frame. Two other women had joined the original six, and already they had completed a significant portion of the quilt with meticulous, feathery quilting.

Mrs. Engle did not even turn to look at her. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I meant to tell you—”

“As you should have done!” Two spots of red appeared in the plump ivory of Mrs. Engle’s cheeks. “I distinctly recall stating that this man—” She jabbed a finger at one block. “—And this man—” The finger again pointed accusingly. “Were not suitable for this quilt!”

The quilters looked up cautiously but did not pause in their work. Dorothea took a deep breath. “You did indeed tell me that, but I thought—”

“You thought?” Mrs. Engle trembled with anger and disbelief, her powdered jowls shaking from the effort of controlling her temper. “You were not placed on the library board to think. You were included because we thought your uncle might make a donation on your behalf!”

Dorothea could not imagine why they had thought such a thing. “I regret that you were disappointed in that regard,” she said. “However, you did include me, and therefore I was obligated to do my very best to make this fund-raiser a success. While you do not care for these authors, their works are widely read and respected in the community, and thus their inclusion increases the value of the quilt.”

“You do not know the reading habits of our community very well if you believe that,” retorted Mrs. Engle. “What am I to do when people demand their money back once they become aware of this—this debacle?”

Dorothea thought of her inheritance. “In the unlikely event that anyone should do so, I will reimburse them for their tickets—up to a certain point.”

Mrs. Engle sniffed. “That is the very least you can do. You will forgive me, of course, if I request your resignation from the library board before you can do any more damage.”

Stung, Dorothea was suddenly aware of a lull in the noise around them and the watchful eyes of the women waiting for their turn at the quilt frame. Others, men and women drawn by the sounds of argument, peered at the quilt and whispered to one another as if trying to deduce which authors were not supposed to have been included.

“Why, I declare,” said a woman loudly. “This Henry Brown here isn’t Henry ‘Box’ Brown, is he?”

Dorothea turned and saw Constance Wright standing on the other side of the quilt frame, indicating the Album block nearest her right hand. Her feet were planted and she regarded Mrs. Engle with defiance.

“The one and the same,” said Dorothea, grateful for the distraction.

“That’s worth another dollar from me,” said Constance. “I’m going to buy myself some more tickets.”

“Who is Henry ‘Box’ Brown?” asked a young man, apparently curious despite being disappointed that Constance had interrupted Mrs. Engle’s tirade.

“Why, don’t you know?” said Constance. “He was a slave in Virginia who escaped by having himself shut up in a crate and mailed to abolitionists in Philadelphia.”

A wave of incredulous laughter went up from the onlookers.

“Utter nonsense,” said Mrs. Engle, looking more outraged than ever. “No one could endure it. Furthermore, I would never abide the inclusion of a—”

“As incredible as the story may seem, it is nevertheless true,” said Mr. Nelson, emerging from the crowd. “I lived in Philadelphia at the time and it was in all the papers. Mrs. Engle, you are too modest to claim that you were not aware of his name on your quilt. It was a stroke of genius to include people who were bound to provoke interest and discussion. How appropriate for a library full of books destined to do the very same. While we dance, you must tell me how you arranged this.”

He held out his hand to Mrs. Engle with such brisk authority that she could only stare at him, dumbfounded, before taking his hand. He led her off to the dance floor without so much as a glance for Dorothea or the quilt that had sparked such controversy. The spectacle over, the onlookers returned to enjoying the dance.

Dorothea joined Constance on the other side of the quilting frame as she took a chair vacated by another quilter. “You arrived at precisely the right moment. If she had gone on much longer I might have said something I truly regretted.”