Elm Creek Quilts [08] The Christmas Quilt (19 page)

“I don’t either, love, but sorrows come to us all. But don’t worry. Remember these?” Great-Aunt Lucinda touched several red squares in a row. “As long as these home fires keep burning, Elizabeth will always have more joys than sorrows.”

The meaning of the quilt had comforted Sylvia as a child, and now, the memory of Great-Aunt Lucinda’s love warmed her heart once again. Cousin Elizabeth had journeyed so far that none of the Bergstroms expected to see her again. God willing, Sylvia would see her husband and brother, and Andrew and Harold. Until then, the Bergstrom women would keep the home fires burning. They would keep a candle in the window to welcome their loved ones home.

And while they waited, Sylvia would stitch her joys and sorrows into the Christmas Quilt, using the fabrics of the women who had gone before her to make the Log Cabin blocks she had never had the chance to make with her great-aunt.

She chose red scraps for the center of the Log Cabin blocks and sewed rectangles of evergreen and snowy white around them, alternating the colors so that one half of the block was light and the other dark, divided along the diagonal. Sometimes the greens were so dark they appeared almost black, and often an ivory or muslin scrap slipped in among the white. The variations added depth and dimension to her work, subtle nuances that enhanced the beauty of the clearer hues.

Lost in reminiscences of Christmases past and the Christmas future she yearned for, Sylvia passed the day in sewing and reflection. Later, when hunger beckoned her from the sitting room, she discovered her home transformed by the loving attention of her sister and sister-in-law. All the old familiar decorations adorned the foyer, the ballroom, the other nooks and corners where so many memories lingered. Candles glowed softly in the windows; wreaths of holly and ivy graced the doors.

“We need a tree,” said Agnes as they prepared a simple dinner for themselves and Sylvia’s father, who was in bed recovering from a bout of the flu and needed his meal brought up to him on a tray.

Claudia glanced out the window. The sun touched the horizon, and the elm trees along the creek cast long shadows that stretched across the snowy ground and brushed the manor as if longing to come inside into the warmth. “We can’t look for a tree tonight,” she said. “It’s too late. It will be dark by the time we finish dinner.”

“Tomorrow, then,” said Agnes cheerfully. “That’s the proper day, isn’t it? Richard told me your family always chooses the tree on Christmas Eve.”

Sylvia wondered what else Richard had told her.

After dinner, she returned to the sitting room to work on the quilt. Claudia and Agnes joined her, each tending to her own work, but not so absorbed that they did not pause from time to time to admire Sylvia’s progress.

The next morning, Sylvia returned to the Log Cabin blocks after breakfast and sewed until Claudia suggested they make strudel. The sisters set Agnes to peeling apples while they mixed and kneaded the dough, then took up their paring knives to assist her while the dough rested.

“In Philadelphia, my parents employed a chef who had trained in Paris,” Agnes said as they sliced the peeled apples into uniform pieces. “Every year he made the same dessert, a rolled cake decorated to resemble a yule log.”

“Bûche de noël,”
said Sylvia, her mother’s words suddenly rising to the forefront of her memory.

“Yes, that’s what he called it.” Agnes gave her a curious look. “Have you ever made one?”

“Never, but my mother’s family served it every year when she was a child.”

Agnes nodded thoughtfully, and Sylvia suddenly wondered what her mother would have thought of the young woman. They might have more in common than Sylvia had ever suspected.

When the apple filling was prepared and the dough had rested, Sylvia and Claudia demonstrated how to stretch it. Agnes was impressed, but too worried about ruining the dough to try her hand at it. Sylvia was willing to let her be, but Claudia would not tolerate such reluctance. “You’re a Bergstrom woman, and Bergstrom women need to learn this recipe,” she insisted. “Besides, Sylvia really ought to get off her feet and I can’t finish on my own.”

Sylvia knew her sister could manage perfectly well, but she said nothing because the fib finally convinced Agnes to roll up her sleeves and try. Standing opposite Claudia, she reached beneath the dough and pulled it toward her with the backs of her hands, mirroring her sister-in-law. At first her efforts were so timid that she made no difference at all, but with encouragement from Claudia and teasing from Sylvia, she grew bolder. The dough had nearly doubled in area when Agnes’s wedding ring snagged on the dough, tearing it.

“You should have removed your jewelry first,” said Sylvia, leaving her stool to help Claudia seal the gap.

“Never,” said Agnes. She closed her right hand around her left fingers so fiercely that Sylvia and Claudia laughed. Agnes worked more carefully after that, but she still tore the dough twice more before it reached the edges of the table.

Before long the strudel was in the oven baking, filling the kitchen with the enticing aroma of apples and cinnamon. “It smells divine,” said Agnes, inhaling deeply as she swept up apple peelings from the floor.

“It does,” Claudia agreed, “but it doesn’t smell half as wonderful as Gerda Bergstrom’s did.”

“How would you know?” demanded Sylvia.

Claudia looked at her, surprised. “I suppose I don’t,” she said. “I’ve heard it repeated so often I assumed it was true.”

Sylvia laughed.

“Now that we’ve finished the strudel, should we set out to find a tree?” asked Agnes.

Sylvia’s mirth vanished. “We can’t leave the house while the strudel’s baking. It might burn.”

“We don’t all have to go,” said Claudia. “One of us could stay behind.”

“It would take all our combined strength to bring in a tree,” countered Sylvia. “You’ve never done it, so you don’t know. It’s a heavy load to haul on the toboggan, even with a strong man at your side.”

Agnes shrugged. “So we’ll pick a smaller tree. We can’t have Christmas without a tree.”

Sylvia thought back to the four Christmases of her marriage, to the four times she and James had ventured out into the woods to search for the perfect Christmas tree. None of the later searches had been as dramatic as the first, but each had been memorable in its own right. Each blessed them with a revelation about their marriage—how they worked together, made decisions, showed respect, disagreed—some facet of their relationship that had been present all along, brought to the surface for them to accept with joy, or to resolve to change. After sharing so much with James every Christmas Eve of her married life, she could not bear to have anyone else take his place at her side, not even a sister.

“It is a Bergstrom family tradition that the most recently married couple chooses the tree,” said Sylvia. “James is not here, I can’t bring in a tree alone, and I don’t want to go with anyone else. Rather than break family tradition, I’ve decided against having a tree this year.”

Claudia peered at her. “So you believe that the most recently married couple, or bride, in this case, should decide whether we have a tree.”

“Exactly.”

“That sounds reasonable to me.”

“Good,” said Sylvia, surprised that her sister had conceded so easily.

With a triumphant grin, Claudia turned to Agnes. “It’s up to you, then. Should we have a tree this year or not?”

Startled, Sylvia spun to face Agnes. She had forgotten. It was too cruel to admit, but it was sometimes difficult for her to remember that Richard was married, that Agnes was more than a visitor.

“If it’s up to me …” Agnes avoided Sylvia’s eyes. “I would like to have a tree.”

Claudia’s smile broadened in satisfaction, sparking Sylvia’s anger. “You’ll have to bring it in yourselves,” Sylvia said, and strode off to the sitting room to work on the Christmas Quilt.

She heard them at the back door dressing to go out into the snow, but she did not move from her chair. She worked on the Christmas Quilt, pausing only to take the strudel from the oven—baked to a perfect golden brown—and fix lunch for her father. She placed a bowl of soup, some crackers, and a mug of hot tea with lemon and honey on a tray and carried it up to the library, where her father was reading a book in an armchair in front of the fireplace, wrapped in a blue-and-white Ocean Waves quilt her mother had made long ago.

“Lunchtime,” she announced. “Chicken noodle soup and tea with honey.”

“Better than any medicine.” Carrying his book and holding the quilt around himself, her father joined her at the large oak desk and seated himself in the leather chair as she placed the tray before him. “What are you girls up to down there? I thought I heard the back door open.”

“Claudia and Agnes went out for a Christmas tree.” Sylvia nudged a stack of business papers out of the way and moved the bowl of soup closer.

“Oh?” Her father brightened. “That’s a fine idea. I was beginning to think you girls didn’t want a tree this year.”

“Agnes had her heart set on it.”

“Do you need me to help place it in the stand?”

“We’ll manage, Father. Thank you.”

“Nonsense.” A fit of hoarse coughing interrupted him. “I’m feeling fine.”

“Oh, yes, I can see that you are. You should be in bed.” At his warning look, she held up her palms. “Fine. You’re on the mend. I’m not going to argue with you.”

“You’re the one who should be in bed,” he pointed out, indicating her abdomen with a nod.

“Now
that
is nonsense,” said Sylvia, dismissing his advice with a smile. “I’ll let you know when the tree is in place so you can help decorate.”

Not long after she returned to her quilt, she heard the back door open. A moment later, Claudia stood in the sitting room doorway, still in her coat and boots. “Sylvia,” she said, fighting to catch her breath, “I need your help.”

Alarmed, Sylvia hauled herself awkwardly to her feet. “What’s wrong? Is Agnes hurt?”

“No, but she’s—I can’t explain. Just come with me.”

Quickly Sylvia threw on some old winter clothes of James’s, having outgrown her own coat, and followed her sister outside. They trudged through the snow toward the largest stand of evergreens, following the narrow trail Claudia and Agnes had broken earlier.

They had not ventured far. They were still within sight of the manor when Sylvia spotted Agnes’s coat and hood through the bare-limbed elms on the other side of the creek. The young woman stood fixed in place, gazing up into the branches of a Frazier fir. It was full, tall, and straight, and as they drew closer, Sylvia could see why Agnes had chosen it.

“What’s the matter?” Sylvia asked, lowering her voice. “Is she afraid to hurt herself with the ax? Do you need me to do it?”

“You’re welcome to try, if she’ll let you.”

As they reached Agnes, Sylvia realized that the emotion in her sister’s manner was exasperation, not worry. “Agnes?” she asked carefully. “Is something wrong with the tree?”

“No.” Agnes stared up at it, her expression unreadable. “It’s perfect.”

Sylvia looked around for the ax and spotted it on the toboggan. “Then let’s cut it down and take it inside.”

“No!” Agnes caught Sylvia by the coat sleeve before she could lift the ax. “Don’t you see? There’s a bird’s nest up there.”

She pointed, and Sylvia followed the line of her finger to a spot just above the midsection of the tree. After a moment’s scrutiny, she was able to discern a nest of twigs, brown leaves, and straw hidden within the spruce branches.

“I told her it’s abandoned,” said Claudia. “All the birds have flown south for the winter.”

“Not all of them,” countered Agnes.

“Some chickadees don’t. Neither do owls and woodpeckers.”

“What sort of bird made that nest?” asked Sylvia.

Agnes hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Then it most likely belonged to a robin who left for sunnier skies months ago.” Claudia shook her head. “It’s almost certain that’s an uninhabited nest.”

“
Almost
certain,” said Agnes. “I don’t want to destroy the home of a living creature if we can’t do any better than ‘almost.’ Even if the bird did migrate, what will it think when it returns home in the spring and discovers its home is gone?”

Sylvia had never given much thought to what birds thought, or even if they did. “Perhaps the bird would be glad to have the excuse to build a nice, new nest in a tree deeper in the woods.”

Incredulous, Agnes looked at her. “Is that how you would feel? Is that how you think the boys would feel if they came home from the war and found that we had torn down Elm Creek Manor and moved into the old Nelson farmhouse because it was closer to town?”

Claudia threw up her hands. “This is so far beyond reasonable that I don’t think the word has been invented yet to properly describe it.”

Agnes, hurt and close to tears, turned her gaze back to the tree. Sylvia saw that she was biting the inside of her cheek to keep from crying.

“I have a solution,” she said carefully. “Why don’t you pick another tree, one without a nest in it?”

“No.” The set of Agnes’s jaw showed that she was resolute. “It has to be this one. I knew the moment I saw it.”

“But—” Sylvia threw Claudia a helpless glance, but Claudia just shook her head. “We have so many trees, and you haven’t spent much time looking. I’m sure you’ll find another tree just as lovely.”

“No, I won’t. I didn’t set out to find an adequate tree or the most convenient tree. I set out to find the right one, and I did. This is the one I choose. Haven’t you ever found something and known in your heart that it was meant to be yours?”

Sylvia had, once. She sighed. “Well, you found it all right, but you can’t keep it.”

“I know that,” said Agnes.

Sylvia thought for a moment. “We could move the nest to another tree.”

“You are not climbing a tree in your condition,” said Claudia. “Let Agnes do it.”

“I don’t know how to climb trees,” said Agnes defensively. “One doesn’t get much practice in a city.”

“You know a lot about the migratory habits of the birds of Pennsylvania for a girl who’s never climbed a tree.”