The Lost Quilter

Simon & Schuster
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New York, NY 10020

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Copyright© 2009 by Jennifer Chiaverini

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Chiaverini, Jennifer.
The lost quilter: an Elm Creek quilts novel / Jennifer Chiaverini.
p. cm.
1. Compson, Sylvia (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Quilting—Fiction. 3. Quiltmakers—Fiction. 4. Quilts—Fiction. 5. Genealogy—Fiction. 6. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3553.H473L67 2008
813'.54—dc22
2008025098

ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-5854-8
ISBN-10: 1-4391-5854-1

Visit us on the World Wide Web:
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To my husband, Marty
Forever my beloved

Many thanks to Denise Roy, Maria Massie, Rebecca Davis, Dina Siljkovic, Aileen Boyle, Kate Ankofski, Mara Lurie, Melanie Parks, and David Rosenthal for their contributions to
The Lost Quilter
and their support for the Elm Creek Quilts series through the years.

Hugs and thanks to Tara Shaughnessy, the world’s best nanny, who plays with my sons so I have time to write.

I am indebted to the Wisconsin Historical Society as well as their librarians and student workers who provided excellent resources for this book. I am also grateful to Geneva Keating of the Historic Charleston Foundation and to Gretchen Smith of the Edisto Island Museum for their invaluable help with my many questions about life in Charleston and Edisto Island during Joanna’s day. I am especially thankful to Ann Craigmile for her thorough reading of the manuscript and insightful comments.

Thank you to the friends and family who have supported and encouraged me from the beginning, especially Geraldine Neidenbach, Heather Neidenbach, Nic Neidenbach, Virginia Riechman,
and Leonard and Marlene Chiaverini. Thanks also to my teammates from Homeland Insecurity, Just For Kicks, and Oh-Thirty for providing me with awesome workouts, great camaraderie, patient coaching, essential stress relief, and only one broken bone during the writing of this book.

Most of all, I thank my wonderful husband, Marty, for showing me what true love means every day, and my sons, Nicholas and Michael, for filling my life with laughter and joy.

O
n a clear, brisk October morning, Sylvia Bergstrom Compson descended the stone staircase from the veranda of Elm Creek Manor and set out for the barn, where the estate’s caretaker awaited her. High above, an arrowhead of Canada geese crossed the cloudless sky and disappeared behind the gold and scarlet forest encircling the estate, their fading sentinel cries warning of winter’s approach. A gust of wind carried the scent of wood smoke from a distant fire.

Sylvia smiled and tucked her hands into the pockets of her navy wool cardigan, her sturdy shoes crunching dried leaves that had fallen upon the rear parking lot, empty except for the Elm Creek Quilts minivan and the red pickup belonging to Sarah and Matt McClure, two of the manor’s few permanent residents. Curiosity had compelled Sylvia out of doors that morning, as the note Matt had left on the kitchen counter had not explained why he wanted her to meet him in the barn. It didn’t matter. Sylvia was glad for any excuse to wander that way and enjoy the estate’s glorious autumn beauty before winter took hold.

She crossed the bridge over Elm Creek and followed the gravel road to the two-story red barn that her great-grandfather, Hans Bergstrom, had built into the side of the hill shortly after founding Elm Creek Farm in the late 1850s. Since then the barn had served as a shelter for farm animals, a garage, a plant nursery and toolshed, and more recently, as a woodshop for one of the manor’s newest arrivals, Joe Hartley, the husband of Elm Creek Quilt Camp’s newest teacher. A former steelworker forced onto disability decades earlier by a devastating injury at the mill, Joe had made quite a name for himself in the furniture restoration and carpentry business both in Ambridge, his hometown on the Ohio River, and throughout Pennsylvania. When his wife Gretchen’s new job brought the couple to Elm Creek Manor, Sylvia had been pleased to offer Joe the empty half of her great-grandfather’s barn for his flourishing business.

In Sylvia’s opinion, her generosity had already proven to be as rewarding for her as it was for Joe. Within days of his arrival, Joe had begun searching the manor’s cluttered attic for long-forgotten antiques—chairs with broken spindles, bureaus with drawers that stuck—heirlooms that when they were no longer usable were moved into storage because they were too beloved to be discarded. Joe’s careful ministrations had already restored her great-aunt Lydia’s bureau and her grandmother’s favorite rocking chair to perfect condition. Sylvia, who had found the task of clearing the attic of clutter too daunting, often thought that in hiring Gretchen as a teacher and offering her and her husband accommodations within the manor, Elm Creek Quilts had gained not one new staff member but two.

As she approached the barn, Sylvia recognized voices within—Matt, the estate’s caretaker; his wife, Sarah, Sylvia’s dear young
friend and cofounder of Elm Creek Quilts; and Joe himself, probably hard at work on another newly discovered heirloom from the attic. Entering through the large double doors, Sylvia discovered her friends in Joe’s woodshop examining an antique desk that had evidently been well used by its original owner.

“This is why you summoned me from my warm house on this chilly autumn morning?” Sylvia inquired. “I expected nothing less than a treasure chest stuffed full of the long-lost Bergstrom jewels.”

From kneeling to examine the bottom of the desk Matt sat up so quickly that he grazed his head on a drawer. “There are lost Bergstrom jewels?” he asked, rubbing his forehead and wincing.

“She’s kidding, honey,” Sarah said, patting his shoulder, then placing a hand on her tummy and gazing heavenward as if praying that the twins she carried would have more astute senses of humor than their father.

“To me, the desk itself is the treasure,” said Joe. “This is solid cherry, quarter-hewn, and look at the detailing on the side panels. It’s a bit scuffed and scratched, but I can take care of that, no problem.”

“Well, then, please go right ahead,” said Sylvia, surprised. “You should know by now that you don’t need to ask my permission. You haven’t disappointed me yet and I doubt you ever will.”

“This desk needs more than a little sanding and stain,” Joe warned, indicating a drawer on the right-hand side. “This drawer is locked, and the keyhole’s so corroded from rust that the tumblers are fused solid.”

“So we probably couldn’t unlock it even if we had the key.” Sarah threw Sylvia an inquiring glance. “Which I assume we
don’t, unless it’s dangling from a master key ring that I don’t know about?”

“I don’t think so, and even if there were one, I wouldn’t know where to look for it.” Sylvia drew closer and peered at the rusty keyhole. It did indeed seem permanently fixed shut. “Well, it’s still a lovely desk even without the use of one drawer. Those two on the left side should suffice. My suggestion is not to worry about it.”

“I’d think so, too, except—” Sarah beckoned to Matt. “Show her, honey.”

Matt nodded, rose, and lifted the side of the desk. Sylvia distinctly heard something slide over the wood and thump softly against the interior wall of the drawer. When Matt set the desk’s legs back on the floor, the sound came again, whispery and dry, like old paper.

“I can pry off the drawer front to get at whatever’s inside,” Joe said, “but not without damage. I checked the other drawers and they were made solid, with dovetail fittings. I can repair the drawer after, but it won’t be as strong, and I can’t promise that I won’t scrape up the wood. And anything I do will lower its value as an antique.”

“But that’s the only way to find out what’s inside.” Sarah had clearly already formed her own opinion of what should be done. “You weren’t planning to have the desk appraised and sold anyway, were you, Sylvia?”

“There might not be anything important in there,” cautioned Matt. “I doubt it’s a wad of hundred-dollar bills. You might ruin the desk only to find an old pocket dictionary or a pad of blank paper.”

“Or you might find an important piece of Bergstrom history,” said Sarah, shooting her husband a pointed look. “Maybe another
memoir, like the one your great-grandfather’s sister Gerda wrote. Or maybe a bundle of letters. Or maybe the original deed to Elm Creek Farm! Wouldn’t that be an amazing find? We could frame it and display it in the foyer.”

“My great-grandfather won Elm Creek Farm from a drunkard in a horse race,” Sylvia reminded her. “Somehow I doubt he ever held anything as formal as a deed.”

But the desk’s scratches and worn places suggested that it had seen a great deal of use. Someone—or perhaps generations of someones—had read and written letters at that desk, had kept ledgers or balanced accounts, had saved receipts and bills and children’s report cards. Matt could be correct; the drawer might contain nothing of value. On the other hand, it could also shelter something that documented a part of the Bergstrom family history, a small clue that would illuminate a new facet of her ancestors’ lives.

The potential for discovery overruled any concerns she might have had about damaging the desk.

“I don’t think I could walk past this desk day after day without wondering for the rest of my life what that drawer contains,” she declared. “Joe, please do your best to minimize the damage, but don’t keep us in suspense too long.”

Joe retrieved tools from the pegboard above his workbench and set himself to the task. Within minutes he had pried off the drawer front, brushed off a thick layer of dust from the inside, and set the carved cherry panel on the desktop. Stooping over, he reached deep into the recess, tugged hard on something Sylvia couldn’t see, and grimaced when the drawer didn’t budge. He knelt down to get a better angle, filed off a thin sliver of wood from the right side of the drawer, and reached into the opening again. The old wood creaked and groaned in protest, but little by
little, Joe forced it open until at last he yanked it free. “Stubborn piece of junk,” he complained cheerfully. “The wood must’ve swelled with moisture. It was fused so tight, the lock was unnecessary.”

“One of my ancestors must have thought it was necessary once,” Sylvia pointed out, coming closer to see what had been locked away for so many decades.

There within the broken drawer lay a stack of yellowed envelopes, bound together with a frayed, faded ribbon.

“Careful,” Sarah murmured, though Sylvia did not need the warning to know to proceed cautiously. Gently she picked up the bundle, but when she tried to untie the ribbon, it crumbled to dusty fragments beneath her fingertips. Softly she blew the tattered bits aside and fumbled for her glasses, which hung from a silver chain around her neck.

The envelope on the top of the stack was addressed to Miss Gerda Bergstrom, Elm Creek Farm, Creek’s Crossing, Pennsylvania.

“Creek’s Crossing?” Joe asked, peering over Sylvia’s shoulder.

“Yes. Waterford was called that long ago.” Sylvia set the stack of letters on the desktop and gently thumbed through them, counting ten in all, arranged with the earliest postmark on top. The second letter was also addressed to Gerda Bergstrom, but the other eight were addressed to the Bergstrom Residence. The fifth had been returned to the sender, who had evidently crossed out the words Creek’s Crossing, written Waterford below it, and affixed a new stamp over the one that had been canceled. The remaining letters had been sent to Waterford. The return address on the first letter was from Virginia, while the others had been mailed from various towns in South Carolina, none of which sounded familiar.

Sylvia carefully opened the top envelope, which was thankfully far less brittle than the ribbon had been. She withdrew a single sheet of yellowed paper, gingerly unfolded it, and began to read aloud:

Sylvia’s voice caught in her throat each time she read the familiar names: Joanna, a runaway slave who had found refuge at Elm Creek Farm. Josiah Chester, her cruel owner. Wentworth County, Virginia, the land Joanna had fled, and to which she had probably been returned upon her recapture.

Sylvia’s great-great-aunt Gerda Bergstrom had recorded the story of Joanna’s daring escape and tragic recapture in her memoir. Gerda had also told of her own long, obsessive, ultimately unsuccessful search for Joanna after the war, and in the last pages of her memoir she had described a letter very much like the one Sylvia now held.

The reason for the locked drawer was suddenly clear: Gerda had known secrets about the Bergstrom family she intended to conceal forever, even from her own descendants. Perhaps especially from them.

“Mrs. Chester obviously didn’t want to hear from Gerda again, but someone else was willing to write,” Sarah prompted, indicating the other letters.

Sylvia cleared her throat, returned Mrs. Chester’s letter to the envelope, and picked up the second from the stack. “This one was mailed from South Carolina,” she said, opening it. “Perhaps Gerda was able to track down some of the relatives that bought the Chesters’ recaptured slaves.”

“Who’s Douglass Frederick?” asked Matt. “Who’s Lenore Harris, for that matter?”

“I’ve never heard those names before,” said Sylvia, shaking her head and returning the letter to the envelope.

“Could she have meant Frederick Douglass?” asked Sarah. “Did he ever visit Elm Creek Farm?”

The Bergstroms and their closest friends had been abolitionists who ran stations on the Underground Railroad, so it was not entirely out of the question. “I don’t believe so,” said Sylvia. “I’m sure Gerda would have recorded such an event in her memoir. As an abolitionist she considered Frederick Douglass one of her heroes, and she mentioned his autobiography.”