The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) (17 page)

The next day she thanked her aunt and uncle for their kindness and bought a train ticket to Baltimore.

She had phoned ahead, so her motherin-law was waiting for her on the platform, dressed in black, clutching her handbag anxiously. Sylvia disembarked and almost fell into her arms. “There, there, dear,” Mrs. Compson murmured, patting her on the back. “It’s all right. Don’t worry about anything. We’ll take you home.”

James’s father was waiting in the car, but he leaped out to help her with her luggage. Her throat constricted at the sight of him, so like her James, tall and dark-haired, with blue eyes and a smile that warmed her to her very core. Mr. Compson did not smile now and his face was haggard with grief. She had not seen her in-laws since the funeral. They seemed to have aged decades in a few months.

Mrs. Compson sat beside Sylvia in the back seat of the Packard as Mr. Compson drove them to their horse farm on the Chesapeake Bay about twenty-five miles southeast of the city. “We’ve fixed up Mary’s room for you,” she said. “We hope you’ll be comfortable there.”

Sylvia’s sister-in-law had graduated from the University of Maryland a few months after the attack on Pearl Harbor. While her brothers were at war, she had married a congressman and moved to Washington. At James’s funeral she had grieved silently, clutching her husband’s arm and staring into the distance.

“I’m sure I will be.” Sylvia’s voice sounded hollow, unfamiliar. On her last visit to the Compson farm, she and James had stayed in his old room. She was grateful Mrs. Compson had known not to put her there.

Not once did the Compsons ask her why she had come or how long she planned to stay. When the white fences and green pastures of the farm came into view, Sylvia felt a gentle whisper of peace upon her soul, a promise that one day she would be able to remember James’s smile or his touch upon her skin without feeling as if her life had ended with his.

C
OMPSON’S
R
ESOLUTION
, six hundred acres of neatly fenced pasture, rolling forested hills, and cultivated farmland, had been in the Compson family since the eighteenth century. The name of the farm came from the settlement of a border dispute with the farmer who owned the acres to the northwest of the Compson property. The Compsons still lived in the two-hundred-year-old brown stone farmhouse with a Gambrel roof that their first ancestor in Maryland had built. Unlike the Bergstroms, who had added an entire wing to the original homestead farmhouse as the family prospered, the Compsons had brought modern conveniences to the interior but kept the footprint of the house essentially unchanged.

Sylvia was accustomed to life on a horse farm, and she soon fell into the rhythm of the Compson household. She rose early to help Mrs. Compson prepare breakfast for the family and the hired hands; she washed clothes and cleaned house; she fed chickens and pigs and tended the kitchen garden. Her motherin-law appreciated Sylvia’s help, for in Mary’s absence, the housework had fallen on her shoulders alone. “I’m happier still for your company,” she said, pressing a soft, plump hand to Sylvia’s cheek. Her kindness brought tears to Sylvia’s eyes. How could Mrs. Compson, wracked with grief for the loss of James and her grandchild, bustle about with such brisk, cheerful authority? Perhaps knowing that two of her sons had returned safely home from the war in Europe and that Mary was expecting a child gave her purpose.

Without James, without Elm Creek Manor, Sylvia felt adrift, her only tether to this world the love and kindness of James’s parents.

She was most content out of doors, helping Mr. Compson with the horses. Although he and the stable hands would have managed fine without her, whenever Sylvia appeared at the corral, her father-in-law invariably found a horse that needed to be exercised. Riding alone on the trails that criss-crossed Compson’s Resolution, resting by the old farm wharf to watch ships on the Chesapeake, Sylvia let go of her grief and soaked in the beauty of a swift horse and blue water and fertile land. But at night she would dream of James and wake up sobbing. Another day without him had begun.

Autumn brought golden hues and crisp sunrises to the farm. Every morning Sylvia wept less; each day she felt less likely to break at the slightest touch. One afternoon, as she and Mrs. Compson peeled apples for a pie, Sylvia reflected upon the apple orchard at Elm Creek Manor and wondered how Claudia and Harold had managed the harvest.

She did not realize she had spoken aloud until Mrs. Compson gently said, “You could return home and find out.”

“I can’t.” Sylvia shook her head. “I can’t ever go back. You don’t understand.”

“I might,” Mrs. Compson said, “if you told me why you left.”

Sylvia hesitated. Would it be cruel to burden James’s mother with the truth of her son’s unnecessary death? Mrs. Compson had embraced her with kindness and unconditional acceptance. Sylvia could not bear to bring her any more pain.

Mrs. Compson set down her paring knife and took Sylvia’s hand in her own. Her grip was firm and steady. “Nothing you could possibly tell me about James could be worse than losing him,” she said. “If I survived that, I can withstand hearing whatever is so terrible it drove you from the home you love.”

Sylvia closed her eyes as she retold Andrew’s story, but that did not shut out the images seared into her memory as if she, too, had witnessed the terrible scene. Then she explained how she had confronted Claudia, and how her sister had chosen Harold over her family, and why Sylvia could never return as long as they lived in the home where she had known so much happiness with the men Harold had been unwilling to save.

When every word had drained from her, Mrs. Compson groped for the kitchen stool and sank down upon it, weeping twin rivulets of tears without making a sound. Suddenly she took a deep, shuddering breath. “You have only Andrew’s account of what happened that day.”

“I’ve known Andrew since childhood,” Sylvia responded. “He loved Richard like a brother. He would have no reason to lie, and I trust him implicitly.”

Mrs. Compson studied her hands in her lap for a long moment in silence. “You don’t know that Harold could have saved them,” she said. “You don’t know for certain that James would have been able to rescue Richard if Harold had only helped him. Harold might have gone to their aid only to be caught by the second explosion, as my son was.”

“Andrew told me what James shouted to Harold before he was killed.” Sylvia’s voice trembled. “James thought he could save Richard with Harold’s help. Andrew thought so, too. But you’re right, we’ll never know for certain because Harold didn’t even try.”

“He might have known it would have been in vain,” said Mrs. Compson. “He might have seen that second plane coming and known that coming out from cover would be suicide. We can’t possibly know what was in his heart.”

“How can you excuse what he did?” said Sylvia. “And what he didn’t do? Your son is dead because of Harold’s cowardice.”

Mrs. Compson’s shoulders slumped, weary to her soul. “It might not have been cowardice. And my son might have died anyway.”

Sylvia could not believe what she was hearing. “How can you not be angry? How can you not hate him?”

“Because it would do me no good.” Mrs. Compson looked up at her, a new fierceness in her eyes. “It would not change what happened. Hatred and anger will not bring my son back. They would only destroy me, the way they’re clearly destroying you.”

Sylvia shook her head, unable to reply. Mrs. Compson was a good woman, too good, perhaps, to understand how wrong she was. Harold deserved Sylvia’s hatred, and anger was the only thing that kept her on her feet.

T
HOUGH
S
YLVIA
had told her motherin-law she would never return to Elm Creek Manor, Mrs. Compson must have thought she heard a quiet note of longing for home in her voice. A few days after Sylvia told her Andrew’s story, Mrs. Compson began slipping reminders of Elm Creek Manor into their conversations, whereas she had always avoided the topic before. As they canned tomatoes, she inquired about the Bergstroms’ favorite varieties and preparation methods. When Mr. Compson sold a prized yearling, she wondered aloud if the Bergstroms would have demanded a higher price. Sylvia usually offered simple answers, but Bergstrom Thoroughbreds and Elm Creek Manor had been a part of her life for too long for her to feign indifference to them now. She found herself wishing for news of the family business and the estate she once believed would be her home forever, but curiosity could not compel her to write to Claudia. She knew she could not speak to her sister without hurling accusations of betrayal. The very thought of Harold sleeping beneath the roof of Elm Creek Manor while James, Richard, her father, and her daughter slept forever so filled her with revulsion that she was not even tempted to pick up a pen.

All through that beautiful autumn, Sylvia worked alongside the Compson family. Gradually she found contentment in the routine, in the company, in the rhythm of the days and the satisfaction of the harvest. Then one day, Mrs. Compson declared that she and Sylvia deserved a holiday, and she invited Sylvia to accompany her to a luncheon at a friend’s home in Baltimore. “You’ll have a lovely time,” Mrs. Compson persisted when Sylvia was reluctant to leave the peaceful sanctuary of Compson’s Resolution. “My friends are delightful company, and our hostess has some family heirlooms I know you’ll find very interesting.”

In spite of herself, Sylvia was intrigued, so she agreed to the outing. A Wednesday morning in early November found her beside Mrs. Compson in the black Packard driving northwest into the city. Her friend, Mrs. Cass, had invited several ladies to gather at her grand house in what Sylvia surmised was one of Baltimore’s most fashionable neighborhoods. The women welcomed Mrs. Compson and Sylvia warmly and offered Sylvia their condolences in murmurs, as if her grief were a carefully concealed secret. Sylvia was the youngest present by decades, and the only widow among the wives of doctors, lawyers, and businessmen.

Sylvia grew increasingly ill at ease as the other women discussed their husbands and children and household conflicts, for she had lost her husband and had never raised a child and had abandoned her home. She tried to nod and murmur appropriate phrases when an answer was required, but through no fault of their own, the other women made Sylvia feel like an indulged child sent to dancing school in a starched dress to learn how to mimic the mannerisms of grown-ups. The leek soup was flavorful, the crab cakes a new and unexpected pleasure, but although Sylvia smiled and conversed and hid her discomfort as well as she knew how, she could not wait for the luncheon to end. She longed for the sanctuary of the Compson stables, of the wooded riding trails, of the comforting presences of lighthouses overlooking the Chesapeake Bay.

After the meal, Mrs. Cass led her guests into a parlor for coffee and more chat. Sylvia longed for a moment alone with Mrs. Compson so she could beg to be taken home, but she knew that Mrs. Compson would kindly but firmly refuse. Her impeccable manners would not permit her to slight their hostess, and she was convinced a change of scene would do Sylvia good. A new riding trail on the Compson estate was all the change of scene Sylvia wanted. The sympathetic gazes and gentle words of the Baltimore ladies were excruciating.

In the parlor, Mrs. Cass spoke a word to her maid, who disappeared and quickly returned with a bundle wrapped in a muslin sheet. “Your motherin-law tells me you know a great deal about quilts, Sylvia,” Mrs. Cass said as she thanked the maid and took the bundle.

“My mother taught me when I was very young,” Sylvia replied. “I grew up watching her and my aunts and grandma quilt together.”

“I’m afraid quilting is a lost art among the women of my family,” said Mrs. Cass, “but I am fortunate to have several fine examples of my ancestors’ handiwork. Although I don’t like to brag, I think it’s fair to call this quilt a masterpiece.”

Sylvia and two other ladies helped Mrs. Cass unfold the bundle. A murmur of appreciation rippled through the room as everyone gathered around to view the quilt. It was a masterpiece, indeed—twenty-five different appliqué blocks depicting bouquets of spring blossoms gathered in three-looped bows, bowls of fruit with embroidered seeds, symmetrical Turkey red flowers with green stems and leaves, and scenes of eighteenth-century life reproduced in such painstaking detail that they must have been drawn from the quilter’s own observations.

“You wouldn’t recognize these landmarks, Sylvia, since this is your first visit to Baltimore.” Mrs. Cass gestured to several blocks in turn. “This is a famous clipper ship that sailed in the Chesapeake Bay in the 1840s. This is a train from the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, and this is the Baltimore Basilica on Mulberry and Cathedral streets.”

“This is the Peale Museum in its glory days,” said another guest, indicating another block. “Before all that dreadful stucco was added.”

“It’s a truly wonderful quilt,” said Sylvia. She had seen quilts made in this style before, but the Bergstrom women had never made any like them as far as she knew. She came closer for a better look. “It looks like the blocks were signed in brown ink and the handwriting…yes, a different hand signed each block. Could this be a group quilt?”

“That’s what the family stories say,” said Mrs. Cass. “My grandmother once told me that this was a Freedom Quilt, made by the women of the family for one of my long-distant great-uncles when he turned twenty-one. For generations we assumed that each block was signed by the quilter who made it, but I’ve discovered that the record in our family Bible disputes those claims.” She gestured to a block in the bottom row. “Hettie Cass would have been only five years old when the quilt was made, and I don’t know any child that age who could sew a lyre and floral spray as perfectly as those in her block.”