An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (13 page)

“You never mentioned another brother or sister.”

“You never asked.”

“I thought it was just you and Claudia.”

“Well, now you know differently. Are you planning to interrupt anymore, or may I continue?”

“Sorry. No more interruptions. Please go on.”

“Very well.”

As I was about to explain, when I was seven and Claudia was nine, Mother and Father told us they were going to have another child. We were thrilled. Claudia couldn’t wait to help Mother take care of the new baby, and I was looking forward to having a new playmate. We were busy preparing for many months. One of the rooms was made over for the baby, and of course, the baby would need a quilt.

Claudia said that she should be in charge of making the baby’s quilt because she was the oldest. I said I should get to be in charge because I was the better quilter. “If that’s the way you’re going to be, I’ll make the quilt all by myself,” Claudia announced.

Naturally, I piped up that I would make my own quilt for the baby, too. Then we began to argue over whose quilt the baby would use first, and Claudia said hers, since she was the oldest. My, how that argument infuriated me. Claudia would always be the oldest, and there was nothing I could do about that, so she would always use age to justify everything, from who had to help Cook with the dishes to who got the best scraps from Mother’s basket.

“I know,” I suggested. “How about this: the baby will use first the quilt that’s finished first?”

Well, that just made her angry. I thought it might, which is why I suggested it.

As the argument escalated, Mother decided we should both work on the quilt together. We pouted, but with Mother watching, we had to agree. We decided that I would pick out the block pattern and Claudia could pick out the colors. I selected the Bear’s Paw; there would be many triangle points to match, but since there were no curved seams or set-in pieces, Claudia couldn’t mess it up too badly. And then it was Claudia’s turn.

“Pink and white, with a little bit of green.”

I screwed up my nose. “What if it’s a boy?”

Claudia folded her arms. “I like pink, white, and green, and I get to choose, remember?”

“But what if it’s a boy?”

“It’s a baby. It won’t care.”

“If he’s a boy he’ll care. Let’s pick something else.”

“You picked the pattern. I get to pick the colors. You can’t pick everything.”

“Compromise, girls.” That was Mother. She shook her head and gave me that disappointed smile again. In all those years I don’t think Claudia ever received one of those looks.

I looked away. “Okay,” I said to my sister. “Then you pick the pattern and I’ll pick the colors.”

Claudia beamed at Mother. “Then I pick Turkey Tracks.”

Just for a moment, my heart seemed to beat more quickly, and I gasped. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“What’s wrong now?”

“Yes, Sylvia, what’s wrong?” Mother looked surprised. “You’ve made blocks like it before.”

“She doesn’t think I can make it, that’s what’s wrong.” Claudia glared at me. “But I can, as good as you, too.”

“Sylvia, is that so?” Mother asked.

I shook my head no.

“What is it, then?”

“Turkey Tracks.” My voice held a fearful tremor as I said the name. “It’s also called Wandering Foot, remember? Remember what Grandma used to say?”

Mother and Claudia stared at me. Then Claudia began to giggle. “That’s just a silly superstition, silly.”

Even Mother smiled. “Sylvia, you shouldn’t let Grandma’s old stories worry you so. I think it’s a lovely pattern.”

I bit my lip. I didn’t like being laughed at, and I didn’t like being called silly, but I still knew it wasn’t a good idea. It would have been better to make a pink quilt and hope Mother had a girl than to do this.

“How about if we make the Bear’s Paw instead?” I said. “We can use pink if you want.”

Claudia shook her head. “No, I like this idea better.”

“Come now, what colors would you like?” Mother beckoned me over to her scrap basket.

I took all the blue and yellow pieces from the overflowing basket. If we had to make a Wandering Foot quilt, and I didn’t see any way out of it, then at the very least I was going to make it from my lucky colors.

I think it was about two months later when we finished the quilt. It was very pretty, but I still had misgivings. And a few months after that, in January, Mother had a baby boy. Father named him Richard after his brother who died in the Great War, and we all adored him.

Mrs. Compson finished cleaning out the closet and stood, rubbing her lower back. For a moment Sarah only watched her, puzzled. “I don’t understand,” she finally said.

“Don’t understand what?”

“The quilt pattern. What was wrong with Turkey Tracks?”

“Oh.” Mrs. Compson sat on the bed, her thin figure barely compressing the mattress. “Some people think that by changing a block’s name you get rid of the bad luck, but I know that bad luck isn’t so easily fooled. Turkey Tracks is the same pattern as Wandering Foot. If you give a boy a Wandering Foot quilt, he will never be content to stay in one place. He’ll always be rest-less, roaming around, running off from home to who knows where—and I can’t even begin to tell you what that pattern will do to a girl.” She shook her head. “What a silly choice. Claudia should have known better.”

Sarah nodded, but secretly she sympathized with Mrs. Compson’s mother. She wouldn’t have pegged Mrs. Compson as the superstitious type, especially over something like a quilt.

Mrs. Compson studied Sarah’s expression and frowned. “Now, I’m not superstitious, mind, but why take unnecessary chances? Life will give you plenty of necessary ones on its own. And I was right, too, as it turned out. But that’s no consolation. I would have preferred for Claudia to be right this time.”

“What do you mean? The superstition came true?”

Just then she heard voices downstairs.

“My hearing isn’t what it used to be, but that sounds like Matthew. Let’s go see if I’m right.” Mrs. Compson rose and left the room.

Sarah followed, wishing Mrs. Compson had answered her question. But it was a stupid question anyway. A quilt pattern couldn’t bring bad luck, unless … Annoyed and exasperated with herself, Sarah shook her head as if to clear it of such illogical thoughts.

Eleven

M
att and another man Sarah recognized from Exterior Architects were waiting just outside the front entrance. “We didn’t want to track mud all over the place,” Matt explained as his friend gestured sheepishly at their muddy work boots. “We’re going to head on in to town to grab some lunch. Is there anything you need us to do for you while we’re there?”

“You needn’t go into town. I’ll make lunch for you.”

“There’re six of us, ma’am,” the other man said. Joe, that was his name. “We don’t want you to go to any trouble.”

“Even so. What a poor hostess your friends will think me.”

“Not at all.” Matt grinned. “Besides, for what our boss charges you, we should be making
you
lunch.”

“Is that so? Very well, then. In that case, I won’t insist. As for your offer to run errands for me, thank you, but no. The grocery store delivers weekly and I don’t need anything else right now.”

“If you ever do, just ask.” Matt gave Sarah a quick kiss, and he and Joe left.

Mrs. Compson turned to Sarah. “Perhaps we should be thinking about lunch ourselves.”

“Do you want me to finish upstairs first?”

“Leave it until tomorrow. I’d prefer to work on our quilts for a while. In fact, I believe I feel like seeing the old gardens. Would you like to take our lunch and our quilting outside?”

“Oh, I’d love to. I haven’t seen the gardens yet.”

“Don’t expect much. I doubt if they’ve been tended for a long time. I should have been to see them before now, if only to tell Matthew what to do there.”

They went to the kitchen and packed a small wooden basket with sandwiches, fruit, and a plastic jug of iced tea. Mrs. Compson fetched an old quilt and a wide-brimmed hat from the hall closet while Sarah collected the quilt blocks and the tackle box Mrs. Compson used to store her sewing tools. Then Mrs. Compson led her down the hallway toward the front foyer, but instead of turning right toward the front entrance, they turned left. Several doors lined the hallway until it ended at an outside door at the corner of the L-shaped manor. The door opened onto a gray stone patio surrounded by lilac bushes and evergreens. At the edge of the patio, a stone path continued north into the bushes.

Mrs. Compson paused in the center of the patio. “Out of all the lovely places on the estate, this was my mother’s favorite. In fair weather, she would have her afternoon tea out here. It was so pleasant in springtime when the lilacs were flowering. She called this place the cornerstone patio.”

“Why did she call it that?”

“You wouldn’t need to ask if these bushes were properly pruned. Here, help me with this.” She went to where the edge of the patio met the north-west corner of the manor and struggled to push the branches aside. Sarah hurried to help her.

“See there?” Mrs. Compson pointed to a large engraved stone at the base of the building.

Sarah pushed through the branches and kneeled on the stone patio so that she could read the carved letters. “ ‘Bergstrom 1858.’ Was that when the manor was built?”

“Yes, but only the west wing, of course. Hans, Anneke, and Gerda laid that cornerstone with their own hands. My grandfather was only a toddler then, and my great-aunt was not yet born.” Mrs. Compson sighed. “Some-times I picture them, so young and hopeful and brave, laying the foundation of Elm Creek Manor, and of the Bergstrom family itself. Do you suppose they ever dreamed they would accomplish so much?”

Sarah thought for a moment. “From what you’ve told me about them, I think they probably did. They sound like the sort of people who dreamed big and had the fortitude to match.”

Mrs. Compson looked thoughtful. “Yes, I believe you’re right.” Then her gaze swept around the patio, taking in the tangled bushes, the weeds growing up between the stones, and the peeling paint on the door. “I suppose they never thought their heirs would neglect what they had worked so hard to build.”

Sarah rose and brushed off her knees. “I think they’d understand.” She let the branches fall back into place in front of the cornerstone.

“Hmph. That’s kind of you, dear, but I don’t even understand, and I’m one of those neglectful heirs myself. Come along, now.” She continued across the patio to the stone path, which disappeared into the surrounding bushes. In another moment, the foliage hid her from view.

Sarah pushed after her, only to find herself standing on the lawn on the north side of the building. She spun around, but could not see the patio or the door through the thick brush. The other day when she had passed this side of the manor while mulling over Mrs. Compson’s job offer, she had not even suspected an entrance was there.

“What’s keeping you?” Mrs. Compson called. She had already crossed the lawn and was waiting where the stone pathway continued into the woods. Sarah followed her down the shaded, meandering path until it broadened and opened into an oval clearing surfaced with the same gray stone. In the foreground were four round planters, each about fifteen feet in diameter and three feet high; the lower halves of their walls were two feet thicker than at the top, forming smooth, polished seats where visitors could rest. The planters, which now held only rocky soil, some dry branches that might once have been roses, and weeds, were spaced evenly around a black marble fountain of a mare prancing with two foals. Beyond them was a large wooden gazebo, paint peeling and gingerbread molding sagging dejectedly. Through the wooden slats Sarah could see terraces cut into the slope of a gentle hill on the other side, but their supporting stones had long since fallen away, allowing the beds to erode. As Sarah watched, a bird flew from inside the roof of the gazebo, alighted on the mare’s head, then flitted away.

Mrs. Compson draped the quilt over the nearest planter’s seat and sat down. “It used to look much nicer than this,” she said dryly. Sarah nodded, thinking that her employer had a gift for understatement. They unpacked the basket and ate their lunches in silence. As usual, Mrs. Compson only nibbled at hers. Most of the time she sat with her hands clasped in her lap as she looked around the garden. Occasionally her lips would part as if she were about to speak, but then she would sigh and press them together again, shaking her head in regret and disappointment.