The Quilter's Legacy (14 page)

She curled up on the window seat and retrieved Miss Langley's letter from her pocket. The postmark indicated it had been mailed from Boston, where Miss Langley had lived for the previous four years as the border of a certain Mr. Davis. She had not worked as a nanny since leaving the Lockwood family, and she was as vague regarding how she made her living as she was about her relationship with Mr. Davis.

June 12, 1907

My Dear Eleanor,

As you no doubt surmised as soon as you beheld this letter, my parting for England has been indefinitely postponed, much to the chagrin of factory owners throughout Massachusetts. Too much work remains to be done here, and Mr. Davis simply cannot manage without me. I cannot shirk my duty simply to indulge my sentimental heart, which is why I must also decline your kind invitation to attend Abigail's wedding. Do not think for a moment that I decline because your family is unaware you invited me, which, although you did not say so, I assume is true. Please give Abigail my kind regards and tell her I will think of her on her special day.

I will also think of you, dear Eleanor, for I wonder what will become of you when you no longer have your sister's company. I do hope you will reconsider continuing your education. We have fine colleges here in Boston and a scholarly community you would find quite invigorating. You could live with us; we all work to help support the household and share all things in common, and I know you would make yourself quite useful. I cannot believe your father would deny you the tuition. He may have come upon hard times, but he is neither unkind nor imprudent, and he would see the wisdom in sending you to college if his pride were not in the way.

Now, on to your questions. As to the first, yes, I am certain that women will eventually obtain the right to vote. It might not come in my lifetime, but it will most assuredly come in yours. It will come to no woman, however, unless we fight for it. You must do your part as I must do mine.

As to your second question: I agree that you must tell Mr. Bergstrom the truth. Some might say that misleading a man is not as grievous a sin as lying to him outright, but in my opinion, deception is deception. If you are certain, then you do no one any good by allowing Mr. Bergstrom to persist in his misunderstanding. Your integrity is at stake, my darling girl, and I know you will do what is right. Let Abigail throw herself on the sword of filial loyalty if she must, but you have sacrificed too much of yourself already.

I must believe myself still your nanny to lecture you so. Please forgive my ramblings and remember that I am always

Your Affectionate Friend,
Amelia Langley

PS: Thank you for the thoughtful gift of fabric. I shall make lovely warm quilts of the scraps from Abigail's trousseau. Please give her my thanks and tell her many immigrant children will sleep more soundly soon because of her generosity. The white and the rose satin are truly lovely, but I have no idea to what use I shall put them. They would be quite attractive in a Crazy Quilt, but I think my time for making impractical luxuries has passed. However, I am confident I will recognize what useful work they are meant for in time.

Eleanor folded the letter and returned it to the envelope. She could almost hear Miss Langley's voice as she read her words, but that only emphasized how great a divide separated them. Miss Langley could never return to the Lockwood home, and Eleanor was nearly as unlikely to visit Boston. Eleanor was loath to admit it, but they would probably never see each other again.

College, of course, was out of the question. Even if Father did not think education wasted on a woman, he would not go deeper into debt for such a poor investment, especially since the recent threat of another Panic. Even if their financial situation improved dramatically after the wedding, Mother would still need her. Eleanor had been given no choice, as Abigail had reminded her. She ought to resign herself to her future and be grateful that she had lived long enough to see one.

More troubling was Miss Langley's opinion on the subject of Mr. Bergstrom. Now that Miss Langley concurred with Eleanor's opinion, Eleanor had no excuse to delay telling him the truth, although this meant she would never see him again. He and his father traveled to New York from their horse farm in central Pennsylvania only infrequently, but he was one of the few people who did not treat Eleanor like an invalid. She had known him since she was nine years old, and she felt oddly hollow when she thought this weekend's visit would be his last.

He would arrive soon, if he had not already. Eleanor hid Miss Langley's letter in her desk—she had caught Harriet snooping for Mother more than once—and hurried downstairs to her bedroom. She brushed her hair, debating whether to change her dress, and decided she would not. Later she would dress for supper, but the clothing she wore was good enough for a visit to the stable, regardless of who waited there.

Her step quickened as she approached the stable and saw Frederick Bergstrom putting a dark brown horse through its paces in the practice ring under Father's watchful eye. Nineteen, dark-haired, and tanned from many hours outdoors, Mr. Bergstrom sat a horse as comfortably as if he had been born to it, which in a sense he had, for his family raised some of the finest Thoroughbreds in the world, and had for generations. The senior Mr. Bergstrom, who until recent months had always accompanied his son, was nowhere to be seen.

Mr. Bergstrom spotted her and grinned as she approached. “Miss Lockwood, would you help me convince your father that this magnificent animal is worthy of his stables?”

“If my father cannot tell that by the sight of him, nothing I say will make any difference.”

“It's a fine animal,” Father conceded, “but not suited for Abigail. This is not a woman's horse. Next time you see your father, I'd like you to ask him why he would send me such a temperamental, high-strung horse for my eldest daughter.”

Eleanor had a sharp retort ready, but Mr. Bergstrom said, “I'll ask him, but I already know what he'd answer.”

“And what's that?”

He grinned. “Those New York women must be exceptionally delicate if they can't handle a sweet-tempered stallion like Diamond.”

“I suppose they are,” said Father, chuckling. “The most strenuous activities our refined ladies engage in are dancing at balls and spending my money at the dressmaker's. The harsher environment of your part of the country requires greater strength of your women, a strength, I regret to confess, that has atrophied in our ladies.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” snapped Eleanor, entering the corral. The stallion stepped back and snorted as she took the reins from Mr. Bergstrom. “Pennsylvania isn't the Wild West.”

Father eyed her as she began to shorten the left stirrup. “What are you doing?”

“I should think it's rather obvious. Mr. Bergstrom, I would be obliged if you would do the other side.”

“Eleanor, don't be a fool,” said her father as Mr. Bergstrom complied.

Eleanor gave him a long, wordless look as she gathered up her skirts and climbed on the horse's back. Then she dug in her heels, chirruped, and set Diamond into a canter. As soon as they cleared the gate, they broke into a run.

She ran him the entire length of the estate and back, skirts pulled up past her knees, corset squeezing uncomfortably. The horse's hooves thundered on the grass, but he flowed like silk thread through a needle as they raced over the wooded ground. She slowed him to a steady trot as they returned to the corral, where the two men stood watching her, Father speechless in consternation, Mr. Lockwood trying to hide his amusement.

He took the reins from her, and she slid to the ground. “He doesn't seem temperamental to me,” she said, breathless. Perspiration trickled down her back, her hair had come loose and tumbled in her face, and she desperately wanted to give her corset a yank. Her father glowered. “Temperamental is a relative quality.”

“What do you think of him?” asked Mr. Bergstrom.

“Lovely to look at, remarkable speed, good health,” said Eleanor as she inspected the horse. “However, he is not as fine as some of the others you have shown us.”

“In what way?”

“I'm sure you know.” She stroked the horse's flank as if to apologize for her criticism. “His gait is merely acceptable, as is his endurance.” She glanced at her father. “And he is a trifle high-strung. The mare you brought us two months ago was far superior. And …”

“What else?”

“I know I've never ridden him, but I'm certain I've seen him before.”

“What's the meaning of this?” Father demanded. “Don't tell me you Bergstroms are bringing around horses I've already rejected. Play me for a fool at your peril, young man.”

“I assure you,” said Mr. Bergstrom in a cool voice, “neither I nor my father has ever shown this horse to you.”

“I didn't mean to suggest such a thing,” said Eleanor, glaring at her father.

“Fine, fine,” said Father. “You can't blame me for wondering if you and your father have grown impatient with my strict standards for horses. I admit it would have been a clever joke if I purchased a horse I had rejected before.”

Mr. Bergstrom's expression suggested he did not agree. “That would not have been possible, since as I said—”

“Yes, yes, you have never shown me this horse before. But that is not the only reason. It would not have been possible because I have no intention of purchasing him.” He drew out his pocket-watch. “The Corvilles should arrive soon. Eleanor, since you apparently bear this horse a particular affection, I will leave you to help Mr. Bergstrom care for him. Mr. Bergstrom, I look forward to your company at supper.”

Eleanor was too humiliated and angry to take notice of Mr. Bergstrom's reply. Father knew very well how he had insulted her by leaving her alone with a young man. If confronted, Father could protest that she was hardly unchaperoned, since her parents, sister, and servants were within the house, but the fact of the matter was that she and Mr. Bergstrom would be unobserved within the stable. She knew what her father meant to tell her: No young man would be interested in attempting anything that might ruin her, and furthermore, her reputation was not valuable enough to preserve from scandal.

She took hold of Diamond's bridle and tugged until the horse followed her into the stable. “It seems you have wasted another trip to New York.”

“On the contrary, I'm always pleased to visit your family.”

Eleanor busied herself caring for the horse. Mr. Bergstrom fell into place beside her, his every motion assured and gentle. “Is your father well? I'm surprised he did not accompany you.”

“He's fine, just too busy to leave Elm Creek.”

“What a shame. He'll miss the wedding of the century. You're not jealous?”

“Of course not,” said Eleanor, regretting her words. “I'll just be glad when all the excitement is over. I'm afraid we're all under a bit of a strain.”

Mr. Bergstrom grinned. “I guess that means you have something less elaborate in mind for your own wedding.”

Eleanor felt a flash of surprise, then anger, and for a moment she wondered if he were mocking her. “I don't have any plans for my own wedding,” she finally said. She picked up her curry comb and went around to the horse's other side.

They worked in silence, and gradually Eleanor's anger ebbed. In the eight years she had known him, Mr. Bergstrom had never once treated her as if she were frail or sickly. For all she knew, no one had told him about her weak heart, and he might truly believe her as marriageable as Abigail. She wanted to apologize, but she did not see how she could without revealing the truth.

All at once, she remembered Miss Langley's letter.

“Mr. Bergstrom.” She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I have something to confess to you. Something … rather unpleasant, I'm afraid.”

“You won't dance with me at your sister's wedding?” “No. I mean, that's not what I had to say. I—I would be pleased to dance with you.” If he would still attend after what Eleanor had to tell him. “But I'm afraid my father has no intention of buying any of your horses.”

“That's the big secret?”

“I don't just mean today. Not ever. When I think of how many times you and your father have come here and how far you've traveled …” She steeled herself. “I am ashamed to disclose this about my own father, but I am even more ashamed that he has deceived you. He wants a Bergstrom Thoroughbred, but he does not have the means to purchase one. He hoped your father would give him a horse as a wedding gift for Abigail, assuming that my father would reward his extravagance with loyalty—that, and the purchase of numerous Bergstrom Thoroughbreds for himself.”

“Miss Lockwood—”

“I know what you must be thinking—”

“We gave up on your father as a customer a long time ago.”

Eleanor stared at him. “What?”

“For years he's visited our farm and we've showed him our finest horses. For the last fourteen months, we've brought them to him. We're persistent, but not stupid. My father suspected your father was angling for a gift, and the invitation to Abigail's wedding confirmed it.”

They had known for months. “Then why …”

“Miss Lockwood, do you really think I'd travel all this way so often just to convince a man to buy a horse?”

Eleanor had thought exactly that. “You and your father are known as very good businessmen.”

“It's not very good business to bring one horse after another such a great distance except for a proven customer. Most of our customers come to us.”

Eleanor let out a small gasp. “I was so upset about my father I never thought of the poor horses.”

“Don't worry too much about this one.” Mr. Bergstrom slapped the horse's flank affectionately. “He's a Bergstrom Thoroughbred I borrowed from a local customer.”

“I knew I had seen this horse before,” exclaimed Eleanor, then his meaning sank in. “How dare you lie to us! You deliberately deceived my father.”

“I did not lie,” said Mr. Bergstrom, emphatic. “I said I had never shown him this horse before, not that he had never seen it. I wouldn't have done it except I knew he wasn't buying.”