The Quilter's Legacy (15 page)

“I suppose it's foolish for me to defend him after he tried to deceive you.” Eleanor let out a shaky laugh. “What would you have done if he had made an offer?”

“I would have told him to take it up with Herbert Drury.”

“This horse belongs to Mr. Drury?”

Mr. Bergstrom nodded. “He's one of our best customers. I should have asked someone else, but when Drury offered, I couldn't resist. It was a risk, though. If Abigail had seen—”

“How would Abigail have recognized Diamond when I did not?” asked Eleanor, indignant.

“I assumed she visited the Drury place more often than you. She's frequently there when my father and I visit, and you never are.”

Eleanor knew Abigail had befriended the eldest Drury daughter at school, but it never occurred to her that Abigail might have called on her without their parents' consent. As far as Eleanor had known, Abigail had seen the Drury home only once, five years before, when the Lockwoods went to pay their respects to the family after Mrs. Drury's death. Even Father had put aside his animosity that day.

“I don't think my mother and father will be pleased if they learn Abigail has been to the Drury home.”

“I won't say a word. Not about Abigail, and not about your father.”

Eleanor looked away. “You must think I'm terribly disloyal, Mr. Bergstrom.”

“You couldn't be more wrong, Miss Lockwood. And would you please call me Fred? You used to.”

“We were children then.”

“We've known each other too long to persist with the formality of titles. Every time you say ‘Mr. Bergstrom,’ I think you're addressing my father.”

“Very well. I will call you Fred, if you will call me Eleanor.” Hastily, she added, “But only when no one can overhear.”

Mr. Bergstrom laughed, but he agreed, and Eleanor realized that she had implied she wanted to be alone with him again. She did, but she did not want him to know it, or to think that she valued her reputation as little as her father did. As soon as they finished caring for the horse, she went back to the house, alone, keeping to a brisk walk in case Fred was watching. Once inside, she hurried upstairs to her study. Only when she had shut the door on the rest of the house did she feel safe, but her heart raced.

She pressed a hand to her forehead and paced the length of the room. As impossible as it seemed that someone could care for her, surely Mr. Bergstrom—Fred—had not meant merely to be kind to the poor invalid. Mere kindness could not explain all he had done simply to have an excuse to visit the Lockwood family. To visit
her
.

“I cannot think about this,” she said to the empty room. Pushing Fred from her thoughts, she sat down at the quilt frame and threaded a needle with shaking hands. She popped the thread through the three layers twice before she was able to fix the knot in the batting, then slipped her thimble on her finger and quilted a feathered plume in the background of one of the Rocky Mountain blocks. She waited for the familiar, repetitive motions to soothe her, but her thoughts remained an unsettling mix of pleasure and despair. Abigail, not Eleanor, was the beauty of the family, the cherished daughter who inspired affection in all who saw her. Abigail was the one who was meant to love and be loved, to leave home and have a family of her own—

At a flash of pain, Eleanor gasped and withdrew her left hand from beneath the quilt to find a spot of red on her fingertip. If she had stained the back of her quilt, she would never forgive Fred.

She bit back a sob and flung her thimble across the room. Blinking away tears, she fumbled for her handkerchief and pinched it against her fingertip. Fred's affection for her—if it was affection, and she had not in her loneliness allowed herself to misinterpret his friendship—changed nothing. Her health rendered her unfit for marriage, and Mother still needed her. Whatever Fred's intentions were, Eleanor could not fulfill them.

B
y the time she returned to her room to dress for dinner, she had regained her composure and had resolved to distance herself from Fred. She could not bring herself to tell him to stay away, but eventually he would make that decision for himself.

As Eleanor went downstairs, she heard voices from the parlor. When she entered, Fred rose from his armchair near the window and gave her a warm smile, which she could not return. On the opposite side of the room, Abigail and Edwin sat on the divan, their parents and Edwin's two sisters arrayed around them. Mother, who had apparently decided that impressing the Corvilles was more important than nursing her wounded feelings, broke off her conversation at the sight of Eleanor. “Where on earth have you been?” she exclaimed. “You missed Edwin's gift to his bride.”

Abigail's hand went to her throat, and only then did Eleanor see the beautiful string of pearls that encircled it. “It's exquisite,” she said.

“It is not half as lovely as the woman who wears it,” said Edwin, his eyes earnest behind his glasses.

“Well said, young man,” said Father gruffly, and Abigail flushed pink.

They were summoned to supper; Abigail murmured something and rose to walk out with Father. In a flash of panic, Eleanor feared Fred would escort her, but to her relief, Edwin fell in step beside her instead. “I brought a gift for you, too,” he told her, producing a wrapped parcel from behind his back.

“For me?”

“Of course. You are going to be my sister-in-law, aren't you?” They stopped in the corridor and allowed the others to continue on past them. Eleanor carefully unwrapped the colored paper and discovered a fine leather-bound book. “
Bleak House,
” she said, reading the spine. “Oh, Edwin, you know how much I enjoy Dickens.”

“It's a first edition.” Edwin opened the cover and pointed. “Inscribed by the author.”

“How on earth did you find this? Thank you. I believe I'm going to enjoy having you for a brother-in-law.”

Edwin laughed and said he certainly hoped so, and they continued on to the dining room together.

As the first course was served, Eleanor did her best to ignore Fred. She made every effort to join in the conversation, but as the meal progressed, she realized only the Corvilles seemed perfectly at ease. Father sat stiff and tense in his chair, and Eleanor had no doubt that if it were up to him, he would have rushed off to find a minister to marry Abigail to Edwin that very hour rather than risk letting the partnership fall through. At the foot of the table, Mother chatted with her guests, so energetic and merry that the Corvilles, at least, seemed thoroughly charmed. Fred gave the appearance of polite engagement, but frequently he looked Eleanor's way, a thoughtful expression on his face. Abigail did not eat a morsel, but sat pensive and anxious in her chair, so distracted that she did not respond to the conversation until prompted.

Afterward, as the men retired to the drawing room and the women went off to the parlor, Fred surprised Eleanor by taking her by the elbow and murmuring close to her ear. “What's wrong? Are you afraid I'll step on your feet when we dance on Saturday?”

“Of course not.”

“Then what's wrong? Tell me what it is or I'll follow you into the parlor and call you Eleanor in front of all those women.”

She whirled to face him. “You wouldn't dare.” Then she thought of Mr. Drury and Diamond. “Please don't. I—I regret that I might have misled you in the stable earlier today. Let me make myself plain: My feelings for you extend no farther than friendship. I hope you will forgive me for any misunderstanding.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said. “Of course, I still expect to dance with you at Abigail's wedding.”

“Did you not hear a single word I said?”

He held a finger to her lips. “I heard you, and if you're not careful, everyone else will, too. I traveled a long way to dance with the maid of honor at the wedding of the century, and I'm not going home until I do. That's a promise.”

With that, he left her and stormed down the hall to her father's study. His touch lingered upon her lips.

L
ater, alone in her study, Eleanor stitched on the Rocky Mountain quilt until her eyes teared from the strain. Once Harriet called through the locked door that her mother wished her to come to the parlor immediately, but Eleanor sent her back with her apologies and the excuse that she was not feeling well. Sometime after midnight, someone tested the doorknob but did not knock. Eleanor assumed the others had gone to bed hours ago, so she froze in her chair until she heard footsteps moving off down the hall. She did not know if the would-be visitor was Harriet again, Mother herself, or Fred, but she put away her sewing tools quietly just in case she—or he—had doubled back on tiptoe and waited outside. Only when she was certain she was alone did she steal down the stairs to her bedroom, where she soon drifted off into a troubled sleep.

She woke not long after dawn to soft rapping on her door. “Eleanor,” called Harriet softly. “Wake up.”

She could not bear to see Fred after what she had said to him. “I don't want any breakfast. I'll come down when the dressmaker arrives.”

“Get up and go to your mother at once. She needs you.”

At the fear and alarm in the maid's voice, Eleanor bolted out of bed and threw a dressing gown over her nightdress. “What is it?” she asked, opening the door. “Where's my mother?”

“Downstairs. Be quiet or you'll wake the Corvilles.” Then Harriet's sharp eyes darted to the floor. “What's this?”

Eleanor looked and discovered a small white envelope. It must have been slipped beneath her door while she slept. She reached for it, but Harriet was quicker. “Someone obviously meant that for me,” said Eleanor sharply, thinking of Fred.

Harriet tucked it into her pocket. “It may be your door but it's your mother's house. You can have it if she says you might.”

They hurried downstairs. Mother paced in the foyer, wringing her hands. At the sight of Eleanor, fury sparked in her eyes. “You put her up to this, didn't you? Where has she gone?”

Eleanor took in her mother's red-rimmed eyes, the note of hysteria in her voice. “Where has who gone?”

“Your sister.” Mother resumed pacing, wringing her hands. “As if you didn't know. She took a horse, the bridal silver, and most of her clothes, but she left the pearls Edwin gave her.”

“She also left a note.” Harriet handed Mother the envelope. “In Eleanor's room.”

Mother quickly withdrew a sheet of Abigail's monogrammed stationery. “Dear Eleanor,” she read aloud. “I hope someday you will see that this is best for both of us. Edwin is a good and kindly man. I do not leave because he would not be a good husband, but because I love someone else. Please pray for me. Please forgive me. Your loving sister, Abigail.”

“Give me that,” said Eleanor, snatching the note.

“Why should she ask
you
to forgive her?” demanded Mother. “She should be begging me for forgiveness, me and her father.”

“Where is Father?”

“Searching,” said Harriet. “He'll call at the homes of all the young men Abigail knows. If he doesn't find her, at least he'll find out who else is missing.”

“You're the only one she saw fit to bid farewell,” said Mother. “You must have helped her. You must know the man.”

“I don't.” Eleanor was at an utter loss for a single likely name. “She has been distracted lately, but I thought she was just nervous about the wedding. I knew nothing of her intentions. You read what she wrote to me; you ought to see that.”

Mother stopped short, a hand to her throat. “Merciful God, what if they have run off, but not married?” She inhaled sharply, drew herself up, and resumed pacing. “No matter. In fact, that might be best. We can bring her back. We will watch her so she cannot run off again.”

“Mother! Whatever else Abigail has hidden from us, she clearly does not wish to marry Edwin.”

“Do not cross me today, Eleanor. I will see them married, and you will keep quiet.”

“Even if you could find Abigail and convince her to go through with it, you would be making a terrible mistake. Edwin would eventually learn of the deception. The scandal would force him to divorce her.”

“Rumors. He would hear rumors only, and those will fade with time. The Corvilles want this marriage as much as we do. They will ignore what they do not wish to see.”