The Wedding Quilt (27 page)

On Wednesday, Jeremy e-mailed Sarah with the long-awaited news that the faculty vote had gone as he had hoped rather than as he had expected: His colleagues in the College of Arts and Letters had apparently given more credit to his record of scholarship and teaching than to his department chair's review, for they had voted to grant him tenure. “I don't know this officially, of course,” he added. “The whole process is shrouded in secrecy. In these situations, though, the college grapevine is rarely wrong.”

Sarah would have been jubilant in Jeremy's place, but he sounded only guardedly optimistic. The vote was merely advisory, he explained; although the dean very rarely countermanded the faculty vote, he could still decline to forward Jeremy's case to the provost. In a situation where the tenure committee's opinion strongly disagreed with the faculty vote, the dean might prefer to err on the side of caution and save his recommendations for junior faculty who received unanimous praise—especially considering that at the end of the day, he would have to face the chair of the tenure committee across the dinner table. But at least Jeremy wasn't out of it yet.

“Anna said you're interested in Abel Wright,” he wrote. “I heartily encourage you to pick up my book (or borrow Sylvia's copy), and I'd also be happy to answer any questions you might have. E-mail or call, whatever works best.”

Sarah decided that e-mail would probably be more convenient for him, so she clicked “Reply” and explained the plight of Union Hall and the historical society's urgent effort to save it. She described the quilts and asked him if he could shed any light on them, or offer any other leads that might help them find the elusive evidence they sought. “The city council is expected to decide whether to exercise their right of eminent domain within the next few weeks,” she concluded, “so please get back to me as soon as you can.”

Rather than sit in front of the computer impatiently awaiting a response, she forced herself to go about the ordinary business of her day—which on that day meant maintaining the Elm Creek Quilts Web site, responding to campers' inquiries, paying bills, and her least favorite perennial task, editing the previous year's help-wanted ad to begin the process of recruiting a new chef. Later, the twins came home from school, the manor's permanent residents ate supper together, and as evening fell, Caroline settled down to write an extra-credit report for her earth sciences class while Matt took James to his Cub Scout meeting. Sarah was fixing herself a cup of tea and considering how to pass her solitary evening when, to her surprise, she glanced out the window over the sink and spotted the headlights of a car crossing the bridge over Elm Creek. Soon thereafter she heard someone enter through the back door, and then, astonishingly sprightly for eighty-three, Agnes hurried into the kitchen carrying a manila envelope, her hound's-tooth wool coat unbuttoned as if she had been in too much of a hurry to button it.

“You'll never guess what my friend the librarian found,” she cried as Diane entered at a far more leisurely pace, set her purse on the table, and draped her long leather coat over the back of a chair with an air of patient resignation. Agnes relied upon Diane for rides around Waterford, and she would never impose after dark unless she thought it was very important.

“Tell me,” said Sarah as the kettle began to whistle shrilly. “Tea?”

“Nothing for me, dear, thank you,” said Agnes breathlessly, taking a few pieces of paper from the envelope and laying them out side by side on the table.

“Decaf green tea with lemon and honey for me,” said Diane. “If you have it. Agnes, let's at least get you out of that coat.”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Of course.” Agnes shrugged out of it and hung it over the back of a chair. “Sarah, is Sylvia awake? She can't miss this.”

“She went to bed an hour ago. Should I wake her?”

“No, no.” Agnes seated herself, a trifle disappointed, and motioned for Sarah to come over. “It can wait until morning.”

“Then why couldn't it have waited until morning for us?” protested Diane.

“Oh, hush,” chided Agnes. “You weren't doing anything anyway.”

Diane shrugged as if that were true but beside the point. Curious, Sarah carried two steaming cups of tea to the table, with lemon and honey for Diane, milk for herself, and a spoon for each of them. “So what did your friend find?” she asked, taking the seat beside Agnes. “This is the friend who works at the Rare Books Room, right?”

“Of course,” said Diane, stirring honey into her tea. “How many librarian friends do you think she has?”

“One can never have too many librarian friends.” Agnes nudged the papers closer to Sarah. “A few days ago I told her about our investigation, and this afternoon, when I stopped by the Rare Books Room to read more of Abel Wright's first book—you can't check out books from the Rare Books Room, you know, you have to read them right there. Some books in their collection are so fragile you have to wear white cotton gloves when you handle them, and some you're not allowed to touch at all. A librarian will turn the pages for you when—”

“Agnes,” Diane interrupted mildly. “My TiVo is paused and waiting for me back at home. The point?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Agnes tapped one of the black-and-white pages, which appeared to be a photocopy of a page from an old magazine. “I told my friend about our quest, and she said the name ‘Loyal Union Sampler' sounded familiar. She searched the archives, and lo and behold, she discovered this article from the November 1863 issue of
Harper's Monthly
.”

“‘Pennsylvania Ladies Wield Their Needles for the Union,' ” Sarah read aloud, but then she fell abruptly silent, transfixed by the illustration beneath the headline, a meticulous black-and-white engraving of the Loyal Union Sampler. “This is it. This is the quilt from Union Hall.”

Agnes nodded, beaming. “Read on.”

“Diane, would you go get Maggie?” Sarah asked. “She's researching patterns in the library. She should see this.”

While Diane went to fetch Maggie, Sarah read the entire article, an account of how a group of ladies from the Elm Creek Valley had collected donated quilt blocks to make the elaborate sampler. Once it was complete, they had raffled off not only the quilt, but also the patterns and templates for its blocks, to raise money to build Union Hall, a grand edifice in Water's Ford, Pennsylvania. The Union Quilters, as they called themselves, had hosted many successful fund-raisers in the hall's theater, garden, and galleries, with the proceeds benefiting the 49th Pennsylvania, the 6th United States Colored Troops, and the Veterans' Relief Fund for the infirm soldiers of the Elm Creek Valley and their families. Not only that, the women had formed a body corporate, meaning they themselves owned and operated Union Hall, a remarkable accomplishment for the fairer sex, which they would not have been obliged to undertake if not for the absence of their brave husbands, sons, and fathers serving in the war. The story of the Union Quilters served as yet another example of how patriotic women of the North proudly used their feminine talents to serve their country.

“Feminine talents,” said Agnes indignantly. “Remarkable accomplishment for the fairer sex, indeed. I'd say that was a remarkable accomplishment for anyone, woman or man.”

“Unfortunately the article doesn't mention any of the women by name,” said Sarah just as Diane and Maggie entered the kitchen. “But if these Union Quilters formed a corporation and owned the building—not only owned it but organized every stage of its construction—there must be official records somewhere.”

She handed the photocopies to Maggie, who read them eagerly. “This is astonishing,” Maggie said. “You have no idea how much I wish I had this much historical documentation of the Harriet Findley Birch quilt. This article places Union Hall at the heart of Waterford's Civil War history. A building constructed by local women to support the local regiments at war and the wounded veterans who had come home—what could be more historically significant than that?”

“I'm going to Union Hall first thing in the morning to share the good news with Patricia and Leslie,” declared Agnes, returning the photocopies to the envelope. “We'll start the application process for the National Register of Historic Places right away. Krolich wouldn't dare try to destroy the building now.”

“Let's not congratulate ourselves too soon,” cautioned Diane, putting on her coat. “If Krolich hears that we have a plan in the works, he might pressure the city council to push the measure through so he can destroy Union Hall before it's designated an official historically important building.”

Sarah agreed. “We'll have to keep this a secret. Don't tell anyone about the article or our plans to have Union Hall added to the register. Let Krolich think the way is clear, and he might lower his guard.”

“That doesn't sound like him,” said Agnes.

“I don't think secrecy works in our favor,” said Maggie. “I think we should tell everyone what we learned and what the historical society wants to do. We should send certified letters to the city council members and the press, and include copies of the
Harper's Monthly
article in each one. That way, they won't be able to condemn Union Hall and later pretend they had no idea how important it was.”

“Maggie's right,” said Sarah. “I'll run upstairs to the office and make the copies right now.”

“I'll write the letters to the city council,” said Maggie, flexing her fingers as if she couldn't wait to put hands to keyboard. “And another for Krolich.”

“And I'll take them all to the post office,” said Agnes. “Oh, I wish I could be there to see that wicked man's face when he reads Maggie's letter and sees how we've thwarted his plans!”

Sarah wouldn't mind a glimpse of that herself. As her friends offered suggestions for what to include in the letters and worked out how Maggie would get them to Agnes, Sarah hurried upstairs and made a dozen photocopies of each page of the article, saving one copy for Sylvia. She was certain that the Bergstrom women and their friends had participated in the making of the Loyal Union Sampler—in fact, she wouldn't be surprised to discover that they themselves were the Union Quilters. If they were, the official records of their incorporation and the construction of Union Hall might be somewhere in the attic of Elm Creek Manor, stored with other relics of bygone days.

Sarah left the extra copy of the article on the table of Sylvia's favorite booth so she would see it when she came down to breakfast, which, during the off-season, was almost always at least an hour before Sarah dragged herself out of bed. The next morning, Sylvia was as delighted by the news as Agnes had been, if less ebullient in expressing it, and she agreed with Maggie's plan to spread the word about Union Hall's newly discovered history. As for whether her great-grandmother and great-great-aunt had counted themselves among the Union Quilters, Sylvia couldn't be certain. She couldn't recall her parents or grandparents mentioning Union Hall except in passing as a place where they had attended concerts, lectures, or wedding receptions many years ago, and although Gerda had written her memoir in 1895, it focused on the years between 1856 and 1859, with few details of her life before or after. About the tumultuous Civil War years, Gerda had said only, “So much I could write of that dark, unforgiving time, but I cannot divert from this history to recount it now, not when I am so near the end. Perhaps I will chronicle those events someday, if I can bring myself to do it, if I live long enough.” If Gerda had ever completed a second volume of memoirs, Sylvia had not yet found it.

In the absence of documented proof, Sylvia and Sarah pondered what they knew about Gerda, Anneke, Dorothea, and Constance from Gerda's memoir and concluded that the women surely would have been involved in making the Loyal Union Sampler and building of Union Hall. Even Gerda, who had loathed sewing, would have been compelled by her staunch abolitionist beliefs to support the Union cause. “Now that Union Hall is safe,” mused Sylvia, “perhaps Agnes and her librarian friend will have time to help me do the research and find the proof.”

Remembering Diane's warnings, Sarah cautioned Sylvia that Union Hall was not yet safe—and soon Diane proved to be dismayingly prescient. Two days later, Agnes phoned, outraged and distressed over confirmation from a friend on the staff of the
Waterford Register
that the city council had called an emergency session late the previous night so that Krolich could address the new evidence submitted by Maggie Flynn on behalf of the Waterford Historical Society. In a circular argument that defied all logic, the city council decided that while the history of Union Hall as reported in the
Harper's Monthly
article offered an interesting bit of local trivia, it was not historically significant or it would have been common knowledge. It certainly did not sufficiently prove that the building merited special consideration. None of the Union Quilters had been mentioned by name, for example, so it was impossible to connect the building to any important historical figures. And while Union Hall apparently had served as the site of fund-raisers for local Union regiments, so had other locations, like the town square and a handful of churches and civic buildings, some of which had been razed decades before without public outcry. Union Hall was not, therefore, unique, and the city council could find no legal reason not to exercise their right of eminent domain.

Sarah's heart plummeted, but she took a deep breath and asked, “So it's over?”

“Of course it's not over,” exclaimed Agnes. “It's not over until Union Hall is torn down, God forbid, and that won't happen, not if I have to handcuff myself to the front doors. Gwen promised to join me.”