The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) (12 page)

The cab let them out in front of a stately home facing the park. Sylvia took in the marble façade and the ornate front gate, admiring and yet uncertain. Nothing of the elegant building spoke to her of her mother, although she could not pick out any particular detail that did not fit with her mother’s stories.

“Are you ready?” asked Andrew, offering her his arm as she stood rooted on the sidewalk, business people and tourists flowing past her. Sylvia managed a nod and forced herself to approach the front entrance, where Andrew rang the bell.

The woman who answered was dressed in a brilliant rose-colored sari. “You must be Sylvia and Andrew,” she said, smiling and beckoning the couple indoors. “I’m Aruna Bhansali. I’m so pleased that you wished to visit. How exciting it is to meet the granddaughter of our home’s first resident!”

“Thank you so much for indulging me,” said Sylvia. She introduced Andrew as they removed their coats, admiring the elegant foyer. It was warmly lit and inviting, with white marble floors, vases of red calla lilies on a pair of mahogany tables flanking the entrance to a drawing room, and brightly painted carvings of Hindu gods and goddesses displayed in arched nooks. An elegant curved staircase rose gracefully to the second story, and Sylvia imagined her mother as a little girl carefully descending them, her hand raised to grasp the banister.

Aruna showed them to a parlor, where she offered them tea and asked Sylvia to tell her all about her grandparents. Sylvia hated to disappoint her hostess, but she had little information to share. It had never occurred to her that the current owners would be as curious about her family as Sylvia was to see the house where her mother had once lived. To her relief, Aruna seemed pleased with the sparse details Sylvia offered about her grandfather’s famous department store, their high-society lives, and Eleanor’s decision to leave it all behind to marry a horse farmer from rural Pennsylvania. “How romantic,” Aruna said, sighing wistfully. “I always suspected this grand old place had an intriguing history.”

“I wish I could tell you more about it,” confessed Sylvia. “I couldn’t tell you why my grandfather chose that marble, or why he was apparently so fond of classical architectural styles. He was a rather remote figure in my mother’s life, I’m afraid, and he figures only very rarely in stories from her childhood.”

Aruna smiled. “Perhaps she told you more than you know. You may remember some of those stories as we walk through the house.”

Sylvia eagerly finished her tea and followed Aruna as she showed them around the first floor, through rooms that were obviously designed to entertain in high style, to Mr. Bhansali’s home office, once a drawing room. The bright colors and Indian décor were nothing the Lockwoods would have chosen for themselves, and yet Sylvia could imagine the successful businessman and society wife at home there.

Upstairs, Aruna showed them bedrooms for family members and household servants, and asked if Sylvia knew which one had been her mother’s. Sylvia shook her head. “All I remember is that her nanny had the room next door to hers,” she said. “My mother spent most of her time in the nursery.”

Aruna brightened and led them up another flight of stairs to a large room with a fireplace, dormer windows, and the smell of incense in the air. Paintings and gold-embroidered silk adorned the walls, and soft rugs and pillows invited the visitors to sit on the floor. It looked nothing like a child’s playroom, and yet—

“This must be it,” said Sylvia, turning around to take in every detail. How many hours had her mother passed within these walls, playing, dreaming, longing for adventure in the world beyond the front gate? Her mother had called the nursery her refuge, even after she had become a young woman. Had she written letters to her beloved nanny on that window seat? Had she watched from the window, hoping Sylvia’s father would appear?

Andrew went to one window and peered outside. “There’s a great view of the park.”

“That’s why I chose this room for my very own,” said Aruna. “It’s my retreat from the world, the one place in all of New York that feels most like home to me.”

“I believe my mother felt very much the same,” said Sylvia softly, wishing she could ask her if it was true. When she held quite still, she could imagine her mother’s light footsteps on the wooden floor, her quiet laugh, her gentle kiss. When she closed her eyes, she felt her mother standing beside her, welcoming her home.

It had been far too long since Sylvia had felt the warmth of her mother’s embrace. What she would not give to have even one of those days back to live again, one of those ordinary days she had taken for granted because it seemed impossible that they would not stretch on endlessly into the future.

Sylvia was ten years old when her mother died. In the years to come, she would wonder if Grandma’s death in 1928 and the Great Depression had hastened her mother’s decline. Surely the new hardships the family faced worried her, and she was deeply concerned for their less fortunate neighbors. But upon reflection, Sylvia always came to the same conclusion: Her mother had lived far longer than anyone had thought possible, and she had regarded every day as a gift. She loved her family so deeply that she would have clung to life longer to see them through those difficult times, if she could have. In her heart of hearts, Sylvia knew her mother regretted leaving them at a time of such uncertainty.

None of the Bergstroms could bear to celebrate Christmas of 1930, with Mama’s death so recent and the wound of their grief so raw. They made their religious observances with heavy hearts and wrapped gifts for Richard, almost four years old, but as December wore on, no one could bear to decorate a tree or bake the famous Bergstrom apple strudel. The old traditions that had once brought them such joy would bring them no comfort that first Christmas without Mama.

The entire season so pained Sylvia that she could not wait for it to end so she could return to school and lose herself in books and math homework. She grieved for her loss, for her own loneliness, but she felt sorrier for Richard than for herself. She had enjoyed nine Merry Christmases with her mother, but Richard had been granted only three, and he would not remember those. Sylvia could not decide if it was a blessing or another great cruelty that he would never realize the dearth that was life in their mother’s absence.

To Sylvia’s surprise, Santa did not forget any of the Bergstrom children, but left presents for them beneath a small Christmas tree that had miraculously appeared in the ballroom Christmas morning. Richard whooped for joy and played with empty boxes with almost as much delight as with his new ball and toy fire truck, but most of the grown-ups sat quietly, watching the children open their gifts and mustering up smiles when Richard amused them. After the last gift was opened, Father departed swiftly and silently; Great-Aunt Lucinda watched him go, grief etched in the lines of her face, but no one interfered. Sylvia wanted to run after him because wherever he was headed had to be better than the ballroom, where they went through the motions of the holiday when no one felt like celebrating, where the once-festive manor echoed with her mother’s absence. The quiet of the snowy woods, the muskiness of the barn, the warmth of the stable—any place would do, anywhere but here.

Christmas passed like a breath held too long, relief welling up to fill the emptiness it left behind. The family resumed the routine of ordinary days. Father and the uncles tended the horses. Great-Aunt Lucinda, Great-Aunt Lydia, and Uncle William’s wife kept the household running almost as smoothly as ever, in proud defiance of their dwindling resources. Great-Aunt Lucinda often reminded the children how fortunate they were to have the farm, to be self-sufficient when so many others were out of work or in debt. Although they had lost nearly all of their savings when the Waterford Bank failed after the stock market crash, they would never be forced from their lands, even if Bergstrom Thoroughbreds never earned another dime. Business had declined precipitously, but the Bergstrom family had built its fortune raising their prized thoroughbreds, and someday, when the Depression ended, their once wealthy customers would return. That was what Sylvia’s father said, and Sylvia believed him.

Still, the family could not make or grow everything they needed—shoes for growing children, farm implements and tools—so for the first time in Sylvia’s memory, her father took on work away from Elm Creek Manor. In the months following his wife’s death, Sylvia’s father had begun accepting invitations to lecture at agricultural colleges across the state. Sometimes he would leave the farm in Uncle William’s care for days at a time, traveling from one college to another, earning modest fees for sharing what he knew about regional cultivars, animal husbandry, and fireblight. Sylvia missed him terribly while he was gone and wished he would invite her to accompany him, but the solitude of travel seemed to do him good. Each homecoming seemed to remind him that although the greatest love of his life had departed forever, there was still much love awaiting him at home, people who cared for him, children who depended upon him, reasons to go on. The money he earned, though it flowed out almost as quickly as he could draw it in, allowed them to feel as if they were regaining their footing little by little, that they would manage until their customers returned.

Sylvia’s father often returned home with stories of hard times in the towns and cities beyond the Elm Creek Valley, of bread lines and soup kitchens, of bankrupt farms and closed factories. With each tale, Sylvia felt the desperation and fear of the outside world creeping closer until it seemed as if Elm Creek Manor stood alone, apart, bathed in sunlight in the tightening eye of a storm.

Once, in late autumn, Father returned home from a trip to Philadelphia, his demeanor quiet and pensive. Long after she was supposed to be in bed, Sylvia stood outside the library door and listened as her father told Great-Aunt Lucinda and Uncle William about a strange encounter with a man at the train station.

“He knew my name, although I had never seen him before in my life,” said Sylvia’s father. “His shoes and his fine topcoat told me he was no farmer, and although I didn’t recognize him from my lecture, he seemed to know a lot about me. He followed me onto the platform, questioning me with direct intent about Elm Creek Manor. Right before my train was due to arrive, he got to the point. ‘I don’t think there’s much market for thoroughbreds in these hard times,’ he said. ‘It’s a good thing you have all that land.’

“ ‘Not a single acre is for sale,’ ” I told him.

“He told me he was glad to hear it because he worked for certain men in the city—he didn’t offer their names—who wanted to hire a farmer to grow particular crops for them. In exchange for growing, harvesting, and delivery, they would pay ten dollars a bushel over the most recent market value.”

“Good heavens,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda. “What crop could anyone possibly want so badly?”

“Barley and hops.”

Uncle William gave a low whistle. “Who do you think he was? Mickey Duffy? One of the Lanzetti brothers?”

“Could have been,” Sylvia’s father replied. “He kept his hat brim pulled down and stayed out of the lamplight.”

“You should have asked for his autograph just in case.”

“The joke seems to be on those unsavory characters,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda. “They pinned their hopes on an honest man. You’ve never broken a law in your life, Fred—as far as I know. Why would they ask you, of all people, to get involved in one of their schemes?”

“He didn’t say, but I can guess,” said Sylvia’s father. “Elm Creek Manor is remote, but still accessible to the city. I’m traveling around giving lectures for peanuts, so it’s obvious I could use the money. The point is they did ask me, and we have to decide how to answer.”

Great-Aunt Lucinda’s gasp made Sylvia jump. “You mean you didn’t turn him down right then and there?”

“It’s a family farm, so it’s a family decision.”

“Well, my answer is no,” declared Great-Aunt Lucinda. “Absolutely not. We should have no dealings whatsoever with bootleggers and moonshiners. Ties to organized crime won’t bring us anything but trouble.”

“It’s good money,” said Uncle William. “We could sow the north field with half corn for feed, half hops, easy. Think of the money we could earn. It would make up for all our lost income.”

“My soul is not for sale at any price,” Great-Aunt Lucinda shot back. “If your conscience wouldn’t bother you, think of the consequences if we were found out.”

“It’s not against the law to grow barley and hops,” said Sylvia’s father.

Great-Aunt Lucinda spoke no further, but Sylvia could imagine her withering glare in reply.

“Then the answer is no,” said Sylvia’s father. She thought she detected a note of relief in his voice.

“But you said you didn’t know the man,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda. “How will you contact him?”

“He said he would be in touch.”

Uneasiness swept over Sylvia, but Great-Aunt Lucinda held steady: “Perhaps we’ll never hear from him. Let’s hope he finds someone else to be his patsy.”

Autumn turned into winter, and if the man from Philadelphia ever contacted her father, Sylvia did not hear of it. As time passed, she stopped waiting for an unfamiliar car to circle the front drive, stopped fearing a sinister figure at the front door. Although she longed to know for certain whether the gangsters had lost interest in the Bergstrom farm, she could not ask her father without revealing that she had eavesdropped. Nor could she breathe a word to Claudia.

T
HE DAY AFTER
C
HRISTMAS
, Sylvia escaped the lonely confines of the manor, her coat pockets full of apples for her favorite horses. Apples the Bergstroms had in abundance, for the orchards had flourished in glorious indifference to the hard times all around them, to their loss and their grief. Her boots crunched through the icy crust on the snow as she made her way to the stable, holding her hood closed tightly with one mittened hand to keep out the sharp wind.