The Quilter's Legacy (41 page)

She put on her glasses, slipped on her flannel robe and slippers, and seated herself at the desk near the window. More snow had fallen overnight, but the flakes were fluffy and light, and once the snowplows made their rounds, the roads ought to be safe for travelers.

The family Bible lay on the desktop where she had left it the previous afternoon after moving her things into the new room. First, she read the story of the Nativity from Luke, a Christmas tradition of her own.

She reflected on the words, then glanced at Andrew, smiled, and retrieved a pen from one of the desk drawers. She turned back to the front of the Bible, to the record of important milestones in the Lockwood family written in several different hands. The last entries were in her mother's small, elegant script. She had recorded her own marriage to Sylvia's father, her sister's marriage and death, her parents' passings, and the births of all three of her children. No one had written in the date of Sylvia's mother's death, nor those of the loved ones who had followed.

The familiar melancholy that stole over Sylvia whenever she contemplated the record touched her only lightly that morning and then, as she took a second look at a name that had caught her eye, it vanished entirely.

“Herbert Drury?” she exclaimed. “Abigail Drury is Aunt Abigail?”

“Who's what?” asked Andrew sleepily, sitting up in bed with a yawn.

“The quilt designer, the one from the magazine. The woman whose name seemed so familiar. My goodness, she was my aunt. My mother's sister. I didn't recognize her married name.”

Andrew grinned and put on his robe. “You forgot your own aunt's name?”

“I did, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. She died long before I was born, and my mother always referred to her as her sister, or Abigail, but never Abigail Drury.”

“So your Aunt Abigail designed the whole cloth quilt.” Andrew pulled up a chair and stroked her back as he read over her shoulder. “That's one more mystery solved.”

“No, I don't think so,” said Sylvia. “My mother told me on several occasions that she was the only quilter in her immediate family. An aunt or a family friend taught her. I can't recall which.” Sylvia thought for a moment. “I'll bet half my fabric stash my mother designed that quilt and gave her sister the credit.”

“Why?”

“Well …” Sylvia considered, then indicated the record of her aunt's death. “I suppose because Aunt Abigail had died only a few months before the pattern's publication. Perhaps my mother used her sister's name in tribute, to immortalize her, in a sense.”

Andrew leaned closer for a better look. “April fifteenth, 1912. Did you know that's the same date the
Titanic
sank?”

“Of course I know. No one in my family could ever forget. Of course, we're not sure whether Aunt Abigail died on the night of the fourteenth or the morning of the fifteenth.”

Andrew stared at her. “Your aunt died aboard the
Titanic
?”

“She and her husband, yes.”

He shook his head in amazement. “Now, that's a Bergstrom family story I haven't heard.”

Sylvia supposed it was, but since her mother had told her only those few spare details, she had little more to share with Andrew.

Andrew touched the page where the date of Aunt Abigail's death was written. “This is your mother's handwriting?”

“Yes.”

“Your grandmother didn't pass on until several years later. Why didn't she make this entry? Come to think of it, she should have put down your mother's and aunt's weddings, and the births of you and your siblings, but it looks like your mother did those, too.”

“My grandmother abandoned the record after both of her daughters ran off to marry against her wishes,” said Sylvia lightly.

“Your grandmother didn't approve of your father?” asked Andrew, incredulous. He had admired Sylvia's father since childhood. “Why not?”

“I don't know. My grandmother never spoke an ill word about him in my presence. Of course, I know little more about her than about Aunt Abigail. I met her for the first time when I was seven years old and she came to live with us. She died less than two months after her arrival.”

“All this talk about death, marriages the family doesn't approve of …” Andrew shook his head and gave her a rueful smile. “This isn't a very cheerful project for the first morning of your honeymoon.”

“Don't you worry,” she told him, smiling. “I believe it will have a happy ending.”

She took up her pen and finished the record her mother's great-grandmother had begun. Her mother's death, a date she would never forget. Her marriage to her first husband, James. The death of James and her beloved little brother, on the same day in the same tragic accident far from home. Claudia's marriage and passing, which she should have witnessed, but learned of through letters from mutual friends.

She concluded her entry by recording her marriage to Andrew. Then she set the pen aside. She did not know who, if anyone, would continue the record after her. She would not be dismayed if no one did. It would not bother her in the least if the record ended on a note of joy and promise, the union of two dear friends.

W
hen Sylvia and Andrew finished packing, they went downstairs for breakfast. Sarah and Matt were lingering over coffee in the kitchen, waiting to wish them a Merry Christmas and safe journey before leaving for Sarah's mother's house. Sarah and Matt had prepared the newlyweds a special breakfast: blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, a pot of lemon tea for Sylvia, and good strong coffee for Andrew. And as they sat down to eat, Sarah placed a brightly wrapped box on the table. “Your Christmas present,” she explained. “It's a wedding gift, too.”

Inside Sylvia discovered a digital camcorder. “My goodness,” she exclaimed.

“It's to record all your honeymoon memories,” said Sarah.

“Maybe not all of them,” said Matt, winking at Andrew. Sarah rolled her eyes. “What? That's the closest thing to a bachelor party the poor man's going to get. I think I'm allowed one tasteless joke.”

“That's the best you can do?” inquired Sylvia. “I've heard worse at your average quilting bee.”

They all laughed, and Andrew, who loved gadgets, eagerly opened the box. “This is great, kids. Thanks.”

“Yes, thank you,” added Sylvia, though the device looked so complicated she decided not to touch it until she read the manual. “We'll enjoy documenting our travels for you.”

“Will you spend your whole honeymoon in the Poconos?” asked Matt.

“No, just tonight,” said Sylvia. “Tomorrow morning we're continuing on to New York.”

Sarah's face lit up. “To see some Broadway shows? To go shopping?”

“That, and we're going to visit my mother's childhood home. I've never seen it. I wrote to the current residents, and they graciously offered to give us a tour.”

Andrew caught Sylvia's eye and smiled. “After that, we're going to Connecticut.”

Sylvia smiled back at him. If Amy wouldn't come to them, they would go to her.

When the last bite of Sarah's delicious pancakes was gone and the dishes were washed and put away, they exchanged the rest of their gifts. Then, to put their young friends' minds at ease, Sylvia wrote down their itinerary, including the number of her new cellular phone, a Christmas present from Andrew.

Sarah and Matt helped them carry their luggage to the Elm Creek Quilts minivan. “Will you call me at my mother's house when you get to the inn?” asked Sarah.

“If you promise to stop worrying,” said Sylvia, climbing into the passenger's seat and shutting the door. Andrew started the engine, and Sylvia waved good-bye through the window.

“Get a shot of us pulling away from the manor,” said Andrew as they crossed the bridge over Elm Creek.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” grumbled Sylvia cheerfully, but she took the camera from its case. “I hope you won't have me doing this the whole way there.”

“Of course not,” said Andrew. “The batteries will run down.”

Even so, she did spend quite a bit of time behind the camera as they traveled, sometimes at Andrew's request, sometimes on her own initiative, when a particularly lovely valley or snow-covered mountainscape inspired her. When they stopped for lunch or to stretch their legs, Andrew took his turn, and to Sylvia's amusement, he spent more time training the camera on her than on the sights of the journey.

“I'm coming with you,” she teased when he had her stand right in front of a historical marker, so that no one watching the video would be able to read why it was so important. “You don't need a picture of me.”

He replied that he was capturing their honeymoon memories, as instructed, and whenever she tried to step out of the way, he followed her with the camera. She eventually gave in, realizing that if she didn't play along, their entire vacation video would consist of her complaining and ducking out of camera range.

They arrived at the Bear's Paw Inn by early afternoon. The proprietors, Jean and Daniel, were pleased to see them again, and were thrilled to discover that they were on their honeymoon. They showed Sylvia and Andrew to their usual room, where they relaxed until suppertime.

They joined their hosts and two other vacationing couples in the dining room, and Daniel began the meal by offering a toast to the newlyweds. The food was delicious, the company pleasant, and eventually the conversation turned to quilting when a new guest inquired about the quilts displayed throughout the inn. Jean, an avid collector, was pleased to entertain them with stories of how she had acquired her favorite pieces and what she knew of their history. For Sylvia, the details of the quilts' makers and prior owners called to mind her own quest to find her mother's quilts. Thinking of what those fragile heirlooms had endured reminded her how fortunate she was to have found the Crazy Quilt whole and sound, and how generous Mona Niehaus had been to part with it. She was grateful to have the Elms and Lilacs quilt, too, for despite its altered condition, her mother's love for her family and willingness to endure any hardship for their sake was still evident in every stitch. While the Ocean Waves quilt had been lost forever, its beauty would survive in her memory, and she would learn from the example of Gloria Schaeffer's sons and not put off acts of healing and forgiveness. The whole cloth quilt, too, was beyond her reach, but knowing her mother had created it after all, and that she had lovingly offered it to the world in her sister's name, brought her as much comfort as the quilt itself would have done. And while the New York Beauty quilt still eluded her, she would continue to search. That was one lesson her mother had taught her well: Persevere, hope, and do all things with love, for then the attempt would be successful even if it fell short of the goal.

“Have you ever been to the New England Quilt Museum?” one of the new guests asked Sylvia.

“Indeed I have,” said Sylvia. “Although not recently.”

“If you have a chance to visit again soon, you should,” said Jean. “We spent Thanksgiving with our son in Boston, and we made a day trip out to Lowell. The museum had just set up the most beautiful exhibit of Christmas quilts. If you're heading east, it's definitely worth going out of your way.”

“Lowell's only about two hours northeast of Amy's house,” said Andrew.

“Some of their quilts are even closer than that,” said another guest, an avid quilter who had come running into the inn when she returned from a day of skiing to discover the Elm Creek Quilts minivan in the parking lot. “The Penn State branch campus in Hazleton has some pieces from the New England Quilt Museum in their library gallery. It was a special themed exhibit called—oh, what was the name again?”

“The Art of Women Pioneers,” offered her husband.

“Yes, something like that. There were quilts, of course, but also other needlework, pottery, weaving, and other media, all on loan from museums across the country. The stories of the women who made those pieces were fascinating. I highly recommend it.”

Sylvia nudged Andrew. “Not only recommended, but highly recommended. Surely you don't expect me to resist that.”

“I don't, but we already passed Hazleton. Should we see it on our way home?”

“That sounds like a fine idea.”

“I wish my film wasn't still in the camera,” the other guest lamented. “I took a picture of an absolutely stunning quilt in a pattern I had never seen before. I'm sure you would be able to identify it.”

“Perhaps I still can,” said Sylvia. “Describe it for me.”

“Well, it looked to me like a cross between the Sunflower and the Grandmother's Fan pattern. Imagine a quarter circle with narrow spires branching out from it like sunbeams—”

“Were the blocks separated by sashing?” interrupted Sylvia.

“Very distinctive sashing, as a matter of fact. The strips had spires similar to those in the blocks, and at the junction of the sashing strips were small pieced stars. Do you know the pattern?”

“I do,” said Sylvia, nearly breathless from excitement. “In fact, I think I may know the very quilt. Do you recall how long the exhibit will be there?”

She shook her head. “I don't, sorry. We just stopped by on our way north from Harrisburg.”

“I would hate to miss it,” said Sylvia, giving Andrew a significant look. “I simply can't miss it. By the time we come home, the pieces in the exhibit might have been returned to their owners.”