The Quilter's Legacy (7 page)

Among the accomplishments Miss Langley had passed on to the Lockwood daughters was needlework. Abigail had no patience for it and her first project, an embroidered sampler, was also her last. When Miss Langley had suggested she attempt a small embroidered pillow next, Abigail had declared that when she married she would hire a woman to do her sewing, as Mother did. Therefore, she had no need to learn any new stitches and no desire to practice those she already knew. Miss Langley merely smiled and said, “Very well. You may practice piano instead.”

Abigail disliked playing the piano only slightly less than sewing; the saving grace of music was that people watched and admired her as she performed. Still, she had no choice but to pick up a needle or turn on the metronome, so she left without another word, and before long the sounds of scales and arpeggios came faintly up the stairs to the nursery.

It was Eleanor who had completed an embroidered pillow for Abigail's hope chest, and then a second, and then she started a patchwork quilt for her doll. Mother frowned when she discovered Eleanor piecing together squares of flowered calico and asked Miss Langley if the nanny might not find a better use for Eleanor's time.

“Sewing requires less physical exertion than playing the piano, which Eleanor has shown us she can endure,” said Miss Langley. “A small doll's quilt will consume little of her time. Quilting will teach her patience and thrift, and to see a task through to its end.”

Mother relented with the condition that in the future Miss Langley limit her lessons to embroidery and the finer needlecrafts. Patchwork was vulgar, the province of the lower classes, who pieced quilts from necessity. For all her frailties, Eleanor was a well-bred young woman. It would not do to have her practice the skills of a common housemaid.

“I suppose a well-bred young woman should never be useful if she can be merely decorative,” said Miss Langley after Mother left, but Eleanor wasn't sure if her nanny mocked Mother's opinion of patchwork or her own indulgence in the craft. Heedless of Mother's scorn, Miss Langley enjoyed relaxing in the evening with a needle in her hand and a basket of fabric scraps on the floor beside her chair, piecing quilt blocks as Eleanor read aloud. Miss Langley completed several quilts a year and donated them to a foundling hospital. In a brave moment, Eleanor had told Mother that by making patchwork quilts from scraps, Miss Langley both prevented wastefulness and performed acts of charity, but although Mother admired those traits at other times and in other people, they did not elevate quilting in her esteem.

After Eleanor sewed the last stitch on the binding of her doll's quilt, Miss Langley obeyed Mother's orders and taught Eleanor new embroidery stitches. Eleanor balked and pretended to be unable to learn, but she could not bear to be dishonest with Miss Langley, especially when it made her look clumsy and stupid. She had so longed to make a patchwork quilt to brighten her own room. The patterns with their charming names—Royal Cross, Storm at Sea, Dutch Rose—evoked romantic times and far-off places, and Eleanor longed to learn them all.

She could not agree, either, that patchwork was vulgar, for Abigail had seen a quilt in Mrs. Newcombe's parlor, and Mrs. Newcombe never permitted anything in her home that did not adhere to the most current trends in fashion and good taste. Abigail could not describe the quilt very well, but even the few details she remembered were enough to convince Eleanor it must be a Crazy Quilt, the same type of quilt Miss Langley kept on her armchair. The Crazy Quilt was the one sign of chaos in Miss Langley's ordered world, the one nod to ornamentation for the sheer pleasure of it in a room dedicated to usefulness and practicality. When Eleanor was ill or downcast, Miss Langley would let her curl up beneath the quilt in the window seat in the conservatory, warmed by the privilege rather than the quilt itself, which, in the style of Crazy Quilts, was pieced of more delicate fabrics than traditional quilts and had no inner layer of batting.

Eleanor admired the wild and haphazard mosaic of fabric, so carefree, reckless, and robust. In contrast to the undisciplined pattern were the luxurious fabrics and formal colors—silks, velvets, brocades, and taffetas in black, burgundy, navy blue, and brown. Embroidered borders, initials, and figures embellished the few solid cotton or wool pieces. Eleanor's favorite was the spiderweb in one of the corners. Miss Langley had told her that an embroidered spiderweb was supposed to bring the quilt's owner good fortune, but she had included the design in her quilt because the story amused her, not because she believed the superstition.

Another embroidered outline had often caught Eleanor's eye: two tiny footprints, outlined in white. Eleanor had assumed the little feet had sprung from Miss Langley's imagination, like the spider-web, but Abigail's tale of Miss Langley's shocking secret made her wonder. She longed to ask Miss Langley whose tiny footprints had been immortalized on the black velveteen, but she feared Miss Langley would deny their existence and forbid Eleanor to see the quilt ever again.

Fortunately, Miss Langley apparently did not take Mother's prohibition against quilting lessons to mean that Eleanor was not allowed to watch her quilt, nor did she refuse to answer Eleanor's questions. But that was in their companionable solitude in the summer house. With Abigail present, Eleanor did not dare show too much interest in her nanny's quilts. Instead, as Abigail read to them from Dickens or one of the Miss Brontës, Eleanor worked on a needlepoint sampler and counted the hours until school began.

O
n the last Wednesday of the summer recess, Mother and Abigail attended a luncheon at Mrs. Corville's. As soon as Father left for work, Mother announced that Eleanor must play in the nursery by herself while Miss Langley helped Abigail prepare. Stung that she should be sent away like a child, Eleanor hovered in the background while Miss Langley and Harriet bathed Abigail, brushed her golden curls until they shone, and dressed her in a light blue dress with white lace at the collar and matching gloves.

As Mother supervised and fussed, Eleanor learned why this particular occasion was so important: the Corvilles had a fifteen-year-old son. Mr. Corville owned a store a few blocks from Father's, and while it was smaller than his, it was so prosperous that Mr. Corville had opened branches in Boston and New Rochelle. Father had once said that he could never buy out Mr. Corville, but he would not object to becoming the man's partner. Unfortunately, there were rumors Mr. Drury had the same idea, and he also had a daughter Abigail's age, though not as pretty.

“If Abigail marries Mr. Corville's son, Mr. Corville couldn't become Mr. Drury's partner instead of Father's,” said Eleanor to Miss Langley after Mother and Abigail hurried out the door.

“He could, but he wouldn't.”

Eleanor felt a surge of sympathy for her sister. Abigail did not want to leave home, but she would obey to make Father happy. “I hope she likes Edwin Corville,” said Eleanor, dubious. That might not influence the decision, but it would make the inevitable easier to bear.

Miss Langley sighed. “So do I, for her sake.”

They went inside to the nursery, where Miss Langley said, “Since our presence is not required at their silly luncheon, how would you like to spend the rest of the morning?”

Eleanor almost asked for a trip into the city, but something held back the words. Something in Miss Langley's expression told her that the offer was meant to compensate for more than the missed luncheon. She looked Miss Langley straight in the eye, steeled herself, and said, “I want to ride Wildrose.”

Miss Langley's smile faded.

“Or Princess,” said Eleanor quickly. “Abigail will never know. You could ride Wildrose and we could ride together.”

“Eleanor—”

“Don't say no. I know I'm not allowed, but I'm not allowed to do anything. Please, Miss Langley. I'll be careful. Don't say it's too dangerous, because if it's not too dangerous for Abigail—”

“Eleanor.” Miss Langley's voice was quiet but firm. “You cannot ride Wildrose or any of the family's horses. We could not go riding without at least a half-dozen people witnessing it. We cannot count on them to keep silent.”

Eleanor knew Miss Langley was right. She took a deep breath, nodded, and tried to think of something else.

“I know,” said Miss Langley. “You've admired my Crazy Quilt for years. I'll teach you to make your own.”

“I don't want to make a Crazy Quilt,” said Eleanor. Not today, not when the forbidden lessons had been offered only because what she truly wanted was impossible. “Abigail was younger than I am when she rode for the first time. I'm tired of being treated like I'm sick when I'm not. I don't have a weak heart. I don't.”

“I know you don't,” Miss Langley said. “You have the strongest heart of anyone I know.”

She extended a hand, and when Eleanor took it, Miss Langley pulled her onto her lap. Eleanor clung to her and fought off tears. She would not cry and prove that everyone was right about her, that she was fragile and a baby.

Miss Langley stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. “Eleanor, darling, don't judge your parents too harshly. They're doing the best they know how.”

Eleanor made a scoffing noise and scrubbed her face with the back of her hand.

“Good heavens, Eleanor, please use a handkerchief.” She handed Eleanor her own. “From the time you were a baby, your parents were told you would surely die. Try to imagine what that must have been like for them. Some families might have responded by spoiling you, by giving you your heart's desire every day of your life to make up for all the days you would not have. Other families distance themselves from their child so that when that terrible day comes they will be able to bear it. It wounds them a little every day to do so, but they tell themselves that they can survive these wounds. They think only of the size and not their number.”

Eleanor sat silently, absorbing her words, but a merciless voice whispered that Miss Langley was only trying to be kind. The simple truth was that her parents didn't love her. How could they, when her poor health made her such a disappointment?

Miss Langley was watching her with such compassion that Eleanor couldn't bring herself to say what she really felt. Instead she said, “I wish my parents had been the kind who gave their child her heart's desire.”

“I for one am glad they are not. You would have been insufferable.”

Eleanor smiled, and when Miss Langley offered the quilting lesson a second time, she accepted.

To avoid Harriet's prying eyes, they carried Miss Langley's sewing basket outside and spread a blanket in the shade of the apple trees on the far side of the garden. Eleanor hugged her knees to her chest as Miss Langley unpacked needles and thread, her favorite pair of shears, and several small bundles of muslin, velvet, satin, and silk, which Eleanor recognized as scraps Mother's dressmaker had discarded.

Miss Langley had also brought along two diamond-shaped “blocks” for a new Crazy Quilt she had begun. “Most Crazy Quilts use squares as the base unit shape,” she said, “but I chose diamonds.”

“Then I'll use diamonds, too.”

With Miss Langley's guidance, Eleanor carefully cut a diamond foundation and appliquéd a velvet scrap to the center. She then selected a triangular piece of dark green silk and held it up to the foundation, trying it in one position and then another, until she liked the angles and shapes it created. She stitched it in place, sewing over one edge of the velvet in the center. In this fashion she added more fabric scraps, working from the center outward, varying the angles and sizes of the added pieces to create the characteristic random appearance. When the entire surface of the foundation was covered, she trimmed off the pieces that extended past the edges until she had a Crazy Quilt diamond like Miss Langley's, if not quite so perfectly made.

“Shall I begin another?” asked Eleanor, reaching for the muslin to cut a new foundation.

Miss Langley shook her head. “You haven't finished this one yet. Has it been so long since you've seen my quilt that you've forgotten about the embroidery?”

“But I already know how to embroider. I want to learn more quilting.”

“You've embroidered on solid fabric,” said Miss Langley. “Embroidering a Crazy Quilt is quite another matter. Your stitches will follow the edges of the patches, so you will have to sew through seams, which you have never tried. You also need to learn how to choose the perfect stitch for each piece. A skilled quilter uses a variety of stitches to achieve the desired effect.”

“What's the desired effect?”

“That's entirely up to you. Sometimes your embroidery will frame the fabric piece, defining it, highlighting it, but other times the fabric recedes to the background and becomes a canvas for the embroidery.”

“Such as when you embroider a picture?” asked Eleanor. “Like the spiderweb in your quilt—or the little baby footprints?”

“Precisely.” Miss Langley held out her hand for the muslin.

Eleanor had watched Miss Langley's face carefully, but not a flicker of emotion altered her expression at the mention of the baby footprints. If Eleanor had seen the slightest hint of pain at the reminder of a secret tragedy, she could have asked Miss Langley what troubled her, but Miss Langley gave away nothing.