An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (22 page)

So, as much as Richard’s departure made my heart ache, I knew he would return when his education was complete. Maybe he would even be an uncle by then, I would think to myself, hiding a smile so that Claudia wouldn’t pester me to share my thoughts. Remember, too, that it was the autumn of 1943. With so many families losing brothers and sons every day, I had no right to complain when my brother was merely away at school.

After what seemed like the longest time, the Christmas holidays finally approached. You can imagine the bustle and excitement around here then. Christmas at Elm Creek Manor was always such a lovely time, but now we had the added joy of Richard’s homecoming. We had to be more creative than ever with our celebrations, due to rationing and shortages and all that, but we pushed troubling thoughts from our minds for a while. Richard was coming home at last.

On the day of his arrival, the family’s impatience and expectation seemed to fill the house. All day I paced around, taking care of last-minute preparations and moving from window to window, looking out through the falling snow for him. Suddenly one of the cousins ran downstairs from the nursery shouting that a car was coming up the drive.

It seemed as if everyone was in the front entry at once, laughing and arguing over who would get to open the door for him, who would get to take his coat, who would get to sit next to him at dinner. Father reached the door first, with me at his elbow. Father swung open the door, and there he was.

“Richard,” I cried, leaping forward to embrace him. And then I froze.

A small figure peeked out from behind him. The biggest blue eyes I had ever seen peered up at me from beneath a white fur hood, the rest of the small face hidden behind a thick woolen muffler.

“Well, sis? Are you going to let us in or keep us standing out here in the snow?” Richard demanded, grinning at me as I stood there gaping. He took the bundled-up figure by the elbow and guided her into the house, giving me a quick peck on the cheek as he passed.

I followed them inside, still dumbfounded. Everyone tried to hug Richard at once, and their welcomes created quite a din. The bundled figure stood apart, looking anxiously from one strange face to the next.

Then Richard broke free from the crowd and turned to his companion. “Still bundled up, are you?” he teased gently, and the eyes seemed to smile over the muffler. Mittened hands fumbled clumsily with the hood and the coat buttons. Richard shrugged off his own coat and began to help.

The family fell silent. Even the little cousins watched them expectantly. Richard turned to face us, draping their wraps over his arm. “Everyone, I’d like you to meet my—I’d like you to meet Agnes Chevalier.” He said her name just like that—Ahn-YES instead of the normal way, AG-nes.

“Hello,” Agnes said, her smile trembling a little. I already told you she had the biggest blue eyes I had ever seen. She also had the longest, darkest hair I had ever seen, longer than mine, even. Her skin was so fair, except where the cold had brought roses to her cheeks, and she was so small that the top of her head barely reached my shoulder. I remember thinking she looked just like a little porcelain doll.

“Welcome to Elm Creek Manor, Agnes,” Claudia said, stepping forward to take their things. She handed them to a cousin with instructions that they were to be hung someplace where they would dry. Then she turned to Richard and Agnes, placing an arm around the tiny girl’s shoulders. “Let’s get you two by a nice warm fire, shall we?” As she guided Agnes down the hallway toward the parlor, two cousins seized Richard’s hands and pulled him after them.

Father and I trailed along behind the crowd. We exchanged a quick glance, enough to confirm that the other had not known about Richard’s traveling companion either.

As they warmed themselves with hot tea and warm quilts, Richard told us that Agnes was the sister of a classmate, and they had met when he went to his friend’s home for dinner two months before. Her father was a successful attorney and her mother was from an enormously wealthy and prominent political family—although Richard put it more politely than I have done. They had been distressed to learn that they would not be spending the holidays with their only daughter, but they sent the Bergstroms their warmest holiday wishes.

“Maybe Agnes should be put back on the next train to Philadelphia to spend Christmas with her own family,” I whispered to Claudia. I said the girl’s name AG-nes, without the affected French pronunciation.

Claudia sighed. “We’ll get to the bottom of this soon enough, but in the meantime, you mustn’t be rude.” She turned away from me and smiled brightly across the room at our unexpected guest.

It wasn’t until the next afternoon that I was able to pull Richard aside for a private chat. “Isn’t she just wonderful, Sylvia?” he exclaimed, his eyes dazzled. “She’s just the best girl I ever met. I couldn’t wait for you to meet her.”

“Why didn’t you say anything in any of your letters?”

Richard looked abashed. “I knew you’d tell Claudia and Father, and I didn’t want them to think I was neglecting my studies. I haven’t been,” he hastily added, probably seeing my eyebrows rise in inquiry. “My marks are good, and I’m learning a lot, I think.” He hesitated. “She’s only fifteen. I know she’s just a kid, but she’s really special, and—”

“And you’re just sixteen yourself, too young to be serious about a girl. What were her parents thinking, letting her travel across the state unchaperoned like that?”

Richard scowled. “You know me better than that. I’d never take advantage of a girl.”

“Hmph. Maybe she’d take advantage of you.” He bristled, and I held up a hand in apology. “Sorry. That was uncalled for. But goodness, Richard, couldn’t you have given us some kind of warning?”

He grinned, and looked over his shoulder as footsteps approached. “I know you’ll love her, too, once you get to know her,” he whispered, giving my hand a squeeze before sauntering down the hall.

You can imagine how I felt about that. “You’ll love her, too,” he’d said, which meant that he loved her, or at least he thought he did. I squared my shoulders and returned to the rest of the family, hoping for the best.

Before long, I determined that just as surely as Agnes was the prettiest girl I had ever seen, she was also the silliest, most spoiled, and most childish creature ever to step foot into Elm Creek Manor.

She pouted if her tea was too cold, then batted her eyelashes at Richard until he leaped up to fetch her a fresh cup, only to send him racing back to the kitchen again because he had added too much sugar. We gave her the finest guest room, only to hear that it was “unbearably cold, not like in Philadelphia.” She picked at her food, remarking that one could not expect to find Philadelphia’s fine cookery so far out here in the country. She would try to participate in dinner conversation, prefacing each inane chirping remark with “Papa says … ” And the way Richard treated her, as if she were made of priceless, delicate china, giving her the best seat nearest the fire, carrying everything for her, taking her arm as she went upstairs, hanging on to her every word as if it fell from the lips of Shakespeare himself—my, it was tiresome.

I was not the only one who found her insufferable. We adults would exchange amazed looks at each new piece of foolishness, and even the children screwed up their faces in bewilderment as they looked from their favorite cousin to this strange creature from the apparently heavenly land of Philadelphia. We all pondered the same question: yes, she’s lovely to look at, but what on earth does our dear Richard see in her?

James warned me that I had better get used to her, just in case Agnes became a permanent addition to the family. Oh, I tried to like her, and I vowed to keep my feelings hidden for Richard’s sake. Surely, I told myself, once we knew Agnes better, we would come to see her as Richard did.

One afternoon Claudia and I invited her to join us as we quilted. “How charming,” she exclaimed, fingering the edge of my latest quilt. Do you remember the pictures of the Baltimore Album style quilts I showed you? Well, that’s what I was working on then. I much prefer piecing to the intricate appliqué required for that style, but one of my closest school friends was planning to be married in the spring. This style was not quite as fashionable as others then, but it was my friend’s favorite. The quilt was going to be a surprise, you see. Her husband-to-be was fighting in Europe, and they were to be wed as soon as he came home.

But as I was saying, Agnes fingered the edge of my quilt and exclaimed, “How charming.” Then she added, “In Philadelphia we can buy our own blankets, but I don’t suppose you can do that out here in the country, can you?”

I removed the edge of the quilt from her tiny, grasping hand. “Quite right. There isn’t a single store within a hundred miles of here. I hope you remembered to pack everything.”

“Sylvia.” Claudia’s voice held a note of warning.

“Really?” Agnes’s mouth fell open in a way that made her look quite foolish. “Not a single store?”

“Not a one,” I replied. “In fact, I had never even heard of a store until Richard described them to me in one of his letters. At first I thought he was just making them up, but Father told me he was telling the truth. To me it sounded like the stuff of fairy tales, but then, I’ve never been to Philadelphia.” I picked up my needle and continued sewing.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Agnes staring at me in confusion, her cheeks growing pink. Then she turned on her heel and flounced out of the room.

“Sylvia, that wasn’t very nice.”

“After that remark, she’s lucky I didn’t say worse. Why make a quilt when you can just buy a blanket? Honestly.”

“I agree she could be more tactful, but even so—”

“What does Richard see in her?”

“I don’t know. It’s a puzzle.”

“She’s the puzzle,” I retorted, and that’s how it started. From that time on, whenever Claudia or I referred to Agnes, we called her Bachelor’s Puzzle. Sometimes we called her BP, or the Puzzle, as in “I wonder if Richard will bring the Puzzle home for spring break?” or “Richard writes that he and BP are going to the Winter Ball.” Or “Dear me, I hope Bachelor’s Puzzle can remember her own name today, indeed I do.”

We never said it to her, or when anyone else other than Claudia and I could hear. But we said it all the same, and it wasn’t very nice, and I’ll never forgive myself for giving her that dreadful nickname.

“Sounds to me like she deserved it,” Sarah said, laughing.

“Oh, no, not you, too,” Mrs. Compson protested, joining in. “It isn’t nice to laugh at other people, even if they are silly, foolish creatures. Especially not then.” She wiped tears from the corners of her eyes.

“What did Richard say when Agnes told him about it?”

Mrs. Compson stopped laughing. “He never said anything, so I assume she didn’t tell him.” She fixed Sarah with a studious gaze. “And now, young lady, it’s your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

“I’m tired of doing all the talking around here. Now it’s your turn to answer some questions.”

Sarah shifted in her seat. “What kind of questions?”

“Let’s start with your family. What about your parents? Any brothers or sisters?”

“No, I’m an only child. So’s Matt. My father died years ago.” Sarah paused. “Your stories are much more interesting than anything I could tell. I don’t see why you’d be interested—”

“Indulge me. Did your mother ever remarry?”

“No, but she’s probably set a world record for the number of boyfriends held in a single lifetime. Does that count?”

“Ah. I see I’ve struck a nerve.” Mrs. Compson leaned forward. “Why does that bother you?”

“It doesn’t bother me. She can date whomever she likes as far as I’m concerned. It doesn’t affect me or my life.”

“Quite right. Of course not.” Mrs. Compson cocked her head to one side and smiled knowingly.

Sarah tried not to fidget. “You know, Matt and I were talking—”

“About why you’re angry with your mother?”

“No. I mean, of course not. I’m not angry with her. What makes you say that?”

“Tell me about her.”

“Well … she’s a nurse, and she kind of looks like me except she has shorter hair, and she and my dad met at a bowling alley, and now she likes to take expensive trips that her boyfriends pay for. Really, there’s not much to say.”

“Sarah?”

“What?”

“Your storytelling abilities leave much to be desired.”

“Thanks.”

“Perhaps you might as well tell me what you and Matthew were discussing instead.”

Sarah paused for a moment, wondering if Mrs. Compson really did intend to let her off the hook that easily. “Matt and I were wondering if you’d like to celebrate the Fourth of July with us. Bonnie Markham says there’s going to be a parade downtown, an outdoor concert on the square, and a quilt show on campus. We’d like to go, and we thought you’d like to join us, maybe?”

“I think I’d like that very much.” Mrs. Compson looked pleased. “And since I entered a quilt in that show myself, I suppose I ought to see how it fared.”

Nineteen

E
arly the next week Sarah finished cleaning two more suites in the south wing and started a new block, Posies Round the Square. Mrs. Compson warned her that this block would be the most difficult by far since it required two new piecing techniques: sewing curved seams and appliqué.