An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler (6 page)

“We might not run into each other much during the day, but at least we can have lunch together.”

Sarah nodded, thinking. She’d wanted the chance to do something different with her career, and this job was certainly different. Besides, it would only be for a few months at most. It would help fill up the days and take her mind off her unsuccessful job search.

Then she remembered the quilt she’d seen on her first visit to the manor, and found another reason to take the job.

“So what do you say?” Matt asked.

“The house is gorgeous, and it’s so much cooler out here, too, like you said.” Sarah took Matt’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m going to go back there right now and tell her I’ll take the job, okay?” She turned and started back for the manor.

“Okay,” Matt called after her. “See you at noon.”

As she walked, Sarah decided that the situation had enough advantages to outweigh Mrs. Compson’s eccentricities. She could always quit if things didn’t work out. Besides, she knew the perfect way Mrs. Compson could pay her. She hurried up the back steps and knocked on the door.

Immediately, Mrs. Compson opened it. “Have you decided?” She pursed her lips as if she expected bad news.

“I’ll take the job, on one condition.”

Mrs. Compson raised an eyebrow. “I already planned to feed you.”

“Thank you, but that’s not it.”

“What, then?”

“Teach me how to quilt.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Teach me how to quilt. Teach me how to make a quilt and I’ll help you with your work.”

“Surely you don’t mean it. There are several fine teachers in Waterford. I could give you some names.”

Sarah shook her head. “No. That’s the deal. You teach me how to quilt, and I’ll help you take inventory and prepare the manor for sale. I’ve seen your quilts, and—” Sarah tried to remember what Bonnie had said. “And you’re in the QAS permanently. You ought to be able to teach me how to quilt.”

“You mean AQS, but that’s not the point. Of course I could teach you. It’s not a question of my ability.” The old woman eyed her as if she found her quite inscrutable, then shrugged and extended a hand. “Very well. Agreed. In addition to your wages, I’ll teach you how to quilt.”

Sarah pulled her hand away an instant before she would have been grasping Mrs. Compson’s. “No, that’s not what I meant. The lessons are my wages.”

“Goodness, child, have you no bills to pay?” Mrs. Compson sighed and looked to the heavens. “Don’t let these somewhat dilapidated conditions deceive you. My family may not be what it once was, but we aren’t ready to accept charity quite yet.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“Yes, yes. Of course you didn’t. But I simply must insist on some sort of payment. My conscience wouldn’t give me a moment’s peace otherwise.”

Sarah thought about it. “Okay. Something fair.” She wasn’t about to take advantage of someone who was obviously lonely, no matter how rude she was.

They settled on a wage, but Sarah still felt that she was receiving the best part of the bargain. When they shook on it, Mrs. Compson’s eyes lit up with triumph. “I think you would have held out for more if you knew how much work there is to be done.”

“I’m hoping that I’ll have a real job before long.”

Mrs. Compson smiled. “Forgive me if I hope not.” She held open the door, and Sarah went inside. “Would you really have swept the veranda for free if I had asked you nicely?”

“Yes.” Sarah thought for a moment and decided to be honest. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I’ll do it now, though, since I’m on the payroll.”

“Let me know when you’re ready for lunch,” Mrs. Compson said, as Sarah continued down the hallway toward the front entrance.

Four

A
s she had promised, Sarah swept the veranda. When every dead leaf had been gathered up and even the corners were surely neat enough to win Mrs. Compson’s approval, most of the morning still stretched ahead of her. She decided to move on to the staircases, and swept twigs and leaves and crumbling fragments of mortar to the ground as she descended each curving step. Often she had to stoop over and pull up weeds and tufts of grass that had grown in the spaces between the gray stones. She hadn’t noticed the cracks and the scrawny pale shoots earlier, and she reminded herself to tell Matt about them. From the looks of things, he might need to replace some of the mortar, maybe even some of the stones on the lower steps.

As she worked, the manor’s shade and a gentle southwest breeze kept the worst of the sun’s heat from troubling her. And as noon approached, she felt her thoughts unsnarling until she realized with a start that she was enjoying herself. If her mother could see her now. Sarah pictured her mother’s reaction when she learned the truth about her daughter’s new career, and had to smile.

At lunchtime, Sarah returned to the kitchen to find Matt setting the table and Mrs. Compson stirring a bowl of tuna salad. While they ate, Mrs. Compson quizzed them on their morning’s accomplishments, nodding in satisfaction at their replies. When Matt tried to show Mrs. Compson some preliminary sketches of the north gardens, though, she gave them only the barest of glances, nodded, and abruptly rose from her seat.

Matt and Sarah exchanged a puzzled look. Did that nod mean she liked Matt’s ideas or not? “Here, we’ll help clean up,” Sarah said, standing.

Matt jumped to his feet and began collecting the dirty plates. “No, you two go on. I’ll take care of it.”

Mrs. Compson stared at him. “You’ll take care of it?”

“Sure.” He grinned and carried the dishes to the sink. “Don’t worry. I won’t drop anything.”

“I should hope not.” Mrs. Compson turned to Sarah. “Well, I suppose this would give us more time to talk about quilts later. But first, Sarah, come with me.”

Sarah kissed Matt good-bye and followed Mrs. Compson out of the room. Mrs. Compson stopped at a small closet on the right and retrieved a bundle of dust rags, which she deposited in Sarah’s arms before moving on down the long hallway.

“We’ll start upstairs,” Mrs. Compson announced as they turned right in the front foyer. “Or rather, you’ll start upstairs.”

Sarah trailed after her. “Where do these doors lead?”

Without breaking her stride, Mrs. Compson pointed to the double doors on the right. “Banquet hall. No mere dining room for Elm Creek Manor.” She pointed to the other set of doors, directly in front of them and to the left of the wedge-shaped steps leading into the corner. “Ballroom. At one time the entire first floor of this wing was devoted almost exclusively to entertaining.” She reached the staircase, grasped the railing, and led Sarah upstairs. “We’ll begin in the library. It’s directly above the ballroom.”

“What’s above that?”

“The nursery. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Why on earth would any family need a nursery so large? Well, I agree. It’s much larger than necessary.”

Sarah nodded, wondering what an acceptable size for a nursery would be. As they continued up the stairs, she considered offering the older woman her arm. She suspected she’d be reprimanded for the attempt, though, and decided not to risk it.

Halfway to the second floor, Mrs. Compson paused on the step, breathing heavily. “As for the rest of it,” she said, waving a hand in no particular direction. “Bedrooms, each with its own sitting room.”

“Why so many?”

“This was supposed to be a family house—several generations, aunts, uncles, and cousins, all living together happily under one roof. Hmph.”

“Which room’s yours?”

Mrs. Compson glanced at her sharply, then continued her climb. “I have my sitting room downstairs.”

“You mean you sleep on the sofa? Aren’t the bedrooms furnished?”

Mrs. Compson said nothing. Sarah bit the inside of her upper lip in a belated attempt to restrain the question. When they reached the top step, Mrs. Compson let out a relieved sigh and turned left down another hallway. “My sister saved everything,” she finally said as they passed two closed doors on the right. When the hallway widened and dead-ended at another set of double doors, Mrs. Compson stopped. “And I do mean everything. Old magazines, newspapers, paperbacks. I want you to help me sort the rubbish from anything salvageable.”

With her lips firmly pursed, Mrs. Compson swung open both doors, and they entered the library. The musty, cluttered room spanned the width of the south wing’s far end. Dust specks floated lazily in the dim light that leaked in through tall windows on the south-, east-, and west-facing walls. Oak bookcases, their shelves stacked with books, knickknacks, and loose papers, stood between the windows. Two sofas faced each other in the center of the room, dusty lamps resting on end tables on either side of both, a low coffee table turned upside down between them. More books and papers were scattered on the floor near the large oak desk on the east side of the room. Two high-backed, overstuffed chairs stood near a fireplace in the center of the south wall, and a third chair was toppled over onto its side nearby.

Sarah sneezed.

“God bless you.” Mrs. Compson smiled. “Let’s open these windows and see if we can clear out some of the dust with some fresh air, shall we?”

Sarah set the dust rags on the desk and helped her carefully swing open the windows, which were made of small diamond-shaped pieces of glass joined with lead solder. Some of the panes were clear, but others were cloudy with age and weathering. Sarah leaned her head and shoulders out of one of the south windows. She could see the roof of the barn through the trees.

She smiled and turned back to her new employer, who was trying to set the overturned chair onto its feet. “Where do you want me to begin?” she asked, hastening to help.

“Begin wherever you like. Just see that you get the job done.” Mrs. Compson brushed the dust from her hands. “Separate all of the old newspapers into a pile for recycling, and do the same for the magazines. Loose papers may be recycled—or discarded, if you think it best. Gather the old paperbacks somewhere. Later we can box them and donate them to the public library, if they’re in suitable condition. I’d like to keep the hardcover books, at least for now. Those you may dust off and return to the shelves.”

“Waterford Library may have to open up a new branch for all of this,” Sarah remarked, scanning the shelves. “Your sister must’ve liked reading.”

The older woman gave a harsh laugh that sounded more like a strangled cough. “My sister liked reading junk—the cheapest romances, the most trivial tabloid magazines. In her later years she saved newspapers, too, but I don’t think she actually read them. No, she just piled them up here, creating a fire hazard, leaving them for someone else to clean up later.” She shook her head. “The finer books were my father’s. And mine.”

Sarah felt her cheeks grow warm. Apparently it was time to stop bringing up Mrs. Compson’s family. “Well, I guess I’ll get started, then,” she said.

Mrs. Compson gave her a brisk nod. “You may work until four, then meet me in the sitting room and we’ll discuss your quilting lessons.”

Sarah breathed a quick sigh when Mrs. Compson left the library, relieved to have escaped another scolding. Mrs. Compson didn’t seem to think very much of her sister. Or maybe she was so grief-stricken that she couldn’t bear to think about her and that was why she seemed so abrupt. Sarah stooped over to pick up some scattered newspaper pages, vowing to keep her mouth shut more often.

Even with the windows open, the library was a dusty, stuffy place to work. As Sarah sorted through the clutter, she found several fine leather-bound volumes which she carefully dusted and returned to the cleaned shelves. When she found the piles of yellowed newspaper taking up an entire bookcase in the northeast corner of the room, she leafed through them eagerly. Newspaper clippings from the manor’s earlier and happier years would tell her more about the people who used to live there. To her disappointment, however, Sarah soon realized that none of the papers dated from earlier than the mid-1980s. As she continued to work, she began to believe that Mrs. Compson’s dismissive critique of her late sister’s reading habits had been accurate.

At four o’clock Sarah heard Mrs. Compson calling her from the bottom of the stairs. She arched her back, stretched, and wiped her brow on a clean corner of a dust cloth. There was still a lot of work to be done, but even Mrs. Compson would have to agree that Sarah had made a noticeable dent in it.

She hurried downstairs, where Mrs. Compson greeted her with an amused look. “There seems to be more dust on you than there was in the entire library.”

Sarah hastily wiped her palms on her shorts and tucked in her blouse. “No, don’t worry. There’s plenty more dust up there for anyone who wants it.”

Mrs. Compson chuckled and motioned for Sarah to follow her down the hallway. “How much did you accomplish today?”

“I took care of everything that was on the floor and finished the bookcases on the north and west walls. I closed the windows, too, in case it rains tonight. Do you want to look through anything before it’s recycled?”

“Did you follow my instructions? Were you careful?”

“I think I was, but it’s your stuff. I’d hate to throw out anything you might miss later. Maybe you should look through the piles just the same.”

They entered the kitchen. “No need for that. Anything I ever wanted from this place isn’t here for the taking.” Mrs. Compson gestured to the sink. “When you’ve cleaned yourself up a bit, join me in the sitting room.”

Sarah washed her hands and face, then hesitated in the sitting room doorway. Mrs. Compson was pulling some quilts from a cedar chest and draping them on the sofa. Open books were piled on an end table. Mrs. Compson turned and spotted her. “Well, are you coming in or aren’t you? It’s all right. You’ve been invited this time, not like that first day.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d forgotten about that.”

“I never forget.”

Sarah figured the older woman probably never forgave, either. She entered the room and walked over to the quilts. The fabric seemed worn and faded, even faintly stained in some places, but the quilting stitches and the arrangements of tiny pieces of cloth were as lovely as the newer quilts she had recently seen. Gingerly she traced the pattern of a red-and-white quilt with a fingertip. “Did you make these?”