Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt (18 page)

I should not have baited her, but each time she defended the Engles, I grew more irritated. I understood that Mrs. Engle was her friend and employer, but Anneke owed them no loyalty in matters of politics and virtue. In my opinion, which I would have given if asked, Anneke should have left Mrs. Engle to start her own shop, or obtained a position with the tailor, whose wife was one of the Certain Faction and whose dislike of slavery was well known. Anneke would have done so immediately if Hans
had asked, but he did not, and I knew he would not. Hans would neither condemn the Engles and their ilk nor support them, preferring to deal equitably with all. This was not merely a businessman’s pragmatics on his part; he had told me once that the argument over slavery was not his fight, and that he had no desire to make it so. I believed that his silence lent his tacit support to the Southern cause, but I could not persuade him of this and eventually gave up trying.

Hans did have one decided opinion: Abolitionists or slave catchers, the men were clearly dangerous, and having killed once, they might kill again. Thus did my brother, who had since our arrival at Elm Creek Farm sheltered his horses better than his family, become determined to build us a house with firm stone walls. With the help of Thomas and Jonathan, he broke ground as soon as the soil thawed enough to give way to a pickax.

As other farmers prepared for the spring planting, Hans helped them clear away stones from their fields, exchanging his labor for the stones. He hauled some from riverbanks and creek beds, many from our own land, and others from the countryside for miles around. One large limestone boulder he delivered to a stonecutter, and when it was returned to us, it had been squared off and engraved with the words “Bergstrom 1858.” Hans, Anneke, and I each placed our hands upon it and together laid it in place at the northeast corner of the foundation.

Upon this cornerstone, we built our home.

It was a magnificent house by the standards to which we had become accustomed. Two stories and attic, four rooms down-stairs and five above, with a kitchen and a fireplace and all the comforts we had longed for throughout those cold winter months in Mr. L.’s cabin. Anneke had saved all her earnings since going to work for Mrs. Engle, and now she poured them into the house, ordering glass windows and a cunning new cookstove,
as well as other furnishings. By day I helped Hans in the fields so that he could have more time to work on the house; by night I took on Anneke’s share of the housework so that she might accept more work from Mrs. Engle. My brother and sister-in-law devoted themselves to this grand project knowing they would live out their days within those walls; I worked with no less fervor, but with an increasing hope that I might yet have a home of my own someday, and not be dependent upon their kindness forever.

Still, with a superstitious fear that yet embarrasses me, I furnished my own room with special care, as if anticipating my departure would delay it forever. To the bed Hans had made me I added a desk with a comfortable chair, a bookcase, and a table for my washbasin and lamp. Anneke taught me to braid a rag rug for the floor, and sewed curtains for me rather than allow me to waste precious fabric attempting to make them myself. My hope chest I placed at the foot of my bed, and the bed itself I covered with my Shoo-Fly quilt, at last completed.

I had hastened to finish that quilt so that I might sleep under it our first night in the house. That is the only excuse I will make for the glaring error I discovered in it once it was fully spread out upon the bed. In one block, rather than sew the four corner triangles with the vertices touching the central square, I had arranged them pointing out. Naturally, I had not placed this errant block on an edge where it might have been easily hidden, nor in the exact center, where I could pretend I had intentionally contrived a variation on the design, but off to one side near the top, as conspicuous as could be.

At first, I thought I must promptly fix the mistake, but then I recalled all the hours I had spent cutting and piecing and quilting, and I could not bear to undo any of that labor, even to fix an obvious mistake. At last, exasperated with myself, I decided
that no one would see the quilt but myself, and since I would rather have the quilt finished than perfect, I decided to leave it as it was. If I did happen to invite a friend into my room, the artful placement of a pillow would disguise the flaw.

But for Dorothea’s first visit I did not hide my error but left it in plain sight, knowing she would enjoy a good laugh with me about it. To my amazement, however, Dorothea did not notice the mistake until I prompted her to search for it! Once alerted, her experienced eye found it immediately, and she consoled me with assurances that the quilt was nonetheless lovely. I retorted that it was warm, and it was done, and that was all that truly mattered to me, although it would have been nice to show off my handiwork at the next meeting of the Certain Faction as was customary whenever a member completed a project. Now I considered my quilt unworthy of such a display.

Dorothea told me I must bring it anyway, mistakes and all. “No one needs to know you did not intend to alter the pattern,” added she with a gentle smile. “Tell them it is a humility block.”

I had never heard of such a thing, and so Dorothea explained that some would consider it a sin of pride if one attempted to create something without flaw, for only God can create perfection. Therefore, a quilter might deliberately place an error in her quilt as a sign of her modesty and humbleness.

I found this quite amusing and promised Dorothea that my quilt would be in no danger of achieving perfection even if I had not sewn that particular block incorrectly. In fact, it seemed to me an even greater sin of pride to assume that one needed to add intentional flaws to one’s handiwork lest it approach the perfection of the Divine. I told Dorothea so, and she laughed and agreed that perhaps the humility block was invented by a quilter less able to admit her own mistakes than I, and was used more frequently to explain unintentional mistakes than for its ostensible purpose.

Still, even with the glaring error in my quilt, I was pleased with the simple comforts of my room, but it seemed Spartan in comparison to the room Anneke and Hans shared, with its frilly bed curtains, dainty pillows, and double-ruffled draperies. I choked on silent laughter, imagining my brother surrounded by such pretty things so unsuited for him, but he did not mind, or if he did, he did not complain. Of course, he usually collapsed into bed at night thoroughly exhausted and rose before dawn, so perhaps he never saw the furnishings by the light of day.

But it would be unfair to make light of Anneke’s handiwork without giving her credit for assuring our comfort as she increased her sewing skills. The designs she practiced on her own home later appeared in items she created for her customers. There was nothing created by thread and cloth that Anneke could not duplicate, simply by viewing it, without benefit of a pattern or instruction. She could make an elaborate gown after glancing at a drawing in a magazine, or piece a quilt block from memory, having seen the original hanging out to dry as she rode through town.

As much as I then admired my sister-in-law’s talent, I cannot now think back on it without a curious mixture of pride and remorse. If not for her gift, we would have been spared the trials that awaited us—and yet, remembering the good we did, I cannot wish she had never picked up a needle. I would not have changed what Anneke’s talent and fate conspired to bring our way; I would banish only the fear that led to our undoing.

At the time, of course, I knew only the comfort Anneke’s gift brought to our home. She transformed simple calicoes into curtains and tablecloths; with the scraps from her dressmaking she pieced quilts enough to warm every bed in the house several times over. I saw her piecing smaller quilts, too, from the most delicate cottons and softest wools, but since she made no announcement
and I saw no change in her manner, I concluded that she and Hans had not yet been blessed with a recipient for these tiny quilts.

I was stumbling along on my second quilt, a Variable Star, when Anneke began piecing what must have been her twentieth, or so it seemed to one as clumsy with a needle as I. Unlike her previous quilts comprised of individual blocks, this one was fashioned of squares and triangles arranged in vertical stripes. “What do you call this pattern?” asked I, curious.

She looked up from her work, startled, and only then did I realize she had thought me lost in a book and herself unobserved. “I do not know the name.”

“It’s quite pretty. Is it a design of your own invention?”

“No. I saw the block in one of Dorothea’s quilts. She did not say it was an original design, so I saw nothing wrong in duplicating it.”

“I’m not accusing you of stealing her patterns,” said I, surprised by her defensive tone. “Beside, even if it were an original design, I’m sure Dorothea wouldn’t mind your using it. She would probably be flattered.”

“I suppose so,” said she, more conciliatory. “But she behaved so oddly when I asked her about the quilt. When I remarked that the pattern was different from the styles she usually prefers, she simply smiled at me, and when I asked her the name of the pattern, she pretended not to hear me and began a conversation with someone else.”

This sounded very unlike Dorothea. “Perhaps she truly did not hear you. Or perhaps you misunderstood her.”

Anneke regarded me skeptically. “My English is not
that
bad.”

I said nothing more on the subject, uncomfortable hearing criticism of my friend. In all likelihood Anneke had misunderstood Dorothea, but even if she had not, I could think of many
reasons why Dorothea would not divulge details about her quilt. Perhaps it was in fact an original design she did not wish to share, or perhaps the quilt was intended as a surprise gift for Thomas, and Dorothea feared Anneke would carelessly give away the secret.

As time passed, and I saw no further evidence of discord between my sister-in-law and my friend, the conversation slipped into the back of my mind. By the time Anneke’s quilt was complete, I had forgotten about the exchange entirely, until later events promptly evoked the memory. There were so many other things to think about: the unrelenting work around the farm, the Certain Faction, Jonathan, and our new home, which was taking shape stone by stone.

In hindsight I do not know how we managed it, but by autumn both abundant crops and a new house had risen from the soil of Elm Creek Farm. The first Bergstrom Thoroughbred foals had sold for better prices than even Hans had expected. Anneke’s reputation as a seamstress had spread beyond Creek’s Crossing, so that Mrs. Engle raised her wages rather than risk having her become a competitor. We rejoiced in the fruits of our labor and assured ourselves that only prosperity and happiness awaited us, just over the horizon.

We did not hear the distant thunder.

“This can’t be right,” murmured Sylvia.

Andrew looked up from the fly he was tying in preparation for his next fishing trip. “What can’t be right?”

“Gerda’s memoir.” Sylvia hardly knew what to make of it. “She writes that they built the original house in 1858, which I knew, since that’s the date engraved on the cornerstone. However, my grandfather was supposed to have been present when
they placed the cornerstone, but Gerda expressly states that Anneke and Hans had not yet had any children.”

“Are you sure Gerda is the one who has it wrong?”

“I’m not sure of anything anymore,” said Sylvia. “Gerda’s is most likely the correct version.” She wondered why the incongruity troubled her so much. It was hardly the first or even the most drastic she had encountered in the memoir.

“It’s probably only a matter of a few years,” said Andrew. “It’s no surprise a few details got garbled over time.”

“That’s precisely the problem. I can’t help wondering what else has been garbled.” Sylvia could feel the first stirrings of a headache, and she rubbed absently at her temples. “It’s bad enough to discover that Hans was indifferent to the Abolitionist movement, and Anneke—well, she was far worse, wasn’t she? If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t be surprised to discover she is the ancestor Margaret Alden and I have in common.”

“Don’t forget, you’re only getting Gerda’s side of the story,” said Andrew. “The memoir’s from her point of view. If you read Hans’s memoir, or Anneke’s, things might look a lot different.”

Sylvia knew Andrew was trying to help, but his observation made her feel worse. The only factual evidence she had was what Anneke had stitched into her quilts and what Gerda had recorded in her memoir, but Grace had made her doubt the authenticity of Anneke’s handiwork and now Andrew wanted her to question Gerda’s. “If only I had some other record, something to fill in the gaps as well as corroborate what Gerda wrote.”

“Summer could search the historical society’s archives again.”

“But only if I knew what to tell her to look for.” She sighed, frustrated. “Why
didn’t
Hans and Anneke cooperate by leaving journals of their own? I’d settle for a page or two from Great-Aunt Lucinda, as fanciful as her stories were.”

“Was Lucinda your grandfather’s elder sister or younger?”

“Younger, although by how much, I don’t recall.” Suddenly
inspiration struck. “Oh, my word. Why didn’t I think of it before?”

“Think of what?”

“My mother’s Bible,” Sylvia called over her shoulder as she hurried out of the sitting room and through the kitchen, startling the cook and his assistant as she passed. By the time Andrew caught up with her, she was halfway down the hall. “It’s the family Bible,” she explained as they crossed the grand foyer on their way to the carved oak staircase. “Claudia and I were allowed to look at it, but only as my mother held it open for us as we sat on her lap. It was her grandmother’s, an heirloom from her side of the family, and she forbade us to touch it without permission. After she died—well, I suppose it sounds foolish, but even as a grown woman I never felt comfortable handling my mother’s Bible.” Not since that day soon after their mother’s death, when Claudia had found her reading it in her refuge, a large, smooth stone beneath a willow tree on the bank of Elm Creek. Claudia had snatched the Bible away and scolded her for taking Mother’s treasured possession outside. Sylvia had not touched the Bible since then, but she knew where it would be, if Claudia had not sold it as she had so many of the family’s other prized possessions.