The Quilter's Legacy (37 page)

E
leanor's mother sent a telegram: “June 2, 3:15 PM.”

From the moment the terse reply arrived until the hour Eleanor and Fred went to meet her at the station, Eleanor felt an urgent need to warn her family about her mother, to instruct them how to behave in order to divert her wrath. In the end, she said nothing. She could not find the words.

Fred held her hand as they waited on the platform. As the passengers began to disembark, Eleanor scanned the faces and wondered how she would recognize her mother after twenty years, how Mother would recognize her. Then Fred squeezed her hand. “There,” he said, and nodded. Eleanor looked, her throat constricting with emotion—apprehension, anticipation. Hope. Her eyes met her mother's, and hope faltered.

Gertrude Drayton-Smith Lockwood wore black from head to toe; even the ostrich feathers bobbing on her hat had been dyed black to match the black wool of her coat. Her mouth hardened into a thin line as she descended from the train and gestured for the porter to fetch her trunk and satchel. The soft plumpness that had given her girlish beauty had been burned away, so that her features and dark eyes stood out sharp and prominent against her pale skin. She clasped her gloved hands and waited for Eleanor and Fred to come to her, her mouth displeased, her shoulders squared in longsuffering resignation.

Eleanor could not move until Fred gently guided her forward. Should she embrace her? Apologize in advance for everything Mother would find wanting in her new home? The crowd parted, and before Eleanor could force a smile, she found herself face to face with her mother.

“So.” Mother eyed her, ignoring Fred. “I can see you're not well.”

“It's good to see you, Mother.” Eleanor kissed the air near her mother's cheek. She smelled of rose water. “I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

“I abhor trains, and this one in particular was crowded and uncomfortable and unsanitary, but since you could not be troubled to come to New York for me yourself, I had little choice.”

An icy smile played on Eleanor's lips. Her mother had had a choice: Elm Creek Manor by train or the asylum for destitute women on foot. That choice remained.

“The rest of the way will be more comfortable,” said Fred

Mother grunted as if she certainly hoped so but doubted it. She bent stiffly and reached for her satchel, but Eleanor picked it up first. Fred moved to lift her trunk, but Mother pretended not to see him and waved for a porter. Fred wisely said nothing, but dismissed the porter with a shake of his head and carried the trunk himself.

Mother sniffed at the sight of their car and refused the front seat beside Fred to sit in the back with Eleanor. “My goodness, this is provincial,” she muttered, peering out the window at the passing scenery.

“It is, isn't it?” responded Eleanor, ignoring the insult. “It's very restful after the noise of the city. You'll adore the town. It's quaint, very charming.”

“I doubt I'll find much charm in it.” Her mother folded her hands in her lap and turned her head away from the window, but glanced back again as if forcing herself to accept her new, diminished circumstances. Her frown deepened as they left the town behind, and she drew in a sharp breath at the sight of a herd of cows grazing in a pasture. Eleanor wanted to assure her Elm Creek Manor was not some mean farmhouse, but even more, she wanted to shake her mother and ask her how she could be so blind to the amaranthine sky, the rolling green hills, the lush forests that in autumn would be ablaze with color, breathtaking in their beauty.

Instead she sat back in her seat and watched the landscape roll by.

When Elm Creek Manor came into view, Mother straightened in her seat for a better look. She sat perfectly still, then she arched her brows and gave a derisive sniff that somehow lacked conviction. Fred parked the car, opened the door, and offered her his arm, which she ignored, or perhaps this time she truly did not see him, for her gaze was fixed on the manor.

Eleanor led her inside, and only then did Mother speak. “Well, Eleanor,” she said, inspecting the grand front foyer. “I see you did not entirely come down in the world after all. Perhaps there was more calculation than romance in your choice.”

Eleanor stiffened, and she was about to snap back with all the anger she had kept in check since leaving the train station when she heard footsteps pattering on the black marble. Lucinda and Elizabeth ushered in the children, freshly scrubbed and dressed in their second-best. Eleanor hid a smile, imagining Elizabeth and Claudia debating their wardrobe and deciding that their very best might seem too formal and off-putting, while second-best would acknowledge Mother as a member of the family while still marking the significance of the day.

Elizabeth came forward, smiling warmly, and kissed Mother on both cheeks. She had shed her mourning clothes for the day, and in her dark blue appeared almost festive next to Mother. “Mrs. Lockwood, how good it is to meet you at last,” she said. “I'm Elizabeth Bergstrom, Fred's mother. I cannot tell you how grateful we are that you let us keep Eleanor to ourselves so selfishly all these years. We hope you will let us make it up to you by making our home your home.”

With some satisfaction, Eleanor noted that Elizabeth's graciousness had utterly confounded Mother. “Thank you,” Mother managed to say, and nodded to Aunt Lucinda as Elizabeth introduced her sister-in-law.

Claudia, who had been shifting her weight from foot to foot, could wait no longer. “Welcome to Elm Creek Manor, Grandmother,” she said, throwing her arms around her. “I'm Claudia. I'm the oldest. I'm so glad you're going to live with us. Mama's told me all about you.”

Mother started and patted Claudia awkwardly. “Has she, indeed?”

Sylvia hung back, holding Richard by the hand, until Eleanor surreptitiously beckoned her forward. “Welcome to Elm Creek Manor, Grandmother,” said Sylvia, her voice a hollow echo of her sister's. “I'm Sylvia, and this is Richard.”

“Yes. Well.” Mother pried herself free from Claudia and caught Eleanor's eye. “I believe I would like to be shown to my room now.”

A
t least Mother did not complain about her rooms, not even at the sight of a patchwork quilt on the bed. Perhaps hard times had forced her to reconsider her disdain for the beauty of thrift.

Eleanor oversaw dinner preparations with care, supervising the reproduction of her mother's favorite French recipes while Elizabeth and Lucinda attended to the best table linens and silver. William snatched an éclair on his way through the kitchen and remarked that he hoped that they ate like this every night of her mother's visit.

Elizabeth shooed him away with a wooden spoon. “It's not a visit. She's here for good, and those are for dessert,” she added in a shout as he grabbed a second éclair and ran.

“Please tell me we aren't going to eat like this every night,” said Lucinda, frowning at a spot of tarnish on a salad fork.

“Just tonight,” promised Eleanor. Tonight, and then perhaps tomorrow, at breakfast. By then, first impressions would be over and Mother would have made up her mind how she felt about them. Little could alter her opinions after she had formed them, so these first few hours were crucial. Elizabeth seemed to be faring well, as did Claudia, but Fred might as well not exist as far as Mother was concerned.

Claudia offered to call Mother for dinner, and Eleanor gratefully accepted, wanting a few moments to freshen up. All was ready in the formal dining hall, which Eleanor usually regarded as cold and imposing, but tonight it seemed just the thing. If Mother's favorite foods failed to impress her, the china and silver and crystal would not.

But when Mother entered on Claudia's arm, carrying her satchel, she did not seem to notice the tokens of wealth she once thought she could not live without. Fred rose to pull out her chair, but she waved him off and gestured for Claudia to assist her. An uncertain smile flickered on Claudia's face, as if she was proud to be chosen but dismayed that her father had been slighted.

Conversation was careful, polite, and stilted. Only Richard seemed perfectly content, banging his spoon on his high chair and stuffing his mouth with potato and sweet peas. Suddenly he reached into his mouth, scooped out a handful of chewed vegetables, and dropped them on the floor. “All done!”

“Yes, darling, I see that,” said Eleanor, bending over to wipe up the splatter. Sylvia giggled.

“Disgraceful,” said Mother.

Eleanor sat up quickly. For that moment, she had forgotten her mother's presence. “What is?”

“That urchin of yours, wasting good food when so many in the world go hungry.” Mother set down her fork and pushed her plate away. “I cannot abide such rich dishes. A clear broth would have been much better.”

“That's easily granted,” said Elizabeth, smiling. She rose and left the room to speak to the cook.

“I thought you loved French cuisine,” said Eleanor, wiping Richard's face.

“I did, once, before we had to let our cook go after we lost the business.” Mother sighed and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “We lost everything, but I suppose you knew that.”

“I did not,” said Eleanor. “I thought Father became Mr. Drury's partner.”

“In name only, but I am not talking about the merger. This happened later, after Mr. Drury died and his children inherited the company.”

“The entire company?” asked Fred.

This time it suited Mother to acknowledge him. “Of course. After all, Mr. Drury owned the entire company, for all that he retained the Lockwood name at the stores. He only did that to profit from our good reputation, since he had ruined his own by seducing an innocent young girl into betraying her family.”

Her words were met with silence.

“Well?” inquired Mother, eyebrows raised. “What did you think would happen? Did you think ownership of the company reverted to your father?”

“That is what I assumed,” said Eleanor.

Elizabeth returned with Mother's broth. Mother tasted it and set down her spoon. “Even if your sister had lived to bear Mr. Drury a child, the children from his first marriage still would have been the primary beneficiaries of his estate, since he failed to make a new will. If he had preceded her in death, she would have been left destitute unless his children were generous enough to provide for her, which, considering how they treated us, seems unlikely.” She took another sip of broth. “So as you can see, Mr. Drury betrayed Abigail in the end, just as he betrayed us.”

“He did not betray her.” Eleanor's voice shook with anger. “He would have seen she was provided for. How could he have been expected to predict such a disaster?”

“He did not have to. All he had to do was take stock of his own mortality, as every responsible husband should. Five years they were married before they died, and yet he could not spare one day to change his will. Either he was shamefully negligent or he never intended to change it.”

“He must have made other arrangements.”

“Nonsense. You simply can't bear to see the romance tarnished. You ought instead to take heed of his poor example and see to your own affairs. If I am not mistaken, you have little time to waste, for all you have exceeded the doctors' expectations until now.”

Someone gasped. Claudia blanched, and Sylvia turned to Eleanor, stricken and confused. Eleanor felt the blood rushing to her head. She tried to speak, but could not.

“That's enough,” said Fred, his dark eyes glimmering with anger. “You've said enough for one evening.”

Mother looked incredulous. “You haven't told them?”

“Told us what?” asked Sylvia in a whisper.

“The children may be excused,” said Elizabeth. “Eleanor?”

“Yes—yes, of course. The children may be excused.” Clumsily, she lifted Richard from his high chair and handed him to Claudia, but Sylvia had not left her seat. Her dark eyes went from Eleanor to her grandmother and back, questioning and afraid.

“Don't send them away before dessert,” said Mother. “I brought presents.”

“We don't want any presents,” said Claudia in a small voice.

“Nonsense. What child doesn't want presents? Give the baby back to your mother like a good girl and come here.”

Obediently, Claudia returned Richard to her mother's arms, but before she could take a single step, Fred spoke. “There's a little matter to clear up first. You made a careless remark that obviously frightened the girls. Why don't you explain to them what you meant?”

Mother's hand flew to her bosom. “You want me to be the one to tell them?”

“You're the one who misspoke.” Fred's voice was ice. “In this family, whoever makes the mess cleans it up.”

Mother's eyebrows arched. “Misspoke?” She forced out a brittle laugh, but she could not hold Fred's gaze long. She glanced at Eleanor, but just as quickly looked away. Perhaps something in their expressions reminded her that the train ran east as well as west.

“What I meant to say, children, was that we all have our time,” said Mother. “We—we—sometimes we pass on before we are prepared. That's all I meant to say, that your parents should be prepared.”

Claudia was visibly relieved, but Sylvia's eyes remained steadily fixed on her grandmother. “Who is Mr. Drury?” she asked. “What did he do to our grandfather?”