The Wedding Quilt (25 page)

“Why me?” asked Maggie, bewildered, but in her excitement Agnes had hung up without explaining.

“I don't know,” said Sylvia, equally perplexed. “I assume they've turned up an antique quilt or two, but why they should need any of us, I can't imagine. Agnes is certainly qualified to appraise whatever it is they've found.”

Sylvia's observation was spot-on, because not only was Agnes a very experienced quilter, she also had a certain expertise in antiques, for she had learned quite a lot over the decades assisting her second husband in his work. What could the historical society volunteers have discovered that required more than Agnes's expert eye, and why did they need Maggie in particular?

Gretchen begged off, craving a quiet afternoon at home with Joe after the hard work of the previous day, so Sarah, Sylvia, and Maggie had a quick lunch before driving downtown to Union Hall. The front lawn was sparse but newly mown, the wrought-iron fence painted obsidian black, broken windows replaced, and hedges neatly trimmed. “No one would mistake this for an abandoned building now,” remarked Sylvia, smiling in satisfaction as Sarah parallel-parked the Elm Creek Quilts minivan in the first available spot she found, half a block away on the opposite side of the street.

Agnes was waiting for them on the portico, clasping her hands in anticipation, her blue eyes shining behind pink-tinted glasses. “Do hurry,” she called to her three friends as they made their way up the cobblestone walk.

“It's waited this long,” Sylvia called back, taking Sarah's arm as they reached the limestone staircase. “It can wait a few minutes longer.”

“It can, but I'm not so sure about Agnes,” said Maggie. “Agnes, honey, take a deep breath. You look like you're about to burst.”

Agnes obeyed, but she remained just as fidgety and flustered as before. “I can't help it. This is simply too wonderful. I think we've found the key to saving Union Hall.” Beckoning them to hurry, she pushed open one of the large double doors and disappeared into the building.

Quickening their pace—but not without a faint sigh of amusement from Sylvia—her friends climbed the limestone steps, each sloped slightly in the middle, worn from the footsteps of more than a hundred years' worth of visitors. They passed between the two freshly whitewashed central pillars and followed Agnes into the foyer, which could have been as lovely as Elm Creek Manor's, if it were not in such shabby condition. Many footsteps, perhaps those of the previous day's workers, had left tracks in the layer of dust on the gray-blue marble floor, and dozens of engraved copper plaques affixed to the walls flanking the front doors were tarnished and dull. Boxes of cleaning supplies were pushed up against the wall next to an enormous mahogany antique curio cabinet that looked heavy and out of place in the understated elegance of the Greek Revival architecture. Directly across the foyer from the front entrance was a wide doorway leading into a large, dark room—the theater, Sarah guessed, barely making out a stage at the far end—but the doors themselves were missing, leaving behind only four rusty hinges as evidence that they had ever been. Plaster peeled from the molded ceiling high above, where a chandelier hung, half of its tapered bulbs dark and all of them coated in dust. Somewhere unseen, hammers banged and power tools buzzed.

“If you think this is a mess,” said Agnes, correctly interpreting their silence, “you should have seen it the day before yesterday.”

Agnes had no sooner closed the outer door behind them when two women who looked to be in their fifties—one tall and sturdy with long sandy blond hair, the other short and stout with more silvery gray than black in her wiry curls— hastened toward them from a side room. The dark-haired woman went straight to Sylvia. “You must be Sylvia Bergstrom,” she said, clasping Sylvia's hand in both of hers. “I'm Patricia Escher, president of the Waterford Historical Society. It's a true pleasure to meet you. Your family has enriched our town's history in countless ways, but I suppose I don't need to tell you that.”

“Thank you,” said Sylvia graciously. “The Bergstroms do have a rather storied past. Some of them were downright notorious in their day.”

“Oh, but that just makes them more interesting,” exclaimed the other woman, pushing her glasses back upon the bridge of her nose. “Stationmasters on the Underground Railroad, war heroes, prosperous businessmen, suffragists—name an important event in the Elm Creek Valley during the last one hundred and fifty years and you can bet a Bergstrom was in the middle of it.”

“Perhaps,” said Sylvia dryly, “but on at least one occasion that propensity for activism landed my ancestors in the Creek's Crossing prison. It certainly made them their share of enemies.”

“No one makes history without making a few enemies,” the woman replied, offering Sylvia her hand. “I'm Leslie Rein-hart, vice president of the historical society.”

“Leslie's people have been in the Elm Creek Valley even longer than yours, Sylvia,” said Agnes. “Her great-great-grandfather was the town's first postmaster.”

“It's good to meet you,” said Sylvia. “I'm intrigued by your request for our visit. What is this treasure you've discovered?”

“Not one treasure, but several, and two in particular that I think will fascinate you.” Patricia beckoned the visitors to follow her and Leslie into the side room, a small office with barely enough room for a desk, two armchairs, a cluttered bookcase, and several tall filing cabinets. Five small cacti in terra-cotta pots sat on the windowsill, and an ancient computer blinked a luminous green cursor at them from the desktop between an overflowing wire basket labeled “In” and an identical, though empty, basket labeled “Out.” As the women crowded into the room, Sarah's gaze went to a steamer trunk that sat open in the narrow space between the armchairs and the back wall. It looked to be half full, but the folded quilt on top concealed whatever else lay beneath.

Leslie's breathless anticipation was all the invitation Sylvia needed. She stooped over and withdrew the bundle from the trunk, and as she carefully unfolded it, Sarah and Maggie quickly came forward to help so that it would not touch the floor. Sarah drew in a breath as she took in the sight of the fabric unfurling; she had expected an antique quilt, of course, but not one so lovely or so well preserved. It was a sampler quilt, the fabrics a glorious bouquet of Turkey red, Prussian blue, dark green, navy, brown, and light tan, faded but not worn. A quick count of rows and columns told Sarah there were 121 blocks, each apparently unique, separated by striped sashing and quilted with tiny stitches in an intricate pattern of scrolls, feathered plumes, and flowers. Elegant floral swags fashioned in appliqué twined around the sampler center, with the phrase “Union Forever” embroidered along the top border and “Water's Ford, Pa.” along the bottom.

“How astonishing,” breathed Sylvia, peering at the quilt as light from the overhead fixture glinted on her glasses. “The fabrics look to be mid- to late nineteenth century. Maggie, do you recognize any of these blocks?”

At once, Sarah understood why Patricia and Leslie had wanted Maggie in particular to examine the quilt. In the years since Maggie had discovered and re-created the Harriet Finley Birch sampler, she had become an expert on nineteenth-century samplers, concentrating her research on those comprised of dozens of small blocks. This newly discovered quilt fit perfectly into that category.

Maggie studied the quilt, her expression a mixture of wonder, delight, and curiosity. “A few of them are traditional blocks,” she said, gesturing to one near the upper left corner. “That's Crosses and Losses, although like many traditional blocks, it's known by several names. This is a Double Four-Patch, of course, and that appliqué block over there is called Tea Leaves.”

“I know this one,” said Sarah, surprised to discover amid all the unfamiliar patterns a block she herself had made years before, in honor of her children. “That's Twin Star.”

Maggie nodded, her gaze fixed on the quilt. “Most of these patterns are completely new to me. Each has at least one slight variation that transforms it from a more familiar, traditional pattern into an original design.”

“I wonder what the quilter's source for all of these variations was,” said Sarah. “Did the local newspaper print patterns, like
The Kansas City Star
did? Or do you think she simply made them all up on her own?”

Sylvia bent closer over the quilt, examining one block carefully, and then another, and then a third, frowning as she compared them. “These blocks don't appear to me to be the work of a single quilter,” she declared. “Even if you account for the improvement in skill one might acquire in the course of working upon such an ambitious project, the quality of piecing varies significantly from one block to another.”

“I think so too,” said Maggie, nodding.

“That question, at least, we can answer,” said Patricia, reaching out to turn over a corner of the quilt. “The thread has lost so much of its dye that I couldn't tell you its original color, but on the other side, someone embroidered a few important details about the quilt's provenance.”

Sylvia ran her hand over the back of the quilt, searching for the embroidery by touch. “Ah. Here it is.” The thread blended in with the muslin so closely that Sarah, standing only a few feet away and knowing exactly where to look, couldn't see it. Sylvia held the corner of the quilt close to her eyes, then farther away, but then she shook her head, frowning. “I can't make out a single word. Sarah, bring your young eyes over here and give it a try.”

“My eyes aren't that young anymore,” Sarah pointed out, but it was true that she still had excellent near vision, a small compensation for the annoying myopia that obliged her to wear glasses whenever she drove a car or watched a movie. Scrutinizing the back of the quilt, she managed to discern the small, delicate letters, the script as elegantly formed as if the quiltmaker had written with pen and ink. “‘The Loyal Union Sampler, made by the Ladies of the Elm Creek Valley in Wartime. Completed July 4th, 1862. Union Hall, Water's Ford, Penna.'” Below those lines, the thread became slightly darker, the embroidered letters noticeably larger and rounder. “I think the last two lines were added later, possibly by a different person. ‘Presented to the Waterford Historical Society in loving memory of Faith Cunningham Morlan, 1813–1882.'”

“Union Hall, Water's Ford,” Sylvia echoed. “That suggests the quilt was completed within this very building, which strikes me as a bit odd. I tend to finish my quilts at home.”

“Maybe those ‘Ladies of the Elm Creek Valley' were a guild, and maybe they held their quilting bees here,” said Maggie, her gaze traveling over the surface of the quilt as if she were learning each star and mosaic by heart. “They thought it was important to mention that the quilt was made in wartime. It could be that Faith Cunningham Morlan lost a husband or a son in the fighting and her friends made her this in his honor. Maybe this is a memorial quilt.”

“I confess I never made the connection between Union Hall and the Civil War,” remarked Sylvia. “I assumed the name referred to a labor union that might have met here long ago. The building's age alone would have suggested otherwise, if I'd been paying attention.”

Sarah had made the same assumption. “Do we know anything about this Faith Cunningham Morlan?” she asked Patricia and Leslie.

“We found a Faith Anne Morlan listed in the 1850, 1860, and 1870 federal censuses,” said Patricia. “Her family owned a farm in the foothills of the Four Brothers Mountains in the north end of the Elm Creek Valley.”

“We didn't have time to research more thoroughly than that,” added Leslie, a note of apology in her voice. “We've been”—she gestured with weary resignation to the water stain on the ceiling, an apt symbol of Union Hall's disrepair and a reminder of all the work yet to be done if they were to fight off Krolich's plan to have the building condemned—”a little preoccupied lately.”

“Of course,” said Sylvia. “We understand perfectly.”

“If only Summer were here,” said Agnes. “She knows your archives at the Waterford College Library better than any of us. She has a gift for uncovering important information in the most obscure sources.”

“Jeremy too,” said Sarah, her conversation with Anna the previous day still fresh in her thoughts. To Patricia and Leslie, she added, “He's a friend who earned his Ph.D. in history from the college. Unfortunately for us, he no longer lives in Waterford.”

Patricia and Leslie exchanged a quick glance. “You don't mean Jeremy Bernstein, do you?” asked Patricia.

“That's exactly who I mean,” said Sarah. “Do you know him?”

“I'm familiar with his work,” said Patricia. “He's written quite a few excellent pieces on Pennsylvania history. I think he would be particularly interested in the other quilt we wanted to show you.” She beckoned to Leslie, who helped her take a second folded bundle from the trunk. Handing the Loyal Union Sampler to Maggie, who folded it carefully on the bias and cradled it in her arms, Sarah took hold of one edge of the second quilt as Patricia and Leslie unfolded it.

This, too, was a sampler quilt, but in a markedly different style than the first. Instead of many small blocks, almost all of them pieced, the second quilt boasted sixteen large appliqué blocks that looked to be eighteen inches square, three times the size of those in the Loyal Union Sampler. The intricate designs reminded Sarah of quilts made in the Baltimore Album tradition, with appliquéd pieces creating still-life portraits in fabric. The quality of the work was flawless, the calico flowers, leaves, and figures sewn meticulously by hand to the soft muslin backgrounds, bleached to a snowy white by the sun. The sixteen blocks were arranged in four rows of four and separated by light tan sashing with Turkey red cornerstones, and an appliqué border of elegant swags gathered by roses framed the whole.