The Quilter's Legacy (23 page)

Eleanor reached out and clasped her hand. “That was thoughtful of you.”

“Not really. I just wanted to brag about my famous niece.”

Clara said, “Eleanor's going to be famous?”

“Of course,” said Lucinda. “This is the
Ladies' Home Journal
, after all. Eleanor's name will be right up there at the top of the page with the picture of her quilt, just like Marie Webster and that Sunflower quilt Maude is making.”

“Will her picture be there, too?”

“I don't think I want my picture in a magazine,” said Eleanor, a nervous quake in her stomach. “Or even my name.”

“Why not?” asked Clara.

Eleanor forced a laugh. “I suppose so no one will know where to send their criticism. Can't they show my quilt without mentioning me?”

She regretted her words when she saw the disappointment in their faces. “I suppose I should have asked your permission first,” said Lucinda. “But I'm sure they would let you use merely your initials, or a pseudonym, if you prefer.”

“Aren't you proud of your quilt?” asked Clara. “I think you should be.”

“I am proud of it,” said Eleanor. “And I'm very grateful that Lucinda thought enough of my quilt to send it to the magazine. And I'm thrilled that it's going to be published. However, I would prefer to be all those things and anonymous, too.”

She saw from the looks they exchanged that they did not understand, but they let her be. Elizabeth would think her too modest; Maude would think it false modesty and another sign of her pride. Lucinda and Lily would respect her decision, but they would wonder why she had made it. Dear, insightful Clara would probably figure out the reason before anyone else, perhaps before Eleanor herself.

She wondered what Fred would think.

F
red worked through supper and missed Lucinda's announcement to the rest of the family. The other men congratulated Eleanor and agreed that publication in a national magazine was quite an accomplishment, although her father-in-law looked bemused and remarked that he thought quilters did not like others to duplicate their unique designs. “My mother, especially, was adamant about not copying other women's quilts,” said David. “Though I remember my Aunt Gerda once whispered to me that my mother had done her fair share of copying when she was a new quilter.”

“Everyone learns to quilt by copying other quilters' patterns,” said Lily. “Just like painters learn by studying the old masters.”

Louis and William guffawed at the comparison, earning themselves frowns from the quilters at the table. Those for William were milder because he was only a few years older than Clara; Louis, however, knew better, as his wife's steely glare made clear. Eleanor hid a smile and wondered if Maude would now consider adding a few Contrary Wife blocks to her Sunflower quilt.

“Perhaps copying another quilter's work without permission is wrong,” said Eleanor, “but duplicating her quilt with her consent is another matter entirely. I wouldn't allow my quilt to appear in a magazine if I didn't want other quilters to make it.”

In fact, now that the shock of Lucinda's surprise had passed, she was becoming more excited about the thought of opening a magazine and seeing a picture of her quilt inside. She knew, too, that Abigail would be all the more thrilled by the gift, knowing that her baby's quilt had been featured in a national magazine. Eleanor's desire for anonymity would be thwarted in New York, at least, for Abigail was certain to tell everyone she knew.

For a very brief moment, she considered sending her mother a clipping with a note pointing out that none of Mrs. Edwin Corville's quilts had ever received such an honor, but given her mother's distaste for quilting, that would only prove how low Eleanor had fallen.

After supper, she finished quilting the whole cloth quilt and trimmed the batting and lining even with the scalloped edges of the top. For the binding, she cut a long, narrow strip of fabric along the bias rather than the straight of the grain so that the binding would ease along the curves and miters of the fancy edge. Fred came in as she was pinning the binding in place, hair windblown, hands dirty from working outdoors, but he had only stopped by to say hello, so there was no time to tell him her good news. He kissed her on the cheek and told her he wouldn't be late, then left the room as quickly as he had entered.

L
ater that night, Fred roused Eleanor just moments after she doused the lamp. “Come with me,” he said. “It's done. Let me show you.”

“Show me what?” she asked. “A new fence? That addition to the stable you and your brothers are always talking about?”

“No, something much better.” He pulled back the quilt and took her hands. “At least I hope you'll think so.”

Curious, she climbed out of bed and dressed for the chilly spring night. Quietly, Fred led her into the hallway past his siblings' rooms, and as they descended the stairs, Eleanor was struck by a sudden remembrance of another night five years earlier and another flight of stairs she had stolen down in the darkness. Eleanor wondered if Fred ever thought of that night and wished her family had awakened and prevented her from leaving with him. She did not doubt his love for her, but he would have had children if he had married any other woman.

He led her across the foyer, into the west wing of the manor, and paused at the west door. This had once been the front entrance of the Bergstrom home, before Fred's father had added the grand south wing with its banquet hall and ballroom. Fred took both of her hands in his and watched her expectantly. “Are you ready?”

“Of course,” she said, but as he opened the door, she dug in her heels. “Fred, no. It's so late. It's too dark and cold now. You can show me in the morning.”

“Eleanor.” His voice was gentle, but commanding. “You're coming outside.”

With no other choice, she took a deep breath and stepped outside—but instead of bare earth, her foot struck smooth stone. A patio of gray stones nearly identical to those forming the walls of the manor lay where rocky soil and sparse clumps of grass had been only weeks before. Surrounding the expanse of stone were tall bushes and evergreens, enclosing the intimate space completely except for one opening through which Eleanor spied the beginning of a stone trail winding north.

“That path leads to the gazebo in the gardens, and to the stables beyond them,” said Fred. “The lilac bushes don't look like much now, but when they flower in the spring, this place will be so pretty—you'll see. We'll have flowers before then, though.” He gestured to the freshly turned earth lining the patio. “Those are dahlias and irises, and these over here are gladiolus. They'll come up before September.”

“I love lilacs,” she said, slowly turning and taking in the patio. It felt enclosed, sheltered. Safe. “Dahlias, too.”

“Look over here.” He knelt and pointed to the northeast corner of the manor. “That's the cornerstone of Elm Creek Manor. The entire estate was founded on this very spot.”

“‘Bergstrom 1858,” Eleanor read aloud, and as Fred continued to describe the features of the garden he had created just for her, Eleanor could picture in her mind's eye how lovely it would be in midsummer when the bulbs bloomed, and how the evergreens would bring a spot of color to the landscape even in the depths of winter. A year hence, the lilacs would fill the air with their fragrance.

“I'll make some chairs next,” said Fred. “I also thought about putting some benches along the two sides, or maybe along the house. What do you think?”

“Why, Fred?”

He pretended not to understand. “So we can have some place to sit.”

“No, Fred. Why? Why did you do all this—for me?”

“Because I love you, and I can't stand to see you making the house into your prison. I would make you a thousand gardens if that's what it took to get you to come outside again.”

She stared at him. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Don't you? Eleanor, you haven't set foot beyond the foyer since the day we lost the baby. You've wondered why I wouldn't tell you what I was working on all this time. I had hoped your curiosity would compel you outside. Two months ago, you never would have watched from the windows instead of coming out to see what I was doing.”

“I've been tired.” Her voice shook, and she turned away from him. “I'm still recuperating.”

“I'm not asking you to work with the horses yet, just to leave the house for a while.” He spun her around to face him. “Eleanor, it's not your fault. You heard what the doctor said. You didn't do anything to harm the baby.”

“But I did. I did. I should have rested, I should have taken care of myself—”

“You took excellent care of yourself.”

“No. No. I didn't. I came outside, I took walks, all for selfish reasons. I wanted to see the new colts, or I wanted to play in the snow with Clara … I should have stayed inside, in bed or by the fire—”

“Nothing you did hurt the baby. My own mother rode horseback and worked the farm when she—”

“But your mother had never lost a child. I had, so I should have known better. After I lost our first two babies, I should have done everything—everything—to make sure I didn't fail you again.”

“My God, Eleanor, you didn't fail me.” He reached out for her, but she avoided his embrace. “You nearly died. Do you think I could ever be angry with you after that? Do you think I care more about being a father than about spending the rest of my life with you?”

“I'm so sorry, Fred.”

“Listen to me. You didn't do anything wrong. Maybe we aren't meant to have children. If that's true, we still have each other, and that's all I ever wanted.”

“Fred.” She steeled herself. “I told you before we married that I did not think I could bear children. You said it didn't matter, but it does. If you want to divorce me—”

“Never.” For the first time, she heard a trace of anger in his voice. “Don't ever say that again. Did you marry me only to become a mother?”

“I—” No. She had thought only of him, of choosing her fate instead of letting her parents and Edwin Corville determine it for her. But the assumption that she could not have children mattered less to her as a girl of seventeen than it did now that she had built a life with the man she loved. “I married you because I loved you.”

“The reasons we married are reasons to stay married. Please don't ever suggest we divorce unless it's what you truly want.”

“It will never be what I want.”

She buried her face in his chest and wept as she had not when she lost the last baby, for she had been too stunned for tears, too unable to comprehend that God could visit this same terrible grief upon her a third time.

Fred held her and murmured words of comfort, but his voice trembled, and she knew he also wept.

“Life goes on, Eleanor,” he said. “I know it sounds trite, but it's true. Life goes on not only for us, but for our family.”

She nodded. A faint hope kindled in her heart. Life went on—Fred's siblings would have children. Abigail's child would enter the world by late summer. Life would go on, and she and Fred would be a part of those lives.

“We've already been through the most difficult, most painful times we will ever face,” he said. “From this point forward, we don't have to fear anything, because we've already survived the worst.”

“I hope you're right.” She prayed he was right.