The Quilter's Legacy (5 page)

It was Miss Langley's responsibility to make sure Eleanor did not run, or climb stairs too quickly, or overexcite herself, or take a fright. Miss Langley was English, and before coming to America to raise the Lockwood children, she had traveled to France, Spain, Italy, and the Holy Land. Eleanor thought New York must seem desperately dull after such exotic locals, but Miss Langley said every land had its beauties. If Eleanor learned to find and appreciate them, she would be happy wherever life took her.

Eleanor agreed with her in principle, but everyone knew she would never be strong enough to go anywhere, except to the summer house for three months every year. It was a fact, just as her bad heart was a fact.

If Miss Langley had not been occupied unpacking her own belongings, Eleanor could not have slipped away. She regretted deceiving her nanny, since Miss Langley was her only ally in a household that expected her to collapse at any moment. If not for her, Eleanor's life would have been even more limited, since Mother had not even wanted her to attend school. Mother had feared exposing Eleanor to the elements and the jostling of her more robust classmates, even when Miss Langley reminded her that Eleanor's fellow pupils would be from the same respectable families as the young ladies in Abigail's class, well-bred girls unlikely to jostle anyone. When Mother would not budge, Miss Langley ignored the sanctity of Father's study and emerged twenty minutes later with his promise that Eleanor would be permitted to attend school. Eleanor doubted Mother ever learned about that clandestine visit; if she had known Miss Langley had persuaded Father, Mother would have yanked Eleanor from school just to spite her.

The cramp in Eleanor's side eased as she walked. She had fled the house not caring where she went as long as it was away from Mother and Abigail, and now she did not know where to go. They had chattered about the upcoming social season all the way home from the summer house, and Eleanor couldn't endure another word. She was not jealous, not exactly, but she was tired of pretending to be happy for her sister.

She saw the gardener and quickly veered away before he spotted her. Ahead, the stable seemed deserted; by now the horses would have been curried, watered, and fed, and the stable hands would have left for their dinner. No one would think to look for her there, since she could not ride and was not even allowed to touch the horses' glossy coats. Only when no one else could see did Miss Langley let her brush Wildrose, the bay mare Father had given her for Christmas. Mother had called the gift an extravagance unbefitting Miss Langley's position, but her friend Mrs. Newcombe had said Mother could not get rid of the horse without raising uncomfortable questions.

Eleanor slipped inside the stable, took two apples from the barrel near the door, and tucked one into her pocket. “Hello, Wild-rose,” she called softly, polishing the second apple on her sleeve. She heard an answering whinny from a nearby stall—but no stern questions from a lingering stable hand, no alarmed shouts for her mother. Emboldened, Eleanor approached the mare, who poked her head over the stall door, sniffing the air. Eleanor held out the apple, and when Wildrose bent her neck to take a bite, Eleanor stroked the horse's mane. “I'm sorry we had to come back to the city. You and I like the summer house better, don't we?”

Wildrose snorted, and Eleanor blinked to fight off tears. She would not cry. She might be fragile, as everyone said, but she wasn't a baby, crying over rumors. “Father would never sell the summer house,” she said, feeding Wildrose the rest of the apple. “We'll go back every year until we're old, old ladies. You'll see.”

Wildrose whickered as if she agreed—and suddenly Eleanor felt a prickling on the back of her neck. She glanced over her shoulder to find Jupiter watching her.

She quickly looked away, then slowly turned again to find the stallion's deep, black eyes still upon her. No one but Father rode Jupiter, and only the most trusted stable hand was allowed to groom him. “That's what the Lord can create when He's had a good night's sleep,” Father had proclaimed last spring as he admired his latest purchase. Only Eleanor saw the disapproving frown Mother gave him. She disliked blasphemy.

Father said Jupiter had gained a taste for blood in the Spanish-American War and would rather trample a little child beneath his hooves than take a sugar cube from Eleanor's palm. She fingered the apple in her pocket—and jumped when Jupiter tossed his head and whinnied. She caught her breath and took one soft step toward him. She drew closer, then stretched out her hand and held the apple beneath Jupiter's muzzle.

He lowered his head, his nostrils flaring, his breath hot on her skin. Then he took the apple from her hand and backed away, disappearing into his stall.

Delighted, Eleanor lifted the latch to the stall door to follow—and then felt herself yanked back so hard she nearly fell to the ground. “What are you doing?” cried Miss Langley. She quickly closed the stall and snapped the latch shut. “You know you're not allowed near your father's horse. You could have been killed.”

“I only wanted to feed him,” said Eleanor, shaken. “He kept looking at me, and I felt sorry for him, since none of us ever play with him—”

“Jupiter does not play, not with you children or anyone else.”

“Please don't tell,” begged Eleanor. “I won't do it again. I know I should stay away from the horses. I'm delicate.”

“Jupiter is a proud creature, and very strong. He is not safe for children. I would have given Abigail the same advice though she is four years older.”

“You wouldn't have needed to. Abigail's afraid of him.”

“Don't be saucy.” But Miss Langley almost smiled as she said it, and she brushed a few stray pieces of straw from Eleanor's dress. “Your father is a formidable man. Don't cross him until you're old enough to accept the consequences.”

It had never occurred to Eleanor that anyone might intentionally cross Father. “How old is that?”

“I suppose you'll know, if the occasion ever arises.”

Miss Langley took Eleanor by the hand and led her outside.

As they returned to the house, Eleanor looked up at Miss Langley and asked, “Do you really think Father will sell the summer house?”

“I know he does not want to.” Miss Langley absently touched her straight, blond hair, as always, pulled back into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. “However, it would be more frugal to maintain only one household.”

Eleanor had hoped for something more encouraging, but Miss Langley never lied, and Eleanor knew her father was concerned about debt. She had overheard him say that the family business had never completely recovered from the Panic six years earlier. It would surely not survive another unless he took on a partner.

“If he has to sell a house, I wish he'd sell this one,” said Eleanor.

“You might find the summer house rather cold in winter.”

“Mother would bundle me in so much wool I'd never notice the cold,” said Eleanor, glum, then stopped short at the sight of her mother, holding up her skirts with one hand and approaching them at a near run.

“Miss Langley,” Mother gasped. “What on earth are you doing?”

Abruptly, Miss Langley released Eleanor's hand. “Walking with Eleanor.”

“I can see that.” Mother knelt before Eleanor, held her daughter's face in her hands, and peered into her eyes. “Why would you bring her outside after such a hard day of travel, and without a word to anyone? My goodness, where are her shoes? Have you given no thought to this poor child's health?”

Miss Langley drew herself up. “Mrs. Lockwood, if I may, moderate exercise has remarkable curative effects—”

“Curative? Look at her. Her face is flushed. She looks positively ill.”

“She does now. She did not before you arrived.”

“Your impertinence might pass for the voice of experience if you had children of your own.” Mother took Eleanor's hand. “Use better judgment in the future or you shall convince Mr. Lockwood that our trust in you has been misplaced.”

Mother led her daughter away without giving Miss Langley a chance to reply. When they reached the house, Mother told Eleanor to go to her room, finish unpacking, and rest until supper.

Eleanor did as she was told, listening through the closed door for Miss Langley. She had to pass Eleanor's room to get to her own, the smallest bedroom on the second floor and the farthest from the stairs. Although only a wall separated her room from Eleanor's, Miss Langley moved about so soundlessly that Eleanor rarely heard her. Miss Langley must have been able to hear Eleanor, though, for if Eleanor was ill or had bad dreams, Miss Langley was at her side almost before Eleanor cried out. Still, it sometimes seemed as if the nanny simply disappeared once she closed her door on the rest of the house.

Eleanor had been invited into Miss Langley's room only a handful of times. The furnishings appeared neat but not fussy like Mother's parlor. A few framed portraits, which Miss Langley had identified as her parents and a younger brother, sat on a bureau; leafy green plants and violets thrived in pots on both windowsills. Displayed to their best advantage were two embroidered pillows on the divan, a quilt draped artfully over an armchair, and a patchwork comforter spread over the bed. The room was very like Miss Langley herself: no-nonsense yet graceful and elegant.

Eleanor waited and listened, but Miss Langley did not come. Heavy-hearted, she put away the last of her dresses and climbed onto the bed, wishing she had not run off. She lay on her back and studied the patterns the fading daylight made on the ceiling, wondering if she should risk upsetting Mother a second time in the same day by leaving her room to find Miss Langley.

She must have drifted off to sleep, because suddenly Abigail was at her side, her long blond curls swept back from her face by a broad pink ribbon. “Why is Mother angry?” asked Abigail. “What did you do?”

Eleanor wasn't sure if it was more wrong to lie to her sister or to expose Miss Langley's deception, so she said, “Nothing.”

“You must have done something, because I know I didn't.”

Eleanor sat up and made room for her sister on the bed. “I went outside without asking Mother.”

“Is that all? You must have done something else to make her this mad. Come on, tell me the truth.”

Eleanor shrugged. Mother didn't know about the horses, so that didn't count.

“You should have just finished unpacking, as Mother told us to.” Abigail climbed onto the bed and sat cross-legged beside her sister. “If you would just obey her, you wouldn't get in trouble so often.”

“I can't help it. I forget.”

“You don't forget. You just don't think you'll get caught.” Abigail smiled, showing her dimple. “Maybe I should go downstairs and break some dishes or kick Harriet in the shin. If Mother's mad at me, she might forget what you did.”

Eleanor was tempted, especially by the image of Mother's maid howling and clutching her leg, but she shook her head. “It wouldn't work.”

“I suppose not.”

“I wish we had stayed at the summer house.”

“Not me. I hate that place. The bugs, the wind messing my hair—and I hate seeing Father only on weekends.”

They saw him so little on weekdays that Eleanor saw no difference between the summer house and home in that respect, but she knew better than to seem to criticize Father in front of Abigail. Eleanor hesitated to say anything negative about him at all, as if her very words would make him appear.

“I bet the walk was your idea,” said Abigail airily. “Miss Langley wouldn't dare defy Mother except for you. You have her wrapped around your little finger. She treats you much nicer than she treated me when I was your age.”

“She does not.”

“It's true. She lets you do exactly as you please because you're the baby and you're …”

“What?” Eleanor fixed a piercing gaze on her sister. “Go on, say it. I'm going to die. Right? That's what you were about to say.”

“You're not going to die.”

“You and Miss Langley are the only ones who think so.” But Eleanor knew Abigail didn't really mean it.

Timidly, Abigail said, “You won't tell Mother I told you?”

Eleanor sighed and sat up. “No.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I think Mother's more angry with Miss Langley than you.”

That was nothing new; Mother became displeased with Miss Langley over the littlest things, while Harriet could oversleep or lose Mother's best gloves and Mother would forgive her. Once Eleanor overheard the cook say she thought it a wonder that Miss Langley had not resigned long ago, but Miss Langley did not seem to mind Mother's tempers as much as Eleanor did.

Eleanor remembered her warning and asked, “Do you think Mother will send Miss Langley away?”

Abigail shrugged. “She might. You're too old for a nanny, anyway.”

“Maybe they want her to stay in the family in case they have another baby.”

Abigail giggled. “I don't think that's very likely.”

“Why not?”

“If you can't figure it out, you're not old enough to know.” Then a puzzled frown replaced her grin. “I wonder why Mother said Miss Langley had no children of her own.”

“Because she doesn't.”

“That's not what I heard.”

“What?”

“Promise you won't say anything.”

“I promise.”

“I heard Mother tell Mrs. Newcombe that Miss Langley had a baby. It was ages ago, when she was just a few years older than I am.”

“But she's not married.”

“That's why she had to leave England. Mrs. Newcombe said that Mother was a model of Christian charity but that she herself would not trust her menfolk with a fallen woman in the house, however humbled and redemptive the woman might be.”

Eleanor did not want to believe it, but Abigail had mimicked the haughty Mrs. Newcombe perfectly. “If that's true, where's the baby?”

“It died when it was only a few hours old.” Abigail regarded her thoughtfully. “Maybe that's why Miss Langley is so fond of you. Maybe you remind her of her baby, because you're so frail.”

“She would have told me.” Miss Langley did not lie, but as far as Eleanor could recall, Miss Langley had never explicitly denied having children. Eleanor had never thought to ask. “Why didn't she tell me?”