The weight and thickness of the envelope told Eleanor that it contained more than a simple news clipping. Her mother’s mailings had grown less frequent since Father’s death; six months had passed since the last. If the return address of the Manhattan brown-stone had not been written in her mother’s own hand, Eleanor would have assumed the elderly cousin with whom she lived had sent notice of her mother’s death.
Inside the envelope was a sheet of ivory writing paper edged with a quarter-inch black border. Her mother’s note took up barely half the page.
May 8, 1927
Dear Eleanor,
Cousin Claire has died and her late husband’s property now belongs to his brother’s children. They intend to live here themselves and would not keep me among them even if I wished to stay, which I do not. I do not expect you to take me in. If you felt for me the respect and concern a daughter owes her mother, you never would have left us. However, I have no one else, so I must turn to you and hope that time has softened your selfish heart. I am to be evicted at month’s end, and unless I do not hear from you, I will have no choice but to take up residence in an asylum for destitute women. If you wish to spare me from that disgrace, respond promptly to
Your Mother,
Gertrude Drayton-Smith Lockwood
Eleanor kept the letter in a bureau drawer for a day before showing it to Fred and Lucinda. She would have consulted Elizabeth first, as the eldest and nominal leader of the family, but since her husband’s death five years before, Elizabeth did little but rock in her chair and quilt and murmur bleak predictions about the future. Claudia laughed at her behind her back, but seven-year-old Sylvia would turn her dark eyes from her grandmother and lead Richard away by the hand as if the mournful words could not hurt him if he did not hear. The solemn girl seemed to believe it was her responsibility to protect her younger brother from all dangers, real and imaginary.
Her darling boy was little more than a year old but already as headstrong and spirited as his father. If she could have given Fred another son, she would have named him after the other brother he had lost in the war, but she knew her heart could not withstand another pregnancy. When she first thought she might be pregnant again, Dr. Granger had scolded her when she went to him, glowing with joy, to confirm her secret hope. After she nearly died in childbirth, he had exhorted her—and Fred, too—not to risk another. But Eleanor did not need the doctor’s warnings or her husband’s white-faced pleading to convince her. She had not recovered from Richard’s birth the way she had with the girls. She had lost something she could not define, and she knew another baby would kill her. She had been blessed with three beautiful, beloved children, and she so wanted to see them grow up that she would cling to life with her fingernails for one more day with them.
Fred read the letter, snorted, and handed it to his aunt. Lucinda scanned the lines and barked out a laugh. “Dear Eleanor,” she paraphrased, holding out the page to Eleanor. “I am so sorry that for almost forty years I was a hateful old hag to you instead of a loving mother. Now that I am impoverished in my dotage, won’t you please take care of me?”
“I know better than to expect an apology,” said Eleanor, returning the letter to its envelope. “She thinks I owe her one.”
“We’ll send her money,” said Fred. “A monthly allowance so she can maintain her own household in New York. We don’t have to bring her here.”
“I don’t think she will accept charity.”
“Isn’t inviting her to live with us charity?” asked Fred. “I can’t forget how she mistreated you. I won’t allow her to hurt you in your own home.”
Eleanor touched his cheek. “I have you. I have the children. She has lost the power to injure me.”
She smiled at him, and he placed his hand over hers and regarded her fondly, but there was a tightness around his eyes that none of her reassurances could ease. She had tried to hide her increasing weakness, but he knew her heart labored to sustain her life. He would fight against anything that would sap her remaining strength, even if it meant abandoning his mother-in-law to her own fate.
Nevertheless, she was Eleanor’s mother, and Eleanor did have a duty toward her. If her mother-in-law agreed, Eleanor would invite her mother to Elm Creek Manor.
Elizabeth gave her permission, but not without misgivings. “I admire your willingness to forgive,” she said, shaking her head, “but if she says one cruel word against you or my son, I will slap her.”
Lucinda laughed, but Fred grimaced and Eleanor wondered if she had made a mistake. She could not bear it if her mother’s presence brought more grief to a family that had seen too much mourning.
Before writing back to her mother, she told the children. Claudia clapped her hands, delighted that she would be able to meet Grandmother Lockwood at last. Eleanor forced a smile and stroked her eldest daughter’s glossy curls. She had told Claudia stories of her childhood in New York, of pretty dresses, glamorous balls, beautiful horses, and the summer house. She had allowed Claudia to believe the fairy tale, reserving the truth for when she was older. Even after so many years, the thought of telling those stories pained her. Now, perhaps, she would not need to. Once Claudia met Grandmother Lockwood, she could decide for herself.
Sylvia, apparently, already had. “Why is she coming now, after so many years?”
“Someone else owns her home now, and she has to move,” said Eleanor, knowing better than to dissemble with Sylvia, who would reproach her with dark, silent looks when she discovered the truth. “Naturally she would turn to family at such a time.”
Sylvia looked dubious, and Eleanor held her breath, certain Sylvia would ask why Grandmother Lockwood had not turned to them before, such as when Grandfather Lockwood died, but Sylvia said only, “When is she coming?”
“I don’t know,” said Eleanor. “I will ask her. Now, off you go to the nursery. I have letters to write.”
Sylvia gave her a curious look, but she picked up Richard and went off after her sister. Eleanor watched them climb the stairs, longing to run after them as she once had. Lately climbing the stairs tired her so much that she remained on the first floor from breakfast until retiring for the night. Fred had to help her, and more often than not, he simply lifted her into his arms and carried her upstairs, effortlessly, as if she were one of the children.
After she had transformed her study into a nursery, the library had become her favorite place to linger over a book or compose a letter, but over the past year she had moved her favorite books and writing papers to the parlor. She was not surprised to find the room empty at that time of day, since Elizabeth preferred the sitting room off the kitchen and everyone else was working outside, tending to the horses, absorbing her former duties into their own. She had not ridden in ages. Even the walk to the stables exhausted her now.
At the bottom of her stationery case, Eleanor found a few sheets of black-edged paper left over from when Fred’s father passed away. She would observe the rituals out of respect for her mother. Mother would expect it.
She rehearsed her words in her head rather than waste paper and ink searching for the appropriate phrases. Mother was easily offended, and her present circumstances would render her even more sensitive. But after twenty unproductive minutes, Eleanor steeled herself and wrote the first words that came to mind, as quickly as she could.
May 14, 1927
Dear Mother,
The Bergstrom family is honored that you would consider coming to reside at Elm Creek Manor. You will have a comfortable room and bath of your own and all the privacy you wish. Your three grandchildren will be thrilled to finally meet you.
I have indicated the nearest train station on the enclosed schedule. Please let us know when you shall arrive so Fred and I may meet you.
I would be grateful if you would extend our sincere condolences to Cousin Claire’s family.
Your Daughter,
Eleanor Lockwood Bergstrom
She read the letter over as the ink dried. Despite her attempts to sound cordial and welcoming, the words were as stiff and remote as anything her mother could have written.
The second letter was easier to write, for all Eleanor regretted the need to do so.
May 14, 1927
Dear Mrs. Davis,
Now it is my turn to instruct you to sit before reading on. I believe I have news that will give you one shock to equal all those you have sent me throughout the years.
My mother is coming to Elm Creek Manor, not merely to visit, but to live. I still cannot quite believe it, but she would not have asked unless she was in earnest, and I have her request written in her own hand.
She must vacate her current residence by the end of the month, so I suppose she will be among us by June. I tell you this not to warn you away but to prepare you. Promise me you will not cancel your visit on her account. You would not visit me at my parents’ house because of her, but this is my home, not hers, and you will always be welcome in it. I will lock her in the attic if you cannot bear the sight of her, but please do not deny me the pleasure of your company. With my mother in the house, I am certain I will need you more than ever.
My children do not believe you are real and never will unless they finally meet the former nanny of
Your Affectionate Friend,
Eleanor
PS: If you simply cannot bring yourself to visit with my mother here, please consider coming before her arrival. We still have two weeks left in May. What more can I say to persuade you? Tell me and I will say it.
Eleanor sent off her letters, hoping for the best. When Mother arrived, everything would change. She would have to shield the children from Mother’s cutting tongue. Claudia was lovely and usually obedient and thus might earn her grandmother’s grudging approval, but Mother would shudder at Richard’s noisy play and proclaim him incorrigible within minutes of meeting him. As for Sylvia, she stood little chance of earning her grandmother’s favor. Bright and moody and perceptive, she was everything her grandmother disliked in a young lady, and her appearance was unlikely to help. Her hair always seemed a tangle no matter how often Eleanor instructed her to comb it, and she could not step out of doors without getting grass stains on her dress and dirt on her face.
She was seeing them through her mother’s eyes, Eleanor realized, but those very things that her mother would find so offensive were what endeared them to Eleanor most.
All that week, she waited anxiously for replies to her letters. As before, as always, she found solace in quilting. Not in the way Elizabeth did, numbing her pain with the repetitive motions of the needle, but in the act of creation, in piecing together beauty and harmony from what had been left over and cast aside. Her art would not endure as long as painting or sculpture, but it would outlive her, and every time her descendants wrapped themselves in one of her quilts, she would be with them, embracing them.
Months ago, Fred and William had moved the quilt frame into the nursery so that she might quilt while she looked after the children. That was the excuse she made, but in truth, she did not want Fred to see the quilt she worked upon, a gift for their twentieth anniversary. Once she had not thought it possible she would live twenty years, and in a few weeks, she would have been married that long, more than half her life. It was a miracle, and she had Fred’s love and God’s grace to thank for it. She did not have the words to tell her Freddy what those twenty years had meant to her, so she stitched her love, her passion, her longing into the soft fabric, which was as yielding as they had learned to be with each other, and as strong, as closely woven together. She was the warp and he the weft of their married life, two souls who had chosen each other, not knowing the pattern their lives would form.
One morning she climbed the stairs to the nursery, resting every three steps before continuing upward. The children were surprised to see her; the girls ran to hug her, and Richard toddled after them, crowing with joy. Sylvia begged Eleanor to read them a story, which she did, then gathered them all into her arms for one big hug and asked them to play without her for a while. They were so glad to have her in the nursery again that they did not complain.
Eleanor removed the sheet she had placed over the quilt to keep off dust and sticky fingers. Two years in the making, the Elms and Lilacs quilt was truly her finest work. She had appliquéd each lilac petal and elm leaf by hand, using fabrics in the new lighter hues that were coming into fashion. She had quilted around the floral motifs in an echo pattern, as if the leaves and petals had fallen into a pond and sent out gentle ripples. In the open background fabric, she had quilted feathered plumes over a crosshatch. Every stitch and scrap of fabric she had put into that quilt had a meaning she knew Fred would understand. The elms came from Elm Creek Manor, of course, but everything else symbolized the cornerstone patio. As Freddy had given it to her, so would she share it with him.
Only the last corner of the quilt, a square less than a foot wide, remained unquilted. When it was complete, she would need to finish the scalloped edge with binding. A straight edge would take less time, but in such situations she preferred to sacrifice her deadline to her design.
She threaded a needle, slipped her thimble on her finger, and soon was engrossed in her work, the children’s play a happy murmur in the background. Then Richard toddled over and demanded to be picked up. She laughed and settled him on her lap, but she put only two more stitches into the quilt before he began to squirm. “Richard, darling,” said Eleanor, sliding the heron-shaped scissors out of his reach, “this will work only if you hold still.”
“Let Mama quilt,” said Claudia. “Don’t be naughty.”
“He’s not being naughty,” said Sylvia. “He’s just being a baby. That’s what babies do.”
“But Mama needs to finish her quilt.”
“I need to play with Richard, too,” said Eleanor quickly, before the fight could escalate. Claudia could be as imperious as Abigail had once been, but Eleanor had known to ignore Abigail’s bluster and let her have her way. Sylvia ought to do the same with her sister, but she would rather be right than give in to get along.
“We could take turns,” said Sylvia, brightening. “One of us could quilt while the other two play with Richard. This way he gets to play with everybody and the quilt still gets finished.”
Claudia regarded her with scorn. “You just want to work on Mama’s quilt.”
“So what if I do? As long as Richard’s happy and the work gets done—”
“That is the point, isn’t it?” interrupted Eleanor. “I think it’s a fine idea. I’ve already taken my turn, so Claudia, would you like to quilt next?” Claudia nodded, and Sylvia, who had already reached for the spool of thread, snatched her hand back. She shot Eleanor a look of protest, but Eleanor shook her head to remind Sylvia she did not reward bickering.
“Mama, pay,” beseeched Richard, tugging on her hand. “Pay bock.”
“Very well.” Eleanor allowed herself to be led away, with only one glance back at Claudia and her quilt. “Let’s go play with your blocks.”
Sylvia joined her, helping Richard stack his wooden blocks and building towers for him to knock over. Sylvia threw herself into their play, pretending to have forgotten her sister, but after ten minutes she looked up at Eleanor with such woebegone hope that Eleanor agreed she could take her turn. Claudia relinquished the needle with only a small pout, and though she dragged her heels a little, she brought over one of Richard’s favorite storybooks and offered to read it to him. He climbed into her lap, stuck a finger in his mouth, and stared at the pictures while Claudia told him the story. Eleanor sat back and watched, grateful for the chance to rest. The tranquil scene made her forget the time until Claudia set the book aside and reminded her Sylvia’s turn was over.
Sylvia traded her place at the quilt frame for Richard’s storybook, and she continued reading from where Claudia had left off. Eleanor studied her daughters’ handiwork, pleased to discover that both girls had used their very best quilting. Claudia, especially, had far surpassed her usual efforts, so that her stitches were virtually indistinguishable from her sister’s, even though Sylvia’s work was ordinarily finer. Freddy wouldn’t care even if their stitches were an inch long and uneven, of course; he would be prouder of a quilt bearing his daughters’ imperfect stitches than a flawless quilt they had no part in making.
The climb upstairs to the nursery must have taxed her more than she had realized, for she was ready for a rest when Claudia’s turn came again. Claudia took the needle eagerly and set herself to work with enthusiasm, the tip of her tongue visible in the corner of her mouth.
Sylvia’s turn came once more, and then Eleanor’s, and then Claudia’s again. The girls no longer made faces when Sylvia took over for Claudia, and Richard was content, enjoying play time with all three of them. Eleanor was congratulating herself for resolving the latest in her daughters’ long series of disagreements when Claudia suddenly shrilled, “What is she doing?”
“Hmm?” Eleanor looked up from Richard’s wooden train in time to see Sylvia quickly set down the scissors. “What’s wrong?”
Claudia stormed over to the quilt frame. Sylvia folded her arms over her work, but Claudia shoved her aside. “She’s ruining my work,” cried Claudia. “She picked out all my stitches.”
Sylvia thrust out her lower lip. “I didn’t ruin her work.”
“Liar! She did!” Claudia pointed at the quilt. “Come and see for yourself.”
Suddenly Eleanor felt too exhausted to do anything more than pull Richard onto her lap. “Sylvia, did you remove Claudia’s stitches from the quilt?”
“Only the bad ones,” said Sylvia. She glared at her sister. “I can’t help it that most of them were bad.”
Claudia shrieked and Sylvia shouted back. Eleanor closed her eyes and kissed the top of Richard’s head. “Stop it.” She covered the baby’s ears and raised her voice. “Girls! Stop it. Sylvia, that was a very naughty thing to do—”
“But it’s a present for Daddy,” said Sylvia, chin trembling. “It should be just right.”
“My quilting is just as good as yours,” said Claudia.
“Now who’s the liar?”
“Sylvia,” said Eleanor, stern. “What you did was wrong, and being saucy about it only makes matters worse. Apologize to your sister, and go to your room.”
Sylvia shot her a look of shame and frustration before mumbling something that might have been an apology and fleeing from the nursery. Eleanor sighed and sank back into her chair, patting Richard to soothe him, although he seemed not half as troubled as she.
The room fell silent. Eleanor closed her eyes and felt weariness overtake her. She had almost fallen asleep when she heard Claudia say, “I’m finished now. Do you want a turn?”
“No, thank you, darling.”
She heard Claudia’s chair scrape the floor and soft footsteps. Then, near her ear, Claudia whispered, “Richard’s asleep.”
Eleanor nodded. Even with her eyes closed she had known, not only by the sound of his breathing, but because only when asleep did her son hold still for so long.
“Shall I take him downstairs to his crib?”
“Would you, please?” Eleanor opened her eyes and allowed Claudia to take him. “Be careful on the stairs.”
“I will.” Claudia regarded her curiously. “Mama, are you all right?”
Eleanor smiled. “I’m just tired.”
“Why don’t you go to bed and take a nap? I’ll get Richard if he cries.”
She was tempted, but the thought of all those stairs was too daunting. “I think I’ll just rest here for a moment and then quilt some more.”
Claudia looked dubious, but she nodded and carried Richard away, sleeping on her shoulder.
When the door closed behind them, Eleanor curled up on the sofa, pulled an old scrap quilt over herself, and drifted off to sleep.
Eleanor’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 long-suffering 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. Lock-wood, 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 gracious-ness 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.”
At 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?”
“Goodness, don’t they know anything about our family?” asked Mother. Eleanor could see Claudia wanted to assure her that she, at least, knew something, but whatever stories Claudia repeated would only reveal her ignorance of the truth.
When no one answered her, Mother waved her hand impatiently. “Never mind. Now that I am here, I will remedy that. You will learn all I can teach you about the Lockwoods, and my gifts will be a fine start.”
Claudia almost smiled, but Sylvia’s expression hardened, a reflection of her father that seemed too old for such a little girl. Eleanor knew at once that Sylvia had resolved never to listen to her grandmother’s stories, never to learn about the Lockwood family history. Eleanor felt a twinge of grief, but she had turned her back on the Lockwood family, and she could not expect Sylvia to embrace it.
“Ah.” From her satchel, Mother withdrew a small, white box. “Come, Claudia. This is for you.”
Claudia left her mother’s side and took the box from her grandmother. When she lifted the lid, her eyes widened in surprise and admiration.
Mother smiled. “Do you like it?” Claudia nodded and reached tentatively into the box, glancing up at her grandmother for permission. “Of course you may pick it up, silly girl, it’s yours.” Eleanor caught a glimpse of silver flashing in her daughter’s hand. It was her mother’s silver locket, an heirloom passed down to her from her own mother.
Claudia opened the locket. “Who are these people?”
“The woman is my mother, and the man, my father. I will tell you all about them. Would you like to try it on?” When Claudia nodded, Mother fastened the locket about her neck. “There. It suits you.”
Claudia fingered the locket and smiled. “Thank you, Grandmother.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Mother reached into her satchel and produced a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “Be sure you take good care of it. Sylvia, this is for you.”
When Sylvia did not leave her chair, Mother handed the parcel to Claudia and gestured for her to take it to her sister. Sylvia slowly unwrapped the gift, and when the paper fell away, Eleanor saw a fine porcelain doll with golden hair, dressed in a gown of blue velvet. It was a beautiful doll, but Sylvia did not care for dolls. She never had.
“Thank you, Grandmother,” said Sylvia, solemn, and hugged the doll.
“She was your mother’s. They were inseparable until she decided she was too old for dolls. Then she sat on a shelf in the nursery gathering dust, the poor, neglected thing.”
“I didn’t neglect it,” said Eleanor. “You’re thinking of Abigail. That was her doll, not mine.”
“That’s not so,” said Mother. “I recall very clearly giving it to you for Christmas when you were four.”
“That was Abigail. She said Santa brought it.” Eleanor could still see Abigail cradling the doll, brushing her fine hair, dressing her in the frocks Miss Langley sewed. “When Abigail no longer wanted her, she gave her to me, but by then I was not interested in dolls, either.”
“You would have liked them still if Abigail had.” Mother turned her gaze on Sylvia. “Well, my dear, it seems I’ve given you the doll no one wanted. I suppose you, too, will abandon her.”
Sylvia shook her head.
Mother studied her for a moment, assessing her, then frowned and reached into her satchel. “This is for you, Eleanor, if you want it.” Mother placed a black, leather-bound book on the table. “It was to go to Abigail, as the eldest girl...”
She left the sentence unfinished. Eleanor knew what the book was, but she was immobile, unable to rise from her chair. It was Claudia who, unasked, brought it to her.
“What is it, Mama?” asked Sylvia, who always took interest in a new book.
“It’s the Lockwood family Bible.” Eleanor traced the gilded letters on the cover, then turned to the first few pages, to the records of births, baptisms, marriages, and deaths her father’s mother had begun. With a pang of sorrow, she noticed that her mother had not written in either of her daughters’ marriages, or Abigail’s death.
“I leave it up to you to complete the record,” said Mother. “You are the only one who can.”
She meant, You are my only surviving child. There is no one else. But Eleanor understood that, and what it meant that her mother had given her this inheritance now. “I will not complete it, merely continue it,” she said, closing the Bible. “As Claudia will continue it after me.”
“Why Claudia?” asked Sylvia. She had placed the doll on the table and had leaned closer to her mother for a better look at the Bible, but at the mention of Claudia’s name, she sat up.
“That’s the tradition,” explained Eleanor. “The family Bible always goes to the eldest daughter.”
She regretted the words when she saw the smug look Claudia gave her sister, and the resentful glare Sylvia gave her in return. She remembered how the unfairness of the custom had stung when she realized the Bible would belong to Abigail one day, and not herself. Now she would give almost anything to be able to place it in her sister’s hands, and sit by her side as she wrote down the names of all of their children in her round, girlish script.
“I have no gift for you, Fred,” said Mother. “But I have already given you my daughter, and my children were always my greatest treasures.”
Fred inclined his head, a gesture of respect, of recognition. Eleanor wondered if Mother had prepared her remarks on the train or if she had spoken them as an afterthought, a token of gratitude for Elizabeth’s generosity.
The rest of the meal was subdued, but Eleanor was thankful enough that the hostility had passed, and that the girls had apparently forgotten their grandmother’s cryptic references to her health. Mother retired immediately afterward, without a good night to anyone, much less the thanks anyone else in her position would have gratefully offered. Elizabeth made the excuse that she was surely exhausted from her long day of traveling, but they all knew better, and Lucinda told Eleanor that her rudeness was the first of many bad habits they would rid her of for the sake of family harmony.
“I forgot something,” Lucinda added, handing Eleanor an envelope. “This came for you while you were at the station.”
Its postmark read Lowell, Massachusetts, where Miss Langley had resided for the past six years.
September 28, 1927
My Dear Eleanor,
I am so sorry I did not respond sooner, but your letter arrived while I was traveling, and I only just received it. Please accept my heartfelt apologies, but I must decline your kind invitation. I will come to visit you as soon as your mother departs, for New York or the great hereafter, whichever comes first.
All the reasons that delayed my travels in the past seem trivial now that our separation has been extended indefinitely. I regret all the missed opportunities, all the postponements, as I am sure you do, but we must not dwell on them. I am resolved to see you again, Eleanor, or I am not
Your Affectionate Friend,
Amelia
She was not coming. Eleanor crumpled up the letter and put it in her pocket. If Miss Langley would not come now, when Eleanor needed her the most, she would never come.
The next morning, Eleanor served her mother a delicious breakfast she barely touched. Eleanor offered to show Mother the estate, but she declined, saying that she would spend the morning finishing her unpacking.
“When do you expect the rest of your things to arrive?” asked Eleanor, accompanying her mother upstairs, fighting to conceal how the effort drained her.
Mother fixed her with a withering glare. “There are no other things.”
Eleanor flushed. “I didn’t realize—”
“What? That I did not exaggerate when I said we lost everything?” Mother reached the top of the stairs and waited for Eleanor to join her. “You grew up in a beautiful house full of lovely things, and if you had married Edwin Corville, you would have inherited them all one day.”
“Instead I married the man I loved, and now I have my own house full of lovely things.” Eleanor spoke coolly, but felt a sudden stab of sympathy for her mother as she imagined her selling off the accumulated treasures of generations of her family. The sympathy faded, however, when she recalled all that Mother and Father had been prepared to do to hold on to that way of life rather than accept the limits of their fortune and live within their means.
They walked down the hallway in silence. “Obviously your marriage, or this climate, or something out here in the country agrees with you,” Mother said when they reached her door. “You lived much longer than anyone expected.”
Eleanor gave her a tight smile, but would not acknowledge the question in her eyes.
Mother dropped her gaze and reached for the doorknob. “In any event, you are surely more fortunate than Mrs. Edwin Corville. I’m sure you heard how she caught her husband in bed with that opera singer.”
“That is one news clipping you neglected to send me,” said Eleanor. “Are you saying you admit I made the right choice?”
“I will not say that, and I will never say that,” declared Mother. “Abigail certainly did not, for look where it got her. Dead, at the bottom of the sea. You, on the other hand, have done quite well for yourself.”
“Please don’t speak of Abigail that way.”
“You always were afraid of the hard truths of life. You know you are more ill than anyone in your family perceives. And that Abigail sealed her own fate by betraying her father and me. And that you resent her for abandoning you to a choice that never should have been yours to make.”
“I don’t resent her.”
“Of course you do. That’s why you treat your daughters so differently.”
Eleanor stared at her. “What on earth do you mean? I love my daughters equally.”
“I said nothing of how you love them, only how you treat them. You prefer Claudia, and while Sylvia seems to be made of strong enough stuff to bear it—”
“You met them for the first time less than a day ago,” snapped Eleanor. “I don’t see how after twenty years you can presume to know anything about me or my children.”
“I simply say what I observe. It is for your own good, and theirs. I do not want you to repeat my mistakes.”
“See to it first that you do not repeat them.” Eleanor paused to catch her breath. Her heart was racing. “If you intend to live in this house, you will treat everyone in it with respect, including my husband, including me. If you ever criticize my children again, call my son an urchin or say he is a disgrace, I will put you on the next train east if I have to carry you to the station on my back. Do you understand?”
Mother studied her, mouth pursed. “This is your home, not mine. I assure you I will show you and your family all the respect you showed me when you lived under my roof.”
She went inside her room and shut the door.
Mother did not come down for lunch. Lucinda left a tray outside her door, and half an hour later, she went upstairs to retrieve it. “So she does eat,” she said with satisfaction, placing the empty dishes in the sink. “That will give us some leverage over her.”
“We are not going to starve Eleanor’s mother into being more sociable,” scolded Elizabeth. “Be patient. She needs time to adjust to us.”
After Eleanor put Richard down for his afternoon nap, the thought of her own bed tempted her, but she had too much work to do before the girls came home from school, even if her churning thoughts would allow it. Twenty years before, in her mother’s house, Eleanor would have sought comfort in the solitude of her study. Now she climbed the stairs to the nursery, but by the time she reached the third floor, she felt light-headed and nauseous from exertion.
Eleanor seated herself in the chair by the window, where she had left the Elms and Lilacs quilt the last time she worked upon it. She had finished the quilting and had begun binding the three layers, but more than half the binding remained to be sewn in place, and tomorrow was their anniversary. If she worked on it for the rest of the day, she might finish by evening, but while Elizabeth and Lucinda would gladly give her that time to work, she did not have the strength to quilt for hours on end as she once had.
Freddy would not mind sleeping beneath an incomplete quilt, Eleanor told herself as she slipped her thimble on her finger. In fact, it would be more fitting that way, as the first quilt they had shared had also been a work in progress. So much had happened since that night on the train when they dreamed beneath the Rocky Mountain quilt together.
She sewed until her eyes grew too tired to see the stitches clearly, then rested before resuming her work. An hour passed. Richard would be waking soon, the girls were due home from school. They would be expecting her to chat with them as they had their afternoon snack. She knew she should join them, but if she descended those stairs she doubted she would be able to climb them again until Freddy carried her upstairs for bed.
That she would not let her mother see.
“Mama?”
Eleanor lifted her head to find Sylvia in the doorway. “Yes?” “Were you sleeping?”
“No, just resting.”
Sylvia crossed the floor and leaned against the armrest of Eleanor’s chair. “Why didn’t you come down for a snack? Weren’t you hungry?”
“No, dear. I’m sorry I didn’t keep you company. But as you can see ...” She smiled ruefully and lifted the quilt. “I’m running out of time.”
Sylvia studied it. “It looks like you’re almost done.”
“It might seem so, but I have to complete the binding, and then embroider my initials and the date.” Eleanor sighed and adjusted the folds of fabric on her lap. “I often feel like a quilt is never truly finished, that there’s always a little something more I ought to do. Your great-aunt Maude used to say I was too fussy.”
“That’s not true. You’re not the least bit fussy.” Sylvia hated to hear anyone she loved criticized, unless she herself was doing the criticizing. She watched Eleanor work for a moment. “Can I help?”
“‘May I.’”
“May I help?”
“Of course you may.”
Sylvia pulled up the footstool, threaded a needle, and began sewing the unattached end of the binding opposite her mother. They sewed toward the middle in silence. Sylvia looked up the first time Eleanor paused to rest, but she resumed her work without questioning her. Eleanor watched her small dark head bent over the quilt and wondered if any of her children would ever understand how deep, enduring, and profound was her love for them.
“Why did you give the Bible to Claudia?” asked Sylvia, without looking up.
“I have not given it to her yet,” said Eleanor gently. “It belongs to the whole family.”
“But Claudia will get it someday.”
“Someday. Years from now.”
“Why Claudia? Why not me?”
“Because she is the eldest daughter. That is the tradition.”
“You weren’t the eldest daughter,” Sylvia pointed out. “Neither was your father.”
Eleanor had to laugh. “No, he certainly was not, but he was an only child, so his mother had no daughters to leave it to. In my case, the Bible would have gone to my sister if she had not died.”
“Why don’t you ever talk about her?”
“I don’t know.” Eleanor sat back and thought. “I suppose because I miss her very much.”
“Maybe if you talked about her, you wouldn’t miss her so much.”
Eleanor smiled. “Perhaps.”
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
Sylvia set down her needle and took a deep breath, and, in a flash of panic, Eleanor realized she was going to ask if Eleanor was going to die. She dreaded the question, but she would not lie.
Sylvia’s eyes were on her face, searching.
“What did you want to ask me, Sylvia?”
“Nothing.” Sylvia picked up her needle and bent over her work. “Will you tell me about your sister?”
Eleanor took a deep, shaky breath. “Of course.
“Your aunt Abigail was four years older than I,” she began, and as she spoke, she recalled what her mother had said earlier that morning. Mother was wrong. Eleanor did not favor Claudia out of guilt for any long-buried resentment, but because she had almost lost her. The image of her darling baby suffering from influenza made her choke back reprimands and punishments even when they were deserved.
If there was a grain of truth in Mother’s accusation, it was that Claudia did remind Eleanor of Abigail, with the gifts their parents had not nurtured and the faults they had allowed to flourish. Claudia needed Eleanor’s guidance more than her younger sister, who reminded Eleanor of herself, except that Sylvia was strong and resilient and beautiful.
With Sylvia’s help, Eleanor finished the Elms and Lilacs quilt by late afternoon.
They hurried downstairs, late for supper, to hide the quilt in Eleanor’s bedroom closet. Later that night, while Fred slept beside her, Eleanor stole from bed, carefully lifted away the light coverlet they slept beneath on warm summer nights, and tucked in her beloved husband beneath his anniversary gift.
Something woke her before dawn—a noise, a stillness, a touch on her hair. She opened her eyes to find Fred sitting up and gazing at the quilt with shining eyes.
“Happy anniversary,” she whispered, and reached out for him.
He brought her hand to his lips. “It’s beautiful.”
“The girls helped.”
He grinned. “I’m sure they did.”
He lay down beside her again and held her. They reminisced about their first years together as husband and wife, marveling at how swiftly twenty years had passed. They talked about the children, the funny and heartbreaking things they had done, muffling their voices so their family would sleep on, undisturbed, leaving them this time to themselves. They left other memories unspoken— their arguments, their angry bursts of pride, the demands that had seemed so important once but now stood plain and bare for what they were, a senseless squandering of precious time, moments they longed to go back and collect and spend more wisely, like shining silver coins fallen from a tear in a pocket.
They talked until the sun began to pink the sky. Then Fred kissed Eleanor and told her to get dressed so he could give her his gift.
She did, quickly, and though she was not tired, he lifted her up and carried her downstairs, across the marble foyer she thought too grand, into the older west wing of the manor and out the door to the cornerstone patio, and on, until they reached the stables.
With the sure skill of a man who loved horses, he saddled his own stallion and a mare Eleanor had long admired but had never ridden. Her heart quickened, but she hesitated. “Freddy—”
“Have you forgotten how to ride?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you want to ride again?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “I long for it. I dream of it.”
He held out a hand to assist her. “Then what’s stopping you?”
“I shouldn’t. The doctors say—”
“Eleanor, if you and I did no more than what was allowed, then right now you would be Mrs. Edwin Corville of New York and I would be an old lonely bachelor with only these horses to keep me company.”
Eleanor smiled, but her heart ached with sorrow. “You would have married someone else.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You are the only woman I ever could have loved, Eleanor. I knew that from the time I was fourteen and I saw you tearing around the corral on a horse.”
She felt tears spring into her eyes. “You could have loved someone else.” She took a deep breath, and, instinctively, placed a hand on her heart to calm it. “You still could love someone else.”
His face darkened. “No, Eleanor. Not on our anniversary.”
“You are still a young man, Fred. The children will need a mother.”
“They have a mother. You.”
“I heard you talking to Dr. Granger.”
He held perfectly still, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet. “What did you hear?”
“That I will be lucky to live another year.”
Fred busied himself adjusting her horse’s bridle. “Doctors,” he said gruffly. “According to your doctors, you’ve been at death’s door for almost thirty-eight years.”
“We have to talk about this. We have to prepare the children.”
“Nothing will prepare them. How could anything prepare them for life in a world without you?”
His voice broke, his pain was laid bare, but she knew she must say what she needed to say, for they might never broach this subject again. She had tried too often to tell him what he would not hear. “I want you to know you have my blessing if you should choose to remarry.”
“I don’t want your blessing,” he said helplessly. “I want you. Twenty years is not enough. It went too fast.”
He bowed his head and turned away. She went to him and brushed away the tears he had not wanted her to see.
He pulled her into an embrace. The time for words had passed, she thought, but it would come again. She would make him hear her, and if it could not prepare him it would at least ease her own passing. She would tell him that twenty years had not been enough. She would tell him that she would not have traded these twenty years with him for a hundred lifetimes without him. She would tell him she was grateful for every single moment of her life.
She blinked away her tears, smiled, and reached for the mare’s reins.
In the meantime, she was going to live.