The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) Read online

  They chose simple blocks—Four-Patches, Pinwheels, Bright Hopes—and cut triangles and squares from the brightest, most cheerful fabrics in the scrap bag. As they sewed the pieces together, Great-Aunt Lucinda told her stories of New Year’s holidays from long ago. Most of the tales Sylvia had heard several times before, but her great-aunt always remembered new details with each retelling, so that even familiar stories taught her something new about the first Bergstroms to come to Pennsylvania.

  They had been hard at work for an hour when Great-Aunt Lydia, with Richard in tow, came looking for her sister. When told about their project, she offered to join in, and soon several rows of blocks were draped over the back of the sofa, waiting to be sewn together with the older women’s quick, deft stitches and Sylvia’s steady, careful ones.

  Claudia must have wondered where everyone was, for eventually she made her way to the west sitting room, drawn by the sound of their voices in laughter. After they explained their task, Claudia regarded Sylvia skeptically, not quite believing her little sister had come up with the idea on her own. “You’ll never be able to make enough quilts for every orphan who needs one,” she said, lingering in the doorway.

  “That doesn’t mean she shouldn’t do what she can,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda, before Sylvia could think of a retort. “Even if she makes only one quilt, that’s one more child who will feel warm and loved.”

  “With our help, she’ll make more than one,” added Great-Aunt Lydia. “I’m quite proud of our efforts, if I do say so myself. From blocks that were abandoned and forgotten, we are creating objects of beauty, warmth, and comfort. I wish I had resolved to be more frugal and charitable in the coming year, because that’s a New Year’s resolution I’m already keeping.”

  She and Lucinda laughed merrily together, as only fond sisters can. Sylvia watched them enviously, not daring to look at Claudia, certain they would never get along so well.

  “You may join us if you like,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda, but Claudia replied that she would much rather help Aunt Nellie make supper. After she left, Lucinda said, “It’s not too late, you know.”

  “It’s not?” said Sylvia.

  “Of course not. It’s only New Year’s Eve. We can still resolve to be more frugal and charitable in the year ahead.”

  “Oh.” Sylvia frowned at her quilting, disappointed. She had assumed Great-Aunt Lucinda meant it was not too late to befriend Claudia, to become as close as sisters were meant to be, as Lucinda and Lydia were.

  Lucinda grimaced and paused in her work to flex her fingers. Her arthritis bothered her in cold weather, and although warm compresses helped, she complained that she couldn’t get anything done with her hands wrapped in steaming dishcloths. “I don’t see how we can be any more thrifty than we have been,” she said, taking up her needle again.

  “We could use tea leaves twice, like Bitsy always wanted us to,” said Lydia, smiling. Sylvia remembered how Grandma used to urge everyone to squeeze every last drop of tea from the leaves in the strainer, and how Great-Aunt Lucinda, who loved a strong brew, had always added new leaves when Grandma wasn’t watching. Suddenly Sylvia felt a pang of remorse so sharp that she had to put down her sewing. Grandma had never made the journey to her mother’s homeland, as Sylvia had resolved for her years before. Except in her imagination, she never saw those blazing fireballs light up the New Year’s night sky.

  “I miss Grandma,” she said.

  “We do, too,” said Great-Aunt Lydia softly, and Great-Aunt Lucinda nodded.

  Great-Aunt Lucinda sat lost in thought for a moment, but then she smiled, tied a knot in her thread, and cut it with a quick snip. “I remember stories Bitsy used to tell us about New Year’s Eves her father celebrated,” she said. “When she first married our brother, she was homesick for her own family’s traditions, and telling us about them helped bring her parents closer. They had quite a raucous time, to hear her tell about it.”

  “I know,” said Sylvia. “Swinging fireballs in Scotland. She told me all about it.”

  “Those are the stories from her mother’s side of the family,” said Great-Aunt Lydia. “Her father—your great-grand-father—was born in Wales.”

  Sylvia was instantly captivated. She had heard many stories of Great-Grandfather Hans, founder of Elm Creek Manor, but she could not remember ever hearing about a Welsh great-grandfather.

  “Some of the traditions your great-grandfather celebrated in Wales were similar to those your great-grandmother enjoyed,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda. “All debts were to be paid, for example, but in Wales there was another twist: If the debtor failed to repay those he owed, he would be fated to be in debt for the rest of the year. It was also considered very bad luck to lend anything on New Year’s Day, even something as simple as an egg or a penny.”

  “I suppose there would be ways around that, to help someone in need,” remarked Great-Aunt Lydia, rising to add a completed block to the communal pile on the sofa. “Just call it a gift. If you have no intention of being repaid, that should divert the bad luck.”

  “You sound just like Bitsy, trying to untangle a knot of superstitions,” Great-Aunt Lucinda declared, laughing. To Sylvia, she added, “Debts had to be paid and homes had to be cleaned because your behavior on New Year’s Day foretold how you would act throughout the year. If you rose early and got right to work on the first morning of the New Year, you would be industrious for the next twelve months. If you fought with your sister, well, you would probably be argumentative the whole year through.”

  “That would explain a lot,” said Great-Aunt Lydia, with a sidelong glance at Sylvia. “Perhaps we should consider keeping the girls apart on New Year’s Day from now on, Lucinda. What do you think?”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  Sylvia ignored the banter. “Did my great-grandfather’s family eat anything special for good luck?”

  “Not that I know of,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda, “but they did follow another interesting custom called Letting In. It claimed that the first visitor of the New Year brought luck into the house, good or bad.”

  “I’ve heard of that,” said Sylvia. “Grandma said that in Scotland it’s called First Footing. A talk, dark-haired, handsome man like my father brought the best luck of all, but ladies expecting babies or new brides were good, too.”

  “Not in Wales, they weren’t,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda. “Oh, a handsome dark-haired man would be welcome, but a woman was the last person you wanted as your first visitor of the New Year. She might be a witch, and a group of young boys would have to run through every room of the house to break her spell, just in case.”

  Sylvia felt vaguely affronted. “What if the woman is your neighbor, and she just came over to wish you a Happy New Year, and you know she definitely isn’t a witch? What if she’s your cousin, coming to visit for the holidays? Couldn’t that be good luck, too?”

  “Not according to the tradition, I’m afraid,” said Great-Aunt Lydia.

  “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “It’s not fair,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda. “The Welsh tradition on the day after Christmas is even worse. Young men and boys were permitted to take holly branches and slash the arms and legs of their female servants until they bled. Can you imagine being a maid or a cook’s helper in those days? Christmas would be a day of dread because of what was in store the day after.”

  “The grown-ups let them do that?”

  “I suppose most of them did, or the custom wouldn’t have endured so long.”

  “That’s terrible,” said Sylvia. She couldn’t believe such naughtiness would be tolerated in children. “I hope my great-grandfather didn’t hurt anyone like that.”

  “I think it’s highly unlikely that our branch of the family had any servants to torment,” said Great-Aunt Lydia. “They were more likely to be on the receiving end.”

  “Maybe that’s why they came to America,” said Sylvia.

  Her great-aunts laughed. “There was probably more to their decisio
n than fearing injury on the day after Christmas,” said Great-Aunt Lucinda. “But I suppose the inequality and tolerance of ill treatment of the lower classes by the wealthy might have played a part.”

  “My sister, the philosopher,” said Great-Aunt Lydia fondly. “You take after Great-Aunt Gerda.”

  “If only my apple strudel was as good as hers.”

  “No one’s apple strudel will ever be as good as Great-Aunt Gerda’s, but don’t let that stop you from trying. We’ll be happy to eat your attempts.”

  Both sisters broke into laughter. Richard looked up at them from his toys, grinning happily, certain that he was responsible for their mirth. He usually was, but this time Sylvia knew the great-aunts’ joy came from the shared bond of sisterhood and from the satisfaction of knowing they were doing good work in the company of loved ones. Although they had experienced losses and disappointment in past years, they did not despair, but faced the future with courage and hope.

  Suddenly Sylvia decided on her own New Year’s resolution. “Didn’t Grandma say that when she was a girl, their custom was to clean the house so that the New Year would offer a fresh, new start?” said Sylvia. “From now on, every New Year’s Eve, I’m going to clean out my sewing basket and my scraps and I’m going to make at least one useful thing to give to someone else.”

  Her aunts praised her resolution and promised to do all they could to help her keep it, that year and every year she lived at Elm Creek Manor.

  “You’ll be able to help me a long, long time,” promised Sylvia. “I’m never leaving home.”

  The great-aunts exchanged a smile. “What if you meet a nice young man and decide to marry?” asked Great-Aunt Lydia.

  Sylvia was surprised they had to ask. When she married, she would bring her husband home to live at Elm Creek Manor with the rest of the family, just as her father did when he married her mother. Elm Creek Manor was the home of her heart, the only home she would ever love. Any man she married would have to understand that.

  Since they had no party planned for the evening, no Sylvester Ball to attend, no sugar cone for Feuerzangenbowle, and no confectioner’s sugar for Pfannkuchen, Sylvia and her family had a sewing bee instead. Richard played with toys on the floor or climbed from one lap to another, begging for stories and cuddles. They paused only for supper, and when the great-aunts told Sylvia’s father about her New Year’s resolution and her plans to make quilts for the Children’s Home, he ruffled her hair as he had earlier that day and said, “We’ll take the quilts over as soon as you finish.” Knowing how he used the automobile as little as possible to conserve gasoline, Sylvia glowed with pride, recognizing his offer as a sign of his approval.

  After that, Claudia could not hang back while the others joined in to help. They moved the quilting bee to the ballroom, the site of so many happier New Year’s celebrations of days gone by, and sat by the fireside sewing, telling stories, and reminiscing. Not wanting to be excluded from the impromptu party, the men kept the women company, popping corn over the fire, telling jokes, and making outlandish resolutions for the year ahead. “I’ll sell one hundred horses,” Uncle William promised. “I’ll grow two hundred bushels of hops and another two hundred of barley.” Everyone laughed as Lucinda feigned outrage and swatted him with a quilt block, but Sylvia wondered how many of them understood the reference.

  Settling beside her father on the sofa, Sylvia told him what she had learned about her Welsh ancestors. “Your Grandma told me those stories when I was a boy,” he said, and Sylvia realized that just as she had lost a mother and a grandma, so had her father lost his own mother and the wife he loved beyond all others. She had thought only of her own grief, forgetting his. Since her death, only upon Richard would he bestow a rare smile.

  At Christmas, he had been too overcome by painful memories of happier days to endure a celebration. But he chose to pass New Year’s Eve by the fireside with his family, amending the great-aunts’ stories of Sylvia’s great-grandfather and revealing a tradition called Calennig. Very early on New Year’s morning, Sylvia’s great-grandfather and other young boys would procure a fresh evergreen twig and a pail of water. From dawn until noon the boys traversed the village, dipping the twig into the water and sprinkling the faces of neighbors out and about. In return, they would be rewarded with Calennig, or “small gifts” of coins or fruit. If they came to a house where the occupants were still asleep, they sprinkled the doorways instead, singing songs or reciting chants that welcomed the New Year.

  “They got treats for splashing grown-ups with cold water in the middle of winter?” asked Claudia, dubious.

  “What about the girls?” said Sylvia. “You said the boys went through the villages. You meant boys and girls, right?”

  Her father shook his head. “My mother said young boys, not boys and girls. I guess little girls weren’t interested in mischief. They probably preferred to stay home and help their mothers cook breakfast.”

  Sylvia caught the look that passed between the great-aunts, the knowing gaze heavenward that said they doubted the little girls’ preferences had anything to do with it, and that they didn’t expect a man to understand. But then her father’s eyes twinkled knowingly. Sylvia smothered a giggle, but her heart welled over with happiness. If her father could joke and tease, perhaps one day he would laugh again.

  The family sewed and talked and remembered bygone days and departed loved ones until the clock struck midnight. The New Year had begun, offering a fresh start, a new beginning. Sylvia said a silent prayer that the year ahead would be kinder to them than the one before, that the family would know prosperity and peace, and that time would ease the ache in their hearts.

  The next day they ate pork and sauerkraut and the women quilted from morning until nightfall. By the time Sylvia went to bed, two hours past her usual bedtime, the Bergstrom women had finished four quilts, each just the right size to comfort a child.

  True to his word, the next day Sylvia’s father drove her to the Children’s Home in Grangerville. Sylvia presented the quilts to the supervising nun and promised to make more quilts, as many as they needed, though it might take her a few years. When her father asked about the two brothers, Sylvia held her breath, afraid that the nun would shake her head sadly and say that the boys were unhappy, or worse yet, that they had run away. But instead she reported that they were settling in fine; they got along well with the other children, followed the rules, and did their chores. She had written to their parents in care of the post office in the boys’ hometown, but she was not hopeful of a reply. “Sometimes the parents have moved on by the time their children make their way to us,” she explained, with a gentle turn of her hand that suggested both loss and forgiveness. “Other times, I imagine, they are too fearful or ashamed to write back, or they don’t know how to read or write. That’s if they ever receive the letters we send. I’m sure some of our children are not entirely honest when they tell us where they came from. Far too many have good reason to fear their parents’ finding them.”

  The nun kept her eyes firmly on Sylvia’s father’s, not sparing a glance of misgivings for Sylvia as adults often did when they forgot themselves and spoke of adult concerns in front of children.

  “I would give the boys a home if I could,” her father said. “My wife passed on a few months ago, and my business is failing. I have three children of my own. It—it wouldn’t be possible for me to take in two more.”

  The nun lowered her gaze and nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

  He dug into his overcoat pocket and pulled out a folded bill. “For the boys,” he said, pressing it into her hand. “When I can do more, I will.”

  “You’ve already done a great deal.” This time, the nun turned her smile upon Sylvia and gave the folded quilts a pat. “Both of you. God bless for your generosity. I know you won’t forget our children.”

  Sylvia’s father took her by the hand and led her back out to the car. As they left Grangerville, Sylvia summoned her courage. “Fathe
r?”

  “Yes, Sylvia?”

  “You said the business is failing.” She bit the inside of her lip to keep from crying. “Is it?”

  Her father was silent for a long moment. “It hasn’t failed yet.”

  Sylvia never forgot the boys they left behind that day, or the other lost and abandoned children, or the nuns who watched over them. As the Great Depression wore on, whenever she felt sorry for herself, frustrated by made-over hand-me-down clothes, disappointed by the lack of treats and pleasures that had filled her early years with delight, she swallowed her complaints and forced herself to imagine how much worse off she could have it, if not for the family who loved her, if not for the farm.

  Years later, after the nation climbed back on to its feet and their wealthy customers returned as her father had always promised they would, still she kept her New Year’s resolution. Every winter she made several quilts for the Children’s Home; every year her father drove her to deliver them and to check in on the boys. One year they arrived to find a different nun running the orphanage, for her predecessor had died. Another time they learned that the younger brother showed great aptitude for carpentry and had been apprenticed to a local craftsman; a year later, they discovered that the older boy had run off to join the army.

  Long after she left Elm Creek Manor, when it became a more practical matter to send checks rather than quilts, Sylvia continued to think of the brothers and wonder what had become of them. On New Year’s Eve, when she brought out her UFOs and made at least one useful thing to give to someone in need, she imagined them healthy and happy, with families of their own and all the joys of home that had been denied them as children.

  AFTER ARUNA had taken Sylvia and Andrew through the entire house, the newlyweds thanked her and departed. Sylvia took Andrew’s arm as they strolled through Central Park, lifting her face to the gray sky as snowflakes danced lightly against her eyelashes. This year, the New Year’s Reflections quilt would become the one useful thing she made for someone else. Had she known, somehow, that she was not making the quilt for herself when she had cut the first pieces? Had she sewn the Four-Patch, Pinwheel, and Bright Hopes into the centers of the Mother’s Favorite blocks as a reminder of her childhood resolution? Sylvia still believed Great-Aunt Lucinda’s plainspoken truth that one should do whatever one could to bring comfort and hope to others in need, even if, as Claudia had bluntly pointed out, one person’s efforts would not be enough to set everything to rights. The New Year was the perfect time to look outward as well as inward, for resolutions did not have to be about self-improvement alone. They could very well reflect a wish to make the world a better place—even if in small ways, even if for only one person.