The New Year's Quilt (Elm Creek Quilts Novels) Page 7

  “It was an order, not a suggestion, and you can ask him to be more specific on his next visit.” Sylvia’s father tucked the bedcovers around his wife, but she impatiently flung them off again. “Until then, we’re going to assume that ‘bed rest’ means ‘rest in bed.’ ”

  “I’ll come back straight away if I feel so much as a twinge of pain.”

  “By then it might be too late. Think of all those stairs. Darling, think of the baby.”

  Sylvia recognized that tone in her father’s voice and knew her mother had lost the argument before it began. Sylvia’s mother must have sensed that, too, but she persisted until she had persuaded her husband to allow her more visits with the children. Delighted, the sisters agreed to all of their great-aunts’ conditions: no arguing, no loud voices, no bad news, and no complaints. They could read to their mother, or sew, or tell amusing stories, or take her meals on trays. They could not stay too long, only one of them could visit at a time so they did not overtire her, and under no circumstances were they to ask her to get out of bed and play.

  Every morning the girls raced downstairs to the kitchen so they could be the first to offer to take Mama her breakfast, knowing she would let them linger until it was time to go to school. Sylvia usually reached the kitchen a few steps ahead of her sister, but Claudia would remind everyone that she was the eldest and more responsible, Sylvia more prone to knocking over her milk at the table and running in the halls. Sylvia protested, but most mornings she sat down glumly to her own breakfast at the kitchen table while her sister glided off bearing the tray without so much as rattling a single dish. Sylvia longed for her to trip on a loose floorboard and send teacup and oatmeal flying through the air, but old Great-Grandfather Hans had built the house too well for that.

  Sometimes after school, Sylvia was allowed to take the mail up to her mother and stay to read aloud from one of her schoolbooks or talk about her day. On the last day before school holidays began, Sylvia raced upstairs with an envelope bearing a New York postmark. It could only be from Grandmother Lockwood, her mother’s mother. Grandfather Lockwood had died before Sylvia was born, but he had been a very successful businessman and had founded the most prestigious department store on Fifth Avenue. None of the Lockwoods had ever visited Elm Creek Manor and the Bergstroms never went to New York, except when Father or one of the uncles traveled on business, so the Bergstrom girls had never met anyone from their mother’s side of the family. It was probably too far to travel, Sylvia speculated, or Mama was too tired or Grandmother Lockwood too old.

  Sylvia was certain the letter would lift her mother’s spirits, but instead of tearing open the envelope, her mother turned it over in her hands, felt its thickness, and traced the postmark with a fingertip.

  “Aren’t you going to read it?” Sylvia asked.

  “Not now.” Mama smiled briefly and set the letter on the nightstand. “Later. I’d rather hear about your day. How was school? Did you learn anything interesting? Did anyone do anything that made you laugh?”

  Sylvia sat down on the edge of the bed and happily told her nearly every detail of all that she had done and seen since leaving the house that morning. A few days later, when she saw the envelope tucked into a book at her mother’s bedside, she wondered what news Grandmother Lockwood had sent from New York. Probably nothing terribly interesting, she decided, or her mother would have mentioned it. Grandmother Lockwood didn’t work or quilt, and although she used to go to lots of parties when Grandfather Lockwood was alive, as far as Sylvia could discern from the few details Mama had shared through the years, all that concerned her these days was the weather and her health. She no longer lived in the house where Sylvia’s mother had grown up, so she wouldn’t have any gossip about neighbors and old friends to pass along, either. Still, it was a letter from family, so it must have been a welcome distraction from boring bed rest. Sylvia couldn’t wait until the baby came and everything could return to normal.

  Christmas approached. Great-Aunt Lydia and Grandma made the famous Bergstrom apple strudel as gifts for the neighbors, and Great-Aunt Lucinda kept the Santa Claus cookie jar filled with her delicious German cookies—Lebkuchen, Anisplätzchen, and Zimtsterne. Sylvia ached to see her mother among the other women of the family in the warm, fragrant kitchen, kneading strudel dough, peeling apples, laughing, gossiping, and reminiscing about holidays past. The conversations were more subdued that year, the laughter less frequent, as if no one felt like celebrating without Mama in the room. She was the gentle, loving center of every family gathering, and even though she was only upstairs, her absence was sorely felt.

  On Christmas morning, Sylvia left Claudia in the ballroom marveling at the presents Santa had left beneath the tree and stole away to the kitchen. Great-Aunt Lucinda glanced through the doorway as if expecting Claudia to follow close behind, and when she didn’t, Great-Aunt Lucinda asked Sylvia in a conspiratorial whisper if she wanted to carry Mama’s breakfast up to her. Sylvia agreed with a quick nod, afraid that Claudia would overhear and come running to snatch the tray from her hands.

  Cautiously she made her way upstairs to her mother’s bedroom, torn between determination not to drop a single crumb and worry that if she did not move quickly enough, the tea would cool before she reached the top of the stairs. To her relief, the teacup was still hot to the touch when she reached her mother’s bedroom. She took a deep breath and nudged the door open with her foot.

  “Breakfast time, Mama,” said Sylvia as cheerfully as she could, taken aback by the sight of her mother lying still and pale against the pillows. Was this how she looked every morning upon waking? Had she slept at all?

  As her mother smiled and sat up awkwardly, Sylvia set the tray on the nightstand and hurried to assist her. “It’s apple strudel and tea,” she said, although her mother could surely see that for herself. To cover her embarrassment, Sylvia smiled, tucked the quilt around her mother, and placed the tray on her lap.

  “It wouldn’t feel like Christmas morning without the famous Bergstrom apple strudel.” Mama took a small bite and closed her eyes, savoring the spicy sweetness and the delicate pastry. “Delicious.”

  “I helped peel the apples.”

  “I thought so. They seem especially well peeled this year.” Mama smiled and patted the bed beside her. “Would you mind keeping me company for a while?”

  Sylvia wasn’t sure that Father would approve, but she nodded and climbed into bed, careful not to jostle the tray. She snuggled close and rested her hand on her mama’s tummy, waiting for the baby to respond. When an especially strong kick pushed Sylvia’s hand away, Mama laughed. “I think he knows his big sister is waiting for him to come out and play.”

  “Do you really think it’s a boy?” asked Sylvia. “Claudia wants another sister.” A better sister, Claudia had implied.

  “I think so, but we won’t know until the day comes.” Her mother grimaced and rubbed her lower back. “Which I hope will be soon.”

  “Not too soon,” said Sylvia, thinking of how often she saw her father bent over his calendar in the library, counting and recounting the weeks as if his diligence could keep the baby from coming.

  “No, not too soon,” her mother agreed. She finished her breakfast and asked Sylvia to take the tray away so she could lie down again. Sylvia returned the tray to the nightstand and climbed back into bed beside her mother.

  Her mother stroked her hair gently. “I’ve missed you, darling. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to play with you.”

  “That’s all right,” said Sylvia. “I understand.”

  “After the baby comes, I’ll be as right as rain again. You’ll see.”

  Sylvia nodded and hugged her. She wanted to believe it, but the house was so full of apprehension that some days she thought the windows might shatter and the darkness stream from the house like billowing black smoke.

  “Everything will be fine, darling,” her mother said. “Don’t worry.”

  “I can’t help it,” Sylvia blurted.
“Everyone says not to upset you and I’m trying, I’m really trying, but what if it’s already too late? What if the bad luck is already hurting the baby? You touched the quilt, and maybe that’s all it takes.”

  She regretted the words the moment they passed her lips, but to her surprise, her mother let out a gentle laugh. “Oh, Sylvia, is that what’s troubling you? That silly superstition?”

  That wasn’t it. At least, that wasn’t everything, but she couldn’t bring herself to query her mother about the doctor’s visits and Father’s constant anxious frowns and the adults’ hushed conversations when they did not know children were listening. Sylvia could not give voice to those other fears, so she nodded. Everything would be so much better if only the quilt worried her.

  “I promise you that the quilt is not bad luck,” her mother said firmly. “How could anything made with so much love bring the baby anything but comfort and happiness?”

  “Grandma says the pattern—”

  “I know what Grandma says. I’ve heard the old wives’ tales. Have you? Have you really listened to what the folklore says about that pattern?”

  “It says—” Sylvia hesitated, trying to remember Grandma’s exact words, certain it was a trick question. “If you give a boy a Wandering Foot quilt, he’ll be too restless to stay in one place. He’ll roam the world, never settling down.”

  “That’s what it says,” her mother confirmed. “And although I don’t believe the superstition, not for a moment, if that’s our little baby’s fate, I don’t think that’s so terrible.”

  Sylvia propped herself up on her elbows. “You don’t?”

  “Not at all. What’s wrong with a little wanderlust? I like to think that your little brother or sister might have adventures, see the world, and visit all the places I’ve only read about in books.” Her mother reached up and stroked her cheek. “You see, darling, I was always too ill to travel when I was a little girl. My parents took my older sister with them when they went abroad, but I stayed at home in New York with my nanny. Until I married your father and came to Elm Creek Manor, the most exotic place I had ever visited was our summer house.”

  “That’s not fair. If you couldn’t go, they all should have stayed home.”

  “I admit there were times when I was jealous of my sister, but as I grew older, I resolved to be happy for her. I decided it wouldn’t be fair to deny her travel and fun just because I was too fragile to do anything—or so everyone thought.” A brief frown clouded her features. “Everyone but my nanny. Now that my sister is gone, I’m grateful that she had so many wonderful experiences when she was young.”

  Sylvia had to admit that it didn’t sound so bad to wander the world and have adventures, not the way her mother put it, but one nagging worry remained. “But what about that part that says he’ll never be happy to stay in one place?” she asked. “Doesn’t that mean that he won’t want to stay here at Elm Creek Manor with the rest of the family? What if he goes far away and we’ll never see him again, just like Elizabeth?”

  “We don’t know that we’ll never see Elizabeth again,” her mother corrected. “It’s a long way to travel, but I’m sure she and Henry will make the journey someday.”

  Sylvia would be perfectly content if Henry decided to stay behind in California. “But what about the baby?” she persisted. “Either he’ll leave Elm Creek Manor, or he’ll stay here but be unhappy.”

  “Well…” Mama took a deep breath, sighed, and fell silent for a moment. “Well, babies can’t go anywhere on their own, so we have years before that will be a concern. Even after that, perhaps he’ll travel a lot, but always come home to the family.” She gave herself a little shake. “Why are we even going on like this? It’s a silly superstition, nothing we need to fear, and it isn’t right to be so gloomy on Christmas morning. The New Year is going to bring us a new baby, and that’s cause for joy, not worry.”

  She tickled Sylvia under her chin until Sylvia giggled, and she resolved, as her mother had so many years ago, to be happy for her little sibling, to think only of the good the superstition might visit upon the family, and not worry about dire predictions that probably would not come to pass. The very idea that any Bergstrom would not be happy at Elm Creek Manor was laughable. Perhaps her little brother would see the world, but surely he would always come home to them. The lucky colors she had stitched into the quilt would see to that.

  That quiet Christmas passed and the New Year drew closer. When Mama’s condition did not worsen, warm rays of hope began to illuminate the manor. When the subject of New Year’s Eve came up around the dinner table, Great-Aunt Lucinda remarked that it would be a shame not to welcome in a year that was sure to be brighter than the one before, a year that was certain to bring the family much happiness. To Sylvia’s delight, her father and the other adults of the family agreed.

  A Sylvester Ball was out of the question, of course; the family had not celebrated with Bleigiessen since the New Year’s Eve the leaden shapes foretold Claudia’s heartbreak and Mama’s death. Even though the predictions had not come true, no one could laugh at how they had been frightened and misled. By unspoken agreement, the family had decided not to peer into the future in that way again. The consequences of what they might discover could not be reduced to the triviality of a party game.

  Finally they settled for a quiet family observance at home, with a supper of pork crown roast with apples, creamed potatoes with peas, and sauerkraut. Father would make his Feuerzangenbowle punch for the adults, Great-Aunt Lucinda would make Pfannkuchen for everyone, and the girls would be allowed to stay up until midnight to welcome the New Year with noisemakers and apple cider toasts.

  Sylvia was so pleased by the idea of a family party that she eagerly offered to help prepare the meal. “She only wants to dip her fingers in the jelly when Great-Aunt Lucinda isn’t looking,” said Claudia, which made the aunts laugh and Sylvia smolder. Grandma must have believed that Sylvia’s offer was sincere, however, for she tutted sympathetically and said that Sylvia could be her special helper.

  As they went down to the cellar to retrieve a crock of sauerkraut Great-Aunt Lucinda had made the summer before, Grandma reminded her that the family recipe had been handed down through the years from Gerda Bergstrom, Grandpa’s aunt and the finest cook in the Bergstrom family. “I didn’t take to the dish at first,” she confessed, her voice echoing off the cool, dark walls of the cellar. “The flavor was so sharp and pungent I thought Aunt Gerda had served it to me as a prank. I had to force myself to choke it down, but what else could I do? I was a new bride and I wanted to make a good impression.”

  “Didn’t your mother make sauerkraut?”

  “No, but we had our own traditional dishes that might have caught the Bergstrom family by surprise.” She smiled to herself and added, “I’d love to see what Lucinda would do if I set a plate of haggis before her.”

  Sylvia didn’t like the sound of any dish that Great-Aunt Lucinda might refuse. “But didn’t you eat pork and sauerkraut for the New Year?” Grandma fussed about good luck and bad more than anyone Sylvia knew. It was difficult to imagine that she would knowingly pass up an easy way to bring good luck to the household.

  “That’s a German tradition. My mother was a Scotswoman, which means that you’re part Scot, too.” Grandma gestured for Sylvia to help her lift the crock from its low shelf. “My father was Welsh, so you have some of that, as well. You’re part English, from your mother’s people, and there’s a little Swedish on your great-grandfather’s side. You’re quite a little American mix, aren’t you? It’s a wonder you’re not constantly at war with yourself.”

  Sylvia had never really thought about it. She was a part of the Bergstrom family, and that was all that mattered.

  They carried the crock upstairs to the kitchen. There Grandma instructed Sylvia to put on her apron and help her peel potatoes. Grandma looked thoughtful as she took a potato from the burlap sack on the floor and inspected it for bad spots. “My mother called the celebra
tion of the New Year ‘Hogmanay,’ ” she said, setting the sharp blade of her paring knife against the dusky potato skin.

  “What does that mean?” asked Sylvia. By the sound of it, it had something to do with pork, lots of it.

  Grandma shrugged. “She never said. I’m not sure she knew. She had so many funny words for ordinary things that I never questioned it.” She smiled as she sent potato peelings flying neatly into the trash bin. “I remember we had to clean the house thoroughly before we could give any thought to a celebration. Before midnight on New Year’s Eve, the fireplaces had to be swept clean and the ashes carried outside. All debts had to be paid, too. Sometimes my mother would send one of my brothers running to a neighbor’s house after supper with a coin or two to pay off a debt, even though most of our neighbors weren’t Scottish and wouldn’t mind if she waited another day. The purpose was to prepare yourselves and your home to begin the New Year with a fresh, clean slate, with all the problems, mistakes, and strife of the old year forgotten.”

  “I like that idea,” said Sylvia. Her family never seemed to forget any of her mistakes. It would have been nice if a holiday obligated them to try.

  “My parents followed other traditions in their homelands that they didn’t carry with them to America.” Grandma placed a potato in Sylvia’s hands. “You can peel while you listen. That’s a good girl.”

  Sylvia peeled the potato slowly, wary of cutting herself. “What did they do in Scotland that they couldn’t do in Pennsylvania?”

  “It’s not that they couldn’t. I suppose they could have, but some traditions are simply more enjoyable when everyone in the town joins in.” Grandma smiled, remembering. “My mother told me about a tradition called First Footing, which told that the first person who crossed the threshold after the stroke of midnight would determine the luck of the household for the coming year. The year would be especially prosperous if a tall, dark-haired, handsome man was the first to enter the house on the first day of the New Year.”