The Wedding Quilt Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Acknowledgements

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY JENNIFER CHIAVERINI

  ALSO BY JENNIFER CHIAVERINI

  The Union Quilters

  The Aloha Quilt

  A Quilter’s Holiday

  The Lost Quilter

  The Quilter’s Kitchen

  The Winding Ways Quilt

  The New Year’s Quilt

  The Quilter’s Homecoming

  Circle of Quilters

  The Christmas Quilt

  The Sugar Camp Quilt

  The Master Quilter

  The Quilter’s Legacy

  The Runaway Quilt

  The Cross-Country Quilters

  Round Robin

  The Quilter’s Apprentice

  • Elm Creek Quilts •

  Quilt Projects Inspired by the Elm Creek Quilt Novels

  • Return to Elm Creek •

  More Quilt Projects Inspired by the Elm Creek Quilt Novels

  • More Elm Creek Quilts •

  Inspired by the Elm Creek Quilt Novels

  • Sylvia’s Bridal Sampler from Elm Creek Quilts •

  Traditions from Elm Creek Quilts

  DUTTON

  Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First printing, November 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Jennifer Chiaverini All rights reserved

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  ISBN : 978-1-101-54808-0

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  In loving memory of my grandmother,

  Virginia Kraemer Riechman

  Mr. and Mrs. Matthew McClure

  request the honor of your presence

  at the marriage of their daughter

  Caroline Sylvia

  to

  Leonardo Joseph Fiore

  son of Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Fiore

  Saturday, the twenty-third of September

  Two thousand twenty-eight

  At three o’clock in the afternoon

  Elm Creek Manor

  Waterford, Pennsylvania

  Chapter One

  The tinkling of silverware on china and the murmur of conversation filled the elegant theater of Union Hall, where Sarah sat on the stage at the head table, discreetly reviewing her speech on the computer pad resting on her lap. More than one hundred members of the Waterford Historical Society and their guests had gathered to enjoy a delicious luncheon of cranberry-stuffed chicken breast, sautéed green and wax beans, and whipped butternut squash to celebrate the dedication of the Agnes Bergstrom Emberly Quilt Gallery. The food smelled wonderful, but Sarah had taken only a few bites. She had been invited to deliver the keynote address for the event, and even though she had given hundreds of speeches and lectures throughout her career as an Elm Creek Quilter, her appetite still fled before each and every engagement.

  “You should eat something,” said James quietly, seated at her right. He smiled encouragingly, and she had to smile back. He was such a handsome young man. He’d had his hair cut earlier that day in preparation for the wedding, his reddish-brown locks trimmed so short that they nearly stood straight up. Out of respect for the occasion he wore a blazer over his plain white T-shirt, which hugged his slender but muscular frame, and his indigo blue jeans were rolled into wide cuffs at the ankle. He and his friends seemed to believe they had invented the style and met their elders’ comparisons to the fashions of the 1950s with bemused, indulgent silence.

  “I’ll ask them to wrap mine to go,” said Sarah. “Maybe I can nibble some dessert while I’m signing books.”

  “I wouldn’t count on it. I doubt you’ll have time to set down your pen.”

  Considering the number of guests in attendance, she had to admit he had a point. She let her gaze travel from table to table, and occasionally someone looked up to the stage, caught her eye, and smiled. Tickets for the event had sold out within a week, delighting the president of the Waterford Historical Society, and the booksellers were doing a brisk business at the table between the theater doors. From the moment Sarah had arrived, people had been coming up to introduce themselves, sometimes sharing their memories of Agnes or of Elm Creek Quilt Camp, sometimes thanking her profusely for acquiring so many invaluable, irreplaceable quilts for the society’s collection, now proudly on display in the upstairs gallery named for her old friend. So why, even though she knew her audience was friendly and receptive, did Sarah feel so nervous?

  “You’ll be fine once you get started,” James reassured her, reading her mind. “You always are. But you’ll feel better if you have something to eat.”

  “Yes, sir,” she told him wanly, picking up her fork and sampling the roast chicken. The cranberry stuffing gave it a savory, tangy flavor, and under different circumstances she would have cleaned the plate and requested the recipe for Anna Del Maso, the chef at Elm Creek Manor. She took another bite and glanced down the table just in time to see the president of the Waterford Historical Society check her watch and push back her chair. It was time. Her mouth suddenly dry, Sarah washed down the chicken with a gulp of water. James touched her on the back as he rose and went to confer briefly with the president. Conversation faded as he took the podium—without a pad or notes of any kind, Sarah noted with rueful admiration—and adjusted the microphone.

  “Goo
d afternoon,” he greeted them, his voice confident and cheerful. “Thank you for joining us today as we dedicate Union Hall’s newest permanent exhibit, the Agnes Bergstrom Emberly Quilt Gallery.” A smattering of applause went up from his listeners. “Some of you had the pleasure of knowing Agnes during her many years as an active member of the Waterford Historical Society, including a two-year stint as president, a post she assumed soon after she launched the campaign to save this very building. Although Mrs. Emberly was not born in the Elm Creek Valley, as a longtime resident, she cared deeply about the history of our community and was equally passionate about preserving and documenting historically significant but long-forgotten quilts discovered in storage rooms, attics, and boxes underneath beds. It was she who founded the Waterford Historical Society’s extensive collection of quilts, a mission that she passed on to our keynote speaker.” He spared a proud smile for Sarah. “Although I was just a kid when I knew Mrs. Emberly, I know she would be very pleased with how the collection has grown under Sarah McClure’s stewardship.”

  Sarah felt herself flush with pride as applause rang out again, but then her heart thumped and she checked her pad to be sure she had not accidentally deleted her speech.

  “I’m sure Sarah McClure is well-known to all of you as the president and founder of Elm Creek Quilts,” James continued, “the world’s most respected and renowned quilters’ retreat. There she introduced countless thousands of aspiring quilters to the art, and inspired innumerable experienced quilters to more fully develop their creative gifts. Her contributions to the study of quilts and other textiles, including her three-volume series on the history of quilting from the medieval era through the early twenty-first century, have rightly earned her awards and accolades. Her latest book, The Quilts of Pennsylvania, is the most thoroughly researched and detailed state quilt documentation project ever undertaken, ten years in the making and well worth the wait. And I’m not saying that just because my name appears in the acknowledgments.”

  A ripple of laughter went up from the audience.

  “This afternoon our speaker will tell you more about Agnes Bergstrom Emberly, whom she was proud to call a friend and colleague, and in whose memory the Waterford Historical Society has dedicated their newly refurbished east gallery. When, afterward, you view this magnificent collection of antique quilts, displayed for the first time in its entirety, I hope you’ll keep in mind that the collection would not exist if not for the foresight of Mrs. Emberly and the wisdom, tenacity, and generosity of our speaker. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great privilege to introduce to you my mother, Sarah Mallory McClure.”

  Sarah smiled as she rose and took the podium to thunderous applause.

  “You paused after saying ‘my mother’ for dramatic effect,” she teased James afterward, as they strolled through the gallery admiring the collection. “You always do.”

  “I had to,” said James, feigning innocence. “But not for dramatic effect. Their reaction would have drowned out your name. One hundred sixty people simultaneously saying ‘Awww’ can get kind of loud.”

  “One hundred sixty?”

  James nodded. “I counted.”

  “You always remember.” No wonder her hand was sore. She had signed books for nearly an hour after her speech, about half of them pen upon paper, the other half stylus to pad. A traditionalist where books were concerned, she preferred the look and smell and feel of paper, but she appreciated the convenience and frugality of electronic books, as well as the ability to enlarge the quilt photos so that every exquisite detail could be seen and admired.

  Sarah paused in front of one of her favorite quilts, an Album quilt fashioned from green, Prussian blue, and Turkey red calicoes, the muslin center of each block signed by authors and politicians from the mid-nineteenth century. The ink had faded away long ago and, in some places, had deteriorated the muslin fabric, but the black embroidery over each signature remained. From her research for The Quilts of Pennsylvania, Sarah knew that in 1860, local women had sewn and raffled off the quilt to raise money to build the first library in the Elm Creek Valley, and that it had been displayed on the wall behind the circulation desk until the 1950s, when a new, larger, modern library was built a few blocks away. The quilt had been one of the first Agnes had acquired for the collection, a gift from University Realty, a local real estate rental and development company that had somehow obtained it when the original library was razed. At the time, Agnes and Sarah had privately agreed that the new CEO had donated the quilt not out of any particular love for quilts or local history, but to atone for the irresponsible behavior of their most notorious associate. “However they acquired it, and whatever public relations benefits they may gain from the donation, what matters most is that the quilt now belongs to the Waterford Historical Society,” Agnes had declared as she prepared the quilt for preservation. “We’ll care for it properly and ensure that it will be here to educate and inspire for many years to come.”

  The Waterford Historical Society had kept their promise, and Sarah had helped. Her first book, published by the Pennsylvania State University Press, was a study of the Authors’ Album and included detailed biographies of each person who had signed the quilt, some of whom had long since slipped into obscurity. It was required reading for all eighth graders in the Elm Creek Valley School District, and teachers often brought their classes on field trips to Union Hall to see the quilt. Now students, teachers, parents, and citizens alike would be able to view the historic treasure at any time of year without needing to make arrangements for the quilt to be retrieved from protective storage.

  Since then, Album quilts had held a particular fascination for Sarah. “I’m planning an Album quilt for your sister,” she confided to James as they strolled on. “I’ve already pieced dozens of Memory Album blocks, and at the reception, I’ll collect signatures from the guests.”

  “That’s a great idea,” said James, stopping short in front of another quilt. “But don’t you think Caroline would prefer something like this instead?”

  Sarah looked to see which quilt he meant and had to laugh. The quilt James indicated was another of her favorites, but it was very different from the Authors’ Album. The intricate designs of the sixteen large blocks always reminded Sarah of the traditional Baltimore Album quilts popular in the first half of the nineteenth century, with appliquéd pieces creating still-life portraits in fabric—a basket of garden vegetables, a red banked barn, a farmhouse, a school, a ring of maple leaves and seeds, a wooden bucket half encircled by flowers, branches of elm leaves framing four lines of embroidered words, a book, and other tableaus. The most unusual block depicted what looked to be a large black kettle hanging above an open fire from a pole suspended between two bare-limbed trees. But whereas most Baltimore Albums offered flat, stylized images of elegant subjects—floral bouquets, nesting birds, wreaths, beribboned baskets, urns of greenery—this quilt depicted more ordinary, homey things, and the buildings, especially, used perspective to create more realistic portraits of daily life in the Elm Creek Valley.

  “It’s a beautiful quilt,” Sarah said, tucking her hand into the crook of her son’s arm as they walked on, “but it’s not Caroline’s style, and you know it. It’s far too fancy and flowery for her taste.”

  “And you’d never be able to finish something like this in time.”

  “That too,” Sarah confessed with a smile. “But the Memory Album quilt will be a perfect wedding quilt, don’t you think? Their friends and family will write personal messages to the bride and groom, and when the blocks are sewn together and the quilt is complete, it’ll be a wonderful memento of their wedding day.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” James hastened to assure her. “I was just teasing about the Creek’s Crossing Album. It’s a masterpiece, but it doesn’t suit Caroline and Leo.”

  “In a way it does,” Sarah mused. “It was a wedding gift. In the days when this quilt was made, in the mid-nineteenth century, girls would learn to sew by piecing quil
ts as a part of their domestic training. In this region, a properly brought up young woman was expected to complete twelve quilt tops by the time she reached marriageable age. The thirteenth quilt was meant to be her masterpiece, a beautiful, tangible sign that she had learned all the womanly arts of needlework she would need as a wife and mother. When the young woman became engaged, all the bride-to-be’s female friends and family would gather for a quilting bee, where the thirteen pieced and appliquéd tops would be quilted and everyone would celebrate the engagement.”

  “I remember,” said James. “I read about the custom in Gerda Bergstrom’s memoir. But this quilt top was made by one woman and given to another, so it didn’t follow tradition perfectly.”

  “That’s true.” Thinking of that lucky bride from long ago made her yearn to see the bride-to-be she loved and missed dearly. “Do you think we can duck out of here discreetly? I want to be home to welcome Caroline and Leo when they arrive.”

  “It’s not like they’ll be showing up at an empty house. Dad and Grandma will be there, not to mention at least a few Elm Creek Quilters.”

  “I know, but I want to be there too.”

  James admitted that he didn’t want to miss his twin sister’s homecoming, either, but he suggested that rather than sneak away, they bid the president of the historical society a proper good-bye and explain that they were needed at home.

  Soon they were on their way, James at the wheel of the Elm Creek Quilts shuttle, which hummed along almost noiselessly as they traveled south along the highway from downtown Waterford. After a time, James turned onto the narrow private road that wound through the leafy wood encircling the Bergstrom estate, and Sarah was struck by a sudden memory of the first time she had taken that route, riding along in Matt’s red pickup truck as he tried to find the home of the reclusive woman who had hired him to restore the overgrown gardens. She remembered clutching her seat as the truck bounded jerkily up a gradual incline rife with potholes, hoping fervently that no one was approaching them from the opposite direction. She had doubted that both cars could stay on the narrow road without one of them scraping a side on a tree. Suddenly the leafy wood had given way to a clearing, and the road, which had become little more than two dirt trails an axle’s width apart surrounded by overgrown grass, had climbed and curved around a two-story red barn built into the side of a hill. Just beyond the barn, the path crossed a low bridge over a burbling creek and then widened into a gravel road lined with towering elms. Then the manor came into view at last, and Sarah, who had been expecting a quaint cottage, could only stare in heartfelt admiration.