Elm Creek Quilts [04] The Runaway Quilt by Jennifer Chiaverini

forgotten her original scheme to open a seamstress shop, and I believe she envied me my mercantile success, modest though it was. When we were in town together, I spied her gazing wistfully at the rows of storefronts; once she remarked in an offhand manner that extra income would permit Hans to obtain more horses without hurting our efforts to economize. Silently I agreed that any money Anneke might earn would not go to waste in our household, but I did not see how she could afford to bring in outside sewing when we had so much work to do already. As for opening a shop, Hans had neither the capital nor, I fear, the inclination to help his wife find employment outside the home. He never said so aloud, but I suspect he wanted every cent of his dream to be funded by his own efforts. My earnings were acceptable, since I was a spinster sister and ought to contribute to my keep. It was another matter entirely to send his own wife out to work.
    Jonathan and I discussed this, and he agreed that I would not be interfering too much if I tried, discreetly, to encourage my brother to put Anneke’s wishes ahead of his pride. Sometimes I would bring to Hans’s attention the other women of Creek’s Crossing who helped support their households:
    “Mrs. Barrows runs the inn on First Street,” said I.
    “Only because Mr. Barrows is a shiftless lout.”
    And another day: “I hear Miss Thatcher and Miss Bauer run the school exceptionally well.”
    “As soon as they get married, they’ll have their own children to look after.”
    And yet another occasion: “Mrs. Engle may expand her dress-making shop, or so I hear.”
    Too late I realized Mrs. Engle was the worst possible exampleI could have mentioned. Not only did Hans remark that it was a shame that Mr. Engle had died without leaving her better off, because a widow with three young children and a grown son should not have to work so hard, but he also pointed out that a town the size of Creek’s Crossing hardly needed yet another seamstress, now, did it, and wasn’t it fortunate that Anneke would not feel obligated to provide that service to the community?
    How fortunate, indeed.
    “Anneke should just tell Hans she wants to open her shop,” Jonathan told me.
    But that was not Anneke’s way. She demonstrated exceptional talent in subtle remarks and sidelong glances that conveyed deeper meaning than the words themselves contained, tools she used to bring Hans around to her way of thinking more successfully in other matters. I, as ungraceful in speech as I was in dancing and sewing and all other pursuits feminine (save cookery, in which I excelled), was the one for straightforward, blunt statements. But as I told Jonathan, Hans was as stubborn as his sister, and if he did not wish his wife to work in town, she would not.
    They had been married not even a year, and already this pattern, which was to last throughout their married life, was well established. Watching them, I wondered what sort of husband E. would have been to me. Would he have expected me to submit to him in everything, obey him in everything? I could not have borne that yoke, not even for love. This was what I told myself when I remembered E., and when I saw how happy Anneke and Hans were together, and Dorothea and Thomas.
    In the middle of harvesttime, an unfamiliar wagon came to Elm Creek Farm. I recognized the driver, a slight, sour-faced man with greasy blond hair and tobacco-stained teeth who worked odd jobs on the waterfront. Hans was in the fields, and the mistress of the house, embarrassed by her poor English, hid inside as always, so I greeted him.
    He looked me over suspiciously before speaking. “This the Bergstrom farm?”
    I assured him it was. “Do you have a delivery for us?”
    “I’m supposed to give this to the Bergstroms at Elm Creek Farm.”
    “I am Gerda Bergstrom, and this is Elm Creek Farm,” said I, with some impatience, because the large wooden crate in the wagon behind him had captured my