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

interest.
    “That’s what I don’t understand.” He studied me with sullen belligerence. “I thought this here’s the L. place.”
    I had not heard the name of Mr. L. in so long that the remark caught me off guard. “Indeed, Elm Creek Farm did once belong to Mr. L.,” stammered I, “but it has since passed to my family.”
    “Passed how?”
    I was suddenly conscious of Hans’s absence. “Quite legally, I assure you. My brother has the deed, if you require proof.”
    “I’m only askin’ because . . .” He shrugged. “L. still has friends in these parts. They might not like it if they thought you ’uns took his farm out from under him.”
    “Certainly not,” said I primly. “Though I must say, they must not be especially good friends if they have not missed Mr. L. before now. If there’s nothing else—” I made as if to retrieve the large crate myself.
    “I’ll get it,” grumbled he, setting the reins aside and climbing down from his seat. With great effort, he lifted the crate from the wagon, but rather than carry it into the cabin, he left it on the ground beside the front door. I paid him and gave him my thanks, but without another word, he drove away, casting one sullen backward glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the forest.
    Anneke immediately joined me outside. “What did he want?”
    “Only to deliver this,” said I lightly, not wishing to worry her, and then excitement drove the surly man from my thoughts, forupon examining the crate, I discovered it had been sent from Baden-Baden. Anneke ran off to tell Hans, and they quickly returned, Hans bearing his tools. He brought the crate indoors and pried off the lid, and Anneke cried out with delight, for inside, tightly packed, were bolts of fabric—velvets and wools, even silks—as fine as anything I had ever seen in Father’s warehouse.
    There were letters, too, for all of us. Mother’s to Anneke welcomed her into the family and informed her the fabrics were a wedding gift. Father’s to Hans congratulated him on taking a bride and expressed hopes that Hans would be able to obtain a good price for the fabrics. Father’s letter to me cautioned me to be sure my younger brother invested the profits into Elm Creek Farm rather than squandering them unwisely. Mother’s to me was full of news of home; she provided the latest gossip on all of my acquaintances, except, of course, for E., who became the more conspicuous for his absence.
    Our siblings had written as well, and as I hungrily read their letters, Anneke knelt on the floor and withdrew the fabrics from the crate, delighting anew with each bolt. Suddenly she looked up at me, stricken. “Oh, my dear Gerda. I’m so sorry.”
    “Whatever for?”
    “Your parents sent me all these nice things, but they sent you nothing.”
    I indicated the pages in my hands. “They sent me letters.”
    “Yes, of course, but . . .” She hesitated. “Don’t you feel slighted?”
    Until that moment, I had not. “Of course not,” said I, thinking a crate so large surely could have accommodated a small book or two.
    Anneke forced a smile. “Likely when you marry, they will send an even finer gift.”
    Hans guffawed. “Likely they will, once they recover from their shock.”
    I poked Hans in the ribs as if we were children again and laughed with him, but Anneke merely shook her head at us, astounded and scandalized that we would treat my spinsterhood with such an inappropriate lack of shame.
    “This is really a gift to us all,” added Hans, in a nod to Anneke’s concern for my feelings. “With what we can earn from the fabric, I can buy another two horses, and next spring, I can build us a real house.”
    Anneke rewarded him with a smile, but she ran her hand lovingly over each bolt as she returned it to the crate, and I could not help thinking that she would prefer to keep the fabric for herself, to create clothing for the townsfolk of Creek’s Crossing in a shop of her own and