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

piece quilts from the scraps.
    But I soon forgot Anneke’s thwarted ambitions as the most arduous labor of the harvest set in. By sharing work with Thomas, Jonathan, and other neighbors, Hans soon had our crops in, and they theirs. Elm Creek Farm had provided only enough to see us through the winter, and not a surplus to sell in town, as Hans had hoped, but at least we would not have to rely on the generosity of friends as we had the previous year.
    Creek’s Crossing was an industrious community, so our more experienced neighbors had fared even better than we neophytes on Elm Creek Farm. Everyone seemed content and satisfied, eagerly anticipating the Harvest Dance in mid-November, where, Dorothea said with a gentle smile, the women would wear their finest dresses and bring their tastiest recipes, which they would disparage until one would think they had worn rags and served slop, while the men would exaggerate the yield of their crops and the quality of their livestock until one was convinced the farmers of Creek’s Crossing alone could provide for the entire Commonwealth of Pennsylvania. I, too, looked forward to the Harvest Dance, for Jonathan had danced with me at the previousyear’s celebration, and I was hopeful he would be my partner in even more dances this year.
    Anneke, who was interested in finding me a more lasting partner, offered to make me a dress, in which, she said, I would dazzle the eye of all who saw me.
    Scoffed I, “And after the dance, I’ll wear it to dazzle the eye of the cow and the chickens?”
    “You’ll set it aside for special occasions.” Her gaze went to the crate of fabrics, tucked away in a corner of the cabin until Hans could determine how to best sell them. “There’s a lovely blue silk that will be very becoming to your eyes.”
    I laughed at the thought of scattering chicken feed clad in silk, but when she insisted, I said that if she must make me a dress, let it be a sturdy calico I could wear new to the Harvest Dance, and later as I did my chores. She grew impatient and pointed out that she knew much more about sewing than I did, and if I didn’t want her lecturing me on politics or on the proper pronunciation of English words, I should not attempt to instruct her in dressmaking. Then her eyes took on a steely glint I had never before seen there, and have seen only rarely since. “Let me show you how to best dispose of your parents’ gifts,” said she. “Let me show you what I can do when permitted to follow my own judgment.”
    I knew it was not I she intended to impress. “What will Hans think of you cutting up a bolt of fabric? Won’t he see it as the loss of at least the mane of a horse, or a wall of the new house?”
    “Didn’t your mother’s letter say the fabric was a gift to me?”
    So dumbfounded was I by her unexpected determination that I had no choice but to submit, especially as I suspected she had an underlying purpose. I will also admit that although I knew what obstacles my plainness presented to even the finest seamstress, I found Anneke’s promises that she would make me look handsome dubious but perhaps not entirely outside the realm ofpossibility, because she was, after all, exceptionally talented with a needle.
    One morning, a week before the dance, we rose early and raced through our morning chores so we could get to work on the dress as soon as Hans left to care for the horses. Thus I was standing in my corset as Anneke fit the bodice when a knock sounded on the cabin door.
    “L.?” a gruff voice called from outside. “You there?”
    Wide-eyed, Anneke scurried off to the other room, leaving me in my corset to welcome our visitor. I snatched up my calico work dress and threw it on over the pinned silk bodice, wincing as a pin found flesh. “Good morning,” said I, pulling open the door, breathless.
    Two men with rifles stood before me, one regarding me with his mouth in a grim line, the other taking in the exterior of our altered cabin with