May 18, 1853
My dearest Amasa,
How far away you are, and how unlikely you will receive this letter before the events I recount are long past. Such it always will be, now that you have gone home to Lynchburg to assist your father. I picture you every day at his forge, although I have never seen you thus. In my loneliness, imagination is my worst enemy, for sometimes I also picture myself beside you, bringing water to ease your thirst or wipe your brow. I know this cannot be, that there is no room for me there. But still, the thought will not fly away.
I hope your father improves, though I fear the worst. Daily I pray that he will be delivered from his illness, but I also pray that if death is his deliverance, you will find a way to return to me. I would live in the poorest mountain cabin with you, dear Amasa, even though I know you will never allow it. I would share the humble room over your father’s shop, as well, although I know that this, too, can never be.
I study my Holy Bible each night, looking for a sign for our future. Last night, in James, I found this verse: “God is opposed to the proud but gives grace to the humble.” You are a humble man, yet I wonder if it is not pride that stands in the way of taking me as your bride? I have never asked for more than you can give. Yet too well I understand your desire to care for and protect me as well as Jeremiah does in our family home. Nightly I struggle for patience and the acceptance of God’s will.
I do find solace here. Jeremiah needs me, I know. The man you remember, a man overflowing with wit, piety and affection, has not yet returned to us. He is silent still. Days pass and the only words I hear my brother utter are prayers before meals. His tone is mocking, as if he is daring our Lord to strike him dead, even as he prays outwardly for grace. At night from my room above the stairs I hear him pacing. Sleep is a rare thing indeed for either of us.
Rachel has been dead nearly a year, and the children two weeks longer. I visit their graves and lay fresh flowers on them when I can. Jeremiah never goes to the cemetery, and I have seen him turn his head to avoid gazing in that direction. The fever that took his family still steals the breath from my chest when I think how suddenly they were gone and Jeremiah was left behind. Would that I only knew how to help my brother feel joy again.
But I promised you news, and there is news. We are no longer alone here. You must not tell anyone of this, Amasa, but, of course, I know you will not. So I will confess to you what has transpired.
This evening a storm swept through the valley like few I have seen before. Our sunny day was followed by a sudden rain and hailstones larger than a fist. I had just put supper on the table, but we quickly abandoned it. Jeremiah went out to the barn to be certain all was well with Betty Gray, his plow horse, and her new foal. Lightning shattered the sky and struck the chestnut tree behind the spring house. The sound was something I never hope to hear again.
I was frightened. I can tell you this because you have seen me when lightning flashes and know I am not the bravest of souls. I was terrified for Jeremiah, and I am ashamed to say I was afraid for myself, as well. I ran to the porch to peer into the storm to search for him, hoping he was safe. By then the skies were dark, and the ground looked as it does after the first snow of winter. As I watched, the hail began to melt under the relentless pounding of the rain.
I had left a quilt on the porch to air, and as I bundled it into my arms to bring it inside, I thought I saw movement near the house. I peered over the railing, wondering if Jeremiah had not gone to the barn after all. There was nothing to be seen until lightning split the sky once more. Only then did I spy a figure on the ground some feet to the side of our porch. A woman lay there, completely still, water washing around her as it ran off our roof. She lay as if on an island, as the rain made twin creeks around her.
I confess I screamed. No one could hear me, of course. The storm was still raging, and as rain battered the ground, thunder roared at regular intervals. I was afraid to go out in it, but even more afraid to leave her to the storm’s mercy. Inside, I pulled my shawl from its peg, covered my head and ran to help.
By now I know you are wondering why I am taking so long to tell this story. I fear it is because I do not know how. I do not know what to tell and what to leave out. All of it seems immense to me, you see. The woman, the rain, my own fright. The storm was powerful, but what transpired was more so.
When I reached the woman, I knew immediately what I had found. She is darker-skinned than I, Amasa, with soft rippling hair, like that of the enslaved people I have seen on my few trips to Winchester or to the neighboring farms that imprison them. I could see little but this, but I knew what it meant. This was not a neighbor who had lost her way but a woman escaping bondage.
I tried to revive her, but with no success. I tried to lift her in my arms, but again, I could not. The storm had not abated. I feared for both of us. We were fodder for lightning bolts. Perhaps this is what made me strong? I managed to squeeze my arms between hers and lift her high enough to drag her toward the porch.
Jeremiah found us at the bottom of the steps. He knows how storms frighten me, and he had returned as quickly as he could. (As you can see, he is not completely lost to his own sorrow.) He took one look and lifted her in his arms, then carried her up the steps and into the house.
She is tucked safely into my bed tonight, and I sit beside it writing to you by candlelight. She has wakened only once. I told her she was safe and we would not betray her. That seemed to satisfy her. I asked her name, and she whispered, “Dorie. Dorie Beaumont.” Then she fell asleep again.
I close now as my candle flickers and dies. I will write again when there is more to tell. Pray for us, my beloved.
Yours alone,
Sarah Miller
F
or once Elisa didn’t have to jump up the moment she awoke. Monday and Tuesday were the sexton’s days off, and she was ready for a break. The church year had begun in earnest, and children were now coming to
La Casa
for tutoring and enrichment programs, so there was more work to do. She planned to take it easy until it was time for her regular biweekly shift at Shadyside.
In no hurry, she lay in bed and thought about Dorie Beaumont and wondered about the rest of her story. On her past two shifts she had not seen Martha Wisner. Unfortunately, the old woman had contracted pneumonia after what had seemed like a minor cold and spent several days in intensive care at the hospital before being released to a unit at the home that had round-the-clock nursing care.
Elisa had visited during her breaks, but each time Martha had been sleeping soundly. Luckily she was improving and would return to her old room soon, but probably not in time for Elisa’s shift that night. Elisa was sorry both for the woman’s ill health and because she had not been able to finish Dorie’s story. Martha had so enjoyed telling the portion she had recounted before growing sleepy.
Elisa hadn’t told Sam what she had learned. She told herself there was more to come, and there was no point in recounting bits and pieces. But truthfully, she was afraid to tell him. If the house had real historic value, it would come under scrutiny from historians and journalists. She did not want to give interviews about how she had found the hidden room. She wanted to fade into the background, and she did not want to tell Sam why.
Once she swung her feet over the side of the bed, she heard noises downstairs, not the usual noises of Helen making coffee or frying bacon, but conversation. She showered quickly and changed into clean clothes before she descended the stairs. She expected to find one of the Wednesday morning quilters swapping fabric with Helen or using the sway-backed Ping-Pong table in Helen’s basement to lay out a quilt for basting. As far as Elisa could tell, basting was the sole reason Helen had asked Zeke’s father to load the table—a discard from someone’s yard sale—in his pickup to haul it here. Elisa hadn’t had the heart to enforce the “no trash” rule. Besides, the Ping-Pong table was getting plenty of use.
On the first floor she found a family reunion. Nancy had arrived with her husband Billy, a distinguished-looking gray-haired man with a warm smile, and Tessa, who was wearing a loose green sundress. Tessa’s husband Mack arrived just as Elisa was greeting the Whitlocks, and a gray-and-white sheepdog, eyes hidden under long bangs, bounded in behind him and went straight to Elisa to be petted. Four pets into it she knew this dog, too, was a friend.
“A person can hardly breathe around here today,” Helen grumbled. “I take a wrong step and there’ll be somebody or something underfoot.”
“You love every minute of it,” Nancy said, unperturbed. “Besides, most of us are heading out in a minute, and we’re taking Biscuit with us.”
“You just got here,” Helen said, in a transparent about-face. “What’s your hurry?”
“We’re going to clean out the bluebird boxes one last time and winterize them,” Mack told her.
Elisa liked Tessa’s husband, although she’d only spoken to him briefly. Like Sam, he was a man who was rarely still. He had curly dark hair and a tan that proved his hours of practicing law were balanced by time in the sunshine. She liked the way he looked at his wife, too.
“I’m staying here,” Tessa told Helen. “They’re walking farther than I have the energy to go. And besides, I need help on the baby quilt. Will you have time?”
Helen looked as if she was thinking that over, but Elisa could tell she was absolutely delighted.
“I have errands to run this morning,” Elisa said.
“No, you don’t,” Helen said. “You’re just trying to be polite, and you don’t need to be. Am I polite?”
Elisa laughed. “I will be polite and not answer that. If I’m not polite, I might find my clothes in the middle of Fitch Crossing Road.”
“Please stay,” Tessa said. “She won’t criticize my quilting so loudly if there’s someone else in the house.”
“Like that would stop her,” Nancy said.
“You stay and I’ll teach you to quilt today, too,” Helen said, glaring at her daughter, but addressing the words to Elisa. “You said you wanted to learn. Today’s the day.”
“I don’t have fabric or thread,” Elisa said.
“You’ve lived here a couple of weeks already, girl. You’re trying to tell me you haven’t noticed I have plenty of both?”
Elisa knew her fate was sealed. “Maybe Tessa and I can protect each other.”
“Don’t you wish,” Nancy said with a smile. “I’d stay, too, only I probably like hiking more than I like sewing.”
“And you like shopping about a million times more than either,” Helen said. “And getting your hair fixed and your nails done.”
Nancy kissed her on the cheek. “Bye, Mama. You have just the nicest possible morning. We’ll be back when we can’t think of any other reasons to stay away.”
Helen’s struggle not to smile was unsuccessful. “Oh, go on and get out of here. All of you.”
There was a flurry of goodbyes, and a minute later the three women were alone.
“So what kind of problem are you having?” Helen asked Tessa.
“None. I just needed an excuse to stay here. If Mack thought I really wanted to walk the bluebird trail, he would slow down and make me rest every ten minutes.” She made a face. “And it’s still hot enough that he’d be right.”
“Let’s see that quilt.”
“Only if you promise not to criticize.”
“Have you ever known me not to criticize?”
Elisa joined in. “Let’s see, Tessa. I’ll throw my body between you if I have to.”
Tessa reached into a green canvas bag and brought out a rainbow hued patchwork top. “I sewed the last row last night. I think I’m ready to put it together and quilt it.”
Elisa was enchanted. The top was made of small rectangles of many different fabrics sewn into rows. Because of the way Tessa had placed the rectangles, diagonal bands of color waltzed across the top. “Oh, this is just beautiful,” she said. “And so bright. A baby will love this.”
“Do you think so?”
“I think it’s perfect.”
Helen took the top from her granddaughter’s hands and examined it. “Well, I see a few places where the corners don’t quite meet, but I have to say, this is better than I expected. You seem to have the knack. Not that one quilt is much proof of anything.”
Tessa smiled. “Do you think so?”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“What do you think, should I sew a border? Or leave it the way it is and start quilting? Here’s some border fabric I bought, just in case.”
Elisa listened to them discuss the merits of both ideas. Obviously the two generations were on their way to a meeting of the minds, and quilting was going to be a new bond between them.
The two women settled on a border using a solid lavender fabric to tone down the busyness of the prints. Helen suggested a width, and Tessa started upstairs to the sewing room to use Helen’s cutting table.
“Now, your turn,” Helen told Elisa. “No baby in sight, so let’s talk about what you’d like to start with.”
Elisa hadn’t thought that far ahead. Now she realized how futile a large project would be. She owned nothing that wouldn’t fit into a medium-sized backpack and almost nothing to which she had any attachment. “Something to hang on the wall?”
“Do you see quilts hanging on my walls?”
“I…how do you say it here…I travel lightly?”
“Travel light. I forget sometimes you’re not from here. You talk like you are most of the time. Your English is better than mine.”
“Sometimes the idioms trip me up.”
“A sofa quilt, then. Something to keep you warm while you read or watch television. And we’ll use a lightweight batting so it can be folded into a small bundle. What use is a wall hanging? Does the wall need to stay warm?”
Despite herself, Elisa liked the idea of a small but sensible quilt.
“First, though, we need to see if you can sew a straight seam. Can you?”
“I took sewing in school. But that was a long time ago.”
“You get yourself some breakfast, then you come up and see my machines. You can use one of the extras.”
One bowl of cereal later, Elisa was given the sewing machine tour. Helen’s reluctant pride and joy was a state-of-the-art machine made with Swiss precision.
“Nancy and Billy gave me this for Christmas,” Helen said. “Even though I told them it was a waste of money, because I don’t want all these fancy stitches.”
“You’re using them, aren’t you?” Tessa asked. She was bending over the cutting table that stood by the windows looking down over the chicken yard and the pond. “I’ve seen evidence.”
“Well, somebody spends all that money, I guess I have to use them whether I want to or not,” Helen said with a sniff. “But my mama’d be turning over in her grave if she saw the stuff that machine can do. What’s next? I push a button and it picks out the fabric, cuts it and sews it together while I go get my toenails polished?”
“If that happens, we’ll have to buy one for Mom so she can quilt, too,” Tessa said.
Helen’s eyes danced as she turned back to Elisa. “You’ll want to start with something simpler.”
Elisa agreed. She was afraid Helen’s new machine would require a crash course in twenty-first century computer technology before she could even turn it on. She glanced at the two machines set up against the wall, as Helen told her about them, but her eyes shifted to the end of the room.
“Mrs. Henry,” she said, when Helen took a breath. “What’s that one?” She pointed.
“That’s my mama’s machine, made by New Home back in the early 1900s. Every quilt she made, she made on that machine. Never wanted anything different. Never needed anything better. She used that and kept her family warm.”
Elisa wandered over to the machine and ran her fingers over it. The lettering said “Ruby,” although it had faded through the years. There were ornate gold scrollwork designs on the machine and the metal bed. The cabinet looked like cherry. Obviously Helen dusted it regularly, and Elisa bet the machine was oiled and cared for regularly, too. “Do you ever use it?”
“I’m too busy trying to figure out how to use the eight hundred and something stitches mine come with.” She watched Elisa trail her fingers over the machine. “You ever use a treadle?”
“I had a few lessons once.” She paused, proofed her words, then added, “A woman without electricity showed me how to use one. She made clothes and anything else she could to help provide for her family. She taught me a little. Her husband also wove cloth on a treadle loom. I like that rhythm, the back and forth, back and forth…”
“Why don’t you use this one, then? My mama—her name was Delilah—she would have liked nothing better than for someone to use the machine.”
Elisa was sorry she’d made such a point of it. “It’s an heirloom. What if something went wrong?”
“You think something’s going to go wrong now? When nothing did all those years? Besides, it’s better if it gets used, better for the machine and maybe better for my conscience. I’ve had it looked after through the years. I don’t like to have a thing in my house not being used.”
“Nor does she like to throw things away,” Tessa said, from the other side of the room.
“You know, Miss Tessa, you want help with that quilt of yours, you just better plan on being a little nicer.”
Helen left, then returned a few moments later with thread and some fabric scraps. She showed Elisa how to thread the machine, then gave a quick demonstration.
“Place both feet on the treadle. I was taught to put the right one a little ahead of the left, but you have to find out what works for you. You start it by turning the wheel with your hand.” She turned the wheel and began to rock her feet. The machine made a soft, steady clanking noise.
“There are a lot of little tricks Mama taught me. If you stop with the treadle flipped toward you, when you start back up, most of the time the wheel goes the way you want it to. Takes some getting used to, all of it. You play with it a while with no thread, and see if you want to go to all this trouble. I got a White and a Pfaff powered by good old electricity, if you change your mind.”
Elisa was enchanted with the rhythmic click and clack of the treadle. “I’ll try this a while and see if I can get the hang of it.”
Helen lifted her big-boned body off the chair and moved to one side so Elisa could sit. “Only other person I ever knew with the good sense to hold on to one of these old machines was Martha Wisner. She had her mother’s old Singer. Used it to make doll clothes and such for the church bazaar, but never did no work by hand on them. Somebody else had to do that and finish them.”
Elisa remembered that Martha had said she was no needle-woman. “What happened to it?”
“I suspect Dovey Lanning took it when they moved Martha, along with a few other things Martha couldn’t take along. They were good friends, those two. Been hard on Dovey, seeing Martha slipping the way she is.”
“Were you close to Martha?”
“Me? I stopped going to church much for years. Just got back into it when the Bee started up again. I knew Martha a long time, of course, but just to say a word to now and then.”