The Quilter's Legacy Read Free

furniture, anything to raise cash. I—I did, too, of course, but mostly to keep them from selling off the rest of the land and the manor with it.”
    “She sold Mother's bridal quilt?” Sylvia repeated.
    “And the others, her other fine quilts.” Agnes took Sylvia's hands. “I would have prevented it if I could have. I wish you knew how hard I tried.”
    “I'm sure you did.” Sylvia gave Agnes's hand a clumsy pat and pulled away. She rarely allowed herself to imagine what life in Elm Creek Manor had been like after her angry and abrupt departure, but for Agnes, it must have been a nightmare. Sylvia suspected she owed the survival of what remained of the estate to her sister-in-law. Agnes never spoke of those days, which Sylvia considered a kindness. What she imagined pained her enough.
    She never should have run away.
    “When Claudia made up her mind, there was no reasoning with her,” said Sylvia. “The quilts were hers to do with as she wished, since I abandoned them. It's not your fault she sold them.”
    “But—”
    “It's not your fault.” Suddenly the attic seemed dark and confining. “It's mine.”

    S ylvia left the attic without another word, without looking back. She retreated to the sanctuary of the sitting room adjoining her bedroom. Ordinarily she preferred to quilt in the bright cheerfulness of the west sitting room on the first floor where friends came and went as they pleased, but she was too distressed now to welcome company. She brooded as she worked on her Tumbling Blocks quilt, piecing the diamond-shaped scraps together and thinking about her sister.
    The fading light reminded her she had spent too much time alone with her thoughts. Tonight was supposed to have been her turn to prepare supper for herself, Andrew, Sarah, and Matt, but Agnes's revelation had driven all thoughts of eating from her mind. Finally, she set her quilting aside and hurried down the grand oak staircase, across the marble floor of the foyer, and down the west wing toward the kitchen. When camp was in session, they served breakfast in the banquet hall off the foyer, but in the off-season, they preferred the intimacy of the kitchen.
    Andrew and Matt were setting the long wooden table for four when she entered. “Glad you could join us,” said Sarah as she took a steaming casserole dish from the oven.
    Andrew took her hand and kissed her on the cheek. “Are you feeling any better?” he asked in an undertone.
    “Who said I was feeling poorly?”
    “You shut yourself in your room all day,” said Andrew. “That's usually a pretty accurate sign.”
    “It's nothing,” she said, giving his hand a pat and forcing a smile. “I'll explain later.”
    But Sarah's curiosity would not wait. They were barely seated when she gave Sylvia a searching look and said, “Did you and Agnes have an argument? She came down from the attic upset about something, but when I asked what was wrong, she just shook her head and asked Diane to drive her home.”
    “We didn't argue,” said Sylvia, and told them what she had learned about the fate of her mother's quilts.
    “Oh, Sylvia,” said Andrew, his brow furrowed in concern. “That's a real shame.”
    “It can't be helped,” she said briskly when Sarah and Matt nodded in sympathy. “What's done is done, and I have only myself to blame. If I hadn't run away—”
    “Don't blame yourself,” said Sarah.
    “Oh, don't worry, dear. I've set aside plenty of blame for my sister, too. I don't understand how she could have parted with our mother's quilts.” She waved her hand, impatient. “I've sulked about this enough for one day. May we please change the subject? I'd rather talk about anything else, even the wedding.”
    “That's good,” said Sarah, “because Diane wants Andrew to find out how many of his grandchildren are coming in case we need to set up a special playroom for them during the reception.”
    “She's moving right along, isn't she?” said Sylvia. “I suspect