Read Online The Lost Quilter by Jennifer Chiaverini - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Chiaverini
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at her myopically. “Come here, girl.” Obediently Joanna stepped forward. “Let me see your hands.” Joanna held them out for inspection. “Remarkably clean, for a field hand.”
“She wash up before she come in,” said Ruth. “She know better than to soil your pretty fabrics.”
The mistress gave an elegant, skeptical sniff and reached for a pair of silver scissors sitting on a table at her side. She snipped off a length from a spool of white thread, withdrew a slender silver needle from an intricately embossed case, and beckoned to Joanna. “Thread this needle and knot the end.”
Joanna bobbed a nod and took needle and thread, careful not to touch the mistress’s smooth white hands with her own. She sensed Ruth watching over her shoulder, longing to instruct her but unable to speak and reveal her lie.
Joanna had seen women piece quilts and mend clothes in the slave cabins, so she knew more or less what to do, although she had never tried it herself. On her second attempt, she poked oneend of the thread through the needle’s eye, then stuck the needle between her teeth while she tied a small knot at the other end. She held the threaded needle out to the younger mistress, who recoiled in distaste. “She had that in her mouth,” she said, incredulous. “I’m not going to touch her spittle.”
Quickly Ruth stepped forward and took the threaded needle. “I’ll wash it for you. She do it right next time.”
As Ruth hastened away, the mistress turned to her mother-in-law to complain, but before she could speak, the elder woman said, “If you had given her a pincushion, she needn’t have used her mouth. She’ll do, Caroline.”
“She smells.”
“A bath will cure that. Let her stay with Ruth instead of returning to the slave quarter. You know very well that’s what Ruth desires, and if you don’t want our friends to starve at your quilting party, you’ll grant her this one favor.”
Resigned, the mistress dismissed Joanna with a distracted wave of the hand. Joanna hurried back to the kitchen to tell Ruth, who cried out for joy and embraced her. But the promise of more food, easier work, and Ruth’s happiness did not settle Joanna’s mixed feelings. The mistress was as determined to find fault with her as Marse Chester’s mother was to prove that she had been right to purchase Joanna. Joanna would rather work bent over in the hot sun than caught between those two women.
Two days later, carriages arrived bearing masters and mistresses from plantations throughout the county. The Ashworths came with their eldest daughter, who was to be married soon and for whom the party had been arranged. While the men talked and smoked, the women layered pieced and appliquéd tops in a long wooden frame on the veranda and finished the quilts for the bride’s trousseau. Joanna was on her feet all day, threadingneedles, tying knots, snipping loose threads so the ladies needn’t interrupt the rhythm of their work. Deftly, they soon covered the elegant tops in intricate patterns—bows, flowers, crosshatches, feathered plumes, and fans, all created with the finest, most delicate stitches Joanna had ever seen. The ladies chatted and gossiped and exchanged advice as they worked, forgetting or ignoring Joanna’s presence except to beckon her to snip a thread on the underside of the quilt or to pass them a new, threaded needle. They spoke about the upcoming wedding, praised the advantageous match, speculated about the new household, and despaired of the difficulties the newlyweds would face in obtaining good, loyal, trustworthy servants. Times had changed, they sighed. Nowadays slaves were so lazy and dishonest it was hardly worth the trouble to feed and clothe them, especially since they took ill so often—or stayed abed shamming illness—and had to be supported into their old age when they could no longer work to earn their keep.
“It is our responsibility and our Christian duty,” said the elder Mrs. Chester,
“She wash up before she come in,” said Ruth. “She know better than to soil your pretty fabrics.”
The mistress gave an elegant, skeptical sniff and reached for a pair of silver scissors sitting on a table at her side. She snipped off a length from a spool of white thread, withdrew a slender silver needle from an intricately embossed case, and beckoned to Joanna. “Thread this needle and knot the end.”
Joanna bobbed a nod and took needle and thread, careful not to touch the mistress’s smooth white hands with her own. She sensed Ruth watching over her shoulder, longing to instruct her but unable to speak and reveal her lie.
Joanna had seen women piece quilts and mend clothes in the slave cabins, so she knew more or less what to do, although she had never tried it herself. On her second attempt, she poked oneend of the thread through the needle’s eye, then stuck the needle between her teeth while she tied a small knot at the other end. She held the threaded needle out to the younger mistress, who recoiled in distaste. “She had that in her mouth,” she said, incredulous. “I’m not going to touch her spittle.”
Quickly Ruth stepped forward and took the threaded needle. “I’ll wash it for you. She do it right next time.”
As Ruth hastened away, the mistress turned to her mother-in-law to complain, but before she could speak, the elder woman said, “If you had given her a pincushion, she needn’t have used her mouth. She’ll do, Caroline.”
“She smells.”
“A bath will cure that. Let her stay with Ruth instead of returning to the slave quarter. You know very well that’s what Ruth desires, and if you don’t want our friends to starve at your quilting party, you’ll grant her this one favor.”
Resigned, the mistress dismissed Joanna with a distracted wave of the hand. Joanna hurried back to the kitchen to tell Ruth, who cried out for joy and embraced her. But the promise of more food, easier work, and Ruth’s happiness did not settle Joanna’s mixed feelings. The mistress was as determined to find fault with her as Marse Chester’s mother was to prove that she had been right to purchase Joanna. Joanna would rather work bent over in the hot sun than caught between those two women.
Two days later, carriages arrived bearing masters and mistresses from plantations throughout the county. The Ashworths came with their eldest daughter, who was to be married soon and for whom the party had been arranged. While the men talked and smoked, the women layered pieced and appliquéd tops in a long wooden frame on the veranda and finished the quilts for the bride’s trousseau. Joanna was on her feet all day, threadingneedles, tying knots, snipping loose threads so the ladies needn’t interrupt the rhythm of their work. Deftly, they soon covered the elegant tops in intricate patterns—bows, flowers, crosshatches, feathered plumes, and fans, all created with the finest, most delicate stitches Joanna had ever seen. The ladies chatted and gossiped and exchanged advice as they worked, forgetting or ignoring Joanna’s presence except to beckon her to snip a thread on the underside of the quilt or to pass them a new, threaded needle. They spoke about the upcoming wedding, praised the advantageous match, speculated about the new household, and despaired of the difficulties the newlyweds would face in obtaining good, loyal, trustworthy servants. Times had changed, they sighed. Nowadays slaves were so lazy and dishonest it was hardly worth the trouble to feed and clothe them, especially since they took ill so often—or stayed abed shamming illness—and had to be supported into their old age when they could no longer work to earn their keep.
“It is our responsibility and our Christian duty,” said the elder Mrs. Chester,
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