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She had quilted until the very end, when she could do little more than sit outside on the cornerstone patio and admire the garden Father had made for her.
    Sylvia finished her notes on the Elms and Lilacs quilt with a description of its colors and fabrics and an estimate of its size. She wrote down all she remembered. She had her doubts about Summer's Internet, but the tiniest detail might prove to be the key to locating the quilts and determining their identity. And if, through some fortunate turn of events, the quilts could be restored to her, Sylvia might learn more about the woman who had made them.

Chapter Two
    1899

    E leanor stole down the hallway past her sister's room, where Abigail and Mother struggled to open Abigail's trunk. Eleanor heard Mother wonder aloud how the latch had acquired that peculiar dent, but she did not hear what excuse her sister invented. She doubted Abigail would admit she had kicked the trunk when she could not close the latch. Eleanor had been standing on the trunk at the time, helping her sister compress her clothing enough to squeeze in one more dress, more than willing to postpone her own packing and delay their return home.
    She raced down the stairs to the front door and darted outside, picking up speed as she ran down the length of the porch. She scrambled over the railing and leapt the short distance to the lawn. The grass was damp on her stocking feet; it must have rained that morning. At the summer house, the morning had dawned clear and breezy, with no hint of autumn.
    Eleanor felt a pang that had nothing to do with her bad heart. She missed the summer house already, and it was only their first day back in the city. Mother permitted things in summer she allowed at no other time—dancing, brief games of badminton or croquet, long strolls outdoors. The previous three months would have been perfect if Eleanor had been allowed to learn to ride horseback. Abigail had learned when she was two years younger than Eleanor was now, and Eleanor had hoped and prayed that this would be the year Mother and Father would relent. Every Friday evening when Father joined them at the summer house, Miss Langley had tried to persuade him, but he returned to the city each Sunday without overruling Mother's decision.
    A cramp pinched her side. Eleanor dropped into a walk, gasping for air, sweat trickling down her back. Her stockings itched; her long-sleeved sailor dress felt as if it had been woven from lead. Mother dressed her daughters by the calendar, not the weather—“Or common sense,” Miss Langley had murmured as she tied the navy blue bow at the small of Eleanor's back—and September meant wool. Her short sprint had left her faint; she blamed the sultry air and her heavy, uncomfortable clothing. She refused to blame her heart.
    Everyone knew Eleanor had a bad heart. They called her delicate and fragile and, when they thought she wasn't listening, spoke of her uncertain future in hushed, tragic voices. Eleanor did not remember the rheumatic fever she had suffered as a baby and did not understand how her heart differed from any other. It seemed to beat steadily enough, even when she woke up in the night fighting for breath. If it pounded too fiercely when she ran, it was only because she was unaccustomed to exerting herself. Sometimes she placed her head on Miss Langley's chest and listened, wondering how her own flawed heart would compare to her nanny's. Her imagination superimposed the wheezing of steam pipes and the clanging of gears.
    It was Miss Langley's responsibility to make sure Eleanor did not run, or climb stairs too quickly, or overexcite herself, or take a fright. Miss Langley was English, and before coming to America to raise the Lockwood children, she had traveled to France, Spain, Italy, and the Holy Land. Eleanor thought New York must seem desperately dull after such exotic locals, but Miss Langley said every land had its beauties. If Eleanor learned to find and appreciate them,