the desired effect.”
“What's the desired effect?”
“That's entirely up to you. Sometimes your embroidery will frame the fabric piece, defining it, highlighting it, but other times the fabric recedes to the background and becomes a canvas for the embroidery.”
“Such as when you embroider a picture?” asked Eleanor. “Like the spiderweb in your quilt—or the little baby footprints?”
“Precisely.” Miss Langley held out her hand for the muslin.
Eleanor had watched Miss Langley's face carefully, but not a flicker of emotion altered her expression at the mention of the baby footprints. If Eleanor had seen the slightest hint of pain at the reminder of a secret tragedy, she could have asked Miss Langley what troubled her, but Miss Langley gave away nothing.
Reluctantly, Eleanor handed her the muslin. “Why couldn't we do the embroidery later, all at once, after the diamonds are sewn together?”
“We could, and I suppose some quilters probably do. As for me, I find it easier to embroider something small enough to hold in one hand.”
Miss Langley traded Eleanor's sewing sharp for a longer, sturdier embroidery needle. Eleanor took it, but couldn't resist adding, “We could embroider this right in front of Mother and she wouldn't even get mad.”
“If I didn't know better, I might think you only want to quilt in order to anger her. Or perhaps you're simply pouting. Very well. If embroidery has become too routine for you, I'll teach you a few new stitches.”
She did teach Eleanor new stitches—the Portuguese stem stitch, the Vandyke stitch, and the Maidenhair. They were more difficult than any she had previously mastered, and attempting them required all her concentration.
The morning passed. Eleanor would have gladly spent the whole day sewing in the shade of the apple trees with Miss Langley, but as noon approached, her nanny began to glance more frequently toward the house. Then she announced that the lesson was over.
“But Mother isn't home yet.”
“Not yet.” Miss Langley began packing up her sewing basket. “But she will be soon, and I would like your Crazy Quilt block safely out of sight before then. And you do recall it is Wednesday?”
Eleanor's heart sank. She had forgotten it was Miss Langley's afternoon off. “Do you have to go?”
“I'm afraid so.” Miss Langley rose and held out her hand. “Harriet will look after you until your mother and sister return.”
Harriet. Eleanor pretended not to see Miss Langley's hand and climbed to her feet without any help. Without a word, she picked up her things and headed for the house.
Miss Langley fell in step beside her. “Now, Eleanor, don't sulk. I'll be back in time to tuck you in.”
Eleanor did not care. Harriet would scold Eleanor if she tried to read or play the piano and would probably have her polishing silver within minutes of Miss Langley's departure. Worse yet, Miss Langley surely knew that, but she was leaving anyway.
She stomped upstairs to the nursery and slammed the door, something she never would have dared to do if Mother were home. She sat in the window seat with a book on her lap, listlessly looking out the window. When she heard the heavy front door swing shut, she pressed her face against the window and saw Miss Langley striding toward the carriage house. She had changed into a brown dress and hat with a ribbon, and a well-worn satchel swung from one hand.
Eleanor jumped to her feet, then hurried downstairs and outside. She stole into the carriage house just as the driver finished hitching up the horses, chatting with Miss Langley as he worked. Her heart pounding, Eleanor held her breath and climbed onto the back of the carriage as she had seen the grocer's boy do. With a lurch, the carriage began to move.
Dizzy and fearful, Eleanor tore her eyes away from the ground passing beneath the carriage wheels and fixed them on the house, waiting for Harriet to burst through the front doors and run shouting after her.
“What's the desired effect?”
“That's entirely up to you. Sometimes your embroidery will frame the fabric piece, defining it, highlighting it, but other times the fabric recedes to the background and becomes a canvas for the embroidery.”
“Such as when you embroider a picture?” asked Eleanor. “Like the spiderweb in your quilt—or the little baby footprints?”
“Precisely.” Miss Langley held out her hand for the muslin.
Eleanor had watched Miss Langley's face carefully, but not a flicker of emotion altered her expression at the mention of the baby footprints. If Eleanor had seen the slightest hint of pain at the reminder of a secret tragedy, she could have asked Miss Langley what troubled her, but Miss Langley gave away nothing.
Reluctantly, Eleanor handed her the muslin. “Why couldn't we do the embroidery later, all at once, after the diamonds are sewn together?”
“We could, and I suppose some quilters probably do. As for me, I find it easier to embroider something small enough to hold in one hand.”
Miss Langley traded Eleanor's sewing sharp for a longer, sturdier embroidery needle. Eleanor took it, but couldn't resist adding, “We could embroider this right in front of Mother and she wouldn't even get mad.”
“If I didn't know better, I might think you only want to quilt in order to anger her. Or perhaps you're simply pouting. Very well. If embroidery has become too routine for you, I'll teach you a few new stitches.”
She did teach Eleanor new stitches—the Portuguese stem stitch, the Vandyke stitch, and the Maidenhair. They were more difficult than any she had previously mastered, and attempting them required all her concentration.
The morning passed. Eleanor would have gladly spent the whole day sewing in the shade of the apple trees with Miss Langley, but as noon approached, her nanny began to glance more frequently toward the house. Then she announced that the lesson was over.
“But Mother isn't home yet.”
“Not yet.” Miss Langley began packing up her sewing basket. “But she will be soon, and I would like your Crazy Quilt block safely out of sight before then. And you do recall it is Wednesday?”
Eleanor's heart sank. She had forgotten it was Miss Langley's afternoon off. “Do you have to go?”
“I'm afraid so.” Miss Langley rose and held out her hand. “Harriet will look after you until your mother and sister return.”
Harriet. Eleanor pretended not to see Miss Langley's hand and climbed to her feet without any help. Without a word, she picked up her things and headed for the house.
Miss Langley fell in step beside her. “Now, Eleanor, don't sulk. I'll be back in time to tuck you in.”
Eleanor did not care. Harriet would scold Eleanor if she tried to read or play the piano and would probably have her polishing silver within minutes of Miss Langley's departure. Worse yet, Miss Langley surely knew that, but she was leaving anyway.
She stomped upstairs to the nursery and slammed the door, something she never would have dared to do if Mother were home. She sat in the window seat with a book on her lap, listlessly looking out the window. When she heard the heavy front door swing shut, she pressed her face against the window and saw Miss Langley striding toward the carriage house. She had changed into a brown dress and hat with a ribbon, and a well-worn satchel swung from one hand.
Eleanor jumped to her feet, then hurried downstairs and outside. She stole into the carriage house just as the driver finished hitching up the horses, chatting with Miss Langley as he worked. Her heart pounding, Eleanor held her breath and climbed onto the back of the carriage as she had seen the grocer's boy do. With a lurch, the carriage began to move.
Dizzy and fearful, Eleanor tore her eyes away from the ground passing beneath the carriage wheels and fixed them on the house, waiting for Harriet to burst through the front doors and run shouting after her.
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