Saratoga Sunrise

by Christine Wenger

  Sara's face flamed. Her luck in escaping the dreaded sisters thus far had just run out.

  "Well, hello, Suzette, Leanne. I see you both are looking particularly...fine." She looked up to see the two women standing by her box. She stifled the urge to laugh at their overdone costumes, heavily feathered hats, and lacy frills that drooped in the humidity.

  "I must say, Suzette, he is rather handsome if one likes penniless, smelly grooms."

  "If you have something to say, Leanne, how about saying it to me?" Sara dug her fingernails into her palms, and prayed that her aunt and father would return to rescue her.

  "Well, Sara? Do you have eyes for that groom, or don't you?" Leanne demanded.

  "I don't have to answer to you. It's none of your concern, nor your sister’s." Sara kept her voice low and steady even though her heart was beating wildly. There were too many ears around her already that no doubt had heard the insipid remarks of the dreaded duo. Sara was pleased with herself that she'd found the wherewithal not to remain silent as she might have once before.

  "Oooo! She does like him. How delicious!" Suzette screeched, clapping her gloved hands. They made a dull sound that seemed to rise above the din of the crowd.

  "I can't wait to spread the news! Why mother will be just mortified when I tell her." Leanne's dull gray eyes took on an evil glint.

  "Let me tell mother," Suzette wailed.

  "Why don't you both go tell her and let me be?" Sara suggested.

  "Can you believe, she doesn't even deny it?" one of the dreaded sisters said to the other as they hurried away, heads together, looking like two ornate partridges.

  "Honestly!" Sara said under her breath. "What next? I thought this was going to be a wonderful season, but it's been nothing but a disaster so far." She sighed as she watched her father and aunt return to their seats. Her father beamed with pride and her aunt looked happy and natural beside him. But they wouldn't be happy for long. Not when gossip about Jack and her started racing around the Springs like a thoroughbred horse.

  The horses were parading onto the track for the second race now.

  "Where did Monty go?" her father asked.

  "I think he went for a drink," Sara explained.

  Bond's eyes narrowed. "What the deuce is he thinking, leaving you sitting here all alone?"

  "I was fine, daddy. I had visitors. Suzette and Leanne Dredmar."

  Aunt Trixie grimaced. "Those silly geese? What on earth did they want?"

  "Nothing very exciting, Aunt Trixie. Nothing at all."

  "Why don't you ask them to the cottage for tea? They are your age, and you don't seem to have many friends here, other than Clara," her father said.

  "I have many friends here, Daddy." She counted them on her fingers. "Chef Morris, Porky and Mike, and Toady and–"

  "They are the help around here, along with Clara. Porky and Mike are just locals and the track regulars. You need some friends your own age," her father stated.

  "I don't like Suzette and Leanne, father, so I stay away from them. They are not kind people. The people who I call my friends stand by me and would never hurt me." Her voice was firm and direct, and judging by her father's reaction, he was taken aback.

  Her aunt patted her hand, and whispered. "Good for you, dearest."

  She certainly got that gumption from somewhere, and it was easier than she thought.

  She thought about Clara and hoped that her friend would tell her what she and Jack were arguing about last night. She hadn't seen Clara today, but she knew she'd be at the ball at the Grand Union. She'd definitely ask her about Jack, if Clara didn't volunteer the information first.

  The starter's pistol signaled the second race. Toady was now riding Comet, and Sara hoped the jockey wasn't tired from the first race for she had asked Porky and Mike to place an "if come" bet for her. If Lucky Clover came in first, then her winnings would be parlayed and bet on Comet. If Comet lost, she would lose all of her winnings.

  She knew that gambling wasn't proper, but she told herself that she was just showing support for her horses. She had all her winnings saved–saved for the dream that she held in her heart–the dream of owning her own horse ranch.

  Comet won by four lengths, and her dream seemed a little more obtainable.

  CHAPTER 7

  The ball at the Grand Union was truly a spectacular event. Revelers could dance indoors in the main ballroom under the crystal chandeliers, or dance outdoors under the Chinese lanterns that were strung through the trees in the interior courtyard. Townsfolk danced and mingled with the rich and famous, often gaining business advice or being privy to a business deal or the latest fashion news.

  Sara entered the courtyard on the arm of Montague Fordice, but her eyes scanned the guests for Jack Summers.

  "Looking for someone, my dear?" Monty hissed. “I hope you’re not looking for that odious groom with whom you seem so enchanted."

  Sara could do nothing else but stare at him. He was such an irritating person. How could she have even entertained the thought of marrying him?

  "Don't look so astonished, dearest." His voice was heavy with sarcasm. "All of Saratoga is talking about you being moon-eyed every time he's nearby."

  She looked into his dark eyes and was frightened by what she saw. His eyes were cold, and his face was contorted into an evil mask. She withdrew her arm from his and thought how the dreadful Dredmar sisters didn't waste any time spreading their gossip.

  "I might remind you that we are to be officially engaged soon. When is that engagement party, my dear? Ah, yes. It's only a few days away. The night before the Travers, isn't it?"

  "Y-Yes, but–"

  "You’d best forget about your horse groom, Sara. I, myself, know he's at Canfield's Casino every night and that he frequents the houses of Grace Sinclair and Hattie Adams." Monty paused to take several puffs on his cigar and blow it into the air above her head. "You know who Grace and Hattie are, don't you? They are ladies of the evening."

  Sara watched his lips form the words, but they really didn't register.

  "They have several fair flowers in their employ at their brothels."

  He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her reaction, but she stood steadfast and stared blankly at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he shocked her.

  Still Montague persisted. "So, see. . . your horse handler has been quite busy with his evenings, so you needn't look for him. He's probably with one of them right now."

  "How do you know such a thing, Mr. Fordice? Perhaps you frequent the establishment yourself." Sara would die a thousand times before she let Monty know how his words hurt her.

  He cleared his throat. "I-I have it on excellent authority."

  "I’d bet with Philly Phil that you are wrong. You know about those particular ladies of the evening because obviously you’ve been there yourself.” Sara flattened down the side of her ice blue Worth gown, so the beautiful fabric wouldn't come in contact with any part of the vile man next to her. “Excuse me. I’d like to freshen up.”

  She walked as fast as her legs would carry her, all the while blinking back tears. Hearing his evil chuckle, she vowed not to return to him this evening–or ever.

  She had to simply think of another way to get her horse farm. Maybe Jack Summers would be her partner? Or maybe he’d work for her. Maybe they could have a marriage, in name only...

  The thought of marrying Jack sent an excited shiver through her. She thought of his kiss, his touch. With Jack, she wouldn't want a marriage in name only.

  She thought of the marital bed and touching Jack’s warm, bare skin. He would see her naked in turn, see her mangled leg and foot and that fact that she didn't have bosoms. She wouldn't be able to endure the disgust on his face.

  "Sara? Sara! Where are you going?"

  It was Clara, but she couldn't face Clara now. Not just yet.

  Sara hurried toward the edge of the courtyard to a dark, quiet spot away from the dancers. She needed to compose herself a
nd think.

  "Sara! I know you heard me calling. Is something wrong?"

  "Yes, many things are wrong, but I don't want to talk about any of them right now."

  Sara found a secluded spot with a white wrought iron table and matching chairs and wearily sat down. In front of her, a three-tiered fountain gurgled soothingly. Making sure that no one was nearby, she stretched her bad leg out and lifted it onto the seat of an empty chair. Leaning back with a heavy sigh, she tried to wipe her watery eyes as inconspicuously as possible.

  "Why, Sara. . . you're crying."

  "Please keep your voice down, won't you, Clara?"

  Clara lowered her voice to a whisper. "Why are you crying? I can help you. I'm your friend."

  "I hate Monty Fordice." Sara didn't know why she suddenly blurted that out, but she felt much better already. "I tried to like Monty, but it's no use. I just can't do it, Clara, I just can't."

  "So, who is making you marry him? Heavens, I can't believe that your father would force you to marry him. He loves you too much."

  Sara tried to explain it all to her the best she could. "Daddy feels that he isn't going to be around much longer and he wants me married before he...dies. He feels that Monty would be a good match for me because he has money and is our social equal and–"

  "That might be part of the reason, but what's the real reason you are planning on marrying him?"

  She let the tears fall, down her faintly rouged cheeks that Lillian Russell fussed over, and watched the drops fall on her gown and spread out on the satin. She absently-mindedly touched her hair that Miss Russell had her maid fix in elaborate style.

  When she looked in the mirror earlier, she couldn't believe that was her reflection. She looked, well...beautiful...and she felt like a princess in the gown. She wanted Jack to see her before she turned back into her skinny, lame self. Now it was too late.

  Clara handed her a handkerchief and she took it. "Thank you." She sniffed, disgusted that she was feeling sorry for herself. She needed to stop immediately.

  "Are you going to tell me the real reason why your father wants you to marry Fordice when you can have any man you want?"

  "Don't you see? I can't have any man I want. I'm deformed. I’m not. . .whole. Even all my father's money can't buy me a husband other than Monty. Believe me, daddy tried, but only Monty took his offer."

  “Certainly that’s not the case. You’re the same person you always were before the accident." Clara wrung her hands. “Oh Sara, I’m so sorry.”

  "Don't you dare feel sorry for me. I'm feeling sorry enough for myself lately. And I’d rather be a spinster than to be married to someone who disgusts me and whom I disgust in return. I would rather be alone. I want to have my own farm and raise horses. Somewhere far away. Kentucky maybe. Just me and my horses."

  "What about Jack?"

  Sara was shocked that Clara would bring him up. "What about him?"

  "I know you like him, and I think he likes you."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I-I just do." Clara shifted uncomfortable in her chair.

  "You've only met Jack that one time by the spring the time I fell in. Isn't that right?"

  "I-I...w-well...I-I..."

  "Have you talked to him since then, Clara?” Sara stared at her friend, watching her fuss and fidget under the light of the lanterns and the glow of the moon.

  "N-No, I-I haven't s-spoken to him since then."

  Sara felt the ultimate betrayal. It would have hurt less if Clara had slapped her rather than lied. "Would you please leave me alone now?"

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Sara waved her away. "Please, just let me be. I'll be fine."

  As she watched Clara walk away, she felt a terrible emptiness in her heart.

  "My life is my own," Sara thought. "My life is my own," she repeated again and again. "And I will not marry Montague Fordice."

  She wanted more than ever to be alone to raise horses and train them to run like the wind.

  Sara didn't know how long she sat in the dark corner of the courtyard listening to the music, absorbed in her own thoughts. Finally, she decided to join the ball, if only to get something to eat. She was simply starving.

  She slowly lifted her leg from the chair seat, using her muscles and not her hands to lift it. After resting a while, she stood. Her leg was numb, so she waited until her blood could circulate. Walking toward the edge of the crowd, she smoothed her skirt, grateful that the tearstains had dried, and forced herself to smile.

  Sara vowed that from this moment forward she would take charge of her own life.

  But her vow was short-lived.

  "There she is. Sara, where on earth have you been?"

  "I've been speaking with Clara, father."

  "Monty has been waiting patiently to dance with you."

  Sara looked in the leering face of Monty who was busy mopping his sweaty face with a linen napkin embroidered with the initials of the Grand Union Hotel. Her stomach lurched with the thought of him touching her.

  She nodded to him. "I am not up to dancing, Mr. Fordice. I was just about to get something to eat."

  "So formal, Sara?" her father said with a puzzled expression on his face. "I should think you could be less formal with your intended and at least call him by his first name.

  Aunt Trixie gave Sara an understanding nod. "Bond, let's let Sara fix herself a plate. I wish to speak with Lillian and Jim, and they are right over by the big elm. Why don't you come with us, Montague? Sara can join us at the table with her plate."

  Montague hesitated, then without a glance in her direction, he walked away with her father and aunt. Sara breathed a sigh of relief.

  She had to deal with the Montague problem, and soon. It was just not the right time or place.

  "Sara, may I have the honor of this dance?" Ironically, the deep, rich voice was like a soothing balm to her tumultuous feelings, even though the man who spoke was the cause of most of her anguish.

  "Jack?" She took in the sensuality of his magnificent physique. She noticed freshly trimmed hair peeking out from below the brim of his top hat. His mustache and beard were also recently trimmed. His wide shoulders were encased in a crisp white shirt and a gray frock coat. Long legs sported wide trousers of the same gray with the addition of pinstripes. He looked every bit the rich aristocrat.

  "You look beautiful as always, Sara. May I have this dance?”

  She could do little more than nod. He said that she was beautiful! The mere touch of his hand sent a shiver to her very soul as they walked out onto the dance floor.

  The band was playing a Viennese waltz, "The Beautiful Blue Danube" by Johann Strauss. It was one of her favorites.

  Jack's large hand moved to her waist. He waited expectantly for her to assume the dance position. She couldn't seem to move, but could only look into his twinkling eyes.

  “I’ve never danced. . . that is. . . not since the accident.”

  He winked, and Sara immediately relaxed. She placed one hand in his and laid the other on the soft fabric of his frock coat at his shoulder.

  Slowly and carefully, he led her into a full turn, and she couldn't help but laugh. He held her at arm's length as they glided and turned around the dance floor to the three-quarter time until she was dizzy with excitement and happiness. He smelled of soap and of outdoors and of man, a more heady mix than the best hair tonic.

  He smiled at her, and she smiled back. She felt as light as air as he led her in the waltz. She wished the music could go on forever, but her leg was beginning to tire. When she performed a rather sloppy turn and felt Jack's grip on her tighten, she knew the magic had to end.

  "Let's sit for a while," Jack suggested, guiding her slowly to the edge of the dance floor toward an empty chair.

  "Yes. Thank you." She looked up and saw the

  gentleness in expression, his concern for her. Yet there was more. There was sadness in his eyes. Was it for her?

  Before she could tell him not to
feel sorry for her, a hand clamped down on her forearm and spun her around. She almost fell, but Jack steadied her.

  "How dare you, Sara Peterson! You didn't want to dance with me, and now I find you dancing with another man." Montague Fordice spat the words and Sara moved back to avoid the spray from his fetid mouth.

  "Unhand her." Jack's voice was firm and low.

  "Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?" Montague eyed Jack curiously as if trying to place him. He tightened his hold on Sara's arm, and she winced from the pain. She struggled to get out of his grasp.

  "I believe you once called me an odious groom," Jack said evenly. "Now, if you don't release Sara's arm immediately, this odious groom will wipe this dance floor with your carcass."

  "How dare you talk to me like that, Mr. Summers!"

  Jack spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm telling you for the last time, let her go!"

  Instead, Monty tugged on her arm, yanking her roughly. She stumbled. Jack steadied her again, and a second later she heard the crack of bone against bone. Before Sara could gather her wits, she heard Monty wailing and saw him wiping at his bloody nose.

  Jack escorted her to the nearest empty chair, and she sat down. He gave a gentlemanly bow, and she couldn't help but smile at the man who rescued her from Montague’s roughness.

  "I told you, mother. See? Sara has eyes for that stable hand." It was Suzette Dredmar's high-pitched southern drawl.

  "How very interesting. I wonder if her father knows. I think I shall have to tell him," Maude Dredmar replied.

  "You simply must tell him, mother," echoed Leanne. "Sara is making such a spectacle of herself."

  Sara's face flamed as their voices faded into the distance. She watched Jack and Monty square off on the dance floor in front of her and all of Saratoga Springs. Jack was grinning at Monty's rage.

  "You owe the lady an apology. Apologize to Miss Peterson." Jack ordered.

  "Apologize for what? I'll do no such thing!" Monty bellowed.

  Several ladies gasped, and he must have realized that he was looking bad in the eyes of the crowd. "It is you who owes dear Sara an apology. You obviously hurt her when you were hurling her around the dance floor. You must see that she's lame."