The calendar slipped from September into October, autumn creeping in with shorter days. Blustery winds and cooling temperatures meant fewer customers to the shop, particularly in the morning and late afternoon. Joy shortened Corrine’s hours, so that she arrived at ten o’clock and left an hour before closing. To Sarah’s surprise, Corrine was not unhappy with her reduced schedule, although it meant a reduced pay packet as well.
“Keeping our house spick-and-span does not take all my time, but I do appreciate a few more hours in my week to do so,” she said, as she left the shop early. “And, of course, I appreciate that my circumstances will change.”
“Why, whatever do you mean?” Sarah batted her eyes with all innocence, although she knew exactly what Corrine meant.
Corrine blushed at Sarah’s silly drama. “As you alluded to when I returned from our honeymoon, Albert and I wish to start a family. I-I had thought last month . . . but it was a mistaken hope. However, God willing, in the next year we shall have a baby, and then I shall stay home to care for our child.”
Sarah’s brow crinkled. Stay home to care for her child? Well, yes, naturally. But how did I not foresee that she would want to resign her position here?
“Sarah? Does the prospect of Albert and me having a baby not please you?”
Sarah shook herself and laughed. “The prospect pleases me immensely, Corrine, although, if you can believe it, I had not thought it through. I suppose I envisioned us working here together until we were old and gray. Silly of me, to not realize you would want to stay home with your baby, yes? Perhaps I saw myself cuddling your babe all day rather than waiting on customers.”
Corrine hugged Sarah around the waist. “Is that so? Well, how does ‘Aunt Sarah’ strike you?”
“Aunt Sarah! You would grant me such an honor?”
Corrine faced Sarah, her smile both serious and radiant. “To whom else would I grant it? I have many sisters in Christ, but you are the closest thing I have to a real sister, Sarah.”
“Oh, Corrine. As you are to me.”
CORRINE AND SARAH ADJUSTED to Corrine’s shortened hours. It was on such an afternoon, near closing time, when Sarah was alone in the shop, that the bell jingled, and a lone customer entered. Sarah left the counter to greet the woman. She had taken but a few steps when she recognized the short curly hair and cheery straw hat.
“Ah. Hello. It is Lola, is it not?”
Lola smiled and reached for Sarah’s hand. “Yes, and I am glad to see you again, Sarah. Do you recall that rainy day when Meg, Dannie, and I blew into your shop and dripped copious amounts of water upon your carpet? I have thought about you often since then.”
“Have you?”
“Oh, my, yes.”
Lola retained Sarah’s hand between her two, and Sarah stared at Lola’s long, lean fingers—strong fingers, fingers accustomed to intricate, repetitive labor. A musician’s work.
She switched her gaze from their joined hands to Lola’s face. She imagined Lola to be a few years her senior, perhaps thirty years old or a bit more. The woman’s eyes held Sarah’s with a searching intensity that both startled and intrigued Sarah.
Flustered, she glanced at their hands again, and Lola released her. When Sarah looked up, Lola’s lips were curved with good humor.
“I hope you will not consider it forward of me, but when I was last here, I mentioned that I was a musician and hinted that you might like to come hear us play. Do you recall?”
“Oh, yes. I was curious as to the other instruments you play—beside the clarinet.”
“In addition to clarinet, I play oboe and piano. Piano is my chief instrument.”
“I used to play a little piano. I love Mozart and Chopin. Which composers do you favor?”
It seemed as though Lola always had an amusing secret that played about her mouth. “I am inspired by American pianists, primarily: King Bolden. Scott Joplin. James Johnson. Jelly Roll Morton.”
“Jelly Roll Morton. How droll. And I confess I have not heard of even one of these names. How do American pianists compare to the European classicists, do you think?”
Lola considered Sarah’s query. “You ask an insightful question, Sarah. Perhaps, in time, American composers of this generation will be as honored as their great predecessors; however, the styles these new composers have spawned are still in their infancy. It may be decades before these musicians are widely received and acclaimed for their genius.”
She reached within the pocket of her skirt and withdrew a card. “We are performing at a private party this weekend, Saturday evening. I was hoping you might come?”
“A private concert? How very kind of you to invite me.”
“It is not a concert in the formal sense. Consider it a grand soirée, an evening musicale for the enjoyment of a select audience. Here is your invitation.”
Sarah examined the card. “The, um, musicale does not begin until nine o’clock?”
Another smile. “Many of our engagements begin late.”
“Goodness. I am generally abed by ten. This would be quite a departure from my normal schedule.”
“Will that be a problem?”
“It is a problem in that I have no transportation at that time of evening. I am sorry. Perhaps when you give an afternoon performance? Do you ever play in the park?”
Lola chuckled. “No, we have not had that honor. But do not concern yourself about transportation. If you will give me your address, I have enlisted the services of a trusted gentleman friend to call for you. I shall be warming up with my fellow musicians, you see, prior to the event; however, I shall be able to see you home myself afterward.”
“You are quite generous.” Sarah turned the invitation over in her mind, wondering how Rose would view it. At the thought of Rose, Sarah felt the tug of a small concern.
But Miss Rose would not object to a musical outing, would she? I am confident she will not disapprove.
“Thank you, Lola. I accept.”
“Wonderful. My dear friend, Blake Williams, will call for you. May I have your address?”
Sarah walked to the register, wrote down Palmer House’s address, and returned to Lola. “Your friend cannot miss the house—it is the largest on the block and sits on the corner.”
“I shall tell him. Shall I tell him to call for you at, say, eight o’clock? Time enough to arrive and get settled before the music begins.”
“Yes. Eight o’clock. Thank you again—I am certain to enjoy it.”
Lola slipped her arm through Sarah’s—as if it were the most natural thing to do—and gently tugged her toward the door. “I must run to a rehearsal, but I am delighted you will come Saturday, Sarah. I look forward to getting to know you better.”
“As do I,” Sarah answered.
While their arms were still linked, Lola reached out her other hand and touched the heavy braid that crowned Sarah’s brow. Her fingers stroked one thick strand. “You have such lovely hair, Sarah. I have been wondering what it feels like—and I am not disappointed. It is wonderfully silky.”
Sarah blinked. At Lola’s touch, a spark flared between them—as did a disquieting sensation, nearly a memory but not quite clear to Sarah. She inched backward, sliding her arm from Lola’s.
Lola laughed and held out her hands in mock contrition “Oh, please pardon my impetuosity. I should not have been so familiar. Do say you forgive me, my new friend?”
Sarah squared her shoulders and smiled. “There is nothing to forgive, Lola. I look forward to the musicale Saturday evening.”
“And I also, Sarah.”
With a bright laugh and a flick of her hand, Lola bid Sarah goodbye and left the shop.
Sarah stared after Lola’s departing figure for many moments. She was left wondering why Lola’s touch had stirred her.
AFTER DINNER, WHEN the dishes were cleared away and the dining room and kitchen tidied up, Billy, Marit, and their little brood retired to their cottage at the back of Palmer House’s lot. Rose, the girls, and M
r. Wheatley gathered in Palmer House’s great room to spend a pleasant evening together, reading, mending, playing games, and visiting.
Rose was ensconced in her favorite overstuffed chair when Sarah approached her.
“Miss Rose? May I have a moment of your time?”
Rose stood and hugged Sarah. “For you, my precious daughter, I would give whatever you ask. Shall we retire to the parlor?”
When they had settled themselves in the parlor, Sarah began, “I have made a new friend, Miss Rose. Her name is Lorraine. She and her friends took shelter in the shop during a rainstorm a few weeks past. She dropped by again today just before closing.”
“I am happy for you, Sarah. Would you like to invite her to dinner?”
Sarah hesitated for the briefest moment. “Why, yes, I suppose I would sometime soon. However, Lola—for that is what her friends call her—has invited me to a musicale Saturday evening.”
“How lovely.”
“I think so, too. Unhappily, the musicale does not begin until nine o’clock.” She handed Rose the invitation.
Rose studied the card, but her surprise was evident. “Goodness. Nine is quite late to begin. I cannot imagine how you could return home until much later.”
“I agree. I could be out until midnight or later.”
Rose studied Sarah. “Does your friend, Lola, have a motor car at her disposal?”
“She has arranged for a gentleman friend by the name of Blake Williams to escort me. He will call for me at eight o’clock.”
“I am happy to hear you will have an escort, but will Lola not be with him when he calls for you?”
“Not before the concert. You see, she is one of the musicians, and she must rehearse before the start of the performance.”
Rose shifted in her chair, and she perused the invitation again. “Where is this concert to be held, Sarah?”
“I forgot to ask, Miss Rose.”
“And you have not met this man, Mr. Williams, who will call for you?”
“No, ma’am. However, Lola assured me that he was a trusted acquaintance. A gentleman.”
Rose looked into Sarah’s face, searching it. “This is quite unusual, Sarah. A man you have never met. A concert with no location. I confess my concern.”
Sarah licked her lips. “I would, of course, invite Mr. Williams in to meet you. You may interview him and judge his suitability yourself—I would welcome your opinion and approbation, actually. And he will surely know the concert’s location.”
Rose continued to seek something in Sarah’s eyes. Or perhaps she was thinking or praying, Sarah could not decide—however, she was startled by Rose’s next question.
“Will alcohol be served at this event, Sarah?”
Sarah’s brows shot skyward. “I should think not, Miss Rose. Alcohol has been prohibited in Colorado for three years. I cannot believe Lola—Lorraine—would have an association with illegal activities.”
Rose looked down to her folded hands. “My spirit is unsettled, Sarah, perhaps needlessly, but I have learned to trust the whispers of the Spirit within me. And the lateness of the event does extend hours beyond our curfew.”
Sarah was taken aback by the mention of curfew and bristled. “Miss Rose, I am, as you know, twenty-eight years old, no longer one of the Palmer House girls. As one of your assistants in the house, I assumed that I would be exempt from the girls’ curfew and be allowed the same liberties as I would have if I lived elsewhere.”
A flicker of surprise (and hurt?) crossed Rose’s face before the older woman resolved her expression into placid lines.
“You are quite right, Sarah. I have been accustomed to treating you as one of the girls. I apologize. If the gentleman will make himself known to us when he calls for you—and if I know where the concert will be held—my concerns for you should be satisfied.”
“Thank you, Miss Rose.” But the prick of Sarah’s conscience was too sharp to ignore. She sighed. “Goodness. I-I apologize to you for my tone a moment past. It was unnecessary and hurtful. I am very sorry.”
Rose patted Sarah’s hand. “I forgive you, Sarah. I love you, and I take responsibility for my part in our momentary disagreement. I know you do not mean to wound with your words.”
“I love you, too, Miss Rose.”
As they stood and embraced, Sarah ran Rose’s last comment through her mind: I know you do not mean to wound with your words.
Is that not what Corrine said?
Chapter 9
Palmer House was all atwitter Saturday evening as Sarah prepared to attend her friend’s musicale. Sarah was to wear her best dress, an elegant hand-me-down from Emily Van der Pol’s women’s group—a soft, midnight-blue gossamer gown with exquisite jet beading along the high neckline and around the embroidered bodice.
Ruth and Pansy fussed over Sarah’s toilette and buttoned every one of the lengthy line of petite jet buttons down Sarah’s back and along her tight gigot sleeves. Blythe and Frances polished Sarah’s black boots until they shone like mirrors—then insisted on buttoning them up Sarah’s slim ankles for her.
“What will you do with your hair, Sarah?” Frances asked.
“My hair? Why, nothing out of the ordinary, really. I shall freshly braid it and wear it as I always do.”
“Perhaps a flower?” Pansy proposed.
“A posy from Pansy?” Sarah teased.
“May I suggest a rose from Rose?” a familiar voice announced in the doorway. “I must credit Mr. Wheatley for this beauty, though. It was he, not I, who cut it and trimmed off the thorns for you.”
The girls gushed their approval over the soft yellow bloom.
“It is the perfect color,” Ruth pronounced.
Sarah set to work and, within a few minutes, had achieved the raven crown above the striking peak in her hairline. When she had finished, Rose twined the rose’s stem into Sarah’s thick strands, nestling the yellow bloom within her plaited tresses.
Sarah stared in the mirror. “I am presentable but, sadly, quite out of fashion.”
“Well, I do not give a fig for what fashion dictates,” Frances retorted. “You will outshine every woman there.”
“Oh, yes. You are so beautiful, Sarah,” Blythe sighed.
Blythe’s adoring comment made the girls giggle, but Rose agreed with her. “Sarah is beautiful inside and out. True beauty is unfading; it blossoms on the inside and shines forth on the outside.”
Sarah beamed at her. “And that is why you will always be a great beauty, Miss Rose.”
The girls laughed when Rose blushed. “Heavens. How you turn this old woman’s head, Sarah.”
When the girls declared Sarah “perfect,” she took up her shawl, and they traipsed downstairs together.
Mr. Wheatley, stooped and frail, leaned up against the balustrade, waiting for Sarah to come down. His incorrigible white hair stuck out from his head in fluffy clumps; his bushy white brows resembled the two lesser satellites of his tufted pate, but his old eyes shone with approval when Sarah descended.
“A rare one, our Sarah,” he mumbled.
Sarah put her cheek to his. “I take only your compliments to heart, my sweet friend.”
“We been through a lot together, missy.”
“I could not have endured those early days without your shoulder to lean on, dear Mr. Wheatley.”
Sarah teared up, and he patted her back. “There, there.”
Blythe held out her hankie.
“Do not cry, Sarah. The young gentleman will be here directly.”
Pansy giggled. “You do not want to appear with a red nose, do you?”
Sarah sniffed back her tears. “Most certainly not.”
SPEAKING OF THE YOUNG gentleman . . .
When Blake Williams bounded up the porch steps and dropped the heavy brass knocker on the solid front door, the sound reverberated throughout what he assumed was the house’s foyer. He was perplexed, then, as he languished several minutes with no response.
Could my knoc
k have gone unnoticed?
He had his answer when a grizzled octogenarian with a head of uncommonly wild hair hauled the door open at a tedious rate and—just as tediously—examined him from head to toe.
“Good evening, young sir.”
Young sir? Who says that these days?
Besides which, Blake could read the old man’s thoughts like a book: A dandy, Blake was confident the butler had concluded from his protracted evaluation.
Blake sniffed. Dandy, indeed. I shall take that as a compliment—coming from an old geezer such as this.
Blake was confident that he was outfitted in the latest of evening fashion: snowy-white dress shirt topped by charcoal-gray sateen vest, black evening coat with tails, and scarlet tie. White spats over glossy black shoes peeped from beneath the hem of his charcoal trousers. He removed his sleek top hat and placed it in the servant’s hands.
“Good evening. Blake Williams calling for Miss Sarah Ellinger.”
“This way, sir.”
Blake entered the house, waited an eon for the aging butler to close the door behind them and lead the way, then he followed the man—at an injured snail’s pace—through the wide entryway, then to the right into the house’s great room . . . where at least a dozen appraising faces turned their focus on him, all female with the exception of one male.
Blake could not know that Marit, after tucking her children into their beds, had declared she would not miss viewing the gentleman caller “for the vorld,” nor could he know that her husband (not to be left out of such exciting doings) had accompanied her. The unsuspecting Blake only knew that around twelve sets of eyes stared without comment or expression at their polished—and quite bemused—visitor.
A slender, plainly dressed matron, with calm eyes and a sweet smile, stood and greeted him. “Good evening, Mr. Williams. I am Mrs. Rose Thoresen. Welcome to our home.”
Blake executed a perfect bow. “Blake Williams, at your service, Mrs. Thoresen. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He scanned the room and its unpretentious furnishings, taking in the bevy of young women (as modestly attired as Mrs. Thoresen), and wondered with idle curiosity with which of these simple naïfs he had been saddled. He attempted to identify his objective unobtrusively but failed in spectacular fashion—as the amused exchanges between the girls announced.
Sarah Redeemed Page 11
