Sarah Redeemed

by Vikki Kestell

  “Mr. Williams, will you sit with us?”

  Blake jerked his attention back to the matron. She indicated a chair of bulging springs and dubious origin—a chair to which Blake was loath to trust his freshly pressed trousers.

  And he had not intended to dally about; however, he could find no well-mannered way to decline her invitation—an amiable enough request—which was not, in patent actuality, a request he could refuse.

  “Thank you, madam.”

  As Blake assumed the indicated seat, he suffered an uncomfortable revelation: He would not be leaving in the expedited fashion he had planned on. No. He was about to be questioned.

  Questioned? He swore under his breath while preserving his smile. Interrogated, I should think! This old biddy will press and prod me like a Christmas goose—while the taxi’s meter runs unabated, into the bargain. Thank you kindly, Lola.

  “Er, you have a charming house, Mrs. Thoresen.”

  “You are kind. It is a pleasant home for our family.”

  Family?

  Perplexed, and experiencing a sensation much as a bug under glass might, Blake skimmed the room once more. Oh, without a doubt: Every eye was fastened upon him.

  He coughed politely. “I see. You are Miss Ellinger’s mother, then?”

  Giggles warbled among the watching women, but the penetrating gaze of the sole man in the room (other than that decrepit old husk of a butler still holding his hat) skewered Blake with blatant distrust.

  Blake swallowed. I do hope that clod is not Miss Ellinger’s brother. Ye gads! He is half the size of a mountain. I should not wish to cross him.

  The matron smiled and repeated his question. “Am I Sarah’s mother? Not directly, no. However, Sarah is the daughter of my heart.”

  Blake nodded. “I understand.” What? No, I do not understand.

  “You see, we live as a family here at Palmer House, although none of us are related by blood.”

  “Ah, of course.” The devil, you say—I have stumbled into a commune. A cult!

  “Mr. Williams, would you tell me something of yourself?”

  “Myself?” Blake’s mind momentarily shut down.

  “Yes, if you please.”

  Again, not a request to be passed over.

  “Certainly, madam.” Mind how you go, Blake, my boy. Do not make a hash of this.

  “I was born and raised in Denver, Mrs. Thoresen. My family made its fortune in timber, but we now operate a number of financial institutions. Perhaps you have heard of us? Williams Savings and Loan?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “Ah, good, good. Well, I studied business for two years in Boston and now work in the family enterprise.”

  “How nice. And you are Miss Ellinger’s escort for the evening?”

  “I—” Careful, Blake. “Miss Ellinger is, technically, Lola’s—that is, Miss Pritchard’s guest. But as Miss Pritchard will be performing, I have hired a car and have agreed to escort Miss Ellinger to the, er, performance.”

  “The invitation did not provide a location.”

  “It is the private home of a well-known family. I should be happy to write out the address if you wish, madam?”

  “Yes, thank you. That would be very kind of you.” Surely, you jest.

  But she did not. He dutifully took paper and pen from her and scribbled the address.

  “And you will also be bringing Miss Ellinger home?”

  “Either I or Miss Pritchard will hire a car to bring her home.”

  “And what time shall we expect you, Mr. Williams?”

  Blast it all, Lola! But he smiled amiably and nodded.

  “Do you have a preferred time, madam?” Because, what else could he say?

  “I think midnight appropriate, but only given the late start of the concert.”

  Concert? Late start? Do play along, Blake. The taxi’s meter is running.

  He inclined his head. “Of course. As you wish, Mrs. Thoresen.”

  The matron stood and extended a handshake. “It was very nice meeting you, Mr. Williams.”

  Blake stood, took her hand, and bowed over her fingers. “Again, it was my pleasure, Mrs. Thoresen.”

  “And may I introduce Miss Ellinger?”

  Heavenly days. At last!

  He unbent and discovered a raven-haired beauty at his elbow. For a moment he was struck dumb by her loveliness and her simple, tasteful—albeit dated—attire.

  “Blake Williams, at your service, Miss Ellinger.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Williams?”

  “Quite well, thank you.”

  Every eye in the room watched with vicarious enthusiasm.

  Good grief; what an exposition.

  “Shall we be on our way, Miss Ellinger?”

  “Yes. I am ready.”

  “And do you have your invitation, Miss Ellinger?”

  “I do, thank you.”

  Blake retrieved his hat from the doddering old butler and took Sarah’s arm. He managed to maintain his composure as they waited for the “dry old stick” to totter to the door and wrench it open with the last of his strength.

  When Blake was assured the elderly man would not, from the effort, fall dead at his feet, he escorted Sarah down the long walkway and beyond the gate. There, he released her arm and held the door for her to climb into the taxi’s back seat. Then he joined her.

  BLAKE WILLIAMS HELD his middle, chuckling, then laughing aloud as the cab pulled away. “Well! What an ordeal and a spectacle that was. It was good for a hoot, but I am relieved to have it behind me.”

  Sarah could think of no response, so an uncomfortable silence followed. She studied him out of the corner of her eye. After minutes had passed, she ventured to speak on what she hoped was a safe topic. “How long have you known Miss Pritchard, Mr. Williams?”

  “Please call me Blake. Mr. Williams is my father. And by the by? No one calls Lola ‘Miss Pritchard’ or even Lorraine.”

  Sarah cleared her throat. “I see. Ah, can you say how far our drive is . . . Blake?”

  “Not far. Perhaps another twenty minutes. I am certain you are familiar with our destination—the Polk-Stafford mansion?”

  “Oh, my goodness. We are going there?”

  “Sure. Justin Stafford hosts such ‘dos’ most Saturdays.”

  “Dos?”

  “Yes. Private parties.”

  “By parties, you do mean musicales, yes?”

  He chuckled again. “I suppose one could call them that.” He slid an ornate case from his breast pocket, clicked it open, and offered the case to her. “Cigarette?”

  “No, thank you.” Sarah frowned. Nothing Blake Williams said or did—now that they were out from under Miss Rose’s scrutiny—seemed what it had been inside Palmer House. Nothing felt ‘right.’

  What in the world have I gotten myself into?

  He removed a cigarette for himself, tapped it on the case, and studied her as he lit it. “I must confess, you are every bit the looker Lola said you were—shining hair like black silk, a fine figure, and a come-hither gleam in your eye. I can imagine how you drive men wild simply by walking into the room. Why, if I were—”

  “Mr. Williams, I believe I have made a mistake. Please tell the driver to stop the car immediately. I wish to get out.”

  But, rather than compliance, her demand was met with laughter and a good-natured pat on her hand. “Sarah, do say you are not serious?”

  “I most certainly am.” Sarah yanked her hand from under his and rapped on the window between them and the driver. “Stop the car, please. Stop, I say.”

  Alerted to her request, the driver maneuvered toward the edge of the roadway.

  “My dear girl, please calm yourself.”

  “Do not patronize me, Mr. Williams. I wish to get out.”

  As the car came to a standstill, Sarah reached for the door and pulled on the handle. Blake forestalled her by reaching across her and jerking the door shut.

  “Sarah, you are behaving like a chil
d.”

  Sarah drew herself up. “Mr. Williams, we are not familiar enough for you to offer such an opinion—you who are years my junior besides.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “And yet it seems that I just did. But do hear me out, Sarah: My compliments were honest and sincere. They contained no threat; neither do you have anything to fear from me. To put it plainly, you are not my type.”

  Sarah pulled the door handle again—and he yanked it shut.

  “Let go! Let me out!”

  “Listen to me, you spoilt girl: I am doing Lola a favor by escorting you to this party, and I guarantee that she will be quite cross with me if you decide not to come. However, if you still wish to return home, I shall have the driver turn around and take us there, and I shall see you safely to your door. I really will not have it said that I left you by the side of the road in the dark.”

  He let go of the door. “Now. Have you quite finished your fit?”

  Sarah’s mouth hung agape. She had not been spoken to with such brash familiarity in years.

  “Miss Ellinger? Do you wish to return to that oversized dormitory you call Palmer House and the annoying warden who runs it, or will you allow me to escort you to the party?”

  Sarah could have given the word for him to take her home; she could have minded the alarms in her head—but she did not. Concerned that Lola would be “quite cross” with Blake if she did not attend the event, she tipped her chin up and stared straight ahead.

  “In future, kindly keep your personal observations to yourself.”

  Blake snorted. “As you wish, princess.”

  He rapped the window. “Drive on, please.”

  THE POLK-STAFFORD MANOR sat upon a low hill, dominating a slice of the Denver skyline. The house was ablaze with lights, and vehicles lined the winding road leading up to the estate proper. Each motor car idled briefly at a guarded gate; when the gate opened, the car continued on up the lane to the house.

  As their taxi neared the gate, Blake nudged Sarah. “Give me your invitation, please.”

  The taxi paused before the closed gate. Blake rolled down his window and handed his and Sarah’s invitations to a guard. The guard looked inside their vehicle to count the number of passengers, then examined the invitations.

  As he handed them back, he murmured, “Have a good evening, sir, miss.”

  A second guard rolled the gate aside and the taxi drove through.

  “I am surprised that the invitations do not contain more than a date and time.”

  “Quite an intentional precaution. Those who are given invites know the location. If the wrong sort of people were to get hold of an invitation and it contained an address? Why, unwelcome visitors might crash the party.”

  His answer confused Sarah: precaution? wrong sort of people? “crash” the party? She found herself so mystified that she kept her further questions to herself.

  When they crested the low summit, the driver pulled in front of the house under a well-lit awning. A house servant in evening attire opened the door and assisted Sarah from the car while Blake paid the driver.

  Sarah squinted under the bright lights, but her first impression was of dozens of elegantly gowned women and exquisitely dressed men either conversing in clusters or ascending the steps to the house. Her second thought was how out of place she was—and not merely in her outmoded dress.

  I surely do not belong here.

  She had no opportunity to turn back, however. Blake had dismissed the driver; he then took her by the elbow and steered her toward the steps up to the house. At the base of the steps, two additional male servants waited.

  “Good evening, Mr. Williams.”

  Blake nodded and, for the second time, handed over their invitations. When the servant handed them back, Blake told Sarah, “Keep your invitation in your handbag.”

  “All right.”

  She tucked the card into her reticule, then he took her arm. Blake was obviously familiar with where they were going: They climbed the steps into the house, walked down a long hallway, turned right, and passed through a set of open, oversized double doors. They stepped into an immense Rococo-style ballroom. The ballroom’s ceiling rose high above them in an ornate dome. White pillars, shooting from the floor up to a high ceiling, supported the dome. Grand murals in light pastels adorned the walls, the ceiling, and the dome’s underside; stained glass windows had been set into the dome around its apex. Elaborate curves and scrolling patterns of fish, shells, leaves, and flowers—trimmed in gold—appeared in every wainscot, chair rail, and crown molding.

  Sarah had never seen anything like it.

  Intimate cloth-covered tables lined the perimeter of the ballroom, leaving the center open. At the back of the room she spotted a stage, elevated perhaps three feet, so that it overlooked the room. The ballroom was already crowded with affluent young men and women—and it struck Sarah that not a soul present could have been over forty years old. A haze hung in the air as many of the attendees—even the women—smoked cigarettes. Waiters circulated among the crush carrying silver platters loaded with tumblers of punch.

  Blake had Sarah by her elbow; he steered her with commendable expertise across the room. He stopped perhaps ten feet from a piano sitting upon the stage; he indicated one of the small tables and pulled out a chair for her.

  “Lola had Justin set aside this table for you.”

  A placard of heavy stationery read, “Reserved.”

  “W-will you leave me here by myself?”

  “Not if you do not wish me to. However, I shall be joined by a friend.”

  Sarah nodded and sat down. She wanted to leave this place and flee down the hillside, but she could not overcome her culpability for the disappointment Lola would be certain to feel should she retire before the ensemble’s performance. Besides which, she saw so many people of interest around her.

  “Would you care for something to drink?”

  Sarah was distracted but thirsty. “Yes, please.”

  While he was gone, she studied the partygoers, wondering at their eclectic dress and comportment.

  When Blake set a tall glass of fruity-looking punch in front of her, Sarah took it and swallowed down a mouthful. It was punch, but it had been liberally dosed with alcohol. Sarah had not taken a drink since she left Corinth—ten years ago. As unexpected fire hit the back of her throat, she choked and coughed.

  Blake laughed. “Careful. You will need to pace yourself if you hope to last the evening.”

  Sarah pushed the glass away. “I do not drink alcohol, Mr. Williams. Why did you not tell me they would be serving alcohol? It is illegal!”

  “Not illegal to drink. Only illegal to make, import, transport, and sell. See? Nothing illegal happening here.”

  Sarah sputtered her objections. “But, still! You should have told me, should have told Miss Rose!”

  “Miss Rose?”

  “Mrs. Thoresen.”

  He laughed again. “Tell that old fussbudget? Nothing doing.”

  “I shall thank you to speak of her with respect.”

  Blake shook his head. “Relax, Sarah. Have a good time. I doubt you get out much, based on the grilling I took.” He put his head to one side. “Are you truly this naïve? Did you not understand when I told you why the address was not included on the invitation?”

  Quite the intentional precaution. Those who are given invites know the location. If the wrong sort of people were to get hold of an invitation that contained an address? Why, unwelcome visitors might crash the party.

  Sarah reddened. “Unwelcome visitors. You were speaking of the police—and yet, you insisted, ‘Nothing illegal happening here.’”

  Blake shrugged, then waved at a man he spotted across the room. “Pardon me. I shall return shortly.” Sarah’s eyes followed him across the floor where he met and embraced the man he’d seen. They talked a few minutes, Blake occasionally gesturing in her direction, until they headed her way, pushing through the throng to reach her.

/>   “Miss Ellinger, may I present my dear friend, Juan de la Vega.”

  “How do you do,” Sarah murmured.

  Blake’s friend had the dark good looks of a Spaniard, but something about him seemed “off”: He was too handsome in a vain, coquettish way, his hands soft and smooth, his affectations careful and coy.

  And his lips were stained red.

  He smirked at Sarah as though discerning her thoughts and slid his arm through Blake’s in a possessive manner. “Your gown is lovely, señorita, the beading the perfect accesorio to your beautiful raven coronet . . . even if the style of dress did pass out of fashion a decade ago.”

  “Mind your claws, Juan,” Blake chided him. “She is Lola’s new friend.”

  “Oh, indeed?” He swept his eyes over Sarah once more. “This could prove to be an entertaining evening after all.”

  Blake cut him off. “Ah. The music is about to begin.”

  An effete gentleman paraded onto the stage to the applause and catcalls of the crowd. He bowed five or more times before he held out his hands for quiet. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this evening’s entertainment. May I present, for your listening and dancing pleasure, The Pythia.”

  Pythia? Sarah searched her memories for the meaning of the word.

  It is a Greek word, I believe, she told herself, but she had nothing more to add to its origins.

  Wild applause sounded around the room, and Sarah’s mouth fell open as the ensemble emerged from behind a curtain. Lola appeared on stage first, smiling, waving, blowing kisses to the crowd. She was dressed in a sleeveless, shimmering sheath of silver; a gauzy blood-red scarf wound around her neck and trailed down past her waist. Meg, Dannie, and a third woman followed her. Meg took up a trumpet, Dannie an upright bass, and the stranger a clarinet.

  Lola spotted Sarah, smiled, and blew a kiss in her direction, too. Then she seated herself at the piano and, with her right hand in the air and her left on the keyboard, pounded out a slow, rhythmic bass line that Dannie took up on the bass. Within seconds the crowd recognized the tune and cheered. Lola brought her right hand to the piano with a dramatic gesture, and the song broke into a full, undulating swing.