Walker's Wedding
Page 2
“Come on, now.” Wadsy lumbered to her feet, taking Sarah’s arm and urging her up. The old nanny was three times Sarah’s size, her fleshy bulk swaying with the motion. “Suppa’s on the table, and there’s no need to make your papa angrier than he already is.”
Sarah dug her heels into the rug, refusing to be led to the slaughter. She knew that supper would be an emotional scene, with Papa vowing to send her off to Uncle Brice. She’d die before she’d live in Uncle Brice’s stuffy old mausoleum. His humorless laugh sounded like a crow lodged in his snout.
Wadsy’s eyes flashed with determination and she pulled, hauling her struggling charge across the Turkish carpet, out the door, and into the hallway. Sarah tried to get back into her room, but Wadsy blocked the door and called for Abe.
The towering black man quickly appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Sarah’s heart sank. She shrank against the wall, trying to avoid his gaze, but the white-haired servant pinned her with a stern look that she knew meant business. His low-pitched bass rumbled deep in his massive chest.
“Come on down now, missy. Suppa’s gettin’ cold.”
“I’m sick, Abe. I have the sniffles and I feel flushed. Don’t make me eat with Papa!”
“Ain’t no use, Abraham. You’re gonna have to come after her,” Wadsy called. “She’s in one of her moods.”
Stiffening, Sarah fixed her body in a rigid stance, keeping an eye on Abe and a hand clenched on the banister as he slowly ascended the stairway.
“I’m too ill to eat.”
“Makes no difference to me if you eat suppa or not, but your papa wants you at his table while he eats his.”
Gently but firmly prying her hand from the rail, he swung her over his left shoulder and hauled her down the winding stairway. When the battling duo reached the foyer, Wadsy hurried to straighten Sarah’s skirts, avoiding the flailing legs.
Crossing her arms, Sarah refused to let her captors intimidate her as Abe transported her into the dining room. They might force her to sit at Papa’s table, but they would need a crowbar to make her eat. Or speak.
Lowell Livingston glanced up when Abe stepped into the dining room, carrying Sarah over his shoulder.
She made sure that settling her was no easy task. She kept her knees locked straight out and slid out of her chair twice before Abe could get her planted. Then the servant excused himself and left the dining room.
The mantel clock ticked away the seconds as Lowell fixed his daughter with a harsh stare down the long, silver-laden table.
“Exactly whom,” he began in an even tone, “were you about to marry this time?”
Sarah pursed her lips, focusing on the gold-rimmed plate. “I don’t care to discuss it. I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying. Wadsy says you have the sniffles and a fever from your reckless outing this afternoon. What were you thinking, daughter? Were you honestly going to run off with this man?”
“I was. And I’m thinking,” she answered in a carefully modulated voice, “that I want to get married, Papa!”
Leaving his chair, Lowell paced the floor. Sarah recognized the stubborn set of his jaw and knew it meant trouble. She’d stretched his patience to the breaking point.
“A dockworker? A common stranger? Have you no shame?”
“You make him sound terrible. He’s better than most of the other dockworkers. Name one man more suited for marriage.”
“Joe Mancuso, train master. An up-and-coming young man making a real name for himself at the railroad.”
“Mr. Mancuso doesn’t want to get married.”
Lowell snorted. “You can’t know that! You spent one evening—one very short evening, if I recall—with him.”
“I asked him.”
Lowell paused, looking faint. “You asked him?”
“I asked him. He muttered something and excused himself. I knew what that meant.”
“What about Richard Ponder? A splendid example of a young man going places. His parents are fine people. I spoke to them personally before I arranged the meeting. Twenty-six and already a station agent. Youngest man in the division to obtain such a position—” he paused to look at her. “You didn’t ask him to marry you, did you?”
Sarah shook her head. “He volunteered the information. His mother doesn’t want him getting married. Not now and, judging by his tone, not ever.”
Papa slapped his forehead. “Great day in the morning!”
Sarah shrugged. He was clearly aghast at her candor, but how was a woman expected to know a man’s potential if she didn’t ask? If Papa could be nosy, why couldn’t she? Papa’s health was precarious. Three heart spells in two years reminded them both of his mortality. Wadsy and Abe were even older, and someday she was going to be completely alone. Alone. With no one to love her or for her to love. If she were married, losing Papa would still be devastating, but she could surround herself with her family and ease the pain.
She had seen the way Mama had looked at Papa during her illness—as if he owned her soul. He’d looked back at her exactly the same way, with so much love and need in his eyes it took Sarah’s breath. That was what she wanted. Love so strong that even death couldn’t snatch it away. If it was wrong to seek that kind of devotion, then she was guilty as charged. Wadsy said she shouldn’t depend on others for happiness, but if she had her own home, babies to look after, and a husband to love, she could cope with the losses certain to enter her life sooner than later.
“Sit down, Papa. Remember your heart.”
“Humph. You remember my heart.”
The somber reminder calmed her. She did remember. She thought about it every day.
“I’m sorry, Papa. I love and respect you, and I don’t mean to be such a bother. I wish you could understand.”
Lowell sat down, allowing Will, their cook, to spoon thick slices of beef swimming in a rich brown broth onto his plate. Dr. Mason had advised him that he should eat more vegetables and fruit, and he said Lowell was going to die from eating so much rich food—but Lowell wouldn’t hear of it. When the cook moved to serve Sarah, she waved his efforts aside. “I’m not hungry, Will.”
“May I bring you some nice broth, Miss Livingston?”
“Nothing, thank you.” She watched Papa lather thick butter onto a slice of warm bread as she waited for the inevitable. This time she’d gone too far. This time he would carry through with his threat to send her to Uncle Brice. She couldn’t bear even the thought of a dreadful, hot Georgia summer full of long, boring days in Brice’s company. Tears of self-pity and hollow remorse threatened to break loose, and she quickly averted her eyes. Clenching her fists, she waited for the storm to break.
“I’m at the end of my rope, Sarah.”
“I know, Papa. I’m sorry.”
“Today’s little escapade has convinced me that you will be better off with your Uncle Brice.”
“Papa, no!” A tear coursed down her flushed cheek and hung on the tip of her quivering chin.
Slamming his fist down on the table, Lowell glared at her. “Daughter, yes! I can’t watch you every waking moment, and you have proved to be too much for Wadsy and Abe to handle. Wadsy will pack your bags and Abe will take you to the train Saturday morning. A year in Savannah will help to refine you and make you see the error of your ways before you drive us all into an early grave.”
“A whole year? Papa!” Her thoughts turned from self-pity to anger. “I won’t go!”
She’d run away. She’d run so far this time that Papa would never find her. The times she’d been forced to endure living under Brice Livingston’s roof were intolerable. He was ill-tempered and would keep her confined if she did the least little thing to rile him. Brice wouldn’t let a man near her for the whole year. Why, last summer he’d locked her in her room every night! Papa couldn’t just ship her down South and consider the problem solved.
Brice had survived three loveless marriages, all ending in bitterness, and he had nothing but contempt for the bond she held
so dear. He would strip her of her spirit and do everything within his power to color her outlook on life, love, and, most certainly, marriage.
Staring at her empty plate, she vowed softly, “I won’t go to Uncle Brice.”
“You have no choice.” Picking up his fork, Lowell speared a piece of beef, fixing her with a hard look. “End of discussion.”
Chapter Two
Ah don’t like it. Ah don’t like it one little bit.” Old Abe set the brake Friday morning, and then he climbed down from the buggy and turned to help Sarah. Boston still slept beneath a heavy blanket of darkness. A dog barked in the distance, the only sound in the predawn stillness.
“I’ll name my first son after you,” Sarah promised. If it weren’t for Abe’s help, she couldn’t have slipped out of the house unnoticed or reached the train station in time to escape town before anyone awoke.
“The only reason I agreed to bring you here is ’cause I can’t bear to see you shipped off to your Uncle Brice. That man’s the devil if I ever seen one. He don’t believe in the good Lord, and I don’t want baby girl subjected to Lucifer hisself. No, sir. Ain’t none of my doings, but I can’t bear to see you go to that man one more time.”
“Oh, Abe. You understand. I’m sorry I was so ugly to you before supper last night.”
“That’s all right, Miss Livingston. I knows what you was facin’, I wouldn’t let a cur live with Brice Livingston—don’t know why your Papa can’t see the mean in dat man. The good Lord knows you got no business traipsin’ round the country by yourself, but I reckon if you’re not old enough by now to look after your needs, Wadsy’s done a poor job of raisin’ you.”
Leaning forward on her tiptoes, Sarah kissed the servant’s shaving soap-scented cheek. “Wadsy would hang us both out to dry if anyone suggested that she’d failed in her duties.”
Abe chuckled. “That she would, young’un. She’ll not hear it from me.” He lifted a bag from the buggy and set it down on the ground, his eyes assessing the empty terminal. “I’d carry this inside, but if anyone was to notice—”
“You’ve done enough, Abe. I won’t jeopardize your place with Papa by asking you to see me inside.” Giving him a brief hug, she whispered, “I’ll write and let you know where I am.”
“Yes’m, you do that. We’re going to be powerful worried until we hear that you’re safe.”
“Take good care of my papa.”
“I will. You take care of yourself, young’un.”
Sarah watched him return to the buggy. He drove away without looking back.
Picking up the valise, she entered the station. A mellow light bathed the deserted waiting room. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have to purchase a ticket. Papa owned the railroad and the Livingston family traveled free, but the sleepy-eyed man behind the ticket counter wouldn’t recognize her today. She’d carefully dressed in Abe’s grandson’s clothing, pulling a hat low over her face. Other travelers would assume she was a teenage boy traveling alone, exactly as she intended.
“One way to New York,” she said, trying to make her voice gruff and manly. The ticket agent didn’t look up. She laid the bills on the counter, smiling. Moments later, ticket in hand, she sat down to await the arrival of the five forty southbound. Julie Steinberg had a small apartment above her father’s Jewish delicatessen. She and Julie had been roommates in boarding school and still corresponded regularly. Sarah was sure Julie would let her stay with her until she could get her bearings. Papa would look for her there first, no doubt, but Julie would divert his efforts and lead the Pinkerton detectives on a merry chase.
Sarah knew that her educational skills were above most other young women’s; finding suitable employment shouldn’t be a problem. As soon as she had a job, she would bury herself so deep in New York City that it would take Papa’s men months to find her. By then she hoped to be married and settled.
The door opened and a young woman, followed by an older couple, caught her attention. The girl was crying, trying to sop up the stream of tears coursing down her cheeks with a soaked hankie. The older man set his jaw, ignoring the waterworks.
“You’ll be thanking us in a few years. Love ain’t got a thing to do with happiness, girl.”
The young woman shook her head, murmuring a rebuke and then crying harder.
Realizing she was witnessing a private matter, Sarah looked away and concentrated on the double wooden doors that led to the train platform. In a matter of hours she would be independent—free from Papa’s tyranny. The older couple shuffled past her, practically dragging the girl behind them.
“Dry your eyes, Lucy. Your father is right. You’ll come to understand that we only have your best interests at heart.”
The girl shrugged off her mother’s hand. “How can you and Pa be so mean? I love Rodney!”
Sarah watched the struggle from the corner of her eye, reminding herself that she shouldn’t be so nosy. She had enough trouble with her own papa.
The coarse-looking man took off his hat and ran his hands through his graying hair. “You’ll do what we say, girl. You’re not too big to take a switch to yet.”
“It’s my life! And you ain’t fair!”
The sound of a train whistle interrupted the heated discussion. The five forty was arriving. Retrieving her bag, Sarah made her way out the doors and watched as the big black locomotive pulled into the station, steam bellowing from its coal stacks.
The young girl followed, sobbing as she continued to argue against her parents’ intention to get her on the train. Their angry voices followed Sarah as she climbed aboard and took a seat in coach. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. The voices of the girl and her parents were only murmurs that faded as the train pulled out of the station.
Once daylight had broken across the horizon, Sarah watched the passing scenery, her heart thumping with the rhythm of the tracks. When her watch hands reached close to seven, her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before. Getting out of her seat, she walked to the dining car, struggling to keep her balance as the train moved over rough tracks.
Her eyes searched the confined space, lighting on the young woman who still sobbed into her hankie. Her red nose and swollen eyes assured Sarah that the crisis—whatever it was—still bloomed. Her heart dropped when she saw there was only one empty seat, and it was across from Lucy. Sighing, she walked over to Lucy’s table and said, “Mind if I sit with you?”
The girl refused to meet Sarah’s eyes. “I ain’t very good company.”
Sarah slid into the seat and unfolded a napkin. “That’s all right. I’m too hungry to be much company either.” The girl finally glanced up, frowning at Sarah’s appearance.
Of course. She would think a boy was sitting opposite her. Sarah was still wearing Blue Boy’s clothes.
Removing her cap, she released the pins from her hair and a cloud of brushed red spilled over her shoulders. “It’s too complicated to explain why I’m dressed this way, but I am a woman. You don’t have to worry.”
The girl didn’t reply but instead focused her gaze on the passing scenery. When breakfast was served, she pushed the plate away. Sarah ate with gusto, feeling like a bird finally free of its cage.
Sniffing, the young woman turned without warning. “My name is Lucy Mallory. Actually, it’s Sarah Lucille Mallory, but ain’t no one called me that ever.”
Sarah reached for a hot roll. “Small world. My name is Sarah Elaine Livingston, and unless someone’s angry with me they just call me Sarah. I noticed you’ve been crying. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You can marry Walker McKay.”
Sarah blinked, dropping the roll she was about to butter. “Pardon?”
“Marry Walker McKay. I’m being shipped off to be a mail-order bride. My father is making me marry some old dirty rancher so I can produce an heir.” Her head hit the table with a dull thud as she resumed weeping. The force of the vibration tipped the butter from the knife to the tablecloth.
“I haven’t seen the man. All I know is what Pa told me. He was hurt real bad by a bull or something, and now he’s decided he needs an heir to his fortune.” Lucy bawled harder.
A desperate man looking for matrimony. Gravely injured—he’d have health issues, but at least he was alive. “Why doesn’t he marry someone he already knows?”
Shaking her head, the girl wiped her nose. “I don’t know nothin’ about him, and I ain’t got no say in the matter. Pa set this up. Answered some ol’ ad in a newspaper. I just know I don’t want to marry Mr. McKay so Ma and Pa can save the farm—” She paused, her face flushing a bright crimson. “I jest cain’t marry him,” she corrected.
Sarah absently bit into the unbuttered roll. “Awful circumstances, indeed. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I ain’t got a choice, I tell you.”
“Maybe you do.” Sarah chewed, mulling the situation. “You really love this Rodney?”
The girl wilted with grief. “Like a pork chop at dinner! He was gettin’ ready to ask Pa for my hand in marriage. We were both bumfoozled when Pa told me he’d offered me to this Mr. McKay to be a mail-order bride.”
Mr. McKay is expecting a bride. I need a husband. Sarah calmly bit into her roll and swallowed. “I’ll do it.”
Wadsy’s voice echoed through her mind. Baby girl! Marriage is a sacred act!
And Sarah agreed. She would marry this Walker McKay and spend the rest of her life devoted to this man. Many marriages were arranged and turned out just fine. She paused. “Did your father say how old this McKay man is?”