by Kay Moser
“A silver teapot?” Bert exclaimed.
“Victoria said a china teapot would be broken too easily. Silver is more durable.”
“Well, who can argue with that?” Bert threw her hands up and laughed. “Clearly we must have a table and a way to heat water.”
“Not to mention tea, milk, and sugar,” Ella added as she furrowed her brows. “What will we do for those?”
Bert grinned at Sarah. “You don’t have a cow in that carpet bag of yours, do you?”
“No cow,” Sarah answered. “Just tins of tea and sugar.”
“That settles it,” Bert announced. “We’re going to have a table and a kettle. We can get hot water and milk from the dining hall any time we want it. Make your beds. I’ll be back.” She bolted off the platform and hailed one of the men hauling furniture to the tents.
“I bet she really does come up with a kettle,” Ella said. “Trust me, Bert loves her afternoon tea.”
Sarah looked down at her dusty clothes in dismay. “What I would love is a bath.”
“Oh yes, and a chance to lie down. I never dreamed this trip would be so hard ...”
***
Bert soon returned with the promised kettle and a man carrying a table. “Grab your towels and soap, ladies. We’re going exploring and find the bath house.”
“And the dining hall,” Ella added.
“All in good time. Cleanliness first,” Bert answered.
“What about sending a telegram?” Sarah asked.
“Down at the gate where we checked in. I hear they will be collecting messages there until nightfall. Be sure to bring some money.”
Sarah lagged behind the other two as she examined the rows of various-sized tents set up like military camps she had seen in book illustrations. The “roads” between the rows consisted of nothing more than ditch-lined, dusty wagon paths. At present they were clogged with wagons piled high with furniture and boxes, pulled by tired, smelly mules. Uncomfortably hot, the late afternoon sun burned through Sarah’s straw hat and spilled onto her shoulders. Everywhere she looked she saw teachers in their dust-covered, dark skirts and limp, white shirtwaists scurrying around, setting up their temporary households in the tents. The most welcome sight was the bathhouse with its supply of clean water. They paused long enough to clean some of the travel grime from their faces and hands.
At Ella’s insistence they bypassed the auditorium without examining it, hurried on to the dining hall, and were among the first ones to climb the steps. Sarah paused at the top, more interested in the panoramic view of the valley than in food, but Ella muttered, “Later, Sarah!” and dragged her inside.
As they sat next to a window and ate their first full meal in two days, the large hall filled with chattering women, and Bert read instructions to them from the pamphlet she had received when they’d checked in. Sarah ate quickly, not so much because she was famished, but more because she felt an intense desire to explore the outdoors and to be alone and quiet. Luckily the shortage of tables soon granted Sarah her wish, as they needed to relinquish theirs for newcomers. Bert excused herself and began circling the room to touch base with all the Fort Worth teachers. Ella left for their tent. Sarah was finally free.
***
When she left the dining hall, Sarah stood on the porch and studied the panoramic view of the valley below her. The scene had changed entirely. The sun had moved behind the giant, jutting stones at the top of the mountains, taking its dominating, whitening light with it. Wide swaths of green shade striped the valley’s golden fields. A slight breeze blew across Sarah’s shoulders and ruffled her hair. As she descended the steps, the breeze became a much cooler, evergreen-scented wind. How refreshing! Cool air, clear light, a view that extends to the horizon. This is definitely not summer in Riverford!
Sarah began her walk down the steep, dusty wagon road to send a telegram to Victoria. The farther she walked from the large building, the more the fresh mountain air of the evening swirled around her, and she thought of Victoria, so ill from the suffocating heat. If only she could be here …
After Sarah had entrusted her message to the telegraph agent, she turned back toward the encampment. The fiery sunset behind the mountains seized her attention. The gigantic slabs of rock, which covered the mountains like veneer, had turned charcoal-colored, but the sky behind them was first apricot, then orange, and finally magenta. The tops of the rocks caught the changing light and threw fragments of color across the valley, painting it with more vividness and ease than any artist could.
Sarah turned her head from side to side, unable to decide which way to look. She was equally drawn to the drama and sharp contrasts of the mountain peaks and the softness of the diffused light in the valley. When she turned to the mountains, she longed for Victoria to stand beside her, to drink in the form and color for tomorrow’s painting. When she turned to the valley, with its changing light gliding across the mesas, she longed for Christine. How this scene needed to be accompanied by a Chopin nocturne. The breeze grew cold and encircled her shoulders, and she longed for the warm arms of Lee. Yes, most of all … she longed for Lee.
When the sun could cast nothing brighter than magenta rays behind the mountains, Sarah began her climb to her new tent home. Winded from the high altitude, she slipped around behind the tent and stared straight up at the mighty rocks. The sky had darkened, and the moon and stars had gained precedence in the clear heavens. Amazing, unbelievable … if only my loved ones could be here. Victoria would surely be well. Christine’s grief would surely lessen. Mama could rest, really rest. And Lee … Oh, Lee!
“Come inside.” Bert’s voice sounded softer than Sarah had ever heard it. “I know it’s hard to leave such beauty, but you must be exhausted. Come rest.”
Startled and humiliated by tears splashing down her cheeks, Sarah put her hands over her face, but Bert moved to her side. Wrapping Sarah in her warm shawl, Bert drew her into a hug. “It’s okay, Sarah. You are sensitive to beauty; that’s a good thing. Now, come inside and sleep.”
How amazing it is, Sarah thought as she lay between the sheets on her simple iron bedstead. There is only a wall of canvas between me and those mighty creations of God that soar into the night sky, that seem to touch the moon. I never knew such splendor existed. This is the world Victoria has seen; no wonder she can transport others through a painting. And Christine reaches for this world in her music. How loving they are to want to give me this beauty! How I want to share it! If only Mama could see it …
“Help me, dear God, help me to maximize my time here and somehow to take this experience home to share with all those drudging their way through life.”
Sarah slipped into sleep.
CHAPTER 21
Sarah awakened at first light and dressed with haste and silence in the chilly, invigorating mountain air. She unpacked the heavy shawl her mother had knitted for her, gratefully wrapped herself in it, and without bothering to put her hair up, stepped out into the brightening sunlight. As she hurried around the tent, her first view of the mountains bathed in the increasing eastern glow sent a thrill of joy surging through her. The early sunlight was painting the great slabs of rock a rosy terra cotta color. The somber green fir trees marched up the sides of the mountains, still shaded by the rocks and awaiting their turn to glow in the light. The knee-high, golden grasses of the mesa in front of her waved in the breeze, beckoning her forward, and she gladly accepted the invitation.
She walked toward the mountains, following a barely discernible path. She made slow progress because she could not resist the urge to turn and look behind her at the valley on her left which cradled the town of Boulder, and the great wide plain to her right, where the morning sun was making fast progress toward the deep blue of the sky overhead. The high altitude snatched her breath, and she was grateful to plop down on a small rock halfway up the hillside.
How far up I have come, she thought as she stared down at the tops of the tents. Even the high towers of the auditorium wi
th their waving flags were far below her. Her mind drifted back to the long train ride, to the years in college, to that morning—not quite three years ago—when she had climbed out of the shallow valley containing her father’s farm with a jar of honey to sell and a craving for learning.
She jumped up and threw her arms wide. “How far I have come!” Sarah whirled, her long hair flying around her shoulders
“I beg your pardon! Were you speaking to me?”
At the sound of the male voice, its modulation suggesting education, refinement, and a bit of disdain, Sarah stopped. “Oh! I didn’t know you were there.”
“Clearly.” The tall, dark-haired man who stood before her in his fashionable brown tweed suit pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. His facial expressions, coupled with his short, pointed beard, suggested severe disapproval. He planted his cane on the ground and studied her. “Because of your youth, I am tempted to think you a town girl rather than one of the teachers, but your accent tells me otherwise.”
“My accent?”
His sudden smile seemed mocking. “Your accent. You are clearly from Texas. I am an expert in these things, you see. I study them. Indeed, that is exactly why I have agreed to abandon my customary summer tour of England and live in these wretched accommodations for six weeks.”
Confused, Sarah cocked her head and squinted at him.
“I am writing a book about the nuances of the southern accent and dialect. Texas speech is unique, really quite different from the dialect of the old Confederacy—”
A crow suddenly swooped close to their heads, cawing his disdain for their presence on his mesa, and Sarah giggled in spite of her attempts to maintain a mature demeanor.
“What the devil is wrong with that bird?” The man waved his cane over his head, but the bird landed nearby and continued to fuss at him.
Sarah forced herself to produce a serious face. “Perhaps he is Texan.”
The man straightened into an indignant posture. “My dear young lady—”
“You did express a desire to study Texas accents.”
He sighed and shook his head as his eyes filled with mirth. “Now why would a Colorado crow be cawing in a Texas accent?”
“A crow by any other name would sound as harsh.”
“What a dastardly misquotation of Shakespeare! I hardly know what to think of you.”
Sarah laughed, stepped past the man, and continued up the path as she called back, “‘Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me.’”
“Well, at least you’ve quoted Alexander Pope accurately,” he called after her, “but I’m hard pressed to forget a beautiful young woman, alone on the mountainside, her hair falling around her shoulders …”
She continued her climb, refusing to look back or respond.
“May I not at least know the name of this beauty who borrows from the English poets so freely?” he raised his voice to ask.
Sarah kept her face turned toward the mountain, now bathed in the full glory of morning light.
“I am Dr. Augustus Wickham of Boston,” he called after her.
Sarah’s heart sank. Oh no! My British literature professor. Eager to avoid further conversation with him, she increased her pace.
***
Before leaving her tent for breakfast at the dining hall, Sarah made every effort to “age” herself by parting her hair in the middle and pulling it into a severe knot at the base of her neck. When Dr. Wickham entered the facility and stood in the door a moment surveying those gathered, Sarah uttered a fervent, silent prayer that he would not recognize her.
“What is wrong with you, Sarah?” Ella whispered. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Sarah snatched up the printed schedule of classes and activities, raised it to her face, and pretended to study it. “Oh look,” she said far too gaily. “They are offering badminton classes.”
“Badminton classes?” Bert’s voice rose above the clatter of the diners. “You haven’t time for such things, Sarah.”
“Oh!” Ella exclaimed. “He’s coming this way.”
“Who is?” Bert asked. “I declare, I think you’ve both gone crazy.”
“A very handsome … I mean, distinguished, man,” Ella whispered.
“Control yourself,” Bert commanded Ella, then turned to Sarah, adding, “and put down that schedule and eat. You’re not wasting your time taking badminton classes, Sarah Novak.”
“Ah, it is Miss Novak, I see.” The Boston accent was unmistakable. “I would gladly take up the sport of badminton with you, but I fear it will not fit into my strict morning regimen of a brisk walk, reading of the newspapers, and breakfast with my colleagues. Collegiality is such an important trait to foster, even with colleagues as limited as those present here. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Novak?”
His snobbish comment angered Sarah, but she held her tongue.
He shrugged as he continued. “What can one do? One must maintain one’s standards. Fortunately, the primitive circumstances do allow one to meet the most beautiful young woman, hair falling loosely on her shoulders, on one’s morning walk. Good day, Miss Novak.” He bowed before turning away.
Bert and Ella watched him go, then turned their eyes to Sarah.
“Now I want to know who he is,” Bert whispered. “I’m supposed to be chaperoning you.”
Sarah pressed her lips together, turned her head, and stared out the window.
“Who is he, Sarah?” Bert demanded.
“My British literature professor, I’m afraid. Dr. Augustus Wickham.”
“That settles it,” Ella sighed. “I’m definitely signing up for British literature.”
“Be quiet, Ella,” Bert commanded. “Sarah, you’ve already met your professor? How? Where?”
“Yes,” Ella chimed in. “How? Where? When?”
“I was walking on the mesa right after dawn, and I ran into him. Oh dear! I made a total fool of myself. I was giddy with the magnificent beauty, and I was exclaiming—oh, never mind what I was exclaiming. Then I’m afraid I flippantly misquoted Shakespeare. But he was so insulting, the way he demeaned Texans. Oh, Bert! What am I going to do?”
Bert plopped her straw hat on her head and stood up. “Pray there’s another British literature professor available.”
Sarah was so upset she bolted up from the table, snatched the schedule, and hurried toward the door. Bert and Ella followed at a more dignified pace, but Bert hailed Sarah as soon as they reached a proper distance from the dining hall.
“Now calm down, Sarah. There will surely be more than one British literature professor.”
“But Dr. Augustus Wickham is the man I came here to study under, Bert. I read all about him in the brochures before I ever left Texas. I need to study under him; I need the certificate they give for completion of his course.”
“But what price are you willing to pay for it?” Bert asked. “The man’s obvious interest in you is not going to lend itself to a professor-student relationship. There must be other courses that will give you further credentials. Besides, I don’t like him!”
“You don’t even know him.”
“He’s too much of a dandy for my taste, and he’s too cocky. I don’t trust him.”
“I can’t argue with your description of him. It would be really uncomfortable to be in his class.”
“We’ll find you another teacher.”
“Does this mean I shouldn’t study under him, either?” Ella asked.
Bert gave her a sarcastic look. “I think you’ll be quite safe, Ella.”
***
When Sarah left the auditorium an hour later, she had registered for art history, science, music appreciation, and Shakespeare—with Dr. Herbert Morton, a bespectacled, white-haired man who avoided eye contact with everyone and spoke in a droning monotone.
“What does it matter if Dr. Morton has no social skills?” Bert asked. “He has an impressive resume, and other than Dr. Wickham, he is the only faculty member on staff who has studied in
England.”
“Is that why you registered for his course?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, in fact, it is exactly why. When will I ever again have a chance to study Shakespeare from a scholar who has actually lived in England?”
Sarah nodded. “You’re right, of course. And I am excited to study music appreciation with Madame Natalya Makarova. Just think, besides being a touring concert pianist, she actually conducts symphonies. Oh, how I wish Christine could be here!”
“Who is Christine?”
“The most amazing pianist. You should hear her play. You would never believe she lives in Riverford. Why, when Antonio Santoro, the famous violinist, comes to spend time with Victoria, he always gives a musicale and insists Christine play with him. It’s a shame she’s buried in Riverford, but, of course, she is Mrs. Richard Boyd—” Sarah’s words screeched to a halt as her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.
“What on earth’s wrong with you, Sarah?”
“Richard Boyd died quite suddenly three weeks ago. Oh, Bert, I’m a horrible person. Here I am reveling in the beauty of the mountains, all caught up in classes and professors, and Christine is drowning in grief. I have hardly thought of her since I left Riverford. You have no idea what she’s done for me. She has been my guardian angel since I was a child!” A sob escaped Sarah’s mouth.
Bert gave her an awkward hug followed by a little shake. “Now, stop that crying. I would bet a hundred dollars that this Christine insisted you come. Right?”
Sarah nodded.
“And she, no doubt, has close friends who are comforting her, people like your friend, Victoria. You can be sure she is visiting her and—”
Sarah turned away and buried her face in her hands.
“Now what’s the matter?” Bert demanded.
“Victoria has been sick,” Sarah choked out. “Supposedly it’s the heat, but I’m scared it’s something far worse.”
Bert tapped her practical, sturdy boot. “Sarah, these women have worked and sacrificed to make your dreams come true. Trust me; I know what I’m talking about. I’m much older than you, and I’ve taught certain girls I was absolutely determined to raise above their station in life. It gave me great pleasure to help them gain opportunities I never had. Your Christine and Victoria want you to be here. The best thing you can do is write them and share every detail of the grandeur of the mountains and the excitement of this place.”
