A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  But not right now. He’d been away from his booth for over an hour. He needed to at least check in. Father might question the other men about his activities. Still chortling, he turned in the direction of the Georgia Manufacturers Building at the southeast corner of the fairgrounds. To his surprise, Willie Sharp, wearing a guard uniform complete with gun belt, stood in his pathway.

  “I’m proud of you for trying so hard to take good care of Otto.”

  Father’s praise rang in Langdon’s mind and stole the chuckle from his throat. He looked Willie up and down, curling his lip. “Well, well, well…Security guard, hmm? I figured you as a groundskeeper or maintenance man. I had no idea you were qualified to be a guard.” He started to step around Willie, but something occurred to him. He poked his thumb over his shoulder. “That girl…do you know her?”

  “The one you ran into?”

  Langdon gritted his teeth. Was the man addlebrained? “Yes. Her.”

  “Not much more’n her name.”

  The band on the square suddenly blasted out the newest Sousa piece, titled “King Cotton.” So raucous. How could a person even think? “So what is her name?”

  Willie’s brows dipped. “Why do you want to know?”

  Langdon huffed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but she ran off so quickly I didn’t get a chance to ask if she’d hurt herself.” He rubbed his chin where her forehead had struck. “I want to check on her. Make sure she’s all right.”

  Suspicion was etched in the other man’s features, but he took one step closer. “Millard. Laurel Millard.”

  Laurel…Pretty name for a pretty girl. Langdon shouted over the band’s blare into Willie’s ear, “And she works in the Women’s Building?”

  “The Silk Room.”

  Now he knew exactly where to find her after he’d checked in with Sanders, Stevens, and Allday. He raised one eyebrow and gave Willie another cap-to-shoes sweep. “Shouldn’t you be patrolling or something?”

  Willie strode off, his frame stiff. Langdon choked back a laugh and returned to the Georgia Manufacturers Building. Father’s booth was central on the floor, only a few paces from the front doors—a prime location. No walls separated the booths, but Father had arranged the placement of a twenty-four-by-twenty-four-foot square of carpet. The carpet, a row of tall wood stools, a cloth-draped table covered with brochures and informational bulletins, and a large banner hanging from the ceiling behind the sample engine defined the Rochester Steam-Powered Engines space.

  Clyde Allday was alone in the booth, near the table in the front corner. He gave Langdon a surprised look. “Did you hand out all the flyers already?”

  Langdon raised his palms, surrender style. “Guilty.” Some people hadn’t seemed terribly keen on taking the invitations to visit the Rochester booth, but by using his most charming smile and persuasive speech, he’d disposed of all fifty of them. He tapped the stack of brochures. “Have you had much business?”

  Allday snorted. “There’s too much going on out at the square. Not many have wandered through here.” Then he shrugged. “But it’s only the first day. We can’t judge success based on one day.”

  “True enough.” Langdon perched on a stool and hooked the heel of his right boot on a low rung. “Have you had your lunch yet?”

  Allday shook his head. “How about you?”

  “I went to the restaurant on the roof of the Minerals and Forestry Building.” The view from the roof had been enjoyable but the fish and chips only passable. He wouldn’t order them again. Maybe he’d try something from the Mexican Village tomorrow. The spicy scents rising from the open cook fires promised something good. “If you want to go, I’ll stay here, answer questions and hand out brochures.”

  The older man smoothed the tiny patch of salt-and-pepper whiskers growing on his chin with his thumb. “That’s fine. I’ll wait until Stevens and Sanders return.”

  Had Father told the men not to leave Langdon untended in the booth? He stifled a grunt and forced a smile instead. “Suit yourself.” He remained on the stool and observed the few visitors who filed past the booth. He presumed most were curiosity seekers—not interested in making purchases but wanting to see the displays. He didn’t mind. Purchasers would come later. Today was meant to be celebratory. From his spot he had a good view of the passersby, and he smiled and tipped his hat to every girl who appeared between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three.

  Some simpered and fluttered their eyelashes. Some of them blushed, the way Laurel Millard from the Silk Room had gone pink in her cheeks. Others were hurried past by their parents. He liked the blushing ones best. Only shy girls blushed, and shy girls were usually chaste, which would please Mother. They were also unlikely to voice complaints—something he preferred. Of course, he wouldn’t set his sights on one girl on the very first day. Over the course of the exposition, there would be lots of girls. He might as well have a little fun before he made his choice.

  Sanders and Stevens ambled in a little after one, and Allday departed minutes later in a brisk stride. Two people in the booth was plenty, so Langdon grabbed another handful of flyers and rolled them into a tube.

  He waved with the tube and headed for the door. “I’ll try to send a few people this way.” While he was wandering, he might as well wander to the Women’s Building and see if he could raise another blush on Laurel Millard’s pretty face.

  Laurel

  To Laurel’s relief, Miss Warner allowed her to take the first break in the afternoon. She’d only have ten minutes, so she hoped the food shack where she could buy a plate of jambalaya for five cents was open and not busy. With one hand against her empty stomach, she hurried down the porch steps.

  As she recalled, the shack was just a few feet north. She rounded the corner of the building and released a happy sigh. The front window was open, and not a soul waited in line. She double-stepped in that direction.

  “Miss Millard? Miss Millard!”

  She came to a halt and searched for the caller. The man whose chest had brought her up short at lunchtime trotted across the pavement toward her. She sent a longing look at the food shack, but she couldn’t be rude and ignore him. Fidgeting in place, she waited for him to reach her.

  “Miss Millard, I’ve been watching for you.”

  He had? How unsettling. And yet somehow flattering, as well. She pressed her palms to her stomach. “Why?”

  He removed his bowler and ran his fingers through his dark hair, sweeping the thick locks into a wave from forehead to crown. “To ascertain our collision didn’t cause you any harm.” He seemed to search her face, then touched the center of her forehead with one finger. “Is that a bruise?”

  Heat exploded in her face. She didn’t carry a hand mirror, so she didn’t know if she sported a bruise, but it wouldn’t surprise her, given the tenderness of the spot he’d touched. She took a small step away from him. “I’m fine. Honestly.” She took another step toward the food shack. “It’s kind of you to inquire after me, Mr.— Mr.—”

  He bowed. “Langdon Rochester.”

  His formality invited a response. She dipped a quick curtsy. “Mr. Rochester.” Then she gave a start. “How do you know my name?”

  He toyed with the brim of his hat, his grin turning sheepish. “I questioned one of the security guards.”

  The only security guard with whom she’d become acquainted was Officer Sharp. Why had he shared her name with a stranger? “Well, as you can see, I’m quite well, and I…” She took two more slow steps closer to the shack. An aproned man came out from behind the small structure. He unhooked the supports holding the window open and let it slap shut. Then he returned to the back again.

  Laurel stomped her foot. “Oh! They closed.”

  Mr. Rochester shot a frown at the shack. “Is that where you were heading?”

  She sighed. “Yes.”

  Contrition bloomed on his face. “You haven�
�t had any lunch.”

  Not a question but a statement. A sympathetic one, at that. She twirled her strand of hair around her finger. “A small boy dumped the lunch I’d brought with me, and then I ran out of time to buy something. I’d hoped to purchase a plate of jambalaya on my break.” As if on cue, her stomach growled. She cringed. “Please excuse me.”

  “No, please excuse me for interrupting you.” He closed the distance between them, holding his hat against the buttoned front of his vest. His blue eyes shone with remorse. “If I hadn’t stopped you, you could be eating by now. I’m truly sorry.”

  How could she resist such a sincere apology? She smiled and shook her head. “It’s all right. You didn’t know I hadn’t eaten.” She squinted at the tower clock. Eight past three. She’d have no time to search for something else. She edged toward the Women’s Building with sideways steps. “My break time is over. I have to go.”

  “Already?” He looked so crestfallen that guilt struck her. He trailed after her. “Will you have another break?”

  “No. But missing one meal won’t hurt me.” Her stomach growled again. Oh, so embarrassing. She pressed her hands hard against her midsection. “Thank you again for your concern, Mr. Rochester.”

  He slipped his hat over his hair, settling it at a roguish angle that somehow suited him. “Take care, Miss Millard. I hope our paths might…cross again.” An impish smile curved the corners of his lips.

  A giggle built in her throat. Mama’s warning about coquetry squelched it. “Good day, Mr. Rochester.” She scurried into the building and stepped into the Silk Room as the minute hand on the wall clock reached the two. Breathing a sigh of relief, she moved behind the counter.

  Felicia shifted aside and allowed Laurel passage to the loom. Her fine brows dipped, and she caught Laurel’s sleeve. “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  Laurel sent her a puzzled look. “Yes. Why?”

  “Your face is all red.”

  Laurel placed her cool palms over her cheeks. “The sun must be warmer than I realized.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Felicia’s lips quirked. She leaned close. “I peeked out the window and saw you talking to a handsome gentleman.”

  Laurel glanced at Miss Warner, who sat at her small desk in the corner, busily writing something. Laurel gave Felicia a stern look. “He was only apologizing for bumping into me earlier today.” She touched her forehead, where his fingertip had brushed her skin. Felicia had called him a handsome gentleman, an apt description. How courtly he appeared, and how solicitous his behavior.

  Felicia shrugged, still grinning. “Whatever you say, Laurel.” She flounced around the counter. “Miss Warner, I’m taking my break now.”

  The supervisor waved her hand in dismissal, and Laurel settled at the loom. She began the familiar push and pull of beam, warp, and treadles, hoping busyness would prevent her from thinking about her empty stomach.

  What seemed only moments later, someone tapped her shoulder. She angled a quick look, her hands continuing to work the loom, and found Felicia smirking down at her. “What?”

  Felicia held up a waxed-paper-wrapped square. “I’ve been instructed to give this to you.”

  Laurel stopped midpull on the beater. “From…”

  “Your gentleman.” Giggling, Felicia plunked the package into Laurel’s idle hands. “He said to tell you he hopes goat cheese on rye with mustard is an acceptable replacement for jambalaya.”

  She’d never eaten goat cheese on rye, with or without mustard. Her pulse skittered into rapid beats. She’d been appalled when she thought Officer Sharp meant to buy her a plate of rice, so should she accept this sandwich from Mr. Rochester? Uncertainty held her captive for several seconds. Her stomach growled.

  Felicia patted her shoulder. “Go ahead and eat it.”

  Laurel’s mouth watered, but she didn’t unwrap the sandwich. “I already took my break.”

  “So many people are in the Auditorium listening to speakers that it’s quiet in here.”

  “But Miss Warner—”

  “I told Miss Warner about your lost lunch, and she said it was all right for you to take the time to eat the sandwich.” She bent close to Laurel’s ear. “I didn’t tell her a gentleman gave it to me. She presumed I bought it.” Felicia straightened and giggled again. “Eat the sandwich, silly. If you get mustard on your fingers, at least it won’t show since the silk thread is dyed yellow.”

  Willie

  Willie tucked his shirt into the waistband of his trousers and then slipped his suspenders into place. He looked down his length at his work shirt and trousers. How many men wearing pinstriped suits and bright-colored silk ties and top hats had he encountered today? He didn’t envy them their fine clothes, but he wished he carried as many coins in his pocket as those fellows likely had.

  “I didn’t even have an extra nickel to buy Miss Millard’s lunch.” He made the embarrassed confession to his uniform, which he’d folded and put in his cubby.

  “What’s that you said, Sharp?” Ted Dunning, Willie’s assigned partner, plopped onto the bench in front of the wall of cubbies and reached for his scuffed boots.

  Willie shook his head. “Nothing important.”

  “Somethin’ about buyin’. I heard that much.” Dunning was at least ten years older than Willie. Not much taller, but paunchier. He grunted as he tugged the boot shank over his trouser leg. “I was plenty mad about the trolleys raisin’ their prices. Carney”—he pointed with his chin to another of the guards—“says the herdics’re only chargin’ a dime for up to two passengers. They’ll drop you off at the Transportation Building, an’ some of ’em plan to hang around there all day so people can catch rides. They’ll even cart you around the grounds if you want. Carney an’ me are gonna try an’ get one tomorrow mornin’. Nickel apiece. That’ll save us lots of money.”

  Willie and Quincy could save more of their pay by taking a one-horse buggy instead of the trolley. Maybe it was good Dunning had overheard him.

  Dunning stood and gave his waistband a pull. “See you tomorrow mornin’, Sharp.” He sauntered out of the room behind the other few stragglers.

  Willie didn’t need to hurry. It took Quincy a while to put away his tools and cross the grounds from the maintenance shack clear at the north end of the park. Tomorrow, though, if they made use of a herdic cab, they’d both take a long walk to meet up at the end of the day. They’d used the trolley to reach the west entrance since it was closest to their houses. But the Transportation Building sat at the east side, on the other side of Clara Meer. Willie didn’t mind the extra walking at the end of the day. But he didn’t want to walk the whole way home. He’d wear out his shoes before the exposition ended.

  He left the building through the side door and moved around to the back, heading for the tunnel’s opening to the park, him and Quincy’s meeting spot. Somebody was already waiting there, leaning against the brick and peering up the tunnel, but it wasn’t Quincy. Willie was as happy to see her as he would’ve been to see Quincy, though.

  He loped the last few paces and stopped next to her. “Hello, Miss Millard.”

  She turned her head and met his gaze. Her brow puckered, like she wasn’t sure she should talk to him.

  He touched his chest with his fingers. “It’s me—Willie Sharp. I showed you to the Creole Kitchen today.”

  Her expression cleared. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you without your uniform.”

  “We don’t wear ’em home. Just for here at the expo.” The Silk Room girls must not need uniforms. Her dress was as pretty as any worn by other lady visitors, except hers had a big bow at the base of her spine instead of a bustle. He wished he had the courage to tell her how nice she looked.

  “Well, I’m glad to see you.”

  He gawked at her. “You are?”

  She nodded, and that little strand of hair that never seemed to stay pinned in her
fat doughnut of brown hair drifted across her cheek. She caught it with her fingers and twirled it. “I was very disconcerted earlier today when a man I’d never met knew my name. He said you’d given it to him.”

  Willie thought back. The only person who’d asked for her name was Langdon Rochester. Worry tightened his chest. “Did he…accost you?”

  “No.” She released the curl of hair and clasped her hands at her waist. “He only inquired after me. But, Officer Sharp, I hope you aren’t in the habit of sharing personal information about others with complete strangers.”

  “But he isn’t a stranger.” Willie blurted the statement in self-defense, but he wished he could take it back. It’d sounded like he meant to argue. He cleared his throat. “I mean, yes, he was a stranger to you, but he isn’t a stranger to me. I know him. He’s my boss’s son.”

  She tipped her head. “Oh?”

  Willie licked his dry lips and nodded. “Langdon Rochester’s pa owns the Rochester Steam-Powered Engines factory. I work for him. That is, I did before I hired on here as a security guard. But when the expo’s done, I will again. So he—Langdon’s pa—is my boss.”

  Her rosy lips curved into a small smile, and a little sigh eased out. “I see. Thank you for the explanation.”

  She wasn’t mad. The weight of worry rolled off him. He shrugged. “It’s no problem. An’ you don’t need to call me Officer. Just Willie’ll do.”

  “Willie!” Quincy pounded up, sweaty and breathing hard. “I’m here. So let’s—” He jolted and aimed his face at the ground. “S’cuse me, ma’am.”

  Miss Millard held out her hand to Quincy. “Hello.”

  Quincy didn’t lift his head, but his eyes shifted. He barely touched Miss Millard’s hand and then pulled back. “Hello.”

  She looked at Willie with her eyebrows raised. “Mr. Sharp”—hadn’t he told her to call him Willie?—“would you please introduce your friend?”

  Willie slung his arm across Quincy’s shoulders. “This is Quincy Tate. You’re right he’s my friend. You could say he’s my best friend.”