A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “The exposition president an’ me are meetin’ this mornin’.” Mr. Felton clumped around to the back of his desk and yanked a pad of paper from a drawer. He slapped it on the desk and plunked an inkpot and pen on top of it. “Mr. Collier says we’re gonna map out a new patrol schedule, maybe even make a rotatin’ schedule so folks don’t get too familiar with one set o’ guards an’ think they can sneak past ’em to make mischief. All that’ll be explained at the end o’ the day. In the meantime…”

  He rounded the desk again and stood in front of Willie and Dunning. “None o’ this is to be talked about outside o’ my office. The other guards’ll know soon enough, but Mr. Collier was real firm that everybody stays quiet to let him figure out the best way to give information to the public. They’re tryin’ to build this exposition up. Word that one o’ the displays was tromped all to pieces could shed poor light on the whole event. It might make some o’ the other businesses displayin’ their wares wanna pack up an’ go home. So no talkin’.”

  Willie nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Dunning released a soft snort. “You might be able to keep us from talkin’, but how’re you gonna silence all the folks who visit here every day? You think they won’t notice how one o’ the rooms got tore up?”

  Mr. Felton’s bushy eyebrows crunched together into a thick V. “You worry about controllin’ your mouth, Dunning, an’ let me an’ Mr. Collier worry about everybody else’s.” Then he shrugged. “Collier’s got a plan. With any luck, it’ll work real fine.”

  Laurel

  Laurel battled the urge to twirl across the tile floor to the hallway leading to the Silk Room. Such happiness propelled her that her feet wanted to dance instead of walk.

  Mama’s smallest shopping basket hung over her arm. She’d made two sandwiches—ham from the smoker in Alfred’s backyard sliced thick and placed between two slices of Mama’s homemade bread, which was slathered with mustard purchased on their most recent trip to the grocer. She also had a quart jar of ginger-flavored water and four pickled eggs. Enough to fill their stomachs but not so much it couldn’t be consumed during a half-hour break. Noon couldn’t come quickly enough to suit her.

  She entered the hallway and then came to a stop. The door to the Silk Room was closed. How unusual. Not once since she’d begun her job as a weaver had Miss Warner not arrived ahead of the girls. She liked to open all the shades, adjust the draperies, and make a list of necessary tasks for each day. Worry for the tall, serious woman raised gooseflesh on Laurel’s arms.

  Laurel started to return to the foyer to wait for Miss Warner, but something caught her eye. Someone had fastened a paper to one of the door’s upper panels. A note about Miss Warner? Or perhaps a note from her. The electric lights, which were controlled by a switch in the mechanical building, hadn’t been illuminated yet, making the writing on the paper difficult to see. With a frown, she leaned close and read the words.

  Silk Room closed for reorganizing. Please return Wednesday, October 2, at 9:00 a.m.

  Reorganizing? Miss Warner hadn’t said a word about wanting to rearrange the room’s contents. She shifted the basket to her other arm and reached for the doorknob. Before her fingers connected with it, someone wrenched it from the other side. The door swung wide, and Miss Warner stood framed in the opening.

  Laurel lifted a smile to her. “Good morning. I—” Her elation faded. Were tears pooling in Miss Warner’s eyes? Worry struck hard, and Laurel placed her hand on her supervisor’s arm. “Miss Warner, are you ill?”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice wavered, belying the staunch reply. “Please come in.” The woman stepped aside, away from Laurel’s hand.

  Nervous but unsure why, Laurel crossed the threshold. Only one step into the room and she froze in place. Her arms went limp. The lunch basket slid over her wrist and landed on the floor. The crack of glass breaking might have been a rifle shot from the way Miss Warner winced. Liquid seeped from between the basket’s woven strips and created a puddle between the two women’s feet.

  Laurel reached out blindly and gripped Miss Warner’s icy fingers, staring in horror at the sight in front of her. “What…” She gulped. “What happened?”

  Laurel

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Felicia snatched a crumpled tapestry from the floor. Her green eyes sparked with fury, a stark contrast to the sorrow in Miss Warner’s expression. “Someone broke in and tore the place apart.”

  Of course Laurel recognized what had taken place. But for what purpose?

  Berta kicked at a crumpled lace panel that had once graced a tall window. “Somebody ought to be downright ashamed. Wish we could catch ’em and make ’em clean up after themselves.”

  Felicia flopped the tapestry over her arm and scowled at Miss Warner. “Why can’t some of the maintenance workers clean the room? That’s why they were hired.”

  Miss Warner shook her head. “No. This is our room, girls, and we will see to the mess. Instead of talking, let’s get busy. We must have everything in order again by tomorrow morning.”

  Felicia draped the tapestry across a low tufted bench that had somehow escaped the onslaught. “We’re going to need brooms and dustpans. I’ll fetch some from the maintenance shack.” She flounced out the door.

  Miss Warner sent her forlorn gaze around the room. “Berta, go after Felicia. Ask her to also find some empty crates. We’ll need something to hold the broken glass.”

  Berta scurried out.

  Laurel held her hands outward. “Miss Warner, what would you like me to do?” With such a mess around her, she didn’t know where to begin.

  The older woman sighed. “Please gather the former contents of our display case. I am hopeful some bits and pieces might still be usable.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Be careful. Don’t cut yourself.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Laurel lifted the hem of her skirt and moved on tiptoe around shards of broken glass. The display case now seemed a skeleton, only the wood frame standing. The lovely length of blue cloth that had supported the intricate dioramas lay wadded on the floor. Dirty bootprints marred its once sleek finish.

  Laurel crouched and began to gather up the cloth. Something small and fluffy fell from the folds and floated onto her lap. A broken wing from the Bombyx mori moth. She stroked the fuzzy white scrap with one finger. Her nieces’ excitement about seeing the tiny bunny filled her memory. Tears flooded her eyes, making her vision swim.

  She turned her watery gaze on Miss Warner. “Why would someone destroy things that were so beautiful? I don’t understand…”

  Miss Warner’s lips pinched into a firm line, and she stood for several seconds without speaking. Then she sighed. “I suppose it happened, Laurel, because some people don’t see the beauty of a thing. They only see a threat. And in their ignorance, they seek to destroy it.” She righted a toppled chair and then sank onto its seat, her shoulders bowed and head low.

  Laurel set the delicate wing inside the broken case, alongside a dried mulberry leaf and a cocoon, the only parts remaining of one of the display jars. Rising with the rumpled, damaged cloth in her arms, she looked across the case to the loom. Pain stabbed her chest, and fresh tears filled her eyes. A moan built in her throat and emerged in a strangled sob.

  She staggered forward, deposited the blue silk on the case’s display shelf, and continued to the loom. The loom itself seemed intact, but someone had slashed the golden threads of silk. Only one strand remained in its heddle, and that single silken thread held the cloth Laurel had so slowly and painstakingly woven. She touched the fabric, which slumped over the breast beam much the way Miss Warner now slumped in her chair. Her finger slipped through a tattered hole, and sorrow nearly doubled her in half. Whoever slashed the threads had also stabbed holes in the fabric. Ruined. All of it was ruined. Her knees gave way, and she fell onto the stool. She felt as if she’d been personally attacked, personally battered, personally ravaged. I
f whoever did this had understood how many tiny silkworms had spun their cocoons, how the worms had died so the cocoons could be harvested, the time and effort it took to dye and then unravel the strand that formed the cocoon, would they have reconsidered their decision to destroy the cloth?

  Felicia and Berta clattered into the room, and Laurel and Miss Warner rose at the same time. Felicia carried a broom over her shoulder. Berta balanced three empty crates in her arms. They both dropped their loads, and as they did so Officer Sharp strode in, carrying a mop and bucket.

  Miss Warner crossed to the young security guard. “Thank you for assisting Miss Hill and Miss Collinwood. I’ll take those now.”

  He released the items to her, then rocked on his heels, his sad gaze scanning the room. “They really did muck things up in here. I’m sure sorry, ma’am.”

  Miss Warner nodded, the motion brisk and even desperate. “Thank you. Now, if you’d kindly depart and close the door behind you, we’ll be able to restore the room to order.”

  He crossed to the door and closed it with a snap. Then he faced Miss Warner again. “I’m here to help you restore order. Then I’ll be stayin’, keepin’ an eye on things, makin’ sure something like this doesn’t happen again.”

  Laurel stifled a gasp. The exposition leaders found it necessary to post a guard in the Silk Room? She crept from behind the case, carefully stepping around the broken glass. “Should we be concerned about someone coming in during the day and…and…harming us?”

  He looked at her. Compassion glowed in his blue eyes. He removed his cap and held it against his thigh. “There’s no need to worry about that, Miss Millard. Even if somebody tried, I’d stop ’em. But I’m thinkin’ whoever did this wasn’t out to hurt you or the other ladies. They wanted to scare off the silk maker.”

  For the past couple of weeks, she had been the silk maker. Laurel folded her arms over her rib cage and hugged herself. “Whether they intended it or not, they certainly did hurt us.” She fixed her gaze on the battered cloth caught in the loom by a thread. “I feel as though someone slashed my heart.”

  Miss Warner released a soft huff. “We needn’t become maudlin, Miss Millard.” She clapped her palms together and straightened her shoulders. “Standing here ruminating won’t reverse what’s done, and it won’t bring restoration. So, everyone, let’s get busy. Miss Collinwood, please sweep all the broken glass into a pile. Mr. Sharp, if you would assist her in transferring the broken glass into a crate, I would be most appreciative. Miss Hill, gather up the curtains and examine them. It could be they aren’t damaged but only rumpled. If so, we will rehang them.”

  With each directive, her voice grew stronger. When she turned to Laurel, determination had erased all vestiges of defeat in her expression. “Miss Millard, it appears from here the cabinet behind the loom is unscathed. If so, spools of silk should still be inside. Choose a color and thread the loom. When you’re finished, sit down and weave. When we open the door to visitors again tomorrow morning, they will see a length of cloth in process.” She paused and angled her head high. “The hoodlums who sought to thwart us will not have the victory.”

  With Miss Warner leading the charge, Laurel and the others attacked the mess. No one took their regular midmorning break. They each slipped out as needed to visit the little structure intended for public comfort and then quickly returned. At lunchtime Miss Warner fetched bowls of spicy sausage and crawdad jambalaya from the Creole Kitchen. They sat in a circle on the freshly swept floor and ate the rice dish in silence, too weary and upset to engage in idle conversation.

  Although Laurel had never been particularly fond of spicy foods in general and crawdad in particular, she ate every bite. She didn’t want to offend her supervisor, and she’d worked up an appetite, given the morning’s activity. As she placed the spoon in her empty bowl, she suddenly remembered the lunch she’d packed and why she’d packed it. She sat up and gasped. “Miss Warner, I was supposed to meet a gentleman today for a picnic.” She gestured helplessly to the water-stained basket near the door. “He’s probably waiting for me and wondering why I haven’t come.”

  Sympathy pursed the supervisor’s face, but she shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t allow you to deliver a message. Mr. Collier was very firm about keeping the incident private.”

  Officer Sharp set his bowl aside. “My boss, Mr. Felton, told me an’ my partner the same thing. About keepin’ things private. We aren’t s’posed to let anybody know what happened in here. It could”—he scrunched his brow—“shed poor light on the whole exposition.” He shrugged, smiling sadly at Laurel. “Sure hope your fellow won’t be too upset.”

  Laurel bowed her head and sighed. “Me, too.”

  Langdon

  Langdon paced back and forth at the edge of the lake, shooting frowns at the place on the rise where he expected Laurel to appear. He checked his watch, growled under his breath, and paced again.

  A couple strolled past him arm in arm and approached the only rowboat that wasn’t already on the water. He’d instructed Quincy Tate to hold the boat for him, and if the man had any sense, he’d do it. Langdon slowed his gait and observed the black man shrug, gesture to Langdon, and shrug again. The couple glanced Langdon’s way, and he sent them a scathing glare. The two moved toward the bridge. Langdon nodded in satisfaction and took up his pacing again.

  Where was she? It was twenty-five past the hour already. He’d told her to meet him at the lake so he could secure a rowboat, and she’d vowed to bring lunch. Had she gotten confused and was waiting for him at the porch? If so, he’d need to have a talk with her about paying attention to instructions. Not that he intended to bark at her. He wouldn’t need to. He knew how to choose his words and temper his tone and thereby elicit guilt without being harsh. He’d learned the tactic from the best—his own father. If she were to become Mrs. Langdon Rochester, she must be made to understand that he expected her to be where he wanted her, when he wanted her. And right now he wanted her with him, full picnic lunch in hand.

  He waited until the Chimes Tower announced the one o’clock hour. Time for him to return to Father’s booth and check in with Stevens, who’d been left on his own while Langdon took a lunch break. He blew out a breath and stomped to the rowboat.

  “Tate.”

  The black man jerked to attention. “Yes, suh?”

  “When Miss Millard comes seeking me, advise her that I had to return to work. Without the benefit of lunch.” He scowled. “Do you understand the message?”

  Tate nodded, almost bowing at the waist. “Yes, suh. I’s to tell her you hadda go an’ you didn’ have no dinner.”

  “Precisely. She will likely give you a message for me in return. I will come by here midafternoon to collect it.” He jabbed his finger at Tate. “Don’t you leave this spot.”

  The man drew back, scrunching his face into a grimace. “I got work to do. I can’t jus’—”

  “Your most pressing duty is to deliver my message to Miss Millard.” Langdon affected his fiercest glower. Tate’s eyes narrowed a bit, defiance flashing in his black pupils, but he didn’t offer another argument. He must be smarter than Langdon originally surmised. “When I retrieve my message, I will give you a tip. But if you aren’t here…”

  Tate pooched his lips. “I gon’ be here.”

  “Good.” He crested the rise and joined the flow of people moving along the walkway, intending to return to the Georgia Manufacturers Building. After only a few strides he changed his mind. Laurel might be waiting at the Women’s Building. Seeing his displeasure face to face would be more effective than receiving a message from Tate.

  He eased off the walkway and trotted the short distance to the Women’s Building. Several ladies were standing in little groups on the porch, as noisy as a gaggle of geese. He climbed the steps slowly, searching for Laurel’s familiar puffy coil of dark hair and its loose strands falling along her slender neck. He di
dn’t find her.

  Swallowing a grunt of aggravation, he turned to leave. He reached the base of the stairs, and then over the noise of the jabbering women, a voice called his name. He spun around, prepared to drench Laurel in a shower of guilt, but another girl from the Silk Room, the one who’d delivered a sandwich to Laurel for him, descended the steps balancing a teetering stack of bowls in her hands.

  “Mr. Rochester, were you the one meeting Laurel today for a picnic?”

  He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets. “I was. But she didn’t come.”

  The girl’s face puckered into a pout. “I know. She didn’t leave the Silk Room.”

  “Why not?”

  Red streaked her neck. “We…um…she couldn’t.”

  Langdon huffed. “Again, why not?”

  She chewed the corner of her lip and peered at him sheepishly over the stack of bowls. “I have to take these to the Creole Kitchen. Good day, Mr. Rochester.” She scurried off.

  Langdon scowled after her. The girl was hiding something. He jerked his gaze to the doors of the Women’s Building. He’d never visited the building. Had certainly not entered the Silk Room. But curiosity combined with irritation propelled him up the steps. He edged between two gatherings of women, opened the door, and stepped inside.

  At least four hallways branched from the main room, two of them tucked behind winding staircases. Why hadn’t he asked Laurel whether the Silk Room was on the first or second floor? He had no desire to traipse through the entire building filled with feminine bric-a-brac. Perhaps he’d stick with his original plan and allow Tate to deliver a message to Laurel. He angled himself for the door. At that moment, security guard Willie Sharp clomped from behind the south staircase. He moved past Langdon without glancing right or left and headed out the front door.