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-May 1881-
~Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory~
Sarah Webster arranged her freshly baked tarts on a tray with measured precision, smiling as she went about the task. Her workday neared its end, but she wouldn’t leave until the dish was just right. Focusing on the presentation of her pastries helped her drown out the noisy chaos of the kitchen. Within a few minutes, she had filled the tray.
"Sarah, where are my strawberry tarts?"
In response to the shouted question, Sarah shook her head. Grabbing the small, cloth bag filled with sweetened whipped cream, she quickly dropped a dollop onto each of the dozen confections. "On the way now, Chef!"
Grasping the edges of the tray, she moved to the other side of the bustling kitchen, where her superior waited to inspect the finished product.
Chef Robert, a black man of fifty years of age, stood with his hands laced behind him. His short, barrel-shaped frame was draped in black trousers and white chef's coat that matched her own. The traditional white cloche sat atop his balding head. He swept his dark-eyed gaze over the tray, scrutinizing the tarts. Moments later, he gave her a curt nod, the signal that he found her work satisfactory.
"Thank you, Chef." Sarah sidled away, handing the tray of tarts off to one of the waiters, who'd been quietly observing the exchange. As the waiter slipped through the swinging doors, Sarah released a pent-up breath. She dearly wanted a moment off her feet, but she knew she had a couple of hours left before her shift ended.
Feeling Chef Robert's eyes on the back of her neck, she turned and went back to the pastry station. Once there, she washed her hands in the basin and started work on her next order: a triple–berry, lemon cake for a wedding later that day.
While she mixed the batter, Sarah mused on her situation. At twenty-two, she knew what an honor it was to hold a position at Cheyenne's beautiful Inter-Ocean Hotel. Barney L. Ford, the black founder of the hotel, had founded several businesses around the west, and had opened this property in 1875. The Cheyenne Inter-Coastal had gained national fame as the first in the country to have electric lighting throughout.
As a proprietor, Mr. Ford was known for his discerning tastes when it came to hiring employees. Sarah knew how lucky she was to have snagged the position, especially considering how she'd come to the area. She'd answered an ad that had appeared in the Fayetteville Observer, her hometown newspaper. It had been a longshot, but the chance she'd taken had led to her becoming the youngest chef in the hotel's history.
Once the batter reached the proper consistency, Sarah began the delicate task of adding berries to the mixture. The idea was to incorporate them well, without smashing them. Whole berries made for a more pleasant presentation, and beyond that, smashed berries released juices which could ruin the consistency of the final product. Mindful of that, Sarah used a wooden spatula to gently fold the batter over the plump blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries. She'd learned the technique from Rosaline Rhodes-Pruett, the baker whom she'd apprenticed under for three years.
Once the cake layers were safely tucked into the oven, Sarah set about making the creamy lemon glaze that would top the cake. Citrus fruits were hard to come by in the Territories, but Chef Robert had connections to a grower in Florida, who sent shipments of oranges, lemons, and limes twice a year. This cake's glaze used a bit of fresh lemon juice, but got most of its bright flavor from dried lemon zest. Sarah zested lemons whenever a shipment arrived, and kept some carefully preserved, along with the other spices on the rack above her station.
"Sarah. You're free to go, my dear." Chef Robert approached her station with an easy smile. "Good work today."
She set down her pastry bag, admiring the freshly frosted triple-berry cake. "Thank you, sir. I hope the couple and their guests enjoy it."
He nodded. "I'm sure they will, assuming it tastes as wonderful as it looks."
"Thank you again, Chef." Sarah smiled. She much preferred this version of her boss. He was a very serious person during the workday. Once the day's orders were completed, he visibly relaxed. Sarah supposed she understood that. After all, Chef Robert ran a very efficient kitchen.
"I'll see you tomorrow." Chef Robert tipped his cloche in her direction as he disappeared through the swinging doors.
With a smile and a wave, Sarah moved to the basin to wash the remnants of her latest creation off her hands. Then she moved to the small pantry adjoining the kitchen to strip off her chef's coat. Turning it over in her hands, she could see the purple stains left by the blueberries she'd handled. Resigned to take the coat home and wash it, she folded it and tucked it into her handbag.
The absence of the coat revealed her attire: a blue blouse with a white lace collar, and a pair of denim trousers. As she dusted a bit of flour from the legs of her denims, she giggled at the thought of how the genteel Southern ladies of her hometown might react to her wearing such unconventional clothing. In North Carolina, most women wouldn't dare to wear trousers outside their own homes. Here in Wyoming Territory, however, things were very different. Women here wore what they pleased, lived the lives they wanted, and perhaps most importantly, they had the lawful right to vote. That precious right was one the ladies back east simply didn't possess.
Securing the strap of her crocheted handbag in the crook of her elbow, Sarah left the pantry, strolled through the kitchen and then the hotel's dining room, before she passed through the lobby on her way out to the street. As she stepped outside, she saw the hotelier climbing out of his chauffeured coach.
Stopping, she offered a smile. "Good day, Mr. Ford."
He returned her smile. "And a good day to you, Miss Webster. Headed home?"
She nodded. "Yes, sir, after I've seen to a few errands."
He tipped his hat to her as he entered the hotel, and she went on her way.
Navigating the busy street, Sarah made her way to the telegraph office. She took care to avoid the buggies, buckboards, and folks on horseback as she walked. She nodded greetings to a few of her acquaintances who passed her on foot, all the while keeping close to the road's edge to avoid the pounding hooves of other folk's horses, and the waste the beasts left in their wake. The cacophony, consisting of the hoof beats, wagon wheels rolling over the rutted dirt road, and the many conversations, provided a backdrop to Sarah's thoughts. The noise provided something of a soundtrack to her daily life.
When she stepped into the telegraph office, she was relieved to find it nearly empty. Only one other person stood between her and retrieving her messages, so she stood a respectable distance away and let the man finish his business with the clerk.
After the man left, Sarah approached the tall, wooden counter. "Afternoon, Tillman. How are you?"
Tillman Sutter, the telegraph clerk, busied himself scrawling notes on his pad of paper. When he looked up, a smile broke over his olive-skinned face. "Why, Miss Webster. I'm just fine, and, how are you?"
"I'm well. Any messages for me?"
Tillman, seated atop a stool behind the counter, swiveled to his left to open the wooden box containing his incoming messages. "Yes, ma'am. You've got two. One came in from Washington yesterday. The other came from your folks back east this morning." Fishing two slips of paper out of the box, he handed them to her.
She accepted the offered slips. "Thank you, Tillman." She turned her head toward the sound of the door opening, and saw two more people enter the office.
Backing away from the desk to allow other patrons access, Sarah took a seat in one of the chairs lining the back wall of the office. Her eyes grazed over the two messages. The one from her father requested her presence at her mother's forty-fifth birthday party in early July.
The other telegram was from the United Women's Advancement Society in D.C., with whom she'd been corresponding. The women of the society had extended an invitation to their upcoming conference, to be held the second week of July. A smile spread over Sarah's face as she realized she now had good use for the vacation days she'd been saving up.
Excitement coursing through her and she hurried out of the telegraph office, intent on going home to start making her travel plans.
***
~Fayetteville, NC~
Running the plane over the section of log for a final time, Owen Markham stepped back to assess his work. The piece of pine was to be part of a sitting bench ordered by the Goodman family, and he knew they demanded the highest caliber of craftsmanship. Checking the piece to be sure it was completely straight and flat, he lifted it from its spot atop two sawhorses, and carefully added it to the pile of planks he'd already made for the project.
Tugging the old handkerchief from the pocket of his denims, he dragged it around his hairline, then across his neck to banish the perspiration there. Even with the windows of his small woodshop open, the heat could become oppressive during the middle part of the day. Adding his non-stop work for the last few hours to that, and he felt downright exhausted.
Easing through the open door into the yard that lay between his shop and his small cabin, he went to the pump. Setting the bucket below the spigot, he worked the handle to fill it, then scooped up and drank several dippers full of the sweet, cool liquid. He hauled the remaining water in the bucket into the house, where he used it with a sliver of lye soap to wash away the sweat from the morning's labors. Refreshed after the cleansing, he slipped into a clean pair of denims, but chose to forgo a shirt due to the work that still lay ahead.
He fixed himself a sandwich with a few pieces of leftover ham. He added some dried apple slices and a cup of lemonade, then sat down for a late lunch.
After he'd eaten, he returned to the woodshop, ready to assemble the four benches the Goodmans had ordered to place around their property. He'd just begun hammering when he heard a knock behind him. Turning toward the sound, he set down the hammer.
In the doorway stood George Webster, the city's premiere haberdasher and shoemaker. "Afternoon, Owen. How goes the work?"
He smiled, walked over to shake his hand. "Hard as ever, but I don't mind it. Come on in, Mr. Webster. What can I do for you?"
George eased inside, taking a seat on one of the low stools by the drafting table. "Came to see if you can fit me in for an order. I know you're busy by Liza's birthday is coming."
Owen knew George referred to his wife, Elizabeth. Mrs. Webster was a seamstress by trade, and worked with George in his business, serving his female clients. "Sure, I'll make some room for you." Owen sat down on the other stool, sliding up to the drafting table. Opening his project ledger, he grabbed a pencil. "What do you need?"
"A gazebo."
Owen blinked a few times. "Big project. Gonna take me a while."
"I know. Liza's been asking for one for years, and what better time to give it to her than her milestone birthday?"
He nodded. "I see. And when would you want it finished by?"
George looked a bit hesitant. "Well, her birthday's July second, so..."
Owen held back his groan. "So, in about four or five weeks, then?"
George nodded. "Yes, if you can do it. I'm willing to pay a bit extra for the quick completion."
His eyes scanning over the other projects already in the ledger, Owen searched for a gap that would allow him to fulfill Mr. Webster's request. "Hmmm. I think I can fit you in, but I'll have to start right away."
"That's fine. How soon should we have the area ready?"
Owen jotted down Mr. Webster's name in the ledger. "Depends on the design. Let me show you my sketches. Got three different gazebos you can pick from." Reaching into a crate he kept beneath the drafting table, Owen extracted a sketchbook. He opened it, flipped to the pages showing his gazebos, and handed it to George.
After perusing the three sketches for a few silent moments, George pointed out the middle of the road model. "This one. I think it'll suit her nicely."
Owen made a note of the model number in the ledger next to George's name. The gazebo he'd chosen had lattice on all but one side, which was left open for entry. The interior wraparound bench provided comfortable seating, and the shingled roof would provide protection from the sun, rain, and wind. "Good choice, Mr. Webster."
"So, when will you need the yard ready?"
"About a week. It'll take me that long to get the wood and to trim the pieces down. Any particular wood in mind, something she likes?"
"She's partial to cherry."
Owen nodded, noting that in the ledger as well. "Good choice. Stands up well to the elements. I've got a little cherry on hand, and I can order some more from the mill. Going to add an extra few days to the timeline, though, so let's stay I'll start first week of June. How's that?"
"Sounds good. Gives me time to have the yard trimmed. The store has been so busy, I've neglected the yard, and it's starting to look like a jungle back there." He chuckled.
Owen joined in George's laughter. "Hopefully, you'll have tamed the savage weeds by the time I come in with my lumber and tools."
"How much do I owe you?"
Owen quoted the price, and without hesitation, George wrote him a bank draft for the amount.
Then he stood and shook Owen's hand again. "I've got to get back to the store. Thanks for your help, and send someone around to the house if you have any messages."
"I will. And thank you for your business."
With a wave, George slipped out the shop door.
After he left, Owen spent a few minutes making notes in the ledger, including the amount of cherry wood, linseed oil, and pitch he'd need. Knowing he'd need to purchase more nails, screws, and other hardware, he made mental note to visit the general store later in the day. Closing his ledger, Owen returned to the center of the shop and continued assembling the first of the Goodman's benches.
By the dinner hour, Owen had finished assembling, sanding, and staining all four benches. Setting aside his brush, he wiped his brow again and locked up the shop. Returning to his cabin, he scrubbed the stain and sawdust from his hands before donning a clean shirt and heading to town for dinner.
Hitching his horse to the only free post between Dottie’s Eatery and Mac's Barbershop, he entered the restaurant. After he'd eaten a simple meal of roasted chicken, fried potatoes, and green beans, he went into Mac's for the evening's meeting.
Owen nodded to Mac, who was busy trimming the mustache of a white patron. Few local whites patronized Mac's shop, since it was black-owned, and as Owen passed the chair, he smiled.
I wonder if that white man would be here, if he knew about the back room.
Owen took a seat on the west wall of the shop, perusing the pages of the Fayetteville Observer while Mac and his client made small talk. Once the man had paid his bill and departed, Mac looked his way.
"The boys are already back there." Mac jerked his head toward the back wall.
Setting the paper aside, Owen marched over to the wall, giving it five sharp raps. After a beat, the wall opened, and he slipped inside, shutting the false panel behind him.
In the small room, the other eight members of the Sons of the Diaspora sat around a small table. They were all men of color, who sought the enforcement of the fifteenth amendment to the Constitution, which granted them the right to vote. They were still fighting every day for the rights extended to them with the amendment's passing, eleven years prior. Black codes, poll taxes, and other nefarious plans to keep them from exercising their rights were always afoot, but the Sons remained resolute.
Looking out over the faces of his compatriots, Owen smiled. "What are we getting into this weekend, boys?"