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Late June 1881
~Fayetteville, NC~
With her mother's old feather duster in hand, Sarah climbed the last two steps into the attic of her family home. The small, circular windows on either side of the space let in a good bit of early morning sunlight, giving the attic a soft glow. Coming into the room, she stooped a bit until she cleared a low beam, then stood between two of the ceiling beams. She'd have to keep to the space between those beams if she wanted to stand up fully.
Once Sarah had moved out of the doorway, Kate entered, followed by Mary. All three Webster sisters were dressed similarly: old trousers and shirts of their father's, cinched and tied to fit them. Each of their heads were tied up in a scarf or wrap, to protect their tresses from the swirling dust.
Today's work of gathering their mother's good tablecloths and fine china from among the numerous dusty crates promised to be dirty. Elizabeth had trained her girls from an early age on how to go about cleaning most efficiently, and the first order of business had always been to prevent the sullying of their gook skirts and gowns by dressing appropriately for chores.
The three of them moved to different areas of the room, pulling back tarps to locate the items they'd come for.
"Lord, I can't remember the last time Mommy brought down her good china." Kate tossed aside a tarp to search the contents of a crate.
Mary snapped an old sheet, sending a cloud up a cloud of dust. As it fell over her, she sneezed.
"Bless you," Sarah and Kate said in unison.
"Thank you." Mary set the old sheet aside, squatting to search her crate. "I think the last time Mommy used the china was..."
"My nineteenth birthday." Sarah completed her sister's sentence. "Remember, Kate? I'd finished my apprenticeship with Ms. Rosalie a few weeks before that."
Kate, now leaning over the crate with her forearms buried inside, nodded. "Oh, that's right. Don't know if they would have been feeling so celebratory, if they’d known you were going to move so far away."
Sarah, having found the crate containing her mother's crystal glasses, set it aside. "Don't start with me, Kate." Her younger sister was still a teenager, and Sarah tried to remember that, lest she be pulled into her manufactured drama. Kate had always been the one to stir up confusion. As the baby of the family, she never lacked for attention, but she also never seemed to get her fill of it.
"All right, you two." The comment came from Mary, in her usual role as peacemaker between her two younger sisters. "We all know Mommy and Daddy want Sarah closer to home. No need to revisit that now."
A small voice from the second floor broke into their debate. "Mama? I want Mama!"
Mary set aside her crate. "Emily's calling me. I found the silver, I'll take it downstairs and we'll polish it later." Taking the small wooden box into the crook of her arm, Mary returned to the attic door and descended the steps.
Left together in the attic, Sarah and Kate continued the task. Sarah watched her sister Kate pulled tablecloths out of her crate, then handed them over to Sarah. Turning them over in her hands and holding them up to the light, Sarah checked them for stains and damage in the manner their mother had taught them.
After a few idle moments, Sarah turned her focus back to the crate of crystal punch cups she'd found. She'd need to get them downstairs to be washed free of dust and checked for cracks or chips.
"I didn't mean to start anything."
Kate's soft confession caught Sarah's attention. "It's all right, Kitty Kat."
Kate sighed. "It's just that ever since you left home, Mommy and Daddy are always after me about something. I wish I could have the freedom you two have.”
Sarah took care to move the heavy crate closer to the door, and then came over to where Kate knelt. Squatting down, she draped an arm over her shoulder. "I understand that. I remember feeling the same way when Mary left home. Don't fret, Kitty Kat. Your turn'll be coming along before you know it."
Kate sighed. "I know, I know. That's part of my worry. I remember how they reacted when you took that job out west. Seems the only way I can make them happy is to stay close by."
Sarah gave her sister a squeeze. "You've got a whole year before you graduate to figure it out. And when the time comes, choose what's going to make you happy. I promise, we’re all going to love you, no matter what." She punctuated her words by placing a kiss on her sister's forehead.
Kate smiled. "Thanks, Sarah."
She shrugged. "Just looking out for my baby sister. Now come on and help me carry the crystal downstairs. It's a two-person job."
"All right. We'll have to come back up for the rest, I guess."
The two women climbed to their feet, with Sarah carefully avoiding the ceiling beams. Near the door, they hoisted the crate of crystal, squeezed close together to fit into the narrow stairwell, and started their slow descent.
Once they'd taken the crystal to the kitchen and left it on the table, Sarah and Kate returned to the attic. As they moved the crate of tablecloths, and another crate containing the six crystal punchbowls that went with the cups, Kate went over to stand by the window facing the back. "Owen's already out there working, I see."
Sarah, setting a crate aside, joined her younger sister at the window. Casting her gaze down on the yard below, she saw Owen there. The hour was still early, but he was already hard at work.
"Does he ever wear a shirt when he's here?" Sarah posed the question to her sister, never taking her eyes off the hard line of his muscular arms as he raised a center beam atop the gazebo's base. He was easily the most solidly built man she’d ever laid eyes on. His muscles rippled beneath his deep-brown skin as he worked, and she found it difficult to look away from his rugged handsomeness.
"Nope, and I can't say I mind. He is a handsome devil, isn't he?" Kate ribbed her sister.
Sarah pursed her lips. "Simmer down, Kate. I'm betting he's too old for you."
Kate scoffed. “But he's just right for you, Sis." She winked.
Sarah could feel the heat rising into her cheeks. Parts of her agreed with her sister’s assessment, but she wasn’t about to admit it. "Cut it out. Let's get this stuff downstairs. We've got a lot to do."
Sarah tried her best to keep her mind on the task at hand as she and her sister got back to work.
It took the better part of the morning, but all seven crates of tableware for the party finally made it down from the attic. The sisters stacked the crates in the pantry adjoining the kitchen, so the family could have breakfast at the table.
Sarah made dough for biscuits while her mother fried bacon in the cast iron skillet. For an added treat, she sprinkled a handful of chopped walnuts and plump raisins into the dough before dividing it into small rounds.
Liza smiled. “Raisins and nuts in the biscuits? You’re always trying something new.”
She slid the pan into the oven, closing the door. “Trust me, they’re wonderful. We serve them at the hotel, and they’re very popular.”
After the cooking was done, Sarah enjoyed scrambled eggs, bacon, and her biscuits with her parents, sisters, and her young niece. Mary held her daughter in her lap, cleaning her small face whenever she saw remnants of food clinging there. Watching the interaction made Sarah wonder what it would be like to be a mother, and be responsible for filling another person’s every need.
With the remnants of the food and the dishes cleared away, Sarah started polishing crystal in the kitchen, while her sisters went back upstairs to mend a few torn tablecloths.
She carefully lifted one of the crystal punch bowls from its crate, holding it up to the light with both hands. Turning it left, then right, she inspected if for cracks that might cause punch to leak out of the vessel.
The back door swung open, startling her. She spun to see Owen standing there, in all his shirtless, muscled glory. Her breath hitched in her throat at the sight of him, so close to her. She swore she could feel the heat rolling off his body as it touched her own.
Lord, what a handsome man.
As her upper body completed the pivot, she lost control of the bowl.
Sarah watched in horror as her mother's crystal punch bowl crashed to the floor, the glistening shards scattering across the sun-dappled wood.
Owen grimaced. "You all right?"
She nodded, feeling the tightness enter her neck and shoulder. "For now, but I won't be once Mommy finds out about this."
As if cued, her mother's voice called from upstairs. "What was that ruckus?"
Drawing a deep breath, Sarah uttered a very unladylike curse.
Owen crossed over to where she stood, placing a fleeting touch against her shoulder. "Don't worry."
She mustered a small smile at his attempt at reassurance, but she knew her mother would not be so charitable.
***
Owen squatted down to survey the shimmering mess on the kitchen floor, just as the lady of the house swept into the kitchen.
As she tossed a quick glance at the floor, Mrs. Webster's pretty face folded into a frown. "Good heavens. Is that one of my punch bowls?"
Sarah started to open her mouth.
Owen cut her off. "My apologies, Mrs. Webster. I knocked it off the table." He let his gaze quickly slide to Sarah, lingering long enough to see her wide-eyed surprise, before placing his full focus back on her mother.
Mrs. Webster sighed. "It's all right, Owen."
"I'll be sure to deduct the cost of it from my fee for building the gazebo, ma'am. Will that be acceptable?"
The older woman's expression softened noticeably in response to his offer. "Thank you, Owen. That's very nice of you."
He gave her a bow. "I'm at your service."
Now Mrs. Webster smiled. "Oh, you. Sarah, could you help Owen clean up this mess? I wouldn't want anyone falling and getting cut."
"Yes, ma'am." Sarah moved across the kitchen to the small pantry, returning with a broom.
Seemingly satisfied, Mrs. Goodman left the room. When she was gone, Sarah turned his way. "Why did you do that? Why did you take the blame for me?"
He shrugged. "You looked pretty scared of what your mother might do to you. I harbor no such fear, so I took responsibility."
Using the broom to gather the brilliant shards into a pile, she shook her head. "And the offer to take the price of the bowl out of your pay?"
"Seemed reasonable." He shrugged again. Inside, he felt somewhat amused by her confusion. "It isn't often a man has a chance to rescue such a fair damsel."
She pursed her lips. "The ‘fair’ part may be true, but I'm no damsel in need of rescue."
His brow hitched, because he hadn't expected the level of annoyance projected in her tone. "It wasn't meant as an insult."
She released a sigh as she stooped to sweep the shards of the punch bowl onto a flat sheet of metal. "I'm sorry. I'm just annoyed with myself for being clumsy. Thank you for your kindness."
"You're welcome." He watched her walk, taking in the graceful sway of her steps as she tossed the remnants of the bowl into the refuse bin.
She set the broom aside, turned back his way. "Did you need something?"
"I came in for a cool drink." He rubbed his chin. When he'd first entered the house, he'd been seeking a cup of Mrs. Goodman's tart lemonade. Now, he thought the presence of her middle daughter might refresh him just as much.
She went to the icebox. "There's just a little of Mommy's lemonade left. I'll get it for you."
Moments later, she handed him a cup of the cold, sweet drink. Taking a long draw, he looked at her. She'd taken a seat at the table, and had set about polishing the crystal dishes scattered all over the tabletop. Anyone could see she had a lot of work ahead of her, and he had a gazebo to build. But something about her kept him glued to the spot. Rather than getting back to the work waiting for him, his mind was busy thinking of reasons to remain in her presence.
To break the silence, he asked, "What's it like out in the Territory?"
"Why do you ask?" She rubbed her cloth against one of the remaining punch bowls.
"From what I heard, it ain't the safest place in the world. Especially for a woman alone."
Her brow hitched, but she kept her gaze on the crystal. "And how do you know I'm a woman alone?"
He shifted his weight from left to right. "Your Pa told me."
That didn't seem to sit well with her, because her jaw tightened up. "Good to know Daddy is telling my business. Anyway, it's not that much different from living here, except for a few things."
He took another draw of lemonade. "Like what?"
"Beautiful land out there. Wide, open spaces, folks farming and raising cattle. General stores, hotels, all of that."
He tried to conjure up a picture in his mind’s eye based on what she described, but had little luck. "What are the folks like out there? Any hostile Indians?"
She shook her head. "I haven't met any 'hostile' Indians. That's just a dime novel myth, far as I'm concerned."
"Then tell me what they're really like."
"There's a lot more of the races mixing out there. Folks ain't so proper and concerned about what everybody else thinks. And," she paused long enough to turn her eyes up to meet his, "women can vote."
He drained the last of the lemonade, set the cup on the butcher block near the basin. "Really? I heard about that, but I didn't think it would apply to colored folks."
She pursed her lips. "Things are different out there. Everybody can vote, no matter what they look like or where they come from. You're twenty-one, you can go and vote. Just the way it ought to be."
He frowned. "I don't know about all that."
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
He shrugged. "I'm not sure I agree that women ought to be voting. Not when the government doesn't bother to enforce the fifteenth amendment." He and the other Sons had discussed this very issue at their last meeting. As of late, women all over the country had been getting their bonnets in a bunch and demanding that they should have the right to vote. Owen, along with most of the Sons, agreed that the women's suffrage movement was a detriment to the voting rights of men of color.
She set the cloth aside, fixing him with a hard look. "How can you say that?"
"It's what I believe. The constant squawking of your fellow woman about suffrage only serves as a distraction from the real issue."
She folded her arms over her chest, shielding her bosom from his view. "And what, pray tell, is the 'real issue'?"
"No more rights should be granted to anyone, until the government enforces the rights they already gave out. Men of the race should be able to vote freely."
"And I suppose we women should just be content to wait around until then?"
He shrugged. "Why not? You waited this long, haven't you?"
She blinked once, then again. Her expression held all the welcoming charm of an angry hornet. "Mr. Markham, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my work." Snatching up the cloth, she began furiously scrubbing another piece of crystal.
He wanted to chuckle, but thought the better of it. With a shake of his head, he opened the back door and slipped out.