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June 30, 1881
Sarah stood by the parlor window, taking in the sights outside. The sun was making its slow but steady journey toward the horizon, and she could see the flickering glow of a few fireflies as they passed.
Returning to her seat at the sewing table, she lit a lamp. She still had to finish repairing the lace collar of her summer-weight party dress, and she knew that the waning light of day would be long gone before the task was completed. Gathering up the waves of sunny, yellow fabric, she positioned the lace and the collar beneath the foot of the sewing machine and began making her lock chain stitch.
A half an hour passed, with only the sound of the machine to break the silence. She'd removed the finished collar from the machine when she heard footsteps descending the stairs. Looking up from her stitching, she saw her father approaching.
"Did you finish your dress, dear?"
She nodded. "All that's left is to tie off the stitch. Should be ready in time for the party Saturday."
He waited, silently watching while she tied off the stitch.
"Something you need, Daddy?"
He stroked his salt and pepper beard. "Yes. Did you know Owen is still working?"
"I can hear him hammering, but I haven't been back there today." And she hadn't. She'd been too busy getting the house prepared for her mother's party. Even after all the preparations she and her sisters had made, she still felt they had a million more things to do.
"Take him a sandwich and a drink. It's the least we can do, with him working so hard to finish in time." George had settled into his favorite armchair, with a copy of the Fayetteville Observer.
Without being asked, she lit the lamp next to her father's chair so he could read by the soft glow. "Yes, sir." Although she didn't want to be bothered with Owen, she knew better than to question her father's edict. Leaving the two lamps lit, to be sure her father had enough light, she moved into the kitchen.
Since the rear of the house faced westward, she had the remaining sunlight to aid her in putting together a simple sandwich for Owen. She laid a few slices of roast chicken from the icebox between two slices of her mother's stoneground wheat bread, and placed it on a plate. Adding a cup of the lemonade Mary had made this morning, she took the simple meal outside.
As her father had indicated, Owen was still working on the gazebo. His shirtless silhouette moved against the darkness as his powerful arm swung the hammer, striking a series of nails to fuse two sections of cherry wood together.
At her approach, he stopped swinging and set the hammer down. Looking at the offerings she'd brought, he smiled. "Why, Ms. Sarah. That's mighty kind of you."
Shaking off the warmth that his smile set off within her, she handed him the items. "Daddy asked me to bring it. And I'm certain he's watching, since he has a clear view out the back window from his armchair."
Owen chuckled. "Noted, but thanks just the same."
With a curt nod, she turned to go back inside.
"Wait."
The single word, spoken in his deep, silken voice, made her stop in her tracks.
She swiveled her head and upper body toward him. "What is it, Mr. Markham?"
"I said something you didn't like. I can tell, because you've gone back to being formal with me."
She could feel her face tighten up. "I'm not too keen on your views on suffrage, but there's no reason that should matter."
"Sit with me." He took up a spot on the grass next to the unfinished gazebo. "You can sit on this flat rock so you won't sully your skirts."
She stood there in the growing shadows for a moment, looking back and forth between him and the back door. Why in the world would he want to sit with me? "What are you about?"
"Just don't cotton to eating alone, if I can help it." He patted the rock. "Please?"
Swallowing, and mindful of her father's watchful eyes, she acquiesced. Soon she was seated on the flat rock next to Owen, her hands in her lap, fingertips laced together.
A warm breeze swept through the yard, rustling the leaves of the magnolia and crepe myrtles planted around the property.
"Want a piece?" He offered her some of the sandwich.
She shook her head. "I'm still stuffed from dinner." She sat in silence, content to entertain her own thoughts as he polished off the sandwich and set the plate aside.
"I didn't mean to rile you. About the suffrage issue."
She said nothing, unsure of the right words. He was a man, and she didn't think he could ever truly understand what it meant to be a woman, let alone a woman of color, in a world that so often tried to crush your spirit.
"I believe what I believe, but I shouldn't have been so brusque about it." He drank some of the lemonade in his cup.
“You’re right. You shouldn’t have.”
He frowned, but said nothing.
“My aunt Gert is an agitator. She’s marched for the vote, for black men, for women, for the natives and the immigrants. She wants us all to have equal rights. Not just men.”
He looked as if he wanted to say something.
She fixed him with a glare. She hadn’t come out here to lecture him, but thinking of her mother’s older sister, the warrior Gertrude, fired her resolve. “Aunt Gert has taken fists to the face, been threatened, and jailed because of her work, but none of that has stopped her. I learned from her what it means to fight.”
His eyes widened.
“She’s the bravest person I know, man or woman, and I have the utmost respect for her.”
“Heavens. I didn’t know any of that.”
“Well, now you do. And I’ll thank you not to disrespect my views, even if you don’t agree.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I’ll try to do better in the future.” His expression showed that he’d been properly chastised, and wasn’t too pleased about it.
A sigh escaped her. "You did rescue me from my mother's wrath, so I suppose we're even."
"Good. Pax, then." He stuck out his hand.
She shook it. The moment their hands touched, she felt a shiver of electric excitement shimmy up her spine.
Instead of letting go, he lingered, drawing the contact out.
In that moment, she felt an odd sensation sweep through her. Her body tingled, and the feeling seemed to radiate out from their joined hands. What’s happening to me? Why does he make me feel so out of sorts?
"I work for suffrage." She blurted the words, unable to stop them from tumbling out.
His brow creased in confusion. "I thought you worked in a hotel restaurant?"
"I do. But I've been working for suffrage for the women of this country since I left home. I write essays for different publications on the topic, and occasionally, I lecture. I've been corresponding with an organization in Washington, D.C. as of late."
"Hmm." He scratched his chin. "Do your folks know about it?"
"No." She looked down at her hand, still encased in his. “With all that’s happened to Aunt Gert, they’d never approve.”
"I'm not going to tell them, if that's what you're fretting about."
She looked up to meet his gaze. "Honestly?"
He nodded. "I may not agree with the concept, but it's not my place to interfere. You're an adult, after all."
Full darkness had begun to fall, and she could barely make out the lines of his face as he watched her. "I appreciate that."
A nonchalant shrug came in response.
Aware of the hour, and of the perceived impropriety of their being alone together, she stood. Brushing bits of grass from her skirts, she turned to him. "I have to be going. It's getting late."
He picked up the cup and the plate and handed them to her. "Thank you for the meal."
She gave him a polite nod. "Thank you for the conversation."
She started her walk back to the house, all the while turning their encounter over in her mind. For whatever reason, she trusted that he'd keep his promise not to tell her family about her suffrage work.
As she stepped up on the back porch, she saw a figure standing in the back window over the kitchen basin. Soft lamp light illuminated the figure, and she smiled.
Entering the house and closing the door behind her, she asked, "How long have you been standing there, Daddy?"
"Plenty long enough," he quipped, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "You and Owen are good together.
Shaking her head at her father's matchmaking, Sarah leaned up to give him a kiss. "Goodnight, Daddy."
And before he could say anything more, she slipped out of his embrace and went upstairs to seek her bed.
***
After Sarah's departure, Owen took a few moments to gather up his tools and supplies. Once he'd filled the wooden toolbox he kept everything in, he donned his shirt and grabbed the box by the handle. Then he set off on foot for the trip home.
His small cabin and workshop were located about a half mile south of the Webster property, so he hadn't bothered with his wagon beyond the first few days of the job, when he'd been hauling wood to the worksite. Now that all he needed were his tools, he walked to work each day, using the time and solitude to collect his thoughts.
As he strolled alongside the dirt road, he thought back on his conversation with Sarah. She probably feared he'd give away her secret to her parents, but he would never do such a thing. Aside from being a man of his word, he knew firsthand what it was like to work in secret for a cause you believed in. That was the very crux of his work with the Sons of the Diaspora.
The Sons worked in the shadows, meeting in the evenings after the barbershop closed. In an effort to secure the franchise for men of the race, they raised funds for travel and to cover poll taxes that might be levied by corrupt county party bosses. Those among them who could read, like Owen and Mac, tutored those who were illiterate. From time to time, when the Sons could procure a literacy test, they studied long into the night with their brothers, to prepare them for the exams. Whatever barriers stood between Black men and the ballot box, the Sons meant to tear them down, brick by brick if necessary.
He entered his cabin a short while later, closing and locking the door behind him. He set the toolbox on one of the low bookcases near the front door. After he'd lit a lamp to illuminate the cabin's interior, he stripped off his shirt and denims, tossing the sweat-damp fabric over the back of a chair. He'd need to visit the laundress in town over the next day or so, to drop off his dirty things and get a pile of his fresh shirts and denims from her.
Nude as a newborn, he darted through the house and out into the yard between the cabin and his woodshop. There, he pumped up a good bit of cool water, and used it along with a small bar of lye soap to cleanse the grime from his body. Bathing outdoors, in the summer, made sense to him. It was less messy and less troublesome than hauling water into the house. Luckily, the location of his home afforded him the privacy he needed to do so. Beyond his woodshop was a wide swath of tall pines and spruce, their branches stretching toward the sky. The forest extended for a good mile and a half around his home on three sides.
Clean and cooled off, he returned to the house and donned a pair of linen pants. He looked around his one-room cabin. It wasn't fancy by any stretch. It held only two chairs, a table, and the roughhewn bed he slept in. He had the basics of a kitchen on one end: a fireplace, a basin, and a few cabinets. His "parlor" consisted of a couple of crates he'd fashioned into a long, bench-like seat, covered with a simple burlap cushion. The only indulgence he had were bookshelves. He'd built four of them, about hip high, to store his massive collection of books. When not working, he loved to read, everything from the Bible, to Shakespeare, to books on woodworking.
Above his bed, he’d hung the lone decorative piece in his home: a quilt. The small quilt had been sewn by his mother's mother, Ethel, and placed with him in the bassinet upon his birth. Their little family, consisting of Owen, his mother, Myrtle, father, Curtis, and Grandmother, Ethel, had lived the large balance of his life in the Great Dismal Swamp on the border of North Carolina and Virginia. Like many other escaped slaves, his family had taken refuge there. His mother had been heavily pregnant with him at the time she ran.
He slipped between the sheets, settling in for the night. Pushing aside the jumble of thoughts to seek rest, he let his eyes slide shut.
A vision of Sarah awaited him in his dreams.