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July 2, 1881
Sarah pushed her empty plate toward the center of the table, looking toward her father. "I'm stuffed. What a breakfast, Daddy."
George, seated at the head of the table, smiled. "I simply made a meal befitting the special occasion." He turned loving eyes on his wife. "Happy birthday, my love."
Sarah, along with her sisters and niece, all directed their eyes to the opposite end of the dining room table, where the birthday queen sat.
Elizabeth's cheeks reddened. "Thank you, dearest, but that's the fifth time you've said it today." A swipe of her napkin across her mouth momentarily hid her grin from view.
George winked. "And the day is only beginning, Liza."
Sarah couldn't help smiling at her parents' interaction. They'd been married twenty-five years, yet still carried on like lovesick adolescents at times. Watching them as they made doe eyes at each other from opposite ends of the table made her wonder if she'd ever have something so special in her own life.
Little Emily tugged on the arm of Sarah's nightgown, dragging her out of her own thoughts.
"What is it, Emily?"
"Upstairs. Mama gonna fix your hair." Emily pointed a chubby finger toward the staircase.
Sarah looked up to see her mother and sisters climbing the stairs. Realizing she'd been so lost in her own thoughts that she hadn't even noticed them leaving the table, she got up to follow them.
Stopping, she looked to her father, who busied himself stacking plates. "Daddy, let me help you clear the dishes."
"Grab those water glasses and bring them in the kitchen."
Sarah did as her father asked, and followed him into the kitchen. There, they placed the dishes in and around the basin.
"I'm going to the pump for some water." George made his way toward the back door, with a water pail in hand.
Sarah turned to go upstairs, but stopped when she heard her father call her name. "Yes, Daddy?"
"How are you getting on with Owen? He's a nice man, isn't he?"
Sarah knew better than to tell her father what she really thought. "Yes, Daddy. He's very nice." She kept the statement and her face neutral, so as not to give her matchmaking father any false hope.
That seemed to be enough to appease him, because he smiled and went on outside to the pump.
Shaking her head, Sarah went upstairs to join the other ladies. Everyone had gathered in their parent's bedroom, and when Sarah entered, her mother was nowhere to be seen.
"Where's Mommy?" Sarah asked as she took a seat in her father's old rocker.
"In the bathing room, soaking." The answer came from Mary, who stood behind Kate as she sat on their mother's vanity stool. Mary was currently combing Kate's hair up into some intricate style.
Emily had taken up residence on the braided throw rug by the bed, and was quietly playing with her beloved rag doll.
Sarah looked toward the partially open door of the bathing room and released a little sigh. Her small place back in Cheyenne had indoor plumbing, thankfully, but her bathing room only had a shower. She envied her mother's ability to climb into the big claw foot tub and enjoy a hot, soothing soak.
"So, what's going on between you and Owen?" Kate folded her arms over her chest in anticipation of the answer.
"Yes, do tell." Mary chimed in as she slid yet another pin into Kate's hair.
"There's nothing to tell. I know Daddy is out to yoke us together, but I'm not so inclined."
"So you say." Based on her tone, Kate seemed wholly unconvinced.
That made Sarah roll her eyes. "I do say so. I've just met the man, for Heaven's sake."
Her lips pursed around a few hair pins, Mary spoke again. "You were comfortable enough with him to be alone in the yard with him. After dark, even."
Sarah frowned. "Daddy sent me out there, to bring him a meal since he was working late."
"I'll bet Daddy didn't tell you to stay until after the sun went down."
In response to Mary's pointed statement, Sarah could only look away. She wasn't about to admit that she'd stayed simply because Owen had asked her to, or that she'd been far more comfortable than she should have been in the presence of a man she barely knew.
Kate giggled, clapping her hands together. "I knew it. Look at her face. Something's going on between them."
Laying back in the rocker, Sarah blew out an exasperated breath. "You two are as crazy as loons. I just met the man a week ago, and already you two have decided we're destined mates."
"Your sisters may be on to something."
Sarah's eyes shifted toward the bathing room door again, shaking her head as she realized her mother had been listening the entire time.
"After all, Mary was married at nineteen."
Mary's expression was a mixture of smugness and pride.
Sarah wanted to gag. Instead, she called back, "Yes, Mama." All the while, she thought about how tired she was of being compared to her older sister. It seemed everything she did was immediately measured against Mary's achievements, and in most cases, Sarah just didn't feel she measured up.
She looked to Kate, the baby of the family. Not only was she the youngest, and thereby incapable of wrongdoing, she was also the "pretty" one. From where Sarah sat, between the industrious, intelligent Mary and the beautiful, cooperative Kate, things always seemed a bit...intense.
"Come on over, Sarah," Mary called. "I'm done with Kate."
Sarah watched Kate rise, and took in the beauty of her pin-curled up-do. "Wow. That looks amazing." Sliding onto the bench Kate had vacated, Sarah looked at her reflection in the oval mirror mounted on the vanity.
"I've got something similar in mind for you." Mary gently turned Sarah's head from side to side.
"Sorry I didn't get a chance to take my braid out." She patted the long single braid, which had been intact ever since her arrival home.
Mary waved her off. "It's okay. Won't take me but a minute." True to her word, Mary used the bone comb to work Sarah's hair free of the braid in less than a minute.
As the thick mass of dark waves fell around her shoulders, Sarah smiled. Her hair was one of the few things she felt confident in. While her other features might be considered plain, her hair was as thick and rich as her mother and sisters, and even a bit longer.
Mary splayed her hands through Sarah's hair. "Your hair is in good shape. Who's been minding it for you out west?"
"I've been doing it myself. I do purchase tins of orange oil from the mercantile. They get shipments of it from back east."
"It shows. Your hair looks and smells wonderful." Mary used the tail end of the bone comb to make a slanted part. "By the time I'm finished with you, Owen won't be able to resist you."
Kate chuckled, as she admired her own hair in her mother's silver hand mirror. "He's as good as caught, then. He'll be our brother-in-law soon enough."
As had been the case since she'd first laid eyes on him, Sarah's pulse quickened at the mention of Owen's name. Her sister's outrageous declarations aside, she wouldn't mind dazzling the handsome carpenter, not one bit.
Settling into the padded seat of the bench, Sarah winked. "All right, Mary. Work your magic."
***
Owen entered Mac's Barbershop, letting the door swing shut behind him. Removing his bowler, he exchanged nods and words of greeting with the men inside. About ten gentlemen of varying ages occupied the shop now, as was to be expected. Anyone visiting Mac's on a Saturday morning could expect the place to be crowded. With today's celebration at the Webster place, Owen had known to come early and anticipate a long wait.
Snagging the last empty chair along the west wall, Owen settled into the seat. It was a steamy, hot July morning, and he'd donned an old but clean plaid shirt and denims, knowing he'd change clothes before the party.
McLean "Mac" Grant, a tall, barrel chested man of the race, was nearing his sixtieth year. He'd been trained as a barber by his master during his enslavement, a skill his master prized, since Mac was his head houseman. After the war and word of Emancipation, Mac had gone south in search of his beloved wife, who'd been sold away from him years prior. Returning to Fayetteville with his wife Hazel by his side, he'd opened his shop in '75.
Mac and Tim, the young apprentice barber he brought in to help him serve the Saturday crowd, both had men in their chairs. Eight other men, Owen included, were waiting to be served.
"It's a damn shame," Mac declared as he took his shears to the beard of the man in his chair. "The law gives us the right to vote, and some folks just won't let us be."
Owen looked around at he faces of the men in the shop. All were of the race, and three were members of the Sons. He assumed Mac felt comfortable speaking on the subject, due to the current dynamic in the room.
"It's been over a decade," added Will Pruett, the town's shipbuilder. "I don't have much hope that the government is going to step in at this point."
"Garfield's platform seems promising. I think he's got the best interests of freedmen at heart."
Owen thought on that statement, made by an older man he didn't recognize. President James Garfield had taken the oath of office just this past spring, and had been president only a few months. He could easily recall reading the new president's inauguration speech in the pages of the Fayetteville Observer, courtesy of the Associated Press. President Garfield had spoken passionately about the rights of the Negro race, so much so that Owen was inclined to agree with the stranger's assessment.
Tim, young and nearly always a contrarian, raised his voice in dissent. "I don't believe nothing these politicians say, until they do it. We'll see what's been done by this time next year."
Mac shook his head. "We'll see. But if the women keep agitating for their vote, who knows." He shrugged, and then tapped his client on the shoulder. "You're all done, sir."
Owen sat back in his chair, eager to hear what the other men thought about that topic. Opinions flew back and forth, until one voice rose above the din.
"Bottom line is, women are too addled, too foolish to be given the vote." Tim clapped his hands together, as if applauding his own genius.
Owen looked at the boy, who couldn't have been more than seventeen but seemed so sure of his stance. Several weeks ago, he probably would have agreed with Tim. Now, having met Sarah, he couldn't say that so readily.
That gave him pause. Was he really letting a woman, one he'd only just met, alter his way of thinking? What was it about her that had him so out-of-sorts? She was beauty, and she made one hell of a cake. But what else did he really know about her, other than that she was stubborn, headstrong, and would likely put a man through his paces with a smile on her face?
He imagined Sarah was spending the morning with the other women of the house, putting on their finery for the party. He wondered how she would style her long, thick mane of hair, which he'd only so far seen fashioned into a single plait hanging down her back. Would she paint her face like the other young women of town were apt to do? Don some low-cut summer gown that would display the rounded tops of her breasts and accentuate the feminine curves of her body?
"Owen, you're mighty quiet. What you think?" Mac's question dragged him back to reality.
Unsure of what to say, Owen offered a shrug. "I don't spend too much time thinking about what the women are up to. I'm just concerned about casting my own ballot in peace."
"Here, here." Will nodded his agreement. "That's just where our focus should stay."
Mac skillfully redirected the conversation by asking, "Who's excited about escorting your wives to the Webster's party today?"
A mixture of laughter and groans rose from the assemblage. Owen could only smile when he saw the wide-eyed look on Tim's face. Unable to resist teasing the boy, Owen chided, "Our Tim looks a little nervous. Coming to call on young Miss Katherine?"
Tim swallowed hard. "I...uh...well, I'll be at the party, if that's what you're asking."
Mac, positioned a few inches to Tim's right, ribbed the boy. "Come now, Tim. We all know you've set your cap for the youngest Webster sister."
Tim said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes as he made a show of dusting the hair clippings off his client's shoulders with a handheld sweeping brush.
Owen chuckled to himself. George Webster was a big man, easily twice Tim's size. Mr. Webster also had a reputation for being fiercely protective of his daughters. Owen supposed that meant he should be flattered that George thought enough of him to try to yoke him to his middle daughter. Smiling to himself, he grabbed up a copy of Harper’s Magazine and opened it, content to pass the time reading until his turn in the chair.
Men filtered in and out of the shop, rotating between the waiting chairs and the barber chairs, until Owen got into Mac's chair.
"What you looking for, Owen?"
He regarded his reflection in the wall-mounted mirror for a moment. "Just trim my mustache and neaten up my beard."
"You got it." Mac swung the canvas cape over Owen's torso, fastening it with the ties in the back.
Twenty minutes later, a freshly-groomed Owen bid the men in the shop goodbye, and mounted his horse for the ride back to his cabin.