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July 2, 1881
When Sarah stepped out the back door in her party dress, she could see that the yard had already been outfitted in celebratory finery. She scanned the scenery with a smile, noting how everything reflected her mother's favorite color. Festive yellow bunting had been hung along the top edge of the old wooden fence that marked the boundary of the yard. The trestle tables filled with food had yellow tablecloths. And the new gazebo, the centerpiece of it all, had been draped in yellow ribbon. Sarah instinctively knew her mother would love the setup.
The time was ten minutes until one, and the party was to begin on the hour. Elizabeth Webster thought of punctuality as a virtue, and that was a well-known fact in town. Most of the party guests had already arrived, and were scattered around the yard. People sat in pairs or stood in groups, carrying on various conversations as the warm Carolina sun shined down on them. As custom dictated, the food hadn't been touched. No one wanted to be rude by eating before the guest of honor made her appearance.
Sarah moved off the back porch and into the yard, greeting her friends and neighbors. It was nice to see everyone dressed in their best clothes, and she complimented a few people on their attire as she made her way toward the gazebo.
Her father, in his best summer-weight suit, waited there with her sisters, who'd donned their party dresses. Mary's dress was a high-necked creation in a soft shade of green, while Katherine had chosen a soft-lavender gown with a square neckline and cap sleeves. Sarah brushed a bit of dry grass from the skirt of her own dress, a pink, off–the-shoulder ensemble, and took her place next to the rest of her family.
As the clock chimed the one o'clock hour, Elizabeth stepped out of the back door. She looked resplendent, and far younger than her forty-five years, in her daffodil-yellow party gown. The sweetheart neckline, edged in lace, provided lovely framing for the gold necklace her daughters had given her as a gift.
A smiling George left the gazebo to escort his wife off the porch and into the yard. As Sarah and her sisters looked on, their parents began making the rounds of the assembled guests.
"Mommy looks so pretty." Kate made the remark.
"Indeed. Mrs. Alston must have spent weeks making that fancy gown." Mary clasped her hands together.
"Well, ladies, Mommy wouldn't approve of us standing around the gazebo." Sarah stepped down off the platform into the summer brown grass. "Let's go greet the guests."
The three of them parted, fanning out across the yard to speak to the fifty or so people positioned around the yard.
Seeing shipbuilder Will Rhodes enter through the open gate brought a smile to Sarah's face. Knowing his wife and daughter could not be far behind, Sarah hastened toward him.
"Miss Sarah. Good to see you." Will stuck out his hand to her.
With a smile, she shook with him. "Mr. Pruett. Good to see you again, as well."
Rosaline Rhodes Pruett entered the gate just behind her husband. Clutching Rosaline's hand was the couple’s three-year-old, adopted daughter, Milly.
Seeing Sarah, a smiling Rosaline wrapped her in a tight hug. "Heavens, it wonderful to see you. It's been so long since you were home."
Sarah returned the embrace of her mentor, the woman who'd taught her the finer points of baking. "It's only been a year and a half. But I'm glad to see you too, Miss Rosaline."
Releasing her, Rosaline gave her young daughter's hand a squeeze. "This is my friend Miss Sarah. Milly, can you say hello?"
The shy little girl, wearing a ribbon around her little afro, offered a small smile. "Hello."
Sarah stooped down to touch Milly's shoulder. "Pleased to see you again. The last time I saw you, you were just a baby." Standing to her full height again, Sarah scanned the yard for her older sister. "If you can find Mary, I'm sure my niece Emily won't be too far behind. I think she and Milly will get along famously."
Rosaline craned her neck a bit, squinting despite the shade provided by her wide brimmed, flower festooned hat. "I see her. Find me later, because I want to hear all about your job in the Territory." Rosaline gave Sarah's hand a squeeze, and then she, Will, and their daughter strolled off.
Watching the small family depart, Sarah released a small sigh. She loved the Pruetts dearly, having known them most of her life. Seeing them was always a pleasure, but today, they served as a reminder of the staid, conventional life her father wanted for her. He'd love nothing more than to see her return home, marry, and settle into a life of running a household and raising children. She loved her father dearly, but she didn't know if she could ever be happy fitting her life into the mold of his desires for her.
The grumbling of her stomach reminded Sarah that she hadn't eaten breakfast. The party preparations hadn't left time for it, and now, she eyed the buffet. People were already beginning to gather there, so she set her feet in that direction.
She got in line behind the seamstress, Mrs. Alston. Just as Sarah finished complimenting the woman on her work on her mother's party dress, she felt someone tap her on her shoulder.
Swiveling her head, she came face to face with a smiling Owen.
"Afternoon, Miss Sarah." He tipped the bowler he wore in her direction.
Dazzled by his bright smile, and by the dashing figure he cut in the crisp white shirt and tan broadcloth trousers, she stammered a bit before getting herself together. "Good afternoon, Mr. Markham."
He clasped his large hand around her fingertips, raised her hand to his lips. Before she could react, he kissed the back. "Please, call me Owen."
Mindful of Mrs. Alston's watchful eyes, and the knowing, amused expressions of the ladies serving the food, Sarah pulled her hand away. Feeling the heat licking at her cheeks, she nodded and hastily turned her attention back to the vittles.
When she and Owen had been served, he pointed in the direction of one of the few remaining empty spots in the yard. "Care to sit with me?" He gestured to the blanket tossed over his forearm.
Not trusting herself to say anything coherent, she offered a nod and smile, then followed him to the spot. There, beneath the shade of her mother's willows, he spread out the blanket and they took seats. She sat a bit away from him, both to make space for her voluminous skirts, and to avoid anything that might be perceived as impropriety.
While they ate, they made small talk. Owen spoke of some of the jobs waiting for him at his woodshop, and Sarah spun a few tales of her life in Wyoming Territory. All the while, she noticed how natural and comfortable it felt to talk to him.
“I’m curious. Is your aunt Gert here for the party?”
She nodded, pointing to where her aunt sat. “There she is, in the gazebo with my mother.”
He looked that way. “That’s her in the blue gown?”
“Sure is.”
“Why, she’s a tiny one.”
She assumed he was speaking on Gertrude’s petite figure. “What she lacks in height, she makes up for in fierceness.”
“Based on your description, I wouldn’t risk riling her.” He winked.
She rolled her eyes. “Hush, Owen.”
“Do you know what was happening here last year, during the election?”
She shook her head. “No, what do you mean?”
“There’s a group of whites out of South Carolina, called the Red Shirts. Don’t know if news of them has traveled to the west yet.”
She frowned. “I’ve never heard of them.”
“They’re affiliated with the Democrats, and their sole purpose is to keep men of the race from voting. While you were tipping to the ballot box, men like me had to deal with intimidation, threats, and worse from the Red Shirts, simply because of our race.”
A sigh slipped from her lips. “I’m sorry to hear that. I agree with you that the law should be enforced to protect your franchise. But I still think women’s suffrage will complement that, not take away from it.” He scratched his chin. “I’m still not certain. But if women like you and your aunt are willing to fight on the behalf of others, I may have to rethink my stance.”
She smiled. “See? I’ll convince you yet, Owen.”
"We're getting on like old friends, Miss Sarah." Owen drank from his cup of lemonade as he made the remark.
She nodded. "It seems we are. What do you suppose that means?"
He shrugged. "Perhaps it means your father will get his wish." He winked after making the statement.
Shaking her head, Sarah directed her gaze away from her handsome companion, looking out over the yard spread out in front of them. She could see that a few latecomers had shown up, but one in particular caught her attention. Her brow scrunched together as she tried to figure out why a boy of fifteen would be at the party, without his parents.
Wondering aloud, she said, "What's Quinton doing here?"
***
Owen scratched his head in response to Sarah's somewhat cryptic question. "I don't know. It is a party, though."
By now, Sarah had set her half-eaten food aside. Rising to her knees, she continued to peer into the distance. "Yes, but Quinton shouldn't be here alone. Unless..."
"Quinton. Quinton." He repeated the name, hoping to jog his memory as to why it sounded familiar. "The telegraph clerk's son?"
Now on her feet, Sarah nodded. "Yes. And since he's alone, I'd bet eight bits that something has happened. Something big."
Owen climbed up from the blanket and rested his hand on the small of her back. "Something big and good, I hope."
She turned her gaze to meet his. "I don't know." She looked back across the yard again.
He followed her gaze, and he saw the boy. Quinton stood just inside the gate, his hands waving as he spoke excitedly to Mr. Webster, who had his back to them. Quinton's expression was one of excitement, but it didn't convey anything that made Owen think the news was positive.
Quinton finished what he was saying, and ran off. With a nod, Mr. Webster turned and trudged toward the back porch, his expression grim.
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, my heavens. I've not seen my father look that way since he broke the news of our grandmother's death."
She started walking, taking wide steps, and he followed, matching her pace. While they moved toward the porch, he saw Mr. Webster raise his hand and call for everyone's attention. Soon the entire assemblage of party guests had gathered at the foot of the porch, awaiting whatever the man of the house had to say.
Taking a deep breath, George began. "Young Quinton has just informed me that..." he hesitated a moment before continuing, "President Garfield has been shot in Baltimore."
A collective gasp rose from the party guests. Folks drew their spouses and significant others close to them, clutched the hands of the children.
Owen instinctively reached for Sarah's hand, capturing it in his own. Dread rattled through him like a buggy careening down a rutted dirt road. How could this have happened?
He thought back to the morning’s conversation in the barber shop, and the hope some had expressed for Garfield’s administration. What would become of that now? Would the president, who’d been in office for only a few months, ever get the chance to fulfill his promises?
Looking around, he saw Will. As the two men’s gazes met, Will shook his head, his expression grim.
She clamped her other hand over her mouth, covering a sob.
George continued his speech, as his visibly shaken wife joined him on the porch. "We thank all of you for coming out to celebrate Liza's birthday. But considering these events, we'll have to cut the party short."
Near the gazebo, an older woman fainted.
Kate, who'd been standing nearby, rushed over, shouting, "Somebody get the doc! Mrs. Carlton swooned!"
Chaos followed that announcement, as people rushed back and forth. Will, who'd stepped forward to alert the doc, ran to saddle one of the Webster's horses.
Sarah squeezed his hand, then moved her hand up to clutch his arm. “The whole world has gone mad. And all of this on my mother’s birthday.” Her soft voice shook with emotion.
"I know." He said nothing more, not knowing what words, if any, would comfort her.
She tugged his arm, began moving toward the open gate. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” He asked the question even as he allowed himself to be pulled along.
“It doesn’t matter. I just need to get out of here, away from this chaos.”
He didn’t respond, but continued to move alongside her. Their pace gradually increased until they were both jogging. Even as they left Webster property and started down the road on foot, he remained silent and resolute.
Out on the road, he asked, “Will you come with me? Where we can have some privacy?”
She looked into his eyes, nodded. “Yes.”
He had no words to tell her how he felt, or to explain his actions. How could he tell her that hearing of the president's demise had frightened him, had spurred him to action by reminding him of his own mortality? Impropriety aside, he desperately wanted to be alone with her. Perhaps once they had some privacy, he could better convey his thoughts.
He thought she might ask more questions, but she didn't, and that gave him some degree of comfort. Knowing she trusted him enough to run off with him this way, to an unknown destination, felt wonderful. He would be sure to do nothing that would violate that trust.
Slowing down some, so as not to exhaust her, he kept his steps moving toward his home.