6 

Sarah yanked on the sheet and stripped it from the bed in one practiced motion, then tossed it into the basket of dirty linens. The laundress would come Friday morning, so Thursday held the task of collecting the sheets, towels, and table linens throughout the house. Sarah was in Leo’s room on the second floor. As she reached to unfasten the window, she was not sure whether it would hurt or help the temperature in the room to allow outside air in. The limestone construction of the house held some insulating value, and Leo’s room was out of the sun at this time of day. The temperature in the room was not unbearable, but the humidity was another matter. It seeped through cracks and slits that held the sun at bay and saturated everything she touched. The curtains were muggy. The shirt Leo had left on the back of the chair could have been used as a damp dust cloth. Clammy bedding had to be changed on a daily basis.

At the moment, a train ride to Denver, Colorado, held great appeal. Sarah had heard that the air there was dry and temperatures moderate. She sat for a moment on the stripped bed and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the hem of her black work dress.

“I find it doesn’t help much to rest.” Mrs. Fletcher appeared in the doorway. “It just makes it harder to get up.”

Sarah thrashed her arms against the mattress. “I’m swimming in humidity. I can’t stand it!” She unfastened the button at one wrist and rolled the sleeve to her elbow.

“You could have gone to the lake.” Mrs. Fletcher laid a pile of neatly ironed clean sheets on the end of the bed. “It’s cooler there.”

“Only if you’re a Banning,” Sarah retorted. “If you’re working, it’s still hot because you’re always moving.”

“Maybe the open window will get some air flowing. Finish up in here and you can have a glass of tea.”

The cook disappeared down the hall, and Sarah reached for the sheets. She hated to admit it, but Mrs. Fletcher was right. Sitting down just made it harder to get up and move again.

And she had to move. This was the day she was meeting Bradley Townsend, and if she did not have her work done, Mrs. Fletcher would find a reason to keep her in for the evening. Sarah rolled up the other sleeve, stood up, and snapped open a fresh sheet.

In the distance, she heard the telephone in the foyer ring. She spread the sheet on the bed and began tucking in the corners. The phone continued to ring. At the fifth ring, Sarah abandoned the sheets and stepped out into the hall.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

She had been there only a couple of minutes ago. Surely she heard the phone ring, and with the butler out of the house, it was Mrs. Fletcher’s role to answer it.

The cook was nowhere in sight as the phone jangled for the sixth time, and the seventh. Sarah stood at the top of the wide marble stairs that led down from the family bedrooms to the foyer inside the front door. The thought of traipsing all the way down the hall, down the servants’ back stairs, and across the house to the foyer was too much. With the family out of the house, Sarah saw no reason not to use the convenient front stairs.

By the time Sarah reached the bottom, the phone had rung ten times.

When she picked it up, though, no one was there. A fresh band of perspiration had broken out under her collar and begun to dribble down her back. Sarah lifted her eyes up the stairs and decided, before going back up, to find out why Mrs. Fletcher had not answered the phone. She stepped across the foyer and padded through the dining room with its one place setting awaiting Leo. Sarah reflexively adjusted the position of a goblet, then pushed through the door to the butler’s pantry. A few steps took her into the kitchen.

“Mrs. Fletcher?” she called.

Finally she heard voices in the courtyard behind the kitchen. When she stepped outside, she saw the butcher’s delivery cart pulled up near the door.

“Where’s the beef roast?” Mrs. Fletcher’s voice carried the demanding edge it always held when she dealt with merchants.

“I’ll bring it tomorrow,” the delivery man promised. “The butcher knew you would not be satisfied with the cuts we had on hand.”

Mrs. Fletcher’s reputation preceded her wherever she went. Sarah smiled involuntarily and flicked her eyes up. If there was anything to admire Mrs. Fletcher for, it was her insistence on having only the best in her kitchen.

Sarah stepped back inside the house and trudged back up to the second floor. She had finished in Leo’s room except for dusting when Karl poked his head in.

“I forgot to tell Mrs. Fletcher this morning that when I dropped Mr. Leo at the office, he said he would not be home for dinner tonight,” Karl said. “He’s decided to go to the convention.”

Sarah ran the feather duster across Leo’s desk. “She’ll be glad, I suppose. The butcher didn’t bring the roast she wanted. Is he coming home at all before the convention?”

Karl shook his head. “He wants to hear the speeches, I suppose.”

“But he’s not a Democrat, is he?” Sarah asked. “I thought the Banning men voted Republican.”

Karl shrugged. “He probably just wants to hear what they have to say. It’s strange to think that the next president of the United States could be selected tonight.”

“Only if the Democrats have their way,” Sarah said. “The Republicans like to think their man will be elected.” She picked up the basket of soiled linens. “Will you vote in the election, Karl?”

He tilted his head. “If I can ever make sense of this business about currency standards. The Democrats promise the common man will have more money in his pocket if things go their way, and the Republicans say the country will be in the ditch if we go away from the gold standard. It’s a muddle to me. You should feel lucky women can’t vote.”

Sarah’s mind drifted away from the Democratic Convention absorbing the energy of Chicago. She was meeting Bradley in six hours and still had not decided what to wear. He had not mentioned where they would go, so it was puzzling to know how to dress.

“Are you going out again tonight?” Karl took the basket from Sarah.

“What if I am?” Sarah met his eyes.

“It seems like you’re developing a new habit. It will be hard to break a habit like that one when the family comes back—all this going out at night. The last two Wednesdays, Saturday in between, and now this.”

“Well, the family is not here now.” Sarah swiped at the dust on Leo’s dresser. “As long as I get my work done, Mrs. Fletcher says she doesn’t care. It doesn’t take both of us to serve Leo his dinner, even when he is here. I’m going to ask her for the key to the back door.”

“So you do expect to be out late.”

“None of your business.” Sarah snatched back the basket and stomped into the hall.

“If you do something to make tongues wag,” Karl called after her, “it will get back to the Bannings!”

Sarah ignored him. She still had to dust the parlor and mop the marble stairs, daily tasks even if none of the family were home. If someone should turn up unexpectedly, the rooms downstairs must be spotless. The rug in the foyer needed a good sweeping, and the silver tea service used for breakfast every day had to be polished before it showed even a hint of tarnish.

As she moved through her tasks, Sarah’s most difficult question was how Bradley Townsend would be able to communicate. She would do everything in her power tonight to ensure he would want to see her again, but he could hardly call on her, or send a message to the Banning house. Giving him the Banning telephone number was out of the question. If his intentions became serious, how long would Serena be persuasive about meeting him in public places?