7 

Sarah tried to look as if she belonged in the exquisite lobby of the Lexington Hotel. Certainly the sky-blue georgette dress she wore could have hung in the closet of any of the guests at the Lexington. The square neckline showed enough skin to suggest she had selected it because of the warm weather, but the truth was she knew the way the diaphanous sleeves billowed at the shoulders would make her waist appear slender. Sarah had removed enough bulk from the original gown to create a matching shawl, which she had painstakingly embroidered with a silver leaf pattern along the main edge. She carried the folded shawl over her arm in the unlikely event the evening should turn cool. Her hair, pulled more tightly in back than usual, was snug under a hat with a flat brim and a silver ribbon on top.

Sarah hoped Mr. Townsend would be on time. She was not very practiced at sauntering around a hotel lobby as if she had business there.

“Sarah Cummings, is that you?”

Sarah forced her gaze to remain focused ahead of her and did not turn her head even slightly.

“Sarah!”

The tenor voice was oddly familiar, but she could not place it. She thought perhaps she should aim for the front door and altered her direction slightly. A man wearing a hotel uniform stepped out from behind the front desk.

“Sarah, it is you!” he said. “My goodness, I can’t believe my eyes! I never saw you . . . dressed like this.”

“I think you have mistaken me for someone else.” Sarah refused to meet the man’s eyes.

“I apologize.” He stepped back. Immediately, though, he took his position in front of her again and said softly, “No, I do not think I am mistaken.”

Sarah gave in. Kenny was not the sort to surrender easily. When he was a coachman for the Pullman family across the street from the Bannings, he had made a steady effort to attract her attention for more than a year, but she wanted nothing to do with him. She had no intention of getting involved with a coachman, even at sixteen, and had rebuffed him every time. Now, Sarah wished she had been a little more kind to Kenny. It was dangerous enough for someone to know her, much less someone who might carry a grudge. She had not seen Kenny in more than a year and had never even wondered where he disappeared to.

“So you’re working here now,” she said lightly.

“Yes, at the front desk.”

“I trust you find the work agreeable.” She tried to step past him.

“I have regular hours,” he responded, touching her elbow to thwart her departure, “and better pay. It’s good to see you.”

“You’ve only moved a few blocks, Kenny.” Going from Eighteenth and Prairie to Twenty-second and Michigan was not much of a journey. Sarah was wishing another hotel had sprung to mind when she was arranging a meeting place with Bradley Townsend. Clearly she had not ventured far enough. The convenience of the Lexington had been too compelling to ignore.

“I don’t really see anyone from Prairie Avenue,” Kenny answered, “and you don’t look much like a parlor maid at the moment.”

She glanced around. “Please keep your voice down.”

“What’s going on, Sarah?”

“Nothing’s going on. I’m meeting someone, and this seemed to be a convenient location.”

“I understand. He doesn’t know you’re a maid.”

Sarah blew out her breath and let her shoulders sag. “Kenny, please.” Why had she never realized Kenny was so smart?

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell him.”

An idea dawned. “Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. A Miss Serena Cuthbert is traveling at the moment, and her arrival is uncertain. She wondered about using a hotel to take her messages. I could suggest the Lexington. I can easily come round to collect them so they don’t become a nuisance. Then perhaps when she arrives she will choose to engage rooms here.”

“How do you know Miss Serena Cuthbert?” Kenny sounded suspicious.

Sarah waved a hand vaguely. “A lot of people come through the Banning house. You know that. Will you help her?”

Kenny nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose we can do that. Serena Cuthbert, you say? I’ll watch for anything with her name. You can ask for me when you stop in to collect messages.”

Sarah smiled. As much as she did not want to see Kenny again, it was probably better than dealing with anyone else at the desk. “Thank you. I’m sure Miss Cuthbert will express her own appreciation when she has the opportunity.”

“I will look forward to meeting her.”

Annoyed at the amusement crossing his face, Sarah glanced toward the door and saw a carriage pull up at the curb. “I’m sure my friend will be here soon. Perhaps I’ll just wait outside.”

Kenny stepped back behind the marble desk with the oak framing that seemed to cage in the desk clerks. A couple of guests appeared ready to check out and his attention was quickly diverted. Relieved, Sarah turned toward the exit.

Bradley Townsend met her at the door and offered his arm. His coachman held open the Quinby carriage, and Brad assisted her in. Sarah settled into the leather seat and silently admired the navy blue silk that lined the walls of the enclosure.

“I’ve been looking forward to our evening together, Miss Cuthbert.” Brad leaned his head toward her.

“I have as well,” Sarah replied. The carriage jostled into forward motion.

“I had hoped we might have an elegant evening, but I’m afraid I’ve had to change my plans.”

“Oh?” Where was he taking her?

“I have some political interests,” Brad explained. “The Democrats seem to have a chip on their shoulder toward anyone of means, and I suspect they are gaining ground.”

“Are we going to a political meeting?” Sarah cringed inwardly.

“The meeting of all meetings. The Democratic National Convention.”

Sitting beside Brad, Sarah was pretty sure he could not see her eyes widen. A political convention was not the evening she had in mind—and she was overdressed for such a setting.

“They’re going to nominate their candidate before the convention closes,” Brad said, “and I’d like to hear for myself what their final platform is.”

“The papers are full of talk of gold standard or bimetallism,” Sarah ventured. She had heard Samuel and Leo Banning debating the topic at breakfast on multiple occasions, though she never paid attention to the details. She was beginning to wish she had.

Brad nodded. “If we end up with a president who supports coining silver along with gold, the policies could seriously damage my business at the Chicago Stock Exchange. Too much money will be in circulation. The working class will get ideas.”

Sarah swallowed hard, hoping Serena soon would say something clever.

“Coining silver will be a boon to the western states,” Brad said, “where so many silver mines are located. It will completely change the financial landscape. The balance between credit and debt might never recover if farmers are able to pay off their loans because of the extra dollars circulating.”

“It sounds complicated,” Sarah said.

Brad turned and looked at her. “I’m sorry, Miss Cuthbert. I’m being rude. I don’t expect a woman to understand the world of finance or politics. Nevertheless, I hope you will indulge me in hearing a few speeches tonight. I promise to share a late supper with you—perhaps back at the Lexington.”

The convention. Leo did not come home for dinner because he was going to the convention. Sarah suppressed a grimace and hoped for a huge crowd and dim lighting. Simon Tewell had recognized her at the Fourth of July party. Kenny had recognized her at the Lexington. Leo saw her every day—how could he not know her? Serena was still too much like Sarah. Instinctively, she reached up and pulled the brim of her hat to an angle over her face.

Their carriage ride ended in front of the Chicago Coliseum at the western edge of Jackson Park. Sarah recognized the main entrance of the structure at Sixty-third and Stony Island, built for the world’s fair three years earlier. As Bradley helped her out, he glanced up at the building. “Did you ever come to the Buffalo Bill show when it was here during the world’s fair?” He started to laugh. “No, I don’t suppose you would have done that. I didn’t, either. But it was very popular and made a great deal of money.”

“I’ve heard people say it was a mistake for the fair committee not to allow Buffalo Bill to be an official part of the exposition.” To be precise, Samuel Banning, who served on the committee, had grudgingly admitted over the fish course one evening that royalties from Buffalo Bill’s show would have earned the fair even more money than the Ferris wheel had. As an investor in the fair, he had come to regret his part in the decision to exclude the Wild West show.

Sarah stood on the sidewalk in front of the Chicago Coliseum, her hand resting in the crook of Bradley Townsend’s arm. I am Serena Cuthbert.

The Coliseum was packed from floor to rafter. Brad consulted the notes he had written about where his friend would be saving seats and guided Sarah. One senator finished his speech and another rose. Sarah, who understood little of the political language because it did not interest her, smiled occasionally at Bradley Townsend, who listened intently to every word. Eventually Congressman William Jennings Bryan from Nebraska was introduced. He ran to the platform and took the steps two at a time, then stood, tall and slender, triumphantly behind the podium. His eyes flashed as he set his jaw firmly and thrust his right foot forward and waited for the applause to abate.

Brad leaned over and said, “Bryan has been building a following for weeks. What he has to say tonight could change everything.”

“Does he support bimetallism?” Sarah hoped the question was remotely relevant.

Brad nodded. “Vigorously.”

As Brad leaned forward in his seat, Sarah settled back in hers. Expecting that Brad was going to take her to dinner, she had not eaten all day. Now he seemed content to sit through speech after speech while her stomach rumbled. This was not the stellar evening Serena Cuthbert had imagined. Though she was not listening much to the words, Sarah realized Congressman Bryan’s pitch was rising and the audience’s response was palpable. Brad’s hands gripped his knees.

“When you come before us and tell us that we shall disturb your business interests, we reply that you have disturbed our business interests by your action,” Bryan thundered. “The man who is employed for wages is as much a businessman as his employer.”

Sarah glanced at Brad, who was shaking his head. She scanned the crowd and could not help but notice that Mr. Bryan was garnering more rapt attention than any of the speechmakers who preceded him. Neither the July heat nor the crowded assembly seemed to deter him, though Sarah was tempted to remove her hat and wished the air were circulating more freely. How much longer was Mr. Bryan going to drone on? At the next change of speakers she might devise an excuse to get up and move toward some fresh air for a few moments. Brad seemed more intent than ever on the proceedings.

Bryan continued with unflagging vigor. “Mr. Carlisle said in 1878 that this was a struggle between the idle holders of idle capital and the struggling masses who produce the wealth and pay the taxes of the country; and my friends, it is simply a question that we shall decide upon which side shall the Democratic Party fight. Upon the side of the idle holders of capital, or upon the side of the struggling masses?”

Brad squirmed in his seat. “He’s got it all wrong,” he muttered. “The economy flows from top to bottom. He proposes that it can flow from bottom to top. That’s contrary to nature. Have you ever seen a stream flow uphill?”

Sarah had no idea what an appropriate response would be, so she said nothing.

William Jennings Bryan raised his hands above his head, then lowered his hands to his temples.

“Having behind us the commercial interests and the laboring interests and all the toiling masses, we shall answer their demands for a gold standard by saying to them, you shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns.” He spread his arms wide as if on a cross. “You shall not crucify mankind on a cross of gold.”

The crowd sucked in its collective breath. Jennings Bryan held his pose for five hushed, pregnant seconds. When he stepped backward and began to leave the podium, the crowd erupted. Sarah gasped as men and women around them sprang to their feet screaming and cheering. Bryan was carried on shoulders back to the Nebraska delegation.

Brad remained in his seat, sullen. All around the Coliseum hats and canes waved in support of William Jennings Bryan. Having no other tangible way to express their enthusiasm, some flung their coats into the air and let them land haphazardly. Applause thundered until it shook the building.

Scowling, Brad grabbed Sarah’s hand. “We have to leave.” Abruptly, he shoved his way through the crowd, dragging Sarah behind him. The roar continued unabated, applause and cheers and stomping feet melding together at earsplitting levels.

Outside, Brad scanned the street looking for his coachman. “I am truly sorry, Miss Cuthbert,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t feel up to our supper. If they nominate that man for president, it will be disastrous for business and industry leaders. I would like to arrange another evening to give you my full attention.”

“Of course.” What else could Sarah say?

Brad calmed down. “How shall I reach you?”

“At the Lexington,” she said without hesitation. “I’m not often in to take a telephone call, but if you would send a note, I will be sure to respond.”

He nodded. “I will do so at my earliest convenience. Again, I’m sorry to disappoint you tonight.”

“Not at all.”

His carriage emerged from the glut of coaches along the streets. “Take Miss Cuthbert home to the Lexington,” he instructed the driver. “I’ll see my own way home.”