They exited Uncle Franklin’s house to a morning crisp and clear. Sunshine illuminated the maples like a summer’s bonfire with oranges, reds, and yellows. Each color vied for prominence. Grant couldn’t linger. He hopped into the driver’s seat as Lee, already hunkered down beside him, pulled his slouch cap over his eyes.
Grant planned to spend as much time as he could with Sarah. Her aunt and cousin were busy today canning spiced apples, an all-day affair. His stomach growled.
As though reading his mind, Lee groaned. “Wish I had me some of Miss Bonnie’s cinnamon apples topped by whipped cream right now, instead of waitin’ for dinnertime.”
“At least we’ve been promised that as our dessert this evening, so don’t complain.”
“You know you’re thinkin’ the same thing.”
“I am,” Grant growled. “Uncle Franklin’s oatmeal mush may be filling, but it lacks taste.”
“Filling?” Lee straightened in his seat. “I can hear your stomach growl over the motor.”
He grinned. “I’ll buy you some cookies and hot cocoa from the Italian boy.”
“I’ll accept that offer.” He settled back into the seat and didn’t look up again until they’d arrived.
After they’d garaged their horseless carriage in a barn at the edge of the field, Lee stretched and yawned. “Inspection time.”
The balloon was secured where today it would be filled.
Grant and Hudgins set to work. They examined each seam of the balloon, the ropes, the basket, and all the apparatus to ensure everything was in working order, as they had done every day since they’d transported it to the fairground.
“If only we could get our engines workin’ well enough to fly this balloon up north, over the Straits of Mackinac. I reckon we could drop down on Sarah’s family.”
Spine stiffening, Grant straightened. “Why?” He’d just read of an accident in Germany, where a respected engineer’s motor caught on fire and caused his death while aloft in the countryside. Surely his friend didn’t wish to prematurely try their motor on such a long trip, although Grant, too, had been tempted. “Would you wish to spy on her people?”
“To help you out.” Laughing, his friend pulled on a brass fastener, which held tight. “I wouldn’t call it spyin’.”
“My father sailed in a balloon up over the James River in your beloved Virginia. What would you call his endeavor?”
“That was war, my friend, or Northern Aggression, but your pa may call it reconnoitering.”
“He’d been discharged by his superiors to do his patriotic duty.” Grant rubbed the back of his neck, which, despite the cool day, was damp with sweat from his work in the enclosed building reeking of dust, engine oil, and decaying wood. “What you propose is simply snooping.”
“Snoopin’?” Hudgins wiped his brow with a red handkerchief. “Why, that’s what your uncle called Miss Bonnie’s visitation, but that ain’t it at all.”
“Anyway, how would learning more about Sarah’s family behoove me?”
“You really are dense in the head sometimes, Bentley.”
Grant feigned a swat, and his friend ducked. “Come on, let’s go set up our booth.”
The two men carried the bulky wood structure out onto the pasture at the end of the fairground. In the short time it took them to secure it, several young women had clustered together on the edge of the field, gawking at them. Grant swiveled away. Women seemed to be getting bolder, even the well-dressed ones, as these were.
“I think Miss Bonnie comes to the fairground to see what is transpirin’ between you and her niece.”
“As long as she keeps an eye on Sarah, that’s fine.”
Nothing needed to happen to that pure-hearted young woman. Recalling the feel of her form in his arms brought about desires to find a wife he’d thought long passed. He’d lost Jonetta and never wanted to suffer that way again. But lately in studying the Word with his uncle at night on the farm, something stirred in his heart. Maybe it was just the love of God. The answer from the Lord he’d received last night at the Swansons’ farm had him ready to seek out Sarah and keep watch over her.
“Grant? Grant Bentley?”
“That filly’s headin’ straight for us. What do you want me to do?” Hudgins moved between Grant and the oncoming woman.
Grant swiveled to face Mamie DuBeau. Despite her beauty, she failed to draw him as Miss Richmond did. She continued toward them, accompanied by the other young women he’d spotted earlier. He didn’t need this schemer to spread the word he’d one day inherit a large estate in New York, the son of one of the wealthiest families in the Hudson Valley—if Father didn’t disinherit him.
“There’s trouble,” Hudgins drawled.
“You’re not kidding.” Grant exhaled loudly.
Soon the women were upon them. He nodded briefly to each, eliciting giggles from two.
“Miss DuBeau.” He inclined his head in her direction. She’d never forgiven him for rejecting her interest in him, and he’d always feared she’d extract retribution.
“It is you!” The schemer pulled her skirt aside, revealing elaborately decorated shoes unfit for a field.
“What brings you out into the field?” Lord, please don’t let Stollen be here.
She peered around him. “Is that a balloonist booth? I’m sure Heinrich will be delighted.”
“Are you ready, dear?” The matron in charge of the tea and coffee service wheeled the cart toward Sarah.
Part of her work at the fair was offering tea, cookies, and sandwiches from a rolling cart.
“I think so.” This should be easy compared to farmwork.
“Here’s your apron.” Mrs. Burgi passed a frilly white apron to Sarah.
Sarah eyed the top piece’s narrow, lace-edged rectangle. “I don’t think that will fit.” It wouldn’t begin to cover Sarah’s ample bosom.
“It fits anyone. The ties all adjust.” Mrs. Burgi untied the top and, eyeing Sarah, resecured a knot that allowed the apron to lie lower. She slipped it over Sarah’s head.
Patting the midsection, Sarah examined where the fabric stretched across parts not needing accentuation. Across from her, she caught Denise’s startled gaze. Subtly, her friend shook her head no.
The registrar tied the apron’s waist so tightly Sarah gasped.
Sarah’s cheeks heated. At least Miss DuBeau wasn’t there.
“Now, first go up to the officials’ table and offer them tea or coffee. Then pastries or sandwiches.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Richmond, you’ll do fine.”
But as Sarah wheeled the cart toward the judges’ station, she grew aware of most of them, male and female, blinking at her torso. This is how God made her—wasn’t that what Mama always said? She was meant to be a curvy woman and had no reason to be ashamed. Drawing herself up tall, she kept her features serious and, whenever possible, met people’s direct gaze. No apologies for God’s handiwork.
No apologies from Arnold when taken home by God to live with Him forever.
She blinked back tears. Sarah sensed in her soul she’d expected Arnold to apologize for something he had no control over. He’d been in an accident, injured, and couldn’t fight the infection that set in. It wasn’t his fault, even though he’d chosen to go along with the Wild West Careeners’ invitation to ride with them. He’d grown up riding horses almost every day. His parents owned a Percheron farm. But when something spooked his borrowed horse at the performance, he’d been thrown. His life was soon gone and hers altered forever.
“Miss?”
“Hmm?” Sarah looked into the warm brown eyes of a portly gentleman attired in a tweed suit. His name tag indicated this was Hershel Thomas, the chairman.
“Might I have what you’re offering?” His face was kindly, like Papa’s, and there didn’t seem to be any insinuation in his voice.
She blinked at him.
Mr. Thomas pointed to the tray.
“Oh! Yes, sir. Let me pour.”
From somewhere behind her, she heard men’s low voices as someone neared. She bent to retrieve a cup and saucer from the bottom of the cart.
Someone snickered behind her. “Got us the best view in the whole house, fellas.”
Choosing to ignore the comments, her hands shook as she poured coffee.
The judge’s dark eyes widened as he looked past her and then slightly beyond.
“Hey!”
She heard a scuffling sound. The other officials gasped. Sarah turned to see Grant and Lee hauling several large men out of the pavilion, the rude men’s arms twisted behind their backs. Sarah sucked in a deep breath, her heart pounding. But she had to perform her duties, so she turned back to face the next official.
A middle-aged woman in a snug pink day suit pushed her spectacles up her narrow nose. “At least we have good security.”
Mr. Thomas nodded then addressed Sarah: “I’m sorry I didn’t speak up for you, young lady.” The judge patted the unusual arms of his chair. A wheelchair. “War injury has prevented me from keeping up my gentlemanly responsibilities.”
After having served the officials, Sarah scanned the pavilion. Quilts dotted the entire building, giving the place a beautiful, homey feeling, despite its cavernous size. Personality and artistic style reflected in each creation. Clearly the quilt Miss DuBeau entered was the most beautiful.
There’d be no blue ribbon for Sarah. No money for the clinic. Reconsidering her unacknowledged anger toward Arnold, she wondered, did her motivation stem from anger toward Arnold and not from the godly desire to improve the small hospital? Part of her hoped to embarrass the staff. But they’d operated on a limited budget in a rickety old building and were doing the best they could.
God help me. Make my heart right.
Grant and Lee held the two miscreants hostage while Mrs. Burgi summoned the state fair security guards.
“We ain’t done nothin’ wrong, ’cept admire a pretty gal!” The foulmouthed men continued to deny their words as Lee whistled the “Angelina Baker” song.
Several younger quilters came forward but stopped about six feet away. When one of the men leered at the prettiest one, Lee elbowed him hard.
Two burly men from the fair police entered the building and joined them. When they stopped and saw who was clutched tight at the registrar’s booth, the men exchanged a knowing glance.
The quilter wearing the most prominent bustle spoke out, pointing at the disrupters. “They stopped at our booths and made … lewd comments to us.”
“We’ll take care of this. These two are leaving and never coming back.” The guards accompanied them away.
Thank You for Your help, Lord, and please keep them far away from Sarah.
Now for his next chore. Followed by Lee, Grant quickly wove through the gathering crowd of mostly ladies in the building. He located the chairman of the committee. But when he looked into the deep brown eyes of “Uncle” Hershel Thomas, he almost swallowed his tongue. “Sir?” was all he managed to rasp. Father’s friend, now confined to a wheelchair. Did Father likewise suffer with his war injuries?
Dark eyebrows knit together. “I’d stand and shake your hand, Grant, my boy, but no miracle yet.”
Grant bent and grasped the man’s warm hand. “How are you?”
“Missing New York some, but Lansing has been good to me. Research is coming along well.” Father’s closest friend from the military had spent a great deal of time with the family during Grant’s youth.
“That’s wonderful. Last I’d heard you were promoted to associate professor of biology at Yale.”
He waved his hand. “Michigan offered me full professorship and my own lab.”
Grant scratched his head. “Which made you qualified to judge quilts?”
Hershel laughed. “Filling in for a professor in the art department.”
“Ah, well, I’ve a question for the officials about the rules.”
The women who flanked him raised their eyebrows.
Grant leaned in. “Miss DuBeau entered a quilt created by a church quilting bee in Detroit, near my shop.”
The trio exchanged glances. The woman in pink removed her spectacles. “That’s a grievous charge. Have you proof?”
“Ma’am?” Lee stepped forward.
Grant sighed, sensing Lee would attempt his Southern charm on a group that included a veteran with legs damaged by the Rebels. “Not now, Lee.”
For once, his friend hushed.
Hershel cocked his head. “If the real quilters come forward, we could disqualify Miss DuBeau and see if the churchwomen wish to enter under the group category.”
“Let me get Miss Mary right quick.”
When Lee trotted off, Grant jerked a thumb toward the door. “Earlier, we heard them practicing their choral performance.”
Several judges from the end rose and joined the huddle. Soon Hershel explained the situation.
“I hate to embarrass Mr. DuBeau; he’s been good to the fair,” said a tall, angular man.
Sarah pushed her cart away.
Hershel waved for Grant to follow her. “A lovely young woman, Grant. Reminds me of your dear mother, rest her soul.”
Sarah—like his mother? Mother had been quite femininely endowed like Sarah and offered better, softer hugs than his stick-thin nanny had. In Sarah’s eyes, as well as Mother’s, often glowed the soft light of loss. Mother had lost both a husband and her life in the South. His mother possessed a bedrock faith, which he suspected Sarah did, as well.
“What are you waiting for, son?” The voice, undeniably his father’s, caused Grant to freeze.
Facing his father, he took in the silver-streaked hair and slight stoop.
When Father opened his arms, Grant didn’t hesitate. The faint scent of lime brought back a rush of memories. Of riding through the fields as a family. Of dinners spent gathered around the long mahogany table, the chandeliers alight with candles. Of the day of Jonetta’s death, inconsolable, when Grant had left New York State.
“Frank’s kept me apprised, but I wanted to see you,” Father whispered as he patted Grant’s back.
“I’ve missed you, sir.” This might be the closest he would get to apologizing.
Grant drew in a deep breath as the two men separated. Swallowing, Grant glanced past to where Sarah poured for Mamie’s table. What would that vixen do if she became disqualified because of Grant’s report to the judges? “You’ll forgive me, but I need to—”
“Chase down a beautiful woman?” Waving him away, Father moved toward the judge’s table. “Lieutenant Thomas! More civilian duties for you?”