Chapter Three

Wadsy glanced at the foyer clock, frowning. Sarah was usually the first one at the breakfast table, cheeks aglow, eager to start a new day. It was well past sunup, and the girl was still in her room. “Is baby girl gonna stay abed all day?”

“You can’t run after her every time she has one of her temper tantrums,” Lowell muttered from his place at the head of the table. Lifting his newspaper, he shook it out. “Let her be. She’ll be down when she’s ready.”

Wadsy cleared away the untouched meal and then busied herself in the kitchen until Will’s resulting scowl sent her off to the parlor. Keeping an eye on the stairway, she dusted, pretending not to listen for the girl’s soft footsteps. By late afternoon the temptation to comfort her charge won out. Armed with some of Will’s fresh-baked biscuits and hot tea, she crept up the back stairs to Sarah’s bedroom door, careful not to let Mr. Livingston hear her.

She rapped softly. “Honey, open up now. Ain’t no use starvin’ to death over havin’ to go to Brice’s. It won’t be that bad, you’ll see.”

Sarah’s door remained closed.

Baby girl was determined to make a body suffer. Wadsy balanced the tray on her hip, rattling the door handle.

“C’mon, Sarah, open the door. Your mammy wansta talk to you. I got tea.” She cracked the door open to peek inside. The room was dark, the curtains drawn. “Lawsy me, you gonna grow to the mattress, honey chile. Get on out of the bed. Why, it’s almost suppa time.” Nudging the door open, she set the tray down on the floor and slid it through the narrow opening. “I’ll leave it on the floor and you can eat when you’re ready.”

Silence met her efforts.

Straightening, Wadsy rose slowly and peeked around the half-open door. Finally entering, she shuffled to the window and pushed the drapes aside, tying them to the walls with braided gold fasteners. The window was open. Surely that child hasn’t climbed out again!

“Sarah?” She turned around and found the bed empty. “You hidin’ from your mammy?”

A faint breeze fluffed the bottoms of the heavy satin drapes, throwing a flicker of light across the untouched bed. A quick search of the room revealed nothing but absences. The silver brush was missing, as were Laverne Livingston’s antique ivory brooch, the wooden money box Sarah kept her personal funds in, and the calico dress Wadsy had sewn for Sarah to wear when she wanted to help weed the garden. The hook where the frock usually hung was conspicuously empty. Baby girl wouldn’t leave and take that ol’ rag with her, would she? Wadsy moved to the closet, where Sarah’s fine garments hung. Taffetas, silks—if baby girl has left, why is that calico gone and the others still here?

Wadsy made a full sweep of the room. Also missing was the monogrammed travel bag that Sarah’s father had bought her when she traveled with him to the opening ceremony for the first California railway station on the line. Land, that child’s excitement before the trip was contagious. She’d laid her best dresses in the trunk at the foot of her bed.

“Imagine,” the girl had said with a sigh as she twirled around, a green silk evening gown clutched to her chest, flaming hair in wild disarray. “Just imagine all the prospects! Handsome young cowboys with spurs and guns. Dangerous men on fast horses.” Pausing, Sarah had carefully laid the dress with the others. “I know he’s there, Wadsy. He has to be. I couldn’t bear coming home without having met my future husband.”

“California ain’t Boston, doll. Menfolk out there ain’t seen a woman in years. Dirty, nasty men ain’t gonna touch my baby girl.”

“Oh, Wadsy, I’ll never get married if the man has to meet your and Papa’s standards. I think it’ll be wildly exciting out West!”

But, as always, Sarah had returned unbetrothed.

Wadsy picked up the untouched tray, worried now. Mr. Livingston was gonna be powerful upset when he learned that Sarah was missing. She dreaded telling him that his daughter’s bed wasn’t slept in the night before, partly because of the news itself and partly because she knew she would be reprimanded for taking tea to the pouting girl.

“Baby girl, you’re gonna get your mammy in a mess of trouble,” she muttered, closing the door behind her. “A whole mess of trouble.”