by Kay Moser
“That could take hours.”
“They will be waiting for you. And, incidentally, the back parlor faces north.” Hayden smiled down at her as he brushed her red curls from her face. “I have it from a very reliable, red-haired source that artists prefer northern light.”
Victoria’s eyes glistened with fresh tears. “You are a darling man.”
“Would you marry any other kind?” Hayden stood and pulled her to her feet. “Now, back to bed.”
CHAPTER 3
When Sarah entered the kitchen at the Bellows’ house the next morning, she found Ada cooking, her usual scowl plastered on her face.
“Has Mrs. Bellows been downstairs this morning, Ada?”
“Not as I knows.” Ada shrugged her shoulders. “Mr. Bellows come home last night from Fort Worth.”
“Does she usually come down to eat breakfast with Mr. Bellows?”
“What you talkin’ ’bout? There ain’t no usual with that woman!” Ada snapped as she slid food onto a plate and set it on a tray. “Here, you can take this in to Mr. Bellows and ask him all the questions you wants.” She thrust the tray into Sarah’s hands. “Course that don’t mean he gonna answer you,” she added, turning her back on Sarah.
Sarah hurried into the dining room and, after clearing her throat to make her presence known, stood still as a statue waiting for Mr. Bellows to lower his newspaper. When he made no move, she dared to speak, “Mr. Bellows, I have your breakfast here.”
Ominously the newspaper lowered and revealed a heavy-jowled red face. “I hardly expected dinner. Put it down!” He thumped the table so hard the cacophonous sounds of the vibrating crystal centerpiece battled with the raspy wheezing of his breath. “Where in Hades did you come from?”
“I’ve been working for Mrs. Bellows for two days, sir.”
“God help you! Coffee!” The words erupted from his lips so suddenly Sarah jumped. “Don’t stand there looking wide-eyed. Get me some hot coffee!”
Sarah reached for his coffee cup, but he batted her hand away. “Get the pot, girl!” He motioned to the silver coffeepot that was right in front of him. “Don’t you know anything? Where’d Mrs. Bellows find you anyway?”
“I’m in training, sir. I’m Sarah Novak.” She struggled not to let her hand shake while she poured hot coffee into his cup. When she finished, she stepped back, and he returned to his paper, ignoring the food she had brought.
“Sir”—she dared to interrupt his reading—“is Mrs. Bellows coming downstairs?”
“Not likely.” His voice was laced with sarcasm.
“Is she sick, sir?”
“For as long as I’ve known her, and that’s an eternity.”
Sarah grappled with the malignant nuances of his words. “Yes, sir. I better go check on her.”
“Hellfire and damnation!” He crushed the newspaper in his hands and wadded it into a ball. “If the Democrats nominate that idiot Bryan, we’ll never win the election! What man in his right mind would vote for a man who doesn’t believe in gold?”
Sarah fell back a step and tried not to shake.
“Well? Tell me!”
“I don’t know, sir. How could anybody not believe gold exists?”
“What kind of idiot question is that, girl? He believes gold exists; he just doesn’t believe we should base US currency on it.”
Shame at her ignorance made her cringe.
“You don’t have the slightest idea—where in tarnation did Mrs. Bellows find you anyway?” he demanded, then promptly answered his own question. “Probably at the church. That whole place is full of idiots.”
Sarah’s shame flashed into scalding fury. “My father and mother are members of that church, and they are not idiots!”
He crinkled his forehead until his eyebrows almost covered his eyes and stuck out his lips as he studied her. “Hmmp,” he finally grunted. “Who’s your father?”
“Mr. Kazimir Novak.”
“Good man,” he conceded. “Hard worker.”
“And not an idiot.” Sarah locked eyes with him.
“Well, where’s my breakfast, girl?”
“In front of you, sir, and my name is Sarah.”
He peered at the plates. “Cold!”
“Yes, sir,” she agreed defiantly without breaking her gaze or making any move.
He tossed the battered newspaper onto the crisp linen cloth, and, propping his elbows on the table, he pushed himself out of his chair. “Rather eat at the hotel any day,” he muttered. “Rather live at the hotel.”
“Yes, sir.”
He lumbered toward the door. “You won’t last long here, Sarah. And that’s a good thing ... for you. Take my word for it.”
Sarah listened as his heavy steps traversed the hall and clomped down the front steps. “Maybe that is a good thing,” she whispered as she gathered up the plates and headed back to the kitchen. “These people are poorer than we are.”
“Now you knows,” Ada sneered.
“I’m going upstairs to check on Mrs. Bellows.”
“You’s just jumpin’ from the fryin’ pan into the fire, but it ain’t none of my business. It’s your skin.”
Sarah turned away without comment, but as she climbed the stairs, she stopped on the landing and looked out the window at Hodges House. Soaring, pristine white pillars supported its triangular pediment. Every line of the house pointed upward, and as Sarah’s eyes traced its ascending lines, she adopted it as a symbol of her personal hopes. She thought of the royal blue twill fabric she had found for her mother and the money she needed. Stiffening her spine, she finished the climb.
“Is he gone, Ada?” Mrs. Bellows demanded the minute she entered the bedroom.
“It’s Sarah, ma’am. And yes, he’s gone.”
“The brute!” Mrs. Bellows rose from her pillow on the bed and shook her clenched fist at Sarah. “You have no idea what I put up with from that man. It’s unspeakable! From the minute he enters the house, I’m under a constant cloud of—” She broke off and stared at Sarah. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to work.”
“Not today. No, not today! I don’t plan to leave this bed all day. My head is killing me!” She threw herself back onto the pillows. “Come here and fluff up these pillows, girl, then bring me some tea, and then just go away.”
“I’ll just clean downstairs, Mrs. Bellows. I’ll dust—”
“No! For pity’s sake, don’t you country people even understand English? Go get my tea and then go home.”
“But ma’am, the downstairs really does need cleaning, and I need to earn money, and I’ll be very—”
“No, Sally!” Mrs. Bellows raised her head from her pillow, and Sarah saw the tears coursing down her cheeks. “I don’t care if the house is dirty; I don’t care if the whole place just collapses into dust! Lord knows I’ve tried to do my duty by him, but it’s hopeless, absolutely hopeless. Come back tomorrow!”
Sarah bit her lip to keep from expressing her thoughts. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Make my tea strong ... and bring some toast ... with lots of butter and peach preserves. Lots! Do you hear me? Lots!”
***
“After the walk into town, I’m not even going to be allowed to work,” Sarah muttered as she left the Bellows’ house behind. A half block later, she stopped at another gate—the Hodges’ gate—and stared longingly up the walk at the Hodges’ mansion. She was overcome by the most bewildering wave of homesickness. “Stupid!” she condemned herself. “You have no connection at all to this house; it’s certainly not your home.” Still, she could not force her legs to move on, and soon her attention was drawn to the stakes in the front yard—the stakes that now formed a circle.
Sarah leaned over the gate to study the design more carefully and nearly jumped out of her skin when a female voice called from the shrubbery, “Come in, please, and tell me what you think. I simply cannot decide whether it needs to be moved more toward the right.” Mrs. Hodges popped out of the b
ushes.
Sarah could not utter a word. Here was the woman she had eagerly watched from a distance—her curiosity increasing daily—actually speaking to her.
Mrs. Hodges beckoned Sarah in. “Please do come in and tell me what you think.”
Sarah entered the gate, but, overwhelmed by shyness, she cast her eyes down to the ground.
“Oh, I’m sorry! I should have introduced myself. I’m Victoria Hodges, newly arrived in Riverford.” The lady held out her hand for Sarah to shake, and Sarah hesitantly took it. “I’ve seen you working for Mrs. Bellows, but I haven’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance yet.” Mrs. Hodges dropped Sarah’s hand. Tongue-tied, Sarah stood stock-still while waves of warmth raced through her.
“Contrary to local opinion, dear, I don’t bite.” Mrs. Hodges laughed. “May I know your name?”
“Sarah. Sarah Novak, ma’am, and I didn’t think you would bite or anything like that. It’s just that I ... well, I ... never thought I would ... I mean, you would ... Well, you see, I’m from the country, and fine ladies like you—”
“Often deny themselves the privilege of knowing someone like you. Very unwise indeed. Well, Sarah, I’m delighted to know you. Come on over here.” She took Sarah by the arm and led her to a stone bench. “Now, sit down and tell me all about yourself.”
Sarah settled shyly on the bench beside the lady, but she couldn’t think what to say.
“Tell me, Sarah, what’s your favorite thing in the whole world?”
“Books!” Sarah exclaimed without the slightest hesitation, then clapped her hand across her mouth.
Mrs. Hodges laughed gaily. “That’s wonderful! Mine too, though I must confess I like art just as much, and music, of course. Do you like music?”
“Yes, ma’am, but I only hear music at church.”
“And what is your favorite book? You know, the one you keep by your bed and reread over and over.”
“I ... I don’t own any books, ma’am. I wish I did, but ... well, I sometimes get to read my brothers’, the ones they bring home from school.”
Mrs. Hodges’ eyes moistened, but she hurried on. “And which of your brothers’ school books do you like the most?”
“Oh, that’s easy, ma’am. I like to read the poetry. One new English book has poems by a woman poet. Just think of it! And they’re so beautiful, but kinda sad too. Like the one about the children working in factories.”
“Elizabeth Barrett Browning! Oh my, Sarah, we love the same poetess. Isn’t her work just magnificent? So much better than her husband’s, I think. What do you think?”
“I’ve never read Mr. Browning’s poetry, ma’am. It’s not in any of my brothers’ books, but there’s a poem by Mr. Tennyson that I like. It’s called ‘The Lady—”
“Of Shalott!’” Mrs. Hodges finished the title before Sarah could. “Oh, Sarah, I believe we are kindred spirits.”
“What’s that, ma’am?”
“People who love the same things and see the world the same way.”
“Oh.” Sarah took a deep breath and dared to ask, “Exactly how do we see the world, Mrs. Hodges?”
“Through the lens of beauty, my dear, and with active imaginations. Come!” She jumped up and grabbed Sarah’s arm. “I want to show you something.”
After hurrying Sarah over to the stakes, she asked, “Can you imagine what this is going to be?”
“No, ma’am.”
“A marble fountain! Carved in Italy.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Really? A fountain? With water coming out?”
“Yes, won’t it be grand? Here, let me show you the plans.” Once again, she grabbed Sarah’s arm, then pulled her across the garden and up the front steps onto the verandah. “Over here.” She pointed to a wicker table. “I’ll unroll them for you.”
Sarah’s spirits soared as she watched Mrs. Hodges struggle to flatten large pieces of paper, all the time laughing merrily when the drawings curled back up. Never in her life had she been around such a happy person.
“Quick, Sarah! Grab that corner and weight it down with that flowerpot.” Seconds later, Sarah found herself working alongside the fascinating woman she had admired from a distance. “Victory!” Mrs. Hodges declared when they had gained control.
Sarah’s eyes lighted on the fine lines of the drawing, and she sighed. “It’s beautiful! Oh, I’ve never seen anything like it. And what is this?” She pointed to a drawing of three women dancing.
“Ah, those are three of the creative muses. I chose my favorites, of course. See, here’s Euterpe, the muse of lyric song; here’s Terpsichore, the muse of dance; and here’s Thalia, the muse of comedy.”
Sarah’s smile faded. “I don’t even know what a muse is.”
“Well, of course not. You’re young and haven’t had a chance to learn these things. Besides, just between you and me, I doubt that very many people in Riverford could tell you what a muse is.”
“Would you tell me, please?”
“Certainly. A muse is a supernatural creature who supposedly inspires us to be creative. The ancient Greeks and Romans believed in such things. We don’t, of course, but nevertheless, they are lovely, graceful figures for a fountain.”
Sarah studied the drawings. “How do you tell which is which?”
“Each one has a symbol attached.” Mrs. Hodges leaned over the paper, and a long curl of her red hair fell loose and skimmed her chin. “See, Euterpe is carrying a flute because she inspires song. Terpsichore carries a lyre, kind of a small harp, because she inspires us to dance. And Thalia inspires the writing of comedy, so she is carrying a comic mask like the actors used to wear in Greek plays.”
“They’re so graceful. I like the way they’re holding each other’s hands high above their heads and dancing together. They look so light-footed; they’re almost floating! How will you ever make them out of marble? It’s like stone, isn’t it?”
“It is stone, and believe me, I won’t be carving them. That’s all being done in Italy, but soon the pieces will arrive, and that’s why we’re getting the ground prepared and the pipes laid now. So what do you think about the placement?” Mrs. Hodges pulled Sarah away from the table and made her stand at the edge of the verandah. “At first, I thought it should be centered on this side of the yard, but now I’m wondering if it should be closer to the Bellows property.”
“Oh no! That’s not a good idea. I mean ... well ...”
“Mrs. Bellows won’t like it,” Mrs. Hodges concluded. “I suspected as much.”
Sarah hung her head.
“Well, never mind. It takes some people longer than others to get used to new things. That’s okay. Are you enjoying coming into town to work? That must be exciting for you.”
“Yes, ma’am, it is. Well, it was ... until today. I was earning money for Mama’s birthday present, but Mrs. Bellows has a headache, so I can’t work today. I guess I’ll just go on home and help—”
“You mean you’re free today?” Mrs. Hodges interrupted excitedly. “Could you possibly work for me? I have tons of books to unload from crates, and the whole library has to be organized. Mr. Hodges is a great reader, but I fear he’s quite disorganized. His books are strewn about everywhere, and when I add mine, plus our new ones ... Well, it’s just going to be a hopeless mess unless we get them organized.”
Sarah’s spirits soared. A whole day with books!
“Could you help me, Sarah? I’ll certainly pay you whatever you think is fair. Would a quarter be enough to help me today?”
Sarah was sorely tempted to say yes, but her conscience intervened. “Oh, that’s too much, ma’am. Mrs. Bellows only pays me a quarter a week.”
“But that’s for housework, Sarah. This is different; you’ll be acting as my personal secretary. They get paid more than maids.”
“Well ... maybe a dime wouldn’t be too much. I’ll work extra hard, and I won’t stop for dinner or anything.”
“You’ll have to stop occasionally because you’ll n
eed to read things to me so I can figure out where they should go. I hope you won’t mind that too much.”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Hodges! Not at all. Whatever you need me to do.”
“Let’s get started, and the first thing you must do is call me Victoria.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that!”
“Then call me Miss Victoria. I insist.”
Sarah hesitated.
“I insist!” Mrs. Hodges repeated, and when Sarah nodded her acceptance, the lady continued, “Now follow me. The library is in here on the right.”
When Sarah passed the large, carved front door, she stopped in her tracks. The entry hall was much larger than the Bellows’ entry. It ran the entire depth of the house, was twice as wide as any parlor she had ever seen, and was two stories high.
“Yes, I know.” Miss Victoria seemed to read her thoughts. “It’s large, but it really needs work. Far too dark. I was thinking of a glass dome at the top of the staircase to let in more light. Something from Louis Tiffany’s studio perhaps. Well, that will have to wait. The library must come first. One cannot function without a usable library, can one?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Come on in then.” Miss Victoria motioned Sarah into a large square room with a fireplace surrounded by finely veined marble and topped by a classically carved oak mantle. Every wall was covered with bookshelves that reached to the ceiling, and there was not a single book on any shelf. Instead, there were stacks and stacks of books on the floor, plus crates everywhere.
“Thank goodness there are plenty of shelves and Frances has cleaned them all. We should have enough room if we just get organized. What we need is to make some decisions about placement and then just jump in. Are you game?”
“So many books!” Sarah exclaimed happily. “Have you read them all?”
“Oh, no! But then that’s the point of having a library, isn’t it? One must have a stock of books waiting. Books are like air. You can’t do without air, can you?”
“No, ma’am! Can we start now?”
“No time like the present! Now, the first thing is to decide what section of the library will hold what type of books. Where shall we put the poetry section?”