Sarah Redeemed

by Vikki Kestell

  At that moment, the babe’s eyes opened and stared, as though looking for the source of the cooing. Matthew, tears standing in his eyes, looked to his mother. “Mama. Want baby. Want baby, Mama.”

  “You want to hug baby Jacob?”

  “Hug baby, Mama.”

  Joy lifted the newborn into O’Dell’s arms, and he held the babe against Matthew’s chest. “Be gentle, my son,” O’Dell cautioned.

  Matty, his expression flushed with solemn reverence, gathered the baby to himself and held him close. “Li’l baby. Luf you, li’l baby.”

  After an interlude, O’Dell whispered, “Very good, Matty, my son. Let us give Jacob back to Mama now so he can go night-night.”

  Before Matty relinquished his hold, he bent his face close to the baby and placed a kiss on his forehead. “Nigh-nigh, ’Cub.”

  Sarah was undone: It was the most pure and beautiful thing she had ever witnessed. She tried to stifle the sob that welled up in her throat and chest, but she could not keep it in.

  Fortunately, Rose, Joy, and O’Dell were struggling with their own happy tears and did not notice Sarah’s.

  Chapter 3

  It had been a typical day at Michaels’ Fine Furnishings. For several years, Joy had managed the shop with Sarah, Corrine, and Billy at her side. In the last two years, however, sales had lessened. They were good enough to ensure that the shop turned a healthy, albeit modest, profit—but not enough to keep Billy employed, as well as Corrine and Sarah—and Billy had a growing family to support.

  So, Billy had gone off to a moving company whose owner took one look at Billy’s impressive height and muscled frame and hired him on the spot. Now, in all matters to do with the shop, Sarah was Joy’s second-in-command and Corrine Sarah’s lieutenant. And, with Joy’s time often occupied with family, Sarah and Corrine were frequently alone together in the shop.

  Sarah and Corrine lived by the tinkling of the bell over the shop door, signaling the entrance of a prospective customer. Their clientele was composed, primarily, of women and married or engaged couples shopping for their homes. Rarely did a gentleman or a pair of gentlemen enter without female companions.

  The shop closed at five o’clock each evening when the throngs of downtown shoppers headed home to their dinners. Sarah and Corrine had not had a customer in over thirty minutes. They were refolding linens in one of the shop’s display rooms, tidying up in preparation for closing, when the shop door opened and the bell over it jingled.

  Corrine left Sarah and hurried to greet the prospective customers. She was mildly surprised to spot three well-heeled young men pausing inside the door, laughing together, staring around. Something in their conduct made her slow.

  One of the young gents, however, caught sight of her. “Woul’ you look a’ tha’?”

  He pointed at her, then staggered some, jostling his nearest companion. His friends glanced in Corrine’s direction.

  “Beaut,” he remarked. “Let’s ask her ou’ fer a drink w’ us. Hey, miss. I’m Jeff and this here’s Rob an’ Ed. May we buy you a drink?”

  Corrine halted. Why, the three loiterers were intoxicated! She glanced behind her toward the side room where Sarah was working. Raising her voice, she attempted to sound authoritative. “I am sorry, gentlemen, but the shop is closed. I must ask you to leave at once.”

  Instead, the man who said he was Jeff tottered toward her. “Shop closed? Why, tha’s fine luck for all. C’mon wi’ us, then. We’ll trea’ ya t’ a good time.”

  “Real goo’ time.” Ed echoed.

  Jeff, having crossed the room, staggered. He lunged at Corrine to keep his balance, but she evaded his grasp and ran behind the counter to the register. From beneath the register she retrieved a short wooden baseball bat—kept handy at O’Dell’s insistence. With the bat in one hand and her other upon the receiver of their wall telephone, she said, much louder, “Gentlemen, this shop is closed. Please leave at once, or I shall call the authorities.”

  Unfortunately, her voice trembled.

  Emboldened by her show of uncertainty, Jeff picked himself up and swaggered her way. “Thin’ you’re better than us, do ya? Tha’s no’ wha’ we hear. Heard you was a whore once. Well, we go’ money, lots a’ money. Money t’ spare. We can pay—owwww!”

  Sarah had heard Corrine’s raised voice; she had strode up behind Jeff, a second bat extended—a bat placed strategically in the back of the shop for just such a need—and jabbed him in the kidney. Hard.

  Jeff rubbed his back. “You hurt me, you whore!”

  “How dare you spew such insults in our shop? Get out. Get out, I say!” Sarah had shed every vestige of ladylike comportment. Her eyes flashed with fury. Her mouth was set in a hard, resolute line.

  Jeff sneered at her, inching forward. “Now, there’s no nee’ t’ get yer knickers in a knot, missy. Just conductin’ a bit o’ business—”

  Jeff grabbed for the bat, but Sarah pulled back in time and swung down. The bat clipped the grasping hand with an audible crunch. Jeff shrieked. Clutching his wounded appendage to himself, he screamed curses at Sarah.

  She was unfazed. “For shame. You are drunk—get out of our shop before we call the police.”

  When she lifted the bat to strike again, one of Jeff’s friends rushed to his aid. “Stop! Stop, I say!”

  As he approached, Sarah pointed the bat in his direction. She was perspiring. Her face was red, the end of her braid had come unpinned, and her lungs heaved. Moreover, with her recent encounter with the young couple on the trolley before her eyes, she had given herself over to a perfect fit of fury.

  “Stay back. You had better stay back, you inebriated hooligan. Come an inch closer, and I shall give you a beating, too.”

  Rob quailed before her. “Wait. Please. We will go—we will go, I promise. Just . . . just let Jeff come away over to me, and we will be off.” He stepped back. “Jeff. C’mon, now.”

  “She broke m’ hand, Rob! She broke it!” He spit another curse word at Sarah.

  “Shame on you. You call yourself a gentleman and use such language to a lady? I would like to bash your head in, I really would. I would teach you a lesson.”

  Sarah’s threats hardly recommended her as the lady she claimed to be: Corrine was every bit as shocked as Jeff and Rob were.

  Sarah again pointed the bat at Rob. “Remove your friend from our shop while he can still walk, for if you or your drunken friends take another step toward me or my associate, I shall break your legs. By God, I swear it.”

  Ed, the dismayed third in their group, seeing Jeff hobble toward Rob, did not wait on his mates. He stumbled out the shop door and beat an erratic path down the sidewalk. A minute later, Jeff and Rob followed in the same direction.

  Sarah dropped the bat on the shop floor and wiped her face. “Are you all right, Corrine?”

  “Y-yes. But are you all right?”

  “Certainly. Why do you ask?”

  “You were so upset, Sarah. You said such awful things and you . . . swore, using God’s name in vain.”

  “Awful?” Sarah’s anger flared. “I said awful things? After what they did and said? What they intended? No, do not chide me for those actions, Corrine, for I declare to you that I refuse to cower before another man in this life. Never again will I. Never.”

  A WEEK LATER, TWO MEN entered Michaels’ together. Sarah waited on them but, with her most recent experience with male “customers” quite fresh in her mind, she was leery and aloof in her greeting.

  “May I help you, gentlemen?”

  The taller of the two men smiled at Sarah. “Thank you, yes. I am interested in seeing your bedroom suites.”

  “Of course. This way, please.”

  She led them to the four suites on the shop’s floor, and they busied themselves examining the pieces and discussing what they considered the features and attributes of each while Sarah stood ready to answer their questions. The same man, while he and his companion looked over the pieces, glanced back at Sarah every
few moments.

  Once, when their eyes met, he smiled. Sarah did not return his friendly overture.

  After he seemed to come to a decision regarding the furniture, he addressed her. “I have recently arrived in Denver and have rented an unfurnished house. My friend, George, here has been gracious enough to squire me around to the best shops.”

  “I see. Thank you for visiting Michaels’. I hope we can accommodate your needs and tastes.”

  Favoring her with another smile, he bowed. “Bryan Croft, at your service, miss. I hope you do not think me forward, but as a newcomer to your city, I am grateful for each new acquaintance, Miss . . .”

  Sarah blinked at the realization that he was attempting an introduction, hoping to gain her name. Moreover, she noted, he was considering her with frank appreciation while his friend looked on. As she glanced at his companion, the man smiled and nodded—and his lips twitched with restrained humor.

  Ah. You “gentlemen” think to amuse yourself with me, do you?

  A cold flame ignited within her. I think not.

  Chin raised, body stiff, Sarah answered, “Have you found any of the bedroom suites to your liking, sir?”

  Croft’s brow furled at the abrupt alteration in her manner. “I beg your pardon?”

  An icy edge crept into her voice. “Have you made a selection, sir?”

  Suitably rebuffed but mystified, he bowed again and cleared his throat. “Yes. These three pieces, if you please.”

  “As you wish, sir. If you will step this way, I shall have my associate ring up your purchase and arrange for its delivery.”

  Sarah removed the tags from the furniture and walked toward the register. She handed the tags to Corrine. “Please see to their purchases.”

  Without another word, she went into the office and closed the door behind her. Corrine stared after her, wondering at Sarah’s icy instructions. A moment later, the two gentlemen approached the counter. Both, but particularly the taller one, appeared somber.

  Corrine offered them a bright smile. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

  “Good afternoon. Bryan Croft at your service, miss.”

  “You have made your selection, Mr. Croft? These three pieces?”

  “I, ah, yes, I have chosen these pieces. However, I am concerned, miss, that I have offended your associate, that I perhaps gave her a wrong impression?”

  “Oh, dear. I-I cannot say.”

  “I would very much like for her to join us. If I have offended her, I would like to extend my sincere apology. Please.”

  Corrine swallowed. “I see. I can . . . ask.”

  She slipped into the office. She and Sarah had been friends for a long time. She did not always understand what set Sarah off, but she did know that once she had been angered, only time seemed to cool her temper.

  Corrine did not hold out much hope for the gentleman’s apology.

  “Sarah?”

  Her friend sat in unyielding silence.

  “Sarah, I am speaking to you.”

  Sarah sighed. “Yes, Corrine?”

  “The customer you were attending wishes to speak to you.”

  “Does he, now?”

  “Why, yes. He said he gave you the wrong impression and would like to offer his sincere apology.”

  “Sincere? I have my doubts.”

  “But what did he do, Sarah?”

  “It does not matter. Please tell him I am unavailable.”

  Irritated, Corrine folded her arms across her breast. “No, I shall not.”

  “What?” Jolted from her anger, Sarah stared at Corrine.

  “You are available, and I shall not lie to him for you. It is not right. If this man offended you, then he owes you an apology. Moreover, if, as you say, the offense ‘does not matter,’ then you should have no difficulty receiving his apology. In either case, it is our job to serve our customers, and your behavior reflects poorly on this establishment.”

  “Oh, fiddledeedee.”

  Corrine was obdurate. “Mr. Croft is waiting on you, Sarah.”

  Sarah’s face reddened. “Fine.” She huffed and added, “Waiting on me? My left foot.”

  On rigid legs, with Corrine following behind, Sarah returned to the register. She glared at Croft and said nothing.

  “Miss, I have evidently offended you—which was never my intention. I offer you my most profound apology. Please say you will forgive me?”

  “But of course,” Sarah answered without a stitch of emotion.

  She took their payment and delivery information. “Delivery will be Tuesday next week. Thank you for your custom. Good evening, sir.”

  Croft looked a question to his companion who shrugged. Croft sighed and nodded to Corrine and then to Sarah. “Thank you, and a good evening to you, ladies.”

  The bell jingled as they departed. Sarah walked to the front and flipped over the sign.

  “Closed. And good riddance,” she muttered.

  “Why, Sarah Ellinger! I have never seen you exhibit such abominable manners.”

  Sarah did not reply, so Corrine drew near and placed her hand upon her friend’s arm.

  “Please, dear one. You must tell me what that man did that so upset you.”

  “If you must know, he told me some tale of being new to Denver—and used that as an excuse to attempt an introduction.”

  “An introduction? Is that all? Truly? But times have changed, Sarah. Introductions are much less formal. Many genteel people do not take exception to such an innocent gesture.”

  “Innocent? You should have seen his companion—sniggering behind his back. I saw through their sham.”

  Corrine frowned. “They impressed me as being true gentlemen.”

  Sarah shrugged. “It was a ploy, an effort to achieve familiarity. New to Denver—what drivel.”

  “But he did purchase a bedroom suite. Does that not confirm Mr. Croft’s assertion that he is new to the city?”

  “Oh, Corrine. I do not know—neither do I care. What I do know is that men are ruled by their baser instincts and, in my estimation, they are not to be trusted.”

  “Surely you do not mean all men, Sarah? Do you not know many godly men such as Mr. O’Dell, Mr. Carpenter, and Pastor Carmichael? What of Billy and Mr. Wheatley?”

  Sarah’s mouth tightened. “And yet, we cannot see into a man’s heart or behind closed doors, can we? All looks well on the outside, but within, do not even Christian men make unconscionable demands upon their wives? Do they not expect their wives to surrender their wills, to submit to them in every way?

  “Last month, I observed a man slap his wife—on a public street! And not a person beside myself thought to intervene. Women are but chattel, possessions in a man’s eyes, and marriage the means of securing a woman as his sole property.”

  Corrine’s lips trembled. “I am not Albert’s property, Sarah, nor does he treat me as such. He is an upright man, a godly man. We respect and honor each other as fellow believers in Christ.”

  “Have you forgotten how such ‘upright’ gentlemen used us in Corinth and how many of these ‘gentlemen’ prided themselves on their church affiliations?”

  “Forgotten? Certainly not. But those men were liars and hypocrites. My Albert is not a liar. He is not a hypocrite!”

  The wounded expression on Corrine’s face pricked Sarah’s conscience, but her anger would not allow Corrine’s feelings to sway her course.

  “I believe my familiarity with men is longer than yours, Corrine. You say you had a loving father at one time, a father who—you contend—cherished and protected you. And that, had he and your mother not died unexpectedly, you would never have been cast into the world to make your own way at a young and vulnerable age. You would not have had to seek employment far afield from your home. Likely as not, you would not have answered an employment advertisement in the newspaper and been tricked into coming to Denver—but you were, Corrine.

  “Perhaps, as you say, Albert is different but, of the men in my experience, the
vast majority are not. They have used me, sold me, and enslaved me.”

  Sarah straightened and stared at Corrine, her face set in resolve. “I shall never again permit a man to have power over me.”

  “But—”

  Sarah held up her hand. “We are dear friends, Corrine, and so I do not wish to speak further on this subject lest we damage our friendship. It is time to close the shop. Please go home . . . to Albert. I shall lock up.”

  She opened the door and waited, silent and stoic.

  Corrine, a sheen of unshed tears glassing her eyes, walked to the office, gathered her hat and handbag, returned to the front, and departed.

  When she had gone, Sarah fit the key to the door and locked herself inside. She went to the register, removed the cash from its drawers, placed it in the moneybag, and tucked the moneybag into her reticule. Nothing remained but for her to leave the shop and lock the door behind her, but she did not move.

  Instead, she sat down hard, and her thoughts slipped away from her. Memories she had run from for two decades flooded over her, sweeping her back, back, back.

  Back to a time and place far off, and to the gently waving stems of a thousand tulips . . .

  Albany, New York

  1899

  “DO NOT WORRY, SARAH, my precious, darling girl. Everything will be all right. You will see. Richard will take care of us. He will take care of you . . . after.”

  Sarah could not stop trembling. Even in her best dress, her near-black hair freshly washed, combed, and plaited, with shiny blue ribbons tied into bows at the end of her braids . . . even with her mother gripping her hand so hard it hurt—and despite her mother’s desperate reassurances—Sarah knew everything would not be all right. In some deeply primal and instinctive part of her being, Sarah intuited that this moment, standing outside the judge’s chambers, waiting to be called inside, marked the finish of “all right.”

  Sarah’s mother was ill.

  For more than a year, her health had been declining. Her illness was a coughing, hacking, wasting disease that sapped the breath from her lungs and stripped the flesh from her bones. Soon—not this month, and perhaps not next month, but soon—the disease would steal the soul from Edwina Ellinger’s body.