by Jane Peart
On her father’s arm Sara mounted the “welcoming arms” steps and entered the foyer, brilliant with lighted chandeliers. Mr. and Mrs. Maitland, Katherine, and a tall, sandy-haired young man stood in the entrance hall to receive their guests. Sara murmured something polite to Katherine’s parents and greeted Katherine, all the time distractedly wondering where Theo was.
“Sara, this is my fiancé, Douglas Cameron,” Katherine was saying. Then, turning to the young man at her side, she said, “Doug, may I present Miss Sara Leighton?”
Sara felt her hand suddenly encased in a strong clasp.
Looking down at her from his great height, Douglas Cameron acknowledged the introduction with a teasing twinkle in his eyes. “I feel as if I know you, Miss Sara. Since early morning I have heard nothing else but enthusiastic accounts of your beauty and your grace on horseback.”
Sara gazed up at him blankly. “But, how—”
“My good friend, Clay Montrose, has been completely smitten and is impatiently awaiting your arrival. If you don’t want your entire dance card scribbled with his name, I warn you to hide it.” Douglas grinned.
There was no time for further talk because other guests were behind her in the receiving line. Her father touched her arm, saying, “Hurry along, Sara.” Douglas released her hand, and she moved away.
Where was Theo? Sara wondered, while with a practiced smile on her face, she acknowledged greetings. She moved confidently from one small group to the other, collecting a handful of admiring young men along the way. Even as Sara kept up the repartee expected on such social occasions, her gaze swept the room, looking for him.
From the other side of the room Clayborn Montrose saw Sara enter the room. He felt his heart leap, and his fingers tightened around the glass he was holding. She was even lovelier than he remembered. He watched as she glanced around the room, her exquisite head turning this way and that. Then she seemed to look in his direction. As her face lighted up, a thrill of hope spread all through Clay. He started forward. Then, realizing that her gaze was going beyond him over his shoulder, he halted and turned in time to see a slim, dark-haired young man pass him and hurry toward Sara.
As Sara saw Theo coming toward her, her joy was so intense she could not think of a thing to say. But what his eyes told her needed no words.
“May I have this dance, Miss Sara?” he asked, and she did not remember taking his hand or moving with him onto the dance floor. All she was conscious of was the ecstasy of being in his arms.
In another moment the two of them were on the dance floor. Sara was moving with easy grace, her belled skirt swaying in a shimmering blue sheen, her expression blissful, her smile radiant.
All evening Clay watched her go from partner to partner, most often with the handsome, dark fellow with whom she seemed most vivacious. With all his heart, Clay hoped fervently that he had not met Sara Leighton too late, that she was not promised to someone else. The possibility that he might lose her before he had even had a chance to win her tormented him. From the first moment he had laid eyes upon her he knew that she was the woman he had dreamed all his life of finding.
* * *
The ball was over, and her father had come to take her home. Sara, with one reluctant, lingering look at Theo, had gone with Mr. Leighton to bid their hosts good-night. Theo had written something on the back of her dance card, but she had not had a chance to read it. When he gave it to her, she slipped it inside her glove.
“Tired?” her father asked, noticing her unusual silence once they were in the carriage. “I noticed you didn’t miss a dance,” he chuckled.
Sara nodded dreamily. She was far from tired. Over-stimulated would more aptly describe the way she felt. It had been an evening beyond her dreams. She and Theo had even managed to slip away into the Maitlands’ garden for a few minutes alone.
On the pretext of going to the ladies’ “refreshing” room, Sara had turned instead and gone through the open French doors out to the spot where Theo waited, hidden. He had whispered her name, and she was at once swept into his embrace.
They had not dared risk more than a few minutes’ absence. If Sara were missed, she knew tongues would wag. Spiteful gossip and malicious speculation could ruin her reputation. People, especially jealous girls who did not like her, were always quick to jump to conclusions. They loved to pass along a juicy tidbit that would take her out of circulation and improve their own romantic prospects.
But before they returned to the ballroom separately, Theo said, “Sara, we must arrange to meet. Alone. Where we can talk.”
“I’ll ask my father if you may call,” Sara replied breathlessly.
“No!” His reply was so adamant it startled her. “It must be somewhere away from prying eyes, curious ears.” There was an unusual urgency in his voice. “I have something I need to tell you—”
“I’ll see. I’ll try,” Sara said hurriedly. She glanced nervously back toward the lighted windows of the ballroom. If someone saw them out here together—
“Sara, it’s important,” Theo insisted.
“Yes, I understand.” Her heart was pounding, her head swam. Surely Theo meant to declare himself. Oh, heavens! it was all coming true! she thought deliriously. “Yes, yes. I’ll find a way. Send word. But we must go in now!”
Sara could not wait to reach home, and in the privacy of her bedroom, to read what Theo had written.
When she went upstairs a candle was still burning on her dressing table, the wax running into puddles, the flame sputtering. She had forgotten Lucie’s promise to wait up. But she saw that her younger sister had not been able to stay awake and was curled up on top of Sara’s bed, the quilt pulled over her.
Sara drifted into the room, tossing her cape onto a chair where it slipped to the floor. Flushed and dreamy-eyed, she spun to the center of the room and began untying the ribbons that held her ringlets, then shook out her hair until it fell cascading about her shoulders. Slowly she began unfastening her long French gloves, peeling them off and carelessly flinging them to follow her cape. Then she stood quite still and closed her eyes, clutching her dance card to her breast. Theo!
Moving over to the dimming light of the candle, she read the words he had scribbled on the card.
In the guest room of the Pierce residence a few streets away, Clayborn Montrose lay awake, staring into the darkness and thinking about Sara Leighton.
He was obsessed with her. How else could he explain the compelling power she had had over his thoughts from almost the first moment he had seen her?
He had been lucky to have one dance with her this evening, if you could call it that. During the Paul Jones, he had maneuvered himself opposite her when the music stopped and had gone one round of the dance floor before the caller signaled the musicians to start another circle.
Before going to bed, he had written in his journal:
To be near her is absolute enchantment. The scent of her skin is like ambrosia. Her hair, like midnight silk. With a single look she drew me into the deep, mysterious blue depths of her eyes. She is the loveliest creature I have ever seen. How I know, I can only guess, but I feel that she is destined to be my bride. Her name is Sara Leighton.
Aunt Avril, his adopted mother, had encouraged the habit of keeping a journal from the time he had first come to live with her and Uncle Graham at Montclair when he was eleven years old. He had been diligent in the practice all the time he was away at school and later when he attended William and Mary College in Williamsburg. In it, he had learned to confide his inmost thoughts, his intimate feelings, his deepest beliefs.
Now, it was second nature to carry the leather-bound book with him whenever he traveled. Each Christmas Aunt Avril gave him a new one for the year to come.
“I have kept a journal most of my life,” she had told him. “And I have never been sorry. It’s a way to discover yourself and chart your spiritual progress.”
Clay agreed with her. But now what was he to do with this hope that burned within him? A hope in which th
ere seemed no possibility of its becoming reality?
Young and inexperienced as he was, Clay knew this rushing emotion he felt was unusual. He was under some kind of spell from which he did not want to extricate himself.
Once, when he had been talking to Aunt Avril about her marriage to Uncle Graham, she had said, “A lifelong love has to be based on mutual, shared belief. That is the first and most important thing.” He knew their story, for Avril had told him all about it. She had loved Graham since she was a young girl and he had loved her, too. It was at first a strong friendship, then it had become something more—a relationship tested by time, trials, many separations, and misunderstandings. “Because our love was right and good, because it was meant to be, God allowed us to come together,” Avril had concluded happily.
Clay knew that what he felt for Sara Leighton at this point was more emotion than time-tested love. They had not had an opportunity to know each other. There was only this strong, instinctive feeling that somehow they were to belong together. How and when this would all come about, he had no idea.
He smiled into the darkness, remembering what Aunt Avril would probably suggest, as she did for any problem he had had through the years: “Pray about it, Clay dear. If it is in God’s plan for your life, it will come to be.” Then she would quote him chapter and verse.
Finally Clay closed his eyes. His last thought before drifting into sleep was of Sara Leighton.
chapter
4
THE NEXT MORNING when two bouquets arrived for Miss Sara Leighton, Mammy June lumbered up the stairs to deliver them to Sara’s bedroom.
Propping herself up on snowy pillows, Sara responded drowsily to the knock at the door. But when she saw Mammy June, she brushed her hair out of her eyes and reached eagerly for the dainty nosegays tied with lace streamers. Breathing in the scent, Sara looked at her old nurse.
“No cards?” she asked.
Mammy June pursed her lips, folded her arms, and gave an emphatic nod of her turbaned head before replying. “Yes’m. Dey wuz cards. But Miss Georgina done took ‘em to see who de flowers wuz from.”
Sara felt the familiar sense of outrage. Tossing aside the covers, she started to get up when her stepmother appeared in the doorway.
Georgina held up one of the two small cards in her hand. “Who is Theo Richardson, Sara, and why is he sending you flowers?”
An indignant retort sprang to mind, but Sara bit her lip before blurting it out, instead forcing herself to reply evenly, “ He’s one of the groomsmen in Katherine’s wedding, a school friend of her fiancé, Douglas Cameron. We met when I was at the Academy. Last night at the ball we renewed our acquaintance.”
Georgina lifted her eyebrows, but made no comment. She just held up another card. “And Clayborn Montrose?”
Sara’s eyes widened in surprise. What a persistent fellow! she thought to herself. But she answered promptly. “He’s a houseguest of the Pierces. And Douglas Cameron’s best man.”
“They have both asked to call,” Georgina told her. “Of course, I shall have to ask your father if he wishes us to receive them.”
That settled, Georgina scanned the room, taking in the discarded clothing from the night before, the general disarray. “It is time you were up, bathed and dressed, Sara,” she said sharply. “Miss Holgrath will be here at eleven for your piano lesson. And Mammy June, get this awful clutter tidied up right away!”
With that, she left the room. Though Sara knew better than to voice her opinion of her stepmother to a servant, the black woman’s expression left no doubt as to how she felt about her mistress.
Furthermore, Sara knew it would not be her father who made the final decision. He would simply defer to his wife in this matter as he had so many times before. He relinquished all matters of the social amenities regarding his daughters to Georgia.
Now that Sara knew who had sent them, she could guess the secret message of both bouquets. All young people of the time were familiar with the romantic language of flowers.
Surely the one from Theo, of scarlet roses, white alyssum, and maidenhair fern meant love and desire, worth beyond beauty, and cautious discretion.
The other one of yellow daffodils, blue forget-me-nots, and white snowdrops from the gentlemanly, but assured, Clayborn Montrose spoke honestly of his attraction, his regard, his intentions, his true love, and hope.
“Doan look lak nobody kin do nuthin’ round chere no more ‘thout Miss Georgina’s say-so,” Mammy June muttered to herself as she poured hot water into the copper tub for Sara’s bath.
Sara twisted her waist-length hair into a topknot to avoid getting it wet and, preoccupied with her own thoughts, paid little attention to the old woman’s mumblings. She knew Mammy June, who had been charged with the care of both sisters during the years Mr. Leighton was a widower, resented Georgina’s high-handed ways as much as Sara did. Besides, what might not be tolerated in another servant was forgiven Mammy June.
But from experience Sara knew when and when not to take a stand against her stepmother. This was not the time to challenge Georgina. Sweetness and light, that was the path to take. Nothing must prevent Theo’s being received. Therefore, it was extremely important that everything be done in compliance with all Georgina’s rules of etiquette, since disregarding them would be sure to incur her father’s displeasure. No, Sara would simply swallow her pride again. It would be worth it when Theo was received and accepted as a suitor for her hand in marriage.
Driving up from the Exchange, Leonard Leighton looked forward to a leisurely midday meal at home—reading the daily paper beforehand, enjoying a brandy and a good Havana cigar afterwards, then perhaps having a brief nap before returning to his office.
It had been a fine morning, he thought with satisfaction. The price of cotton was high and things were going very well. At forty-two, Leonard had made a place for himself in the world of Savannah commerce. Sure of his position in society, he had also prospered in business without losing the prestige of his old family name.
Of course, he had had his share of problems—losing his wife at an early age and being left a widower with the responsibility of two small daughters. With Georgina, however, that part of his life was more than satisfactory.
All in all, Leonard was feeling pleased with himself as his carriage came up on Bay Street, glad that he had moved as a young man from the Low Country of South Carolina to the small but thriving town of Savannah, Georgia.
Savannah! What a beautiful place to live. Ideally situated on forty-foot bluffs overlooking the Savannah River, with its deep-water harbor a gateway to the world of shipping and international trade. A city of commerce, true, with the warehouses along the bay and handsome public buildings like the Customs House and Courthouse, but also a city magnificently laid out in a chessboard of squares bordered by blossoming shrubs and flowers. It was those flowers that made the town a veritable garden now in the full bloom of early summer—oleander and azaleas adding color and fragrance. Live oaks, draped with lacy Spanish moss, provided shady places to rest on the benches beneath.
Beyond all that, Savannah, peopled with gracious society and filled with lovely churches such as the one the Leightons attended where George Whitfield himself had preached, was the perfect town in which to bring up a family. Other denominations, too, were represented, which spoke well of Savannah’s illustrious founder, James Ogel-thorpe, who not only believed in religious tolerance but practiced it as well. And, of course, the charming residential areas were studded with stately houses, some of which had been designed by John Jay, the famous architect, whose distinctive touch could be seen in the decorative grilled ironwork balconies and secret walled gardens.
Indeed, his own home compared favorably with any of them, Leonard thought with a touch of pride as his carriage drew up in front of an impressive whitewashed brick mansion.
The carriage door was opened by Raleigh, the Negro coachman, smart in a bright blue coat, immaculate white linen, and black top hat, who of
fered a white-gloved hand to help him out. Then, as if she had been on the lookout for his noon arrival, a housemaid in starched white apron and turban opened the door just as Leonard started up the front steps.
“Afternoon, suh.” She curtsied, smiling.
“Afternoon, Fronsy.” Leonard handed her his hat and cane and walked into the small room off the hall adjacent to the drawing room that was his private parlor. The newspaper, crisply folded, lay on the marble-top table. He picked it up, settling himself in a tufted armchair, unfolded it, and scanned the headlines before turning to the financial pages.
From somewhere in the house he heard the sound of a piano. He smiled to himself. One of the girls, he thought complacently, pleased that they were both so accomplished, albeit at no small expense. He calculated mentally—music lessons, dancing classes, the school in Charleston with its outrageous fees.
Leonard winced as a discordant note was struck, followed by a fumbling recovery. Must be Sara, he thought, turning the page. Sara was bored by scales, hated practicing. She had neither the patience nor the inclination to study hard enough to become proficient. It was Lucie he usually asked to play for his guests, certain that the piece would be executed well, if not brilliantly.
Sara! Leonard frowned. The girl was a puzzle. Something always brewing just below the surface.
Just then there was a light but insistent tap at his door. Leonard scowled and rustled his paper, annoyed at the interruption. Couldn’t a man have a few minutes of peace in his own house?
The door pushed open and Georgina came in. “Am I disturbing you, dear?” she asked.
Dinner was always served promptly at one-fifteen in the graciously appointed dining room of the Leighton house. Its pale green painted walls and jalousied windows, their slotted panels now closed, provided a welcome oasis from the midday heat outside.
Sara and Lucie sat opposite each other at the table set with fine handpainted porcelain, embroidered linen, and gleaming silver. Georgina presided over the serving from the sideboard by Trent, the butler and houseman. At a lift of her finger, she indicated what dishes were to be brought and offered, first to Mr. Leighton at the head, then to the girls in turn.