A Silken Thread

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

“Uh-huh. Straight-up twelve. I heared it said to Mistuh Johnson with my own ears yestuhday aftuhnoon.” He tapped his temple. “Held them words in my mind so’s I could remembuh to watch the fountain today. Don’t wanna miss seein’ it.”

  Quincy didn’t want to miss it, either. They’d been messing with that fountain since the very first day of the exposition. Likely every person on the grounds would gather around the lake to watch the show. A slow smile pulled at his cheeks. He’d give ’em more’n a fountain to gawk at.

  Laurel

  Laurel paused at the top of the rise leading to the lake. Why were so many people gathered around? She might never find Langdon in the crowd. She needed to find him. She’d finally mustered up her courage to ask if he’d had anything to do with Officer Sharp’s arrest for the disappearance of the pay envelopes, and she wanted to verbalize the question before nervousness gave way to cowardice.

  Someone’s hand slid across her shoulders, a very deliberate touch, and she yelped in surprise. Soft chuckles met her ear, and then warm breath stirred her hair.

  “It’s only me, Laurel.”

  She looked into Langdon’s teasing face. “Why didn’t you say something first? You nearly frightened me senseless.”

  He chuckled again, shaking his head. “I spoke your name twice. You didn’t hear me.” He bobbed his chin toward the milling throng along the lake. “What’s all this about?”

  “They’s gon’ start the fountain. Folks is wantin’ to see it spout.”

  Laurel turned toward the voice and found a well-dressed young black man standing beside her with his hands in his trouser pockets. The pose pushed back the flaps of his suit jacket and exposed a vest the same color as Langdon’s eyes. He seemed vaguely familiar. Recognition dawned, and at the same time Langdon blasted a laugh.

  “Tate? Is that you?”

  His head high, Quincy Tate angled his gaze in Langdon’s direction. Pride shone in his dark eyes. “Yes, suh.”

  Langdon raised his eyebrows and scanned Quincy’s length. “Did somebody hire you to drive their carriage? That’s quite the getup.”

  Quincy’s spine wilted. His bright countenance dimmed.

  Laurel turned an astounded look on Langdon. “What an unkind thing to say.”

  Langdon shrugged. “I’m sorry”—he didn’t sound sorry—“but I have to be honest. Anything else would mislead him into thinking he’s something other than what he is.”

  Laurel put one fist on her hip. “And what is he?”

  Langdon put on his low-lidded smile. “Come now, Miss Millard, you know as well as I what he is. One can put a fancy dress on a sow, but underneath you’ll still have a sow.”

  Laurel gasped. She turned to Quincy, intending to compliment him on his stylish attire, but he was already stalking away, his shoulders stiff. She shifted her attention to Langdon.

  He shook his head, watching after Quincy. “He’d do well to put a full-length mirror in his house so he could inspect his reflection and see the truth.”

  In that moment, Laurel saw the truth. She wanted to escape it. She whirled and headed for the Women’s Building. The thud of footsteps came up behind her, and a hand caught her arm.

  Langdon looked at her, confusion pinching his high brow. “Where are you going? We’re to have a picnic.”

  A disbelieving laugh built in Laurel’s chest and exploded. “A picnic? Is that all you can think about—having a picnic?”

  His expression quickly darkened. “I don’t care for your tone, Laurel.”

  “Nor I yours.” She yanked her arm free. “How could you treat Mr. Tate so rudely?”

  His blue eyes—the ocean-blue eyes she’d thought so attractive—narrowed into slits. “Mr. Tate?”

  “Yes. Mr. Tate.” She stated the name with as much pomp as she would use if speaking of the president of the United States. “He did nothing to deserve your criticism, yet you were deliberately cruel. I cannot comprehend—”

  “I cannot comprehend your defense of someone so far beneath your station.” He folded his arms over his chest. “You will need to set aside your ridiculous notions before I am willing to request your hand in marriage. Your attitude will wreak havoc with the household staff, stirring them into a false sense of importance. I won’t have rebellion under my own roof.”

  Laurel’s chin quivered. He’d told her earlier that eventually a man’s true character would show itself, and she saw his now in all its ugliness. Oh, how it pained her. She shook her head.

  His eyebrows formed a stern V. “What does that”—he imitated her gesture—“mean?”

  “I won’t change how I feel.”

  A cheer went up from the crowd at the lake. Langdon looked over his shoulder, and Laurel peered past him. Glistening water shot high into the air and fanned out like a peacock’s tail. So very beautiful. So incongruous, given the shattered state of her heart.

  Langdon pursed his lips. “It’s about time they got that thing operational.” He faced Laurel again. “My dear, if you don’t agree to alter your attitude, I cannot speak to your mother tomorrow.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Such anger blazed in his eyes that she drew back. He leaned in. “Are you telling me you would choose to throw away the opportunity to become my wife, to live in luxury, to elevate yourself to the highest status of society all because of…them?”

  Dear God, please give me strength. From where had the prayer come? She hadn’t taken time to pray in weeks. But the frantic, helpless utterance met God’s ears, and He responded with such force that she felt as if she’d grown an inch taller.

  She met Langdon’s stormy gaze. “Yes. That’s what I’m telling you.”

  In the space of one heartbeat, his entire demeanor changed. The anger melted. His tense frame relaxed. He unballed his fists and slipped one hand into his trouser pocket. With the other, he brushed her cheek with his fingertip. “Sweet Laurel, I’ll give you an opportunity to rethink your hasty words. I’m sure when you’ve carefully considered the benefits of marriage to me, you’ll have a change of heart. I will forgive you, and we can pretend this unpleasantness never occurred.”

  The fountain sent forth arches and fans of water. Langdon had once said they would float beneath the fountain’s spray on a rowboat. Her chest ached. She blinked back tears and stared into his handsome face. “I’ve already had a change of heart.”

  He smiled and eased closer.

  “I cannot marry you.”

  He stopped as suddenly as if a giant hand caught the back of his jacket and drew him up short. “Yes, you can. Furthermore, you will.”

  She tipped her head. Was he threatening her?

  “I didn’t spend this time wooing you only to be pushed aside. I’ve introduced you to my mother. She expects the announcement of an engagement. I will not disappoint her. My inheritance depends upon it.”

  Laurel considered his final statement. A picture took shape in her mind. She huffed out a mirthless laugh. “Are you saying you pursued me because a betrothal was required by your mother?”

  He flipped his hand. “And I found you appealing. I couldn’t possibly wed someone whose face I found repulsive.”

  “So you never really cared for me at all. You only wanted…someone pretty.” Shame swept through her. How gullible she’d been.

  “Marriage is a union, no different than a business merger. Yes, I want something from you, but you also want something from me—security for your mama, remember? How will you take care of her if you sever your ties with me?”

  Her answer formed without a moment’s hesitation. “The same way I always have. By trusting God for provision.”

  He laughed. “That’s a very intrepid attitude, if not a little provincial. You realize you’ll never have more than you have right now if you send me away. You’ve been in my home. You’ve seen what awaits the woman who will bear my name.” He advanced again, assuming the
adoring expression she now realized was only a mask. “Don’t be foolish, Laurel. Think of what you’re giving up.”

  She crossed her arms over her aching chest. “I know what I’m giving up. And I need to let it go. I’ve been reaching for the wrong thing. Instead of grasping for a relationship with you, I should have been holding to the One who truly cares for me.” An image of the tattered fabric in the loom, caught in the frame by a single thread, filled her mind, and tears followed. She hadn’t been holding to God, but He hadn’t let go of her. He was clinging, as tenacious as that silken thread, and He would never let her go.

  “Oh?” Langdon’s derisive voice cut into her thoughts. “And who is that? Willie Sharp?”

  Sadness struck her. How narrow minded Langdon was, how self-absorbed. How empty. “No, my Father God.”

  He gazed at her for several silent seconds, then gave a glib shrug. “Well, as with any potential merger, one must allow for last-minute jitters. I shall grant you a night to rethink your position. I’ll be at the lion sculpture tomorrow as planned. If you change your mind, meet me at the sculpture. If you walk past, I’ll seek a new partner.”

  If he had cared for her at all, he wouldn’t so blithely release her. She wouldn’t meet him at the sculpture. “Goodbye, Mr. Rochester.”

  He tipped his hat and sauntered toward the lake.

  Sighing half in relief and half in remorse, she turned to the Women’s Building. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Quincy Tate sitting on the wide rim around the large fountain’s reservoir in the center of the square. His dejected pose—head low, hands flat on the concrete rim, toe grinding against the brick pavement—pierced her. Without conscious thought, she followed the sidewalk to the fountain and sat on the opposite side.

  “Mr. Tate?” They faced away from each other with ten feet between them, so she spoke loudly and clearly. She wanted him to hear every word. “I’m very sorry for what Mr. Rochester said. He was wrong. Your suit is quite fetching. You look very distinguished in it.”

  A heavy sigh carried from the other side of the fountain. “It’s real nice o’ you to say so, miss, but it be best for me to accept the truth. I ain’t nothin’ much. An’ this suit, it don’t change that. My mam tried to tell me, but I’s muleheaded. Hadda find it out on my own self.”

  Tears stung Laurel’s eyes. “It sounds as if both of us were looking for something—wanting something—and neither of us got it.”

  “What you wantin’ you didn’ get?”

  The genuine curiosity in his tone, as well as the safety of seemingly speaking to the air, enticed her to share her foolhardy search. “I wanted to love someone, and to be loved in return. I wanted”—she swallowed the knot of longing—“to matter to someone.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” The huskiness in his voice told her that her words had affected him. “I reckon you ain’t alone in that. Don’t nobody not wanna be loved.”

  Laurel nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “I certainly made a fool of myself, trying to find what I was looking for in a courtship with Langdon Rochester.” Embarrassment smote her, bringing a rush of heat to her face. “And what’s sad is I know better. My mama taught me from the time I was a little girl to fully rely on God to meet all my needs.”

  A throaty chuckle sounded. “Yo’ mama an’ my mam, they sound a lot alike.”

  Laurel smiled. “Most mothers want what’s best for their children. Mama told me to seek God’s plan for my life.” She sighed. “I’m awfully glad I realized I was running in the wrong direction before it was too late.”

  “How you find out?”

  She twirled a strand of hair. Should she tell him? She didn’t want to remind him of Langdon’s hurtful words. “Well, to be honest, Mr. Tate, you helped me see it.”

  “Me?” The word yelped out. “How I do that?”

  She peeked over her shoulder and realized he’d turned sideways on the rim. He was staring straight at her, his wide dark eyes full of wonder. She shifted so she could face him more easily. “By being there in your fine suit. When Mr. Rochester spoke to you the way he did, it let me see his character. I don’t like what I saw. I can’t be courted by someone who treats another human being with such utter disregard and hatefulness. You gave me the courage to send him away.”

  He gawked at her for several seconds, unblinking, and then abruptly turned his back again. “Oh.”

  Laurel waited, but he remained facing away from her, so she resumed her previous pose. “Please forgive me if I offended you, Mr. Tate. That wasn’t my intention.”

  “I kn-know.”

  Her heart caught. Had a sob broken the word?

  “I ain’t offended. I’s…beholden to you.”

  She shifted sideways and looked at his back. “For what?”

  “I was sittin’ here callin’ myself all kinds o’ names for spendin’ money on somethin’ that didn’ make no diff’rence.” He stood, slowly turned, and faced her. “My mam, she believes real strong that God don’t waste nothin’. That all things is s’posed to work for good. But I ain’t believed it ’til right now.”

  He gripped his lapels and struck a dignified pose. “If God c’n use me buyin’ a suit I plumb didn’ need so’s you could be saved from a heap o’ heartache, then I didn’ waste that money after all.”

  A sheen of tears blurred his image, but she heard pride in his voice. She nodded. “It wasn’t wasted. I’m beholden to you, Mr. Tate.”

  “An’ somethin’ else…” His hands slipped to his pockets. He lowered his head, hunched his shoulders, and dug one boot toe against the sidewalk. “Reckon you know you matter a whole bunch to God, but there’s a fella—a real fine one—who looks favorable on you. Has for a long time.” He peeked at her out of the corners of his eyes. “Maybe since you tol’ Rochester to skedaddle, you might consider lookin’ back.”

  Willie

  The morning of his trial, Willie used the razor and soap from the box Mr. Rochester sent and stripped every whisker from his cheeks and chin. Then he changed into the suit his boss had given him. He smoothed his freshly washed hands down the lapels, and a shiver rattled his frame. The good kind of shiver. The tiny cracked mirror above the washbasin couldn’t reflect his whole person, but if the suit looked as good as it felt, he ought to impress the judge.

  When his lawyer, David Scott, had come in last Friday, he’d told Willie to be ready to move out of this cell when the trial was over. Willie hoped the man meant he’d get to go home instead of to the penitentiary. Either way, he needed to pack up his stuff, so he folded the security guard uniform he’d been wearing the day he got arrested and put it in the bottom of the crate. All the things Mr. Rochester sent over went in next and then, very last, the new Bible.

  He owed a big thank-you to Mr. Rochester for the Bible. Reading it, especially passages from psalms written by King David, who’d been wrongfully accused and was running for his life, comforted him. He’d probably done more reading in the past week than in all the years before. He sure hadn’t liked the reason he had so much time to read, but he liked knowing how God had protected King David. God would protect him, too. He held on to hope.

  Preacher Hines had come in two different times, talked to him and prayed with him. It’d shamed him something awful for his preacher to see him behind these bars, but he’d needed those visits. Preacher Hines promised to be in the courtroom today. Mr. Rochester would be there, too. Having them on his side made it a lot easier to face the judge and jury.

  The iron door clanged open, and a guard tromped all the way to Willie’s cell. He jammed a skeleton key in the lock and turned it. That click was one sound Willie hoped he’d never have to hear again. Willie picked up the box and took a step toward the door.

  “Leave that here.”

  Willie lowered the box to the bed, and his gaze landed on the Bible. He held it up. “Can I at least take this?”

  The guard nodded. Willie t
ucked the book against his ribs and followed the guard up the dim hallway and out of the jail area. A feeling of relief hit him when the iron door closed behind him, making his head go fuzzy. He didn’t want to go back in there. Please, please, God…

  “This way.” A second guard moved to Willie’s other side, and the two of them escorted him all the way to the third floor and the courtroom. Mr. Scott was already there at the front, and a man dressed a lot like Mr. Scott was sorting papers on a second table. Some people were already sitting in what Mr. Scott had called the gallery on benches that looked like church pews—several on the far right-hand side and a few on the left. Seeing them there made everything very real. He was going on trial. Fear made his legs go trembly. Willie hugged the Bible tighter.

  The guards walked him up the center aisle of the pews, and Willie glanced down the rows. Mr. Felton, a police officer, and a man Willie didn’t know sat together on the left. On the right-hand side, Miss Warner and the three girls from the Silk Room sat three pews from the front. He hadn’t expected them to come, but it sure lifted his spirits to see them. Preacher Hines was at the end of the pew in front of the ladies, and next to him—

  Willie gasped. “Pa? An’ Quincy?”

  The guard on his right yanked his arm. “Hush.”

  Willie had to hush. His throat went so tight he could hardly breathe, let alone talk. He could hardly see, either. Tears blinded him. He blinked hard and fast and cleared his vision enough to recognize Mr. Rochester and Langdon on the first pew. The only one missing was Rusty. He tried to send them all a smile of thanks, but the guard moved in front of him and pushed him into a chair at the table with Mr. Scott.

  The two guards strode to a door at the front of the room to the left of the judge’s bench and stood on either side of it, their faces solemn and their hands on their sidearms. Willie gulped and hunkered low.

  Mr. Scott put his arm around Willie. “Don’t slouch. Sit up. Keep your head high. You’ve got nothing to fear because you’re innocent.”

  Willie followed the lawyer’s instructions, but he couldn’t make his heart stop bouncing around in his chest. Sometimes innocent men got convicted. It had happened to Joseph, to Paul and Barnabas. It could happen to him, too. He clamped his fingers on the Bible and gripped hard.