The Black Rose (62 page)

Sarah felt utterly absurd for a moment. Here was Sarah Breedlove in this big house stuffed with treasures, all of it worth probably half a million dollars, and she still felt a longing for something else.
I don’t know what you
want, Mama,
Lelia had said during their last horrible fight, one that still seemed to linger between them even though neither of them had brought it up since.

God help her, she didn’t know herself.

More than twenty thousand agents. A full-fledged factory with three hundred employees. A thriving business. Real estate holdings around the country. A palace. Four automobiles. Eight servants, even a butler and chauffeur. A tutor. A nurse. In all, she thought, she might be worth a million dollars, as all the newspapers kept claiming about her. There were only two wishes still posted on her Wish Board:
Rest,
one said. The other:
Justice for Negroes
.

Yet she was here in her bedroom on her most triumphant day with an ache in her chest that felt very much like a real hole that she could touch if she tried. Sarah’s eyes traveled back to her nightstand, and her eyes found the tiny porcelain black rose C.J. had given her on their wedding day. It had been slightly chipped somehow, but she still kept it. Was
he
the reason for the hole?
God help me if that’s true,
Sarah thought.

She had not talked to C.J. since his betrayal. She’d finally relented and told Mr. Ransom to allow C.J. to set up an agency to sell Walker goods—that, in her mind, was only fair—but she did not want to think about him. His sister Agnes Prosser, who was a wonderful woman and remained a friend of hers and the Ransoms, told her how C.J. was doing from time to time, but even Agnes knew better than to bring up her brother’s name unless she was asked.

She didn’t need him. She was doing better than ever without C.J. Walker.

But the phantom pain in the middle of Sarah’s chest, right between her breastbone, told her clearly that she wanted something she did not have, and she was beginning to realize that even a trunkful of money couldn’t begin to buy it for her.

The doorbell chimed endlessly, and the butler dutifully announced all newcomers in a stentorian tone that could be heard throughout the entrance hall over the organ music.

“Mrs. Margaret Murray Washington!”

“Mrs. Ida B. Wells-Barnett!”

“Mr. and Mrs. A. Philip Randolph!”

“Mr. Arthur Schomburg!”

“Mr. and Mrs. James Weldon Johnson!”

“Mr. and Mrs. Rosamond Johnson!”

“Mr. Carter G. Woodson!”

The house swelled with guests, and soon it was filled with the din of conversation and clinking glasses as the guests enjoyed fruit punch and each other’s company. Sarah and Lelia flitted between them, greeting them all and accepting their compliments with grace and modesty.

“My only reason to have the villa is to share it,” Sarah told everyone who expressed astonishment at its opulence. “It belongs to the race.”

Sarah was so proud of Lelia; she’d outdone herself today, dressed in a glittering ivory-colored dress more striking than anything she had ever seen her daughter wear. It lacked ruffles and frills, and it was simple in its elegance of design, reaching only just above her ankles. Dresses were certainly getting shorter, Sarah realized. It wouldn’t be long before women would be wearing dresses above their shins. And nothing could have suited Lelia’s figure more.

“I think we should all do our part in the war effort,” Lelia was saying to Emmett Scott, Booker T. Washington’s former secretary, who was now a special assistant to the Secretary of War. “Mother has addressed our troops to uplift them, as you know, and she sells war bonds as well as she does Walker products. We haven’t forgotten the unfortunate ones, either—so I take great pride in my work to provide first-aid supplies for the Circle of Negroes’ War Relief.”

“Your help is much needed,” Mr. Scott said, nodding.

Listening to her daughter, Sarah found it impossible to believe that this was the same Lelia she had pulled from her card room that awful night a few months ago. How could Lelia be so wanton and still so poised? “Very soon I’m going to start meeting returning soldiers who have been maimed and injured,” Lelia went on. “I’m trying to start a Colored Women’s Motor Corps in Harlem, you see, so we can drive ambulances. Mother sits on the board for the Motor Corps of America, and I want to take part in my own way. But I’d better take driving lessons first!”

Later, in the drawing room, Sarah found herself flanked by Margaret Murray Washington and Ida B. Wells-Barnett, who were admiring the same art pieces she’d been gazing at in privacy before dawn. “No, let me tell
you
,” Mrs. Wells-Barnett said to Mrs. Washington, pulling on Sarah’s arm. “You should have seen her when she first started out. I’ll tell you one thing, I thought she was talking a whole lot of nonsense. Hair grower! Isn’t that the truth, Madam?”

“You and a whole lot of other folks,” Sarah said.

Mrs. Washington’s eyes shone warmly, although Sarah also recognized the sadness there. Of all the people still reeling from the loss of Booker T. Washington, this woman and his children must feel it the most, Sarah thought. “She made a real impression on me at Tuskegee, I’ll say that,” Mrs. Washington said. “But still, I never expected anything like this!”

“Well, I’m not one for a whole lot of social affairs,” Mrs. Wells-Barnett said, “but today, I think a true monument has been unveiled.”

Sarah attended her own gathering in a daze, sometimes giddy, sometimes feeling as if she were sleepwalking. She quietly reacquainted herself with people she knew: NAACP board chairman Joel Springarn, who thanked her for her fund-raising speeches; the treasurer, Oswald Garrison Villard, editor of the
New York Evening Post
; assistant secretary Walter White; and a stream of others who had entered her life suddenly since her move to New York. Some she knew fairly well; some she knew barely at all. But most of them met her with smiles that were nearly gushing, as if they were just the slightest bit intimidated by her.

How in the world did you do this?
The unspoken question was obvious in their eyes.

She remembered how self-conscious she’d felt at that first formal gathering with C.J. in Denver, and she had to smile. None of those snitty folks even warranted an invitation to her party today. From city to city, the local elite had never wanted much to do with her, so she’d become a darling of the
national
elite instead, the folks who really mattered. No one in this room saw a washerwoman when they looked at her. No one.

“Mother Walker!”

A familiar child’s voice made Sarah’s head whirl around with joy. Little Frank Ransom, wearing short pants and an adorable coat and tie, lifted his arms upward to Sarah as he bounced in front of her feet, excited. His baby teeth were displayed in a wide, dimpled grin. Sarah knew his parents must be not far behind, and she was glad. She’d missed Nettie and the boys horribly, and she had business to discuss with Mr. Ransom. Nettie had just given birth to her fourth child—a daughter, at last!—so she’d been afraid they might not make it to the event.

“Ooh—just lookit my godbaby!” Sarah said, leaning down to give Frank a hug. “Don’t you know you’re too big for me to lift you up like before? Why do you keep growing? Huh?”

The boy giggled. “Is this your great big house, Mother Walker?”

“It sure is! Wait until you and your brothers see the nursery upstairs.”

Soon the other boys crowded noisily around her, expecting their hugs, too, while their parents tried to hush them. Freeman Ransom’s hair was shaved much closer to his head than it had been the last time she’d seen her attorney, and he seemed just a few pounds stockier, too. But otherwise this man seemed to change less than anyone Sarah had ever known. He gave her a warm smile. The love and admiration he felt for her seemed to glow from his skin, and Sarah understood how he felt. In some ways Mr. Ransom had been more a partner than C.J. And Nettie seemed to be recuperating well from the birth, if she looked a little tired.

“Madam,” Mr. Ransom said, squeezing her hand. “I’m speechless today.”

“Not you, Mr. Ransom. As soon as you take a walk around, you’ll start scolding me for the cost,” Sarah said. “Let me see the baby!”

The tiny newborn swathed in a blanket in Nettie’s arms looked like she’d just left the womb, she was so small. Her brown eyes squinted at Sarah. “Oh, Nettie … she’s a little
wonder
! You have to find Lelia to show her,” Sarah said. Her daughter would be especially thrilled to see this baby, since she was the child’s namesake: A’Lelia Emma Ransom.

“I will, but I just can’t get over this house! You’ve really done it this time, Sarah,” said Nettie, who was wearing a lilac-colored summer gown and matching hat. It had taken Nettie a long time to finally agree to call Sarah by her Christian name instead of
Madam
, but Sarah was grateful Nettie had made the transition. She had few true friends in the room today. “I do believe you finally have everything in the world.”

Her words, to Sarah, felt like a bolt of lightning. Jarred, she glanced at the Ransom children, then at her huddles of guests, before returning her gaze to Nettie’s smile. In that instant she forgot the strange sense of sorrow she’d felt before dawn. “You know something, Nettie … ?” Sarah said with wonderment. “I do believe you’re right. And I’ve had it a long time, long before I built this house. How have I been so blessed?”

“You know how, Sarah—
work,
” Nettie said.

She raised her index finger to Sarah’s chin to stroke it before giving her a long, warm hug with her free arm. Sarah hugged her back tightly, careful not to press against the baby.

“You go find Lelia and get the boys some of that punch, Nettie,” Sarah said, pulling away. “I need to talk to Mr. Ransom.”

Sarah took Mr. Ransom through the Gold Room to the balcony outside, closing the French doors behind them. She could hear some of the din from inside, but she could also hear her fountain’s gurgling and the calls of nearby birds. Without meeting Mr. Ransom’s eyes, she gazed out at the trees and shrubbery lining her lovely property, feeling a growing sense of peace.

“I’m a better gardener now than I was as a girl, that’s for sure,” Sarah said. “I should take you down to see my roses and vegetables. I must have gained a magic touch.”

“You’ve always had that, Madam,” Mr. Ransom said, standing beside her. He rested his hands on the balcony, leaning forward. “That’s apparent here today. You’ve shown yourself to be a true woman of standing with this occasion. And I only want to caution you not to spoil it.”

“Spoil it how?” Sarah said, confused. Then, before Mr. Ransom could answer, Sarah knew his concern: He thought she was becoming too heavily involved in politics, consorting with activists like William Monroe Trotter, who was considered a radical. There had been a vicious political rivalry between Mr. Trotter and Booker T. Washington before Dr. Washington died, to the point where Mr. Trotter had hampered the deceased leader’s speaking engagements; but although Sarah didn’t always like Mr. Trotter’s tactics, she believed he had the best interests of the race at heart. Perhaps Negroes had been
too
conservative until now, Sarah thought.

“I know you can’t help yourself, but I’m not in the mood for a lecture just now, Mr. Ransom,” Sarah said. “I’d much rather hear if you’ve thought about what I’ve offered you.”

Freeman Ransom sighed. “I’ve thought about little else, Madam,” he said.

“Then I hope you’ll say yes.”

He paused. “I talked to Nettie first, and then I talked it over with God. I think they’re both trying to push me in the same direction. But sometimes I think it’s men who are the weaker sex. I’m afraid I still have doubts, Madam.”

“Good,” Sarah said, looking at him with a smile. “I’d be scared if you didn’t.”

“How will A’Lelia like it?” Mr. Ransom asked solemnly.

“Maybe not much at all. But in her heart, she knows what’s best.”

Sarah turned around because she felt someone watching her through the window. Sure enough, as if she’d known they were talking about her, Sarah saw her daughter standing there staring. There was a hardness in Lelia’s face, but also resignation. Quickly, Lelia cast her eyes down and moved away. A piece of Sarah’s heart seemed to follow her daughter.

“So, Mr. Ransom … will you be the lifetime general manager of the Madam C.J. Walker Manufacturing Company? We need you. I want it specified in the will I’m drawing up that the
ownership
always has to be in the hands of women, and Lelia will be the president. That’s the only thing that feels right. I’ll make it clear that she can’t dispose of the company. And in terms of running it, Mr. Ransom, there’s no one better than you. If I don’t hand it over to you right now, I don’t see how I or this company can go on. And that’s the truth.”

There was something in Mr. Ransom’s eyes too large for words. He looked humbled, saddened, and the slightest bit awestruck. But slowly, at last, he nodded.

“I’ll draw up … the papers… .” Mr. Ransom said, mumbling.

Quickly, Sarah took her attorney’s hand and gave it a firm, definite shake. Their hands did not part for a long time.

Chapter Thirty-seven

December 21, 1918

Madam C.J. Walker

Villa Lewaro

Irvington, New York

Dear Madam:

When Christmas comes around, I am always reminded of the number of years that I have known you and, looking back over your remarkable career, I take a peculiar pride in the fact that I have had the pleasure of watching you develop in business and also broadening along all lines, and then I congratulate myself on having the honor of knowing you and representing you in some small way. I, of course, am writing in the hope that God will continue to smile on you and that you will continue to bless and help the less fortunate. Villa Lewaro will always stand as a monument to your business ability and foresight as well as a milestone in the remarkable advance of a people.