Walker's Wedding (2 page)

Boston, Massachusetts, June 1870

I
'm dying. I'm dying, Wadsy.”

“You ain't dyin', honey chile. Now hold still and let Wadsy put this cold cloth on your forehead. Lawsy me, you're hot as a poker.” The old nanny squeezed water from a cold compress and laid it across Sarah's forehead. “Runnin' off in this cold rain, entertainin' the idea of marryin' some no-good riverboat worker. What were you thinkin', baby girl? Tyin' yourself to some man who'd end up breakin' your heart? Goodness, do you want your papa's dyspepsia to flare up again? He's gonna have a conniption fit when he hears what you been up to!”

Sarah lay on the bed, arms flung spread-eagle, staring at the ceiling. Hank was a bit unstable, and Papa would point that out, ranting about how she'd known the “scoundrel” less than a week, but the riverboat worker had promised to settle down and devote himself tirelessly to family life. He'd vowed he was weary of traveling from town to town, wasting his life on women and strong drink.

Unlike Papa, she didn't have to know someone a hundred years to judge his character.

“I was this close to marriage, Wadsy.” She measured a minuscule distance with her thumb and forefinger. “I could have been a bride.”

Wadsy groaned. “Praise the good Lord that he intervened. Law, girl, you're going to put this ol' woman in an early grave.”

“This close,” Sarah repeated. “Why did Abe have to come along when he did? Why couldn't that old mare have thrown a shoe any other time but today?”

“You're ‘this close' to feelin' the strap of your daddy's belt to your backside, Sarah Elaine Livingston.” Wadsy lifted the cloth off of Sarah's forehead and soaked it in a pan of cool water. “Good thing Abe came along when he did or you'd be in a fine how-de-do.”

Curling up into a tight ball, Sarah released her misery in wailing sobs.

“Now, child,” Wadsy soothed. “It ain't the end of the world.”

“But it is!” Sarah cried. “All I have ever wanted was to marry and have children. Just look at me. I'm twenty-five and an
old maid
!”

Sarah wadded up her pillow and wept into it. Her muffled voice came through the crisply ironed pillowcase. “I'm going to die before I ever get to be a wife.”

Every time she got close to the altar, someone interfered with her plans. When would she ever escape Papa's attempts to suffocate her dream? When would she finally have the husband she ached to care for or an infant to call her own?

Wadsy rescued the pillow, clucking her tongue and shaking out the creases. “Never seen such carrying-on. Sit up, honey chile. Your nose is gonna be all red and uglylike. You'll never find a husband if you have an ugly red nose.”

Sarah bolted upright, pinning Wadsy with a cold stare. “I'm never going to find a husband no matter what my nose looks like. And who cares? No one, that's who!”

Old Abe could have helped today, but no. He had to come by the landing on his way to have the mare shod, spot her boarding the boat with Hank, and drag her off like an errant child. And the worst was yet to come. She still had to face Papa.

“We all care, baby girl. We just don't want you goin' off half-cocked and marryin' the wrong man.” Settling her bulk on the side of the bed, Wadsy smoothed Sarah's fiery red tendrils from her forehead. The
dark-skinned woman had practically raised Sarah from infancy; she was like a second mother. “I know how your heart aches for a husband. Lord knows you've clomped around this house with a curtain over that unruly hair, wearin' your mama's gowns, gettin' pretend married since you could toddle. Lawsy me, I've attended more weddin's during your childhood than I can count, but marriage is powerful serious, baby girl. The good Lord intends marriage vows to be spoken in earnest. You got to get it right or you'll live with the mistake the rest of your life. None of us want to see you go through that—cain't you understand?”

“Oh, Wadsy.” Sarah sniffed and then blew her nose into her handkerchief She knew she was spoiled and demanded her way, but how long could she stay under Papa's thumb? Marriage was sacred and shouldn't be entered into lightly, but the perfect man—the one Papa insisted on, simply didn't exist. Papa was rich beyond belief—he owned his own railroad, half of Boston, and hundreds and hundreds of acres of abundant cotton land—so he could purchase anything she wanted. Yet he was powerless to buy what she needed: a husband, someone to love and care for, someone who would love and care for her when Papa and Wadsy and Abraham passed on.

No amount of money in the world could assure that kind of happiness.

Over the years dozens of young men, mostly men who worked for Papa, had courted her. Something—usually Papa—always interfered with those promising relationships. No one was ever good enough for her in her father's eyes, though he insisted that she was being overly dramatic when she said so. Yet here she was, getting older by the minute and not a lick closer to a husband than she'd been the day Wadsy helped Dr. Mason bring her into the world.

“Come on, now.” Wadsy lumbered to her feet, taking Sarah's arm and urging her up. The old nanny was three times Sarah's size, her fleshy bulk swaying with the motion. “Suppa's on the table, and there's no need to make your papa angrier than he already is.”

Sarah dug her heels into the rug, refusing to be led to the slaughter. She knew that supper would be an emotional scene, with Papa
vowing to send her off to Uncle Brice. She'd die before she'd live in Uncle Brice's stuffy old mausoleum. His humorless laugh sounded like a crow lodged in his snout.

Wadsy's eyes flashed with determination and she pulled, hauling her struggling charge across the Turkish carpet, out the door, and into the hallway. Sarah tried to get back into her room, but Wadsy blocked the door and called for Abe.

The towering black man quickly appeared at the bottom of the stairs, and Sarah's heart sank. She shrank against the wall, trying to avoid his gaze, but the white-haired servant pinned her with a stern look that she knew meant business. His low-pitched bass rumbled deep in his massive chest.

“Come on down now, missy. Suppa's gettin' cold.”

“I'm sick, Abe. I have the sniffles and I feel flushed. Don't make me eat with Papa!”

“Ain't no use, Abraham. You're gonna have to come after her,” Wadsy called. “She's in one of her moods.”

Stiffening, Sarah fixed her body in a rigid stance, keeping an eye on Abe and a hand clenched on the banister as he slowly ascended the stairway.

“I'm too ill to eat.”

“Makes no difference to me if you eat suppa or not, but your papa wants you at his table while he eats his.”

Gently but firmly prying her hand from the rail, he swung her over his left shoulder and hauled her down the winding stairway. When the battling duo reached the foyer, Wadsy hurried to straighten Sarah's skirts, avoiding the flailing legs.

Crossing her arms, Sarah refused to let her captors intimidate her as Abe transported her into the dining room. They might force her to sit at Papa's table, but they would need a crowbar to make her eat. Or speak.

Lowell Livingston glanced up when Abe stepped into the dining room, carrying Sarah over his shoulder.

She made sure that settling her was no easy task. She kept her knees locked straight out and slid out of her chair twice before Abe could get her planted. Then the servant excused himself and left the dining room.

The mantel clock ticked away the seconds as Lowell fixed his daughter with a harsh stare down the long, silver-laden table.

“Exactly whom,” he began in an even tone, “were you about to marry this time?”

Sarah pursed her lips, focusing on the gold-rimmed plate. “I don't care to discuss it. I'm dying.”

“You're not dying. Wadsy says you have the sniffles and a fever from your reckless outing this afternoon. What were you thinking, daughter? Were you honestly going to run off with this man?”

“I was. And I'm thinking,” she answered in a carefully modulated voice, “that I want to get married, Papa!”

Leaving his chair, Lowell paced the floor. Sarah recognized the stubborn set of his jaw and knew it meant trouble. She'd stretched his patience to the breaking point.

“A dockworker? A common stranger? Have you no shame?”

“You make him sound terrible. He's better than most of the other dockworkers. Name one man more suited for marriage.”

“Joe Mancuso, train master. An up-and-coming young man making a real name for himself at the railroad.”

“Mr. Mancuso doesn't want to get married.”

Lowell snorted. “You can't know that! You spent one evening—one very short evening, if I recall—with him.”

“I asked him.”

Lowell paused, looking faint. “You
asked
him?”

“I asked him. He muttered something and excused himself. I knew what that meant.”

“What about Richard Ponder? A splendid example of a young man going places. His parents are fine people. I spoke to them personally before I arranged the meeting. Twenty-six and already a station agent. Youngest man in the division to obtain such a position—” he paused to look at her. “You didn't ask
him
to marry you, did you?”

Sarah shook her head. “He volunteered the information. His
mother
doesn't want him getting married. Not now and, judging by his tone, not ever.”

Papa slapped his forehead. “Great day in the morning!”

Sarah shrugged. He was clearly aghast at her candor, but how was a woman expected to know a man's potential if she didn't ask? If Papa could be nosy, why couldn't she? Papa's health was precarious. Three heart spells in two years reminded them both of his mortality. Wadsy and Abe were even older, and someday she was going to be completely alone. Alone. With no one to love her or for her to love. If she were married, losing Papa would still be devastating, but she could surround herself with her family and ease the pain.

She had seen the way Mama had looked at Papa during her illness—as if he owned her soul. He'd looked back at her exactly the same way, with so much love and need in his eyes it took Sarah's breath. That was what she wanted. Love so strong that even death couldn't snatch it away. If it was wrong to seek that kind of devotion, then she was guilty as charged. Wadsy said she shouldn't depend on others for happiness, but if she had her own home, babies to look after, and a husband to love, she could cope with the losses certain to enter her life sooner than later.

“Sit down, Papa. Remember your heart.”

“Humph. You remember my heart.”

The somber reminder calmed her. She did remember. She thought about it every day.

“I'm sorry, Papa. I love and respect you, and I don't mean to be such a bother. I wish you could understand.”

Lowell sat down, allowing Will, their cook, to spoon thick slices of beef swimming in a rich brown broth onto his plate. Dr. Mason had advised him that he should eat more vegetables and fruit, and he said Lowell was going to die from eating so much rich food—but Lowell wouldn't hear of it. When the cook moved to serve Sarah, she waved his efforts aside. “I'm not hungry, Will.”

“May I bring you some nice broth, Miss Livingston?”

“Nothing, thank you.” She watched Papa lather thick butter onto a slice of warm bread as she waited for the inevitable. This time she'd gone too far. This time he would carry through with his threat to send
her to Uncle Brice. She couldn't bear even the thought of a dreadful, hot Georgia summer full of long, boring days in Brice's company. Tears of self-pity and hollow remorse threatened to break loose, and she quickly averted her eyes. Clenching her fists, she waited for the storm to break.

“I'm at the end of my rope, Sarah.”

“I know, Papa. I'm sorry.”

“Today's little escapade has convinced me that you will be better off with your Uncle Brice.”