Saratoga Sunrise (12 page)

"Why, Sara. . . you're crying."

"Please keep your voice down, won't you, Clara?"

Clara lowered her voice to a whisper. "Why are you crying? I can help you. I'm your friend."

"I hate Monty Fordice." Sara didn't know why she suddenly blurted that out, but she felt much better already. "I tried to like Monty, but it's no use. I just can't do it, Clara, I just can't."

"So, who is making you marry him? Heavens, I can't believe that your father would force you to marry him. He loves you too much."

Sara tried to explain it all to her the best she could. "Daddy feels that he isn't going to be around much longer and he wants me married before he...dies. He feels that Monty would be a good match for me because he has money and is our social equal and–"

"That might be part of the reason, but what's the real reason you are planning on marrying him?"

She let the tears fall, down her faintly rouged cheeks that Lillian Russell fussed over, and watched the drops fall on her gown and spread out on the satin. She absently-mindedly touched her hair that Miss Russell had her maid fix in elaborate style.

When she looked in the mirror earlier, she couldn't believe that was her reflection. She looked, well...beautiful...and she felt like a princess in the gown. She wanted Jack to see her before she turned back into her skinny, lame self. Now it was too late.

Clara handed her a handkerchief and she took it. "Thank you." She sniffed, disgusted that she was feeling sorry for herself. She needed to stop immediately.

"Are you going to tell me the real reason why your father wants you to marry Fordice when you can have any man you want?"

"Don't you see? I can't have any man I want. I'm deformed. I’m not. . .whole. Even all my father's money can't buy me a husband other than Monty. Believe me, daddy tried, but only Monty took his offer."

“Certainly that’s not the case. You’re the same person you always were before the accident." Clara wrung her hands. “Oh Sara, I’m so sorry.”

"Don't you dare feel sorry for me. I'm feeling sorry enough for myself lately. And I’d rather be a spinster than to be married to someone who disgusts me and whom I disgust in return. I would rather be alone. I want to have my own farm and raise horses. Somewhere far away. Kentucky maybe. Just me and my horses."

"What about Jack?"

Sara was shocked that Clara would bring him up. "What about him?"

"I know you like him, and I think he likes you."

"How do you know that?"

"I-I just do." Clara shifted uncomfortable in her chair.

"You've only met Jack that one time by the spring the time I fell in. Isn't that right?"

"I-I...w-well...I-I..."

"Have you talked to him since then, Clara?” Sara stared at her friend, watching her fuss and fidget under the light of the lanterns and the glow of the moon.

"N-No, I-I haven't s-spoken to him since then."

Sara felt the ultimate betrayal. It would have hurt less if Clara had slapped her rather than lied. "Would you please leave me alone now?"

She opened her mouth to protest, but Sara waved her away. "Please, just let me be. I'll be fine."

As she watched Clara walk away, she felt a terrible emptiness in her heart.

"My life is my own," Sara thought. "My life is my own," she repeated again and again. "And I will not marry Montague Fordice."

She wanted more than ever to be alone to raise horses and train them to run like the wind.

Sara didn't know how long she sat in the dark corner of the courtyard listening to the music, absorbed in her own thoughts. Finally, she decided to join the ball, if only to get something to eat. She was simply starving.

She slowly lifted her leg from the chair seat, using her muscles and not her hands to lift it. After resting a while, she stood. Her leg was numb, so she waited until her blood could circulate. Walking toward the edge of the crowd, she smoothed her skirt, grateful that the tearstains had dried, and forced herself to smile.

Sara vowed that from this moment forward she would take charge of her own life.

But her vow was short-lived.

"There she is. Sara, where on earth have you been?"

"I've been speaking with Clara, father."

"Monty has been waiting patiently to dance with you."

Sara looked in the leering face of Monty who was busy mopping his sweaty face with a linen napkin embroidered with the initials of the Grand Union Hotel. Her stomach lurched with the thought of him touching her.

She nodded to him. "I am not up to dancing, Mr. Fordice. I was just about to get something to eat."

"So formal, Sara?" her father said with a puzzled expression on his face. "I should think you could be less formal with your intended and at least call him by his first name.

Aunt Trixie gave Sara an understanding nod. "Bond, let's let Sara fix herself a plate. I wish to speak with Lillian and Jim, and they are right over by the big elm. Why don't you come with us, Montague? Sara can join us at the table with her plate."

Montague hesitated, then without a glance in her direction, he walked away with her father and aunt. Sara breathed a sigh of relief.

She had to deal with the Montague problem, and soon. It was just not the right time or place.

"Sara, may I have the honor of this dance?" Ironically, the deep, rich voice was like a soothing balm to her tumultuous feelings, even though the man who spoke was the cause of most of her anguish.

"Jack?" She took in the sensuality of his magnificent physique. She noticed freshly trimmed hair peeking out from below the brim of his top hat. His mustache and beard were also recently trimmed. His wide shoulders were encased in a crisp white shirt and a gray frock coat. Long legs sported wide trousers of the same gray with the addition of pinstripes. He looked every bit the rich aristocrat.

"You look beautiful as always, Sara. May I have this dance?”

She could do little more than nod. He said that she was beautiful! The mere touch of his hand sent a shiver to her very soul as they walked out onto the dance floor.

The band was playing a Viennese waltz, "The Beautiful Blue Danube" by Johann Strauss. It was one of her favorites.

Jack's large hand moved to her waist. He waited expectantly for her to assume the dance position. She couldn't seem to move, but could only look into his twinkling eyes.

“I’ve never danced. . . that is. . . not since the accident.”

 He winked, and Sara immediately relaxed. She placed one hand in his and laid the other on the soft fabric of his frock coat at his shoulder.

Slowly and carefully, he led her into a full turn, and she couldn't help but laugh. He held her at arm's length as they glided and turned around the dance floor to the three-quarter time until she was dizzy with excitement and happiness. He smelled of soap and of outdoors and of man, a more heady mix than the best hair tonic.

 He smiled at her, and she smiled back. She felt as light as air as he led her in the waltz. She wished the music could go on forever, but her leg was beginning to tire. When she performed a rather sloppy turn and felt Jack's grip on her tighten, she knew the magic had to end.

"Let's sit for a while," Jack suggested, guiding her slowly to the edge of the dance floor toward an empty chair.

"Yes. Thank you." She looked up and saw the

gentleness in expression, his concern for her. Yet there was more. There was sadness in his eyes. Was it for her?

Before she could tell him not to feel sorry for her, a hand clamped down on her forearm and spun her around. She almost fell, but Jack steadied her.

"How dare you, Sara Peterson! You didn't want to dance with me, and now I find you dancing with another man." Montague Fordice spat the words and Sara moved back to avoid the spray from his fetid mouth.

"Unhand her." Jack's voice was firm and low.

"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?" Montague eyed Jack curiously as if trying to place him. He tightened his hold on Sara's arm, and she winced from the pain. She struggled to get out of his grasp.

"I believe you once called me an odious groom," Jack said evenly. "Now, if you don't release Sara's arm immediately, this odious groom will wipe this dance floor with your carcass."

"How dare you talk to me like that, Mr. Summers!"

Jack spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm telling you for the last time, let her go!"

Instead, Monty tugged on her arm, yanking her roughly. She stumbled. Jack steadied her again, and a second later she heard the crack of bone against bone. Before Sara could gather her wits, she heard Monty wailing and saw him wiping at his bloody nose.

Jack escorted her to the nearest empty chair, and she sat down. He gave a gentlemanly bow, and she couldn't help but smile at the man who rescued her from Montague’s roughness.

"I told you, mother. See? Sara has eyes for that stable hand." It was Suzette Dredmar's high-pitched southern drawl.

"How very interesting. I wonder if her father knows. I think I shall have to tell him," Maude Dredmar replied.

"You simply must tell him, mother," echoed Leanne. "Sara is making such a spectacle of herself."

Sara's face flamed as their voices faded into the distance. She watched Jack and Monty square off on the dance floor in front of her and all of Saratoga Springs. Jack was grinning at Monty's rage.

"You owe the lady an apology. Apologize to Miss Peterson." Jack ordered.

"Apologize for what? I'll do no such thing!" Monty bellowed.

Several ladies gasped, and he must have realized that he was looking bad in the eyes of the crowd. "It is you who owes dear Sara an apology. You obviously hurt her when you were hurling her around the dance floor. You must see that she's lame."

Sara closed her eyes so she didn't have to look at Montague Fordice anymore. When she opened them, her father and Aunt Trixie were standing before her.

"Are you all right?" Bond Peterson asked.

"I'm fine, father." Sara rubbed her arm, and knew that soon she'd be sporting bruises.

"What the hell is going on here?" Bond Peterson yelled,

glaring at the two combatants.

"Your groom was hurting your daughter by flinging her around the dance floor until she just about fell. I tried to step in like a gentleman, and this boor punched me and bloodied my nose."

To Sara's horror, her father turned to Jack and shouted, "How dare you mistreat my daughter!"

"I didn't–"

"You most certainly did!"

"Father, please! Everyone's looking and–."

"I don't care who's looking!"

Aunt Trixie put the palm of her hand on Bond's elbow. "Bond, you're embarrassing Sara. Please motion to the conductor to start up the music, and we can discuss the incident at a quiet table."

Her father softened immediately. "You're right, of course, Bea." He met the conductor's eyes from across the floor, waved his hand in the air in a circular motion, and the band struck-up a lively polka.

Sara breathed a sigh of relief when most of the gawkers

returned to their revelry. Jack stood as still as granite, but Monty continue to whimper.

Her father looked so crazed, it scared her.

"Sara, what has Jack done to you?"

"Absolutely nothing father."

"Montague says otherwise."

"Father, I was dancing with Jack and–"

"Why don't you ask me what happened, Mr. Peterson, or isn't my word good enough?" Jack's words were casual, but his eyes were dark and unforgiving.

Bond turned toward him. "Montague said-"

"Therefore, it doesn't matter what I have to say, does it?" Jack shrugged his shoulders.

"Well-" Bond looked at Jack, than at Monty.

"So I'm guilty until proven innocent, isn't that correct, Mr. Peterson?" Jack said coldly.

"I-I-"

"Just as I thought. Some things never change. I'll clear my things out of the stable and will be on my way."

Bond pointed his finger at Jack. "Oh, no you won't. We had a verbal agreement, which is as good as a signed a contract as far as I'm concerned. At this late date, I'd be hard pressed to find another groom. You are to take care of my horses, that's what I hired you to do, and that's exactly what you will do. But from now on you'll stay away from my daughter. Do you understand me?"

Noticing the angry look on Jack's face, Sara could see that he didn't agree with her father's directive.

Jack's hands clenched into tight fists as he looked at the blubbering Montague Fordice. It seemed as though he was debating whether or not to strike Montague again.

"I understand perfectly," Jack said, glaring at Bond Peterson. He turned and walked away at a fast clip.

"Father-"

"End of discussion."

"But I-"

"Sara, I don't wish to discuss it anymore."

Sara's face flamed. Never had her father cut her off like that. "I shall ask Johnson to drive me back to the cottage. I don't feel much like a party any more."

Aunt Trixie put a comforting arm around Sara's shoulder. "Would you like me to go with you?"

Sara's eyes brimmed with tears. "I'd rather be alone, if you don't mind, Aunt Trixie."

"I'll escort you to your carriage, my dear," Monty volunteered.

She looked at the man who she was once going to marry. His face was all red and bloated, and it looked like he was going to have two black eyes, probably the result of a broken nose. Blood had dripped down onto his white linen shirt. He still clutched the Grand Union Hotel's linen napkin. Once white, it was now spotted with blood. She wished she'd been the one who had bloodied his nose.

"I'll be fine. Don't trouble yourself." She wanted to get as far away from him as possible.

"But I insist."

Sara got up from her chair and stood until some numbness had dissipated from her leg. "I insist you stay right where you are. I don't want to be with you." She walked away from everyone, head held high, eager to be alone.

# # #

After Montague Fordice had excused himself to seek medical attention, Bond Peterson led Bea to a small table in a quieter corner of the courtyard. He sat down opposite her and for a moment, he just enjoyed her beauty and being in her company. What would he have done without Bea all these years? He valued her opinion and cherished her friendship.