75. Sarah
Sarah
Iwatched George’s window like a hawk—a typical day, really—and shifted my lucky pennies from one hand to the other. He’d gone to collect Viola from the train station and promised to signal me the moment they returned. At last, he appeared and waved.
I rushed over, barely remembering to breathe.
He met me at the front door, beaming, practically bouncing. “She is good. So good.” He reached over and playfully tapped the tip of my nose. “You’ll see.” Then he darted back out the door.
I lifted a hand to my nose. Only a friendly tap—something one would give a little sister or a favorite niece. Or maybe a lovesick cat. Somewhere between a handshake and a pat on the head.
Nowhere near kissing. Not even in the same universe.
Viola sparkled with life and happiness. She declared she couldn’t stand another moment cooped up inside, so we bundled up and trudged through the park.
She smiled impishly—so like George—and said, “I think I will marry Jacob.”
Surprise tangled my feet. My mouth dropped open. Surely I’d misheard her.
“Stop staring at me like a guppy and tell me what you think.”
Overwhelmed, I couldn’t speak. Instead, I threw my arms around her as tears of joy spilled onto my cheeks. And then, tears of grief. She would really leave me. Move away. Build a life. But if Viola could accept love and marriage… well. Anything could happen. There might even be a chance for me.
Terrifying.
I drew the chill November air deep into my chest, trying to steady myself.
“Oh, Sarah, I hope you feel this way someday. I’m positively giddy.”
“Viola VanMartin, completely smitten and pleased to be so.” I hugged her fiercely. “I’m glad to bear witness. Truly. Congratulations. You two are a perfect match.”
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of conversation about love and marriage. We recounted every nuance of her romance with Jacob—closer and closer by degrees until she finally admitted she was head over heels in the best kind of love.
By the end of the day, the swirling feeling in my stomach was unbearable. Must be hungry. And my hand ached from clutching my seven lucky pennies too tightly.
That night, after picking at dinner, I returned to my favorite pastime—pacing my room while casting longing glances out the window.
I could cover half the room in two determined strides.
But no matter how quickly I propelled myself from one side to the other, I couldn’t outrun the idea screaming in my mind.
I was falling in love with George. It was a disaster.
Soon, he would be my only friend for hundreds of miles. And I would ruin it with cow eyes and fluttery eyelashes and awkwardness. I would drive him away.
There it was again—that awful churning in my stomach. I should’ve known. Twelve years of infatuation couldn’t simply become friendship without falling a little in love.
And he would never love me. Of course not. The sharp edges of my certainty cut deep enough to stop my pacing. I bent forward, hands braced on my bed. And I breathed.
I tried to claw my way out—but I was still stuck in a fantasy. Time to get rid of the sieve and rebuild actual walls around my foolish heart.
Plink. Maybe it was the wind.
Plink, plonk. Stay calm. Just behave like you always do. He won’t be able to tell anything. It was dark. My fingers shook as I undid the latch and grasped the sill.
George stood outlined in his window. My gaze traced the familiar line of his shoulders—shoulders that had pressed so warmly against me in the carriage… and while dancing.
My skin burned. How was I undone by his shadow? Deep breath. Words flowed from me in a wild rush. “She loves him. She admitted it—told me straight out. Said the word love and everything. She wants to marry him.” What was wrong with me? I was not a blabber.
George settled onto his stool, completely at ease, and leaned out his window until moonlight tangled in his hair. “I’m thrilled, Goldie. She didn’t say he had proposed.”
“Well, they haven’t said their I-love-yous out loud in so many words, and there has been no official proposal, but she’s not fighting her feelings and is giving in to the kissing, and he did tell her he would talk to your father when he comes to town for the banquet.”
I clamped my jaw shut. Agh. Stop the rambling. He’s going to think he threw a rock at Mother’s window instead of mine. I dropped onto my stool and pulled a blanket around my jittery shoulders.
“Sounds promising.” George tilted his head. “She is happy?”
“Yes—happy, there is no better word. So happy. And she’s even given up on her whole manifesto against love and marriage.” Why couldn’t I talk like a normal person? It was a yes-or-no question.
“Her manifesto,” George said. “Why do you think we give ourselves such terrible advice regarding love?”
How could he be so calm when I was unraveling?
November protected me. He would not ask me to meet him under the stars in the cold. We would speak from a distance, in the dark. I would get my heart under control and my mouth under control. Now—stop spewing out words.
“Well, wise old Jane, as I believe you called her?—”
“No, no,” he said. “You misremember. Not wise, stuffy. Stuffy old Jane.”
“All right. Stuffy old Jane shows how love makes fools of us all.”
George’s light chuckle echoed in the narrow space between our windows. “We are all fools in love. Maybe she is wise after all. Wise and stuffy.”
“Good night, George.”
“Wait, Goldie, one more thing. Would you mind if I stopped by at the end of the week? Maybe Thursday evening? I want to formally invite your parents to dine with us at the Palmer House. You know I’m terrible about messing up invitations, but I’m trying to do better.”
His sincerity tugged at my defenses. He cares. He didn’t even make fun of my ramblings. Who would’ve thought George would be the restrained one in this—what?—relationship?
“Why don’t you come for dinner? Seven o’clock.”
“Perfect. Night, Goldie.”
“Night.”
I made it. I didn’t give anything away—other than the fact that I was a loon. But he probably already figured that one out. Yes, George—we are all fools in love. I sifted my pennies in my hand. Especially me.
Mother fell a little in love with George the moment he invited her and Father to the Palmer House. When the big night arrived, Gloria twisted my hair into a simple but elegant bun before going to help my mother.
I pulled on a bright blue velvet dress. It was purely a coincidence that blue—not navy but bright blue—was George’s favorite color.
I held the dress in place, shuffled down the hall, and knocked on Mother’s door.
Mother’s deep burgundy dress flattered her figure and was appropriate for her age. Mipsy agreed that women with children old enough to marry should not dress as though attending their coming-out ball.
Mother took in my reflection. “That is a good color for you, my dear. Gloria, do up Sarah’s dress, please. She can hardly go anywhere with it hanging like that. It needs a little…”
Mother glided to her dressing table. “Yes, this should do nicely.” She lifted a teardrop-shaped pendant of golden amber on a delicate chain.
A galaxy of bubbles swirling inside the translucent bauble.
She fastened it around my neck. “Very becoming. Why don’t you go down, dearest? I’ll be another minute.”
George and Father chatted in the parlor, and stood when I entered.
George beamed and moved quickly to offer his arm. “You are irresistible.” Under his breath, he added, “We’ll definitely stop at the armory.”
My insides tried to dance a polka. “You both look especially handsome tonight.” Good. No rambling.
George leaned close. “Watch his face when she comes in.”
I turned a questioning eye toward him, and he tilted his head meaningfully toward my father. And because of George, I witnessed the broad smile that lit up Father’s face when Mother entered—and the answering glow on her face.
My father said, “Lovely, my dear,” and kissed her hand before tucking it around his arm.
Was Mother blushing? Pemberley. Who were these people?
George pitched his voice for me alone. “See? A little stuffy old Jane, right here at home.”
“Stuffy and wise,” I said, then pressed my lips together, not trusting the words that might fall out next.
He tormented me with his warm, sandalwood-scented shoulder on the carriage ride. At least I managed to keep my rambling under control, with Mother filling the silence for me.
I hadn’t expected my parents to be good company for dinner, but George drew them out. And George was right, even though they didn’t state it plainly, their marriage had been a love match.
How had I misjudged their affection so completely?
Hours later, we sipped coffee and tea with full bellies, and George called for champagne.
He raised his glass. “She is charming, capable, and clever. I could not have planned the banquet without her.” He held me with his gaze “Thank you, my beautiful, dear friend. To Sarah.”
My parents echoed an enthusiastic, “To Sarah.” Glasses clinked.
I attempted to swallow, but oh—my heart.
George flashed his goofy grin.
And I couldn’t help but smile in return.
Ten days before the banquet, George stopped by to work on the seating chart. We settled in the dining room, using the long table to spread out the RSVP cards.
He placed us, Viola, Jacob, and his father at the head table, along with his father’s secretary, Mrs. Kirkegard, and her husband. As I labeled the chart, he told me about her, and the fondness in his voice warmed something deep inside me.
“She sounds like Mrs. Newman.”
“Clever. Sharp as a tack. Keeps Father on his toes. Knows the Star inside and out.”
I focused on the task before me, painfully aware of how close he sat. Our arms and shoulders brushed as we reached across the table, each touch a quiet spark.