into the rug, refusing to be led to the slaughter. She knew that supper would be an emotional scene, with Papavowing to send her off to Uncle Brice. Sheâd die before sheâd live in Uncle Briceâs stuffy old mausoleum. His humorless laugh sounded like a crow lodged in his snout.
Wadsyâs 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 Sarahâs 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.
âCome on down now, missy. Suppaâs gettinâ cold.â
âIâm sick, Abe. I have the sniffles and I feel flushed. Donât make me eat with Papa!â
âAinât no use, Abraham. Youâre gonna have to come after her,â Wadsy called. âSheâs in one of her moods.â
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.
âIâm too ill to eat.â
âMakes no difference to me if you eat suppa or not, but your papa wants you at his table while he eats his.â
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 Sarahâs 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 Papaâs 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.
âExactly whom,â he began in an even tone, âwere you about to marry this time?â
Sarah pursed her lips, focusing on the gold-rimmed plate. âI donât care to discuss it. Iâm dying.â
âYouâre 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?â
âI was. And Iâm thinking,â she answered in a carefully modulated voice, âthat I want to get married, Papa!â
Leaving his chair, Lowell paced the floor. Sarah recognized the stubborn set of his jaw and knew it meant trouble. Sheâd stretched his patience to the breaking point.
âA dockworker? A common stranger? Have you no shame?â
âYou make him sound terrible. Heâs better than most of the other dockworkers. Name one man more suited for marriage.â
âJoe Mancuso, train master. An up-and-coming young man making a real name for himself at the railroad.â
âMr. Mancuso doesnât want to get married.â
Lowell snorted. âYou canât know that! You spent one eveningâone very short evening, if I recallâwith him.â
âI asked him.â
Lowell paused, looking faint. âYou asked him?â
âI asked him. He muttered something and excused himself. I knew what that meant.â
âWhat 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