Most of the folks paired off, husband and wife, each outfitted with married-servant housing offered by the Vanderbilts. A unique provision because as a rule, once a servant got married, it usually meant they lost their position, but the Vanderbilts seemed to be different from a lot of rich folks.
So maybe Mrs. Vanderbilt’s differences and kindness would win out no matter Mrs. Potter’s accusations. I took the sidewalk down the lane, beyond the village houses, to a small white clapboard cottage nestled in the trees outside of town. Though I had a room on the fourth floor of Biltmore, once a week I took the night wagon into town to be with my aunt and younger sister. Family time made the ache of missing Mama a little easier, though her work had always kept her late, with little opportunity for memories. I clung to the ones I had.
The well-planned streets of Biltmore Village, with its uniform houses and specially designed streetlamps, welcomed me down its idyllic lanes to the edge of town, but not before I took a little detour. A moment to nurse a dream.
Just beyond the village lights, I gripped two of the spindles on the black wrought iron fence surrounding Brick House.
A week ago, I heard Mr. Long planned to sell the place—a beautiful, two-story brick building with a large box window at the front beside a small portico-covered doorway. My heart lurched into a rapid pace and my fingers squeezed around the cold fence.
If I closed my eyes, I could envision a hand-decorated sign over the blue-painted front door and brightly-colored books on display in that box window. Blackwell’s. My very own bookshop. Though it seemed as implausible as flying above the Blue Ridges, hadn’t man already shown he could do the impossible more than ten years ago by Orville and Wilbur Wright?
I glanced into the night sky, beyond the rooftops and streetlamps, and prayed that this impossible hope in my heart somehow turned into a whisper God understood.
He didn’t put this love in my heart for nothing, did He?
I gave the house one last look before turning away and returning to the reality of my future. At least I could take care of the Vanderbilts’ books.
As I crossed the threshold of the cottage, Lark ran forward with her usual enthusiasm, her apron from her day working at Clarkson’s Bakery still dangling around her thin frame. “Guess what special treat Mr. Clarkson taught me to make today!”
I slipped my coat from my shoulders, allowing the uncertainty of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s reaction and impossible dreams to roll with it. “Biscuits.”
“Biscuits?” My sister’s face scrunched into a dozen wrinkles. She snatched my coat from me and hung it on the hook by the door, shaking her head as she did so. “Biscuits at Clarkson’s classic bakery? Mais non, Sister-dear.” She brushed her long walnut-colored hair over her shoulder with a flourish. “Chocolate éclairs.”
“Chocolate éclairs?”
“They’re real good, Sadie.” Aunt Elaine walked in from the kitchen, her salt-and-pepper hair pinned back in her usual bun. “Some things Lark brings home from the bakery, I ain’t too keen on, but this here?” She hummed her pleasure and raised the remains of a pastry for my view. “This is mighty good.”
I took the offering and stared at Lark as I took a bite. She’d only worked at Clarkson’s for a month, but she’d always shown talent in the kitchen.
The pastry melted in my mouth and gave way to the creamy sweetness. I’d had the opportunity to sneak some Biltmore leftovers before—not often, but a few times—and this was as good as anything I’d tasted there. “Did you make this all by yourself ?”
Lark steadied her palms on her hips, her tipped chin giving the answer before she spoke. “I sure did. Came directly home from work and tried it out.”
“Your baking skills have always amazed me.” I finished the rest of the pastry and then reached to place my weekly allowance in the jar on the nearby bookshelf. Ever since Aunt Elaine had taken us in during Mama’s illness, Lark and I had contributed to the cost of rent and other needs. There’d never been a great deal of money, but with Lark’s new job, the funds had grown enough to keep Aunt Elaine from bearing so much of the financial brunt. “And I’m exceedingly thankful for it.”
We made our way to the sitting room, taking what little time we had to visit before the wagon came to fetch me at six o’clock the next morning. My thoughts kept me awake long into the night, stirring to life a longing I couldn’t quite define. Even before Mother died, I’d felt some restlessness in my spirit that only settled through prayer or reading. Long ago she had—unknowingly, I think—planted a little seed in me. We had traveled to visit my father’s family a two-hour wagon ride away, and in that small town, she’d taken me to a tiny bookshop.
I’ve never forgotten the dusty shelves lined with hundreds of stories. The secret nooks, where avid wanderers found their hiding places to delve into imaginary worlds. The stacks of books lining the floors as if some readers had left their precious tales for an emergency with a promise to return later. Some quiet dream in my heart awakened that day, but I’d held the wish close because a dream like that was a dangerous thing for a low, working-class young woman in a professional world dominated by men.
Some dreams require hard work. Others require miracles.
And this one looked a lot more like the latter than the former.
I had barely entered the servants’ hall on the second floor of Biltmore when Mrs. Potter found me and with the most condescending expression known to humankind, informed me that I was expected in the Oak Sitting Room at nine o’clock sharp.
Mrs. Potter’s fierceness might have hearkened a weaker constitution—or imagination—to quell beneath her arrogant fury, but I fought my laugh. Despite her pristine appearance, one of
