Courting Miss Adelaide (16 page)

“This is my chance to help women, to change their lives for the better, to change this town for the better.”

Were her motives as pure as she believed? “Or grind an ax?”

She fisted her hands on her hips. “That’s insulting.”

He sighed. “I know you have good intentions. But have you thought about how your editorials will affect the paper’s circulation and the harmony of this town? You’ll be stirring up trouble between men and their wives. You might end up hurting, not helping women.”

“That’s ridiculous.” She held out a hand to him. “Why can’t you understand how much I want this?”

Charles strode to her side, determined to make her see the risk she’d be taking. “I’ve been in this business a long time. I know a thing or two. The town fathers won’t take kindly to a rabble-rouser in skirts.”

“I don’t need a warning, Charles. I need your support.”

Why must she borrow trouble the paper couldn’t afford? “I can’t give it.”

“You don’t want me to have that voice, do you? You’d prefer a woman to cook and clean, bear children and keep her opinions to herself.” She shook her head. “I’ve always felt like an outsider. My life doesn’t fit the dutiful wife and motherhood mold of my friends. You’re like every other man I’ve met. You’d say anything to keep the paper to yourself. Well, I insist, Charles! I need this chance.”

“I’m only trying to protect you.”

“From what? A paper cut? A spelling error?”

“From yourself.” He looked her in the eyes. “Don’t you know what this could cost you?”

“You’re worried about losing a few subscribers. I’ll—”

“Emma.”

The name stopped her cold. She looked away, considering his words, and then met his gaze. “I’d rather Emma saw me as a woman who fought for what she believed in, not as a woman too scared to speak her mind.”

Charles stepped away, disquiet lying heavy in his soul. He hadn’t convinced Addie of anything. “Write the column. I suppose I can’t stop you. I hope you’re prepared for the consequences.”

She met his gaze, her eyes the color of a wind-tossed sea. “All my life I’ve been paying for the consequences of my mother’s actions. It’s about time I started earning my own.”

Red hair frizzing around her peaches and cream complexion, Fannie gazed across the table at Adelaide with puppy-like eagerness. If only she could toss a bone out the door, maybe her protégée would chase after it. Then Adelaide could go back to her orderly life and run her shop in peace.

That being unlikely, she might as well get on with it. Maybe she could have an impact on Fannie, however small, that would help the girl to be more…well, proper in her pursuit of men. And that help might lead to what Fannie wanted more than a career, more than a voice, more than an identity of her own.

A husband.

Though Adelaide hadn’t met with success in that area, she would teach Fannie about fashion and etiquette. When it came to looking for a mate, she’d let the girl fend for herself.

“Let’s start with decorum,” Adelaide said.

“Decorum, does that mean how I dress?”

“Decorum means proper behavior, the same as demure.
Godey’s
says a woman’s demeanor is to be reserved. Sedate. Shy.” Not the terms she’d use to describe Fannie, but after Adelaide’s recent confrontation with Charles, the words didn’t fit her, either.

Wrinkling her nose, Fannie rested her chin in her hands. “Demure sounds boring.”

Adelaide tended to agree. She’d learned she didn’t care much for keeping her mouth shut when a good deal needed to be said. Still, Fannie carried friendliness to an extreme. “Perhaps at first,” Adelaide said carefully, “but as a woman gets to know the man, she shares more of her thoughts.”

She’d certainly given Charles a piece of her mind. They’d reached the point where they disagreed about everything. Perhaps she needed a few lessons in demureness. Maybe then she could live in the confines of her gender and still be her own woman.

“Carriage is important. A woman of breeding doesn’t take a room by storm. She walks with grace and dignity.” Adelaide strolled across the room, posture erect, chin level with the floor, eyes straight ahead. She turned to Fannie. “You try.”

Fannie lurched to her feet, almost knocking over her chair, then shook in a fit of giggling. She leaned against the table until her laughter subsided, then followed in Adelaide’s tracks, her skirts swaying provocatively. “Like this?”

“Ah, a little less movement of the hips.”

Fannie’s brow puckered. “I thought men liked that.”

They did indeed. “You don’t want to give the wrong impression.”

Fannie stared at her blankly.

“That you’re…well…unchaste.”

“Oh!” Fannie’s mouth gaped open, releasing a nervous laugh.

“Now, try again.”

This time Fannie carried herself with a modicum of dignity.

“Much better.”

Fannie guffawed.

“You know, Fannie, frequent giggling detracts from a woman’s demeanor, especially if she giggles for no reason.”

“So I should just smile? You know—the kind of smile that doesn’t show my teeth?” Fannie attempted the serene smile, which triggered yet another bout of giggling. “Oh, mercy me, I can’t.”

Muscles knotted at the base of Adelaide’s neck. She’d once possessed patience in abundance, but Fannie’s first lesson in deportment had only begun, and already Adelaide struggled to relax her jaw.

Part of the problem stemmed from Adelaide’s recent doubt that a woman should have to conform. A man never worried about how he walked or smiled.

Fannie sniggered. “I’m glad I’m not one of those people who giggle so much they get on people’s nerves.”

By now, Adelaide was grinding her teeth, but Fannie didn’t notice.

Instead, she practiced her smile, keeping her lips together. “How’s this?” she said, then giggled raucously.

Adelaide rubbed a hand over her eyes. “Fine. Perfect.”

Inwardly, she admitted her first attempt to help one of the women of Noblesville had failed miserably. Effecting town-wide change with words had to be easier than helping Fannie learn to walk across a room without swishing her backside like a busy broom.

Chapter Eleven

A
week later with the first of her suffrage articles in print Adelaide passed the dry goods store and almost bumped into Lizzie Augsburger coming out with her arms full of packages. Lizzie’s green eyes twinkled, as if she had a funny story to tell. “I’m glad I ran into you. Since you’ve started writing articles, reading the paper is exciting.”

Her words warmed Adelaide clear to her toes. “Thank you.”

“I don’t miss an issue. Your fashion column’s such fun. I totally agree with your thoughts on suffrage, too,” she said, using a low confidential tone. “Women should have the vote.”

“How did your husband react?”

“Your column caused quite a stir.” She waved her free hand. “Got George’s sap flowing. Why, he threatened to cancel the paper, told me to buy my hats somewhere else, like there’s anyplace else to buy quality hats in this town.” She chuckled and shifted the bags in her arms. “I kind of enjoyed the show. It’s been ages since we’ve discussed more than, ‘Pass the potatoes.’” Lizzie smiled. “You’ve brought exactly what we need into our house—a touch of controversy.”

“Glad I could help. I think.”

“Don’t worry. We made up. And that was fun, too.” She cocked her head. “Maybe next, you should tackle those nasty spittoons. The men in this town miss half the time. A lady has to watch her step.”

They said goodbye and Adelaide headed to the bank, suddenly weary. George Augsburger, the most even-keeled man in town, had threatened to cancel the paper. Everywhere she went she got a reaction to her columns. Her words may have enlivened the Augsburger marriage, but they weren’t doing much for
her
life.

She’d made no inroads in her quest to become Emma’s mother. She’d wired Mr. Fry. In his reply he suggested she leave the matter in the committee’s hands. William’s teacher told her he was missing school but Superintendent Paul told Charles many of the boys stayed home during spring planting.

Inside the bank, footsteps clicking on the tiled lobby floor and echoing off the pressed-tin ceiling overhead, she walked toward the teller’s window to deposit her meager receipts. Business in the shop had slowed. If this continued—

“Miss Crum!”

John Sparks stood at the door to his office, motioning for her. What did the president of the bank need with her? From the expression on his face, she didn’t want to know.

She crossed the lobby to meet him.

In the shaft of sunlight filtering in from his office window, Mr. Sparks’s bald head gleamed. “This stand you’re taking on women’s suffrage—can’t imagine what you’re thinking.” Behind his thick glasses, Mr. Sparks blinked in rapid succession. “Well, aren’t you going to explain?”

She prayed her answer wouldn’t hurt her chances of keeping Emma. “Women are citizens of this country, but without the vote, they can’t influence the policies that affect them.”

“They have husbands to do that for them.”

Did everything come down to a woman’s marital status? Adelaide counted to ten. “Not every woman is married.”

Mr. Sparks shifted his gaze to the floor. “True.” He crossed his arms and rejoined her gaze. “But men study the issues and vote for the good of the entire community, for women and children. No need to clutter ladies’ minds with government.”

Decked out in her Sunday best, Mildred Rogers, the sheriff’s wife, entered the bank, paused a moment, then inched closer. Customers who had finished their business and were leaving the bank, slowed as they passed, then stopped to listen.

Adelaide had come to make a deposit, not stand on a soapbox, but she said, “Women have good minds and are capable of studying issues.” A murmur of agreement left Mildred’s lips. Adelaide cocked her head. “How does
Mrs.
Sparks feel about it?”

Mr. Sparks’s brows rose into what had once been his hairline. “Why, I never asked her.”

No surprise there. “Maybe you should.” Adelaide smiled. “It never hurts to get a woman’s opinion.”

A couple men stood listening to the exchange. “Are you that troublemaker from the paper?” the tall one asked.

“Yes, that’s her,” Mr. Sparks said, wagging his finger. “If women get the vote, the next thing you know, they’ll be telling their husbands what to do.”

Ah, the core of the controversy. How could she make them understand she upheld the Biblical example of marriage? “Having the right to express their opinions at the polls will merely give women a right to be heard, not a right to silence men.”

Mrs. Rogers waved a hand as if asking for permission to speak. “I agree with you there, Adelaide.” Mildred shot Mr. Sparks a glare, then moved a step closer. A group of onlookers now circled them, arguing among themselves.

“See all the trouble you’re causing? All this talk about women voting puts a knot in my belly.” Mr. Sparks rubbed his stomach as if to prove it. “Change. That’s what it is. And once that’s the law, no telling where it’ll lead.”

A thin man shot a wad into a nearby spittoon. “Next thing you know, women will be wearing the breeches in the family!”

Adelaide shook her head. “Getting the vote will give women the
same
rights as men. Not more.”

“Miss Crum, you’re turning this bank into a sideshow.” Mr. Sparks shooed the growing group of listeners toward the counter. “The tellers are waiting, folks.”

People inched away, looking as if they’d like to leave their ears behind. A few didn’t budge, including Mildred, but Mr. Sparks stared them down and they finally left.

Mr. Sparks moved closer to Adelaide, within inches. “With your involvement at the paper, I wonder how you have time to care for Emma,” the banker said, his tone sinister.

The threat stomped on Adelaide’s lungs and she inhaled sharply. “I write my columns while Emma is in school.”

He shook his head. “The controversy’s got to affect the little girl. You’re molding an impressionable young mind. Classmates are probably teasing her as we speak.”

“Are you suggesting the committee would move Emma to spite me? Hasn’t she been through enough?”

“I see it as removing Emma before you confuse her.” He leaned closer. “If I were you, I’d stick to fashion columns.”

Mr. Sparks stepped to his office, giving her one last warning scowl before closing the door with a click.

Motionless, blood pounding in her temples, Adelaide recalled Charles’s warning about this very thing. But she’d felt compelled to speak out, to explain the importance of women getting the vote.

Mr. Paul and Mr. Wylie would undoubtedly share Mr. Sparks’s view. Would her words cost her Emma? Had she stepped out of God’s will for her life?

God, please show me the way.

To get a better view, Charles pushed through the crowd. Only a smoldering shell remained of the Anderson house.

He found owner Matthew Anderson and jotted down names and ages of the family and the cause of the fire—a knocked-over kerosene lamp. Then Charles walked over to speak to Sheriff Rogers. He’d run a story, explaining the Andersons’ plight, which should generate donations for the family of six.

Charles’s gaze swept the scene one last time. Mrs. Anderson, holding her baby son in her arms, and two young daughters huddled in a circle of sympathetic ladies. Mr. Anderson and his older boy stood apart, staring at the ruins, when Ed Drummond, of all people, approached. Curious, Charles edged closer.

Anderson laid his hand on his young son’s shoulder. “I’m mighty grateful we all got out,” he said to Drummond.

A shadow crossed Ed’s face. “That’s all that matters.”

“Reckon you know that better than anyone, Ed.”

Drummond nodded, cleared his throat and then directed his attention to the boy. “A fire’s pretty scary, hey, Tad?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy heaved a sigh that seemed to weigh more than his small frame. “My straw-stuffed kitty burned up.”

Ed ruffled the young boy’s hair. “Soon as I heard about the fire, I started gathering things from the neighbors. I’ve got clothing and blankets in my wagon.” He directed his words to Anderson, but his eyes remained on Tad’s soot-stained cheeks. “I remember seeing some toys. Wanna go look?”