“Madness is what resides in New York,” Star said. “Tea
parties for dolls and dinners attended on horseback. I daresay you New Yorkers
have lost your heads.”
“Tea parties for dolls?” Nick asked.
“All in perfect jest, McGraw, I assure you!” Thompson said.
“Yes, for dolls!” Star said, and proceeded to tell him the
story of one New York heiress who gave a party for her doll. For the next half
hour, as they ate and drank, the group laughed and teased and jostled each
other, merrily including Nick in the camaraderie. He couldn’t keep up with the
gossip, true, but after years of reading, he understood most of the other
references. By and by, an unfamiliar warmth settled in his chest. Ranching life
well-nigh guaranteed camaraderie, but this was easier in some aspects. For once
in his life, Nick didn’t have to conceal his intelligence. For once in his
life, people actually liked him
because
he of what he knew, not in spite
of it.
“And so, Nick,” Lee said at length, “now that you’ve gotten
to know Boston, tell us what you’ve enjoyed most.”
“Easy. The Beaneaters game.”
Lee burst into laughter. Star chuckled, as Huntington shook
his head in disgust. “The Beaneaters? Baseball? Surely you’re joking.”
“Oh don’t be absurd, Del,” Jane said crossly. “Of course
he’s joking.”
“No, ma’am, I’m not. I loved it, except for the name.
Beaneaters is a stupid name.”
“Oh, but the
parties
. . . ” Jane objected.
Jess grinned, her eyes sparkling with lightly mocking
laughter. “Yes, and the dinners!”
“And the lectures,” Lee piped in laughing.
“Or the clubs,” Price said.
“Lee
must
have gotten you a temporary subscription to
one of them,” Huntington added. “Surely they’re better than baseball!”
“Nice enough places, I reckon, but except for the tie, the
play’s not a whole lot different than it is out West.”
“Card playing,” Huntington sputtered. “Why, there are more
to clubs than cards!”
“They are wretched places,” Star growled, “from which women
are excluded. Where men discuss issues that affect women’s—”
“You’ve got a point, Nick,” Lee interjected hastily. “How
about trying your hand at something you don’t get as much out West? Horse
racing, perhaps?”
“Don’t interrupt me, Lee,” Star said severely. “I have a
point to make!”
“Capital idea!” Huntington replied. “Saratoga Springs. Now
there’s
a place you must visit while you’re here. There’s the track and Morrissey’s
Club House. A casino, McGraw.”
“Oh and the waters as well! They are ever so invigorating.
Yes, let us take him there, by all means,” Jane piped in.
“Casinos don’t—” Star started.
“Races don’t start until July,” Thompson interrupted
hastily, “but I’ve got some connections with the track. Might be able to get
something going a little early, just for show.”
Saratoga Springs, a vacation spot for the elite, complete
with restorative waters, only
this
spa had a racetrack. Excitement
galloped over Nick’s muscles. “Saratoga? Sure, I’ve heard of it. I’d like to
see it.”
“Excellent,” Lee said. “For it appears that my intrepid
sister has gotten herself a speaking engagement there, which my father has
asked me to attend to protect her lest she be pelted to death with rotten
fruit. Or Bibles. What do you say, Del? Will you join us? We’ll show Nick
around and get a head start on summer before retiring to Newport. What’s the
date again, Star?”
“
Newport
?” Jess exclaimed, her eyes widening in
dread.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Lee answered. “I told you that, didn’t
I?”
“Bibles?” Nick asked.
“June twelfth,” Star quickly. “Oh come, Del! You, more than
anybody else, need to hear of our beliefs.”
Thompson rolled his eyes and let out a disgusted sigh.
“No, you did not, Lee!” Jess grumbled. “I would have
remembered that.”
“The Montgomerys always spend part of the summer in Newport,”
Jane said smugly. “And as is custom, Uncle Ward has invited the Huntingtons to
summer with them as well.”
“I must return to Philadelphia tomorrow,” Huntington
answered, “and I have
no
need, sugar,” he said pointedly to Star, “to
hear more than you have already told me on every possible occasion. I suppose,
however, that I might escape long enough to save McGraw from your harping.”
“Why would someone throw Bibles?” Nick persisted.
“Our detractors are forever quoting it to silence us. And it
is far too late for that, Del,” Star said. “Have you forgotten that Nicholas is
our guest? He can scarcely learn more at my speech than I have already taught
him.”
Nick frowned at Lee, silently requesting further
information. Lee shrugged, but Nick had the uneasy suspicion that Romeo had
something to do with the Bible throwing reference. Well, Nick thought,
swallowing frustration, at least Ward was taking the man seriously.
“That’s for sure, ma’am,” Nick said to Star. “Still, I
wouldn’t miss it for all the world, though. June twelfth it is.”
Joseph Addison, Horace
After tipping the bellman for delivering her trunk, Star
sank down on the edge of the bed of her hotel room and sighed dreamily. It was
a pretty room, fashionably decorated in tan, yellow and green, with a thick
carpet and a four-poster bed. An occasional summer breeze lifted delicate lace
curtains, promising a comfortable night’s sleep and, due to the room’s location
at the back of the hotel, the noise of Broadway was just a distant murmur.
Beautiful room, marvelous, marvelous day.
Who, Star wondered happily, would ever have thought that
seven hours on a train could be so remarkable? Always before the ride between
Boston and Saratoga had felt interminable, but this time, with Nicholas
accompanying her, the hours fairly flew by. Seven hours of drinking in his leather
and gun smoke aroma, seven hours with his thigh pressed against hers. Lovely,
lovely hours of listening to his husky voice, talking and arguing and laughing.
Nothing could lessen her euphoria, not even Lee backing out at the last minute,
leaving Del as her “protector.” Not the silent animosity brewing between Jane
and Del, the latter of which was sporting a cut and bruised cheek after a brawl
the previous night. Not the fact that Del left them for a couple of hours and
came back smelling of liquor. She’d had Nicholas with her, and she would gladly
have stayed on the train for ten hours, twenty.
She was in love, oh head over heels in love. Not, she knew,
a smart love, nor a rational love for what good could possibly come of such a
connection? For all their flirtation and conversation, for all her attempts at
enticement, he’d shown little physical interest in her since he’d kissed her on
the streets of Boston. A man could not love a woman for whom he felt no lasting
passion.
Ah, she thought with a sad little sigh as she pulled out the
pins of her hat and tossed it on the bed, but she loved him all the same. She
could at least revel in his company. Next, dinner with Del, Jane and Nicholas.
She’d wear her turquoise brocade gown, she decided, rising. It set her eyes off
beautifully and had a low enough bodice to attract any man’s attention. Just
the thought of Nicholas’s eyes on her breasts set her senses reeling. Falling
to her knees in front of her trunk, she lifted the lid.
Pieces of torn up paper. She frowned. Who had thrown trash
in her trunk?
It wasn’t trash. It was her speech. And her notes. Ripped
into black and white pieces.
A chill rushed over her skin.
Underneath the paper were her clothes. Or what had been her
clothes. She’d packed a midnight blue skirt and shirtwaist for the rally. Cool
and conservative, it possessed a starched white collar and cuffs. Only now it
was blue and white confetti. Someone had cut it up. Into small pieces, roughly
the size of a quarter.
With one shaking hand, she dug into her trunk for her other
clothes: three more gowns. They’d been treated in the same manner, along with
her petticoats, hats, stockings and drawers. Even her shoes had been destroyed,
although in larger pieces. Not however, she noted distractedly, mixed up, but
each item cut up separately and laid on top of the next. Her mind created the
picture—a nameless, faceless man sitting on a stool, coldly and deliberately
cutting up each item, the pieces floating gently into the trunk. . .
With a sharp cry, she jumped up and took several steps
backward, staring wide-eyed at the trunk. Oh God, oh God . . . she pushed her
knuckles against her mouth to smother another cry. Of fear. Of rage. Of panic.
Breathing heavily she stumbled backward until her thighs met
the mattress of her bed. She sat upon it, her gaze frozen on the trunk.
Who? How? Easily. She hadn’t locked it. She’d no reason to
lock a trunk of clothing and papers, for neither were of great value. She kept
her jewelry on her person. It was simple to open the trunk and just as simple
to take a pair of sheers and cut her clothing, her notes, her privacy, to
shreds.
It would have taken time. A great deal of time. Wouldn’t it?
And patience, and . . . oh God, premeditation. Finding her. Following her.
Bringing the scissors. A cold, calculated destruction of her personal effects.
She couldn’t breathe, her brain frozen on that image of the
man on the stool . . . . The world grew fuzzy. With a tiny screech, she covered
her eyes with her hands. Stop looking—she had to stop looking.
Compose yourself
, Star.
She shoved her palms hard against her eyes to eradicate the
picture. Heart hammering, she forced her thoughts away from the trunk. To
beaches. To ocean water lapping the shore. And mountains. Clear mountain air,
snow in the distance. Nicholas. Yes Nicholas. Calm, sensible Nicholas.
The panic subsided. By and by, she dropped her hands, rose,
and with a bang, dropped the lid of the trunk over the demolition of her
person. Because, she thought as she sank into the bed again, that’s how it
felt, like a personal assault.
Who?
Romeo
.
No.
He’d threatened. He’d sent those Bible passages. Father had
been disturbed enough to assign Lee’s, then Del’s, protection.
No. Romeo would have left a letter.
Perhaps he meant to send it to the hotel, she thought with
another terrified chill. Or present himself at her door.
No. No, it wasn’t Romeo. He merely threatened and lectured.
It was far more likely that enemies of the
movement
had done it.
Possibly they’d learned of her journey here and of her fellow reformers’
decision to speak to the wealthiest citizens, whom they hoped would donate
money, voices and influence to the cause. Especially after their husbands went
off to the casino, which barred entrance to women, and risked squandering
fortunes, leaving wives with the consequences. Possibly many men had worked
together against
all
the speakers, expecting that with no gowns, there’d
be no speeches.
Her shaking eased into a gentler tremble.
Not an attack against her person, then, but against the cause.
As if that would stop her!
A shudder ran down her spine . . . perhaps it ought to . . .
.
Minnie . . . tears welling in her blackened eye . . . her
raw, ulcerated private parts. . .
The recollection set Star’s back. No, she would not succumb
to bullying. She would fight to the bitter end as she had pledged to do every
day for the past six years. She would rise above this.
What to do first, then? Why first she must wash off the
day’s travel. A woman could not fight while sweaty and smudged in soot. She rose
and went to a corner washstand. After pouring water into the basin, she
splashed cool water on her equally cold face, still bloodless from fear.
It might still be Romeo
.
Her hands shook as she wiped her face with a towel.
No. That was ridiculous. He loved her.
A knock rang out.
Romeo . . . come to finish what he’d started! Her panicked
eyes fell upon the pitcher—a thick, heavy weapon. She grabbed it and started
for the door.
***
Nick leaned against the wall of the busy, marble-floored
lobby. Huge mirrors threw his image back at him as the noise of traffic and
music from the bandstand in the park down the road wafted in through open
windows. Where was Star? Frowning, he pulled out a gleaming gold pocket watch,
care of Melinda, from his vest. He flipped it open. Twenty past six. She was
twenty minutes late. She was generally punctual. Had Huntington confused the
time and place? Nick wondered shoving the watch back into his pocket. He’d
looked pale and befuddled when Nick had knocked on his door. Maybe he’d told
Star half past six and not six o’clock.
A gaggle of women came down the curved stairway that led to
the guest rooms. Nick watched, hoping that Star had gotten stuck following
them. They turned left toward the desk. . .
No luck. His shoulders sank.
He missed her.
How could he miss a woman he’d seen just forty minutes
earlier?
Because, he thought, his heart warming with recollection,
those seven hours on the train had been some of the best hours of his whole
damned life. Which either said a lot about Miz Montgomery, or a lot about his
life. His life couldn’t be that empty, could it? The alternative was little
better—being a puppet on Star’s string, like Thompson and Huntington and half a
dozen others. For several agonizing minutes, he calculated the futility of a
Colorado rancher’s courtship of a wealthy high-society debutante, when men like
Thompson had failed.