“Not all men—”
“No! Damn it, don’t give me that excuse,” she said through
gritted teeth. “I
know
all men are not like that; I have two brothers
and a father. The point is that it’s
legal
and until women can vote, the
laws shall remain unfair. I will not,
not
sit idly by while this happens
again and again and again.”
He peered, a frown between his brows as he weighed her
words. Jaw tight, she waited for his answer, for despite her assertions of
independence, they both knew full well that he could prevent her speech. He was
a man, and men ruled the world.
“I still don’t see,” he said slowly, “how women voting can
fix it. Not a hundred million votes can change the nature of some men.”
“No, but we can elect men who will institute laws that lock
away that nature.”
“Or you could elect women,” he said with a quick grin.
“Ah,” she said wistfully, “now wouldn’t that be marvelous?
But it shall never happen, for what man would ever vote for a woman?”
“I’d vote for you.”
Her heart lurched and a lump formed in her throat. She
searched his eyes for the joke in them. No sparkling gaiety, though, just quiet
blue strength framed by those beautiful long lashes. “You truly mean that,
don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”
She swallowed. No man, not even Father, had ever expressed
such faith in her before, faith that circled her heart in soft, sweet love.
“You are a very unusual man, Nicholas McGraw.”
That
did
bring a sparkle of amusement. “Reckon in
comparison to all these genteel fellas ya got out here, I’m a regular oddity,”
he drawled. Then with a quick blink of those eyes, his face turned serious
again. “Romeo still troubles me, though.”
Inspiring compliments—and then that fight for control. Did
he mean to manipulate her? No, the compliment was real, as was the worry. “You
must understand my insistence on speaking tomorrow, for Minnie. If you tell the
authorities or Del, they’ll interfere and possibly compel me to quit
altogether.”
“I won’t lie to your pa,” he said stubbornly.
“It’s only withholding information. Nicholas, I’m begging
you.” Emotionally exhausted, she could no longer stop her voice from breaking
or keep the tears from her eyes.
His shoulders sank. Drawing a long breath, he reached into
his pocket for his handkerchief. “Nick,” he said, handing it to her. “If you’re
gonna beg, call me Nick.”
“Nick,” she said with a little smile. “I’m begging you,
Nick.”
He sighed. “Well you don’t beg so well, but that smile could
melt steel. O.K., I won’t contact the authorities until after your speech, and
I won’t tell your parents at all. Under
one
condition: you tell me
immediately
if Romeo does anything else.”
Anything else. Which meant in the future not . . . the past.
Not the Bible passages. Well she could do that. “All right, it’s a deal.”
“And,” he said rising. He helped her up. “I’m coming to your
speech tomorrow.”
“Why, Nicholas, you must know you are always welcome to
listen to us. Should the spirit move you, you might even jump up on stage and
lecture with me!” she said, trying for levity to dispel the gravity hanging
over them.
He linked his arm in hers. “No, ma’am, by my reckoning
that’d do your cause a deal more harm than good.”
***
Nick stood at the back of the crowded room, leaning against
the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the throng—mostly
richly dressed women, although there were men scattered throughout. Ten minutes
earlier, backstage, Star, dressed in a simple grey dress that was too loose in
some places, and too short, had expressed her relief at that. She along with
five other women had taken turns peeking through the curtain at their audience.
“We’d feared,” she’d told him, “that the men of Saratoga
would revolt against our rally and come bearing rotten vegetables and fruit.
Apparently, however, they don’t view us as a threat.”
“Or they figured gambling is more entertaining,” he replied
wryly. He’d lowered his voice. “Any other problems with clothing?”
Worry flashed across her face. “None. I am the only victim.”
He’d nodded. “Understood. O.K., I’m going out there and take
a gander at the crowd.”
“All right, although what you might do in case of trouble, I
don’t know.”
Because, he thought, she didn’t know that’d he’d brought his
guns. He’d stuck his Colt in his belt under his coat. He only wished he’d had
the foresight to bring his rifle cane. It’d have been a deal more useful.
He scanned the crowd, finding nothing disturbing until his
gaze fell upon a familiar face. Ambrose Thompson. Sonuvabitch, what was he
doing here?
Romeo?
Thompson was rich as Midas and had already had his chance with
Star. He’d lost. Would that loss turn to anger at her and her fellow reformers?
It was possible, he decided as he casually made his way over to Thompson. How
would he have gotten into that trunk, though? No, it still made more since that
Romeo was Huntington, who was licking his wounds and happy to hand off his
duties to Nick. Huntington had the temper, he’d expressed his dislike for the
movement on several occasions, and most importantly, he’d been on the train.
He’d left them for a couple hours. Could be he figured out how to get to the
baggage car.
Still, Thompson did seem like the kind who’d write sappy,
over-dramatic letters. He just didn’t seem violent.
“Thompson,” Nick said, as he reached him.
He turned his head. “McGraw,” he greeted his jaw tightening.
“I’m surprised to find you here. I understood you not to be overly fond of
women’s reform.” He smiled, but a blind man could see through his attempt at
civility.
“Huntington couldn’t make it. He asked me to step in for
him. Didn’t think you agreed with any of this, either.”
His eyes hardened. “I don’t. It’s ludicrous. I cannot
understand why Star’s family allows it. Were she mi—” He stopped, took a
breath, shook his head. “Forgive me. It is only that Star has had some
influence on Hannah of late.” He nodded to his sister sitting in the crowd. “I
worry for her.”
“Sure,” Nick said as a woman walked out from behind the
curtain. He didn’t believe for a second that was what caused Thompson’s
outburst, though. He hadn’t gotten over losing Star to her movement.
The woman moved to the podium. Thompson nodded at Nick and
then went to sit with his sister. Nick sidled left, deeper into a corner as the
woman started talking. “As you know we are gathered together this morning to
discuss the very necessary reform. . . ”
For the next two hours, Nick half listened to speeches,
while continually circling the room with his eyes as he would cows on a cattle
drive. At times the crowd grew restive, the men occasionally making faces and
shouting their disgust, but the women shushed them quickly. No one stood out as
dangerous or even particularly disruptive. Was one of them Romeo? Damn, but how
was a body to know?
The speeches ended and the crowd started to break up. As
Nick made his way toward the stage, Star entered through a door to the left and
came to him, a large smile on her face. “Well? What did you think?”
“You did good,” he answered.
She chuckled. “Adequate is a better description.” He didn’t
argue. Her speech had been as well constructed and eloquent as her articles;
she had a gift with words. The delivery, though . . . well her charm, her
bright, cheerful personality was lost behind a podium. “But of the rest? The
audience, at least, seem impressed.”
He glanced around the room. “They are. You women made some
solid points, but I reckon other matters distracted me.”
“Yes,” she said, lowering her voice. “Did you see him?
Romeo?”
He sighed disgustedly. “Beats me. Could be half a dozen men
or he didn’t show at all. Look, there, Miss Thompson is trying mightily to get
your attention.”
“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten!” she said excitedly, taking his
wrist. “I talked to Hannah earlier. Ambrose has arranged some exhibition races
and you’re invited. Come along, Nicholas, I shall re-acquaint you, which you
must own is a very good thing for we shall be seeing quite a bit of them in
Newport.”
Damn, Thompson had as much interest in friendship with Nick
as Nick did a tarantula. He went with Star, anyhow, even while his brain
continued calculating. The situation was, he decided, too many for him. It was
time to hire a professional. Soon as possible, he’d wire Winchester for
recommendation on a Pinkerton.
Sophocles
Shakespeare, Henry VI
“Still don’t know why I have to go to this shindig,” Nick
grumbled as the carriage turned down the driveway of one of Newport’s
“cottages.” Mansion, more like. Two weeks into his stay in Newport and his
shock at the gratuitous display of wealth had turned to disgust. Star’d been
right. As much as he disliked Boston’s stuck up attitude, these New Yorkers
were worse—both snobby
and
mind-numbingly boring. He’d put the kibosh on
social functions altogether excepting for his worries about Romeo.
Had nothing to do with the fact that she’d have gone without
him, and that none of the myriad of amusements he could have indulged in were
near as fun as being with her.
“Why, because as I have already explained,” Star replied,
amusement marbling her voice, “a tea party is an ideal way for me to introduce
you to Society before the real season begins. And you must know that the
Thompsons are friendly with
every
one.”
Sure. And Gabe Keller, the private eye that Winchester had
recommended, was busy investigating whether being friendly with everybody
helped Thompson “secretly admire” Star.
“Reckon I’ve met enough Society folk at all the dinners and
picnics.” If a body could call those things picnics. For the last one that
McAllister fella had laid out a
dance
floor on the grass. Back home they
called that a dance.
Except for the champagne. Back home they never drank
champagne. Here it seemed a necessary addition to every party.
No sir, there was no two ways about it, these Easterners
were plumb loco. Bored into madness no doubt, so much so that Nick had become
“all the rage.” Wasn’t too hard, that. He had good-enough manners and could
tell a story. Most of the time he made ’em up because these folk were
determined to believe the West was savage, without taste, luxury, education or
any notion at all of the happenings in the rest of the country, never mind the
rest of the world.
“A dinner,” Star pointed out, “only allows one to converse
with people to your left or right. A picnic is too informal for real
conversation. A tea is a comfortable combination of both.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I haven’t yet found any
‘real’ conversation—Sonuvagun,” he exclaimed as the coachman opened the coach
door to reveal a white house, three stories tall, and twice the width of his
own home. “What’s the matter with you folk that you don’t understand a cottage
is s’posed to be
smaller
than home?”
Star laughed as he disembarked. He turned and held up his
hand, even though the coachman was standing there, offering his services. Nick
figured as her escort, it was
his
job to help her down. “Why, Nicholas,”
Star said, “this
is
smaller than the Thompson’s home in New York!”
“Well at least this one doesn’t have turrets,” Nick grumbled
as they hooked arms and moved along the walkway.
He’d been surprised when he’d arrived in Newport and seen
that the Montgomery’s ‘cottage’ was three stories tall with twenty rooms,
including a ballroom. It was larger than their townhouse in Boston, almost as
large as their family home in Marblehead and just as lavishly decorated. At
least theirs, though, had a veranda on the second and third floors, facing the
ocean to catch the cool breezes. At least it pretended to be a cottage.
But these others? Some of ’em looked like castles, with
turrets and walled gardens, decorated in marble and gilt. Rumor had it Astor
was adding on to Beechwood and Vanderbilt was contemplating building something
even bigger. All for two months out of the year and mostly for the women,
because, he’d learned, the men worked in New York City most of the week. A
waste. Shameful, shameful waste.
Nick sighed disgustedly. “Are there at least going to be men
today?” He was damned tired of being the token male.
“Several I have been told.”
He ran his gaze over Star. She’d dressed in a yellow gown,
trimmed with delicate white lace. Her matching straw hat, decorated in ribbons
and feathers, set off the sheen of her dark hair. She looked like a confection,
good enough to eat. Something, he thought shoving down the desire always riding
close to the surface these days, that he really ought not to think about right
now. “Will the ladies be dressed as pretty as you?”
She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. His heart leapt.
That
was always near the surface these days too, warm, fluttery emotions, which he
refused to name. “Why I suppose they will be
almost
as pretty.” A gurgle
of merriment ran through her voice.
He flashed a smile. “I said
dressed
as pretty as you.
Already knew they couldn’t be near
as
pretty as you.”
“Why Nicholas, it appears that you’re learning something
from us after all, if only gratuitous flattery,” she said. A butler opened the
door.
“No ma’am, haven’t learned a thing. That’s honesty.”
And just like that, Star, confident, composed, in her
element, could not breathe. In the past Nicholas, though hardly parsimonious
with flattery, had only directed it at
her
in reference to her
skills—chess, tennis, writing. Nothing personal, even though on occasion she’d
seen his eyes light up with male admiration. Spoken flattery must,
must
be confirmation of attraction, mustn’t it?