by Sharon Ihle
Olivina's gaze narrowed slightly and her fancy fan began fluttering more rapidly. "I'm afraid not, and as for my friends... well, I really can't speak for them." Several of the ladies agreed with Olivina immediately, eschewing the very idea of belonging to such an organization.
"That's too bad." Libby persisted, determined to find out exactly what she was up against. "I suppose you must be allied with Lucy Stone and the American Woman Suffrage Association, in that case. Correct?"
"Sorry, again. You're quite wrong on both counts." Olivina lightly tapped Libby's wrist with the fan she'd just folded. "Now if you'll excuse me? I really must go see to my other guests. Welcome to my home, and do enjoy your visit to our lovely city."
"Oh, ah, thanks for having me." That's what she managed to say, but Libby may as well have been muttering the courtesy to the marble statue of Poseidon rising up from the center of the fountain. Olivina and several of her "followers" had already stepped out of earshot by the time she had the first word out.
"Excuse me," came a small voice from behind her, "but could I talk to you a minute?"
Libby turned to find Susan Savage at her elbow. "Oh, I didn't realize you were still here. I thought you went off with your mother."
"My stepmother, ma'am." Susan colored a little, her shy hazel eyes darting around the room as if seeking approval—or disapproval. "I'm supposed to help her with the hostessing chores, which means I'm to keep the guests entertained. You are a guest, aren't you?"
Libby liked her even more now, especially after she dared to give a little wink by way of punctuation at the end of her declaration. "I certainly am—invited by your father, no less."
"That's wonderful news." Smiling, albeit timidly, Susan linked arms with Libby and strolled through a high, arched doorway and down terraced steps that led to one of the estate's formal gardens.
Night had fallen, surprising Libby since the profusion of brilliant lighting inside the mansion had lulled her into thinking it was still daylight. Here in the gardens, where small ornate lanterns illuminated the plants and shrubs, the evening had definitely made an appearance, complete with tendrils of the almost nightly fog that made lazy loops around the treetops. The night felt magical, almost mystical.
As they strolled deeper into the courtyard, Susan, whom Libby guessed to be no more than eighteen, spoke fondly of the Oriental garden with authentically reproduced shrines, pagodas, and miniature plants, through which they passed. It wasn't until they reached the wooded, more private gardens that featured an abundance of shrubs, flowering trees, and hedges trimmed to resemble a menagerie of barnyard animals that the young woman finally got around to saying what was on her mind.
"I was wondering—if you don't mind my asking, that is—if you really are a female suffragist."
"I certainly am, and proud of it. Are you?"
"Oh, gracious, no." Laughing, Susan sank down on a marble and brass bench. "I have no reason to march for equal rights. I'm betrothed to Henry, duke of Alaim, and will be wed before the year is out."
Libby joined her on the bench. "So? Don't you want to protect what should be legally yours? And what about voting rights? Don't you think your opinion should be counted as to how you want this country to be run?"
Susan looked at her as if she'd just spoken in Chinese. "I'm not sure I follow you. Once I'm wed and titled—I'll be a duchess, you know—I'll be protected and have more authority than I ever dreamed of, surely more than I ever wanted."
"Over whom, Susan? Over what?"
The young woman frowned as she considered the questions. "Servants, I suppose, I don't know. I only know that Henry will take care of me, and that as his wife, I won't have to worry about how the country is run. I won't have to worry about a thing."
"I see." Because she already cared a little about this young woman and a lot about her skewed convictions, Libby went on, trying to make a point. "Do you mind if I tell you the story of a rancher I interviewed back in Laramie?"
"Not at all. I'd love to hear about your hometown."
"If you're sure. I don't want to take you away from your other guests for too long."
"Please, don't worry about them. Tell me about Laramie. Is it really as wild and woolly as they say?"
Libby grimaced. "We'll get to that later. First I want to tell you about this rancher and his wife. I went to their home with the sheriff because the man had sent a message to town claiming that his wife had been kidnapped."
"Oh, how dreadful." Susan leaned in close to whisper the rest. "Was she taken by... Indians?"
"No, she wasn't." Libby resisted the urge to educate the woman about Indians. "I went to the poor woman's home as a newspaper reporter, so I could write up a factual story about her disappearance, and maybe even help find her. It turned out to be the hardest assignment I'd ever taken on, and in the end, I didn't write the article or try to help find her."
"Gracious. Why on earth not?"
"I'm getting to that." Libby hated the memories, and rarely dredged them up, but if the telling of the story could help this spoiled, yet good-hearted woman understand why all women had to join together to make their lot better, then it would be worth it. "I found the family living in filth, and that didn't count the fact that the house had a dirt floor." Susan recoiled in horror, as Libby suspected she might. "I was only there a short while, but in that time, I saw babies crawling on hands and knees on that floor, a newborn barely old enough to keep her little eyes open, and a pair of twins not out of diapers yet. A young girl and boy, around five and six, I'd guess, were riding herd on them, while several other children were out in the fields."
She gave Susan a moment to digest that information before going on. "Well, after the rancher—Zeke's his name—told me his sad tale of waking up one morning and finding the missus gone, he scratched his crotch and armpits, in that order, then hawked a load on the floor by my boot."
Susan shuddered from head to toe and grimaced.
"Exactly my first reaction," said Libby. "Then I just stared at the old boy, giving him a really long look, and said, 'Zeke, my friend, are you so sure your wife got kidnapped? Isn't it just as likely she ran away from home?"'
Gasping and laughing at the same time, Susan shrieked, "You didn't."
"Oh, yes, I did." Libby did manage a little chuckle at the memory before finishing her story. "Zeke looked back at me like I'd lost my mind. Then he asked why in tarnation I thought she'd want to go do a thing like that. I pointed out the miserable excuse for a house, the babies, and the older children running round in the yard. You know what he did then?"
Clearly unused to such tales, an open-mouthed Susan slowly shook her head.
"He actually looked surprised I'd ask such a question and even requested a clarification by saying, 'You mean 'cause of them kids?' When I nodded, he insisted that the little woman would never run off just on account of them." Libby mimicked the man's voice. '"Why would she,' he says. 'We only got thirteen so far, you know.'"
"Oh... oh, gracious." Susan looked as if she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Oh, gracious, me."
"Gracious, hell. Old Zeke just didn't understand. It seems a lot of men don't."
Susan nodded, as if agreeing. "That's quite a story all right, but I'm not sure I see why you told it to me. I doubt the duke wants thirteen children, and I sure don't."
As much as she liked Susan, Libby couldn't help but think that, like Zeke, she didn't quite understand. But she continued to try. "The reason I told you that story is because, in all things—from the number of children we have to the laws we obey in this country—whatever the men decide is the way things have to be."
Susan mulled this over for a moment, then shrugged. "But once we're married to them, we can make the men listen to us. You should hear Olivina talk to my daddy. I would say things around here are done the way she decides."
Libby could feeling her temperature rising, as it always did when she couldn't quite get the message across. She took a couple of deep breaths.
"Susan, the rules around here, no matter who makes them up, don't have the slightest effect on the way this country is run. It costs your father nothing but a fraction of his money to let Olivina set those rules. What I'm trying to tell you is that more American women are like Zeke's wife—faced with no say at all—than are like you and Olivina. This kind of life is—" She spread her arms toward the sky just as the moon slid out from behind the clouds to silhouette the mansion's turrets. Libby's hands fell to her lap and she sighed. "This, my new friend, is a fantasy."
Staring up at the gothic towers of her home, Susan fell into thoughtful silence. After a while, she said, "So what you're saying is that you joined the suffragists not just so you could go to the polls and vote with the men, but to help all women to have a better life?"
"Oh, Susan, yes, that's it. I could just hug you. In fact, I think I will." Libby embraced the young woman, feeling a kinship with her, then held her at arm's length. "Do you think you might be interested in joining our group? I can show you how."
Susan didn't think about that for too long. "I'd really like to, but I don't know what daddy would have to say about it. He's not in favor of women getting the vote, so I don't suppose he'd be too fond of the other equal rights matters either."
"But maybe you can help to change his mind about it." Her tone a challenge, Libby went on. "You agree, do you not, that it's high time the women of this country started raising fewer babies and more hell?"
"Well... yes."
"How do you plan to raise hell if you have to ask for your father's permission first?"
Susan brought her hand to her mouth, looking as if she were about to burst into giggles, but at the last minute she blanched instead. At first, Libby was afraid she'd been too aggressive in her tactics, which she had to admit, sometimes happened when she became impassioned over the cause. But then she realized that Susan was looking beyond, not at her. Before she could figure out who'd approached, a male voice came at them from behind.
"There you are, Susan, dear. I believe Olivina is looking for you. Something about notifying the guests who'll be observing the fireworks from the top floor?"
"Oh, yes, of course." Susan jumped to her feet, muttering a fast apology. "Excuse me, please." Then she scurried away, leaving Libby to deal with the unidentified intruder alone. She swiveled around on the slick marble seat until she was facing the satin-lined jacket of a man she hadn't seen before.
"Oh, hello," she said breezily. "I don't believe we've been introduced."
The man had a gorgeous head of glossy black hair, not so unlike Donovan's, but the prominent brow beneath his delicate widow's peak was stern and harsh. Through eyes the color of a stormy sea, he looked down at her with undisguised contempt. "I don't think introductions are necessary. You're that Justice woman from Laramie, are you not? Here to make trouble?"
Libby rose, wanting to be on higher ground before she answered such animosity. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage... sir. Who are you?"
"Thomas Savage." He made no attempt to greet her past that, but went at her again, instead. "Who do you think you are, coming to this home and filling my sister's head with your suffragist propaganda?"
Libby was stunned. This man was nothing like Donovan or Francis. But he was one of R. T.'s sons, and like him or not, she had to show him a certain amount of respect. "I—well, I am sorry if I've offended you somehow, but Susan—"
"Susan is part of this family. On her behalf and ours, I'm asking you to leave our home this instant. If you don't, I shall be forced to have you bodily thrown out. Is that understood?"
"Ah. There you are." Donovan popped out from behind a hedge cut in the shape of an enormous fat sow. "I believe you promised me this dance, Miss Justice." He turned to his half brother, barely able to keep a civil tongue in his head, and muttered, "Excuse us, will you, Thomas?"
Then, before his temper could get the better of him, Donovan escorted her out of the garden and back inside the ballroom. As they moved closer to the circle of dancers, Libby pulled on his arm, beckoning him to stop.
"Thanks for getting me away from that jackass, but please don't take me any farther."
"You've as much right to be here as any one. I'll have a little talk with Thomas later, and maybe with R. T„ too—"
"That's not the problem right this minute." She glanced up at him with artful eyes. "I don't want to dance with you."
Taking umbrage to the remark, especially in the face of his recent gallantry, Donovan responded in kind. "It's a little late to be so choosy, isn't it? It's not like your dance card is filled with Savage brothers, or anyone else, you charming little thing, you."
"Oh, please don't go on about your wounded feelings." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "My dance card doesn't have a single name on it, and for a very good reason. I... well, I don't have any idea how to dance."
"Thank God for that, because I don't know how to either." At her surprised expression, he went on to explain. "I happened across you and my brother, overheard part of the conversation, and figured, if it were to continue that you might behave in, shall we say, a less-than-ladylike fashion. In other words, I was afraid you might just punch him right in the mouth."
She made a growling sound in her throat. "If you'd heard the way that bully you call a brother was talking to me, I think you might have applauded if I'd punched him. He sure had it coming to him."
"Hush, dammit." Donovan scanned the room. There was no sign of his brothers or father, and Susan and Olivina were huddled conspiratorially at the edge of a large round couch. Keeping his voice low, he went on to say, "As it happens, I did overhear some of what that son of a bitch had to say to you. I dragged you out of there on my account, too—before I lost control and punched him in the mouth myself. Satisfied?"
Libby's expression softened immediately. "You were thinking of poking your own brother—over me?"
"Not over you, so don't go getting all sappy on me. The man was being a rude pig. I don't like to hear anyone spoken to in such a manner, much less a woman."
"Oh, Donovan—you do care." The words flowed from her like a melody, as soft and low as a chord from a bass violin. Then before he knew what she was up to, Libby gripped his lapels, raised herself up on tiptoes, and fit her lips to his for a brief, yet somehow deeply intimate kiss. After coming up for air, she repeated, "You really do care about me, don't you?"
"Libby, for heaven's sake." He removed her tenacious fingers from his lapels, distinctly uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation. "I care about a lot of things, but that doesn't mean... it doesn't make me..."
Donovan was still trying to find a way to explain himself an hour later as they made their way to the roof of the Savage mansion to watch the fireworks display R. T. had planned. By the time they reached the summit, Libby was laughing gaily, as if she enjoyed his discomfort immensely. Once they made their way to the wrought iron viewing rail which fenced the entire roof of the mansion, she turned her back to him, sneaked her glasses out of her bag, and after perching them on her nose, became so swept up by the sights, nothing else mattered.
"Oh, my lord," she cried, leaving vanity behind to fully don her spectacles. "I thought the view of the city from the street was something, but this... and at night with the lights twinkling from the houses below... it's too much to believe."
Donovan, who'd never been privy to such a sight himself, merely glanced out at the crisp, clear night. Most of the fog still hovering about the city swirled around the lower buildings, leaving only occasional patches or ghostly images of mist to interfere with the stars above or gas lamps below. Libby, no longer gazing at Donovan with puppy dog eyes, but staring out at the night with open adoration, seemed lost in her own little world.
"So what do you think of my fair city?" he asked, wanting, for reasons he couldn't fathom, to be part of that little world. "Did you imagine it would be this big when you left Laramie?"
"Oh, gosh, no." Still staring out at the night, she sighed deeply. "I m
ean, I knew San Francisco would be a lot bigger than any place I'd ever been, but I never imagined how tall these five-story buildings could be."
He pointed toward the bay. "See the big one in the distance, the one that looks like a huge shadow covering several blocks? That's the Palace Hotel, which is seven stories tall."
Libby cut loose with a long low whistle, one worthy of a stevedore down at the docks. "I saw that when I got here and wondered what the devil it was. Have you ever been inside the hotel?"
He laughed. "Just once, as the guest of a very wealthy lady."
"How wonderful." Now, of all moments, Libby chose to turn her rapt gaze on him. "Is it as grand inside as it is on the outside?"
"I wouldn't know. I didn't really get much of a tour of the place." Actually, the only tour he'd gotten was inside the lady's bedroom, and he sure as hell wasn't going to go into detail about that. Sorry he'd brought the subject of the hotel up in the first place, Donovan was trying to think of a way to extract himself from the uncomfortable conversation, when R. T. saved him the trouble by firing a pistol into the night.
"For my son Andrew," he shouted, assured that every guest's attention was on him, whether below on the street or privileged enough to be numbered among close friends and family on the roof. A moment later, the first in a series of rockets shot into the sky with a deafening whistle. The projectiles packed with gunpowder and lampblack exploded in bright red sparkles, showering the darkness with crimson stars. Other cylinders, mixed with yellow sand, erupted to spill waterfalls of golden showers above the crowd, mesmerizing everyone.
In the midst of this dazzling display of fireworks, Donovan heard distant chimes ringing out the hour, echoing in between explosions twelve times over. Gripped with a sudden urge to bestow a kiss on Libby—for luck only, he assured himself—he turned to find that, like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, she'd disappeared. He began an immediate search of the rooftop, and by the time the fireworks display was over, he'd asked all but one person if they'd seen Libby leave the premises. No one had.
