Tenacious Love (Banished Saga, Book Four): Banished Saga, Book Four

by Ramona Flightner

  Zylphia sighed with relief when she heard the herald of the first trumpet. With the final blast, the main performers danced. They represented Liberty, Justice, Charity, Hope and Peace, and they danced in harmony as they moved toward the front of the treasury’s steps. When their dance ended, they raised their arms in triumph, expecting to see Miss Milholland and the first marchers below them. However, the street remained deserted.

  After a few minutes they lowered their arms and peered up the street toward the Capitol. “That doesn’t look right,” Zylphia murmured to the woman standing next to her, as they broke formation and moved toward the edge of the steps. An angry roar crested and receded, depending on the wind, and the avenue was filled with an enraged mob, not the well-organized parade marchers.

  “Something has gone terribly wrong,” whispered the woman next to Zylphia.

  Clarissa glared at a man smirking at her. She raised a hatpin and met his sneer with a determined glare. Slowly, step by agonizing step, they moved forward. A cold wind howled, and the day’s bright rays faded. Long shadows now fell in certain places as the sun passed tall buildings, adding to the day’s chill.

  “At this rate, we’ll reach the end of the parade route tomorrow,” Florence said as she half shrieked when someone slapped her arm. She jumped away, trembling as the man gloated in his ability to unnerve her.

  Clarissa shivered at a freezing gust of wind, wishing she wore something more substantial than her cape and a torn dress.

  Florence saw Clarissa shiver and frowned. “Use one of the pins for your cape. Pin it closed.”

  “But one of the men may get ahold of a pin if he were too close again,” she said. “It’s not that cold.” Another frigid blast of wind put to lie her statement as her teeth clattered. Clarissa pulled the purple cloak around herself, but it was more decorative than useful, and she gave up after a few moments as their forward momentum stalled.

  The women near Florence and Clarissa had carved out an oasis of safety, their backs to each other as they protected themselves from any further attacks. The women held at least one hatpin in their hands, their eyes alert as they searched the crowd for any man brave enough to approach them now.

  Clarissa glanced around, finally feeling safe enough to notice more than her immediate surroundings. Women lay on the cement, beaten, battered and bruised, some bleeding. Unruly men stumbled over many of them, causing further injury, while other women were fortunate enough to be helped from the ongoing mayhem. All the marchers near Clarissa carried a memento of the day’s violence, from a bruise to a torn dress to a bleeding gash on a forehead. A fierce light of indignation and determination shone from their eyes as they surveyed the chaos around them.

  “How could this happen?” Florence whispered. She flinched as she saw a man strike a woman with such force she fell, too. Her young daughter wailed as the man taunted her, calling her a disgrace to motherhood as he sneered over her prostrate form before kicking her stomach. Florence moved to render aid, but Clarissa gripped her arm.

  “No, Flo, don’t. He’ll only hurt you too,” Clarissa said. “Think of your babe.” They watched as the woman struggled to her knees, and a pair of women closer to her than Florence and Clarissa helped her to stand. They led her through the crowd with her daughter clinging to her purple cape.

  Ahead they heard a police whistle and the repeated demands to allow the women to pass, but the calls remained unheeded. The band, which had played rousing marches at the start of the parade, had dispersed into the crowd, disappearing as a morning mist when exposed to bright sunlight. Instead of uplifting songs, the roar of angry men and the shrieks of indignant women sounded on the breeze.

  Suddenly a car honked behind the parade of women on the avenue, and they were forced momentarily to the side. Florence, Clarissa and the women near them cheered as a car passed with Alice Paul and Lucy Burns seated within, the car’s frequent honking opening the crowd before the car. Lucy Burns leaned out the passenger window, ordering men to move aside and to allow the women to peacefully pass. Alice opened the door, her long black robes flowing as she jumped out, motioning for bystanders to move away. Another car joined the first, and a woman stood on the running board with a megaphone, ordering the onlookers to clear a path for the marchers. As a small swathe opened for them, the women hastily marched forward, filling the gap.

  As they made true progress in their forward momentum, Clarissa saw groups of uniformed boys pushing and prodding men aside. The boys wielded their previously decorative staffs in a manner to clear the avenue but not to evoke more violence. “Look,” she said to Florence. “It seems the Boy Scouts know what is proper, while their elders do not.”

  Florence shook her head ruefully and hastened to keep pace.

  After a few blocks Florence gripped Clarissa’s arm and motioned toward an alley with her head. An army truck had backed in there, and a group of soldiers unloaded. The women looked ahead to see their way cleared, soldiers joining the ranks of the Boy Scouts and bringing a semblance of order to the chaotic scene. The arrival of the bedraggled, weary group of suffragists at the terminus of the parade was unheralded as the grandstands were deserted.

  “Hurrah,” a hardy soul shouted.

  Clarissa and Florence joined in the cheer, the momentary exultation easing their exhaustion.

  As the crowd dispersed into the bitterly cold March evening, Clarissa gripped Florence’s arm. “We did it, Flo. We made it. We showed them that women are serious about obtaining the vote.”

  “I doubt this parade will go down in the annals of suffragism as something to be proud of,” Florence said. “What an unmitigated disaster.”

  They glanced around the terminal area of the parade route but didn’t see tall McLeod men awaiting them.

  “Flo!”

  They spun to face Richard, racing toward them. He carried two heavy jackets, which he flung around their shoulders. “Richard,” Florence murmured, embracing him a moment.

  He traced her cheek, frowning at the dried tobacco stains there, plus on her coat and dress, before nodding. “I see you had an adventure, but you survived it.”

  “Where is everyone else?” Clarissa asked, shivering even with the added warmth of the jacket from Richard. They began the short walk to the nearby Willard Hotel, Richard and Florence arm in arm.

  “Savannah was exhausted, while Sophie said she was frozen. Zylphia had to change out of that ridiculous costume. Jeremy and Gabriel accompanied them to the hotel, and they are awaiting the two of you in Sophie’s suite,” Richard said.

  “I see,” Clarissa murmured.

  Richard patted her arm, as though understanding her disappointment that Gabriel hadn’t accompanied him.

  They entered the elaborate lobby of the Willard Hotel, the golden marble Corinthian pillars and marble floors gleaming under the chandelier light as they walked past potted ferns. Clarissa peered at the ornate coffered ceilings in gold and sage green before entering the elevator to Sophie’s suite. Clarissa knocked on the door, quivering now as the warmth permeated her frozen limbs.

  “What happened to you?” Sophie asked with a gasp as she stared at the two marchers.

  Clarissa looked down at her hands clutching her coat together and glanced at Florence’s stained cheek. Both women had lost their hats, and their hair was in a complete state of disarray. “Do we look that bad?” Clarissa asked, attempting to joke.

  “Worse,” Sophie intoned in her deep, scratchy voice, her aquamarine eyes filled with concern. “I knew it had been a difficult march, but I never imagined my girls would be so viciously abused. Alice and I will have words over the lack of police protection that she provided.”

  “I’m sure she did all she could,” Clarissa said, the warmth of the suite seeping into her frozen bones. She shivered again at the delight of thawing and moved toward the radiator. She shrugged from her coat, dropped the ineffectual cape on a stool and clasped her bodice closed with one hand.

  The ample sitting room was fil
led with gold and white silk-covered chairs and couches with tables and potted ferns scattered throughout. Red and blue throw pillows added splashes of color while delicate stained-glass lamps lent an inviting glow to the room.

  Clarissa came to an abrupt halt when she saw Gabriel pacing in front of the windows, near the radiator. He glanced toward the doorway, his eyebrows furrowing as he must have noted a bruise forming on her right cheek, her tousled hair, her torn dress and bodice. His jaw firmed as Clarissa stiffened under his perusal.

  Clarissa absently noted Richard exiting from the bathroom with a washcloth to swipe at the tobacco stains on Florence’s cheek and dress, caressing her head, swiping away tears and enfolding her in a gentle embrace. Clarissa focused on Gabriel again, aware that he too had noted his brother’s actions. However, Gabriel remained rooted in place across the room from her, as though awaiting some sign from Clarissa.

  “I’ll freshen up,” Clarissa whispered. She shared another long, tortured glance with Gabriel before spinning and fleeing the room.

  2

  “Wait just a minute, young man,” Sophronia Chickering demanded as Gabriel walked toward the sitting room door to follow Clarissa. “I’ve waited long enough to know why you and my girl are acting like a pair of circling pugilists, each waiting to land the next blow.”

  Gabriel halted at the doorway, his back to the room. “It will all work out in time.”

  Sophronia cackled humorlessly. “I doubt it. Whatever’s bothering the two of you is in deep, a venom that grows more potent as time passes.” She nodded to Richard and Florence as they sidled from the room, closing the sitting room door behind them. “Sit.” Sophie’s barked order hid her deep concern.

  “Does everyone jump to do your bidding?” Gabriel asked with a glower.

  “If they have any sense.” She watched as he swore silently and exhaled a deep breath before throwing himself down into a sturdy chair.

  After a few moments of tense silence, Gabriel rasped, “Get on with it then.”

  “With what?”

  Sophie’s air of serenity was like a match to the fuel of Gabriel’s ire. “With whatever misbegotten advice you believe I need.”

  “No need to glower, growl or bluster at me, young man. However, if this is how you’ve been treating Clarissa, it’s no wonder she didn’t desire your comforting after such a trying day.”

  “Do you always meddle?” Gabriel rose, walking a few steps to the window, where he leaned a hip against the sill and stared vacantly at the distant street scene.

  “Always. Especially when it pertains to those I love. You’re making her miserable, Gabriel,” Sophie murmured.

  “Do you think I don’t know that?” Gabriel spun around, his face a mask of agonized regret and wanting. “Do you think I don’t know what an utter failure I am? In all regards?”

  Sophie’s eyes shimmered as though she fought tears, and she nodded. “So it’s like that then. She’s yet to understand the truth?”

  “She understands it well enough.” Gabriel came to sit on a chair next to Sophie, his head in his hands.

  “She sees her version of the truth. That doesn’t mean it’s the correct one. We often harm those we love the most because we misinterpret what we perceive to have occurred. Or failed to have occurred.”

  “She’s right. I failed her. I failed …” Gabriel choked, unable to say more.

  Sophronia reached her hand toward Gabriel, stroking his head as though in a benediction. She met his devastated eyes. “Nothing will ever take away Clarissa’s and your loss, Gabriel. Nothing will ever make you both whole in that way again.” Her hand gripped his with a fierce intensity. “The only chance you have to move forward is by making your peace with Clarissa.”

  “I don’t know how.” Gabriel swiped at a tear and sniffed to forestall further crying.

  “You have one path to move forward and heal. You need to make your peace with your wife, or you will never recover. You need her forgiveness and love. You can’t heal without her. Clarissa has two paths. Don’t let her choose the path without you.”

  Clarissa glared at the door, at the insistent tapping, before moving to open it. Her hair was loose, hanging to her waist, and she’d yet to change into a new dress. “Who is it?”

  “Rissa, open up. It’s Sav.”

  She flipped the lock and opened the door for her cousin to enter. She spun away to the closet before Savannah had a chance to study her. Clarissa pulled off her torn dress and flung it to the floor. After choosing and donning a simple sky-blue dress that she could pull on over her head and button up without help, she returned to the small room she shared with Gabriel.

  “Aren’t you attending the postparade function at the DAR Continental Hall?” Savannah asked, frowning as she stared at Clarissa’s simple dress. Then she glanced up, noting the bruise on her cheek and blanched. “What happened, Rissa?” She sat in a chair, her already pale features turning more pallid as Clarissa described the march, the vicious attacks, the disparaging comments.

  “Thank God for hatpins,” Clarissa muttered.

  “I never thought I’d hear you say something like that.” Sav giggled.

  “Me neither.” Clarissa sighed as she finally relaxed. She fought a slight trembling at the realization that she was safe, that no one would yell at her, grope her or abuse her in any way.

  “Where’s Gabriel?” Savannah asked, unable to hide the concern in her voice. Her strawberry-blond hair fell in a braid down her back, and she wore a simple eggshell-blue dress, enhancing the blue of her eyes. A shawl in a shade darker than her dress covered her shoulders.

  “Still speaking with Sophie.” Clarissa thrummed her fingers on the table between them.

  “Why should he be there, rather than here with you?”

  Clarissa stared at the table, unwilling to meet her cousin’s gaze. “I was fine without him.” She raised her chin in defiance and false bravado.

  “Maybe you were, and you marched to the end like the brave, determined woman we know you to be. And yet I imagine Gabriel would have liked the opportunity to hold you, ensure for himself you were well.”

  “He had no need,” Clarissa snapped. When Savannah flinched at the harsh tone, she sighed. “Forgive me, Sav. Please?”

  “Why can’t you and Gabriel work to comfort each other, rather than continually causing each other pain and suffering?” Savannah watched her, concern mixed with disappointment.

  Clarissa flushed under her cousin’s close scrutiny, looking away, unable to meet her penetrating gaze. “I know you believe you understand what I’m feeling. But you can’t. No one can.”

  Savannah’s mouth puckered, and she stiffened. “You’re not the only one to have lost a child, Rissa.”

  “And, if I recall correctly, it took you longer than four months to recover.”

  Savannah jerked as though Clarissa had slapped her, and Clarissa instantly regretted her words. “Sav, I’m truly sorry.”

  “No, as you’ve said, how could I possibly understand? Thus, there’s no point in me even offering you solace when you so desperately desire to cling to your misery.” She rose, quivering with indignation. “For, unlike you, Rissa, I relished the support Jeremy, Sophie, Aunt Betsy, anyone gave me. After being alone for so long, after enduring the terrible isolation thrust upon me by Jonas, I yearned for their succor as it slowly brought me back to myself.”

  For a moment Clarissa saw Savannah’s despair, which she hid from everyone, except Jeremy.

  Savannah murmured, “I know you will never recover. I know the pain is with you always. But you decide if the future you want is one filled with rancor.”

  Clarissa blinked away tears and looked toward her clenched hands, gripped so tightly they were white. “He won’t talk to me,” she whispered haltingly. “He won’t touch me.”

  “Not even after a day like today?” Savannah eased into her chair again, her gaze focused on her cousin.

  “No. The only time he touches me is when we are
in public and when he feels he needs to offer me his elbow or steer me through a crowd with a hand on my back. Otherwise, nothing.”

  “That’s not like Gabriel. He always held your hand, stroked your cheek or hugged you. He always found a reason to touch you.”

  “It’s as though when … Rory died”—her voice broke on his name—“our marriage did too.” She bit her lip to fight the tears, but they streamed down her cheeks relentlessly as she finally admitted the truth to her cousin who was more like a sister. She leaned into Savannah and sobbed, acknowledging her grief for the first time in months.

  When her sobs turned to stuttering breaths, Savannah spoke. “Do you want a marriage with Gabriel?”

  Clarissa stiffened at her question.

  “It’s a legitimate inquiry.” Savannah pushed away so she could meet Clarissa’s gaze. “You must choose. Will you fight for your marriage and ultimately forgive Gabriel? Or remain married and become more bitter and angry with each passing day, affecting your children? Or will you leave and restart your life?”

  Clarissa shuddered out a breath and shook her head. “I can’t imagine a life without Gabriel. But I can’t continue on like this. Not for years and years.”

  “As you said to me, it’s only been a few months. Don’t do anything rash.” Savannah squeezed her shoulder. “However, I want you to know that, whatever you do, I will support you.”