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

by Ramona Flightner

  “What do you mean?”

  Florence gave the cake batter one last mix with her spoon before approaching the baking tin. “I was content to live in the North End, married to a simple blacksmith. I never would have imagined we’d eventually own three blacksmithing shops, perhaps four, and a triple-decker in Dorchester.”

  “It seems he takes after my father,” Zylphia said with a wry smile.

  “I’ve often wondered if it is a McLeod trait.”

  After a few moments of silence, Zylphia asked in a gentle voice, “How are you feeling, Flo?”

  Florence stilled for a moment before finishing her work on the cake. She set the cake in the oven and sat across from Zylphia. Her forced joviality dissipated, leaving an expression of numb grief in its wake. “I’m all right. I remind myself, daily, how fortunate I am for every blessing I have in my life. I give thanks for what I have, rather than focus on what I don’t.” She looked at her hands, gripped together on the table, refusing to meet Zylphia’s gaze.

  “Flo?”

  “It’s foolish, I know. To yearn for a little girl I never truly knew. I think poor Richard is at his wit’s end with me.”

  “I think he mourns too.”

  At Zylphia’s soft words, Florence met her gaze.

  “He’s visited my father a few times last week, and he’s always appeared shaken.”

  “I remind myself it’s nothing like what Savannah or Clarissa have suffered. They had memories with their children.” She bit her lip. “I can’t imagine having memories to mourn.”

  “Whereas you had the hope of memories to be made. The dream of what was to come.”

  “Yes. And it’s so hard. But Richard holds me when I need to cry. There’s a solace in that which words can’t explain.” She paused as she sniffed, wrapping her hands around the mug Zylphia set in front of her. “Knowing that this is something I don’t have to go through alone.”

  “I’m so sorry, Flo.” Zylphia squeezed her hand.

  Florence met her gaze as tears coursed down her cheeks. “I desperately wanted a daughter.” She placed her hands over her face for a minute before scrubbing them. She took a deep breath as though to rein in her grief and pulled a handkerchief from her skirt pocket, wiping her face clear of any signs of sorrow. “Thank you for visiting, Zee. It helps to have company during the day.” Florence watched her curiously. “Why did you call today?”

  Zylphia flushed and took a sip of her scalding tea, gasping as it burned her tongue. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” At Florence’s increasingly inquisitive gaze, Zee admitted, “I felt like doing something different today.”

  “No, something different for you is finding a new way to agitate for the vote, not visiting a mourning relative. What’s wrong?”

  “Entering society isn’t what I thought it would be.” She slumped into her chair.

  “You mean, the men aren’t as dashing as you’d hoped?” Florence teased, her customary good humor returning as the subject turned from her and her stillborn daughter.

  “They’re quite dashing, I assure you. I’m simply not what they expected.”

  “I don’t know why that should surprise you. You’re not what most anyone would expect, Zee. Why should you want to be? You’re a remarkable woman who has much to offer.”

  She pushed one of her black curls behind her ear. “I’d hoped to meet others who would be interested in joining the suffragist movement. However, when they see me approach, they ignore me or flee.”

  Florence laughed. “Then you’ll have to find another way to approach them. Sometimes barreling in isn’t what people need. The truth, or our vision of the truth, can blind us, Zee. When others sense such passion or purpose, they automatically shy away.”

  “I don’t understand why.” Zee blew out her breath with agitation.

  “Imagine someone continually approaching you, extolling the virtues of a world where women never voted. How would you react?”

  “I’d argue with them.” After a moment’s pause, she said, “And, if they continued to approach me, I’d do what I could to avoid them.”

  “Exactly. You need to be more subtle in your approach. I think it’s wonderful you have such zeal for the vote. I wish I had more time to dedicate to it. However, it is still considered a radical belief. If you want to convince others to your way of thinking, you must find a gentler, less confrontational way to induce them to listen to you.”

  “You sound like Anna Howard Shaw,” Zylphia grumbled.

  Florence laughed again. “Yes, and I imagine you espouse the more aggressive tactics of Miss Paul. However, I think both methods are needed, and, when one way isn’t working, you must look to a different tactic.”

  “Unfortunately they all know I’m a firebrand radical now.” Zylphia raised her eyebrow at Florence’s snort of amusement. “And I can see of no way to approach them so as to convince them to my way of thinking.”

  “Perhaps there are others you could speak with. Besides, if you temper your words for a while, you might find that they are willing to be near you. Once you’ve formed an acquaintance, then you could broach the subject again.”

  Zylphia groaned as she leaned back in her chair. “It seems pointless, but, if it will help in any way, I’ll do it. Biting my tongue has never been easy.”

  “I wish I could be there to see it,” Florence said, humor lighting her eyes. She tilted her head to one side, idly running her fingertip around the rim of her mug. “Are there any men who interest you, Zee?”

  “Ugh, not you too,” Zylphia said with a deep sigh. She propped her head on her hand and glared at Florence before shaking her head ruefully.

  “I know you espouse the idea that you will never marry, but that’s never seemed realistic to me.”

  “Why? Numerous suffragists have never married. Why shouldn’t I be one of them?”

  “I see how you watch your parents. How you watch Richard and me together. It’s always seemed something you yearned for.”

  “I marvel at your friendships. At how you communicate even though you aren’t talking.” She smiled to herself for a moment. “In a way it seems magical.”

  “It is, when you find a person you connect with. I would hate to think you’d become wedded to a cause and lose out on the joys of a full life, spent toiling away with little thought for what you truly want or need.”

  “I shouldn’t marry until women have the vote.”

  “What an utter bunch of rubbish.” Florence tapped her spoon against the edge of her mug. “No woman should advocate for other women to act in such a way that she herself isn’t willing to act.”

  At Zylphia’s surprise, Florence nodded. “I had a visit from Sophie recently, and she informed me of your juvenile agreement with your friends after hearing Alva Belmont speak. You are mistaken if you think a pact with your friends will bring about the enfranchisement for women nor will it bring you happiness. Especially if you choose it over love.”

  “There’s no one I’m interested in, Flo.”

  “You say that now, but this struggle is far from over, and you could lose many years if you follow through with your agreement.” She pointed her spoon at Zylphia. “I would also caution you that, if you believe you’ll receive the counsel you require from your friends, rather than from Sophie, you are sorely mistaken.”

  Zylphia stiffened in her chair. “Why is it that you all act as though she is an oracle?”

  Florence smiled. “Perhaps she is, and we were simply fortunate enough to meet her. In any case, you’d be foolish not to seek her out when you need to, rather than rely on your younger friends.”

  A few weeks after visiting Florence in early December, Zylphia stood on the side of the dance floor, attempting not to sway to the lilting music as she watched her friends laugh and flirt with their partners. The gold-gilded ballroom sparkled under a multitude of lights from the chandeliers while the colorful dresses worn by the women added splashes of color. She held a half-filled punch glass in her ha
nd. The long ballroom opened onto the dining room and backed into a glass conservatory.

  “No Mr. Goff this evening?” a man with a low voice asked from behind her.

  She jumped at the voice intruding her thoughts before smiling at the teasing glance from Mr. Hubbard. “Good evening, Mr. Hubbard,” she said with a tilt of her head.

  He raised an eyebrow, his honey-blond hair artfully disheveled. “Where’s your faithful companion?”

  “You make him sound like a …” Zylphia stopped at her near-disparaging comment about Teddy.

  “Well, he does follow you around like one. One has to hope he doesn’t have fleas.” His blue-green eyes flashed with humor.

  “Oh, stop. Not one more mean word.”

  His eyes lit with appreciation. “You are as loyal as they say,” he murmured. “I’m merely thankful he’s not dancing attendance on you this evening. It seems he’s by your side at every function these days.” He took a sip of the punch and grimaced. When Zylphia frowned her confusion at him, he lowered his voice. “I don’t have to compete for your notice tonight.”

  Zylphia rolled her eyes, her cheeks blushing at his attention. “I’m sure Miss Perkins will be most disappointed when you fail to dote on her.”

  He laughed. “She just became engaged to Mr. Young yesterday.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, although don’t bandy it about. A large notice is to be in the papers tomorrow. I believe they’re hoping for a big wedding in Newport this summer.”

  “How wonderful for her. I wish them very happy.” Zylphia smiled in the woman’s direction, earning a confused glower from the woman and her friends.

  “They’re terrified you’ll approach them and turn them into radicals.”

  “Simply because I believe women deserve the vote, as much as any man, does not mean I’m a radical.” Zylphia then remembered Florence’s advice to temper her words and to try a different tact.

  “Believing that your beliefs have as much merit as a man’s is radical though, Miss McLeod.”

  She flushed, this time with irritation, at the gentle censure she heard in his tone. “It’s not as though it’s a disease. They believe that merely being in my presence gives them incurable notions. Heaven forbid they had a thought of their own one day.” Rather than the usual chuckle she was used to from Teddy, she sensed Mr. Hubbard stiffen before feigning a smile.

  “You are rather forceful in what you believe.” He nodded at an acquaintance as the dance ended. “Men like to know there will be some sort of order in their home and that their word is to be followed. And plenty of women are still fond of the world as it is.”

  “I suppose what you say has merit,” Zylphia said as she attempted to heed Florence’s advice. “A soothing home environment is conducive to the raising of children.” She shook her head to avoid laughing out loud at speaking that bit of nonsense she’d read in a lady’s magazine a few weeks ago. She imagined her disparate family’s boisterous homes and the happy, healthy children growing in them.

  “Miss McLeod,” Owen said in his most charming voice. “I’m pleased to note you are seeing sense and that there’s no need to argue. It’s refreshing to hear you realize we all desire the same thing.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “A secure home. A secure future.”

  Zylphia looked toward the dance floor, her stance more rigid even though she feigned ease. She gasped as he gripped her hand, placed her cup of punch on a side table and towed her toward the floor for a waltz. “Mr. Hubbard, this is not a good idea. I can’t dance the waltz with any grace.” She stumbled as he came to a halt, his hand holding hers. She belatedly placed her other hand on his shoulder, while she tried not to fidget at his hand on her waist, all the while stilling her panic.

  “I’m certain you’re merely being modest. You don’t have nearly the opportunity you should to dance.” He swung her into motion, nearly toppling over as she misstepped and tangled her feet in his.

  “I beg your pardon,” Zylphia gasped as they righted themselves, inches away from careening into a potted plant. “I warned you that I’ve never mastered the waltz.”

  Rather than glower at her, a smile flirted with his lips, and he whispered, “One, two, three,” as he twirled her around the periphery of the ballroom. Zylphia relaxed and was soon able to concentrate on something other than the placement of her feet.

  “Why did you want to dance with me?” she asked. She stifled a squeak as he pulled her closer than was proper. She met his intense stare, his blue-green eyes devoid of their customary merriment, instead filled with a singular focus and warmth.

  “I couldn’t imagine one of the prettiest girls here not dancing.” He smiled as they now twirled effortlessly. “I know you are trying to assuage my fears as to your views, and I can hope that you will come to truly recognize the merit to my beliefs. However, I fail to see why any difference in our beliefs should be an impediment to our … friendship.”

  “Mr. Hubbard …”

  “You know I’m a stodgy man of business, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change.” His eyes held a silent entreaty. “I realize the world is changing. I understand there is unjustness. I might not want the world to alter in as radical a fashion as you, but I recognize that the world we live in will not remain as it is. Even as we waltz around a grand room, I understand that.”

  Zylphia’s eyes glowed with pleasure at his words. She gripped his shoulder more tightly, her last thought on her awkward feet.

  “I hope, as my friend, you’ll help me to see other ways of envisioning this world.”

  She blushed as he twirled them to a stop, and he ran a finger quickly over her cheek. She gave a small curtsy as he bowed to her and offered his arm, walking her to the side of the ballroom.

  He nodded to a passing servant, and two coupe glasses were delivered. “Come on. It’s not like you to be silent,” he coaxed as he took a sip of his drink.

  “I find I don’t know what to say.” She studied him a moment as she took a sip of the drink, her nose crinkling as she realized it was champagne. “I would like for you to understand the difficulties faced by those less fortunate.” She held back from expounding on the merits of universal suffrage.

  “But you fear that one, such as me, cannot alter my way of thinking.” His wry smile evoked an embarrassed nod of agreement.

  “I fear that it’s not you who’ll be coaxed into changing, Mr. Hubbard. I like myself, and my beliefs, as they are.” She bit her lip, this time with no intent to hide a secret smile. She sighed at her rash tongue, at the truth she’d inadvertently spoken about her intractable beliefs. They set their glasses on a passing servant’s tray and backed farther away from the dance floor. They now stood in a small alcove, buffeted on three sides by palm fronds.

  “Give me a chance, Zylphia,” he whispered, her eyes flaring with surprise as he used her first name. “I believe you’ve come to accept the only sort of man you could entice is Mr. Goff. We both know you could do better.”

  She stiffened at his criticism of Teddy. “Please do not speak poorly of him. He’s a friend who does not warrant such ridicule.”

  “Forgive me,” he said with apparent contrition. “I merely wanted you to know that there are others who admire you.”

  “Of course,” she murmured.

  He glanced around, and they were largely ignored by the others. He grasped her hand and pulled her out a side door to the small glass conservatory. Although heated, the early winter’s cold seeped in through the sealed windows. The December chill caused her to shiver in her dress. He pulled off his jacket and slung it over her shoulders.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, jerking away from him to return to the overheated, crowded ballroom.

  “I don’t know how else to have any time with you. You seem to either always be with your mother or your friends. How else could we be alone?” he asked, maintaining a gentle hand on her forearm.

  At any moment she could have broken a
way from him, but she remained in the conservatory with him. For a fleeting second, she thought of her stolen interludes with Teddy, only returning to the present moment when Owen cupped her cheeks.

  He frowned for a moment before a warmth lit his eyes when she focused on him again. One hand reached to cup the back of her head, and he leaned forward, kissing her forcefully.

  She leaned into him, although she maintained her hands at her sides. When he dropped the hand from her cheek to her shoulder and moved lower, she stiffened and pushed him away. She held a hand to her lips, panting as she backed up with startled blue eyes.

  “This is why I think we’ll suit. You’ve a passion in you,” he said with a satisfied smile. “A passion for life. For all things.”

  “I don’t want a husband.” She blushed at her rash words. “That didn’t come out right.”

  His eyes flared with interest, and she backed up a step. “I want nothing illicit,” she whispered.

  “I want you to share your passion with me, Zylphia,” he whispered. He stroked a finger over her cheek, tracing it down her neck to her collarbone.

  She shivered before backing up another step. “What I have is a passion for things you’ll never appreciate.” She shrugged out of his jacket and handed it back to him. She shivered once before sidling into the ballroom, her momentary absence unnoticed.

  21

  “What I would like to know,” Parthena said four days after the ball at the Greaves’ house, “is why Mr. Hubbard danced with you.”

  The three young women sat in the large glass conservatory at the back of the former Montgomery mansion, now the McLeod mansion, where Zylphia lived with her parents. The room was as warm as a summer’s day from the heat generated by the potbellied stove and the heating vents hidden in the floor. Throughout the room, ferns sprouted from pots and lent a tropical feel on a dreary mid-December day.

  Rowena picked through a pile of cookies and scones, searching for the least-burnt option. She finally decided on one and raised it, shaking it at Zylphia. “What I want to know is what happened in their small conservatory to cause you to look so flustered?”