by Deeanne Gist
Images flashed through her mind. Her boots breaking the barrier. Her body wriggling as she inchwormed her way inside. Her skirts not following as they should. Her pantalets traveling up her calves. Her pantalets bunching about her thighs. Her back end clearly delineated by her position. Her lower half swinging from the window as her toes sought out a firm foundation.
Heat rushed through her body. She wanted to drop through the floor, to lash out in anger, to shove him with her hands. Something. Following that, the urge to flee overwhelmed her.
She managed to resist them all. She’d long since learned how to hold her ground in front of men, regardless of how delicate the situation.
Whispers came from the opening, then a slam as someone wrenched the window closed.
He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even breathed, that she could tell.
She cast about for something to say. “How long have you been there?”
“Pretty much the whole time.”
She kept her arms to her sides, resisting the temptation to fidget. No weakness, she reminded herself. Show no weakness. Make him forget you’re a woman.
She swallowed. Not much chance of that happening.
“I heard the window crash open.” His Southern drawl had a gravelly sound to it. “I came right down to investigate.”
Investigate. Blood rushed to her cheeks. What would a man say at a time like this? “Why didn’t you help me? Surely you could see I needed some assistance.”
Lifting his chin, he scratched his jaw. “I wasn’t exactly sure what to grab.”
She needed to change the subject. Try and erase those images from his mind. But she’d been working with men long enough to know that those images wouldn’t easily erase.
“I need to go.”
He nodded. “Yes, you do.”
“No, I mean, I need to go upstairs. I’m scheduled to speak in Columbus Hall.”
“When?”
“Very shortly. I need to hurry.”
“Who are you?”
“That’s not important.” She wasn’t about to tell him who she was.
“Clearly it is important, or you wouldn’t be one of the speakers.”
“I’m nobody famous.”
He crossed his arms. “Well, that’s disappointing. It would have been a pretty big moment for me if I’d been able to say I’d seen, oh, I don’t know, Elizabeth Stanton’s trousers?”
“They’re pantalets, not trousers.” She could have bitten her tongue. Had she become so used to discussing sensitive topics with male colleagues and patients that she’d forgotten how to carry on properly outside of work?
“Pantalets, trousers.” He shrugged. “Whatever you want to call them, everyone knows you woman reformers wear them because you not only want to appropriate our clothing, but our power as well.” He gave her skirt a quick glance. “And though what you had on were less sturdy than what us men opt for, I can say with complete conviction that they were plenty powerful.”
His teasing tone was unmistakable. She was not amused. Her gown bore no resemblance to what a dress reformer would wear. She had no split skirt, no shortened hem, no drab colors. Every single thing she wore was feminine. Just because she was wearing bloomers and working in a man’s profession didn’t mean she wanted to be male. Usurping their power, however, was a different matter entirely.
Still, she wasn’t about to engage in a debate with him. She glanced at her watch pin. She couldn’t see it, of course, but maybe he didn’t know that. “I’m sorry, but if you’ll excuse me?”
She started toward him.
He pulled away from the frame, straightening to his full height. Good heavens. She’d heard one of the criteria for being a World’s Fair Columbian Guard was they had to be above a certain height, but this man . . . this man was a veritable giant. His head barely cleared the top of the doorframe.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you up there,” he said.
“I’m afraid I must insist.” She could see him trying to discern her features. She pulled the brim of her hat farther down.
Ordinarily, she’d have told him who she was. She was very proud of her medical degree. She could probably run academic circles around him. After all, how much brainpower could it take to be a guard? Probably not much. Only brawn. And of that, he had plenty.
“I’m quite determined to give my talk.” She used her stern voice. One she’d perfected in countless dealings with uncooperative patients. “If you throw me out, I’ll turn right around and come back in. You’ll spend the entire day traipsing up and down those stairs.”
Looking down, he brushed some loose gravel with the toe of his cowpuncher boot. “Tempting. Very tempting.”
She slid her eyes closed. She hadn’t meant it like that. “Please, Mr. . . . ?”
He touched the corner of his cap. “Scott. Hunter Scott of Houston, Texas. And you are?”
“Late for my appointment. Please step aside.”
“You don’t want me to know who you are, do you? Which makes me think that you’re either lying or you really are famous.”
“I’m not lying and I’m not famous. I’m late. And getting later.”
He tapped a finger against his trouser leg. “Columbus Hall, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I suppose it won’t hurt to walk you over there. If they’re expecting you, then all’s well. But if they’re not, then you’ll have to hoof it out of here.” He hesitated. “And don’t forget, you promised you’d come back in. And you can put money on the fact that I’ll be keeping a sharp eye on the cellar for any . . . unusual activity.”
Rather than respond, she shooed him back with her hands.
He offered his arm. She sailed past it and took her own self up the stairs.
It didn’t feel as good as she thought it would. He followed right behind, and try as she might, there was no way to keep her hips from swaying with each stair-step. She knew what he was thinking, what he was picturing. And he knew she knew.
When they finally made it to the ground floor and stepped into the corridor, the sound of ladies’ voices hit her as abruptly as the stone wall had hit her when the window flew open. Chatter and laughter ricocheted throughout the cavernous hallway, bouncing off the high roof and meshing together in a horrendous composition. In order to be heard above the melee, the women simply spoke louder.
The press of bodies was every bit as clogged as the gathering outside. Their combined warmth produced a moisture-laden potpourri of lavender, rose, and jasmine.
The officials were right. There really wasn’t room for admitting anyone else.
“Columbus Hall is toward the front.” Mr. Scott pointed a finger in a westerly direction.
She stared at the hem of his jacket. Thank goodness he was so tall. Her hat brim easily kept her face concealed from him.
“Come on,” he said.
Without giving her a choice, he grabbed hold of her arm. Not her elbow, as a gentleman might do, but her upper arm, as a policeman does when he’s hauling off a prisoner. She allowed the rough handling, though. Late as she was, she’d willingly sacrifice her pride as a means to an end.
He knew where Columbus Hall was. She didn’t. And he kept a half step in front of her, clearing a way for them by virtue of his impressive size. When they reached the doorway, however, she began to balk. A person had only one chance to make a first impression. Being dragged to the front like a criminal was not the impression she wanted to create.
“Thank you for your assistance, sir. You can let go now. I can manage on—”
“Scott!” The shout came from several yards down the hallway.
Mr. Scott whipped his head around while keeping a firm grip on her arm. His height allowed him to see over the heads and hats of all the ladies.
“Over here! Quickly!” The voice was decidedly male.
Mr. Scott homed in on the caller. “What is it?”
Though no answer was forthcoming, some type of signal must have been transmitted.
>
He frowned. “Can it wait? I have a . . .”
She lowered her chin, shielding her face.
“I have a situation here,” he said.
She rolled her eyes.
After what must have been another signal, he mumbled something under his breath and spun her toward him, bracketing both her arms. “I’ll be back. And when I am, you’d better be on that stage.”
She stared at his boots. They were covered with animal skin of some kind. Not crocodile. Something completely unfamiliar to her. “I’ll be there.”
“Go on, then.”
“Scott!” This summons more urgent than the last.
Without waiting to see if she complied, he released her and made his way through the throng. She’d expected him to plow through with no regard for those in his way. But he excused himself as he lightly took woman after woman by the shoulders and nudged them just enough so he could squeeze by.
She rubbed her arm. He’d not been nearly so gentle with her. Shaking herself, she glanced at her watch pin. Good heavens. Two o’clock exactly.
Pulling open the door, she balked. The auditorium was enormous and full to overflowing. It would take her several minutes to reach the platform. Perhaps she’d been too hasty in letting Mr. Scott get away. She glanced over her shoulder, but he’d already been absorbed by the crowd.
BERTHA PALMER2
“As president of the Board of Lady Managers and one of the four chief executives of the Chicago World’s Fair, Mrs. Palmer was arguably the most powerful woman in the world.”
CHAPTER
3
Hunter slipped into Columbus Hall, his eyes immediately drawn to the stage. Sure enough, there she was. Right at the lectern.
Though he wasn’t close enough to discern any features, he’d recognize that gown anywhere. Its lime-green skirt and bright-pink sash were like a tropical garden in the midst of dirt dauber nests. ’Course, what was underneath was mighty delectable, too.
“Men may be gathering at the World’s Columbian Exposition to admire one another’s innovations,” she said, her voice clear and carrying to the rapt crowd. “But since the dawn of history, women were the sources of all early inventions.”
He lifted his brows.
“In order to keep herself and her children from harm, she formed homes in the caves of the earth. She was the first to cultivate the soil, produce the crops, grind the grain, raise livestock, and dress the skins. She was the first to exert a healing influence and practice medicine. Man has but supplemented and improved upon woman’s original ideas.”
What a great bunch of tripe. Hadn’t these women ever heard of a fellow named Adam? But her audience absorbed every word. Gave a great cheer of pride. He scanned the room. Not a chair was empty. Not a spot unfilled.
To his left, plaster casts and models had been drafted as favorable perches by the more enterprising maidens. Two had even climbed to sit on each knee of a John Milton statue. That old-time reformer must surely be looking down from heaven with glee. He’d always gone against the current and he’d definitely liked the ladies. The younger, the better.
“Men believe it is unfeminine,” she continued, “even monstrous, for women to take a place beside them in their spheres of occupation. They claim we should be lovingly guarded and cherished within the sacred confines of our homes.”
No mistake about it, Hunter thought. Chivalry had been around for centuries. It elevated women to the highest pedestal. Why on God’s green earth wouldn’t they want to stay there?
“But what, I ask you, is to become of the unhappy women who are not living in ideal situations?” Her voice rose with conviction. “Who do not have a manly and loving arm to shield them? Who have been born to poverty? Whose husbands work in the most degrading industrial occupations, laboring as underpaid drudges? Whose men earn far less than what is needed to feed their families? Must these women sit by and watch while they and their children starve?”
Murmuring rumbled through the audience. Millinery quivered as its wearers shook their heads in denial. Shifting his weight, Hunter perused the packed room. There wasn’t enough bass or tenor in the entire place to stock even a country church choir. The only real showing of gentlemen was dignitaries up onstage sitting to the right of Miss Pantalets-Trousers.
They presided in large medieval-like thrones while the female notables sat to the left in modest, plain chairs. The sheep and the goats. Though at this point, he wasn’t sure which were which.
“No!” She gripped the edges of the lectern. “We have no desire to be helpless and dependent. We have full use of our faculties and rejoice in exercising them. There is nothing wrong with standing shoulder to shoulder with our men, supplementing and assisting them as true partners. Does this diminish our womanhood? Absolutely not. Nor does it diminish the manliness and strength of our husbands.”
Applause softened by gloves accompanied hundreds of waving handkerchiefs. He sure did feel sorry for Mr. Pantalets-Trousers. He couldn’t imagine being married to a working woman, no matter how delectable she was.
“Through education and training, we must prepare ourselves to meet whatever fate life may bring until our usefulness is demonstrated, fully understood, and acknowledged. Until we convince the world that ability is not a matter of sex.”
More applause and handkerchiefs. This time, even a few whistles.
“Venimus, vidimus, vicimus!” she shouted, raising her defiant fist in the air. “We came. We saw. We conquered!”
The women surged to their feet, their applause and whistles unrestrained.
An unsettling sensation in his stomach made it cramp up. Not again, he thought.
As he’d done for the past couple of weeks, he held his breath until it passed. Once it eased, he tried to tell himself it wouldn’t happen again. Yet each day his discomfort had grown exponentially. He returned his attention to the stage.
Miss Pantalets-Trousers stepped away from the lectern.
Opening the door, he backed out of the room, thanking the stars above that he lived in Texas, where the women were sensible, feminine, and full of Southern charm. He couldn’t wait until this six-month stint at the fair was over and he could get back to all he held dear.
Flushed with pleasure, Billy moved toward the wings of the platform. Jennie Lozier, daughter to the woman who’d run for vice president of the United States back in ’81, rose and approached the lectern.
Just as Billy reached the steps, Mrs. Bertha Palmer stepped forward and took her elbow, drawing her toward a privacy area behind the stage.
Billy’s pulse kicked up. As president of the Board of Lady Managers and one of the four chief executives of the Chicago World’s Fair, Mrs. Palmer was arguably the most powerful woman in the world. For the first time ever, women were acting under a commission from Congress and stood equal to men in a great international enterprise. Mrs. Palmer was wealthy beyond imagination, too. All it took for a person—either male or female—to succeed was a nod of endorsement from her, but failure could be attained with the same ease.
Billy gave a surreptitious look at the woman’s elegant bonnet, her ribbon collaret, and the large puffed sleeves of her silk gown, all in subdued shades of mingled violet and green. Had Billy’s speech been too bold? Too forward? Too controversial? Or perhaps Mrs. Palmer had taken objection to the brightness of Billy’s skirt?
That thought led to her unorthodox entrance into the building. She missed a step. Surely Mrs. Palmer hadn’t heard? How could word have traveled from outside to inside and all the way up to the platform in such a short time?
She swallowed. She was at the International Convention of Woman’s Progress. If there was one thing women excelled at, it was the spreading of titillating tales.
Moisture beaded Billy’s hairline. How would she ever explain such shocking behavior?
“Are you feeling well, my dear?” Mrs. Palmer took Billy’s gloved hand into hers and gave it a pat. Her wavy blond hair framed a face with the barest hint of ag
e. “You’re quite pale all of a sudden.”
“Am I?” she breathed. “Must be all the excitement.”
Mrs. Palmer patted her again, her brown eyes softening. “You did a fine job out there.”
Billy waited for the “But . . .” Yet it wasn’t forthcoming.
“Oh.” Gently withdrawing her hand, Billy stemmed the impulse to curtsy. “Thank you.”
“I have a favor to ask of you.”
“Of course.” Was this how the privileged couched dismissals? By saying they wanted you to do them a favor? As in, never darken their doorstep again?
“I know you’re working on a paper about germ theory for the College of Physicians and Surgeons of Chicago, and you’re establishing a private practice, but I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
Good heavens. If the woman knew that, then she knew Billy was writing the paper to pass the time as she waited, and waited, and waited for patients to notice her newly painted shingle. Painted on both sides, it was attached like a tail to a string of other doctors’ signs hanging at the corner drugstore. It had inspired only one call in five months.
She’d been warned no one would seek out a lady doctor when there were plenty of male ones around. She’d been advised to start up in a city she had connections in. And she’d been told she was crazy to go to Chicago, where she didn’t know a soul.
But she’d ignored them all, convinced Chicago was filled with unmarried women who were suffering—perhaps even dying—simply because they couldn’t force themselves to submit to an examination by a male doctor. Now, of course, she knew that though some did feel that way, they weren’t exactly flocking to her door.
And each day her savings and her optimism had waned a bit more. The only reason she’d been asked to speak today was because the woman doctor who was originally scheduled had become pregnant and suggested Billy take her place.
So here she was. Leading a charge for women to make their way in a man’s world when all she’d ever done for the seven years since she’d graduated was to work for men in St. Louis, Boston, Detroit, and Ann Arbor hospitals.
