Wicked Temptations

by Patricia Watters

  ***

  The following week, to a great burst of cheers from Priscilla, Trudy, Alice and the four women, Jim Jackson pulled the first edition of The Town Tattler off the press and laid it on the copy table. As Priscilla stared at the five-column folio, she was so excited she had to remind herself to breathe. A banner headline set in large flourishing foundry type, and occupying the width of the page, heralded the establishment of The Town Tattler, and on the top of the page, an ornate nameplate embellished with attractive calligraphy, stated: Volume 1, Number 1, July 31, 1885, Serving Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory. The editorial below the banner headline invited women writers to visit the office of The Town Tattler and chat with Miss Priscilla Phipps about submitting poems, short stories, viewpoints, and opinion pieces for possible publication. Readers were encouraged to write to Miss Manners with questions about proper etiquette , and to Miss Valentine for advice for the lovelorn. As a bonus, all new subscribers would receive a lovely engraving suitable for framing.

  Priscilla looked at the small decorative wood engravings set above each editorial column, pleased with what she saw. The cut for Miss Manners showed children gathered around a table, the one for Miss Valentine displayed a couple sitting on a loveseat, and the one for her Women's Suffrage column, was of Esther Hobart Morris, a suffragist whose efforts were instrumental in passing the equality laws that governor Campbell signed into law in 1869, granting the women of Wyoming Territory the right to vote, along with the right to hold public office, own land, and retain property from their dead husbands, making Wyoming's government the first to do so. Priscilla had been twenty-two at the time, but it stirred a longing back then to move to the place where she could hold property in her own name.

  Her eyes returned to the woodcut of the romantic couple and the fact that Miss Valentine was a middle-aged maiden lady who had never been in love. Although now, she did know what it was like to be infatuated. Oddly, she felt qualified to give advice to the lovelorn because it would not be muddled up with senseless female emotions.

  Edith, who had not read the Miss Valentine column until now, peered over Priscilla's shoulder, and commented, "I can't imagine ARJ, whoever she is, even asking if she should allow a man to court her who left her sitting alone at the Picnic Social to go off with some other woman. But you set her straight. Do you know who she is?"

  Priscilla realized Edith had been off with young Frank Gundy during the time when she'd told the women that the questions and answers for Miss Valentine would be fabricated until readers began to write in. "ARJ and the others are made up for this issue," she said. "After the women start sending in questions, I won't have to do that."

  Edith's smooth brow gathered with a frown. "But... was the incident based on something that really happened to... someone?"

  On the way home from the picnic social, when the women asked about her time with Lord Whittington, Priscilla had been vague about what happened after Adam bought her basket. She hadn't wanted to explain where they'd gone, or what they'd been up to. Now, she suspected Edith thought she was ARJ, and Adam had left her to go off with another woman. Perhaps it was best left at that, because the truth made her blush, and it would later be an embarrassment, when Adam lost interest. If, in fact he was actually interested in her. He gave every indication he was, unlikely as it seemed. Answering Edith, she said, "No, it was just something I came up with."

  Edith said nothing, but Priscilla knew she was not convinced. It would be perfectly reasonable to think that the freckle-faced, red-headed unattractive spinster had been deserted to sit alone with her picnic basket and eat the delicacies she had prepared, while the handsome, wealthy, British cattle baron slipped away and picnicked with a beautiful and charming woman more fitting for a man of his station. How shocked Edith and the others would be to learn that prim and proper Miss Valentine had not only been thoroughly kissed by Lord Whittington, but that she had lost complete control of herself during that kiss.

  Trudy, who was reading over Priscilla's shoulder, said, "What does Mrs. W. M. Coggswell mean when she says 'the man who has a wife controls two votes instead of one, and he who has grown daughters controls as many as he has daughters?'"

  Priscilla glanced over her shoulder at Trudy. "The letter written by Mrs. Coggswell was read in the Massachusetts House of Representatives during a debate on suffrage and used as an example of why enfranchising women was pointless."

  Trudy looked at Priscilla, puzzled. "Is that true what Mrs. Coggswell said, that if I were grown, my father would take my vote from me?"

  "Not exactly," Priscilla said. "Women in Wyoming Territory can vote as they wish, but most don't bother to do so, and those who do, vote as their husbands dictate."

  "Well, when I am old enough, I will vote as I please," Trudy huffed.

  "Then you had better marry a man who will not challenge you, or you will have a very troubled household," Priscilla said. "But even if women start exercising their right to vote, they are still not allowed to vote when nominating men for office, or in primaries and conventions. But after the delegates have made the primaries, the men up for election are very glad for women to come in and help elect them."

  Trudy's face brightened. "Then I shall help my father get elected as mayor by writing things about him that you can post in The Town Tattler," she said.

  Priscilla looked at Trudy with concern. Taking an open political position at this point would alienate many potential subscribers. But she didn't want to put a damper on Trudy's new-found interest in suffrage. Wyoming Territory, being the first government to allow women the vote, was a maverick in America. Offering a compromise, she said, "The Town Tattler will not be taking sides in the upcoming race for mayor, but I will be holding what I will call Town Tattler Meetings, where I'll talk to women about suffrage and temperance and other issues that are important to them. Perhaps you'd like to attend the meetings and pass out some leaflets about your father there."

  Trudy broke into a wide grin. "Yes, I'd very much like that, and I'll start at once designing the leaflets. Would I be able to print them here?" she asked.

  Priscilla considered that. Being involved in her father's election would take Trudy's mind off Tom Rafferty. For that reason, Adam might approve of her interest in women's rights. "I'll talk to Mr. Jackson and see if it's something we can do on our press."

  Trudy clasped her hands in delight. "When I distribute the leaflets I'll tell the women about the importance of voting. My father is the smartest and the most handsome of the candidates, so the women will certainly vote for him over the other candidates. "

  Trudy's enthusiasm was contagious, and Priscilla found herself saying, "You're absolutely right about impressing on women the importance of voting. If they don't exercise their right, other states and territories who haven't yet given women the right to vote will see no reason to grant it, and our sisters all over the country will remain in bondage to their husbands, and to men's laws. As it stands, all over the country intelligent women are denied the right to vote, while ignorant, drunken and immoral men can cast their ballots. It is grossly unfair to women."

  Trudy looked at Priscilla, fervor in her eyes, and said, "Do you have any literature on women's suffrage that I can read?"

  "Yes, right over here." Priscilla lifted a stack of newspaper clippings of speeches given around the country by women fighting for the cause and handed them to Trudy. "If you read through these, you'll know how to address the women at the meeting when they ask you questions about voting. Always remember that knowledge is power."

  Trudy took the clippings, an eager smile on her lips, and settled onto a tall stool at a table to began gleaning the articles.

  That evening, as Priscilla sat at the dressing table brushing her hair while mulling over the day's events, it came to her that Trudy, with her youth, and her enthusiasm, and her beautiful young face might be enormously successful in persuading women to vote for her father. Then she saw her own face in the mirror, and a sick feeling settled in her sto
mach. Lady Whittington's well-meaning attempt to make a plain woman into something she was not, troubled her. Priscilla had thought she'd come to terms with her appearance.

  Then Adam came along and made her wonder if she'd been too critical of herself over the years.... Until Lady Whittington pointed out the ugly truth.

  She thought about Lady Whittington's misplaced pity. She didn't want anyone's commiseration. But from Lady Whittington's piteous looks while dining with her during the past week, she knew the woman was genuinely concerned, which Priscilla found aggravating and pointless. Maybe it was time to apply that defense modus operandi from her early years when she'd been teased mercilessly about her appearance by her schoolmates, until she'd announced to them that she was a descendant of Queen Elizabeth, and produced the color plate to prove it. Although they never really accepted her, they had at least let her be after that. So if it worked during her school days, there was no harm in applying it now, if only to give Lady Whittington something to ruminate about. At least for a little while.

  ***

  When Priscilla bathed and dressed for dinner, she had expected to dine alone with Lady Whittington. The children had eaten earlier and were busy with their studies, and the last she'd heard, Adam was to be at the ranch for the rest of the week. Instead, he had joined them shortly after she and Lady Whittington started eating, and Adam was sitting at the head of the table, staring at her intently, bafflement on his brow, a look that closely resembled his mother's questioning stare. The modus operandi had definitely taken a different turn than intended. Adam was not supposed to be there. But he was. And she knew precisely what he was thinking...

  ...she does not need the aid of infusions and dyes and all manner of female fripperies that will make her look like a clown...

  And in Adam's mind, she did look like a clown this particular evening.

  She'd put a dusting of pure white powder on her face to lighten her skin, added ovals of blush along the ridges of her cheekbones to heighten them, darkened her lips with rouge, extended the outer corners of her eyes with Kohl to make her eyes appear more wide set, and left her brows and lashes blond and untouched. Lastly, she'd pulled her hair straight back to emphasize her high forehead, allowing a dusting of coppery-red curls to frame her face, then tucked pearls into the braid curving across the crown of her head. Although she'd tried to be subtle with her representation of the queen, from the looks she was receiving from Adam and his mother, she knew she had not been subtle enough.

  Attempting to disregard the quizzical looks, she touched her napkin to her lips, and said, "It feels good to get cleaned up after a day of typesetting. But after handling all of the freshly-printed newspapers, I was not sure I could scrub the ink from my hands."

  Lady Whittington, whose brows had gathered into a frown of concern, said to Priscilla, "I can see that would be a problem, especially with your very pale skin. Do you not protect your hands with gloves?"

  Priscilla sighed. "I'm afraid gloves would make it impossible to pick up the tiny characters." She stretched out her fingers. "But I suppose I could protect them with oil."

  "It would certainly make it easier for you to get those unsightly ink spots off your hands," Lady Whittington said.

  Priscilla let out a nervous laugh. "Actually, they're not ink spots. They're freckles."

  Lady Whittington raised her spectacles, which had been dangling from a chain fastened to her lapel, and brought them to her eyes. "Oh, my," she said, "they are indeed freckles. Perhaps we can find some way to make them fade."

  Priscilla stretched out her hands and looked at them. "I'm quite used to having them," she said. "They have been with me for a very long time."

  "Yes, that is unfortunate," Lady Whittington said in an empathetic tone. "But there are many fine products available now that were not obtainable back when you were a girl."

  'Way back... thirty-nine years ago,' Priscilla silently added. She looked at Lady Whittington, and said, "At my stage in life, I no longer worry so much."

  "As we age," Lady Whittington said, "it is even more important to worry about our looks. Not that you are old yet, Miss Phipps." She tipped her head back to get a closer look through her spectacles. "But we all move ahead with time, and it does take its toll."

  Adam gave his mother a sharp look. "Miss Phipps does not have to worry about aging for a long time." He turned to Priscilla. "Do you have plans after dinner, tonight?"

  "Yes," Priscilla replied. "I plan to read. I'm interested in the Elizabethan period, and I have a book that I have not had time to peruse."

  Lady Whittington touched her napkin to her lips. "Odd that you should mention the Elizabethan period," she said. "You have a certain look about you, rather reminiscent of Queen Elizabeth. Has anyone ever told you that?"

  Priscilla fought an almost overwhelming urge to laugh out loud. She hadn't expected Lady Whittington to pick up on it so quickly. "Well yes," she replied. "I've been told that I'm a direct descendent of Henry VII through my father, though it couldn't be substantiated as the family Bible was lost in a fire. But my family called me Bess when I was growing up because I looked so much like the queen." That part was not a lie. She had a cameo to prove it.

  Weldon, who was pushing a toy canon across the rug, commented, "Mr. Avery told us Queen Elizabeth had black teeth and was bald. He read it in a history book."

  "Mr. Avery did not say she was bald," Alice argued, from her stance in the doorway, "he said she wore a wig."

  "She was bald!"

  "She wore a wig!"

  "Children!" Lady Whittington snapped. She shot a glare at Weldon and said, "One cannot believe everything written in the history books. Now, both of you return to your rooms and prepare yourselves for bedtime."

  After the children left, Lady Whittington set her fork on her plate, raised her spectacles to her eyes once more, studied Priscilla at length, and said, with newfound interest, "You do not need your family Bible to prove you are descended from the Tudors, Miss Phipps. You are clearly of that lineage." The woman all but bowed to Priscilla.

  Adam looked at Priscilla in amusement, but said nothing. And Priscilla got the distinct impression that he'd seen through her ruse.

  She had no time to dwell on that when Lady Whittington said, "Elizabeth was the greatest monarch England ever had. When she ascended the throne, England was an impoverished country torn apart by religious squabbles. But Bess was a dedicated queen who listened to the advice of those around her, and by the time she died, England was one of the most prosperous countries in the world."

  Priscilla glanced at Adam, who tipped his wine glass toward her in a silent toast. Her face flushed, and she quickly averted her eyes. She really didn't want to expand on her trumped-up story. But before she could direct the conversation to the recent posting of The Town Tattler, Lady Whittington said, "I think it would be admirable if you'd go to the school and talk to the children about being a descendant of the Tudors."

  "But that has not been established," Priscilla insisted.

  "One only has to look at you to see that you are a direct descendant. I don't know why I didn't pick up on that when I first saw you."

  Priscilla's lips twitched in a tentative smile. The last thing she wanted was to explain to a room full of school children, or anyone else, how she was descended from King Henry, when it all started with a color plate, and a wish to deceive a classroom of children into believing she was someone important. "I do not feel comfortable making any claim to the Tudors," she said, and hoped that would be the end of it.

  "Then at least come to our Garden Club Tea next week and let the women take a look at you. It's really uncanny how much you look like the queen. You'd be my guest, and we would say nothing about your ancestry. But if someone were to bring it up, you could tell them what you told me," she said, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.

  "I really have nothing to wear," Priscilla said, to the woman, hoping to put an end to this nonsense and get on with her reason for coming to Cheyenne
.

  "What you are wearing will be fine," Lady Whittington insisted.

  "Mother," Adam interjected. "I believe your Garden Club meeting is on Tuesdays, if I am not mistaken."

  "Well, yes," Lady Whittington replied. "Why?"

  "Because that's the day I promised to take Miss Phipps around Cheyenne and introduce her to some of the merchants in town," Adam said. "She wants to solicit advertisers for her newspaper, and I have arranged for her to meet several merchants."

  Lady Whittington gave Adam a dark look. "Can that not wait?"

  "It's very important to Miss Phipps to get advertisers," he explained, though Priscilla had no idea Adam had gone to the trouble of contacting merchants. She also wondered why he would do such a thing, without first consulting her.

  Lady Whittington drew in a long breath. "Very well then," she said. She turned to Priscilla, and added, "But we will do the garden club another time."

  Before Priscilla could respond, Adam said, "Miss Phipps, would you care to go for a buggy ride after dinner?"

  Priscilla looked at Adam with a start. He was on to her, she was certain, and she did not feel like trying to explain to him either. Nor was it advisable to be alone with him in a buggy. She couldn't trust him, or herself. Definitely not herself. She shook her head. "I believe I'll retire to my room and read my book. But thank you for asking."

  "Actually I had another reason for asking you," he said. "Mr. Jenkins at the drug store asked that I bring you over so he could talk to you about placing a rather large ad in your paper. He was talking about a quarter-page ad."

  Priscilla stared at Adam. A quarter-page ad would pay for the next issue of paper and be an invitation for others to do the same. But in order to visit the druggist, she'd have to be alone with Adam in the buggy. The thought brought those odd feelings below her belly.

  "Priscilla," Adam said. "This is important."

  Lady Whittington glared at Adam. "Have you forgotten your manners?" she said. "You just addressed Miss Phipps by her given name."