Her Leading Man

by Duncan, Alice

  So here she was. In an extremely crowded room with a cold stone floor and ugly blank walls, along with too many other women who had been picked up with her and Gran. Eyeing her grandmother, who sat straight as an iron rod on another cot and held her cane rather like a scepter, she sighed.

  “Stop it,” Gran commanded, frowning at her. Several of the other women grinned at her and Christina. It never took Gran long to establish her reputation.

  “I wish you hadn’t hit that man with your cane.”‘ Christina muttered. Not that it would do any good to complain; Gran was absolutely right about that. The deed was done, they were in the clink, and God alone knew what Martin would think about this escapade.

  “He deserved it,” Gran declared.

  “Hear, hear. Bean ‘em all, I say.”

  The slurred words came from an elderly female who had been thrust into another holding cell opposite the one housing Christina, Grandmother Mayhew, and several other suffragists. Her crime had also been disorderly conduct, but for another reason entirely. The poor woman stank like a distillery. Christina could smell her from across the hall. She tried not to wrinkle her nose, but couldn’t seem to help herself. Gran gave the inebriated woman a glacial stare.

  “My good woman, I do not advocate violence as a rule. I was, however, provoked.”

  Right, Christina thought. That bad old policeman had provoked Gran by offering her an arm to assist her in climbing into the paddy wagon. Christina guessed she ought to have warned him not to be chivalrous. Gran always took chivalry amiss.

  “I do,” the other woman said. “I adv’cate violence. An’ hitting ‘em, too. Bastards.” She subsided, grumbling, into a corner, and Christina lost sight of her when she slid to the floor.

  Christina shook her head, feeling a combination of revulsion and pity for the woman How awful it must be to have such a desperate addiction to spirits. Christina took a drink every now and then, but she didn’t crave the stuff as some folks did. Thank heaven.

  The jingle of keys and a heavy tread announced the approach of a uniformed minion. What did one call them, anyway? Wardens? Guards? Keepers? Trusties? Christina rubbed her eyes, which felt gritty and sore. She hadn’t slept much the night before. Jailhouse accommodations weren’t what she was accustomed to. She supposed that indicated how soft her life had been.

  Even so, she didn’t think she could ever get used to living as a lawbreaker. It was too blasted uncomfortable and—she’d never admit this to Gran—frightening. Being arrested, booked, and thrown into the stammer was not Christina’s idea of a fun way to spend one’s weekend.

  “Mayhew.” The guard—or whatever he was—called out the name in a bored-sounding voice. Christina jumped up from her cot. Gran rose more slowly, her joints creaking so loudly Christina could hear them from across the crowded cell. At once she felt a stab of compunction for having chided Gran for hitting the policeman. She had to keep in mind that Gran was an old woman.

  Not, of course, that being old excused her outrageous conduct. Still and all, Gran deserved a measure of respect even if she didn’t act with particular decorum sometimes. Or even most of the time.

  “Mayhew,” the person said again, this time sounding annoyed. Christina didn’t know what she was supposed to do, so she called out, “Here,” as if she were in grade school.

  It worked. The guard squinted into the room full of women and said, “Visitor. Come this way.”

  A visitor? Who could it be? Her heart screamed out for Martin, and she hoped it was he, but she wouldn’t have blamed him if he dropped all association with her now that she was a convict. She went to her grandmother and took the older woman’s arm. Since Christina was a beloved relative, unlike yesterday’s policeman, she could get away with offering Gran assistance. Which was absurd, but that was Gran, and there was no use in fighting facts.

  “Who is it?” Gran asked sharply.

  Irked by this whole outlandish episode, Christina snapped, “How the devil should I know?” Then she felt even guiltier than she had before. But blast it, she was too tired, miserable, and uncomfortable to be polite.

  Gran chuckled. That figured. The mean old crone liked anyone who stood up to her. Christina sighed heavily. She’d be so happy to get out of here. She’d be even happier to take a bath. Jails smelled awful. At least this one did. Christina assumed it was representative of the species, and that the foul odor was the result of years’ worth of filth and disinfectant. And despair. Christina could swear she smelled despair in the atmosphere.

  When she spotted a man standing some way down the grim, desolate corridor, glancing around apprehensively and trying not to get too close to the barred cages lining the hall, she didn’t know who he was. She’d been hoping for Martin, but this man had dark hair, dark eyebrows, and a dark complexion.

  She did a double take when she saw his white teeth appear in a smile so familiar that it made her heart hitch. She cried, “Martin!”

  It was he! She’d forgotten he’d had to dye his hair and eyebrows in order to take over Pablo’s part.

  “Good God, is that Martin Tafft?” Gran’s voice sounded both incredulous and supercilious. “He looks a pure fool like that.”

  Christina was not surprised by her grandmother’s lack of tact or appreciation. Gran spent her whole life tying to behave badly; she was so good at it by this time, she didn’t even need to practice any longer.

  Overjoyed to see him, Christina took an impulsive step toward him. The guard yanked her back. “Hold on, young lady. You’re not out of here yet.”

  “Christina!” Martin, too, stepped forward and then halted, aware that they were both under police-induced constraints.

  Although she felt like crying—indeed, her throat was tight and her eyes burned—Christina didn’t. She wouldn’t break down in front of her grandmother. She’d never live it down if she cried. Besides, Christina owed it to the Mayhew name to be dignified under all circumstances and conditions. Even if she did experience a despicable and nearly overwhelming impulse to rush down the hall and throw herself into Martin’s arms and cry until she was as weak as a rag doll. She was so glad to see him.

  “How good of you to come for us, Martin.” She was amazed at how cool and collected she sounded. She wanted to whoop and scream.

  “Yes, Mr. Tafft. Thank you.”

  Both Christina and Martin stared at Gran, who glowered back at them. Christina had never heard her grandmother sound so gracious.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Martin said after gathering his wits together. “I don’t know if I can get you out today or if you’ll have to wait until Monday.”

  Oh, no. Christina’s heart gave such a powerful lunge, it hurt. Salvaging the remaining shreds of her composure, she said, “Oh?” Then, because it was true and because it wasn’t really much of a sniveling thing to say—after all, who would want to remain languishing in prison?—she said, “I hope we can get out today?

  Gran looked at her keenly for a moment, then nodded, and Christina felt as though she’d passed some crucial Mayhew character test. She didn’t reach for Martin when they met in the hall, and he didn’t reach for her. She wondered if that indicated he was disgusted with her, and a remnant of yesterday’s indignation bolstered her courage.

  Straightening, she said, “Thank you for coming for us, Martin. I’m sorry you had to come to this awful place.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Christina. I couldn’t leave you in the clink once I got your telegram.”

  Had he sounded angry? Considering his tone for a moment, Christina decided he’d sounded rather more bewildered than angry. She took that as an encouraging sign.

  “If the government of the United States would stop shilly-shallying and give women the same rights guaranteed to men, things like this wouldn’t happen.”

  Martin glanced down at Gran. He appeared resigned. Christina admired him for his attitude. It generally took people—especially men—much longer to come to grips with Gran’s prickly personality than it had t
aken Martin.

  Their institutional escort snorted. Christina immediately gripped her grandmother’s right arm, in case she got the bright idea to hit another policeman. They’d never get out of here if Gran kept attacking people.

  “Stop squeezing me, Christina. I won’t hit the fool.”

  Martin’s head whipped around, and he stared at Gran. Christina said quickly, “Not you, Martin. She’s not referring to you.”

  “No, I’m not,” affirmed Mrs. Mayhew. “I’m talking about this jackass.” She jerked her head in the other man’s direction.

  He didn’t care for being called a fool and a jackass. Christina could tell as much when he opened a door at the end of the corridor and growled, “Go in there, ladies.”

  Leaning over so that she could reach her grandmother’s ear, Christina whispered furiously, “Gran, will you stop provoking these people? Martin was kind enough to come here to help us. Please don’t spoil all his good efforts.”

  Her grandmother said, “Heh.” But except for a few glares, which she distributed liberally among the people seated at various desks and counters, she didn’t do or say anything else of an incendiary nature. The now-grouchy guard who’d brought Martin to them and led them out of the holding cell, gestured to several chairs lined up against a wall. “Sit over there, ladies.” He said the last word with a wealth of irony. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  Without more verbal sparring, Gran sat. Christina heaved a sigh of relief. She didn’t trust her grandmother to exhibit good sense even under these circumstances, which seemed mighty precarious to Christina. Then again, Gran had been arrested before. This was Christina’s first experience on the wrong side of the law. She devoutly hoped it would be her last.

  After settling her grandmother, Christina decided it was safe to remove her attention from Gran and focus on Martin. “It was truly wonderful of you to come for us, Martin. Um, do you know what’s going to happen now?”

  She was gratified when he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Her heart swelled with love for him and a tear almost leaked past her rigid guard. He was so sweet. So kind. So—so—not judgmental. She couldn’t think of the word for it, but he was whatever it was, and she loved him for it.

  “I’m hoping they’ll let both of you out on bond,” he said, smiling at her.

  She had to swallow the lump of emotions that seemed determined to spoil her dignity. “Thank you. This is so good of you.”

  “I won’t leave here unless all of us do.”

  They both stared at Mrs. Mayhew. Gran sat like a statue, her chin high, her expression fierce. Christina’s heart sank. “Um, Gran, I don’t think it’s fair to expect Martin to bail everyone out.”

  “I won’t leave here without my fellow victims of male oppression and injustice.”

  Oh Lord, she meant it. Christina cast a desperate glance at Martin, who looked back at her as if he didn’t have any idea in the world what to say or do in the face of the old lady’s avowed determination. Neither did Christina.

  Martin found his voice first. “Ah, Mrs. Mayhew, I imagine these other ladies have families who will be coming to their aid. Don’t you think so?”

  “I have no idea.” Gran didn’t look at him or at Christina, but maintained her air of icy rigidity, gazing off into space as if she were witnessing a holy vision.

  Christina wanted to shake her. “Gran, that’s not fair. I have a job to get back to. It wouldn’t be right of me to leave Peerless and the rest of the cast in the lurch.”

  Her grandmother waved a hand in an airy gesture. “Do what you must do, child. I shan’t leave here without my fellow fighters for the cause of freedom and justice.”

  Christina shut her eyes and prayed for inspiration. Or a lot of money. She’d bail everybody out and forget it. She felt Martin’s hand on her shoulder, and opened her eyes to glance at him. She loved his face. It looked so kind and gentle while, at the same time, retaining a remarkable strength of character. Now his face, unlike that of her grandmother, seemed to hold all the characteristics Christina admired. Her grandmother’s countenance only appeared sly and cantankerous. In other words, it told the truth, blast it.

  “Try not to worry, Christina. I’ll do what I can here.”

  “But—”

  He shook his head. “It’s all right. I’ll do my best.”

  She felt humble in the face of his great generosity. “Thank you, Martin.”

  Her grandmother said “Heh.”

  It took Martin three hours and a great deal of money to effect the release of all the suffragists from the Los Angeles Police Department’s holding cell in which they’d been incarcerated for approximately twenty-four hours. By the time the release took place Christina had a raging headache, was ravenously hungry and felt abysmally depressed.

  As much as she didn’t want to—after all, even though she hadn’t intended to get arrested, she vehemently believed that women deserved the vote—she kept wanting to apologize to Martin. Furthermore, she felt he deserved an apology from her.

  Oh, it was true Martin was a man and, therefore, privileged to enjoy all the freedoms denied to women. But he was still a kind man and more understanding than any other man she’d ever met outside those in her own family. She loved him.

  She didn’t want to love him, either, because she feared it boded ill for her peace of mind; not to mention her future plans. She couldn’t help it, though. She loved him.

  “Are you all right, Christina?” he asked in his wonderful, empathetic voice as he assisted her into his gigantic Pierce Arrow motorcar. It was a grand car; much grander than Christina’s own dinky Olds Runabout.

  She gave him what she imagined was a fairly wan smile. “I have a little headache, is all. Thanks.” Impulsively, she added, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for us today, Martin. I’m so sorry you had to go through all this

  His own smile was as warm and wonderful as he was. “Stop apologizing, Christina. You did nothing wrong. I believe civil disobedience in pursuit of a just cause would have been honored by our forefathers. And foremothers,” he added conscientiously.

  She couldn’t speak because her throat was too tight.

  Gran said, “Heh.”

  Christina sighed.

  “And now, ladies, I’m driving us to the Melrose Hotel, where we’ll have something to eat and rest up. Tomorrow morning, I’ll drive us back to Indio’’

  “You mean we aren’t going back there tonight?” Christina hardly dared believe her ears. The notion of driving back to Indio in her present bedraggled, headachy, and exhausted condition held no appeal whatsoever, but she’d have done it because, after all, it was her duty. Plus, she never wanted to let Martin down again.

  “Nope. You’ve been through too much already today. You don’t need to drive for hours on top of everything else. Besides,” he added, sending her a sidelong glance, “no matter how much you say you feel fine, I don’t believe it.”

  She sighed again. “You’re right. I have a beastly headache, and I’m starving to death.”

  Grandmother Mayhew muttered, “Insipid creatures, these modem females.”

  By tacit consent, both Christina and Martin ignored her. Christina knew she was only being contrary out of habit and form. Martin said, “After we check in at the Melrose, why don’t the two of you wash up. I’ll get us all reservations somewhere for dinner.”

  “Thank you so much, Martin.” Christina reached for the hand he had resting on the seat beside her, and he squeezed hers. In spite of herself, tears filled her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. She felt stupid and hoped to heaven her grandmother wouldn’t notice this weakness. Christina didn’t like being considered insipid, even if Gran didn’t really mean it.

  When Christina entered her room at the Melrose and she beheld the clean clothes Martin had thought to bring from Indio, she burst into fresh tears. “Oh, Martin!” She turned into his arms, and he held her, patting her on the back and murmuring sweet nothin
gs into her ear.

  Mrs. Mayhew, who still held her stiff posture, eyed her granddaughter askance. Even she, however, couldn’t maintain her vicious tongue in the face of Martin’s consideration. “Thank you, young man. You’re not half as bad as most of the men I know.”

  Martin laughed, and Christina decided he was the most marvelous man in the entire world. And that even included the men in her family.

  Twelve

  It hurt Martin’s heart to see Christina in so obviously unwell a condition. The circles under her eyes pained him, as did the pallor of her skin, the droop to her shoulders, and the rumpled condition of her clothes. Then there was her hair.

  The gorgeous auburn mass, generally so glossy and beautiful even when she only wore it knotted and pinned up for casual daily wear, was bedraggled and dull. Martin wanted to unpin it, brush it out, and let the silky strands drift through his fingers. He hoped like thunder she’d sleep with him tonight. Surely her grandmother, whom he knew had authored this latest debacle, would allow her out of her room this one night. After all, Mrs. Mayhew claimed to be a modern woman with modern ideas. A love affair might not be as noble a cause as women’s suffrage, but it was a whole lot more comfortable.

  “I suggest the pork tenderloin with apple fritters, ladies,” he said, maintaining his smile in spite of the ache in his heart. “I’ve had it here before, and it was delicious.”

  “That sounds lovely.” Christina put her menu down as if it were too heavy to hold. Her voice was as pallid as her complexion.

  The poor thing. Martin wanted to scoop her into his arms and pet and pamper her until she regained her old sparkle and spunk. He hated seeing her like this. What’s more, he blamed her old bat of a grandmother. He knew, because Christina had told him, that it had been Grandmother Mayhew who had proposed the ill-fated jaunt into Los Angeles. He wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Mrs. Mayhew had been the first to propose forming a barricade in front of the courthouse door, either.