Her father handed her the file. “This is his military record,” he said. Elizabeth opened the thick file and found a stack of papers beneath a photograph of a seemingly younger and more innocent Joseph Sharpe. “Born in Iowa, he joined the army a few years before the Boxer Rebellion broke out.” Elizabeth winced. She’d read stories about the Boxer Rebellion in the papers – a savage and bloody war if ever there was one. “Served under Colonel Emerson H. Liscum,” her father continued. “In the 9th U.S. Infantry. Won the Medal of Honor for defending Colonel Liscum from heavy fire at the Battle of Tientsin.”
“Did the colonel survive?” Elizabeth asked.
“No, he did not. But they got his body out, thanks to the captain.”
Elizabeth wondered what it would feel like to see someone cut down in front of you, to try and defend their body from the ravages of the enemy, knowing that it is all worthless because they are beyond saving. Perhaps she shouldn’t ask him for stories about his time in the war after all.
“I’m sorry for him,” she said, closing the file.
“He was a good soldier,” her father replied gently. “The Medal has opened some doors for him. He’s been around a few of the important dinners – one of the board members at the bank took a liking to him. I met him a few months ago at a meeting, but it didn’t occur to me that he would make a good bodyguard for you until I found out about his record.”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Surely you don’t need someone quite so… valorous to protect me?”
“He’s got a proven record of putting himself between his people and whatever danger they’re under,” her father replied. “I would have nothing less between you and danger.”
“Father, really, don’t you think you’re jumping the gun? I don’t need protecting.”
“You’ve got scratches on your ankle that say otherwise.”
Elizabeth leaned back in her chair, knowing that if her father had already engaged Captain Sharpe’s services, then she had very little hope of getting around it. At first she wondered if she should be insulted that her father clearly did not think that she could protect herself, but she believed that he would have done the same for George if he got himself into the situations Elizabeth was often in. Her father would probably have just signed George up for the army and given him a few years to learn how to defend himself. Since Elizabeth was a woman, that option was not available to her.
Still, it rankled her. She’d been running a household and raising a child since she was practically a child herself. She was too old and too world-wise to need a wet nurse to keep an eye on her as she went about her business. She especially didn’t need a man looking over her shoulder and judging her every move. She didn’t even know if he was in favor of women voters! For all she knew, her father had just handed her over an anti.
She ran her fingers over the file in her hand. Elizabeth thought that the captain’s record was truly impressive, which made her wonder why he would agree to be her bodyguard. He could have stayed in the army, gone into politics, anything. He was a man – all doors were open to him. So why was he at hers?
“Did he tell you why he agreed to your proposal?”
Her father rubbed at his bald patch. “He said he was too old for war, but still felt like a little excitement would be good for him. Considering the nonsense you get up to, I’m sure that there’ll be plenty of excitement for him as your bodyguard.”
Elizabeth didn’t think that would be the case. Most of the time, her suffragette duties included attending meetings and organizing rallies. Yesterday was the first time she had ever been injured performing her duties.
A sudden thought occurred to her. Perhaps if she were especially dull over the next few days, Captain Sharpe would get bored and quit. Then her father would see that she did not need a nurse and leave her to her work.
“Very well,” she said, handing the file back to her father. “When does he start?”
Chapter 3
Elizabeth was still fuming at the indignity of it all when she climbed into the handsome cab parked outside of the house. George climbed in behind her while Captain Sharpe, who had apparently been engaged to start immediately, climbed up to sit next to the driver. Elizabeth had ignored him while she and George had eaten breakfast, and although George had the good sense not to ask why she was in such a foul mood while company was present, he could not contain his curiosity once they were alone.
“Who is he?” George asked, his blond hair flopping into his eyes as the cab jerked forward. “He’s not a gentleman or I’ll eat my hat.”
“He’s an officer,” Elizabeth replied. “He served in China.”
George’s eyes went impossibly wide. “No kidding?” he replied. “Well, that’s interesting.”
“No it’s not,” she replied firmly.
It annoyed her that someone so interesting had been placed within her grasp – someone who was bound to be a lively conversationalist even if he stayed clear of topics which were likely to upset him – and she could not show interest. Because showing interest might give him the impression that he was wanted. If Elizabeth was going to be rid of Captain Joseph Sharpe then she would need to be as aloof and uninterested in him as possible. She would prove to both the Captain and her father that he wasn’t needed, and pretty soon he would get bored of following a lady around and leave for a more interesting job; then she could get on with her life in privacy again.
George gave her a funny look. “I think you and I have different ideas about what’s interesting,” he said. Then he perked up. “I wonder if he’s got any stories?”
“You mustn’t ask him,” Elizabeth said, because if George asked then Captain Sharpe might answer, and she would listen despite herself because she was always excited for interesting stories. “I’ve seen his record – it’s rather bleak. You wouldn’t want to open old wounds.”
George’s face fell but he nodded. Elizabeth was terribly proud of the boy. She’d known many men who liked to hide behind a cold veil of indifference when it came to emotions and caring about the feelings of others, but she’d raised George better than that.
He stared out the window and sighed. “I wonder what it’s like to go to war.”
“Pray that you never find out,” she replied. The scratches around her ankle throbbed when the stockings rubbed against them, but she ignored it. “It would break my heart if you went to war.”
George smiled fondly at her. “I would never break your heart, Lizzie.”
They rode in silence until they arrived at the bank, where George kissed his sister on the cheek and bid her a good day.
“Enjoy your meeting,” he said slyly as he climbed out of the cab. “Be sure to plan your man-hating in an orderly fashion – untidiness is terribly unladylike.”
“Get on, you monster.”
He turned and strode cheerfully towards the bank and Elizabeth’s heart lurched as she longed to follow him. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to work in a bank? Processing numbers and understanding equations was one of her skills – her father had raised her to it and she’d found the business to be remarkably rewarding. As a wealthy woman, the chief business of her life was in visiting other women and perhaps needlework. As a suffragette, she could look forward to many years of hard labor for the tiniest of legislative rewards. Hardly the stimulating intellectual pursuits her brother could enjoy by virtue of his gender.
She knocked on the window to tell the driver that he should move on. He knew where she would want to go. She let the gentle rocking of the cab and the clip clop of the horse’s hooves on the road lull her into a daydream where she work up every morning and went to work with George or her father. She would have liked to give her brain some exercise beyond the writings of her favorite authors.
The smell of baking bread told her that they were coming close to their destination. She adjusted her hat and waited for the cab to slow down. When it finally stopped, she had almost forgotten about Captain Sharpe – until he opened the cab door fo
r her and she was confronted with his handsome face and square shoulders.
“Miss Elizabeth,” he said, making a bow, and offering her his hand.
That morning, she had enjoyed their conversation. Captain Sharpe and she seemed to think along the same lines, or at least the same rhythms, and the patterns of their words had an almost soothing familiarity to them as though they’d known each other for many years. If he were just a man, she would have enjoyed more conversations with him. But he was her bodyguard, and she’d already decided to get rid of him, so she inclined her head at her name and otherwise ignored him completely as she stepped off of the cab and onto the curb. Captain Sharpe didn’t appear to take it personally – he simply paid the driver and followed her down the sidewalk to the entrance of the bakery.
“I hope you don’t mind suffragette meetings,” she said suddenly, remembering that the captain didn’t know where they were going. “Because you’re about to sit in on one.”
“Not at all, Miss,” he replied, which was suspiciously neutral. Elizabeth couldn’t tell if he was opposed to women’s suffrage or if he was just indifferent, but she hoped – and she couldn’t believe the thought actually crossed her mind – that it was the former. If he was opposed to women’s suffrage, then he might be persuaded to quit sooner.
Elizabeth entered the bakery and breathed in the familiar smell of bread and cakes which always made her hungry and nostalgic. Hungry, because the Boston Baking Company was the best in Boston, and nostalgic because she could remember long Sunday mornings with her mother trying out different bread recipes and testing the results. Her mother had craved bread during her pregnancy, and her father had indulged her cravings even when she and Elizabeth nearly burned down the house trying and failing to emulate the long baguettes favored by French bakers.
The rest of the women were already there. She could hear their voices in the backroom. She led Captain Sharpe past the counter, past the oven which nearly glowed with heat, and into the flour-soaked rooms. After years of these meetings, Elizabeth had learned to pile her black hair high and wear light-colored dresses so that the flour wouldn’t show. Captain Sharpe wore dark pants.
“Oh, there you are Elizabeth!” Lucy said, noticing Elizabeth first. Her parents ran the bakery, and she’d been given permission to hold their suffragette meetings during the slow period after the morning rush. “Who is this?”
The follow-up question drew the attention of the other three women. Margaret, who was looking tired but thankfully no worse for wear after their ordeal yesterday, looked curiously between Elizabeth and Captain Sharpe. Lydia and Susan looked intrigued.
“This is Captain Joseph Sharpe,” Elizabeth said, waving a hand in an imperious fashion. She despised people who brushed off their servants as though they were nothing more than mere distractions to the main conversation, and the rest of the women knew that she felt that way. She hoped that they would take the hint not to give him too much attention. “My father hired him to be my bodyguard. After yesterday.”
Their eyes went wide and she felt a touch of guilt. All of these women worked for a living – their families couldn’t afford to hire former soldiers to protect them. She envied them their jobs, but she understood that she was privileged in ways that they could never be and it galled her that her father’s overprotectiveness could somehow offend them.
But they brushed off their surprise and rallied quickly.
“Yes, Margaret was just filling us in,” Lydia said, her hands waving about in her excitement. “Positively dreadful how they treated you two – how is your ankle.”
“I will heal.”
“Did you know that the Scots are hiring jiu-jitsu fighters to keep them safe from the police?” Susan added. “I read about it in the latest newsletter.”
“Oh,” Margaret said. “I didn’t get mine. I think Mother is watching the mail.”
And just like that, Captain Sharpe was forgotten. Elizabeth was grateful to her friends for catching on to her message. She watched Captain Sharpe out of the corner of her eye for any signs of boredom, but he was standing straight-backed against the wall and did not look as though he would fatigue anytime soon. Soldiers are trained in self-control, she reminded herself. It would take more than a few minutes of boredom to crack him.
She would manage it. Eventually.
“Father brought another of his associates to dinner,” Susan said, fidgeting with her handkerchief and keeping her eyes downcast. “He was thirty-eight and all he did was talk about crop yields.”
A collective gasp of horror ran through their circle.
“I will never understand why men think that crop yields are a way to a woman’s heart,” Lucy said, shaking her head. All of the women had stories of the boring men their parents had brought home in the hopes that their daughters would fall in love. Elizabeth’s own father seemed to have gone out of his way to choose the most bland, uninteresting men available. He just wanted her to marry – he didn’t seem to care to whom.
Susan shrugged. “Father seems to have his heart set on this one.”
“How does he feel about us?” Lydia asked.
Of course, by ‘us’ she meant The National American Woman Suffrage Association, which they were all members of.
Susan shook her head. “He said we’re just misguided.”
The women groaned.
“What is it,” Lucy began, pulling the tea things out of one of the cupboards and settle the kettle on the stove. “That makes Boston men think that women who vote are colluding with the devil?”
“Do you think it’s just Boston men, though?” Margaret asked.
Elizabeth spoke up: “My brother and father both support us.”
“Yes,” Susan said evenly. “But your father is a widower and your brother doesn’t know how to shave. Hardly marriage material, Lizzie.”
The five of them laughed. There was a lull in the conversation while Lucy made the tea. Elizabeth considered her four friends – all lucky enough to work and contribute something to society, but all driven by the desire to marry and marry well. Each of them lived with their parents and contributed to the household income, but they had often confided in Elizabeth and each other that they feared what would become of them when their parents were no longer there to put a roof over their heads. There were few options for single women. Margaret, Elizabeth knew, would be destitute apart from her teaching job – there was language in her father’s will which would prevent her from inheriting any of his estate if she were unmarried at the time of his death. A rather cruel blade to hang over his daughter’s neck, but not the only one the man used.
Elizabeth knew how lucky she was to come from money because these questions did not plague her. Her father’s estate was prosperous, and would go to his eldest child, not his eldest son, upon his death. She did not feel the urge to find a husband like they did. She’d never been normal that way, and the fact that society expected that she marry by a certain age, or treat her as though something were wrong with her, didn’t sway her in the least bit.
Of course, what did marriage give them? Safety from destitution, to be sure, but once a woman married she was tied to that man for the rest of her life. Traditionally minded men, like the one Susan’s father had tried to foist her onto, would demand that they end their campaigning for suffrage and stay in the home with the children and the servants, out of the way until the men would have use of them. Who would probably not even be allowed to work outside of the home – Margaret could not go to the girl’s school to teach arithmetic, Lydia could not assist her brother the veterinarian, Lucy could no longer work at the bakery, and Susan would be banished from her nursing duties. They would be deprived of everything they loved for the sake of security. It made Elizabeth feel ill.
She supposed she should feel guilty, but she didn’t. Her Sunday School teachers didn’t understand her, their parish minister didn’t understand her, although he was a Godly and loving man, and the women in their church definitely didn’t u
nderstand her. Elizabeth simply wasn’t convinced that God created women so that they would simply be a wall flower; not that it was right to judge a woman who wanted to marry and raise a family – she had no problem with that. It just wasn’t for her, and God had made her the way she was for a reason, hadn’t He?
Lydia interrupted Elizabeth’s wandering mind.
“What we need,” she said. “Is a way to determine the quality of a man before we waste time courting him. Because you’re right, Lizzie – your brother and father seem to be among the few in favor of suffrage. Unless one of us wants to wait a few years for George to come of age –” Elizabeth snickered. “– or try our luck with Mr Dow, we’re in dire straits.”
“You’re welcome to try your luck with my father,” Elizabeth said, smiling. “But I must warn you, he snores.”
“If snoring is his worst vice then I demand first run at him,” Susan said.
“Second!” Lucy replied.
“I think I’ll wait on George,” Margaret said thoughtfully.
“You’re all horrid,” Elizabeth said, laughing.
Lucy served the tea. She looked doubtfully at Captain Sharpe against the wall, then back at Elizabeth. Elizabeth nodded and Lucy asked: “Would you like a cup, Captain?”
“No thank you, Miss.”
“I read in the paper the other day that there’s a call for Mail-Order Brides out west,” Lydia said, sipping her tea and grimacing when it burned her tongue.
Elizabeth frowned. “Mail-Order Brides?” she said. “And here I was thinking we were getting somewhere with all of these petitions and demonstrations.”
“It is awfully backwards, isn’t it?” Susan said. “Why bother giving women the vote when they’re just going to package us up and sell us to strangers on the other side of the country?”
“It must be terrifying,” Margaret said, holding her teacup between her hands as though she meant to warm them with it.
BEGINNINGS: Suffragettes Mail-Order Bride (Choice Brides Agency #1) Page 3
