Abiding Love
Banished Saga, Book Eight
Ramona Flightner
Grizzly Damsel Publishing
Copyright © 2018 by Ramona Flightner
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its publisher, Ramona Flightner and Grizzly Damsel Publishing. Copyright protection extends to all excerpts and previews by this author included in this book.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. The author or publisher is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Cover design by Jennifer Quinlan.
Created with Vellum
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
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Also by Ramona Flightner
Historical Notes
About the Author
Prologue
The haunting voice echoed over the small group gathered around the gaping hole in the ground. All wore black, and all bowed their heads deferentially as the singer sang “Ave Maria.” Women swiped at their cheeks while another whispered, “She was too young to die.”
The McLeod brothers stood in front of the grave, waiting for the song to end and for the priest to begin his incantations. As they had since the night of their parents’ deaths many years before, they formed a wall of solidarity. Now, just as then, they had been powerless to prevent the loss of one they most loved.
As the last syllable of the song was carried away on the soft wind, the priest began to speak. The Latin prayers brought little relief to the overwhelming grief they felt. The self-doubt grew as they wondered what more could have been done to prevent such an untimely death.
And they fought the worst fear of all: was more death inevitable?
Chapter 1
Boston, January 1918
“I’m surprised to find you in town, Rowena,” Sophronia Chickering said as she sat in a comfortable chair at the reception held in Mrs. Beaumont’s ballroom after Perry Hawke’s performance at the Opera House. The area in the center of the room was crowded with other patrons of the fine arts, while chairs were scattered along the room’s edges for those who preferred to sit. Three large chandeliers gleamed, enhancing the glow of the women’s jewelry and satin dresses. No one danced as Mrs. Beaumont had not hired an orchestra and did not believe such frivolity acceptable when the country was at war.
Perry Hawke’s performance had been highly touted because he sang a wide variety of patriotic songs interspersed with his usual operatic masterpieces. Sophronia, an elderly woman accepted in society due to her marriage and force of personality, had hoped not to live through another war. Up to now, her political focus had been on obtaining universal suffrage for women. She set aside her cane and accepted a glass of champagne while motioning with a tilt of her head for the young woman to sit beside her.
Although nearly eighty, Sophie had a close relationship with many of the young suffragists from Boston and considered them a part of her family. She had mentored them for years, starting with Clarissa Sullivan McLeod in 1900, and they had formed strong bonds. Now, with the suffrage movement demanding their youthful presence in Washington, DC, Sophie had to rely on their letters and infrequent visits to Boston to maintain that bond. She smiled as the young woman sat beside her.
“I will return to Washington soon. Others are as capable of reporting the goings-on as I am,” Rowena Clement said. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a stylish but plain knot, and her dress was a pale beige color. She had become closer to Sophronia during the past few years, having first met her in 1914 during a visit to Newport, RI. At the time, no one had realized Rowena’s ability as a writer and reporter. However, those abilities had been well utilized in the past year by Alice Paul and the National Woman’s Party in their weekly publication, The Suffragist.
Sophie frowned at Rowena’s plain outfit and unremarkable makeup. “You aren’t wallpaper,” Sophie muttered. “You must stop trying to blend into your surroundings.”
Rowena smiled, her brandy-colored eyes sparkling with mischief at the older woman’s disgruntlement. “It’s the best way for a reporter to overhear what others would rather have remain unheard.” Her smile deepened at Sophie’s cackle of amusement. “Besides, I have no desire to be noticed.”
“The War will end, Rowena, and soon there will be no need to feel any shame,” Sophie said in a low voice. They shared a knowing look about Rowena’s desire to hide the fact that her mother had been a well-born German. Since the start of the war, Rowena had acted as though she had not had a mother. Sophie bit back what else she might have said at Rowena’s shake of her head. “As for your reporting, I was on the edge of my seat, reading your account of the House vote last week.”
“I would think the president’s declaration to Congress would have given you more of a shock,” Rowena said with a smile. “I never thought the man would be in favor of the vote.”
Sophie harrumphed. “I never dared hope he’d see it ‘as an act of right and justice to the women of the country and the world.’” She raised a brow as she stared at Rowena. “I was glad to read that Miss Rankin was in charge of the House proceedings for the Anthony Amendment vote. Seems fitting a woman would be the acting floor leader for such a momentous occasion.” Sophie set her glass of champagne on a side table and thunked her cane for emphasis.
“The passage in the House is momentous, Sophie. However, the real struggle has always been garnering the majority needed in the Senate. According to Alice, we are eleven votes short, probably more if the senators change their minds as readily as they change their pantaloons.” Rowena sat with her back straight as she watched other concertgoers mingle and attempt to fawn over the aloof and famous Perry Hawke. “I fear it will be a long-drawn-out battle to have Congress approve the amendment.”
“Not too long, Rowena. I refuse to be like Susan, dead these many years and denied her right to vote. We must get the Susan B. Anthony Amendment passed in Congress. I want to vote!” Sophie said. She pasted on a smile as Perry Hawke approached them on Zylphia’s arm.
Zylphia McLeod Goff was another young suffragist who had worked in Washington with Rowena the past year. Zylphia stood several inches shorter than Perry, with her raven hair contrasting his blond hair. Her blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she acted as his guide.
Sophie glanced around the room, spotting Zylphia’s husband, Theodore—called Teddy—a short distance away, watching his wife intently. Sophie focused again on the famous singer who had performed for them that evening. “Hello, young man. You sing quite well.”
Perry bit back a chuckle and nodded his thanks. “It
was my pleasure to perform for you.” His smile impersonal, he turned as though to move on to other patrons of the arts in the room.
Zylphia tugged on his arm, preventing him from moving away. “No, Mr. Hawke. This is Mrs. Sophronia Chickering and Miss Rowena Clement. Good friends of mine, suffragists, and also friends of Lucas and Genevieve’s.” Zylphia smiled as Perry relaxed at Lucas’s name. Lucas Russell was a famous pianist and cousin of sorts to Zylphia. He now lived in Butte, Montana, with his wife, Genevieve.
“You know Mr. Russell?” Perry asked.
Sophie tsked. “I knew him when he hid from his parents, eager to play the piano but just as intent on concealing his talent. Nearly wasted it all to sell linens!” She smiled as her gaze became distant with her memories. “We spent lovely evenings in my sitting room as he tried out new compositions.” She focused and speared Perry with an intent gaze. “You could do with a more talented accompanist.”
Perry chuckled. “My regular was taken … ill. I should like to hire your Mrs. Wheeler, but I fear her husband would not like the nomadic life.”
“You met Parthena?” Rowena asked, her eyes alit with joy. Parthena Wheeler was a good friend to Rowena and Zylphia, forming their own tight little group years ago. Parthena had traveled to Montana to be with her younger sister, Genevieve, who was about to have her first child.
“Yes, a few days ago in Minneapolis. They were stranded there due to a train delay, and I had the opportunity to perform for them and to practice with Mrs. Wheeler.” He flushed. “My usual accompanist was not pleased with my praise of a woman and has decided to take his talents elsewhere.”
“Fool,” Sophie said with at thunk of her cane. She eyed Perry with a cagey expression. “Leave it to a man to be jealous of a woman’s talents.”
Perry laughed. “Artists are inherently jealous and insecure, Mrs. Chickering.” They shared a smile. “I fear my accompanist was not used to a woman with superior talent.” Perry shook his head. “It was a wonder to sing with her. Her ability to anticipate and to adjust the tone of the piano’s notes to match the mood of the piece was remarkable.” He shook his head again and sighed with delight. “Her talent nearly equals Lucas’s.” He looked at the three friends. “Am I foolish to associate with such radical women?”
Zylphia laughed. “Oh, assuredly. But then we know you like radical women.” She flushed as Sophie laughed, and Rowena ducked her head in embarrassment.
Perry chuckled. “I admit that Miss Woodward had a fiery temperament and was as committed to suffrage as you are. However, that association is long over.” He failed to mask the bitterness in his gaze at his breakup from the famous opera singer a few years ago. It had been the talk of the gossip papers for months as Miss Woodward had leaked salacious details about their relationship to the press. “I can assure you not everything you read was true.”
“As a reporter, I already knew that,” Rowena said. She flushed as his light brown eyes focused on her for the first time.
“I hope you are generous in your estimation of my talents, miss,” he murmured.
Sophie waved away his comment. “She reports important news, Mr. Hawke. She’s a suffragist reporter.” She saw him half smile in a self-deprecating way at her rebuke. “Now, as you are accustomed to such radical women, I presume you would have no compunction in holding a small soiree as a form of fund-raising for our cause?” Sophie asked. “I know many would delight in hearing you sing again.”
Perry’s gaze darted from one woman to the next, each one more amused than the last at him having backed himself into a corner. “I would be delighted. However, I fear my schedule is quite fixed at the moment.”
Sophie again waved her hand in dismissal of his concerns. “I’ve spoken with your manager. He is astute but not enough for someone of your stature.” She pinned Perry with a severe stare. “You are free two nights from now.” She glared him to silence as he attempted to make a feeble complaint about his need for free time.
“My father has a large ballroom, Sophie,” Zylphia said as she battled a grin at Perry’s discomfiture for being outmaneuvered. “It would be the perfect location, and you know how generous he is in opening his home.” She shared an innocent smile with Perry. “He’s always in favor of all I do and is eager to support my causes.”
“Perfect. Then it is settled. I would hope in the ensuing days you would seek out a new pianist?” Sophie said with the rise of one eyebrow. She nodded as Perry walked away with Zylphia, holding back her chuckle until he was out of earshot.
“That was well done,” Rowena said. “Alice will be pleased.”
“I want you there, Rowena,” Sophie said. “I think a piece in the paper about our efforts could help others see that the struggle continues and that the need for fund-raising is ongoing. Too many will see the president’s actions as a sign that we have attained our goal. If we do not continue to bring attention to suffrage, we will never achieve it.”
“I will attend, but then I must return to Washington,” Rowena said, her gaze tracking Perry’s movement through the well-dressed crowd. “I wouldn’t mind hearing him sing again.” She ignored Sophie’s mocking gaze as Rowena watched the mingling guests.
* * *
Two evenings later Perry Hawke wandered the glass-enclosed sitting room at the back of Aidan McLeod’s mansion. He fingered a palm frond and hummed keys before singing a scale. His voice caught on one of the higher notes, and he cleared his throat before starting the scale over again. After a few more scales he took a deep breath and sang a few notes at full volume.
His mind wandered to the numerous cities he had visited. The concerts he had given. The mind-numbing after-parties where he had been forced to smile at the hostess’s inanities when all he desired was quiet. He sighed. Before his accompanist had quit in a fit of rage at being upstaged by Parthena Wheeler, Perry had had a friend and ally in the room. Now he was alone. “Don’t think about her,” he whispered to himself, banishing thoughts of the woman he had loved and thought he would marry.
He let out a deep breath, forcing his shoulders back and rolling them to relax. He then hunched forward and back, in an attempt to relax the muscles further. He ignored the opening door, accustomed to fans attempting to sneak in to see him. “Please, leave me alone.”
“I never thought doing calisthenics was part of preparation for a singer,” Aidan teased as he poked his head into the back room. “May I come in for a moment?”
“Mr. McLeod,” Perry said with a deferential nod to this evening’s host. His alert gaze raked over the man who was almost seventy but appeared a decade younger. His hair was nearly all silver, with a few specks of black in it, and he had wrinkles at his eyes and mouth. Perry wondered if they were from frowning or smiling. Aidan’s blue eyes were friendly but astute as he met Perry’s assessing gaze. “Thank you for allowing me to perform in your beautiful home.”
Aidan chuckled. “From what I heard from Teddy, my daughter Zylphia’s husband, you weren’t given much choice in the matter.” He smiled as Perry shook his head. “I have found that it is often better to allow the women in my life to believe they have outmaneuvered me. It brings me peace.”
Perry laughed. “In this instance, I was backed into a corner. It’s been a long time since that’s happened.”
“It will do you no harm to have another successful concert here in Boston,” Aidan said. “Although you must know that some of your fans will be disgruntled when they realize the proceeds will go toward aiding the suffragists.”
Perry half smiled as he took a sip of water. “Even those against suffrage will have to come to understand that their views go against the tide of public sentiment.” He shrugged. “New York ratified their referendum in November. It’s only a matter of time until the majority of the states agree. And I’d hate to be the politician to face the new electorate’s wrath when they have the opportunity to vote.”
“You’re a pragmatist,” Aidan said.
“Show me an artist who isn’t.�
�� He paused and then took a deep breath. “Your renown as a financial genius is famous, even among those of us in the artist world. Might I meet with you to discuss my portfolio?” He flushed as Aidan’s gaze became penetrating as it studied him. “I beg your pardon. I’m certain you focus your talents on those with more assets.”
“Nonsense,” Aidan said. “You were gracious enough to agree to this concert for my daughter and her friends. I would be honored to look over your portfolio. If you don’t mind, I would like to work with my son-in-law, Teddy. He has an even greater mind for business than I do, and we began working together a few years ago. Might you be able to come by his office tomorrow?” Aidan rattled off an address and a time.
Perry smiled. “Yes, I could. Thank you.” He shrugged his shoulders again and then moved to a chair to pull on his jacket. He smoothed down the lapel and then the sleeves and donned an impersonal smile. He stood a few inches shorter than Aidan at six feet tall, and his blond hair was styled with a light coating of pomade. Mild interest shone from his brown eyes. “That Chickering woman seems to like to meddle.”
Aidan laughed and slapped Perry on his shoulder. “That is the perfect word for her. What did she do to annoy you?”
Perry raised a brow and looked around the back room. “Besides arrange this evening, she had the gall to proclaim that my accompanist was lacking in sufficient talent.”
Aidan grinned. “Sophie’s never been known to mince words. And she is rarely wrong.” He motioned for Perry to follow him as they approached the door to the sitting room. “I cannot be saddened that she caused this evening to occur as I am always thankful to have my home filled with friends. After the concert, I look forward to introducing you to my wife, Delia.” He smiled with wicked humor. “And I’ll let you know if your pianist tonight is any better than the previous one at the Opera House.” He led the way from the room to introduce Perry to the waiting crowd in his ballroom.
Abiding Love: Banished Saga, Book Eight Page 1
