by Denise Eagan
“She wrote for months, assuring me of her happy marriage and her joy in her upcoming confinement. After the baby’s birth, the correspondence drifted off, which I supposed to be a natural parting of two people with vastly different interests. I was becoming ever more immersed in the movement, and Minnie’s little achievements seemed inconsequential.” Forgetting that the movement was about women like Minnie.
Recollection turned Star’s thoughts to acid, churning her stomach. That year had been the most thrilling, most exciting, time of her life as she crusaded for female freedom and equality, not yet comprehending that she was but a dilettante.
“Eighteen months after she left Horatio, Minnie telegraphed me to join her in Saratoga. I brushed her off, for I had prior engagements.” Star took a breath. “One week later we heard that she’d died due to a ‘lingering illness’. Two days after that Minnie’s suicide note arrived in the mail.”
“Star,” Nicholas started, reaching for her hand again, and again she refused him. She deserved no comfort.
“Horatio,” she said, her voice cracking, “had stopped beating her. Beatings showed bruises. Instead, he forced himself upon her. Every night, whether she consented or not.” Star gulped as tears filled her eyes. “Moreover, Minnie’s doctor told her that she must avoid childbirth for at least a year. He however refused to supply her with contraceptive advice other than abstinence. Minnie resorted to using feminine syringes from the druggist, filled with carbolic acid. Ultimately, they caused ulcerations, but Horatio still demanded his ‘rights’.” Star paused, overcome by the images of her tortured face, her raw, bleeding womb.
“Damn,” Nicholas breathed.
“At length she escaped to Saratoga Springs, where she concealed her identity, hoping for time to heal. But Horatio found her. He beat her and swore that if she left him again, he’d kill her. That night, as he lay sleeping, she mailed the letter to me and then put a period to her life with a bottle of laudanum,” she finished. A thick cloud of guilt and despair descended, threatening to choke her as it had all those years ago: months of tears and haunting images as she searched for peace, for sanity. She’d been on the verge of marrying Ambrose when Lucy Stone, herself, visited and gave her some articles to write. Lucy taught her how action, not marriage, promised relief, which Star went on to teach Bella.
“Why not go to her parents?” Nicholas ventured by and by. “They’d have protected her at least.”
Star sighed, weary now, of further explanation. “She could no longer procure a separation, for she had no proof of brutality. She stood to lose everything, her social standing, financial support and most painfully, her children. Moreover, Minnie’s parents had sent for Horatio the first time. She believed they’d do so again, and she was afraid of him. In the end, she had only me, and I failed her.”
“Did she say in the telegram why she wanted to see you?”
“No, but—”
“Then how were you supposed to know? It’s not your fault, Star. She made a choice, a bad one, but it was her choice.”
“I ought to have known. Our association hears these stories daily, and the abuse is almost always progressive. The effect upon a woman’s nerves, especially—” She took a quivery breath as imagined screams echoed in her mind and tears threatened. “Especially one so impressionable is to disorder the thinking. If I had taken that into account—”
“Star,” Nicholas interrupted, taking her hands. He refused to let them go this time. “Look at me.” She raised her head. His eyes were warm, as his deep, calm voice cut through Minnie’s imagined screams. “You couldn’t have known if she didn’t tell you. Even if you did, you might not have saved her. You aren’t to blame.”
“Maybe not,” she said, trying to push down the sobs rising in her throat. “But it’s still legal, Nicholas. Everything he did to her is legally permitted torture. Anybody who tried to stop him—her parents, her sister or I—would have acted against the law. I am too smart to pursue revenge against a man as powerful as he is, but how can I not fight the laws that allow his actions? How can anybody think that it is right?”
“Not all men—”
“No! Damn it, don’t give me that excuse,” she said through gritted teeth. “I know all men are not like that; I have two brothers and a father. The point is that it’s legal and until women can vote, the laws shall remain unfair. I will not, not sit idly by while this happens again and again and again.”
He peered, a frown between his brows as he weighed her words. Jaw tight, she waited for his answer, for despite her assertions of independence, they both knew full well that he could prevent her speech. He was a man, and men ruled the world.
“I still don’t see,” he said slowly, “how women voting can fix it. Not a hundred million votes can change the nature of some men.”
“No, but we can elect men who will institute laws that lock away that nature.”
“Or you could elect women,” he said with a quick grin.
“Ah,” she said wistfully, “now wouldn’t that be marvelous? But it shall never happen, for what man would ever vote for a woman?”
“I’d vote for you.”
Her heart lurched and a lump formed in her throat. She searched his eyes for the joke in them. No sparkling gaiety, though, just quiet blue strength framed by those beautiful long lashes. “You truly mean that, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”
She swallowed. No man, not even Father, had ever expressed such faith in her before, faith that circled her heart in soft, sweet love. “You are a very unusual man, Nicholas McGraw.”
That did bring a sparkle of amusement. “Reckon in comparison to all these genteel fellas ya got out here, I’m a regular oddity,” he drawled. Then with a quick blink of those eyes, his face turned serious again. “Romeo still troubles me, though.”
Inspiring compliments—and then that fight for control. Did he mean to manipulate her? No, the compliment was real, as was the worry. “You must understand my insistence on speaking tomorrow, for Minnie. If you tell the authorities or Del, they’ll interfere and possibly compel me to quit altogether.”
“I won’t lie to your pa,” he said stubbornly.
“It’s only withholding information. Nicholas, I’m begging you.” Emotionally exhausted, she could no longer stop her voice from breaking or keep the tears from her eyes.
His shoulders sank. Drawing a long breath, he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. “Nick,” he said, handing it to her. “If you’re gonna beg, call me Nick.”
“Nick,” she said with a little smile. “I’m begging you, Nick.”
He sighed. “Well you don’t beg so well, but that smile could melt steel. O.K., I won’t contact the authorities until after your speech, and I won’t tell your parents at all. Under one condition: you tell me immediately if Romeo does anything else.”
Anything else. Which meant in the future not . . . the past. Not the Bible passages. Well she could do that. “All right, it’s a deal.”
“And,” he said rising. He helped her up. “I’m coming to your speech tomorrow.”
“Why, Nicholas, you must know you are always welcome to listen to us. Should the spirit move you, you might even jump up on stage and lecture with me!” she said, trying for levity to dispel the gravity hanging over them.
He linked his arm in hers. “No, ma’am, by my reckoning that’d do your cause a deal more harm than good.”
***
Nick stood at the back of the crowded room, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the throng—mostly richly dressed women, although there were men scattered throughout. Ten minutes earlier, backstage, Star, dressed in a simple grey dress that was too loose in some places, and too short, had expressed her relief at that. She along with five other women had taken turns peeking through the curtain at their audience.
“We’d feared,” she’d told him, “that the men of Saratoga would revolt against our rally a
nd come bearing rotten vegetables and fruit. Apparently, however, they don’t view us as a threat.”
“Or they figured gambling is more entertaining,” he replied wryly. He’d lowered his voice. “Any other problems with clothing?”
Worry flashed across her face. “None. I am the only victim.”
He’d nodded. “Understood. O.K., I’m going out there and take a gander at the crowd.”
“All right, although what you might do in case of trouble, I don’t know.”
Because, he thought, she didn’t know that’d he’d brought his guns. He’d stuck his Colt in his belt under his coat. He only wished he’d had the foresight to bring his rifle cane. It’d have been a deal more useful.
He scanned the crowd, finding nothing disturbing until his gaze fell upon a familiar face. Ambrose Thompson. Sonuvabitch, what was he doing here?
Romeo?
Thompson was rich as Midas and had already had his chance with Star. He’d lost. Would that loss turn to anger at her and her fellow reformers? It was possible, he decided as he casually made his way over to Thompson. How would he have gotten into that trunk, though? No, it still made more since that Romeo was Huntington, who was licking his wounds and happy to hand off his duties to Nick. Huntington had the temper, he’d expressed his dislike for the movement on several occasions, and most importantly, he’d been on the train. He’d left them for a couple hours. Could be he figured out how to get to the baggage car.
Still, Thompson did seem like the kind who’d write sappy, over-dramatic letters. He just didn’t seem violent.
“Thompson,” Nick said, as he reached him.
He turned his head. “McGraw,” he greeted his jaw tightening. “I’m surprised to find you here. I understood you not to be overly fond of women’s reform.” He smiled, but a blind man could see through his attempt at civility.
“Huntington couldn’t make it. He asked me to step in for him. Didn’t think you agreed with any of this, either.”
His eyes hardened. “I don’t. It’s ludicrous. I cannot understand why Star’s family allows it. Were she mi—” He stopped, took a breath, shook his head. “Forgive me. It is only that Star has had some influence on Hannah of late.” He nodded to his sister sitting in the crowd. “I worry for her.”
“Sure,” Nick said as a woman walked out from behind the curtain. He didn’t believe for a second that was what caused Thompson’s outburst, though. He hadn’t gotten over losing Star to her movement.
The woman moved to the podium. Thompson nodded at Nick and then went to sit with his sister. Nick sidled left, deeper into a corner as the woman started talking. “As you know we are gathered together this morning to discuss the very necessary reform. . . ”
For the next two hours, Nick half listened to speeches, while continually circling the room with his eyes as he would cows on a cattle drive. At times the crowd grew restive, the men occasionally making faces and shouting their disgust, but the women shushed them quickly. No one stood out as dangerous or even particularly disruptive. Was one of them Romeo? Damn, but how was a body to know?
The speeches ended and the crowd started to break up. As Nick made his way toward the stage, Star entered through a door to the left and came to him, a large smile on her face. “Well? What did you think?”
“You did good,” he answered.
She chuckled. “Adequate is a better description.” He didn’t argue. Her speech had been as well constructed and eloquent as her articles; she had a gift with words. The delivery, though . . . well her charm, her bright, cheerful personality was lost behind a podium. “But of the rest? The audience, at least, seem impressed.”
He glanced around the room. “They are. You women made some solid points, but I reckon other matters distracted me.”
“Yes,” she said, lowering her voice. “Did you see him? Romeo?”
He sighed disgustedly. “Beats me. Could be half a dozen men or he didn’t show at all. Look, there, Miss Thompson is trying mightily to get your attention.”
“Oh, yes, I’d forgotten!” she said excitedly, taking his wrist. “I talked to Hannah earlier. Ambrose has arranged some exhibition races and you’re invited. Come along, Nicholas, I shall re-acquaint you, which you must own is a very good thing for we shall be seeing quite a bit of them in Newport.”
Damn, Thompson had as much interest in friendship with Nick as Nick did a tarantula. He went with Star, anyhow, even while his brain continued calculating. The situation was, he decided, too many for him. It was time to hire a professional. Soon as possible, he’d wire Winchester for recommendation on a Pinkerton.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Stranger in a strange country
Sophocles
Love comforteth like sunshine after rain.
Shakespeare, Henry VI
Newport, Rhode Island
“Still don’t know why I have to go to this shindig,” Nick grumbled as the carriage turned down the driveway of one of Newport’s “cottages.” Mansion, more like. Two weeks into his stay in Newport and his shock at the gratuitous display of wealth had turned to disgust. Star’d been right. As much as he disliked Boston’s stuck up attitude, these New Yorkers were worse—both snobby and mind-numbingly boring. He’d put the kibosh on social functions altogether excepting for his worries about Romeo.
Had nothing to do with the fact that she’d have gone without him, and that none of the myriad of amusements he could have indulged in were near as fun as being with her.
“Why, because as I have already explained,” Star replied, amusement marbling her voice, “a tea party is an ideal way for me to introduce you to Society before the real season begins. And you must know that the Thompsons are friendly with everyone.”
Sure. And Gabe Keller, the private eye that Winchester had recommended, was busy investigating whether being friendly with everybody helped Thompson “secretly admire” Star.
“Reckon I’ve met enough Society folk at all the dinners and picnics.” If a body could call those things picnics. For the last one that McAllister fella had laid out a dance floor on the grass. Back home they called that a dance.
Except for the champagne. Back home they never drank champagne. Here it seemed a necessary addition to every party.
No sir, there was no two ways about it, these Easterners were plumb loco. Bored into madness no doubt, so much so that Nick had become “all the rage.” Wasn’t too hard, that. He had good-enough manners and could tell a story. Most of the time he made ’em up because these folk were determined to believe the West was savage, without taste, luxury, education or any notion at all of the happenings in the rest of the country, never mind the rest of the world.
“A dinner,” Star pointed out, “only allows one to converse with people to your left or right. A picnic is too informal for real conversation. A tea is a comfortable combination of both.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I haven’t yet found any ‘real’ conversation—Sonuvagun,” he exclaimed as the coachman opened the coach door to reveal a white house, three stories tall, and twice the width of his own home. “What’s the matter with you folk that you don’t understand a cottage is s’posed to be smaller than home?”
Star laughed as he disembarked. He turned and held up his hand, even though the coachman was standing there, offering his services. Nick figured as her escort, it was his job to help her down. “Why, Nicholas,” Star said, “this is smaller than the Thompson’s home in New York!”
“Well at least this one doesn’t have turrets,” Nick grumbled as they hooked arms and moved along the walkway.
He’d been surprised when he’d arrived in Newport and seen that the Montgomery’s ‘cottage’ was three stories tall with twenty rooms, including a ballroom. It was larger than their townhouse in Boston, almost as large as their family home in Marblehead and just as lavishly decorated. At least theirs, though, had a veranda on the second and third floors, facing the ocean to catch the cool breezes. At least it pretended to be
a cottage.
But these others? Some of ’em looked like castles, with turrets and walled gardens, decorated in marble and gilt. Rumor had it Astor was adding on to Beechwood and Vanderbilt was contemplating building something even bigger. All for two months out of the year and mostly for the women, because, he’d learned, the men worked in New York City most of the week. A waste. Shameful, shameful waste.
Nick sighed disgustedly. “Are there at least going to be men today?” He was damned tired of being the token male.
“Several I have been told.”
He ran his gaze over Star. She’d dressed in a yellow gown, trimmed with delicate white lace. Her matching straw hat, decorated in ribbons and feathers, set off the sheen of her dark hair. She looked like a confection, good enough to eat. Something, he thought shoving down the desire always riding close to the surface these days, that he really ought not to think about right now. “Will the ladies be dressed as pretty as you?”
She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. His heart leapt. That was always near the surface these days too, warm, fluttery emotions, which he refused to name. “Why I suppose they will be almost as pretty.” A gurgle of merriment ran through her voice.
He flashed a smile. “I said dressed as pretty as you. Already knew they couldn’t be near as pretty as you.”
“Why Nicholas, it appears that you’re learning something from us after all, if only gratuitous flattery,” she said. A butler opened the door.
“No ma’am, haven’t learned a thing. That’s honesty.”
And just like that, Star, confident, composed, in her element, could not breathe. In the past Nicholas, though hardly parsimonious with flattery, had only directed it at her in reference to her skills—chess, tennis, writing. Nothing personal, even though on occasion she’d seen his eyes light up with male admiration. Spoken flattery must, must be confirmation of attraction, mustn’t it?
She almost forgot to hand her parasol to the waiting footman. By the clicking of her heels on marble, followed by the sound of muffled steps upon the thick red and green patterned rug of the Thompson’s parlor, she knew her feet touched the floor, but she felt like she was walking on air.