The Inconvenient Bride Series 1-3

by Sharon Ihle

  It was, after all, merely an innocent meal with a small town ink-slinger. Other than the fact her tongue was set on swivels at both ends, what possible harm could there be in spending the evening in such a manner? Besides, if anyone had to be on their toes tonight, it was Liberty Ann Justice, not him. Pleased with himself for slipping so easily into the well-heeled shoes of Andrew Savage, even if it was just for this short time, Donovan snubbed out the cheroot against the sole of his boot, and then poured himself another brandy.

  * * *

  Libby had never cared what the men of Wyoming thought of her, or if she never got married. While Lucy Stone and Libby's own mother had proved nearly thirty years ago that a woman could be happily wed without compromising her position on equal rights, many more suffragists, including the indomitable Susan B. Anthony, felt that a woman dividing her loyalties between a marriage and the cause diluted the strength of both.

  Libby tended to agree with the latter theory, at least, given the choice of the marriageable men in Laramie. She couldn't think of a suitable bachelor offhand who would agree that she was entitled to as many rights as he was. Just because Wyoming Territory was the first to grant women the vote, didn't mean all of its menfolk agreed with passage of the bill. And as far as Libby was concerned, if a man didn't believe as she did in that respect, he wasn't even worth pinching her cheeks over.

  She was sure, however, that a man of the Savage family, especially a dandy like Andrew Donovan Savage, would expect any woman he escorted to a restaurant to do much more by way of grooming herself than simply pinching her cheeks. From what little she knew of them, the entire bunch, led by their imperious father Randolph Thaddeous, was socially correct right down to their custom-made shoelaces. How was she to complete the transformation necessary to impress a snobbish, arrogant man like that, and in less than an hour? There was only one thing to do—and that was enlist the aid of an expert, her friend Adelia "Dell" Hight.

  It had proven to be a miserable waste of time, Libby decided an hour later, as she sat across the table from Andrew Savage. She had an idea that if she and Dell had spent the entire night trying to put her together, the result probably wouldn't have been any better. She felt like a sideshow freak, and if the way her escort tried to hide the horror in his expression every time he glanced at her counted for anything, she looked like one, too.

  Even though she was taller and bigger around than Dell, Libby was wearing one of Dell's dresses—a gown which didn't have a clearly defined waist, but sported frilly draperies at the back and an abbreviated train. The color of the dress, a pattern of sprigged, red rosebuds, clashed with Libby's auburn hair; so, instead of using the hat which matched the gown, Dell had fashioned a quick bun at the crown of Libby's head and topped it with an engraved silver comb. Hardly the fashion of the day.

  Savage cleared his throat, drawing her attention. "Are you feeling all right, Libby?"

  "Excuse me?"

  He grinned. "I couldn't help but notice that you were walking like a duck all the way over here. Did you hurt your back, or something?"

  "Oh... ah, not really." God, how embarrassing to think he'd noticed her odd gait. Her feet were, like the rest of her, bigger than Dell's, and since she didn't own a ladylike pair of shoes, Libby had worn her usual boots, and walked slightly bent over to hide them beneath the hem of her too-short dress. "I, er, twisted my ankle a little earlier today. It's nothing."

  Instead of commiserating with her, he laughed. "You seem to have a lot of accidents."

  "Yes, I suppose that I do." What had she been thinking to have accepted a dinner invitation from a polished society-type like Andrew Savage? Even with all Dell's fussing, Libby was still nothing more than a painted up hoyden. All she wanted to do now was run out of the restaurant as fast as her legs could carry her. Maybe she could come up with some kind of bogus emergency and skip out on the meal before she made matters worse.

  Donovan, who'd been watching the panic build in Libby's expression until she looked away, assumed she was still worried about his shutting down the paper. After he ordered a bottle of wine, he decided to set her mind at ease. "Why don't we get our business out of the way first so we can enjoy our meal?"

  Libby whipped her head toward him, sending the silver comb that held her hair in place tumbling across the table. It landed in the center of his china dinner plate, making a terrible racket.

  Reacting as though such occurrences were commonplace, Donovan simply lifted the comb from his plate and, repeating his previous question, passed it across the table. "As I was saying, shall we proceed with our business discussion?"

  "Oh, sure." As she spoke, Libby wrestled with the length of hair that tumbled down her back when the comb fell out. "Where, ah, were we?"

  Although Donovan thought he was finally ready to tell Libby that he was not in any way related to the Savage family, he found himself hesitating. She was obviously nervous about this meeting, and had gone to a lot of trouble to fix herself up tonight—if the uneven face powder and cherry-red lips meant anything. Her make-up looked as if it were wearing her, instead of the other way around. And where had she picked up that ill-fitting dress? Not only was the style dated, but it looked very uncomfortable on her, as if it were too small in the few areas where it clung to her body.

  Donovan sighed. He couldn't just pull the rug out from under her after she'd gone to so much trouble to impress him. And there was the matter of pride, hers, certainly, but his, too, for having let the charade go on for so long. Besides, what real harm could there be if he were to continue as the newspaper baron until he'd left town? Anyway, he planned to stop by the offices of R. T. Savage the minute he returned to San Francisco, to offer information about Andrew's sudden "accident," return the dead man's belongings, and try to collect a reward. It wouldn't cost him a thing to plead a case for the Laramie Tribune while he was there. And Miss "Lippy" Justice might even come out of the ordeal learning a lesson or two about how to behave around her superiors.

  Feeling magnanimous now instead of guilty, Donovan forged ahead with the new plan. He glanced across the table, trying hard not to stare at Libby's hair—her refreshed bun was listing badly to the left, defying gravity—and said, "Let's see. If I remember correctly, all you want is a little more freedom with your editorials, right?"

  "Yes. That and some new photographic equipment." She held her head unnaturally still, as if very aware of her precariously perched bun. "I'm not much good at measuring the right amount of powder for the flash bar we have now. I've singed my hair and set fire to my working hat a couple of times of late. But even worse, since the flash occasionally makes quite an explosion, I can't find many folks in town who'll let me get close enough to them to take their photos anymore. It would be a good investment for Savage Publishing, I think, if they were to send me some new equipment."

  "Certainly sounds reasonable to me." Donovan couldn't help but chuckle as he remembered the scorched smudges on the brim of her bonnet. "I don't see why I can't get 'dear old dad' to send you a new camera. Anything else you need?"

  "Not as far as equipment is concerned. In fact, I'd give up the new camera if I had to, just for permission to write the Tribune's editorials my way—no censorship, even when the subject is equal rights."

  "I see." Donovan brought his index finger to his chin, as if in deep contemplation, though he didn't need to do much thinking on the matter. After reading the letters from the home office to the Tribune, he knew that R. T. Savage demanded complete and utter acquiescence from the editor of his Laramie affiliate. While he didn't want to dash the glimmer of hope in Libby's dark eyes, he couldn't very well make promises he had no way of keeping. "I'm afraid what you're asking for is not going to be possible. You'll have to follow Savage guidelines for your editorials, at least until your father returns. Maybe he can take it up with R. T. then."

  "But there's no point in even having a newspaper if I can't print the truth." There was panic in her tone, but a fair amount of outrage, too. "Sur
ely you and your father can understand that. What do you people have against women, anyway?"

  The wine arrived then, giving Donovan a moment to consider a change of subject. He wanted out of this conversation, and now. He didn't like discussing this fictional "father" of his any more than he liked being reminded that he'd never had a real father to call his own. All he'd wanted out of this evening was a quiet dinner, a few laughs, and maybe later, a friendly little game of poker at one of the many saloons he'd noticed in town.

  Raising his glass toward Libby, he said, "If you're wanting to run an editorial regarding voting rights from time to time, I don't think I'll have too much trouble getting R. T. to 'turn his head' about it, but any freedoms other than that, are simply out of the question. Shall we drink to the conclusion of our business and order our suppers now?"

  "No, not yet. Please?"

  She hadn't so much as touched her glass, and showed no intention of doing so. He wagged an authoritative finger at her. "Sorry, but I'm hungry and this subject is closed."

  Still, Libby didn't make a move toward her wine. It was then Donovan noticed the utter and dogged determination in her expression. "Tell you what," he said, looking for a more gentle way to ease out of the discussion. "What if I promise to have a long talk with R. T., when I get back to San Francisco, about giving you a little more freedom? Would that make you feel better?"

  "That depends on what you're planning to say to him. Do you have the slightest idea why my editorials are so important to the women's suffrage movement?"

  "They'll help gain the vote nationwide, I suppose."

  "Gaining the vote is very important, and yes, my work should help in that way. But the vote is just the first step in gaining equal rights in all areas of our lives—rights you and the men in your family enjoy everyday without even appreciating them." She lightly banged her fist against the table by way of punctuation. Her bun wobbled, but held steady. "You wouldn't sit still for those injustices if they were directed at you—why should I? And why shouldn't I have the right to express these beliefs in my newspaper's editorials?"

  Warmed by the wine—or maybe it was Libby's impassioned speech—Donovan reconsidered. Maybe he could help her a little more when he stopped in at Savage Publishing. "All very interesting and valid points. If that's what you want me to mention to R. T., you've got it."

  "Oh, well... thanks." She finally paused long enough to take a sip of her wine. "To tell you the truth, you've always been so hard-headed in your letters, you've caught me by surprise. I didn't expect that you'd care what I thought or wanted, or that you'd agree so easily to talk to your father about it."

  "I said I would, and I will." Done with the discussion for sure this time, he added, "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to order our meal."

  "In a moment. I'm not quite finished. There are a couple more issues I'd like you to explain to your father."

  Donovan managed to contain his exasperated sigh, but he drummed the table with his knuckles as he said, "And they are?"

  "The vote is the biggest thing, of course, but gathering enough supporters for the cause is going to be difficult enough, even if I printed a feature everyday. To be tied to running an editorial from 'time to time' is simply not good enough. Next year is an election year, and we're desperate for the vote now. I must have complete freedom to print what I see fit as often as necessary."

  "For heaven's sake." He laughed a little. "Working toward the vote is a noble crusade for you ladies to strive for, but don't you think you're over-dramatizing the urgency just a bit?"

  "No, and for very good reasons. For example, I think it's safe to assume you're not aware that, should I happen to come into possession of the house in which I live,"—which she had actually owned for the last six months—"our government would expect me to pay taxes on it."

  "So? Everyone has to pay taxes, even temporary editors like you."

  "But I shouldn't have to—not as long as I have no voice in the legislation of those taxes. That would make me a victim, like many of my sisters, of taxation without representation." Libby slammed both palms flat against the table. The bun bounced a few times, then began to slide, comb and all, toward her ear. She no longer seemed to be aware of it. "It seems to me that you men pitched a fit in Boston over that same issue better than a hundred years ago. You wouldn't accept such tyranny then—why should we accept it now?"

  Reminded finally that he didn't have the right to debate this issue with her—not as Andrew Savage, anyway—Donovan tried to end Libby's lively, impassioned speech. "Thank you for all the fascinating information. I'll be sure to address your editorial freedom with R. T. the moment I get home. Now, if you don't mind, I've heard just about all I want to concerning women's rights. My backbone met my belly an hour ago, and if I don't eat soon, I'll fall right out of this chair."

  As he waved the waitress over to the table, Libby thought of speaking up again, for she really didn't think Savage had a full grasp of what she was after, but she bit her lip. Something in his expression made her keep the rest of her thoughts to herself. He was looking at her in the oddest way, not like a man impressed with her intelligence or knowledge of the situation, but of one who was about to burst out laughing. A moment later, the comb fell out of her hair again, and this time it landed with a horrendous splash—into her glass of wine.

  * * *

  The following day brought warmer weather and, along with it, a sultry breeze unusual for the middle of June. It made Libby feel restless, wanting something she couldn't quite name, but wanting it badly. And her desire wasn't just to forget about last night and her idiotic attempts to impress Andrew Savage with her ladylike aplomb. She'd been struggling with her concentration all morning and bottling her frustrations until she thought she might explode from the pressure. It was the kind of day on which, had she been younger and faced with less responsibility, she'd have said, "the hell with it," grabbed her bamboo pole, and gone fishing. She closed her eyes, imagining herself lying on the grassy banks of the Laramie River, and could almost feel the sun baking the frustrations right out of her body.

  Of course, imagining an afternoon like that was as close as Libby had gotten to the real thing in a long, long time. She hadn't had a moment without serious responsibility since the age of nine—the day after Jeremy came into the world, making her an instant mother to him and housekeeper for her widowed father. She gazed out her office window, wondering why she couldn't seem to allow herself to just toss everything aside for one day, and take that little fishing trip in spite of it all. Other people in business took vacations from their daily chores, but not Liberty Ann Justice—not even long enough to make a decent attempt at behaving like a lady.

  Supper itself had gone fairly well after she'd pinned her hair up for a second time. It was after the long walk home that things had gone sour. She'd fluttered her perfumed handkerchief around the man's face, laughed at everything he said (the way Dell had instructed), and even swooned against his shoulder when they reached the stairs leading up above the pressroom, to the apartment she shared with Jeremy. The swooning part had been the easiest since her legs had been ready to give out anyway after walking "like a duck" all the way home.

  But nothing she'd done seemed to make any impression on Savage. He'd acted as if he couldn't wait to be rid of her. And since then, she hadn't seen hide nor hair of him.

  As she stared forlornly out at the wide, beckoning skies, it finally occurred to Libby that the sun was no longer rising, or even hanging high in the sky, but was on a westward journey toward home. It wasn't morning any longer—it was way past noon. Why hadn't Savage come to see her yet? Not that she was looking forward to the moment, by any means; but surely their business wasn't yet concluded to his satisfaction.

  She had a few bones to pick with him. For a newspaperman, he knew precious little about newspaper offices. It rankled her to think this spoiled son of a rich scion had such power over her, when he apparently knew so little about the working end of the busin
ess. He hadn't even realized the press was so new until she'd mentioned it.

  Libby glanced around her office, noting that he'd left his satchel sitting on the floor near her desk. He was still here, or at least in town. But what if he'd slipped out of the house before she'd awakened this morning, and was now on the loose, poking his nose around and asking questions? Her position with Savage Publishing was too precarious for her to take a chance on him finding out about her father.

  Libby leaped out of her chair, grabbed the satchel, and dashed out of her office, toward the back room. On the way, she collided full on with her employer, who was headed in her direction.

  "Urrgh." He staggered backwards, clutching his belly and gasping for breath. "Ye Gads, Libby. Where are you going in such a hurry?"

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. Are you all right? I was worried about you since I hadn't seen you all day. Where have you been?"

  "Sleeping. I took a tour of your town last night, and had such a good time I didn't get to bed till dawn. I was looking for you just now to say good-bye." About then, Libby noticed he was carrying his traveling bag. "I also want to thank you again for your very warm hospitality. I hope I haven't been too much trouble for you."

  "Oh, but you can't be leaving town already."

  "Oh, but I can." His words were brisk, clipped. "I'm going to catch the train to San Francisco in a couple of hours, and I have to take care of a few business matters in town on my way out." Before she realized what he was doing, he reached down and took his satchel from her. "I was just coming to get this."

  "But, but..." She had to stop him somehow. "What about my editorials and such? We never did finish our conversation or address some of the other issues that concern both the Tribune and Savage Publishing."

  He paused, eyes downcast, as if weighing a very difficult decision. Then he looked her in the eye. "I might as well tell you the rest. I know about your father, and, er, that he's not really out of the country. I heard about his accident over at one of the saloons on Front Street."