Priscilla recognized the man from a photograph he'd sent to Libby. With his ruddy complexion and pockmarked face, he was even less attractive than in his photograph. The only reason Libby agreed to marry him was because she'd been caught in a compromising way with a man she'd thought to be a suitor prepared to ask for her hand, but who turned out to be married. The wife who'd caught them described, in prurient detail, the whole affair and posted it on the town bulletin board for all to see and relish. Clayton Rathborn's offer to take on a "soiled" woman as his wife was the answer to her prayers, at the time.
Priscilla backed around behind the old printing press, wanting to put something solid between her and both men as she said, "Well, you see, Mr. Rathborn, the fact is, Miss Johnson has decided to …" she took a long breath to settle the erratic beating of her heart....
"Let me guess," Lord Whittington said in an irritated voice, "Miss Johnson has decided to renege on her contract. Right?"
"It was her decision, Lord Whittington," Priscilla said. "I simply offered Miss Johnson a job so she could support herself while working off her travel expenses." She found the man's steady gaze disconcerting, but she was determined not to be distracted by it. She had the gut feeling they'd cross paths in the future, and it would not do for the owner and editor of The Town Tattler to cringe in his presence. Squaring her shoulders, she said to Clay Rathborn, "You will be reimbursed for Miss Johnson's expenses."
Clay Rathborn's eyes narrowed. "I'll hear it from Miss Johnson. Where is she?"
"Like I told Lord Whittington, the women are secure until this has been worked out. Neither of you have a claim on them. They have chosen not to marry you, and you will be reimbursed for their expenses. And that is that."
Lord Whittington stepped around the press and gazed down at Priscilla. "No, Miss Phipps, that is not that! I contracted in good faith to take Miss Burns as my wife, and I expect her to honor our contract."
Priscilla propped her hands on her hips, held the man's caustic gaze, and said, "You are not bargaining for a mule, Lord Whittington. You're contracting for a woman to share your life, and sleep in your bed, and bear your children. It might be a simple arrangement for a man of your callous nature to enter into, but the young women who will be working for me do not look at things the same way. For them, the prospect of finding love with the men they marry is important. There's nothing more to be said. You'll both receive your bank drafts when the bank opens in the morning. Good evening gentlemen." She stood firm, waiting for the men to leave.
To her dismay, the third of the four men appeared. From his muttonchop whiskers and mustachio she knew it was Jethro Bottoms, Abigail Chandler's intended. Before he could speak, Priscilla said, "Mr. Bottoms, Miss Chandler has changed her mind and she will be reimbursing you for expenses and terminating your marriage agreement—"
"The hell she's terminating our agreement!" Jethro Bottoms shouted, face livid. "I've waited three months for the damn woman and I'm not going home without her. Where is she?" He started up the stairs.
Priscilla called after him. "You will not find Miss Chandler up there, Mr. Bottoms. She is not in this building. And she will not be going home with you. Ever! You will be reimbursed for her expenses when the bank opens, and if you decide to cause trouble, you will find yourself sitting somewhere you will not wish to be."
Spittle spewed from the man's mouth as he said, "Are you threatening to have me arrested if I make a claim on my bride?"
Priscilla glared at the man. "Yes, Mr. Bottoms, I am doing precisely that!"
Veins standing out in his neck, he said, "You haven't seen the last of me. I will find Miss Chandler and she will marry me or she'll have hell to pay. I have two young'ns needing lookin' after, chickens to feed, a cow that needs milkin', a cabin that needs cleanin' and a garden that needs planting. And I just paid ten dollars for a new feather mattress. There will be a woman in my bed before the week's out!"
"That may be," Priscilla said, "but Miss Chandler will not be that woman! Meanwhile, I suggest you start looking for a nanny, a farm hand, and a mistress. You are no bargain as a husband. I am just thankful that Miss Chandler will not be strapped with the likes of you."
Jethro Bottoms mumbled a string of expletives under his breath, shoved his way between Lord Whittington and Clayton Rathborn, and stormed out the door. When the other two men didn't budge, Priscilla said in a firm tone, "Good evening, gentlemen. I will be at the bank promptly when it opens. And if either of you know Mr. Frank Gundy, please inform him that Miss Edith Hogan will also be working for me, and that he too can be at the bank when it opens."
Clayton Rathborn shoved his hat on his head, cut loose with a string of expletives he did not try to cover, and stomped out. But Lord Whittington remained.
"Is there something more that you want?" Priscilla asked.
"Yes, as a matter of fact there is." He scanned the room with its broken type trays and limitless little lead blocks of type scattered across the warped wood floors, his gaze coming to rest on the old Albion press. "If you intend to start another newspaper in Cheyenne," he said, his voice holding a hint of warning, "you will find your competitors very unfriendly."
"I am not worried about unfriendly men," Priscilla said. "The world is filled with them."
Lord Whittington eyed her in a condescending manner, giving her the impression he was sizing her up as a disgruntled, man-hating, old maid, which perhaps she was. Her experiences with men had not been pleasant ones, Lord Whittington, with his haughty, patronizing demeanor a shining example of what she disliked about them. He placed his hand on the bar of the old press and gave it a shove, but the giant screw, locked from rust and disuse, refused to turn. A look of satisfaction crossed his face. "Running a newspaper is not something a woman can manage on her own," he said. "I assume you are on your own."
"And why would you assume that?" Priscilla asked. "Is it because I am a rather plain-looking maiden lady, well past my prime, or because you believe that a woman without a man is incapable of pursuing a man's profession, even if that profession is quite suitable for a woman?"
He eyed her with impatience. "I believe that women are suited for running certain businesses, Miss Phipps. Many own and operate millinery shops and other trades catering to females. But running a newspaper is a dangerous and cutthroat business. Not only does it take physical stamina, and in many instances foolhardiness, but it is common for editors to lash out at each other in back-alley terms, disputes often ending with knives or bullets."
Priscilla glared at the infuriating man. "If this is an attempt on your part to scare me off, Lord Whittington, you will soon learn that I do not scare easily. And I am aware of the dangers. I grew up helping my father run his newspaper. Granted, it was a small-town paper, but we faced the same criticism and threats that larger papers face."
A puzzled frown crept across his brow. "Then you actually do intend to start a newspaper?" he asked. Plainly he had not taken her seriously. Until now.
Priscilla ratcheted her chin up a notch so she could look directly at him, and said, "May I ask what concern it is of yours? It's my understanding that you are a cattle rancher. Granted, you own one of the larger spreads in the territory, but your enterprise will be in no danger from me unless, of course, you engage in improper or illegal means of operation, and I were to report it in an article. But it would be a stretch for me to assume anything of the sort. Am I right?"
"You are right, Miss Phipps. My cattle operation is secure and my business practices above reproach. But Cheyenne has several newspapers, and they would not look favorably on yet another paper starting up."
"If you are referring to the Cheyenne Daily Leader and the Cheyenne Daily Sun, I am familiar with both newspapers," Priscilla said. "From what I've learned, they serve the interests of the Wyoming Stock Growers Association and have a wide circulation, which makes me curious. Why, may I ask, would you think that a mere woman, starting up a small paper, would be in danger here? That was your concern wasn't
it? That as a single woman, I might be in danger of bodily harm, if I were to enter a field dominated by men?"
He gave her a look of tolerant understanding. "It is not that you are a woman, single or otherwise," he said. "It is anyone starting a newspaper. But a woman is naturally more vulnerable than a man." His expression emotionless, he waited for her response.
"I don't feel vulnerable in the least," Priscilla said. "After all, Miss Abigail Scott Duniway established The New Northwest in Portland, Oregon and has made a success of it without being threatened, as did Miss Laura DeForce with the Daily Leader down in Stockton, California. And not far from here, Gertrude and Laura Huntington have the PlatteValley Lyre. But I don't believe you fear for my safety. I think you have other concerns. Perhaps an ax to grind because women are starting to infiltrate a field that has, until recently, been completely dominated by men."
Lord Whittington drew in an extended breath, plainly exasperated with the changes in his life—losing his long-awaited bride, confronting a woman entering a man's domain. When he stood staring at her, she said, "You seem to be at a loss for words. Are you afraid I might penetrate your association's publishing empire and steal their subscribers and advertisers?"
To her surprise, an amused glimmer came into the man's eyes, and the hard line of his mouth softened with a half-smile, which had the odd effect of bringing heat rushing up her face to settle in her cheeks like hundreds of tiny hot prickles. The corner of his mouth tipped up further, as he replied, "Not if that's the press you intend to use."
"Well, it isn't," Priscilla assured him. "I have my own press. I expect to have it in operation before the week is done. My newspaper will be called The Town Tattler, and I invite you and the other members of your cattlemen's association to become subscribers. After all, it is always good business to know what your opponents are about."
"And in what way do you believe your paper to be a threat to the Cheyenne Daily Leader or the Cheyenne Daily Sun?" he asked.
Priscilla held his lofty gaze, and replied, "Because there is an excellent chance that The Town Tattler may be in opposition to them. I travelled across country with homesteaders, whom, it is my understanding, you cattlemen would like to see driven out of the territory."
He eyed her in amusement. "I'll keep that in mind." He glanced at the old press again, and said, "And the brides which you have taken possession of? Will they be operating the press that you brought along?"
Priscilla bristled at the man's condescending manner. "The women will be setting type, something that women, with their smaller more nimble fingers, are far more adept at doing than men. As for operating my press, I have a pressman who is strong and well trained in its operation. Now, as you can see," she said, spreading her arms as if to encompass the entire room, "I have a lot of work ahead of me before we can move my equipment into the building, so I ask that you leave now so that I can begin the task."
Jaw muscles bunching, eyes narrowing in displeasure, Lord Whittington stalked through the doorway. But as Priscilla was about to close the door, he turned and braced his hand against it, and said, "Tell Miss Burns that I will expect to hear directly from her that she wants to break our contract. She will not find a better arrangement than what I have to offer. My ranch house is large and comfortable, and my house on 17th Street is suited for entertaining, with double parlors and a dining room that can accommodate large dinner parties. It also has an impressive library, master suites on both the ground floor and the second floor, and five other bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. And I have a staff of servants to see to running the house."
For one long dreamy moment, Priscilla imagined herself in that grand house, sitting on a bed covered in silk sheets, with a light wrapper draped around her shoulders, and the man in her line of vision would be walking toward her, and she'd drop the wrapper from around herself, and she'd be wearing nothing under it... Her breath quickened, and her heart started a staccato beat. Steeling herself from such outrageous notions, she said in a clipped, dry tone, "You present a very tempting offer for many women, Lord Whittington, but I assure you, Mary Kate Burns is not one of them. And she has made up her mind. Good evening." Priscilla slammed the door firmly in his face.
The man set her on edge, caused her to have thoughts no decent woman should have, least of all a spinster nearing forty who had never had intimate relations with a man in her life. Who'd never even kissed a man. But when Lord Whittington stood looking at her, she'd felt an almost irrepressible urge to reach out and touch him.... Along with a pressing need to remove him from her presence. Which she had done, in no uncertain terms. Tomorrow she'd face the ramifications of her brash action in slamming the door in his face. For now, she fanned herself with her hand, wondering what was coming over her.
CHAPTER TWO
'She prides herself on her father and glories
in him, everybody saying she also resembles him.'
— Venetian ambassador Giovanni Michiel
about Elizabeth, in1557
Priscilla looked at herself in the mirror and saw an older version of the red-headed schoolgirl who'd fancied herself descended from Good Queen Bess. It started when she'd found a color plate of Queen Elizabeth in a history book, the color of the queen's hair catching her attention. She'd gone on to read in the book that Elizabeth had King Henry's pale complexion, golden lashes, and curly copper-red hair, and Anne Boleyn's oblong face and pointed chin, wide-set almond-shaped eyes, and pronounced cheekbones. But unlike Anne Boleyn's clear, unmarred complexion, Elizabeth had freckles on her pallid skin.
As Priscilla studied her reflection, the color plate came back in vivid detail. It had depicted Queen Elizabeth in her late thirties, the age Priscilla was now, and the likeness was even more striking than when Priscilla was a girl of fourteen with only a hint of the woman she would become. Everything about her face resembled the queen now, except her nose didn't have the hook Elizabeth inherited from Henry, nor did she have Elizabeth's teeth, rotting from decay.
She leaned closer and peered into her eyes. Elizabeth's had been described as hazel by some, golden-brown by others, and even agate-grey in one account. But it was said that the varying effects of Elizabeth's eyes were produced by the combination of her large black pupils and light falling across the irises, the unusual color a cross between Anne Boleyn's dark brown eyes, and Henry's piercing blue ones.
But enough about the queen. Sharing a likeness with a woman who lived three hundred years ago did nothing for Priscilla now. But having the bank manager prepare bank drafts for the disgruntle men would at least bring finality to that matter.
An hour later, she met with the manager of the bank, who informed her that her funds from their eastern branch had arrived, and that her account was set up. She had the man prepare bank drafts for Clayton Rathborn, Jethro Bottoms and Adam Whittington. Frank Gundy had still not approached her about Edith Hogan, but she would be ready for him when he did. With the bank drafts prepared, and the women's contracts for the men to sign clasped in her hands, Priscilla waited in the lobby of the bank for the men to arrive.
The women were staying in a boarding house on the outskirts of town, but as soon as she was finished at the bank, she'd collect the women and they would spend the day cleaning the upstairs living quarters, where the women would be staying until they could accumulate enough money to return to the boarding house. Thankfully, her building was located in the center of town, so they could walk to most stores. But she would get around town on her Rover, which she'd purchased just before leaving Missouri. She had only ridden the new safety bicycle a few times, but she'd mastered pedaling and steering in one afternoon. It was a marvel of design. If the women of Cheyenne were not aware of the personal freedom and self-reliance bicycling embodied, they'd learn about it in an upcoming editorial.
Before long, Jethro Bottoms and Clayton Rathborn arrived, spiteful and bad-tempered and grumbling about meddlesome old maids and fickle mail-order brides. They begrudgingly signed the contracts and
left. After an hour, when Lord Whittington had still not shown up, Priscilla left the bank to look into renting a buckboard and horse.
Two hours later, Priscilla, driving a vehicle piled high with cleaning supplies, new mattress pads, bolts of cloth, and bundles of bed linens, and accompanied by four women who were chattering enthusiastically, arrived at the old Sentinel building. The notice she'd posted on the mercantile remained there, but Frank Gundy had not come forward to claim Edith, so they had no idea where things stood.
By early afternoon they'd cleared the upstairs rooms—mostly boxes of papers that mice had used for nests, along with some broken chairs and other discarded furniture—and the old wooden floorboards were scrubbed clean. After the floor boards had thoroughly dried, Priscilla and the women stashed their trunks alongside one wall, placed the mattress pads on the floors of two rooms, and cut and tacked panels of new yard goods over the windows for privacy. While each woman made up her bed, Priscilla prepared a dressing table out of a discarded dresser and hung a mirror over it, then fashioned a wash stand from a small, worn, but attractive table and placed her own china pitcher and bowl atop it. She intended to live there permanently, so after the press room was set up and the women were back in the boarding house, she'd look into renovating the upstairs into comfortable quarters for herself. One of the advantages of remaining unmarried was the luxury of living and doing exactly as she pleased.
Meanwhile, Jim Jackson, her pressman, was downstairs clearing out the old equipment in preparation for patching the plaster and painting the walls and fixing the door that hung askew. When the women were finished cleaning and waxing the floors, Jim could bring in the printing press, the bundles of Ready Print, and the many cases filled with type, type sticks and other printing equipment that she'd hauled west in the covered wagon.
It was late afternoon and the women were on their hands and knees in the back room, scrubbing the floor, while Priscilla and Jim stood in the main room, discussing what needed to be done. The front door slowly opened, and a man poked his head inside. Priscilla wiped her hands on her apron and said, "May I help you?"
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