"Rumsfeld," the younger woman replied. "I am Lady Ashbury's daughter."
"We're sorry to be stopping by so late, dear," Lady Whittington said in an apologetic voice, "but we didn't want to disturb you during your working hours. But it seems you're still working."
"Well, yes. The ladies who are in my employ are new at typesetting, and therefore still slow, so I have to pick up the slack," Priscilla said. "May I offer you refreshments? My kitchen is modest, but I do have tea and custard tarts."
"No thank you, dear," Lady Whittington said. "Actually, we're here on business."
"You are?" Priscilla said, then realized it was not so surprising. Lady Whittington had given every indication that she'd be sending business her way, not by anything she'd said, but because there seemed to be a competition of sorts between the British cattlemen's wives and daughters, who seemed determined that The Town Tattler be British in nature because the owner and editor was a Tudor and therefore descended from royalty, and the homesteader's wives and daughter's, who expected the paper to reflect the lives of the commonplace folks who'd come west in wagon trains to start new lives, as did the owner and editor of the paper.
Priscilla was determined to stand for both.
"We want to place advertisements in your newspaper," Lady Ashbury said, "and my daughter has written a story which she hopes will be suitable for publication."
Priscilla looked at Lady Rumsfeld. "What is the subject of your story?" she asked.
The younger woman blushed. "Well, actually, it is a romantic story, much like those that Sara Claxton and Mary Reed Crowell write."
"Ah yes," Priscilla said, "The Secret Marriage and The Masked Bride. Then I must assume you're an avid reader of Dime Novels."
"Well... yes. In fact it's my dream to write them for publication," Lady Rumsfeld said. "My husband recently purchased a Remington typewriting machine for me, so you'll find the manuscript easy to read. The story, which I brought with me today, is short, but I have others that could run as continuing stories in several issues. And my husband would like to place an advertisement in The Town Tattler for Remington Typewriting machines, which are being sold in one of his stores."
Priscilla quickly tallied up the advertisements she'd already secured: the latest in Boulevard Velveteen from Jensen's Drygoods; the new Pivot Corset from Madam LaFoy's Ladies Apparel; Tissue Paper Flowers from Jerome Novelty; Heminway Spool Silks and Madonna Embroidery Cotton from Merrill's Dry & Fancy Goods. As each advertisement would first appear, she'd include a short descriptive piece about the product. But her best advertisement, which would take up one-quarter of a page, was from A.L. Dutton Specialty Wear for Women for their latest in bicycling costumes, promoting the new divided skirts and bloomer costumes. She'd be including a four-part essay, which would run in the next four issues, and which would address the health benefits of bicycling.
She'd sold a number of subscriptions to the British ladies, but she'd lost count of the number she'd sold to the homesteader's wives, most of which had been paid for in goods. The shelves in her pantry were now stocked with jams and jellies and canned fruits and vegetables, and she had several jars of pickled eggs and pickled pigs' feet. And out back, Jim had hastily built a henhouse for her four laying hens. She had also accepted teacups, and sets of dishes, and kitchenware—items she hadn't brought in the covered wagon, but planned to purchase upon arrival. And today, she accepted a pair of ladies walking boots that a woman ordered from Bloomingdales's and which turned out to be too small.
"Have you a title for your story?" she asked Lady Rumsfeld.
"Yes," Lady Rumsfeld replied. "I am calling it The Runaway Bride." She reached into the pocket of her satchel and withdrew her manuscript. Handing it to Priscilla, she said, "I've chosen the pen name Vivian Penworthy. That is, if you have no objection to my using a pen name."
"No, of course not," Priscilla said. "But many of the most popular writers of Dime Novels are now using their own names, Metta Victor being the exception. I'll read your story tonight. Basically, what I'm looking for in romantic stories is love and a happy ending. A young woman finds herself in dire circumstances and alone in the world, she attracts a handsome man far above her station, and after a series of mishaps and separations, the couple is united, and they marry."
Lady Rumsfeld smiled. "I believe you'll like my story then."
"If that's the case, I look forward to publishing others. Perhaps you could bring 'round your longer stories as well."
Lady Rumsfeld smiled broadly. "I will deliver them to you tomorrow."
Lady Ashbury, who had been waiting patiently for her daughter to finish, reached into her hand bag and withdrew several handwritten papers. "I have some items for the society column, and something for your Tattle Tale column," she said. "I did not mention the name, but there's a woman among us who is making claims about having gowns made by Frederick Worth, but on close inspection, it was easy to tell that the gown was a cheap imitation. I just want to draw attention to the fact that if a woman goes around making false claims, she will be exposed."
Priscilla paged through the papers. "I'll see that these are included," she said. "One point I'd like to mention though. When placing items in the Tattle Tale column, if you include a person's name, then you must include your own name as well. But since you haven't included a name in the one you're submitting, it can be signed, ‘Anonymous’."
Lady Ashbury smiled. "I understand," she said. "One thing more. My husband would like to include an advertisement. Actually, it's for our eldest daughter. We have just set her up in her own millinery shop on 16th Street, which will open next month, and she'll be calling it Millie's Millinery. My husband and daughter will stop by to discuss with you what they'd like in the way of advertising. I just thought I'd let you know."
"I look forward to that," Priscilla said.
Lady Whittington glanced around the room. "Has Trudy been underfoot too terribly much?" she asked.
"No," Priscilla assured her, "she's a delight to have around. She's also been very helpful. She has a fine flare for writing, and we will be publishing an excellent article that she wrote about Viscountess Harberton and the Rational Dress Society, which, as you probably know, the viscountess founded. They are against the wearing of tight-fitting corsets, heavily-weighted skirts, high-heeled shoes, and anything impeding movement of the arms or rendering healthy exercise impossible. The new Pre-Raphaelite style of dress they are promoting is based on considerations for health, comfort and beauty."
"Trudy did tell me something about it," Lady Whittington said, "and that you purchased one of the new gowns for yourself. I'd be interested in seeing it."
"It hasn't yet arrived," Priscilla said. "I purchased it from a catalog put out by the Liberty & Company Artistic and Historic Costume Studio. I expect it to arrive shortly. But we will be including an illustration with Trudy's article. It should be of interest to readers."
"Well, it seems to be keeping Trudy's mind off the young man at the ranch," Lady Whittington said, "so that was what we were after. I am also glad to see Trudy interested in her father's campaign. She has been making leaflets to distribute at the fourth of July picnic where the candidates will be greeting voters. Which brings up the reason I'm here. I'd like to place an advertisement in your paper for Adam. I have this engraving of him—" she dug into her handbag and pulled out a metal plate "—and I've jotted down a few lines that tell a little about him."
"Does Adam know you're doing this?" Priscilla asked.
"Well, no," Lady Whittington admitted. "It was Trudy's idea. She wants it to be a surprise for her father. I told her I'd pay for the advertising space if you'd be willing to include it."
Priscilla didn't want to take an open position on the election at this time. By placing a picture of Adam in The Town Tattler, she would, in effect, be doing that. But she didn't want to disappoint Trudy either. Of course, Adam's opponents were welcome to take out advertising space as well. So she'd include an editorial about th
e race, stating that The Town Tattler did not take a position, but welcoming candidates to promote themselves through the paper, and for readers to write opinion pieces about candidates. "I'll include it in the next issue," she said, hoping Adam would welcome the piece, fearing he would not. But once he learned that Trudy was behind it, he'd hold back any critical comments he might have had.
The women were gathering their things to leave when the door swept open, and Adam walked in, unannounced. Lady Whittington looked at him in shocked surprise. "We were not expecting you for several days yet, Adam," she said. "Why are you here?"
"I might ask the same of you," Adam said.
"We are here on business," she replied.
"So am I."
Lady Whittington's brow gathered in a puzzled frown. "May I ask, out of curiosity, what kind of business you have with Miss Phipps."
"No, Mother, you may not," Adam replied.
Lady Whittington lifted her chin and gave a short, "Harumph."
Priscilla stared at Adam with guarded curiosity. After her brusque words to him following their passionate kiss in the hallway the day she moved out of his house, she had not expected to see him again. At all. That he showed up at this particular moment was awkward. "Can it not wait until tomorrow?" she said. "As you see, I'm busy."
Lady Whittington's gaze shifted from Adam to Priscilla, and back to Adam, her frown replaced by awareness. "We are finished now," she announced. She returned to Adam. "Will you be staying at the house tonight, or will you be returning to the ranch?"
Adam eyed Priscilla in a way that made her face flush, then he said to his mother, "I will not be staying at the house."
"Then you will be returning to the ranch, I presume," his mother said.
"Or I might stay at the Cheyenne Club," he replied. "I have some business to tend to there, and if it runs late, I'll take a room."
Priscilla felt her temper rise. She had a fairly good idea what that business was. Although the Cheyenne Club was not a brothel, it was rumored that clandestine affairs were frequently carried on behind the closed doors to the private rooms upstairs.
But she had no claim on Adam, nor he on her. He had, however, stopped by for a reason, and she hoped it didn't include a bathtub and a deflowering because that was not an option this particular evening. Nor would it be in the near future. During the two weeks that Adam had been gone, more incidents of cattlemen threatening and terrorizing farmers and homesteaders had occurred. A farmer's mule had been shot and killed. A homesteader's wife almost raped by three cowboys, the husband arriving in time to chase the men off, and another fence torn down and the crop trampled by livestock.
The women bid their farewells, but as Lady Whittington was leaving, she looked at Adam, and said, "If you will stop by tomorrow, I'd like to have a word with you."
"As you wish," Adam replied.
When the door clicked shut behind the women, Adam started toward Priscilla. "I take it you're comfortably settled in your apartment upstairs?" he said.
Priscilla backed away from him. "Yes, why do you ask?"
Adam continued toward her. "I think you already know why."
Priscilla continued to back away, while saying, "The last time I saw you, I made it clear that whatever was between us would not proceed any further. Nothing's changed."
"The last time you saw me, you kissed me like there was no tomorrow," Adam reminded her. "Well, tomorrow came, and I'm here, and I intend to kiss you again, and after that I'm going to carry you upstairs and fill your bathtub with warm water, and strip you naked, and put an end to the torture you're putting me through."
Adam's words brought prurient images rushing into Priscilla's mind, which she was determined to quash. "What torture?" she said. "You've been gone two weeks. I haven't even been with you."
"You're always with me. You're on my mind when I'm riding the range and when I'm laying awake at night. And whenever I bathe, you sure as hell are on my mind. And seeing you now is driving me crazy to carry you up to bed and end this torment."
"I'm sorry," Priscilla said, "but you will not be carrying me to bed tonight because—"
"We'll discuss that after I do this." Adam pulled her roughly against him and covered her mouth with his. Her response was immediate and demanding, matching the thrusts of his tongue with hers, shoving her fingers in his hair, rasping her fingernails down his back, pressing her breasts against his chest. She kissed his jaw, and his neck, and the hollow of his throat where his shirt gaped open. But when he scooped her up in his arms to carry her upstairs, the sound of footsteps on the floor above caught him up short. He slowly lowered her to the floor. "Is there someone here?" he asked.
Priscilla patted her chest, finding it hard to catch her breath. "Oh, my goodness! Yes! I forgot... that is... I didn't really forget. I was just momentarily distracted."
"Miss Priscilla?" Trudy's voice called down. "Is there someone down there?"
"Yes, Trudy," Priscilla called up, while hastily rearranging her hair. "Go back to your room."
"Then you'll be coming up soon?" Trudy asked. "I want to talk to you some more about Viscountess Harberton and the Rational Dress Society."
"I won't be long." Priscilla assured her.
Adam's jaws clenched. "Trudy's staying here with you tonight?"
"It's been our arrangement since you left for the ranch," Priscilla replied. "You said you didn't want your mother having to monitor her, and I was afraid Trudy might slip away with her young man, so your mother and I decided this would be the best arrangement until you returned. So you will either have to go to your house or to the Cheyenne Club, because you will not be staying here. But then, that would not have been an option even if Trudy were not here."
"I see," Adam said, fists knotted at his sides. "Like I told you before, my life was a whole lot less complicated before you arrived."
"Well, it can be uncomplicated again, if you stay away from me," Priscilla said, fighting the urge to pound the man's chest... or strip off his clothes, and hers, and shove him to the floor and cover his naked body with hers. Instead, she drew in a long breath to settle the erratic beating of her heart, and said, "I did not ask you to come here tonight. That was your decision. And what you had planned for us was also your decision."
"Maybe what I had planned tonight was mine alone, but to refresh your memory, you were the one who confronted me about divesting you of your maidenhead so you could experience the marital act. I just came here tonight to oblige."
"Well, I wouldn't want to put you out in any way," Priscilla huffed. "In spite of the unappealing way that I look, I imagine I could find a man who would be willing to take care of that problem for me. At least from the neck down I'm not too unsightly."
"There's nothing wrong with the way you look! It's your bloody attitude. You make a man impotent by your sexual demands."
Priscilla glanced down. "You don't seem to be impotent right now."
"No, I'm frustrated as hell!"
"Well, I'm frustrated too, Adam, but circumstances have changed. I still want you to do all the things you described, but I also realize that turning to you for sexual gratification is not enough. I have to feel something for you."
"Then you're telling me you feel nothing for me."
"No. I feel something very strong for you," Priscilla said. "But there has to be more. I have to admire and respect you, and during the two weeks you've been gone, there have been several more acts of violence by cattlemen against homesteaders."
"Miss Priscilla?" Trudy called out. "Is my father here?"
"Yes, Trudy," Priscilla said, disturbed that she would not be able to carry out her thoughts with Adam, when what she'd wanted was his assurance that his men had no part in the two latest incidents. She wanted desperately to love and respect him, because she also wanted him to come to her bed and fulfill his promise.
The footsteps on the stairs quickened, and Trudy emerged from the shadowy stairwell. "Father, why are you here?" she asked, her voice
void of affection.
"I'm here to see Miss Phipps," Adam replied. "How are you?"
"Fine," Trudy clipped. "Are you staying long?"
"Probably not," Adam replied. "Do I get a hug?"
Trudy made no move toward him. "Did you hear about Mr. Watkins' mule?"
Adam looked at Trudy, puzzled. "I don't even know who Mr. Watkins is."
Trudy glared at her father, as if holding him to blame, and said, "Mr. Seth Watkins is a homesteader. Cattlemen shot and killed his mule. He can't work his land and he won't be able to get his crops in. The women were talking about it at the last Town Tattler meeting. And three cowboys attacked the wife of another homesteader. She's too afraid to stay, so they are packing up and leaving."
Adam looked at Priscilla. "This is your doing," he said, "bringing Trudy here and allowing her to listen to all those rabble rousing females at your meetings."
"Trudy staying with me has nothing to do with what's going on between the cattlemen and the homesteaders!" Priscilla paused to draw in a long breath to check her temper, then said in a measured voice, "The acts of violence are happening, and there's no question cattlemen are behind them."
Adam glared at her. "You and the rest of your flock have made up your narrow female minds that cattlemen are behind every misfortune that happens to any homesteader, and nothing's going to change that."
"Narrow female minds!" Priscilla clenched her jaws to keep from spitting out a string of expletives she'd never uttered. When she'd regained her composure, she lifted her chin and said, "Since you're running for mayor, why don't you refute these claims in an opinion piece for The Town Tattler. You could outline the measures you'd take to make sure incidences don't continue to happen. Or if they do, you could assure readers that you will make every effort to see that the perpetrators are held accountable. So far, no one has looked into any of the incidents. It looks very suspicious, since the lawmen who are supposed to be protecting the people were hired by the Stock Growers Association."
Eyes narrowed, fist knotted, legs spread like he was primed for a gunfight, Adam said, "Let's get a few things straight. My men had nothing to do with any of the incidents those women have been filling your head with, and I will not be adding my voice to the gossipmongers who are writing for your paper." He looked up the stairs. "And Trudy, collect your things because you'll be coming home with me. Now!"
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