by Susan Wiggs
But she was a modern woman. She was not supposed to feel this way about Randolph Higgins, or any man.
Dragging herself to her senses, she snatched her hand away. “No!”
“What?”
“I will not dignify your outrageous proposal with any further discussion.” She prepared to march down the beach and collect her mother and daughter.
“Before you leave,” he said coldly, “at least listen to what it is you’re turning down.”
“I know what I’m turning down,” she retorted, pacing in agitation as he’d done a few moments ago. “I am turning down a life of servitude. I am turning down an invitation to surrender my right to property, liberty and prosperity for the dubious honor of subjugating my will to your needs.”
“As to those needs,” he interrupted. “If you would stop ranting for a minute you might learn something.”
“I’m not ranting, I—” But she was. In this, at least, he was right. She snapped her mouth shut and folded her arms.
“This is an arrangement for the sake of Maggie, not for you or me. We’d be marrying for love. Not for each other, but for a child. People have started with far less than that.”
“Wars have started with far less than that,” she countered.
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “I propose a marriage of mutual convenience. As to my ‘needs,’ which you seem so obsessed with, you won’t be bothered by them. Believe me, my ‘needs’ do not include bedding a cranky, disagreeable suffragist who talks too much and says too little.”
There was no other way to describe the sensation: her cheeks flamed. “Well,” she said in a huff.
“You’re not getting any younger, Lucy, and I’m not getting any better looking. I don’t see prospects lining up to court you. I might just be your last chance at marrying.”
“You’re assuming I even want that chance. I don’t have to stay and listen to this.” She turned on her heel.
“Not,” he snapped, “unless you want to be with Maggie.”
She stopped cold, spinning back to face him. Maggie. How dare he use the child as a tool of manipulation? Yet now she had no choice. “I’m listening.”
He eyed her warily. “Then don’t interrupt.”
“But I—”
“I said, don’t interrupt. This is getting tedious.”
Without a word, she sat back down on the bench and scowled at him as he took a seat beside her. “Have you ever contemplated the meaning of the wedding vows, Miss Hathaway? For better for worse…”
“For richer for poorer…”
“In sickness and in health…”
“Until death do us part,” she concluded. “I consider it the most solemn of vows. It implies an abiding commitment I have always felt ill prepared to give. That’s one reason I never married.” She shifted her gaze away, loath to admit that the other reason was that no man had ever wanted her.
“Perhaps you’re wiser than I credit you for.”
“Or perhaps,” she admitted, “I’m merely saying so because I am a complete failure in the marriage market. I was a sore trial to my parents. All they ever wanted was for me to marry well. I’ve done a good many other things, but never that.”
“Now you have a chance,” he said. “I’ll be frank, Miss Hathaway. I didn’t want to make you this offer. For obvious reasons, I am dubious about the reality of marital bliss. I looked at every possible option. I considered asking you to live here without marrying me, but that would subject Maggie to derision and scorn for living with unwed parents.”
“Public opinion has never bothered me, nor does it bother my daughter.”
“Oh, Lucy,” he said, surprising her by using her given name. “It does, though you try so hard to pretend otherwise. And when Maggie’s older, she’ll care, too.”
She fell silent, resenting him for his insight, resenting him because he was correct.
“The point is, I’m not making this offer lightly. Nor do I expect you to accept a conventional arrangement. Here is what I propose. We’ll be married in a quiet ceremony. You will move into the house. Naturally, I would hope your mother would come, too. Maggie loves her very much.”
Mother. Lucy’s gaze sought her out on the beach, where she stood watching for otters with Maggie. How she would adore this place in all its elegance and splendor. Now Lucy understood why Mr. Higgins had included Viola in the summons today. He must have known she would be enchanted by the beauty of his home. Despite her acceptance of their reduced circumstances, she’d always missed the way of life she’d enjoyed when the Colonel was alive, and Mr. Higgins was smart enough to sense that.
“Have you considered precisely how things will be if I were to move into your house?” she asked him. She couldn’t believe she was actually considering this, and yet she was intrigued.
“We shall live like any proper couple in separate chambers, only in our case the door adjoining our rooms will remain shut.”
How she must repulse him. Her pride wanted her to walk away. Then she thought of Maggie and her mother, and her selfishness retreated.
“Of course,” he said, “you’ll have to give up all your lovers.”
She gave a brittle laugh. “Even the French ones? But they were my favorites.” Studying his face, she realized he was serious. He’d actually believed her when she’d spouted off about her liaisons. This man had no idea what equality for women was really about. “Very well,” she said, “You won’t find any man near me. You have my guarantee on that.”
“As to guarantees, I’ve drawn up a written agreement, securing each party’s rights.”
She clutched her hands into her skirts, trying to keep her temper in check. How smugly certain he’d been that she would accept his offer. Yet such a measure seemed…reasonable. For decades, advocates of women’s rights had extolled the virtues of such agreements before marriage. But Mr. Higgins opposed equality for women—he’d said so many times. He was probably worried about her laying claim to his fortune as the first Mrs. Higgins had. Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, she said, “I would have to study this agreement very closely.”
“I’m sure you’ll see that the terms favor Maggie, if anyone.”
“When a woman marries in the state of Illinois, her property is surrendered to the husband. If I were to consider your offer, I’d expect a special exemption for my shop. I want the right to earn and keep my own money.”
“I assumed you’d want to sell The Firebrand. The struggle to make your way in the world would be over, Miss Hathaway.”
“That proves you don’t know me at all. If I had a million dollars ten times over, I would not give up my shop. Would you forfeit your position at the bank if you suddenly found some other means of support?”
“Don’t be absurd. I love the bank. Until you brought me Maggie, it was my life.”
“So you’ll advance your career at the bank, and I shall devote myself to Maggie.”
“Exactly.” He looked supremely satisfied.
“When she’s grown, you’ll still have your career, but I shall have an empty nest. Don’t you see this is the dilemma of all women? They are obliged to put aside their own dreams and ambitions until all opportunities have passed them by. I shall be like a cart horse used during its prime strength and then sold to the knacker when it’s too feeble to work anymore.”
“That’s a bit dramatic.”
A seagull hovered like a kite in a gust of wind, its plaintive cry sharp in the silence between them. She focused on the mundane sight of the bird. On such an ordinary afternoon, she couldn’t believe they were having this extraordinary conversation. She couldn’t believe that she, plain Lucy Hathaway, whom no man had ever looked at with anything but scorn, might suddenly have a husband.
In the back of her mind, she had always kept a slender possibility tucked away, the possibility that she would fall in love. If she married this man, based on a cold contract, all possibility would die.
But she would be Maggie’s mother.
> “Say you’ll do it, Miss Hathaway,” he urged her. “Do it for Maggie.”
She couldn’t speak, but backed against the hard iron rail, holding it with both hands as Maggie and her mother came hand in hand along the esplanade looking like figures in a Renoir painting, surrounded by sunshine filtered through green leaves and glancing off blue water. They looked so perfect and happy in this setting, as if they belonged here and here alone.
She felt as though she stood on a high, sharp precipice, with a forest fire burning behind her and a yawning canyon below. She went through her options, tried to find some other way out of the dilemma. But Mr. Higgins had already enumerated and discarded all the possibilities until she had no choice. No choice but one.
Seventeen
On Lucy’s wedding day, the lake generated a storm of stiff winds, swirling rain and seething clouds.
Imprisoned by a whalebone and buckram corset, she stood in the apartment over the shop, which had been closed in honor of the occasion. Her mother, Patience and Willa Jean hovered around her, preparing her as if she were a princess bride.
At her mother’s insistence, Lucy wore her best gown of watered silk adorned with satin ribbons in a pale green color that made her look as sick and pallid as she felt. Each sumptuous layer of the costume represented another bar in the cell to which she’d consigned herself. She wanted to approach this with cool determination and her eyes wide open. But the truth was, she felt as fearful as a virgin bride—which, ironically, she was.
Her mother tugged and twisted and pinned her hair into a painfully neat arrangement that pulled at Lucy’s eyes. The thick, coiled braid was crowned with a veil and anchored by combs. When Viola stepped back, tears shone in her eyes. “Imagine,” she said, leaning on Willa Jean for support. “My daughter, a bride at last.”
“Oh, Mother.” Lucy’s patience strained to its limit. “This isn’t a love match to get all sentimental over.”
“Marriages have started out for lesser reasons than the love of a child,” her mother said.
“Take joy where you find it, girl,” Patience admonished. “Don’t be looking away from the gifts of the Lord.”
Lucy rubbed her temples, resisting the urge to tear out the combs stabbing at her scalp. “Remind me, Patience. What gift would that be?”
“A daddy for that sweet baby of yours,” Patience said, her powerful affection for the child shining in her smile. As the cleric who would officiate, she looked splendid in a stiff collar and somber robe, her hair done neatly in a bun at the nape of her neck. “A fine new home for you and your mama. The good Lord arranged it all, and you got no business asking why.” Patience had that special look on her face, the one she always got when she was doing the Lord’s work. “Now, just you wait here, honey. Willa Jean and I’ll go down and wait for the coach.”
Lucy paced the small room. Since Mr. Higgins’s shocking proposition, she’d been as nervous as Silky the cat when Mrs. McNelis brought her obnoxious pug dog into the shop. Once Lucy had agreed to the marriage, she felt as though she’d stepped into a storm from which there was no escape, swept up in a whirlwind of preparation that left no time to think or reflect. That was probably a good thing, since if she thought about it she would know how foolhardy it was to sacrifice her freedom to a man.
Still, Mr. Lynch had approved the marriage agreement with only minor alterations. Mr. Higgins claimed he had no interest in seizing her property. He simply wanted Maggie to live with two loving parents—and he wanted protection for his own property should Lucy decide to undo the arrangement.
Painful experience had taught him that sort of caution.
Lucy scowled away the thought. How awful of her, already thinking of Diana as the wicked First Wife. Like every woman alive, Mrs. Higgins deserved the right to escape her marriage if she wished it. But a part of Lucy—a part she was not proud of—had already tarred and feathered the woman who had left her wounded, grieving husband lying in a hospital. Still, Lucy had only this one side of the story. One of her favorite customers, Sarah Boggs, was married to a man everyone respected, but Sarah bore his private abuses. Yet Lucy could not imagine Mr. Higgins raising his hand to a woman.
“What is this frown?” her mother asked, neatening Lucy’s sash. “This is a day for joy, not for scowling and regrets.”
Turning to her mother, she said, “Everything’s happening so fast. All my life I’ve devoted myself to proving a woman can survive without a man. And here I am violating everything I believe in.”
“Oh, Lucy.” Her mother fluffed out the ridiculous veil. “Such talk and carrying on. For years I’ve stood by and watched with pride while you rescued us from poverty, started your bookstore and raised a happy, healthy daughter.”
Unexpected warmth filled Lucy’s heart. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Let me finish. I’ve listened to the speeches at your suffrage rallies, and I admire your devotion to women’s rights, but the truth is, my darling daughter, as smart as you are, you have peculiar ideas about love and marriage.”
The warmth cooled considerably. “I never claimed any special expertise in that area.”
“That’s why you’re so afraid.” Viola picked up her summer lace gloves from the hall tree and carefully put them on, finger by finger. “Oh, yes, I know you’re afraid, though you’ve done your best to hide it. But you needn’t be. There is great power and beauty in a good and loving marriage.”
Driven by the lake winds, the summer rain lashed at the windowpanes, blowing the curtains inward. Agitated, Lucy went to latch all the windows. Then she checked the gas jets to make sure they were all turned off, and tightened the lid on the kerosene can; they wouldn’t be returning to their little abode over the shop for a long time. Maybe never.
“I’ve done fine on my own,” she said. “For that matter, Mother, so have you. We’ve been free to make our own way in the world any way we please. I’m not looking forward to the prison of marriage.”
“Dear, this is your doing,” her mother reminded her. “Even if you won’t admit it, you want this. You want to make a family for Maggie.” Viola deftly pushed a hatpin through the crown of her bonnet. “My love for the Colonel and his for me was not a prison but a place of sanctuary and growth, a place where I brought forth a daughter in joy and where my happiness was complete.”
Moving away from the rain-blurred window, Lucy stared at her mother. She’d never heard her speak with such vehemence. She’d assumed Viola lacked passion and conviction but that wasn’t the case at all. It was simply that Lucy’s mother had reserved her passion for her marriage and family rather than a social cause.
“Here,” Viola said, flushed from her outburst, “come over to the looking glass and see what a lovely bride you are.”
Taking Lucy by the hand, she led her to the tall, oval cheval glass that stood in a hinged frame in the corner. It was a mistake. She looked absurd, a sad and cynical parody of a bride. She was too old, too tall, too dark, too skinny, too…everything.
She looked like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters.
A terrible shame heated her throat. For all her fierce convictions and impassioned politics, she hadn’t been able to rid herself of a disgraceful, private yearning that had plagued her all of her life.
“Lucy, please,” her mother pleaded softly, kindly. “What’s bothering you now?”
Lucy closed her eyes, then opened them. The loving regard in her mother’s face proved to be her undoing, drawing from her a candor she could not stifle.
“Couldn’t I just for one day be pretty?” she asked in an aching whisper. There. She had done it. She’d finally revealed how shallow and superficial she was. And how pathetic, wishing for something that could never come true.
“Oh, Lucy.” Pure, maternal understanding shone in Viola’s eyes. “You’re so much more than pre—”
“Please.” Lucy held up a hand. “You’ll only make it worse. I know what I am, and what I am not, and wishing for anything different is a waste o
f time.” She hugged her mother and stepped back, forcing a smile. “There. My moment of doubt is over.”
She avoided the looking glass after that and concentrated on her purpose. For the sake of Maggie, she’d agreed to bind her life to Randolph Higgins. In the contract, she followed the example of Dr. Lucy Stone, who had kept her maiden name after marriage. There wasn’t a thing wrong with the name Hathaway, and she didn’t intend to give it up. In claiming her rights in the marriage contract she’d struck a blow for women everywhere.
But even that failed to calm her racing heart. Only one woman had to marry Randolph Higgins today.
Squaring her shoulders, she led the way down the stairs to the small, tiled foyer where Patience and Willa Jean stood looking out at the dreary day.
A giant holding an umbrella came to the door and pulled it open. Willa Jean gave a cry of delight when she saw him. Eugene Waxman, nicknamed Bull, had been courting her for several months. He was the largest man Lucy had ever seen. His skin was the color of buffed ebony, and when he grinned, the day grew brighter. In a tailored suit, new spats buttoned around his ankles and a round derby hat crowning his head, he made an impressive sight.
Bull was a powerful reminder that people were capable of changing for the better. The night of the Great Fire, he had been among dozens of convicts released in a panic as the city burned. He’d made the mistake of trying to rob Kathleen O’Leary, who had not only foiled the attempt, but befriended him. Now he was employed by Dylan Kennedy, and his dream was to build a bungalow and marry a strong woman with a ready laugh—a woman like Willa Jean Washington. She had asked him to accompany them aboard the coach to city hall.
“Ready?” Lucy quelled a flutter of foolish excitement in her chest and herded everyone out the door. Sheltered by the wide umbrella, they moved in a little knot to the curb.
Holding another umbrella high, the smartly dressed driver waited to help them into the coach. Lucy could feel the press of attention emanating from the nearby shops. All the merchants, tradesmen and shopkeepers who shared her little section of Gantry Street watched from doorways and windows. It had been impossible to keep the news of her hasty marriage quiet.