Not that taking the two days off had done him any good, in the end. All his efforts, staying home, playing host, gallivanting around the city might have been for naught. Aunt Rosa had told Jana something just before she left this morning; he saw it in her eyes. Brandon didn’t know what, exactly, but he could imagine. He’d left the house as soon as Aunt Rosa’s carriage pulled away, giving Jana no chance to ask him anything.
Jana… Brandon leaned his elbow against the carriage window and gazed out at the passing buildings, yet not seeing any of them. Jana consumed his thoughts, his sleep, every waking moment.
Last night he had almost convinced himself not to go to her bedchamber. He didn’t trust himself to be alone with her. If he touched her again—even her feet—he might give in to temptation.
And he hadn’t been able to come up with a better plan to win her heart. Every time he thought about her, his brain shut down and other body parts started working double-time.
A cold chill passed over him, an old ache he’d experienced too many times already.
Jana was going to leave him.
Again.
He knew it.
Brandon swore a mumbled oath. He couldn’t let her go. He couldn’t bear the thought. Some way, somehow, he had to show her that staying with him was the right thing to do. Right for both of them. But how could he reach her? Convince her to stay?
He blew out a heavy breath, pushing the thought to a far corner of his mind with considerable effort. He was going to his office now. A place where he’d always been comfortable, where he knew exactly what was happening and why. He controlled things there. He’d have some normalcy in his life.
As soon as he got to his office.
“Mr. Sayer!”
His secretary leaped to his feet the minute Brandon opened the outer office door, freezing him in midstep.
“Leave! You’ve got to leave! Quickly!” Mr. Perkins declared, rounding the deck and rushing toward him.
“What the devil’s gotten into you, Perkins?” Brandon asked. He’d never seen the man in such a snit. Eyes bulging, hands waving, white as a sheet.
“It’s not safe here. You’re not safe.” The elderly secretary caught Brandon’s arm and urged him back out the door. In the office adjoining Mr. Perkins’s reception area, Brandon saw his other clerical workers turn worried faces his way.
“What the hell…?”
Afraid Perkins might have a stroke, Brandon stepped out into the corridor.
Sunlight shone through the Bradbury’s infamous glass ceiling overhead. Offices opened onto an interior balcony that stretched the width of all five of the building’s floors. Marble staircases at either end boasted ornately designed railings of wrought iron and polished wood. The walls were gleaming yellow brick. Two birdcage elevators rose toward the roof.
“Get a hold of yourself, man,” Brandon said. “What’s this all about?”
Perkins clamped his hands onto the door casings, bracing himself, and jerked his gaze left, then right toward the dual staircases.
“It’s clear now,” Perkins said, in a low, frantic voice. “But you should use the back stairs, just in case.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on here,” Brandon told him, struggling to hold on to his patience.
“They were here yesterday. Then again this morning. They insisted—insisted—that they be allowed to speak with you.” Perkins drew himself up. “But I held firm, Mr. Sayer. I did just as you said. I told them you couldn’t be disturbed.”
“Who wanted to see me?”
“Then this morning, another group of them showed up,” Perkins said, his voice rising.
“Who?”
“Women!”
Brandon eased back. “Women?”
“Three of them had on trousers! In public! Right here in this very building! In this office! At my desk! Trousers!”
Brandon gave the little man a shake. “Calm down, Perkins. I can’t make head or tail of what you’re telling me.”
He gasped and drew in a quick breath. “The women—a dozen, at least, of those progressive, modern women—came here, ranting on and on about how it was high time a man rose to the moment, faced the future and showcased the need for social change.”
“Who were they talking about?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“They went on and on about how you’re championing the rights of women, advising them on how to break the chains of oppression, freeing them from the drudgery of cooking and cleaning, opening new opportunities for downtrodden women in the city.”
Brandon just stared at Perkins. He’d explained himself, yet Brandon still didn’t have the foggiest idea what he was talking about.
“It’s the newspaper, sir,” Perkins declared, as if reading his thoughts. “The Messenger. It’s been running articles for three days now and—”
Perkins froze, his gaze darting up and down the hallway once more. “They’re back. That bunch from yesterday. I hear them coming.”
Brandon, too, heard the rustle of skirts, the murmur of women’s voices and the shuffle of shoes rising from the staircase at the west end of the building.
Perkins pushed up his chin and stepped in front of Brandon, spreading his arms. “Run, Mr. Sayer. I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”
“Christ…” Brandon gently hustled Mr. Perkins back into the office. But when he saw the women reach the top of the stairs, he steeled himself.
A dozen women—none under the age of forty—steamed toward him. Big hats, and bigger hips. Each wore a scowl and clutched a rolled-up newspaper.
“Ah-ha!” The woman in the lead—Mrs. Fitzpatrick, if he wasn’t mistaken, a pillar of the First Methodist Church off Central Square—pointed her newspaper at him and picked up the pace. The others clipped along behind her.
Brandon fell back a step.
“Mr. Sayer. There you are.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick planted herself in front of him and the other women fanned out in a semicircle, hemming him against the wall.
“This is an outrage,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick declared, holding up the newspaper as if it was a hammer and she was ready—and anxious—to strike a blow. “Decent, God-fearing, church-going people will not tolerate these sorts of actions from you, Mr. Sayer.”
“Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” Brandon said, glancing uneasily at the women, “I don’t understand—”
“You don’t understand? You don’t understand why your Ask Mrs. Avery column is a scandal?” she demanded.
“My—what?”
“It’s a disgrace, an affront to the decent people of this city.”
A murmur went through the crowd of women.
“We’re appalled, Mr. Sayer, by this unseemly advice given out by your Mrs. Avery,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick told him, shaking the newspaper. “Addressing the subject of adultery. Unchristian-like behavior. Appealing to baser instincts. It’s shameful.”
“I—”
“Who is this woman? This Mrs. Avery?”
Brandon didn’t know, but he sure as hell intended to find out.
“I understand your concerns,” he said contritely, nodding to all the women pressing in around him. He’d say most anything to send them on their way so he could get to the bottom of this. “As the owner of the newspaper, I assure each and every one of you that I will look into the matter immediately.”
“See that you do.” Mrs. Fitzpatrick stormed away, the other women giving him one final scathing glare before following.
Brandon pressed his palm to his forehead. Christ, what had happened in the two days he’d been away. And what the hell was Fisk up to at the Messenger? He intended to find out.
But as he headed toward the stairway, office doors opened and out stepped several businessmen, all of them Brandon knew. He suspected they’d been hiding in their offices until the women left.
Not that he blamed them.
“See here now, Sayer,” Owen Franklin said. “We’ve got no problem with you pull
ing that newspaper of yours out of the red.”
Around him, heads nodded.
“But hell, man, what are you thinking running those sorts of articles in the Messenger?” Franklin demanded. “What are you trying to do to us?”
“After reading your newspaper, my wife is wanting to know how much money I have,” another man called out.
“Mine, too,” someone else said. “And she wants a say in where it’s spent.”
“Mine thinks she should have money of her own,” a man near the back called out.
“Rayburn down at the California Bank and Trust told me that yesterday two women came in demanding an accounting of their husbands’ money,” someone else added.
A round of grumbles went through the gathering.
“We can’t have this sort of thing going on,” Franklin said. “Women walking into our banks. Asking about finances? Hell, what will they want next?”
A chorus of agreement rose from the men
“You’d better do something about this, Sayer,” Franklin told him. “And fast.”
With a few departing cold stares, the men moved back down the hallway into their own offices. One remained. Noah Carmichael. Brandon hadn’t noticed him in the group.
“How the hell could you do this, Brandon?” Noah asked, holding a copy of the newspaper. He sounded hurt and confused and angry. “We’re supposed to be partners.”
Brandon shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on, Noah.”
“Where have you been for the last two days? Your newspaper is the talk of the city. Fisk says the presses haven’t stopped rolling. The newsboys are frantic. There’s a line outside the newspaper building, waiting for the latest edition. Fisk can barely keep up with the demand.”
“Because of a few articles?” Brandon asked. It hardly seemed possible.
“Our Jennings project is ruined,” Noah said, his words cold and empty.
Brandon’s stomach clenched. “Christ…”
“We’ve accepted lease fees, shelled out money for architects and construction crews,” Noah told him. “I’ll lose a fortune on this deal. Not to mention the blow to my business reputation.”
“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” Brandon said. “I promise you that.”
But Noah wouldn’t let it go so easily. “I’ve got a wife, Brandon, and a baby on the way. How could you do this to me?”
“Noah, I—”
But he didn’t wait for an answer. Noah slapped the newspaper against Brandon’s chest, walked back into his office and slammed the door.
Brandon stood in the silent hallway, stunned. He looked down at the newspaper Noah had thrust at him.
How could a few articles and an advice column—all aimed at women, apparently—cause such a stir among so many people? Raise the ire of the ladies of the First Methodist Church to the point of frightening poor old Mr. Perkins? Worry his business associates that their wives might actually want a say in their finances?
And turn his friend against him.
Brandon opened the newspaper and read the articles.
“Holy…”
He gulped, then turned to the Ask Mrs. Avery advice column.
“Dammit…” When he got his hands on Oliver Fisk, he was going to kill him.
Brandon headed for the staircase.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Pssst. Mrs. Sayer?”
Jana jumped as she stepped into the office of the women’s refuge and whirled to see Oliver Fisk cowering in the corner.
“Good gracious, Oliver, you startled me,” she said, heaving a sign of relief. “And what are you doing in here? Hiding?”
“Shhh.” Oliver rushed forward and closed the office door. “You—of all people—should understand.”
“Oh. Yes.” Jana put down her little satchel and unpinned her hat. “The newspaper.”
“This is a fiasco. We have to stop running those articles,” he pleaded.
“Stop running them?” Jana laid her hat on the corner cabinet. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he insisted.
Oliver fidgeted worse than usual, adjusting his spectacles, straightening his jacket, tugging down on his shirtsleeves. He looked wild-eyed and frantic, on the verge of an all-out fit.
“Why do you want to stop?” Jana asked.
“Because we have to. The whole city is in an uproar. Those modern, progressive types are lining up against the women from the church. The men are up in arms. I’ve received all sorts of complaints these last few days. Demands that I quit publishing the articles, demands that I don’t quit. I had to sneak out the back door of the newspaper building to get over here.”
“The articles and the Ask Mrs. Avery column are the talk of the town,” Jana agreed.
Before coming to the refuge today she’d had lunch with several friends at the tearoom. The women had talked of nothing but the controversial articles. Women at an adjoining table had broken into their conversation, voicing their own opinions. Jana had forced herself to join in, so as not to draw suspicion.
“Everyone is dying to know who this Mrs. Avery is,” Jana said. “There’s all sorts of speculation.”
“The church ladies demanded that I reveal her true identity.” Oliver’s eyes widened. “I think they intend to do me harm.”
“What about the women here at the refuge?” Jana asked. “Do they suspect anything?”
“No,” Oliver said. “But they cheered—actually cheered—when I stopped by here yesterday. Then they refused to even look at Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes—a fascinating book—and insisted they read the Messenger instead.”
“They cheered my article on proper table settings?” Jana asked.
“It was the Mrs. Avery questions regarding what to do when one suspected her husband of adultery, how to handle a nosy neighbor, dealing with meddlesome in-laws.”
Jana sank into the chair behind her desk.
“How are the advertisers handling this?” she asked.
“We’ve lost a few,” Oliver said, “but we’ve picked up a half-dozen new ones.”
“Circulation?”
“We topped the Times yesterday for the first time ever. But this—this is a complete disaster.” Oliver collapsed into the chair in front of the desk. “It’s awful…just awful. I’d—well, I’d wanted to ask Audrey if I could call on her, and now she won’t have a thing to do with me.”
“She won’t?” Jana asked.
“Well, she probably won’t,” Oliver admitted. “But after my newspaper has instigated this bedlam, why would she?”
“Don’t judge Audrey too soon,” Jana told her. “She just might find that sort of behavior very alluring.”
Oliver’s cheeks flushed, then he shook his head. “I’m no rebel. No social reformer. No crusader.”
“Perhaps you should be,” Jana suggested.
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Do you…do you think I could?”
“Of course you could. The stir the newspaper has caused in only three days points up the need for these topics to be addressed. Change is inevitable.”
“Well, I suppose…”
Jana opened her satchel and handed him several pieces of paper. “Tomorrow’s articles, and the Ask Mrs. Avery column.”
“Don’t bother making up your own questions any longer.” Oliver rose from his chair and fetched his satchel from the corner. He flipped it open on the desk. Out poured dozens of envelopes. “Questions from your public, Mrs. Avery. They’ve flooded our mail chute.”
Jana picked up several of them. “We have to be very careful, Oliver. Keeping Mrs. Avery’s true identity a secret will perpetuate the mystique of the column, ensure that circulation continues to rise.”
“Not to mention that your husband will kill me if he finds out.” Oliver stuffed the papers Jana had given him into his satchel. “I’d better get back to the office.”
“Why not wait around?” Jana suggested. “Audrey’s supposed to be here in a bit.”
Ol
iver winced. “No…no, I can’t face her,” he said, and left the office, closing the door quietly behind him.
Jana opened several of the Mrs. Avery questions and read them over. Problems with husbands, mostly.
She had her own husband-problems to deal with. As Oliver had said, Brandon wouldn’t be happy when he learned that she was behind the newspaper articles and column. Even though that had been her plan all along, she hadn’t anticipated dragging the entire city into a debate on the need for social reform.
Was this another bad decision on her part? Jana wondered. She’d made several already—all of which she’d come to regret. Leaving Brandon in the first place. Running off to Europe. Keeping the baby a secret from him. Not telling him immediately upon her return.
Those choices had all impacted Brandon’s life, as well as hers. Now here was another one. As owner of the newspaper, he’d bear the brunt of much of the public outcry over the Messenger’s content.
But Brandon had made his share of poor decisions, too. He’d ignored her as a bride, hadn’t come after her when she left. He hadn’t even written to her. And when she finally returned, he made no effort to change, at first. He had simply wanted to pick up where they’d left off—despite the fact that those very situations had caused her to leave in the first place.
And he had lied to her about his family, about his past. That hurt Jana as much as everything else. Aunt Rosa had unknowingly given him away. Her cryptic comments this morning were troubling, too. Jana wasn’t sure if she should confront Brandon, or wait until he chose to tell her. Surely there was a reason for his secrecy.
Did Leona Albright figure into the situation? The idea bothered Jana considerably.
She pushed herself to her feet and shoved the dozens of Mrs. Avery letters into her satchel. Her head had started to hurt and she needed some air. Reaching for her hat, Jana decided she’d go to the Morgan Hotel and visit Aunt Maureen. And the baby, of course. Seeing those bright eyes and that happy smile always lifted her spirits.
Yes, she’d got to the hotel. Nothing bad ever happened there.
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