“Unless you plan to sleep with it on.”
The covers must have muffled her sarcastic words because Alice-Marie said, “What was that?”
Libby flapped the covers down and spoke loudly. “Yes, please turn it off.”
“Very well. Good night, Elisabet. Sleep well. Mother says a proper night’s sleep is very important.”
Libby buried her face once more. Mother says . . . Envy nearly turned Libby’s chest inside out. How she wished she could tell someone, “Mother says . . .” But she didn’t have a mother. Not even an adopted mother. She could say, “Mrs. Rowley says . . .” or “Maelle says . . .” But then people would ask, “Who’s Mrs. Rowley? Who’s Maelle?” No one ever had to ask, “Who’s Mother?”
Libby rolled to her side and squeezed her eyes tight. She was eighteen already—a woman herself. And she was going to be a well-known journalist. Someday, people on the street would say to one another, “Did you read today’s Gazette? Elisabet Conley says . . .” Then they’d quote directly from her articles. Alice-Marie’s mother was only known to Alice-Marie; Libby would be known to thousands. And when that day came, it wouldn’t matter one bit that she was an orphan.
When Libby awakened the next morning, she discovered Alice-Marie had already dressed and gone. She squinted at the round windup clock on her roommate’s bureau and released a squawk of surprise. Almost eight-thirty! Breakfast would end in another thirty minutes. After she’d skipped supper last night, her stomach pinched painfully. She planned to visit the various newspaper offices in town today to seek employment; she needed food to keep up her strength.
She jumped out of bed, slipped into the brown worsted skirt and weskit she’d worn yesterday, and tied her uncombed hair into a ponytail at the base of her skull with an unpretentious piece of brown ribbon. Her fingers trembling, she groped in the bottom of the dark wardrobe and located the black leather satchel Maelle and Jackson had given her to keep her writings organized. For a moment she held the satchel on her open palms, like a servant bearing a crown on a pillow, and held her breath. Within the leather case rested her hope for the future.
Please, oh please, let them be good enough!
She usually allowed Petey to do the praying, but this plea formed in the deepest parts of her being.
Hugging the satchel to her heart, she flung the door open and started to charge into the hallway. She barely remembered to look first. To her relief, the hall was empty. She ran to the staircase and clattered downstairs, her shoes making a terrible racket.
Her feet never slowed as she dashed across the grassy courtyard. Expertly she dodged other students, ignoring their laughs or warnings to be careful, and careened into the dining hall, where she skidded to a stop just inside the door. There she paused to straighten her skirts and smooth the stray wisps of hair around her face before stepping into the room with a decorum that would have made Isabelle Rowley proud.
Most of the tables were empty; only a few students still sat in small groups to finish eating or to chat. She scanned the room for Petey or Bennett but didn’t find them. Disappointed, she picked up a tray. With her satchel tucked under her elbow for safekeeping, she crossed to a long wooden table near the kitchen, where bowls and platters waited. Most of the offerings had been picked over—only a dab of scrambled eggs, a withered apple, and a few dry-looking pieces of toast remaining. With a sigh, she scooped the eggs onto her plate and took a piece of toast.
Looking down at the unappetizing items, she thought about the wonderful waffles and fried sausages Cookie Ramona prepared for breakfast at the orphans’ school. Her mouth watered. If only she were in Shay’s Ford right now!
“Elisabet!” A lilting voice carried across the room.
Libby turned and spotted Alice-Marie with three other girls at a far table.
Alice-Marie waved her hand. “Join us, Elisabet!”
Libby stifled a sigh. She preferred to sit with Petey and Bennett or by herself, but she couldn’t think of a way to gracefully refuse the invitation. So she carried her tray to the table and sat down next to her roommate. “You were up early.”
Alice-Marie simpered. “Yes. I had a meeting with”—she pointed to each girl as she stated their names—“Margaret Harris, Kate Dunn, and Myra Child.” Tipping close to Libby, she whispered, “They’re sophomores, and they’re all members of Kappa Kappa Gamma.” Sitting upright, she beamed at the others. “This is Elisabet Conley. She’s from Shay’s Ford, and she’s my roommate.”
Libby nodded at each of the girls in turn, then dug in to her plate. The eggs were cold and flavorless, the toast dry and hard, but she ate every bite, unwilling to waste it. The others went on talking while she ate, seemingly oblivious to her presence. But as soon as she started to rise with her empty tray in hand, the girl sitting directly across from her—Kate Dunn—grabbed Libby’s wrist.
“Stay for just a bit longer, Elisabet.”
Libby hovered half standing, half sitting. “Actually, I have some errands to run.”
“But we haven’t even had a chance to chat. Surely your errands can wait for another few minutes.”
Alice-Marie turned an imploring look at Libby. Becoming a part of these girls’ sorority was important to Alice-Marie. Even though Libby thought her roommate was somewhat empty-headed, she didn’t want to sabotage her chances for getting into Kappa Kappa Gamma. With a strained smile, she sat down.
Kate sent a quick look around the circle of girls before returning her attention to Libby. “All right, Elisabet, we’re all dying to know . . . aren’t you the girl who was involved in the fisticuffs last night on the lawn?”
The others leaned in like cats around a cornered mouse. Apprehension made Libby’s scalp tingle. It appeared they’d been planning this moment of attack, which was another reason she didn’t like girls. They could be so conniving. She was tempted to tell them they were all mistaken, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to lie. So she squared her shoulders, looked directly into Kate Dunn’s sparkling eyes, and said simply, “Yes.”
Two of them gasped and covered their mouths with their hands. Libby almost rolled her eyes. They’d already known the answer— there was no need for melodramatics.
“So who was that man you were protecting?” Margaret asked. Three freckles stood in a row across her upturned nose, bold as pennies on a sheet of white paper. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“He’s my friend,” Libby snapped. “And he’d done nothing to provoke an attack. That Roy”—she spat the name—“came at us for no reason at all. I’m glad Bennett put him in his place.”
“But, Elisabet, didn’t you know Roy is the captain of the basketball team?” Kate’s face and voice reflected astonishment. “He’s a senior member of Beta Theta Pi. Roy is a very important man on campus.”
“Roy is a bully,” Libby said.
Alice-Marie’s face flushed bright red. Margaret gasped, “Elisabet!” The others shook their heads and stared at each other in dismay.
Libby rose and tucked her satchel under her arm. “I’m just speaking the truth. I hope Roy will stay out of our way from now on, because I know Bennett won’t be afraid to punch him again if he needs it.” And neither will I!
Another round of gasps came from the gathered girls. Libby ignored their reaction and headed for the kitchen to dispose of her tray. She heard one of them say, “Alice-Marie, how can you possibly room with such an undignified girl?”
Alice-Marie’s answer carried to Libby’s ears. “Oh, you have to excuse Elisabet. She’s an orphan, you see—she doesn’t know any better. She might even be an Indian.”
Libby whirled around. “I’m not an Indian!” She wanted to yell, also, that she wasn’t an orphan, but she couldn’t. So she slammed her tray onto the nearest table and escaped.
CHAPTER FIVE
Libby dashed out of the dining hall and ran smack into a solid chest. The impact shocked the air out of her lungs and knocked the satchel from her hand. Little lights danced in front of her eyes. S
trong hands grabbed her upper arms, holding her upright when she might have collapsed. And then a familiar, husky laugh rang.
“Good ol’ Lib, always in a rush and never looking where she’s going.”
Libby recognized Bennett’s voice, but she had to blink several times before her vision cleared enough to bring his square-jawed face into focus. Restored, she tugged loose from his grasp and scooped up her satchel. She clutched it with two hands like a shield. “Sometimes a person needs to hurry.”
Bennett laughed, a few of his freckles disappearing into eye crinkles. “Hoo boy, you’re all fired up. What’s got you in such a lather?”
A huff exploded from Libby’s lips. “Last night we discovered some of the men on this campus are complete barbarians. Today I’m finding some of the women to be unbearable!” She sent a withering look over her shoulder. “Calling me an Indian . . .” She whirled to face Bennett and snapped, “If someone offered me a train ticket right now, I’d go home!”
Bennett stuck his finger in his ear and rotated his hand, as if reaming out his ear. “Did I hear you right? Someone called you an Indian?” Libby huffed again. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just—” She slapped her leg with the satchel. “Girls! Why must they be so . . . girlish?”
Bennett threw back his head and guffawed. Irritation puckered Libby’s lips. She wished she could clop him over the head with her leather case. But his hard head would probably damage the satchel. “Stop that! It isn’t funny.”
He sobered, although his gray-blue eyes twinkled with suppressed laughter. “Sorry, Lib. But sometimes I think you forget you are a girl.”
“How can I forget?” Being a girl had been a problem for years. Her uncle had turned her over to an orphanage after her parents’ deaths, unwilling to raise a girl on his own; prospective adoptive parents passed her by because they wanted sturdy boys to help with chores. Even Maelle, the one Libby loved most of all, had initially been uncertain about spending too much time with her because she feared her unconventional behavior would hinder Libby from becoming the kind of lady of which Mrs. Rowley approved.
She squeezed the satchel, the soft leather warm and pliable beneath her fingers. Being a girl might have robbed her of some opportunities in the past, but she wouldn’t allow a misfortune of birth to stand in the way of her working for a reputable newspaper.
She gave a little jolt. She needed to get to town! “I have to go, Bennett. Are you meeting Petey for lunch?” She inched backward as she spoke.
Bennett shrugged, the suit jacket’s buttons straining with the movement. “Not sure of Pete’s schedule today—he had a meeting or something this morning. Seems to be a lot of those before classes start tomorrow. But I’ll be in the dining hall at eleven-thirty. Wanna join me?”
Libby wrinkled her nose. That wouldn’t give her much time in town. “I’ll try, but no promises.” She lifted her hand in a wave. “See you later! Wish me luck!” She whirled and took off running for the walkway that led to the street.
“Luck? Luck for what?”
Bennett’s voice followed her, but she ignored him and continued on her pell-mell dash. Before coming to Chambers, she’d written to the town’s Association of Commerce and requested the names and addresses of every newspaper in town. She intended to inquire at all three for a position.
Certainly with everything heating up across the ocean, there would be a need for journalists to record the events as they unfolded. Libby had heard Aaron Rowley and Jackson Harders praise President Wilson’s calm demeanor in light of Germany’s aggression—the men seemed certain the president would work to keep America out of the conflict. Thankfully, Petey and Bennett were enrolled in college and were therefore safe from fighting in a war. But if she had her way, she’d be in the thick of it, pad of paper and pencil in hand, reporting every detail of the skirmish. To do that, she had to have a job with a newspaper.
She stopped first at the Chambers Courier. To her delight, she was ushered in to the editor’s office, but her elation quickly dimmed when the man openly laughed at her desire to write news stories.
“You’re too cute, honey,” the man said, giving a brazen wink. “Better suited for a drugstore clerk. Why don’t you check next door—they might be hiring.”
Libby marched right past the drugstore and made her way to the second paper on her list, the Weekly Dispatch. The editor took the time to glance at a few of her writing samples before telling her he didn’t need any other reporters—but was she any good at mopping? He could use a reliable cleaning woman.
Libby reined in her frustration and replied in an even voice. “Sir, I have no desire to clean for your newspaper. I wish to write.”
“Sorry.” He pushed her stack of sample stories across the desk. “I don’t think I’ll ever hire a female to do reporting. As a whole, females are too moody.”
Libby almost proved him right by flying into a temper, but she bit down on the end of her tongue. She gathered her stories, tucked them neatly into her satchel, and charged outside before the angry thoughts filling her head found their way out of her mouth.
On the sidewalk, she looked at the final name on the list and muttered, “My last hope . . .” Sucking in a breath of fortification, she turned on her heel and headed for the red brick building on the corner of Second and Ash. When she reached the glass doors, she raised her chin and marched in, her satchel held in the crook of her arm. She moved directly to the receptionist’s desk and spoke with as much confidence as she could muster. “I’d like a few minutes with the editor-in-chief, please.”
The woman peered at her from behind thick round spectacles. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Houghton?”
Libby didn’t bat an eye. “No, ma’am, but I promise not to take a great deal of his time. Would you please tell him Miss Elisabet Conley from the University of Southern Missouri is here to see him?”
The eyes behind the spectacles narrowed. “You aren’t here to sell him an ad for the yearbook, are you? He already purchased all his ads for this year.”
“Oh no, ma’am.” Libby released a soft laugh, giving the woman a smile. “I assure you, I’m not here to sell him anything.” Except myself . . .
“Well . . .” The woman tapped her pencil against a pad of paper on her desk, scowling. “I suppose it won’t hurt to ask. You stay here.” She screeched her chair legs against the wooden floor, unfolded herself from the seat, and waddled around a corner. Libby waited, battling the urge to tap her toe in impatience. Moments later, the woman returned, followed by a tall, gray-haired man with his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows. Black ink stained the tips of the fingers on his left hand.
“Miss Conley, I’m Fenton Houghton. How may I help you?”
Libby flashed her brightest smile. “Actually, sir, I’m here to help you. Could we possibly retire to your office for a few minutes?”
His lips quirked briefly. “As long as it is just a few minutes.”
Although he maintained a friendly expression, Libby caught the subtle warning in his words. She tipped her head. “Five at most?”
“That I can spare.” He gestured toward the hallway, and Libby clipped behind him. The clack of typewriter keys rang over the mumble of voices, making Libby’s pulse race in curiosity. What stories were being created by the fingers tapping those keys right now? She breathed in the enticing scents of ink and paper, the combination more heady than perfume. This is where I belong!
Mr. Houghton ushered her in to a large cluttered office and pointed to a ladder-back chair. “Have a seat.” He sank into the leather chair behind the desk and leaned back, linking his hands over his stomach. “Don’t tell me—you want to be a reporter.”
Libby’s jaw dropped. “How did you know?”
He waved his hand as if shooing a fly. “I get at least a dozen prospective reporters a year through here. Most of them are . . .” He cleared his throat. “Of the male persuasion, however.”
Of course. “Well, I have no intention of letting my gend
er interfere with my becoming a top-notch reporter.” Libby flopped her satchel open and withdrew a few neatly written pages. “As you can see from my work, I—”
Again, Mr. Houghton put a hand in the air. “Hold it right there, young lady.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk. “How old are you?”
Too stunned to do otherwise, Libby answered automatically.
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Have any training?”
“No, but I am enrolled in the university.”
“First-year student?”
“Yes.”
“In the journalism program?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mm-hmm.” He stroked his upper lip with his finger. “Enrolling more females all the time . . .” He lowered his hand and gazed seriously across the desk. “Miss Conley, let me give you some advice. I can see you’re a determined young woman. I even admire your desire to become—as you put it—a top-notch reporter. But it takes more than drive and determination. It takes experience. And that’s something you don’t have.”
Libby, remembering the morning’s many rejections, blew out an aggravated breath. This man couldn’t reject her, too! “And how am I to get experience if no one gives me a chance?”
Mr. Houghton laughed. “Miss Conley, you’ll have your chance at the university. The journalism program publishes two newspapers right there on campus. You’ll be involved in the production of those publications. There’s your opportunity to build experience.”
But Libby didn’t want her name in a college newspaper; she aspired to greater things. She scooted to the edge of the seat and rested her fingertips on the editor’s desk. “But what if I want something more? Won’t you just look at my writings? My teacher from Shay’s Ford assured me I had a gift.”
“Writers with a gift are a dime a dozen,” the man said with a wave of his hand. “What counts is can—you—do—the—job.” He punched out each word with as much force as a boxer. He pointed at her. “And that assurance comes from building a résumé of writings with an established, recognized publication, such as the newspapers on campus.” He started to rise. “So—”
Kim Sawyer Page 4