by Delynn Royer
As his appreciative gaze swept over her, Emily was reminded that she looked a fright. “What brings you by, Karl?”
“I apologize for calling without advance notice, Miss Emily,” he began with mock formality, “but the day was so beautiful, I felt the urge to hitch up my new runabout and take her for a whirl around town. Would you care to join me?”
Emily was surprised by the question. It was the kind of question a man asked when he was interested in courting. They had begun a relationship, tentative though it was, years before, but, well, that was so long ago it barely felt real. And hadn’t he heard the rumors?
Emily tried to smooth her disheveled hair. “Well, I, um, I was just helping my mother with the, um...”
Ross intervened. “Bad timing, Karl, old boy.”
Emily glared at Ross, who was too busy gloating at Karl to notice. She remembered that he would be spending this afternoon with Johanna. A picture took form in her mind’s eye—that of her wretched self bent over a steaming washtub, stirring heavy folds of laundry with a dolly stick while Johanna Davenport strolled about town on Ross’s arm.
She faced Karl. “I can be ready in five minutes.”
Karl’s attention shifted from Ross back to her, and his expression of surprise was replaced by an engaging smile. “Wonderful.”
Emily addressed Ross. “Was there anything else you wanted?”
Ross set his jaw. There was a flash of something in his eyes. Jealousy? No, she corrected herself. Anger, of course; anger at being brushed aside.
“No, there was nothing else.” His dark gaze flicked to Karl. “I suppose you two would like to be alone.”
“Yes,” Emily said, forcing a bright smile. “We would.”
“Fine. Think hard about what I said. If you want the job, you’d better apply for it right away. It won’t be open long.” He nodded a curt farewell to Karl as he brushed past them. “See you around, Becker.”
“I look forward to it.” Karl tipped his hat and turned to watch Ross stride across the side yard. He didn’t turn back until Ross had reached the road and entered the bridge, heading toward town. He raised an eyebrow at Emily. “A job?”
“Nothing important.” Emily’s gaze was still glued to the spot where Ross had vanished into the bridge. “Nothing at all.”
*
Ross had walked off most of his frustration by the time he reached Johanna’s house. Or so he’d thought.
Now, he snapped the reins of their buggy, urging one of Malcolm Davenport’s prized bays to pick up its pace on the road outside town. Johanna, dressed in a white dress with pink ribbon trim, was perched by his side. A picnic basket, packed by the Davenport’s cook, sat between them by their feet. But Ross’s mind wasn’t on Johanna or their afternoon outing to Rocky Springs. His thoughts kept returning to the fact that the rig he drove was a partially enclosed, more expensive version of the runabout Karl Becker had pulled into Emily’s side yard this morning. He kept imagining Emily and Karl, sitting side by side and unchaperoned in Karl’s little runabout, and the very thought made his blood boil.
“It’s such a lovely day,” Johanna was saying. “Thank goodness we had this planned, or I would have been stuck attending mother’s tea for the ladies’ auxiliary. Mercy, if I have to sit through even one more of those ...”
Johanna was not an empty-headed woman. She had graduated from the Young Ladies’ Seminary at the head of her class, but when she prattled on like this, Ross was hard-pressed to differentiate her from many of her inane social companions.
His thoughts turned back to Karl and Emily. What was Karl up to? Trying to pick up with Emily where he had left off before the war? In that case, Ross couldn’t understand why Emily was even giving Karl the time of day. If the rumors were true— He checked himself. Of course the rumors weren’t true.
But that didn’t mean Karl was any good for Emily. Even though they had barely spoken in over four years, Ross knew Karl like a brother. When Ross had first met him, Karl was something of a street ruffian, but even with a drunken father to contend with, he always managed to make it to school. He was one of the first boys to befriend Ross after he came to Lancaster, and it wasn’t long before Karl’s two ready fists helped to even the odds when Ross tangled with John Butler and his friends.
Later, Ross and Karl had come of age together, puffing on their first cigars and suffering through their first whiskey hangovers. They’d even managed to shed their virginity on the same night out on the town. Certainly Ross knew his former friend better than anyone. Karl might have gotten himself a college education and a respectable suit of clothes to match, but he was still the same old rogue underneath. Unfortunately, Emily seemed incapable of seeing past his smooth-talking exterior.
“Oh, look!” Johanna interrupted his train of thought to point to a grassy area just off the side of the road ahead. “Let’s stop and have our picnic there.”
“I thought you wanted to wait until we got to Rocky Springs,” Ross said.
“I did, but I’m famished.” Johanna flashed him one of her come-hither smiles. “I just can’t wait that long. Can you?”
Her eyes sparkled a devastating bright blue today. Her honey blond hair was tied back into a netted coil beneath her beribboned straw hat, but a few tendrils had come loose to frame her heart-shaped face. That smile, that tone of voice. I just can’t wait that long. Can you? A double entendre?
Ross tried to gauge her meaning from her expression but couldn’t be sure. They had agreed to wait until marriage to consummate their relationship. Ross was content enough to bide his time since he now knew his chance would come to finally claim this elusive woman and all she stood for as his own. Now, though, the possibility of stealing a few kisses and a fondle or two seemed mighty appealing. It could be just the distraction he needed to get his mind off Emily and Karl.
He scanned the rural landscape. They were on a lonely stretch of road halfway between town and their destination. No other vehicles had passed for at least twenty minutes. Off to the right, behind the grassy area Johanna had indicated, were some weeping willows and a cluster of oaks. Not a soul for miles.
“Well, now that you mention it,” he said, pulling in the reins to slow the buggy, “I’m hungry, too.”
He urged the bay off the road and over to a nearby tree. After securing the reins, he helped Johanna down from the rig and snatched up their folded picnic blanket as well as the covered basket of food.
Johanna strolled over to the nearest weeping willow to pick her way around it delicately. Adjusting her bonnet, she stopped every so often to peer up and determine the angle of the sun. “Mercy, it’s so bright today. I hope I don’t get a burn.”
Ross assumed it wasn’t the pain of a burn she was concerned with so much as the scandal of a freckle, and so he sacrificed his own preference for sitting in the sunlight in favor of spreading their blanket in the shade. “Oh, yes. This is a nice spot,” Johanna concurred.
Ross didn’t actually pull out his pocket watch to time her, but he figured it took at least six minutes for her to situate both herself and the myriad of folds, ruffles, hoops, and crinoline that comprised her afternoon attire. Once she was comfortable, she uncovered the basket and produced two plates, two immaculate linen napkins, a dish of cold fried chicken, and two slices of apple pie. She stopped and frowned down into the empty basket. “Oh, mercy. Cook forgot to pack the utensils.”
“We don’t need utensils.” Ross doffed his derby, tossed it onto the blanket, and endeavored to move closer. It wasn’t easy, considering the many layers of crisp white muslin that protected her as effectively as a stockade fence. “It’s just chicken.”
She wrinkled her nose, still peering into the basket. “But it’s so greasy.”
“We’ve got napkins.” Ross took her by the chin and forced her to look at him. When he leaned forward to kiss her, he bumped his forehead against the brim of her bonnet.
“Oh, Ross, not here. We’re in public.”
Ross
glanced over his shoulder to see that their “public” consisted of her father’s prize bay, who seemed content to ignore them as he grazed. “I don’t think Chester cares much if we steal a few kisses, Johanna.”
“But anyone could come riding by, and what would they think?”
Ross was annoyed. Despite himself, he was imagining Karl and Emily in a hot, heaving embrace in Karl’s runabout, and it just about snapped his patience. “They’d think we’re engaged to be married, so what the hell difference does it make?”
Johanna nibbled her lower lip. Her gaze shifted to the empty road before moving back to Ross. “I suppose just one little kiss won’t hurt.”
Forcing down all grating thoughts of Karl and Emily, Ross tugged on the bow to Johanna’s bonnet. “That’s right, it won’t hurt at all.” When he leaned toward her again, he pushed her bonnet back to tumble out of his way.
They kissed twice before her lips parted beneath his, then... nothing.
Puzzled by his own lack of response, Ross shifted position, pulled her closer, and deepened their kiss. She did all the right things. Her delicate tongue danced against his, she even brushed against him and made a tiny sound in her throat, yet Ross didn’t feel the pleasurable rush of arousal that he’d anticipated.
He pulled back to study her face. Her eyes were closed, her lovely pink lips still slightly parted. She was as beautiful as ever, the girl of his adolescent dreams. He should have been game. Hell, he should have been straining at the bit for her. But he wasn’t. He didn’t feel much of anything but a confused surge of frustration.
Johanna’s long brown lashes fluttered open. Round blue eyes blinked at him, and he was absurdly reminded of the vacant, blown-glass gaze of a French fashion doll. “Is something wrong, Ross?”
Something. Yes. Perhaps he was just too distracted. He had a lot on his mind lately.
“Ross?”
“No,” he said, forcing a smile. “There’s nothing wrong.”
“Good,” she said, then flashed a dazzling smile of her own. “Shall we eat?”
Chapter Eight
Perhaps it was true that Ross still knew Emily a little better than she cared to admit. After she took a couple of days to think over his job offer, she came to the conclusion that not admitting this annoying fact was hardly worth running herself ragged at the Blue Swan. Besides, she had begun to formulate plans of her own, plans that would be better served by swallowing her pride and applying to Malcolm Davenport for the job of advertising assistant.
Upon entering the building at nine-fifteen Monday morning, Emily was taken aback by the grandeur of the front business office. This was the first time she’d had occasion to set foot in enemy territory.
An immaculate waiting area with a marbled floor, cushioned armchairs, and potted ferns had been arranged before a long mahogany counter. The office area behind the counter boasted no fewer than four employees, all of whom seemed occupied with mountains of paperwork. Out of the three, Emily recognized only the business manager, a sharp-eyed, German-born man named Oberholtzer. He had been with the Herald since before Malcolm Davenport had taken over from his father.
After stating her purpose, Emily crossed the mahogany barrier and followed a clerk through a rear doorway to a sizable job printing department. Here, she met with the sights, sounds, and smells she recognized and loved. Men in smudged aprons and rolled-up shirtsleeves. The creaks and groans and scrapes of wood working on metal. She counted five job presses, four of which were actively engaged.
Once ushered up a staircase to the second floor, she stepped into an open office area cluttered with flat-top desks and chairs, many of which were still empty, since the reporters and copyboys didn’t begin their workday until nine-thirty.
As soon as the clerk announced her presence to Mr. Davenport, it became apparent to Emily that Ross had already laid the groundwork for her. Malcolm appeared not at all surprised by her visit. In fact, he welcomed her boisterously, offering—for the benefit of those few ears perked and present—his most sincere condolences on the recent passing of her father. Then he closed the door to his office and offered her a seat.
Malcolm was a big man, tall and square-shouldered, with a build more suited to the back-breaking labor of a miner or a farmer than that of an office-bound newspaper editor. As he stood behind his desk, Emily folded her hands in her lap and tried not to appear intimidated by his sheer size and bulk.
When she stated her purpose, she was dispirited to note that he didn’t deign to sit. All the better to look down upon her with those penetrating steel gray eyes that so perfectly matched the flocculent set of side whiskers he’d cultivated for as long as she could remember.
“I don’t normally hold with hiring women,” he pronounced. “Their very presence tends to disrupt the smooth functioning of the staff.”
Emily sat still as a lamppost, listening politely as Mr. Davenport discoursed upon the virtues of womanhood and the vices of man’s workaday world. It was a mix that apparently gave him night sweats to even contemplate, yet after all was said and done, he condescended to grace her with a patriarchal smile. “However, due to my great respect for your lately departed father and your extensive background in newspapering, I’m inclined to make an exception in your case, Miss Winters. You may start tomorrow.”
By the time Emily left Malcolm’s office, the city room was filling with bearded, cigar-chomping reporters. Emily did her best to ignore the only clean shaven one in the bunch, but it was fairly impossible, since his desk was so close to the managing editor’s office.
“Good morning, Miss Winters.”
“Good morning, Mr. Gallagher,” she said, brushing by him with a glance and curt nod.
“See you tomorrow, Miss Winters.”
Oh, but how Emily grated her teeth as she tramped down the narrow staircase that led to the ground floor. Humble pie had never been one of her favorite dishes.
*
Malcolm Davenport had spoken the truth when he’d told Emily that he was disinclined to hire women.
After reporting to work at eight-thirty the following morning and being given a brief tour, she began to suspect that she was the only representative of the fair sex in the entire building.
Her immediate supervisor, Freddy Brubaker, was not much older than she. Although he hadn’t attended the same grammar school as Emily, she remembered seeing him about town. He had been a chubby, ordinary-looking boy with a mop of nut brown hair and a clubfoot that later limited him to serving in the Invalid Corps during the war. By now, he had grown from chubby to stocky and was attempting with little success to grow Davenport-like side whiskers.
Although Freddy, a mild-tempered sort, tried his best to be polite, Emily could tell by the pained, squinched-up expression on his face that he was less than enthusiastic about having a woman assist him at his new job as head of advertising.
When Emily finally sat down to work in the office across the hall from the city room, she resolved not to let such prejudice deter her. If there was one thing she knew, it was the newspaper business, and so she resolved to prove to every condescending male in the place that their unspoken biases were wrong. It was a resolution easier made than accomplished.
She’d written copy for ads before, but she’d never spent eight to ten hours a day immersed in the stuff. She sold dry goods and fancy goods, balmoral shoes and hoopskirts, waterproof shirtfronts, suspenders, and boots. She sold various and sundry items to ingest, inhale, imbibe, and apply, from Turkish smoking tobacco to Arctic Cream Soda to Dr. Starr’s Chemical Hair Invigorator.
By the end of the week, her head was in a spin and her vision was bleary from setting fine type. But she had accomplished her purpose, at least as far as Freddy was concerned. The pained, squinched-up look on his face was gone. Not only could his female assistant write advertising copy, she could set it as quickly and accurately as any of the men in the composing department.
When Freddy handed her the bank draft that represented her first
week’s pay, Emily felt a sense of satisfaction she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Even if this wasn’t the newspaper work that she loved, it was at least newspaper work.
Perhaps that was why she felt such a bothersome twinge of guilt as, at five o’clock on Friday, she pretended to be busy with last-minute details as Freddy put on his frock coat and called out that he would see her bright and early Monday morning.
Emily bid him a pleasant good evening as he hobbled out, then continued to shuffle some papers on her small desk as the rest of the second floor business office emptied. All but Mr. Oberholtzer.
The elderly office manager was notorious for working until all hours of the evening, but Freddy had told her that he made it a point to be home for supper every Friday. In fact, he hadn’t missed a Friday night supper with his wife in twenty years.
Emily was counting on him not to break with tradition tonight.
When he finally pulled the Venetian blinds in his private office and emerged wearing his top hat and carrying his cane, it was almost five-thirty.
“Still at work, Miss Winters?” He spoke with a thick German accent and peered down his hook nose at her through bifocals. There was something in those sharp, slate blue eyes that caused a shiver to trickle down Emily’s spine. He was the type of fellow who would be suspicious of his own shadow, never mind the daughter of a man who was once a fierce competitor.
“Yes, Mr. Oberholtzer. I want to get a head start on Monday morning.”
“Commendable, Miss Winters, but you should not so unduly exhaust yourself. Your family expects you home, ja?”
She glanced at a square-faced wall clock and pretended surprise. “Oh, goodness. I hadn’t realized how late it was. I’ll be sure to finish up soon.”
Oberholtzer glanced from the clock to her then back at the clock. He was torn. No doubt Mrs. Oberholtzer had pork and sauerkraut waiting, “Ja. Soon, then.” He turned to leave. “Be sure to lock the door behind you.”
“I certainly will, Mr. Oberholtzer. Good evening.” When she was sure he was gone, Emily scurried to the door to see if anyone else still loitered in the hallway. It was empty.