The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  "I really hate to keep interrupting you this way, but I must. There's absolutely no point in going over your request again, Libby."

  "But, why not?"

  He looked at her as if he wanted to cry. "You leave me no choice but to inform you that, should you run even one more article or editorial in favor of women's rights, I'll be forced to close the doors of the Tribune faster than your suffragist friends can cry 'foul'."

  Chapter 10

  The elder Savage had of course hired San Francisco's finest orchestra to entertain his guests. Throughout the afternoon and early evening, the musicians pretty much kept to the more mellow tunes by such composers as Tchaikovsky and Brahms. At the precise moment Francis finished his statement, however, they happened to strike up a rousing rendition of "I'll Be Ready When the Great Day Comes."

  Had he not noticed that Libby's hands were curled into fists, and been concerned that she was thinking of doing unto his brother as she'd done unto his mother, Donovan might have commented on the irony of it all. Instead, he hooked elbows with Libby, and pulled her away from Francis as he said to him, "If you'll excuse us, please? That's the song we've been waiting to dance to."

  Donovan managed to whip Libby in an arc that took her out of range, view, and even hearing distance of his brother, before she finally balked at his interference. "Turn me loose." She yanked free of his grip. "I don't want to dance with you, so leave me alone."

  "Relax, Lippy, and don't worry—I don't want to dance with you either." Glancing around for an area where their conversation couldn't be overheard, he prodded her toward the gurgling fountain, cautioning her along the way. "If you want to keep so much as a sliver of a chance to change the company policy, I suggest you keep your complaints to yourself for the time being."

  Tears stung the backs of Libby's eyes as Donovan marched her across the room, but she refused to give into them. Heeding his advice, she muttered low and under her breath, "Oh, what's the use of keeping up pretenses? You heard what your brother said. I don't even have that sliver of a chance, and you know it."

  There wasn't much Donovan could say to that. He didn't know a thing about the newspaper business, or Francis really, but he sensed the man had done all he could. As for Libby—although he wasn't one who paid much attention to women's politics—he did know how very much equal rights and the crusade to achieve them meant to her. Even now, broken-hearted as she must be, she was tough to the end, her eyes moist, but filled with as much rage as hurt. He thought he'd washed his hands of Miss Liberty Ann Justice, and several times over, too, but Donovan suddenly found himself enlisting in her army of one.

  "Maybe all isn't lost. There must be a way for us to get your point across."

  "Us?" She blinked back a tear.

  "If you don't mind a little help."

  Fresh tears glistened in her eyes, so Donovan glanced away to give her enough privacy to put herself together. As he looked over everyone else in the room, his gaze caught on the brilliant display of opulent jewels at the throats of society's most elite women, who were huddled together in conversation. Settling on the most outrageously ostentatious female of them all, Olivina Blair Savage, Donovan decided that Libby's plight suddenly didn't seem quite so futile.

  He turned to her with a big grin, relieved to see that she was dry-eyed. "Don't give up the ship just yet, madam editor. There's one angle you haven't thought of—other women." Nudging her to glance over where his "stepmother" was holding court with the other ladies of prominence, he asked, "Do you remember what R. T. said about going to see what his wife wanted, and the way he emphasized the word, now?"

  Libby frowned. "Yes, but—"

  "Didn't that comment give you the impression that her opinion carried a little weight with the man?"

  "Sure, it did. But I also remember that Francis is the managing editor of the Savage newspaper empire, while your father just sits in his chair and rakes in all the money. I don't see what difference it makes, whether he values his wife's opinion or not."

  "Don't be so sure. I've been watching this family closely all day." Boy, had he been studying them—that and trying to imagine himself squeezed into the family portrait. Donovan could hardly believe it was true—not simply to learn that he finally had a family to call his own, but to find that it was this one, the prominent Savage clan. The very idea boggled his mind. "Believe me," he went on to say, vaguely smug in his assessment of his father, "nothing happens here or at Savage Publishing that R. T. doesn't oversee or approve personally."

  "You really think he makes the final decisions about everything?" Libby glanced at him with anticipation. "Including the Laramie Tribune?"

  This was the look he liked best: the scheming, calculating, alive with intelligence woman who would not back away from her ideals for anyone—man or woman.

  Resisting a sudden urge to steal a kiss, Donovan said, "I'd bet my last dollar on it—and coming from me, that's about as fine a recommendation as you can get."

  Libby snapped her head around toward the women so fast, one of her artfully arranged curls tumbled down to the center of her back. "Which one is Olivina?"

  Admiring her predatory instincts, he laughed as he said, "Damn, Libby—can't you guess by looking at them?"

  "I'm trying, you fool." Whispering, she glared at him. "I can't see, remember? I'm not about to put my glasses on here either. Now which one is she? The blur in the middle or the blur on the left?"

  Still laughing, Donovan reclaimed her hand. "Come on. I'll introduce you, but after that, you're on your own."

  Thankfully, Donovan took his time with the introductions, giving Libby ample opportunity to study the two women who could be most important to her cause. As Olivina clasped Libby's hand in greeting and offered her a warm welcome, Libby realized why Donovan thought the woman so easy to spot. She stood out like a raging prairie fire at midnight. Not only was Olivina a stunningly beautiful blond, but her slender figure was highlighted by a tightly fitted dress made of cream satin embroidered with beads of every color imaginable. The extra-long train, which was gathered twice to form two bouffant puffs below her waist, was also made of satin. Its deep rose color matched the diamond and ruby parure at her throat, as well as her cream satin slippers, which sported buckles studded with diamonds and rubies. With every little movement, no matter how slight, she glittered like a life-sized gemstone. Libby had never seen anything quite like her.

  "And this is my sister, Susan," she heard Donovan say. Barely able to tear her gaze from Olivina, Libby turned to R. T.'s youngest child, who, though elaborately gowned, was a far cry from the sparkling display of her stepmother. She wore a low-cut evening dress of sea-foam green silk trimmed with white lace and large clusters of roses in pink, cream, and deep burgundy. Just the toes of her green satin slippers peeked out from beneath yards and yards of lace underskirts. But, as far as Libby could tell, her only jewelry was a single diamond pendant shaped like a teardrop.

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Justice," she murmured. A coil of coffee-brown hair dangled along one of Susan's creamy shoulders, swinging like a pendulum every time she moved her head. Between her reticent manner and her appearance, there wasn't much about Donovan's half sister to remind Libby of him. But then Susan offered a warm smile, the familiar expression around her mouth drawing much more than Libby's gaze, and asked, "Will you be visiting our city long? Maybe I could show you around."

  "Oh, I wish I could join you, but I'll be leaving soon, I'm afraid. I'd really like to take you up on the offer, but I don't see how I can." And she meant it, too.

  "Excuse me for interrupting," said Donovan, doing just that, "but I think I'll leave you ladies and go about getting a drink." He tried to duck away, but one of the women, a countess something from a country he couldn't remember, placed a restraining hand upon his forearm.

  "Don't rush off just yet," she said in a perfectly modulated voice. "Please promise first that you'll consider coming to my party next week. We're hosting the Young Gentlemen'
s Ball this year, and you simply must attend, or the single ladies, my daughter among them, will be very disappointed."

  "In that case, I'll have to make every effort to be there. I try never to disappoint a young lady." Donovan thought he heard a groan coming from the left of him where Libby was standing, but before he could check on her, the countess was patting his arm again.

  "Do be sure to look up my husband, the Earl of Dufferin, and give him your card, so we can send you a proper invitation."

  Donovan wondered briefly if the matron would be so anxious to include him in her party if she knew his card was the jack of diamonds. Grinning to himself, he promised, "I'll just go see if I can't find your husband now. Maybe I can talk him out of one of his cards, while I'm in the area." With a slight bow, he made a hasty departure.

  Libby, who'd been watching Donovan's performance with decidedly less enthusiasm than the countess, glanced back to the other ladies to find Olivina in the midst of studying her—and with a good bit of curiosity apparent in her pale blue eyes.

  "Donovan said that you were here visiting San Francisco, but he neglected to mention where you hail from or what connection you have to him." She flipped the jewel-encrusted wrist that held a Louis XV fan. "I can't say I recall knowing a Justice family here in California."

  "I'm from Laramie, in Wyoming Territory, ma'am." Libby allowed the pause as Olivina exchanged glances with the other ladies. She managed to smile in spite of their obvious pity. "As for Donovan, my only connection with him is through Savage Publishing. I run the Tribune in Laramie."

  "Run?" Olivina delicately fanned herself. "I'm not sure I understand."

  "I'm the editor of the Laramie Tribune, ma'am. That means I'm in charge of getting the newspaper out on a daily basis and writing the editorials."

  "Gracious, me. That sounds like quite a large responsibility for a woman, Miss Justice."

  "Running an entire newspaper isn't a particularly easy chore for a man or a woman, but I've managed to do it, and even at a distance, as I've had to do for the past two weeks." She smiled sweetly, making up her mind to test and maybe even push the woman a little. "And please, call me Libby. Most of my friends do, and most of them also belong to the National Woman Suffrage Association. What about you and your friends, Mrs. Savage? Are you members?"

  Olivina's gaze narrowed slightly and her fancy fan began fluttering more rapidly. "I'm afraid not, and as for my friends... well, I really can't speak for them." Several of the ladies agreed with Olivina immediately, eschewing the very idea of belonging to such an organization.

  "That's too bad." Libby persisted, determined to find out exactly what she was up against. "I suppose you must be allied with Lucy Stone and the American Woman Suffrage Association, in that case. Correct?"

  "Sorry, again. You're quite wrong on both counts." Olivina lightly tapped Libby's wrist with the fan she'd just folded. "Now if you'll excuse me? I really must go see to my other guests. Welcome to my home, and do enjoy your visit to our lovely city."

  "Oh, ah, thanks for having me." That's what she managed to say, but Libby may as well have been muttering the courtesy to the marble statue of Poseidon rising up from the center of the fountain. Olivina and several of her "followers" had already stepped out of earshot by the time she had the first word out.

  "Excuse me," came a small voice from behind her, "but could I talk to you a minute?"

  Libby turned to find Susan Savage at her elbow. "Oh, I didn't realize you were still here. I thought you went off with your mother."

  "My stepmother, ma'am." Susan colored a little, her shy hazel eyes darting around the room as if seeking approval—or disapproval. "I'm supposed to help her with the hostessing chores, which means I'm to keep the guests entertained. You are a guest, aren't you?"

  Libby liked her even more now, especially after she dared to give a little wink by way of punctuation at the end of her declaration. "I certainly am—invited by your father, no less."

  "That's wonderful news." Smiling, albeit timidly, Susan linked arms with Libby and strolled through a high, arched doorway and down terraced steps that led to one of the estate's formal gardens.

  Night had fallen, surprising Libby since the profusion of brilliant lighting inside the mansion had lulled her into thinking it was still daylight. Here in the gardens, where small ornate lanterns illuminated the plants and shrubs, the evening had definitely made an appearance, complete with tendrils of the almost nightly fog that made lazy loops around the treetops. The night felt magical, almost mystical.

  As they strolled deeper into the courtyard, Susan, whom Libby guessed to be no more than eighteen, spoke fondly of the Oriental garden with authentically reproduced shrines, pagodas, and miniature plants, through which they passed. It wasn't until they reached the wooded, more private gardens that featured an abundance of shrubs, flowering trees, and hedges trimmed to resemble a menagerie of barnyard animals that the young woman finally got around to saying what was on her mind.

  "I was wondering—if you don't mind my asking, that is—if you really are a female suffragist."

  "I certainly am, and proud of it. Are you?"

  "Oh, gracious, no." Laughing, Susan sank down on a marble and brass bench. "I have no reason to march for equal rights. I'm betrothed to Henry, duke of Alaim, and will be wed before the year is out."

  Libby joined her on the bench. "So? Don't you want to protect what should be legally yours? And what about voting rights? Don't you think your opinion should be counted as to how you want this country to be run?"

  Susan looked at her as if she'd just spoken in Chinese. "I'm not sure I follow you. Once I'm wed and titled—I'll be a duchess, you know—I'll be protected and have more authority than I ever dreamed of, surely more than I ever wanted."

  "Over whom, Susan? Over what?"

  The young woman frowned as she considered the questions. "Servants, I suppose, I don't know. I only know that Henry will take care of me, and that as his wife, I won't have to worry about how the country is run. I won't have to worry about a thing."

  "I see." Because she already cared a little about this young woman and a lot about her skewed convictions, Libby went on, trying to make a point. "Do you mind if I tell you the story of a rancher I interviewed back in Laramie?"

  "Not at all. I'd love to hear about your hometown."

  "If you're sure. I don't want to take you away from your other guests for too long."

  "Please, don't worry about them. Tell me about Laramie. Is it really as wild and woolly as they say?"

  Libby grimaced. "We'll get to that later. First I want to tell you about this rancher and his wife. I went to their home with the sheriff because the man had sent a message to town claiming that his wife had been kidnapped."

  "Oh, how dreadful." Susan leaned in close to whisper the rest. "Was she taken by... Indians?"

  "No, she wasn't." Libby resisted the urge to educate the woman about Indians. "I went to the poor woman's home as a newspaper reporter, so I could write up a factual story about her disappearance, and maybe even help find her. It turned out to be the hardest assignment I'd ever taken on, and in the end, I didn't write the article or try to help find her."

  "Gracious. Why on earth not?"

  "I'm getting to that." Libby hated the memories, and rarely dredged them up, but if the telling of the story could help this spoiled, yet good-hearted woman understand why all women had to join together to make their lot better, then it would be worth it. "I found the family living in filth, and that didn't count the fact that the house had a dirt floor." Susan recoiled in horror, as Libby suspected she might. "I was only there a short while, but in that time, I saw babies crawling on hands and knees on that floor, a newborn barely old enough to keep her little eyes open, and a pair of twins not out of diapers yet. A young girl and boy, around five and six, I'd guess, were riding herd on them, while several other children were out in the fields."

  She gave Susan a moment to digest that information before going on. "
Well, after the rancher—Zeke's his name—told me his sad tale of waking up one morning and finding the missus gone, he scratched his crotch and armpits, in that order, then hawked a load on the floor by my boot."

  Susan shuddered from head to toe and grimaced.

  "Exactly my first reaction," said Libby. "Then I just stared at the old boy, giving him a really long look, and said, 'Zeke, my friend, are you so sure your wife got kidnapped? Isn't it just as likely she ran away from home?"'

  Gasping and laughing at the same time, Susan shrieked, "You didn't."

  "Oh, yes, I did." Libby did manage a little chuckle at the memory before finishing her story. "Zeke looked back at me like I'd lost my mind. Then he asked why in tarnation I thought she'd want to go do a thing like that. I pointed out the miserable excuse for a house, the babies, and the older children running round in the yard. You know what he did then?"

  Clearly unused to such tales, an open-mouthed Susan slowly shook her head.

  "He actually looked surprised I'd ask such a question and even requested a clarification by saying, 'You mean 'cause of them kids?' When I nodded, he insisted that the little woman would never run off just on account of them." Libby mimicked the man's voice. '"Why would she,' he says. 'We only got thirteen so far, you know.'"

  "Oh... oh, gracious." Susan looked as if she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Oh, gracious, me."

  "Gracious, hell. Old Zeke just didn't understand. It seems a lot of men don't."

  Susan nodded, as if agreeing. "That's quite a story all right, but I'm not sure I see why you told it to me. I doubt the duke wants thirteen children, and I sure don't."

  As much as she liked Susan, Libby couldn't help but think that, like Zeke, she didn't quite understand. But she continued to try. "The reason I told you that story is because, in all things—from the number of children we have to the laws we obey in this country—whatever the men decide is the way things have to be."