“Why don’t you have a green salad with that, Christina,” he suggested gently. “You look like you could use a few fresh vegetables.” He smiled at her. “I don’t suppose the cuisine in the L.A. jail is particularly savory.”
He was sorry when she shuddered, and he reached for her hand, which she gratefully let him clasp. “It was awful,” she said simply. “The whole experience was awful.” Shooting a glance at her grandmother, she said, “I’m sure even Gran didn’t have a whole lot of fun there.”
“The experience was valuable,” Gran said, lifting her chin. “And it was for a good cause.”
Christina sighed heavily. “Yes, yes, it was for a very good cause. And it was still horrid.”
Mrs. Mayhew inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging the justice of Christina’s declaration. “But, you know, Christina, that when one fights for right and justice, one’s path is not always smooth.”
“Right,” said Christina, her voice sounding as crisp and flaky as fine pastry. “I know.”
Still holding Christina’s hand, Martin asked curiously, “Have you done this before, Mrs. Mayhew?”
“I certainly have.” The old woman sounded as if she were proud of herself. Which she undoubtedly was. “I’ve been fighting the good fight since my youth.”
“Um, I suppose you’ve had experience with the police before, too?”
“Indeed.” Gran smiled. This time she looked almost smug. Martin wondered if being jailed for a worthy cause was something all honorable Mayhews aspired to.
“This was my first arrest,” said Christina, causing him to switch his attention to her. “And I hope to goodness it will be my last.”
He guessed that answered part of his question. Not all Mayhews considered being arrested and imprisoned, even for a worthy cause, a good thing. Thank God.
Not, of course, that it mattered to him; at least not in the overall scheme of things. He was pretty sure that if Christina’s ambitions for her life remained unchanged, their affair would end with the conclusion of Egyptian Idyll. The mere thought of her going away from him caused terrible squeezings and palpitations in his chest region. He wished his chest wouldn’t do that.
Since it was Sunday, Martin hadn’t been able to order wine with his dinner. He regretted that now, because he thought a swig or two of strong spirits might soothe his own ragged ones a little bit. Christina, too, looked as though she might benefit from a dose of some kind of liquor.
So be it. The law was the law, however inconvenient it could be sometimes, and Martin, unlike Mrs. Mayhew, didn’t intend to break it. Because he was curious, he asked, “Ah, did you ever meet Susan B. Anthony, Mrs. Mayhew?”
A sharp clamp on his fingers made him glance quickly at Christina, who had all but squished his hand. She murmured, “Don’t get her started.”
Martin was sorry he’d asked, but it was too late to take back his innocent question. After shooting a brief glare at her granddaughter, Mrs. Mayhew said, “I certainly did. I marched with Miss Susan B. Anthony and Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton. I am presently in regular communication with Mrs. Stanton’s daughter, Mrs. Blatch.”
“I see.” Martin prayed for a waiter to show up and take their order, even as Mrs. Mayhew sucked in breath preparatory to continuing her recital of great feminist names.
Christina said, “I’m sure Martin needn’t hear a list of marches you’ve attended, Gran. Perhaps you can save the lecture for another day. I have a splitting headache and don’t feel like hearing it again. Please.”
She looked just awful. Martin experienced another, stronger urge to lift her into his arms and carry her off to bed. There he’d pamper and pet her until her headache went away and she slept. “I’m so sorry you feel poorly, Christina.”
“Thank you, Martin.”
He was astonished when her eyes filled with tears. Never, in a million years, would he have believed Christina Mayhew could suffer from unrestrained emotions. He cast a peek at her grandmother and was sorry to see her scowling at Christina in overt disapproval.
“The younger generation,” Gran said in a vinegary voice. “No spirit. No gumption. No lasting power.”
Christina returned her grandmother’s scowl. Her own voice dripped alum when she retorted, “Lest you forget, Gran, I’m the one who had to deal with the police yesterday. You’re the one who conveniently thrust me forward into the fray if you’ll recall. You re the one who clammed up and refused to speak.”
Gran sniffed. “You’re much younger than I. You should protect your grandmother.”
“And I tried.” Christina heaved another soulful sigh. “It wasn’t my fault you tried to batter that poor policeman with your cane.”
Martin felt his eyes widen. “You hit a policeman?”
“Gran doesn’t discriminate,” Christina told him. “She’d be happy to hit anyone. Everyone, even.”
“Good God.”
“The brute was manhandling me,” Gran declared. “I’m an old woman.”
“He was trying to help you into the paddy wagon.”
Christina and her grandmother exchanged scowls once more. Martin was relieved when the waiter came to take their orders. He ordered for the three of them and added a polite, “Thank you,” when the waiter bowed, preparatory to taking their orders to the kitchen.
Martin had suddenly developed an almost overwhelming sympathy for people in service trades. Including policemen. Martin didn’t think it would be any fun at all to have to arrest old women—or serve persnickety old crones dinner, for that matter.
“All things considered, I can’t remember another time when I’ve been this fed up with my grandmother.” Christina flung her suit jacket over a chair.
She and Martin had just left Mrs. Mayhew in a room by herself, and Christina had made no bones about wanting to spend the night with Martin. Her grandmother, needless to say, hadn’t been shocked. She’d only sniffed and looked superior.
“Try not to think about it,” Martin suggested.
Christina frowned at him. “And how, pray, do you expect me to do that? We still have to show up for a hearing in front of the judge. Maybe stand trial.”
She was sorry she’d snapped when she saw the genuine concern on Martin’s face. He didn’t deserve her anger. He deserved her undying gratitude. Holding out a hand to him, she said, “I’m sorry, Martin. I guess I still don’t feel very well. Although,” she added conscientiously, “I’m not at all hungry any longer, and my headache’s not nearly so bad. That was a delicious meal. Thank you for it. And for everything. I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t come for us.”
He came to her at once, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. As ever when he did that, warm, rippling shock waves of awareness and delight tingled through her. Her reaction to his touch made her want to rush to her father’s medical library and look up human physiological reactions to touch, even though she had a feeling the subject wasn’t covered in books.
“Try not to worry about it, darling.” Martin gave her a tender smile “I doubt that you’ll have to face any judges or jurors. I regret to say that Peerless has ways of handling the police that often circumvent more conventional rules and regulations.”
She felt her eyes widen. “Do you mean you bribed them?”
“Not I,” he said, still smiling. “That’s not my department, thank God.”
“My goodness.” She tried not to glower at him. Her outrage at his words was probably idiotic. She knew she shouldn’t be shocked; anyone with enough money could buy police cooperation and political favors. She’d known as much for years.
“You don’t look as though you approve,” said Martin mildly. “It’s a common enough practice, especially these days, with actors getting into trouble every time they turn around. Not you,” he hastened to add, lest she take his words amiss. “I’m talking about drinking and drugs and wild parties and so on. What you did is nowhere near as bad as that.”
“I should say not.”
“But it’ll still be Peerless money that buys your way out of the pickle jar.”
She said, “Oh,” and frowned. “I see.” It wasn’t fair, the way money could buy justice, especially in the United States, where everyone was supposed to be equal to everyone else. Except women, who seemed to be inferior to everyone—at least according to the laws of the land.
It became apparent to her that she hadn’t hidden her surprise and disappointment very well, because Martin sighed and followed his sigh with, “I know, it’s not fair. But it’s the way business is carried out, I’m afraid. Peerless has a lot invested in its actors.”
Gently withdrawing her hand from his so that she could remove pins from the hat she’d worn to dinner, Christina said, “I know it. It just doesn’t seem . . . well, right, I guess.”
“Perhaps it isn’t right, but it’ll save you from racking up a criminal record.” Martin pointed this out a little more sharply than he’d spoken before.
Christina’s frown deepened. “But should I be spared the consequences of my choice of participating in an act of civil disobedience? The faster we suffragists demonstrate in concrete and unalterable terms the inequality of the voting laws, the sooner we’ll see the laws change.”
Martin sat on the bed and started removing his shoes and socks. “Maybe, but it won’t do your future plans any good to have a criminal record with the police.”
“I don’t know about that. Resistance to tyranny is obedience to God, you know.” She couldn’t believe she’d said that, and to Martin, of all people.
He gave her an ironical glance “Yes, I do believe I’ve heard that before. Don’t forget, though, that most universities frown on accepting students with criminal pasts.”
She stared at him in horror, that fact not having occurred to her before this minute. The last remaining vestiges of energy drained out of her—she wouldn’t have been surprised to know that she’d gone pale, too—and she folded up onto the padded bench at the foot of the bed with a thud. “Good heavens.” Her voice was a wispy whisper in the hotel room.
“I didn’t think you’d thought about that aspect of this adventure.” He still sounded ironic.
Suddenly Christina resented his attitude. She resented his tone of voice. She resented his words. She resented his superior attitude and his worldly wise way of speaking. She resented him because he was a man. Most of all, she resented him because he was right.
Gathering herself together, she rose from the bench. “If,” she said in a voice that shook with rage, “I am refused admittance to medical school in Los Angeles because I’ve stood up for my principles and my rights as a citizen of this great nation, I shall enroll elsewhere. I won’t be thwarted by blind obedience to an unjust law.”
“Oh? And where else is there for a woman to go to medical school? I didn’t even know the university in L.A. accepted female medical students, actually.”
“They’ve already accepted me.” Bitterly, she added, “Although they wouldn’t grant me a scholarship. My father is a respected and well-known alumnus, you see.”
“Ah.”
She resented that single syllable, too, and snapped, “And my scholastic background is better than most men’s. My academic record is superior, as a matter of fact.” She yanked off one of her shoes and slammed it to the floor. “And even though my record is better than any man’s, they won’t give me a scholarship.”
She hadn’t noticed before, but Martin looked as if he were tired, too. Why he should be weary, she didn’t know. He hadn’t been arrested. He didn’t have to fight for the rights every American should be granted at birth.
“They might have second thoughts about admitting a woman with a criminal record,” Martin pointed out dryly. “And if they do, where will you go?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “But I’ll find somewhere. Perhaps in Europe, if the schools in America are too benighted to accept me.”
“Is that so?” He stood up and unbuckled his belt. He looked cranky.
Christina was cranky, too. “Yes.”
“So you think Europeans are more open to women’s demanding access to men’s jobs than we here in the United States are?”
With a sniff, Christina began unbuttoning her waist. “They couldn’t be too much more intransigent than we are.”
“I suppose that’s why all those suffragists in England were arrested and force-fed after having been locked up and beaten?”
She lifted her chin. “There is, somewhere in the world, a medical school that will accept me, Martin Tafft. I don’t know where, it is, but I’ll find it. And I’ll attend it. And I’ll become a physician. I don’t care how much you men want to keep us women tied down, confined to the house, and obedient to your despotism!” Her ‘voice had risen significantly.
“I don’t want to keep you tied down or confined to the house! I want you to be sensible.”
“I am sensible! I don’t think it’s any less sensible for a woman to want to be a doctor than for a motion picture studio to bribe the police!”
“Dash it, Christina, you’re being irrational!”
“I am not!”
Good heavens, they were having their first argument.
They were fighting. The truth hit Christina like a blow. She was mad at the man she loved, and he was mad at her—and why? Because they disapproved of each other. She sank back down onto the padded bench, feeling stricken and exhausted and wishing she wasn’t a Mayhew so that she could break down and have a good cry.
Her head was lowered, and when she felt Martin’s hand on her shoulder, she started. Glancing up, she saw that he appeared worried.
And that didn’t make any sense. After all, she was the oddball here. Martin was behaving just like a man. She, on the other hand, was behaving like a fully liberated female, and she wasn’t. She was as oppressed and beleaguered as the rest of the members of her sex—and she hated it.
“I’m sorry, Christina. I didn’t mean to get angry. I guess I’m a little tired.”
She gazed at him, feeling unhappy and ashamed of herself; not for standing up for her right to vote, but for getting angry with Martin, who was the most generous and special man in the world. “I’m tired, too, Martin. I didn’t mean to snarl at you.”
His grin appeared both lopsided and halfhearted. “Think nothing of it. If all the women in your family are like your grandmother, I suspect you learned to snarl before you learned to talk.”
That wasn’t funny. It hurt like a knife wound to her heart, actually. She sucked in a quick breath of shock and disbelief. She hadn’t thought Martin, whom she’d always known to be polite, sympathetic, and considerate, could stab like that.
Apparently he was shocked, too. Pressing a hand over his eyes, he muttered, “God, Christina, I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.”
“I do.” She felt drained. Wooden. As if all the life had been sapped from her body, and only its shell remained. “You’re a man.”
He withdrew his hand from her shoulder with a groan. Putting a hand to the small of his back, he stretched, grimacing as if he ached all over. “Undeniable.”
Christina watched as he turned away from her, walked to the bureau, stripped off his remaining clothes, and donned a pair of striped pajamas. Although she didn’t know why, she was rather more glad than not that he didn’t wear a night shirt. What Martin Tafft wore to bed was nothing to her. Or it wouldn’t be after tonight.
It wasn’t unusual for Christina’s family to hold strenuous discussions on any number and variety of issues. Until this minute, she hadn’t realized how devastating it could be to have someone she had chosen to love disagree with something she believed in so strongly that it went a good way toward making up her whole personality and character.
She didn’t see how they could ever come to grips with this difference of opinion. She was sure she couldn’t have a satisfying relationship with a man who didn’t share her views on women’s rights.
Unfortunately, whether she got
along with him or not, she could still love him. With her hands folded in her lap, she watched Martin. He looked so different with his hair dyed black. The makeup mavens had even dyed his eyebrows. She imagined he’d wear dark makeup when they shot the scenes he’d be in, too.
Perhaps that was part of tonight’s problem: He didn’t look like himself. He didn’t look friendly and nice and good-natured. He looked like Pablo Orozco, who was a worm. Christina pretty much expected the Pablo Orozcos of the world to be bullheaded antifeminists. She hadn’t expected it of Martin, and she felt shattered and lonely.
“Do you need help?” His voice was hollow now, as if all of his energy had vanished, just as had Christina’s.
She stood and finished removing her clothes. “No, thank you.”
He turned suddenly. “Listen, Christina, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to argue with you. We’re both tired, and we’ve both had a stressful couple of days. Let’s turn in and get some sleep, and hope things will look better in the morning.”
Her smile probably looked wan. She felt wan. “All right.”
She was exhausted. Her head ached. Her heart ached. She wanted to pummel her grandmother. And Martin. And then she wanted to stick her head in one of those newfangled gas ovens and be done with it.
She couldn’t recall ever being this low in spirits before. It didn’t help that Martin didn’t even try to make love with her that night, but only held her tenderly. She loved him so much. And she disagreed with him so absolutely.
Martin felt a little better about life, Christina, and women’s suffrage the next morning. It helped to have a little distance in time between himself and that bleak police barracks. When he’d seen Christina there, he’d wanted to rush up and snatch her away and stick her someplace safe.
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