BEGINNINGS: Suffragettes Mail-Order Bride (Choice Brides Agency #1)

by Kate Cambridge

  “Good, good, yes, of course she can.”

  “In Wyoming, women have the vote –” she continued. “– in Utah it’s the same. This change is happening whether they like it or not.”

  Her father raised an eyebrow at her. “In Utah you would have been married off by now to a man with three other wives and a dozen children under foot. Is that what you want?”

  “What I want is the right to choose,” she said. “I live in this country, do I not? I’m an adult. I should be able to have a vote in who runs it.”

  “You know that I agree with you, but the fact remains that you do not have that right, or at least not yet,” he replied. “And there are people who are willing to hurt you to keep you quiet. I could not bear that, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth and her father had argued over this before, and his advice was always the same: keep your head down, keep quiet, and let other people sort it out.

  “Then I’ll scream louder, from the rooftops if I must!”

  “Lizzie, darling, ladies don’t scream.”

  “Men do,” she said. “If I were a man, you’d tell me to fight tooth and nail for what I want and congratulate me when I got it. If George wanted to cast a vote and the world told him that he couldn’t, you wouldn’t stand for it. You’d be by his side while he was protesting.”

  He rubbed his hands over his eyes and sank down onto the couch next to her. “Lizzie, the world is what it is. Yes, I think it’s wrong, and you know that, but what good can come of you being hurt?”

  “If you’d wanted a coward for a child, Father, you should have set a better example.” He chuckled at that, and Elizabeth knew that she had him. “You chose to have me educated, so you cannot blame me for being clever enough to recognize when the world is broken.”

  “You’re putting yourself in danger. I’m not asking you to betray your convictions, I’m just asking you to be more careful.”

  “That is my choice. I will not sit back when the women I respect and admire put their lives on the line to fight for what we believe in. I won’t, father.”

  A stalemate. Their arguments always ended like this.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he asked, shaking his head at the ceiling as though he expected Elizabeth’s late mother to descend from heaven and advise him. “If you would only marry – then I would know that you are safe.”

  “You know how I feel about that. Most of the men here in Boston are such bores, Father. Some of the most educated men in our country live here, yet their minds have not grown beyond their books. They can’t think for themselves, or honor those who do. How could I marry someone like that? I have no interest.”

  It was one thing to be beholden to her father – the man who’d raised her and loved her since she was a babe – but to willingly give up her freedom to another man who could easily turn into a tyrant or a brute was unthinkable. She’d worked so hard to be considered her own person, to be considered a human being of worth and value, that trapping herself into a lifetime of being someone’s wife seemed a wretched ending. God forgive her if that thinking was wrong, but it was how she felt, and felt deeply. He made each of His children unique, and she was not ashamed that she felt a deep calling to this purpose, this mission, rather than marriage and children.

  Christopher knocked on the door, his back straight and proper, cutting off their conversation.

  “Sir, the doctor is on his way,” he said.

  “Very good, Christopher. Thank you.”

  Her father sighed again and took the book from her hands. “What part are you up to?” he asked, all thoughts of marriage and suffrage put aside.

  For the moment.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, Elizabeth woke early, the sun shining through her window, as the curtains moved with the light morning breeze. She took a deep breath, the tinge of salt air tickling her nose, her sore muscles groaning as she stretched, pulling the covers up to her nose. Her mind wandered to Margaret, and she wondered how she had fared at home last night. There was no point in dallying, so she rose, even as her maid knocked gingerly on her door. “I’ll be out in a minute!”

  Elizabeth had a meeting to attend today with her friends, the other women who’d gone to vote with her. The National American Woman Suffrage Association’s Boston branch met every month, but Elizabeth and her friends liked to meet at least once a week to discuss current events, compare notes, and prepare in advance. She would usually catch a lift into town with George, who worked mornings at the bank.

  Her ankle had long, deep scratches along the skin. They had twinged painfully when she’d taken her bath the previous evening, but the doctor had given her a cream to keep them from getting infected. She wasn’t particularly worried about that – she had an excellent constitution. She’d gotten it from her mother.

  Elizabeth applied the cream at her vanity, where a small-framed portrait of her mother sat beside her hairbrush and her Suffragette sash. Her mother had been quite a beauty. Elizabeth remembered the way she smelled of lavender and had a smile that would light up even the gloomiest of mornings. Elizabeth had been nine years old when her mother had fallen pregnant with her younger brother; on some nights, she could still hear the screams of mortal agony as her mother had gone into labor, the doctors barking for more towels to mop up the blood, and finally the eerie silence which had fallen over the house, before her brother had mustered the energy for some screaming of his own.

  She’d gained a brother, but she never saw her mother again. Not even at the funeral – her father had fallen into a dark mourning and had demanded a closed casket. Elizabeth didn’t know whether to be glad or not. Elizabeth had fond memories of her mother’s smiling face and bright, living eyes, and the thought of those eyes lifeless and cold, and those cheeks pale and sunken, was more than she could bear – but on the other hand it would have been nice to see her one last time. Even for a moment.

  Elizabeth sighed at the portrait and finished rubbing the cream into her skin. She slipped on a pair of fine stockings to conceal the injury, knowing that her friends would start spitting fire if they knew that she’d been injured at the rally yesterday. They might even consider asking her to stay out of the next one, and that was simply unacceptable.

  “Marjorie,” Elizabeth said, spotting one of the maids passing her open door. The girl stepped back into view and curtseyed. “Has George had his breakfast yet?”

  Marjorie smiled knowingly. “I don’t think he’s gotten out of bed yet, Miss.”

  Elizabeth glanced at her reflection and tucked a stray curl back into the pile on top of her head. “Good. Fetch the bucket,” she said.

  “Right away, Miss.”

  What love she’d held for her mother, Elizabeth had thrown into her brother. She’d been nine years old, but her father had been catatonic with grief and the house had still needed running. In between keeping the maids on task and seeing that the cook knew what to stock the kitchen with, Elizabeth had hand-reared the baby boy. Her father would have put him out to nurse. The argument which had followed was the first argument she could remember having with her father. Elizabeth hadn’t wanted her mother’s last gift to the family to be squandered with indifference and neglect, and with a little bit of prodding her father had agreed. After a few weeks of watching his daughter care for his son, he’d joined in. Now he doted on them both.

  Of course, just because Elizabeth loved her brother didn’t mean that she would allow him to stay idle in bed all day. He had a job to get to, and she a meeting.

  She left her room, fully dressed, and met Marjorie outside of George’s room. The maid had a heavy bucket full of water and a smirk on her face.

  “Here you are, Miss Elizabeth,” she said, handing the bucket off to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth took the bucket solemnly and gestured for Marjorie to open the door. Marjorie did, being careful not to make too much noise, and Elizabeth slipped into the room. The curtains were pulled closed. The room was dark but Elizabeth could mak
e out the lump of blankets on the bed which was surely her baby brother. She tiptoed over to the bed and emptied the bucket.

  “LIZZIE!”

  George sat bolt upright, his arms and legs in a tangle of damp blankets as he thrashed around, trying to escape the water. Elizabeth cackled next to him, before waving at the grinning Marjorie to come and open the curtains.

  “Rise and shine, Georgie.”

  “I will kill you and no one will blame me!”

  “Nonsense, it’s just a bit of water.”

  “More work for the maids!” George said, shoving his damp hair out of his eyes and glaring at her.

  “Oh, it’s not too much trouble – is it Marjorie?”

  “Not at all, Miss.”

  George growled. “You’re both incorrigible.”

  “Well, now you don’t have to worry about bathing before work,” Elizabeth said, petting his damp cheek. He was only sixteen but he was growing into his mother’s fair looks. He was already beginning to turn young ladies’ heads with his rosy cheeks, strong nose, and blond locks. Elizabeth favored her father in looks and although she knew that she was quite pretty she would have happily traded cheekbones with her brother.

  A dimple appeared beneath one of those bones as a wicked gleam came into his eye. Without warning, George threw himself out of bed and into Elizabeth’s arms, nuzzling his wet hair into her dress.

  “You menace!” Elizabeth cried, trying to fight him off.

  Marjorie watched the siblings wrestle with clear amusement before gathering up the wet blankets and taking them from the room.

  George slipped in a puddle and came crashing down, and Elizabeth took the opportunity to dash out of the room and down the hallway, retreating downstairs.

  “Oh no you don’t!” she heard George shout behind her. She was laughing too hard to offer a reply.

  She half-ran down the stairs, picking up her skirts and watching carefully so that she wouldn’t trip. She could hear George coming up behind her and was so focused on him that she didn’t notice the tall man standing at the foot of the stairs. Elizabeth barreled right into the man, sending them both sprawling onto the tiled floor in a heap of arms, legs, and damp skirts.

  Elizabeth’s face was smushed against a flat, firm chest, with her legs on either side of his hips and a growing sense of horror at the position she’d found herself in. She heard George come skidding to a stop and let out a bark of laughter.

  “The suffragettes strike again!” he said cheerfully. “No man is safe!”

  Elizabeth felt her cheeks going red as she pushed herself away from the man on the floor. “I’m terribly sorry, sir –”

  “No need to apologize.”

  She looked up sharply. She knew that voice. It was the man from yesterday – the one who’d answered the door for the police and noticed that she had been bleeding. He was dressed as a gentleman again, although he wasn’t wearing a coat like he had when she’d first seen him. He watched her with an expression somewhere between amusement and concern.

  “Are you alright?” he asked, seemingly quite comfortable with their compromising position.

  Elizabeth scrambled to her feet, her traitorous cheeks betraying her mortification, acutely aware that her hair must look a mess and her damp clothing, as well. “Of course, I’m fine – and you?”

  “I’ve had worse hits,” he replied. He rubbed his neck and added: “You’re stronger than you look.”

  Elizabeth felt even more heat rising to her cheeks as George cackled beside her. She reached out and smacked him sharply upside the back of his head.

  “Ow!”

  “Go get dressed and have some breakfast, we’re leaving soon.”

  Grumbling, George trudged back up the stairs. His underclothes were in worse disarray than her dress was. She hoped that the maids had the good sense to keep their eyes averted when they heard him coming.

  She straightened her skirts and her shoulders, prepared to receive this stranger properly even though all chance of a good impression had gone out the window. “I’m terribly sorry for the… um, tackling.” He grinned at her. “You said that you were a friend of my fathers?”

  “I am,” the man replied. He stuck out a hand to shake hers. “Captain Joseph Sharpe.”

  She shook his hand. “Captain?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Just got back from China. Nasty business out that way. Now I’m back state-side.”

  “Well, thank you for your service,” she said, trying to hide her fascination with the faint scar she noticed along his arm, and the man who bore it. He had been to China! He’d travelled further than she could ever hope to go. She would have wagered that he had some excellent stories, and was already planning on ways to get him to tell some.

  He nodded graciously when she thanked him and pulled down his sleeve, covering the scar so smoothly, she was unsure if it was because she noticed it or simply a reflex. It occurred to Elizabeth that no gentleman would ever show off such a brutish reminder of his past to a lady – most in high society considered that sort of thing unseemly. Elizabeth wanted to know the story behind it. It had looked, to her untrained eye, as though something large had tried to take a bite out of him. How many deadly predators did China have?

  “And you must be Miss Elizabeth?” Captain Sharpe asked. She nodded. “And that was George?” he added, pointing at the stairs George had taken back to his room. She nodded again. “Well, it’s nice to meet you both.”

  “I’m not sure that I would characterize this encounter as ‘nice’,” she replied. “‘Bracing’ might be a better word.”

  “Surprising?”

  “Humiliating.”

  He chucked. “I wouldn’t feel too bad about it,” Captain Sharpe replied. “At least you knocked me down and not the butler. He’d probably scold you back to the stone-age.”

  “He wouldn’t need to,” Elizabeth assured him. “It’s the eyes, you see. When he’s disappointed you can practically feel them on you.”

  The captain smiled. “I’ll remember that.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t think of anything else to say. He’d told her that he had not been injured in the fall, but didn’t all men lessen their hurts when ladies were present? What if he felt that he could not own to any pain because it had been caused by a woman? Elizabeth didn’t know how to go about asking him without causing him further embarrassment.

  Thankfully, her father came into the hall at that moment, putting an end to the silence which would have grown awkward if it had been allowed to fester much longer.

  “Good lord, Lizzie, what have you done to your hair? And your dress?”

  Elizabeth patted her head to try and feel which curls had fallen out of her bun. Most of them, apparently. “I woke George up,” she said.

  Her father nodded in understanding, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “I see. Why don’t you join me in the study? I have something I need to discuss with you.” Elizabeth looked from her father to the captain, wondering at his lack of manners. It wasn’t like her father to leave a guest unattended in their home. “You’ve met Captain Sharpe, I see, he knows his way to the breakfast room.” And with that the Captain was dismissed.

  She gave him a sharp look then. She’d never seen Captain Sharpe before yesterday, and today was the first day that they had spoken. How had he managed to gain such an intimate acquaintance with their home?

  Captain Sharpe bowed to Elizabeth as she followed her father into his dusty, crowded study. Though she had taken on the bulk of the homely duties since her mother had died, her father still maintained the family books in his scatter-brained yet thorough way. He closed the door behind her and led her to a plush seat near the window.

  “Who is Captain Sharpe?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity. “What’s his business here?”

  Her father sighed and took a seat across from her. “I will tell you, but you must promise to control your temper.”

  He always makes her promise such things, usually ri
ght before delivering news which was guaranteed to make her lose her temper.

  “Father…” she said warningly.

  “You should know that I put these wheels in motion before yesterday’s events,” he said, hurrying through the words as though he were hoping to get them out before she would start disagreeing. “If I had known that the election yesterday would draw such violent crowds, I would have hired Captain Sharpe sooner.”

  “Hired him?” Elizabeth asked. “In what capacity?”

  He looked at her long and hard. “I’ve hired him as your bodyguard, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth sat for a moment, stunned, before she shook her head and frowned. “Bodyguard? Surely you jest!”

  “Just for a little while, and no, I’m completely serious,” her father said hastily. “For as long as you continue your suffragette duties.”

  “So the rest of my life, then?” she replied.

  “Or until women get the vote,” he said. “I think that will happen sooner than you think.”

  Some days, Elizabeth didn’t think it would ever happen. Some days she thought that she was doomed to bear Sisyphus’s burden, rolling a boulder uphill only to watch it roll back down again after yet another ignorant politician spewed his filth in the papers. Two steps forward and three steps back.

  “But a bodyguard, Father?” she asked. “Surely there’s no need –”

  “You came home bleeding yesterday, Lizzie.”

  “Just some scratches.”

  “Women are being beaten by police in England.”

  Elizabeth tossed her head and sniffed. “That’s the English. Everyone knows they’re barbarians.”

  Her father leaned over and took her hands. “Lizzie, if you keep this up, it’s inevitable that you are going to get hurt. I can’t allow that.”

  “So your solution is to strap some stranger to my ankle? Who is this Captain Sharpe that he would spend his days trailing after a suffragette?”

  He stood up, walked over to his desk and picked up one of the folders there. It could not have lain on his desk for long – there was no thin layer of dust. She made a mental note to remind the maids to clean in here at least once a month.