by Joyce Armor
Lionhearted Libby
Joyce Armor
Lionhearted Libby
Copyright 2018 Joyce Armor
Smashwords Edition
Cover: Vila Design
Trusty Reader: Chris Gale
Expert Formatting: Jesse Gordon
Lionhearted Libby
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are purely fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
About the Author
Chapter 1
St. Louis, Missouri, 1872
Barely hearing the rustle of petticoats beneath her silk gown, Libby Parminter wondered if the entire household could hear the thud of her heart as she slowly descended the winding staircase. She slid her hand lightly along the polished mahogany banister, yearning to be almost anywhere else. She wanted to run and not stop running until she joined up with the heroine of Fort Laramie, the fearless maid of Wyoming or another of the intrepid women in her prized dime novels.
Only two weeks ago, Susan B. Anthony had been fined for the audacity of trying to vote. The crusader was risking condemnation and abuse to give women more control over their lives and more opportunities and here Libby was afraid to meet her own father. She stopped a few steps from the bottom and took a deep breath. Courage. Maybe Libby wasn’t changing the world, but surely she could face one man.
Later, when she looked back on that sultry June day, she could see not the slightest hint of the cataclysmic sequence of events that would follow. At the time, she had no idea why Papa would summon her to his decidedly male and always sacrosanct study. In all her 20 years and 11 months, he had never before allowed her entrance into his private domain. She had gone in there only once, when she was 11 or 12 and he was in Chicago for some meeting or convention. Something to do with breeding horses. His study was dark and foreboding. It even smelled foreboding, reeking of a combination of furniture polish, brandy and stale cigar smoke. After only a minute or two, she had imagined a fierce monster—or a savage—was waiting under the desk to pounce on her and had bolted for the safety of her own bedroom, where she dove under her Prairie Queen quilt and quivered.
Despite her hesitance, Libby inevitably reached the carpeted landing at the bottom of the stairs. Shifting her long, thick ebony braid over her shoulder, she straightened the front of her finely tailored Eton jacket over her gown. Taking a deep breath, she paused for a moment to study the delicate butterfly embroidery bordering the aqua frock and used her lace handkerchief to soak up the sweat dripping down her neck. Perspiring. How unladylike. She almost laughed at the absurdities of polite society. Still clutching the lacey square, she summoned up what was left of her resolve, crossed to the dank room and tapped lightly on the heavy oaken door, which stood partially open. Her father, the formidable, sometimes cruel and ever remote Elias T. Parminter, as barrel-shaped and fastidiously dressed as ever, sat at his obsessively arranged, dark walnut desk, his spectacles in hand.
“Come in, girl,” her 47-year-old sire ordered sternly.
Why did she always feel like standing at attention and saluting when he addressed her?
He had never even been a soldier. Although they were never allowed to mention it, her mother told her he had paid someone to take his place in the Union army during the War Between the States. It was only one of the things she found distasteful about him. She knew, of course, that he found many things to dislike about her. She just could never figure out why.
“Hurry up now. Sit down, Elizabeth.”
Oh, dear. He never called her Elizabeth. Come to think of it, he never called her much of anything nice, except maybe “girl.” It was always “lazy,” “selfish,” “stupid,” “incompetent” or some other derogatory label. Slowly sinking into one of a pair of plush black leather wingback chairs, she schooled herself not to shrink under his critical stare and revert back to the eight-year-old wisp of a girl who had shivered before that harsh glare. In fact, she had spent years blocking him out, nodding or shrinking back at appropriate times, but truly being elsewhere in her mind. He had never beaten her, but he had slapped her across the face numerous times and had brought verbal and nonverbal intimidation to an art form.
She had learned long ago not to depend on anyone but Elizabeth Anne Parminter—Libby to her mother and friends—and had created a mental and emotional shield to protect herself. Oh, she knew her mother cared for her in her own uninvolved way, but never enough to be a reliable presence or to defend her from her father’s cruelty. Where she found her inner strength, she didn’t know. Perhaps in those dime novels. She knew there was something better somewhere than her present circumstances and was determined to find it someday.
She watched his bulbous nose and the little hairs fluttering in and out with each breath, as the sublimely powerful Elias Parminter twirled his spectacles for several long moments, looking down at her with his penetrating, dead black eyes. Abruptly, he set the spectacles on a stack of papers and focused on her so intensely she almost, but not quite, squirmed. Yes, it had long since become a game. She called on the skill she had perfected, not evaporating under his withering gaze unless circumstances called for it; she would not abandon the hard-won talent now. She concentrated on a speck of dandruff on his shoulder. Odd how that made him somehow seem more human. But just barely.
“Land sakes, girl! Sit up straight. Where is your upbringing?”
Not from you, certainly. “I’m sorry,” she lied, assuming a more rigid pose. How many times had she apologized to him over the years for some real or imagined infraction? Except for early on, they had all been lies.
“There is no point in dallying, Elizabeth. You have been a drain on this household for long enough,” he said matter-of-factly. Was that a smirk on his nasty old face? “I’ve arranged a marriage contract for you.”
She struggled to overcome a wave of panic, but strangely, it was mixed with a feeling of…anticipation? Excitement? Getting out of this household could be the answer to her prayers, but only if her husband was someone she could love. But even if I could only like him or just tolerate him, it would still be an improvement over my current circumstances. She could share her love with her children if not her husband. She recognized there were worse situations than hers, of course. What if he was violent or a philanderer? Or perhaps even less palatable, what if he was indifferent? Could Papa force her into a marriage? She had a sinking feeling that he could. She summoned up her courage, though it never went well to disagree with or question the tyrant.
“But…Papa…I’m taking care of Mama. She needs me.”
“Your mother has two or three days left at best. She has lasted much longer than the surgeon predicted. This is not up for debate, and we will not discuss it. I have made my decision. That is final, and I will not brook any dissent.”
She did her best to swallow the borderline alarm and, surprisingly, hurt, not to mention the usual healthy dose of revulsion. How could he still affect her so after all these years? She should expect it by now, of course, but it still came as a blow. “W-who is he? Can you tell me about him?” Better to seem weak and submissive.
“Edward Capo DeJulius is to be your husband. That’s all you need to know. He will call on you tomorrow to meet you. The wedding will be on Saturday.”
“Saturday? But Papa…”
“Enough!” he shouted, slamming a hand on the desk, causing the papers to flutter. “I set great store by DeJulius.” He rose, ominously leaning over the massive desk. “It has been decided, Elizabeth. Start packing your possessions. Leave your mother’s belongings. That is all.” He sat down and started shuffling through his papers, dismissing her without even looking at her.
What had she ever done to make him loathe her so? How could he even call himself a father? Libby rose on shaky feet, straightening out nonexistent wrinkles in her gown. What was this feeling gripping her? Fear, anger, but still that little tinge of…opportunity…as well?
She always had felt a little uncomfortable in her skin, as though she was just going through the motions, doing and saying what everyone expected her to do and say, but not actually living her life. Could this be the beginning of that real life she yearned to experience? She wanted to be a wife and mother, and to somehow…somehow just soar, and God knew she would do almost anything to get away from her “beloved” Papa, especially once Mama was gone. Now it was happening. Well, the wife part, anyway. Whatever the feeling, her blue-green eyes, nearly matching the aquamarine of her dress, brimmed with tears of fear and expectation. Lifting her chin, she walked out of the dark room with an air of what she hoped resembled dignity. This could be the beginning of her true life. Or her greatest nightmare yet. What would Mama say about this?
* * *
Elinora Parminter had been bedridden for nearly three months and ill with a wasting disease for several months before that. Lying peacefully under a colorful starburst quilt on a four-poster bed in her dimly lit sick room, her face was drawn and wan, her long and thinning black hair streaked with gray. She did not seem to hear Libby enter and plop down on a chair beside the bed. The grieving daughter gently grasped her mother’s cold hand in both of hers and leaned toward her.
“Mama,” she said softly.
Her mother didn’t respond, and Libby leaned closer and called to her in a louder voice, gently squeezing her hand.
With great effort, Elinora slowly opened her eyes, labored to focus them and smiled weakly at her daughter, who wiped a little spittle from the side of her mother’s mouth. A moment later the dying woman frowned. “What is it? What has happened?”
Libby, who was so careful about hiding her feelings from her father, apparently wasn’t as clever with her mother. She hesitated. Did she really want to burden the frail woman? But what if it wasn’t a burden? What if it was a blessing?
“Tell me.”
“It’s Papa. He says I have to marry on Saturday.”
Her mother thought about that for a moment. “You knew you would marry one day.” She paused to gather a breath, her shallow breathing reminding Libby of a little sparrow. “You’re almost twenty-one. It…is time.”
Libby gently raised her mother up and adjusted the pillows so she could sit, struck again by how frail she was. “I do wish to marry and have children, Mama. I always have, you know.” Libby wondered if her mother actually did know that since she could not remember ever discussing that or much of anything with her, but it mattered little at this point. “But this Saturday is…awfully soon. I…don’t know if I’m ready. What if we don’t suit?” Libby tried to keep both dread and excitement out of her voice.
Again Elinora seemed to be thinking this over. “You may grow to love him. Who is the lucky man?”
“Edward Something DeJulius.”
“Oh, dear God,” Elinora gasped, then began coughing uncontrollably as Libby gently patted her bony back. When the coughing at last ceased, the young woman stepped back and poured her mother a glass of water from the ewer on the nearby nightstand. Her mother slowly sipped and finally caught her breath.
Libby felt a sinking dread, deep in her bones. “What’s wrong? Who is he?”
“You have to leave.”
“Mama, I just got here. We have time to visit. Would you like some broth? Do you need any of your pain medicine?”
“Listen to me, my darling daughter. You…have to leave St. Louis. Today.”
“What?! I cannot leave you.” Her darling daughter? Mama and Libby had never been very close. The woman had never been nasty, like Elias, but she was not very maternal and had never called Libby her “darling” anything. She always seemed too busy to spend time with Libby, her society acquaintances and her multiple charities taking up most of her days. The period her mother had been bedridden was the most time they had ever spent together, a sad commentary on their relationship, the young woman realized.
Elinora struggled to adjust her position, and Libby noticed the stains on her gown, where she had spilled or drooled her broth, about the only sustenance she could keep down these days. It caused another burst of sadness; her mother had always been so discriminating in her dress, right down to her lustrous gowns, delicate lace trimming and sparkling ruby earbobs. She fluffed up the pillows again behind the frail woman, who looked much older than her age. She was barely 40 years old. Elinora, whose once glorious hair was now matted to her skull, pointed with a shaky finger. “Pull…out the top drawer in my armoire. Hurry!”
Libby crossed to the ornate oak armoire and did as she was told.
“Look…on the bottom of the drawer and…bring me the envelope.” Even those brief directions had worn Elinora out, and she sagged back on the pillow.
Libby felt like she was in some sort of stage drama, play-acting that everything would turn out well, when in reality the floor beneath her seemed to be crumbling. She searched and located a large brown envelope secured to the bottom of the drawer with some type of glue. She removed the envelope, fit the drawer back into its slot and returned to her mother’s side, placing the envelope in one of her skeletal hands. Elinora tried, but she was too weak to open it.
“You do it,” she gasped.
Libby, her curiosity practically killing her, unsealed the large envelope and pulled out two smaller envelopes. Elinora pointed a shaking finger.
“This one…has money.” She took a raspy breath and indicated the other envelope. “This one is an introduction to your…father. It is for him.”
Libby was confused. “Papa?”
“No, your real father.”
It was like a punch in her gut. “What? What are you saying?” Libby sank down into the chair, stunned.
“Libby, I am so sorry. There’s so much…I meant to tell you. I just…I am such a coward. I have never been strong like you. I am…sorry I did not tell you sooner. I am sorry about…many things.” She gasped for breath and became even paler, if that was possible.
“Mama, it’s all right,” she soothed, but of course it was not all right. It was not all right at all. It would probably never be all right. Her whole life had been a lie.
“You have to…listen to me now very carefully. Edward DeJulius is a brute, a monster, an evil…and vicious man. Elias is trying to sell you to him to cover his…gambling debts. I daresay he has…entered into an agreement with the man to share your dowry.”
Libby sucked in a breath. Oh, dear. Now what would she do? This was a disaster.
“He is older than Elias. He forced himself on Olive…Greenley. Beat her…terribly, I was told.”
“Is that why she…”
“Took her life? I am sure of it. There is more than enough money…here…to get you to your father, Jackson…Butterman. He has a ranch in…” She stopped again for several moments to catch her breath. “Montana Territory.”
“Montana? Oh, Mama…”<
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The older woman put a trembling hand on her daughter’s cheek, briefly lost in memories. For a moment she looked almost content. “Now you can be like those brave women in those…dime novels with the tattered covers, the ones you have read so…many times.”
In spite of her trepidation, Libby smiled. “Like the Beautiful Lionhearted Woman of the Hidden Valley?”
“Yes. Just like that. Lionhearted Libby.” She closed her eyes and was quiet so long, Libby thought she had fallen asleep. Then her eyes slowly opened. “You will need to take a paddle steamer to Council Bluffs, Iowa, and take…the overland train from…there.” She paused to think and catch her breath again. “I’m not sure how far it goes, but I doubt the train reaches Deer Lodge.”
“Deer Lodge? Dear Lord,” Libby couldn’t help murmuring.
“You will have to hire a wagon…or a horse and a guide…or maybe a stagecoach will get you to Deer Lodge.”
It sounded so remote. Libby could not even picture it. You wanted an adventure, didn’t you? “Did you leave there by stagecoach? What happened? Were you ever planning on going back?”
“I hid in a hay wagon and then hired a carriage to take me to Helena. Then I caught…a train. At one time I thought…” She paused, and for a moment Libby once again thought she had fallen asleep. “No, it has always been too late for me, but I believed you…might take this trip one day. You can do this.” Elinora wrapped her bony fingers around her daughter’s clasped hands with surprising strength. “You must do this. Do not…” She stopped yet again to steady her breathing. “Do not book your passages in your own name, and use a…married name to divert suspicion on why you’re…traveling alone.”
“Alone,” Libby murmured. It was not like she was not used to that. She sighed, then straightened her shoulders and looked at her mother for a long moment. “Why didn’t you tell me about my real father? All these years…”