Hooked (42 page)

Undaunted by the woman's outburst, Mrs. Rothman pulled a drawer open and rummaged through the contents—ink pots and a variety of other odds and ends. “I'm afraid I do not. She wasn't here this morning when I came in.”

“I'll tell you where she is.” She went right on with hardly a breath. “She's chained herself to Mr. Gushurst's fence.”

“She's
what?”
Grandma Nettie blurted.

“She's chained herself to Mr. Gushurt's fence in protest of something. I'm on my way there now to find out what she's up in arms about. I suggest you come along and tell her to stop this nonsense.”

With that, Mrs. Plunkett turned in a flurry of petticoats and black skirts, and slammed the door closed in her wake.

Gage traded glances with Mrs. Rothman as she anxiously called for Delbert Long. As soon as the bellman took charge behind the counter, Gage held the door open for Meg's grandmother.

“You lead the way,” Gage said to Nettie.

“That's what I've been trying to do for years,” she said as she converged on the boardwalk with a swift stride. “Apparently Meg has decided to do the same.”

*  *  *

In the wee hours of the morning, Meg had snuck across the back alleyway to Mr. Gushurst's house, a thrum of exhilaration beating in her heart. Mischief.
It wasn't her speciality, but like she always said: A woman had to do what a woman had to do.

With each careful step she'd taken over the pavers, she'd tried to keep Grandma Nettie's bicycle chain from clinking together. She'd put the chain in her apron and folded the hem up to make a big pocket. Once at the front of the house, she'd bitten her lower lip in trepidation.

This was a big to-do. Really big. Even for her—chaining herself to a fence wasn't even close to riding a luggage cart. This was trespassing and a violation of Harmony's city law—public nuisance. If she did this, she'd be on the tongues of everyone in this town—and not in a flattering way. There might never be any going back. But she didn't let that stop her.

Meg had squared her shoulders with mettle. She'd had to do it. For Ollie Stratton. She couldn't live with herself if she didn't do anything about her brother's wrong. And since she would never turn her brother in, her only other option was to enter the contest. Then win.

So she had picked the solid iron post to the left of the gate, stood next to it and wrapped the length of heavy chain around her waist and several of the fence posts. Then she'd brought two links together and secured them with the lock. She hid the key in the front of her corset—she remembered that's where Grandma said she was going to hide hers.

The first to find her had been Gerty, Clovis Lester's housemaid. She'd been on her way to the Lester house when she'd seen Meg and questioned what she was doing. Meg told her. Then several more people came by.

They'd been gathering for nearly an hour.

Now a small crowd surrounded her, their voices apparently stirring the Gushurst house.

Mr. Gushurst came out and pitched an awful fit. He went on so that she didn't have the opportunity to tell him what she was protesting. He kept going on about how she needed to go home and quit all her tomfoolery and act like a woman.

Then, realizing he was still in his silk-tasseled nightcap and red flannel pajamas, he told her he'd be right back. He went inside and, at that precise moment, Harold Adams showed up.

“Margaret?” he croaked, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Margaret Brooks, what in God's green earth are you doing chained to Mr. Gushurst's fence?”

She lifted her chin and declared, “I'm protesting.”

“Protesting what?”

“Unfair treatment of women.”

“Good grief. Not that.”

“Yes that.”

He turned up his coat collar and slouched his hat over his eyes—as if he couldn't stand the sight of her. “Margaret, you're all boss and bluster. It looks like you're back to your old ways.”

“Yes, it most certainly does. Doesn't it?”

“Well, then, I'm glad I stopped calling when I did. And to think, I was going to give you another chance.” Harold all but snorted his disapproval as he stomped off.

He was barely gone, when Grandma Nettie and Matthew showed up. Grandma without her hat, her short gray hair soft around her cheeks and curled up a little at her collar. Meg smiled. She was just like her Grandma Nettie. And she felt a kindred spirit with her that she had never had with her mother.

Within seconds, Mr. Gushurst came barreling out his front door wearing a suit and a tie that had been knotted in a slapdash manner.

“Meg,” Grandma Nettie declared, “What's this all about?”

“I'm fighting for equality,” Meg replied to her grandmother, but her eyes were on Matthew when she spoke. Would he disapprove like Harold? Find her behavior intolerable? Her breath caught; she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She couldn't read a thing on his face. For a newspaper man who made his living with words, he could certainly conceal his thoughts. Except for that bit of fire dancing in his eyes. That she saw. The green hue of his irises gleamed with a spark of emotion. What that emotion was, she couldn't tell. She didn't know if he was fighting mad
with
her or
at
her.

“You're not fighting for equality on my fence,” barked Mr. Gushurst.

Dragging her gaze away from Matthew, she said, “Yes I am.” Then to the crowd that had begun to press in on her, Meg added, “Mr. Gushurst won't let me enter the fly-fishing tournament today. He says I can't because I'm a woman.”

“That's right,” Mr. Gushurst fumed, putting his finger into his collar to loosen the chokehold of his tie. “Unchain yourself from my fence right now. I've already sent Mrs. Gushurst for the police. Chief Officer Conlin should be here any minute.”

“Then let them take me away,” she decreed, raising one fist . . . getting a little carried away. “I will not leave until you tell me I can fish in today's contest.”

“Oh, my!” Grandma Nettie cried. “I do so wish we
had an extra chain. I'd lash myself right alongside of you, Meg.”

Meg smiled. “Thank you, Grandma.”

Mr. Gushurst's face reddened to the shade of overripe strawberries. Meg could swear she saw steam billowing from his ears. She'd always thought him such a dear, sweet man. She had just been proven wrong.

“I told you last night, Miss Brooks,” Mr. Gushurst ground out, “that even if you had come to me before the deadline, you could not have entered. Even if I was inclined to disregard the fact that you are a woman, which I am not, you can't fish in today's contest because you don't have an official spot from the lottery.”

A smug expression took over his face. He thought he won.

Meg froze. It was true. She didn't have a lottery spot. Even she knew the official rule was that every entrant needed to draw a designated fishing spot from the lottery. There were only seventeen, and all seventeen were spoken for. She had forgotten all about the lottery spots when she was attaching herself to the fence.

Meg's heart sank into the pit of her stomach. She had been so valiant. So hopeful, so determined. Now what? What was she going to do—

“She has a spot,” came a resonant voice from the crowd.

Matthew.

She looked at him with all the love in her heart.

“She can have mine,” he repeated. Loud and clear.

“Mr. Wilberforce,” Mr. Gushurst bristled. “This is highly irregular.”

“This is my choice.” He slipped his hand inside his
coat pocket and withdrew his card. “Number six. It's hers.”

“No it's not.” Mr. Gushurst stood his ground like a guard dog. “She is a woman and she cannot enter.”

Grandma Nettie stepped forward and buffeted Mr. Gushurst on the head with her pocketbook. “Where is that written in the rules? I want to see them.”

Mr. Gushurst sputtered, “It's not written in the rules. It simply is the way things are done in the Woolly Buggers club.”

“You are a narrow-minded man without an ounce of sensibility. It is from you and your kind, that we women must rebel. We must take control of our destinies!”

“Madam,”
he cried, “Control yourself.”

“Gustave! I've brought the police.” Mrs. Gushurst came rushing forward, her hair untidy and her flamboyant hat askew, stains of pink made two bright dots in the centers of her cheeks. She looked as if she'd dressed in the closet and had ran out before she'd been put in order.

Trailing close on her heels was Chief Officer Algie Conlin and Deputy Pike Faragher of the Harmony Police Department.

Meg's resolve lost a little of its bluster.
The police!
She didn't think things would go this far. She'd assumed that Mr. Gushurst would relent so as not to be embroiled in a public demonstration on his lawn.

Officer Conlin came toward her. “What's this all about?”

Then everyone was talking at once. The scene grew chaotic and voices shouted all around her. Matthew came in and out of her focus as people pressed in and were pushed back by the threat of Pike Faragher's
billy club. She'd never seen him use it, and didn't think he would, but he got his message out.

When Mr. Gushurst demanded she be arrested, Meg refused to hand over the lock key. More chaos. Grandma Nettie sang a militant march over the shouting. Matthew tried to reach her, but was unable to get close.

Meg stood as stoic as a statue while the two policemen sliced through the thick chain with Mr. Gushurst's hacksaw.

Then handcuffs were slapped on her wrists and she knew she was in big trouble.

*  *  *

Matthew wasn't allowed into the jail cubical. Instead he had to wait in the front office while they brought Meg out. She wasn't wearing the fetters that had been locked on her wrists not more than an hour ago; she didn't seem any worse for the experience. In fact, she looked more beautiful to him than she ever had.

Her hair bobbed against her shoulders; her cheeks were still flushed with an attitude that said she meant business. And her chin was raised with iron determination.

Their gazes met across the room as Algie Conlin declared her free to go. Gage silently warned her not to ask any questions. He took her by the elbow and ushered her out the door.

To freedom.

“Where's my grandmother?” she asked as they cleared the police yard and took the boardwalk toward Sugar Maple.

“She's waiting at the hotel. She wanted to come, but I told her I'd bail you out.”

“And she let you?”

“Yes. I told her I was on your side.”

Gazing at her wrists, Meg rubbed them, then frowned. “I've got to get into that contest so I can get that thousand dollars for Ollie.”

“You think you can win?”

She looked at him. “Do you?”

“You have a very good chance. I've watched you fish.”

They continued walking. Several people peered out their windows at Meg when she passed by. Gage thought it damn admirable of her to face the issue head-on and not back down an inch. But how could she fish in the contest without getting thrown into jail again?

There had to be a way.

When Gage was on a train of thought, he rarely got off track. Yet as a man exited Miller's men's store just as he and Meg reached the door, Gage grew distracted. The man wore an Eastern-cut suit, a stick pin in his tie, and congress shoes polished to a bright black luster. He lifted his hat, then walked on past them.

It wasn't the man's snappy attire that had Gage staring. It was his facial hair. The biggest beard he'd ever seen, with a mustache waxed and curled at the ends like wood shavings.

Biggest beard . . .

Gage cracked a smile, then said to Meg, “You can still have my lottery spot.”

“How can I?” She gave him a frustrated furrow of her brows. “I'm a woman. Women can't enter.”

“That's right. But a man can.”

She loudly sighed. “But I'm not a man.”

“Aren't you?”

Meg slowed her steps and stopped, looking at Gage as if he were nutty as a pecan pie.

Gage produced the number six from his coat pocket and held it out to her. “I believe this is yours.
Mr. Bascomb.”

For a stunned moment, she didn't move. Then her mouth broke into a wide smile and she laughed. The sound was sheer joy. It astonished Gage's senses by how much fulfillment he got from her melodic voice.

With a pang, Gage realized that if she wouldn't marry him, there would be an extraordinary void in his life that would never go away.

*  *  *

“Mr. Bascomb?” Mr. Gushurst queried, running his finger down the list of contestants in his grasp. “I have no Mr. Bascomb entered.”

Meg stood off to the side—close enough to hear Mr. Gushurst talking with Matthew, but not too close for anyone to inspect her disguise.

“He's taking my number,” Matthew stated.

Mr. Gushurst's mouth went sour. “Mr. Wilberforce, why is it you're so anxious to give up your lottery number?”

Ham Beauregarde called out, “Because he can't fish worth a damn and has probably taken cold hard cash from this Mr. Bascomb to get out of public humiliation.”

Matthew ignored Ham, never flinching or turning, and continuing to stare directly at Mr. Gushurst. “Since there's nothing in the rules about forfeiting the lottery card, Mr. Bascomb will now be using spot six.”

“Infernal hell—” Ham shot back, then cut himself off when a collective gasp of disapproval came from the ladies beside him, Mrs. Plunkett, Mrs. Treber and
Mrs. Elward. “Beg pardon,” he apologized, then went on with just as much resentment as before, “Wilberforce is shining up to the Bureau of Internal Revenue man. Let's call a spade a spade, Wilberforce.”

Eyes leveled on Meg, frosty glares. She inwardly cringed. When she'd made him up, she hadn't anticipated Arliss Bascomb having to face off with the town. How could she possibly pull this off? She didn't look like a man. She looked like a woman wearing Wayne Brooks's old clothes and a beard bought at Plunkett's mercantile.