The Firebrand (19 page)

His memories of her were few and vague. He remembered Pamela Byrd Higgins as a gentle, soft-eyed woman who rarely spoke or smiled. He recalled the soothing tenderness of a woman's hand upon his brow when he was sick. Sometimes, if he closed his eyes, he could still summon the faint, haunting fragrance of lily of the valley, with which she scented her handkerchiefs. Rand kept his memories of her secreted away, like things kept in a trunk he never looked in but could not bear to part with.

His father had destroyed all traces of Pamela when she had left, offering no explanation and disappearing like a melting snowflake, never to return.

Only the intervention of Grandmother Higgins had soothed Bradwell's savage temper. She'd pointed out that Pamela had always been unstable and unpredictable. Hadn't she slid into a deep depression after Rand's birth, refusing to speak for nearly a year? Didn't she spend hours hunched over her writing desk, churning out Lord knew what?

Rand paced back and forth on the sidewalk, trying unsuccessfully to shake off the memories. He knew why they had been haunting him. He was a man who had met with success in every area of his life except the only one that truly mattered, and that was family. His mother had left his father, Diana had left him and his daughter had been raised by a stranger.

He wondered if he'd done a terrible thing in a past life, to be so cursed. And truly, the only thing he wanted was a happiness most men acquired without a great deal of trouble. Was it so much to ask for a contented wife and family?

At precisely ten o'clock, Rand opened the door of the shop, setting off a high-pitched brass bell as he stepped inside. A small Negro woman looked up from her post behind a plank counter.

"You must be Mr. Higgins," she said.

Her unsmiling scrutiny made him conscious of his scars, yet she seemed to be taking his measure, not wondering about his wounds. This woman probably knew more than his name. Lucy Hathaway had likely told her associates that he meant to steal "her" daughter. He inclined his head in slightly formal fashion. "I'm here to see Miss Hathaway," he said needlessly.

"I'll let her know you're here." The woman kept her eyes on him as she left the counter and stepped through a glass-paned door behind her.

His nerves alive with anticipation, Rand turned his attention to the small shop. He was curious about the establishment, so adamantly opposed by the men associated with his bank. Near the front window was a comfortable rocker, and the walls and aisles were lined and sectioned by shelves. A brass ladder on rollers was positioned at the end of one aisle, and several customers browsed through books of varying quality. The shoppers wore dresses with prominent bustles; they hardly resembled the suffrage-minded viragos depicted by the satirists in the
Chicago Tribune.
They appeared as ordinary and proper as the wives of his banking clients. These ladies did not seem the sort to beat their breasts or breathe fire with passion for their cause. Yet somehow, their very ordinariness made them all the more powerful. They sent sideways glances his way, no doubt wondering what a man was doing in their midst. He nodded briefly to acknowledge the ladies and turned away.

Contrary to the picture he'd formed in his mind of an unkempt and lawless environment, he found the shop to be surprisingly orderly. The books were organized by subjects indicated by hand-lettered signs. A long table surrounded by battered yellow maple chairs dominated the room. Stacks of books and pamphlets covered the table. He picked one up, glanced at the title: "The Science

of Preventing Conception." He dropped the pamphlet as if it had stung him.

Propped at the end of the shelves was a slate board with a message in chalk: "No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States. —Fourteenth Amendment of the United States Constitution. Patrons are kindly reminded to vote..." He recognized Lucy Hathaway's handwriting and her egalitarian spirit. Below that, in a scrawl of block letters, was a sketch of a cat and the word "Silky."

Christine's work, no doubt. A sense of wonder touched him. When he'd lost her, she'd barely been able to talk. Now she was writing words on a chalkboard. Clearly Miss Hathaway had done her best, but Christine needed a complete education, not just the haphazard schooling of a political radical.

He strolled over to a window that framed a view of the tiny concrete garden at the rear of the shop. There was Christine, playing with a cat while an older lady sat nearby, knitting.

His daughter was alive and well. More than well, she seemed filled with a special energy as she dangled a ball of yarn in front of the cat, which tracked the loose end with intense, predatory purpose. The older lady, a softer, more mellow version of Lucy, smiled indulgently and didn't seem to mind that a cat was attacking her yarn.

When Christine jammed her foot into the crotch of the old apple tree and hoisted herself up, his instincts told him to rush outside and stop her. But Mrs. Hathaway simply tilted up her head, spoke briefly and then returned to her knitting. Christine climbed like a monkey through the branches, paying out the yarn as she went. The cat shot after the dangling end, and the child laughed as the inept hunter kept missing its mark.

Despite being raised in unorthodox circumstances, Christine appeared happy. Of course, he assured himself, she'd never known a conventional way of life. Once she made the transition, she would find an even deeper, safer happiness, he was certain of it.

"Don't worry about the tree climbing," Lucy said, suddenly standing behind him. "She is an expert."

He swung around, startled even though he was expecting her. "I have a natural apprehension about children behaving in risky ways."

Lucy studied the little girl out the window. A peculiar softness suffused her face, making her look almost pretty. "All of life is a risk, Mr. Higgins."

She led the way into a cluttered office little bigger than a closet. "Here you have it," she said, seating herself behind a desk littered with correspondence and invoices. "The heart of my enterprise."

Pulling the door shut, he sat on a narrow bench and set down his case with a thud. They had an uncomfortable discussion to get through. Lucy Hathaway was no fool, and had probably made certain preparations of her own. He braced

himself to do battle for his child. How far would he have to go? His lawyers had warned him that he might have to discredit her, even if it meant attacking her character. Her lovers from France, her precarious finances, her activism in the suffrage movement—all were fair game in the fight to keep Christine.

"Thank you for coming so promptly," she began, folding her small hands upon the desk. They were rather nice hands, he observed, unassuming and prone to nervous flutters if she didn't keep them clasped and in view.

"I am as eager to get this settled as you are," he assured her.

"Yes, well, yes. Settled. Let me begin by saying that I see this situation from one point of view only—the point of view of someone who cares about Maggie above all else. My decision has been made with her well-being in mind, even when that is at odds with my own desires."

So far, she sounded bloody reasonable. He wasn't quite sure what to do with a reasonable woman.

"Naturally, that is my paramount concern as well. Christine's future is the most important work I have ever undertaken."

Her breath caught with a barely audible hitch. "I see," she said. "Then I must ask you to consider letting Maggie stay with me. You will be welcome to visit anytime you wish, but she belongs here."

He gritted his teeth. "Out of the question. My child will not be raised over a shop. By a woman who boasts of her sexual exploits with French lovers."

Her cheeks burned scarlet. "Sir, you seem preoccupied with my private life.

Don't tell me
you
have been celibate all these years."

Her comment darted into him, unexpected as a sneak attack. "Very well, I won't tell you that."

She narrowed her eyes. "That tells me nothing."

Exactly as he'd intended. He pressed his hands on the edge of the desk. "I know where my bitterness comes from, Miss Hathaway. What is the source of yours?"

She glared at him. "Perhaps your accusations make me edgy—"

He raised a hand to silence her before she continued. "We should cease this arguing. For Christine's sake, we must be rational in our approach to this dilemma. My position is clear. My daughter will live with me."

She swallowed hard. "I feared you'd say that. But you understand, I had to try. Now, since you refuse to yield to my judgment, I've devised an alternative arrangement." She pushed a long document across the desk to him. "Here are my terms."

His instinct was to crush the papers into a ball. Who the devil did she think she was, dictating the terms of his reunification with his own flesh-and-blood daughter? Still, he reminded himself, this was Christine's foster mother, and he would grant her the courtesy of reading her agreement.

"May I have a moment?" he asked.

"Of course." Her skin was very white, her lips taut. "Take as long as you need."

But he didn't need much time at all. By the time he finished the first page, he understood the gist of it. His heart thumped wildly and a chill passed over his skin.

"You are surrendering her to my custody." "Yes." Her face was a mask he could not read.

He swallowed past the dryness in his throat. "Forgive me for sitting here like an idiot, but I didn't expect this."

"You expected me to fight like a wet cat in a corner."

The accuracy of her prediction amused him a little. "Well, actually—"

"Believe me, Mr. Higgins, I considered it." She clasped and unclasped her hands. "I considered many possibilities, including disappearing to a place where you would never find us. But I discounted that. I will not live in exile."

He was amazed she was giving the child up so easily. Perhaps, like many radical suffragists, she'd felt shackled by the responsibility of raising a child. Perhaps she felt liberated by the notion of giving Christine up.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Lucy Hathaway was a stranger in many ways, but one thing had been clear from the start. She adored the little girl and was devoted to her. "I have to ask why," he said.

"Of course. You probably think I feel oppressed by the burden of motherhood and wish to be rid of it as soon as possible."

A rueful smile tightened his lips. "You see right through me, Miss Hathaway. I confess, the notion did cross my mind. But I rejected the thought. I may disagree with your politics, but I'll not deny your love for my daughter."

She was quiet for a moment, and he sensed her struggling with something. It was strange, this affinity he had for her, this way of knowing she was in pain.

Then she nodded. "I kept coming back to one matter— what is best for Maggie. I don't want to force her to endure the life of a fugitive just because of my own selfishness. Nor do I want her to feel like a piece of disputed property. She would be hurt by a protracted battle, so I've chosen not to fight."

Rand leaned back against the wall, trying to sort out his feelings. He'd been prepared for every possible resistance from her and had prepared every possible justification for reclaiming his daughter. His attorneys had drafted arguments in support of his claim, proving him the superior parent by virtue not only of the nature and law but of bis stature in the community. He'd drawn up reams of proof of his financial and social viability. He would have dragged Lucy's reputation through the mud, publicly, in order to win a favorable ruling from a judge. But thanks to Lucy, he hadn't needed to fight.

Elation soared through him, yes, and triumph and joy sweetened the victory.

But he could not quell a vague twinge of regret. He hadn't wanted to do battle with this woman. However, he also didn't want her to make herself a martyr over this.

"You've made a wonderfully wise and generous choice," he said at last. "I do admire you greatly for this, Miss Hathaway."

"I didn't do it to gain your admiration," she assured him, "I did it to make this as easy for Maggie as possible." Her voice sounded cold and flat, and he suspected she was trying hard to stay calm. "Look over the rest of the document, Mr. Higgins. I expect you'll find it agreeable."

Her terms were far more liberal than those in the restrictive documents in his briefcase, but he was willing to make concessions because she'd taken the high road herself. Although the child's chief domicile would be with Rand, Lucy had assigned herself generous rights to visit. The document spelled out the terms of the custodial arrangement, from visitation to maintaining membership in a church Maggie had attended since 1872. One condition, he noticed, was that the child was not to be taken from Chicago without Lucy's approval.

"May I take this?" he asked, holding up the agreement.

"Of course." She pressed her palms carefully on the blotter. "But I warn you, I will not change a word of it."

He opened his briefcase. "I brought a document of my own, but it was drawn up with a contest in mind."

"My daughter is not a prize to be won. That's why I gave her up without a fight. I'm doing this the only way I know how."

He'd expected tears and hysterics. Instead she seemed as steady as a marble icon.

"What have you heard from your former wife?"

As always, Lucy Hathaway aimed straight for the heart of the matter. "I had a wire last night from San Francisco." Over the past years, his feelings for Diana had run the gamut, from an abiding commitment to blind hatred to a profound indifference.

"When will she return?" Lucy asked.. "Did she say?"

"Actually," Rand said, hating the admission, "she did not. She declared her surprise and joy to learn that our daughter is alive and well, but there was no mention of her coming back for a reunion." He didn't reveal that the wire had been filled with suspicions even darker than the ones Rand had entertained when Lucy had first come to him. Diana believed the claim to be fraudulent. She accused Lucy of being a blackmailer and manipulator.