The Firebrand (36 page)

An urgent tapping sounded at the bedroom door.

Lucy and Rand broke apart like adolescents caught on the front porch. Rand strode to the door and opened it a crack. Lucy held her breath, uneasy that she might have to explain her presence here to his grandmother or worse, to Maggie. She wasn't ready for that, not yet. Their love needed to grow and deepen in private. It was awkward enough that her mother had guessed.

Rand spoke briefly to the caller, then shut the door, a folded note in hand. He walked swiftly to Lucy and kissed her fast and hard. "I've got to go."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing for you to worry about," he said over his shoulder as he headed for his dressing room.

"Don't you dare hide your troubles from me," she said, pursuing him. "Don't you understand anything yet? Secrecy only means trouble. You know that. You know."

"It's no secret," he said. "But there's no point in worrying you."

"I'm not a child," she said. "I am your wife and an equal partner in this marriage whether you like it or not."

"Fine," he said, shoving his arms into a starched shirt that crackled with each movement. "Late yesterday, the bank's wealthiest clients pulled their lodged deposits. I'm sure you can guess why."

Part Five

The reason husbands and wives do not understand each other is because they belong to different sexes.

—
Dorothy Dix

The day's trials pressed hard on Rand as he returned home from the bank that afternoon. Failure cut like a knife between his shoulder blades.

The bottom line had been even worse than he'd feared. An influential group of depositors had withdrawn their money from the Union Trust. Then, fearing a run on the bank, others had followed suit. That action had triggered a panic, and by the close of the day, the bank's shares had dropped twenty-five percent.

At a special meeting of the board, the directors had issued an ultimatum—Lucy was to give up The Firebrand and her suffrage work, or Rand would lose his job.

He'd been tempted to stop off at Schultz's beer garden to douse the burn of failure with strong drink, but decided against it. What he wanted most was at home waiting for him.

What he wanted most was his wife and daughter.

The simple clarity of the realization buoyed him. Before Maggie and Lucy had come into his life, a blow like this would have knocked him flat. Yet somehow knowing they were there at the end of the day made even this disaster survivable.

But still, the bank was important to him. For years it had been his sole reason for living. Now the directors were forcing him to choose between his job and Lucy.

He walked up the front steps and let himself in. Standing in the foyer, he put up a hand to loosen his necktie. He envisioned a quiet meal, a rational discussion with his wife over coffee. They would find a way to solve this.

But instead of the tranquil refuge he needed now, he found his house in disarray, paint and placards uttering the dining room and Lucy feverishly lettering a sign reading Union Trust Unfair To Women.

He gritted his teeth to forestall a wave of exasperation. "Lucy, what is this about?"

She looked up, her face flushed and hair tousled. "I'm organizing a protest, of course. They mustn't get away with this."

"There will be no protest," he stated. "It's uncalled for."

She set her hands on her hips. "It's absolutely essential, don't you see?"

"No, damn it, I don't see." All the frustrations of the day erupted inside him. "Everything has to be a battle with you, Lucy."

He turned on his heel and stalked out. He'd wanted to come home to peace and quiet, and instead had found her poised for combat. Not trusting himself to say anything more, he left the house, walking the eight blocks to Schultz's.

On the sidewalk outside the beer garden, a workman with a crate of kerosene drums passed by. One of the drums dropped from his load, splitting open as it hit

the pavement. Rand acted instinctively, moving out of the way, but the kerosene spattered his shoes and trousers.

"Beg pardon, sir," the workman said, "it was an accident. "No one strike a match," he warned a group of men entering the bar, "or the whole building will go up."

Lucy spent a long time deciding which bed to sleep in. In the end she'd settled in Rand's, for doing otherwise would appear to be a retreat.

Everything has to be a battle with you.
She'd been trying to help him.

Couldn't he see that?

But when the clock struck ten and then eleven, a sinking disappointment tugged at her. She'd forced herself to face facts. He wasn't coming home. They had discovered the passion in their marriage, but passion didn't take the place of true understanding. What had she given him, after all, but failure at the bank? He had walked away from her. Maybe he was going to stay out all night, drinking and carousing.

The minutes seemed like hours as she lay waiting for him. She'd nearly given up hope when she heard the door open and shut. She didn't know what to say to him and so, for the first time in her life, she took the coward's way out. At the sound of his tread on the bedroom floor, she said nothing, simply pretended to be asleep.

The bed creaked softly when he got in next to her, and she heard his long, slow exhalation of—was it weariness? Indecision? She gritted her teeth to keep from asking him.

He stayed on his side of the bed, not touching her. She didn't move, but breathed evenly as if relaxed and sleeping.

As she stared into blackness, she became aware of two distinct smells. The faint odor of whiskey hung in the air, along with something she could not immediately identify. Wood smoke? No, this was harsher, a bit like lamp oil— or kerosene.

That was too much for Lucy. Pushing herself up to a sitting position, she set her hands on her hips. "Oh, I'm no good at this at all," she burst out.

He shifted, propped himself on one elbow. She could feel him peering through the darkness at her.

"No good at what?" he asked. "No good at suffering in silence." "But you were doing so well."

"There's no need for sarcasm." She clambered out of bed and raised the gas jet, then tugged on a robe. Pacing back and forth on the hearth rug, she said, "I must know what is going on."

He sat up in bed, weary resignation on his face. With his hair rumpled, his chest bare and his face shadowed by stubble, he looked dissolute, dangerous...and wildly attractive to her. Annoyed, she stopped pacing, folded her arms and glared at him.

"Well?" she prompted.

"Where would you like to start?"

"When you left for work this morning, you expected a problem at the bank, but the world as we know it wasn't ending."

"And it is now?"

She plopped herself onto a divan. "You tell me. You must be honest, and leave nothing out."

"I tried to earlier but you didn't seem inclined to listen." "I am now."

He poured a small tumbler of water and took a drink. "I have to bring our depositors back to the bank, or I'll be required to resign."

"And they won't come back unless I close my shop. Cease my suffrage work." His silence affirmed it.

She bit her tongue to hold in an oath. She could feel her temper escalating, so she changed the subject. "What is that smell on your clothes?"

"There was a kerosene spill. I went to Schultz's, and there was a mishap on the sidewalk in front of the place."

"You shouldn't have walked out on me."

"You shouldn't have concluded that the only way to contend with this is to stage a protest."

Restless, Lucy went to the tall French doors. The doors stood open to the summer night, and a light wind lifted the sheer voile curtains. Lights lined the lakeshore like a string of diamonds, and a few vessels bobbed in the harbor. She waited to hear more about the troubles at the bank, but a faint ringing sound distracted her.

Rand frowned. "Who the devil could that be at this hour?"

Exasperated, she tossed him a robe. "We'd best find out before they wake the whole house."

He swore between his teeth and shoved his arms into his robe.

She pulled open the door and hurried through the dim hallway to the stairway.

The urgent, metallic
brrr
sound crescendoed as she approached the front door.

Sensing Rand behind her, she stepped aside and let him open it. A wire messenger held out a folded onionskin paper. "For Miss Hathaway," he stated, craning his neck to see into the house.

"That's me." A chill tingled over her scalp as she squinted down at the

message. After reading the first three words, she knew the rest. Her mouth was dry with fear.

"Get the buggy," she said. "There's a fire."

Rand hitched the horse himself and drove the gelding hard across the State Street bridge. Beside him, hastily dressed, her hair flying wildly behind her, Lucy clutched the seat and stared intently at the road ahead.

When he turned the buggy onto Gantry Street, his heart seized up. The sight of the burning building sucked him back into nightmare memories, and though he gave no outward sign, his mind roared with fear. Flames shot from the windows of the bookstore, casting a livid glow that pulsed with a life of its own. Unnatural heat slapped at him, and the horse shied and tugged at the reins.

A hose cart crew was already there, aiming a stream at the flames. Some of the neighbors draped soaked rugs over their own shops to protect them from catching fire.

Lucy gave a choked cry and leaped out of the cart even before it rolled completely to a halt. "My shop," she said. "Dear God, my shop—"

He jumped down and grabbed her arm. "Don't go any closer," he ordered her. "Let the crew do its work."

She fought free of him. "But—"

"Can you for once in your goddamned life let someone else be in charge?" His loud words shocked her into momentary silence.

The marshal came over, wearing oiled overalls with suspenders flapping down around his knees. He tugged them on as he spoke. "This your shop, sir?"

"It's mine," Lucy said. "What happened?"

"Mr. Birney called in the alarm. He heard a loud blast, then saw the flames. Foul play's involved. The police are holding a man who was caught fleeing the scene."

"But who would—" Lucy whipped around to face Rand. The look she turned on him made his blood run cold. "Oh," she said, that one accusatory syllable thrumming with wonder and hurt.

"For Christ's sake," he said. "You know better than that."

"But I know your friends at the bank. This morning, you told me that my shop and my politics were responsible for putting the bank in jeopardy. Do you think this is a coincidence?"

"Marshal, there's a flare-up on the second floor," a crewman yelled. "Must be a supply of kerosene or oil there. We can't get through with the hoses."

"Confound it," the marshal said, hurrying away. "I sent for a ladder cart but it hasn't arrived. The building's a loss for sure unless we get a stream up there."

Rand took one more look at Lucy's face, awash with firelight and suspicion. Letting go of her hand, he gave himself no time for second thoughts. He ran to the hose cart, grabbed a coil and plunged into the burning building.

At dawn, they came like mourners to a funeral, their wraithlike forms gliding silently through a street hung with fog and smoke. The clammy dampness of the morning plastered Lucy's hair to her forehead and neck, but she hardly noticed.

Deborah Silver and Kathleen Kennedy arrived first, escorted by their husbands. They shared embraces, shed tears, murmured words of sympathy and devastation. Soon after, Patience and Willa Jean showed up, accompanied by Bull Waxman.

Holding her arm around Lucy's waist, Deborah said, "We're so sorry for your loss." Though blond and petite as a fairy princess, Deborah had always possessed a startling strength, a quality for which Lucy was grateful at a time like this. Unable to find her voice, she simply stared dull-eyed at the shop in Gantry Street.

The tradesman's shingle, which she'd once hung with such pride and hope, now dangled askew, flapping sluggishly in the breeze. The picture window that used to frame a cozy view of the shop lay in a thousand icicle-shaped slivers. Inside the jagged maw of the door, everything lay shrouded in a lifeless gray mantle of old smoke. The sharp odor of incineration stung Lucy's eyes and throat.

Even as they watched, the shingle fell with a
thunk
to the boardwalk. The sudden sound and movement laid waste to the last of Lucy's self-control. Her locked knees gave way; she staggered back and would have fallen, but a large male caught her—she didn't know if it was Dylan or Tom. Moving like an old woman, she slowly lowered herself to the boardwalk across the street.

Everything felt broken beyond repair. Nothing would ever be right again.

And Lucy, who never, ever cried, wept with every inch of her heart. She wept for lost hopes and shattered dreams, for the happiness that had been hers for such a brutally short period of time. She wept for all the times she'd tried and failed, for all the foolish things she'd done. She wept until she was completely barren, hollow as a porcelain doll, with nothing inside her but a cold, ringing emptiness.

The others seemed stunned to silence by her grief and kept a respectful distance. Tom, Bull and Dylan stood off to the side, speaking with an investigator for the Board of Fire. Eventually Lucy realized the world was not going to stop because of her loss. She had to take the next breath of air, had to take the next step...even if she wasn't quite sure where she was going. Through damp, grief-blurred eyes, she stared at the charred brick building.

"I can't believe it's gone," Willa Jean said. "There was a time when I couldn't read or write. Couldn't sum up the fingers on my own hands. But I learned, honey. I learned because I didn't want to be a maid all my life. And now—"

"You're a good bookkeeper with or without the shop," Lucy said. "You'll find another position." She tried to smile. "You'll find a place that can afford to pay you more."

"You'll rebuild," Kathleen said stoutly. "No," Lucy said.