Miss Phipps and the Cattle Baron (16 page)

"Then start screaming." Adam tugged her into
his arms and covered her mouth with his, and although he knew his
mother was standing at the end of the hallway watching them, he
refused to stop what was happening, even when Priscilla thrust her
fingers into his hair and forced his head toward hers, demanding
his lips take firmer possession, his tongue match the fervent
thrusts of hers, his chest embrace her breasts.

His mind whirled with the need to scoop her
up in his arms and kick open the nearest bedroom door, then hurl
her on the bed, shove her skirts up, release his throbbing male
part from the damn britches, and do what they both wanted. And
there was no doubt in his mind that Priscilla would relinquish her
virginity to him if he packed her off to a private place. But he
fought off that almost uncontrollable urge because, although
Priscilla might accept him, he was apt to get his eyes clawed out
during the process.

When the kiss finally ended, Priscilla took
several moments to steady her erratic breathing, then she looked at
him steadily, and said between labored breaths, "So that there's no
misunderstanding, that kiss meant goodbye. Nothing more." She
turned and started down the long curved stairway, back straight,
head erect, like a queen who'd just issued a proclamation that was
not to be challenged.

And all he wanted was to haul her off to bed
and claim her as his. Permanently.

CHAPTER SEVEN

'She hath abused her body by unspeakable

and incredible variety of lust, which

modesty suffereth not to be remembered'

—
William Cardinal Allen
about Elizabeth I - 1588

The jingle of the bell on the front door to
The Town Tattler
building announced the arrival of a
customer. Priscilla looked up from her typesetting at the copy
table and was surprised to see Lady Whittington, Lady Ashbury, and
a younger woman whose features closely resembled those of Lady
Ashbury. It was late in the day, and Jim and the women had left, so
she was surprised that anyone would stop in. She set aside her
composing stick and returned the type characters to the type
drawer. Wiping her hands on a rag, she walked up to greet the
women. "Good afternoon Lady Whittington, Lady Ashbury, Lady—?"

"Rumsfeld," the younger woman replied. "I am
Lady Ashbury's daughter."

"We're sorry to be stopping by so late,
dear," Lady Whittington said, "but we didn't want to disturb you
during your working hours. But it seems you're still working."

"Well, yes. The ladies who are in my employ
are new at typesetting, and therefore still slow, so I have to pick
up the slack," Priscilla said. "May I offer you refreshments? My
kitchen is modest, but I do have tea and custard tarts."

"No thank you, dear," Lady Whittington said.
"Actually, we're here on business."

"You are?" Priscilla said, then realized it
was not so surprising. Lady Whittington had given every indication
that she'd be sending business her way, not by anything she'd said,
but because there seemed to be a competition of sorts between the
British cattlemen's wives and daughters, who seemed determined that
The Town Tattler
be British in nature because the owner and
editor was a Tudor and therefore descended from royalty, and the
homesteader's wives and daughter's, who expected the paper to
reflect the lives of the commonplace folks who'd come west in wagon
trains to start new lives, as did the owner and editor of the
paper.

Priscilla was determined to stand for
both.

"We want to place advertisements in your
newspaper," Lady Ashbury said, "and my daughter has written a story
which she hopes will be suitable for publication."

Priscilla looked at Lady Rumsfeld. "What is
the subject of your story?" she asked.

The younger woman blushed. "Well, actually,
it is a romantic story, much like those that Sara Claxton and Mary
Reed Crowell write."

"Ah yes," Priscilla said,
"The Secret
Marriage
and
The Masked Bride.
Then I must assume you're
an avid reader of Dime Novels."

"Well... yes. In fact it's my dream to write
them for publication," Lady Rumsfeld said. "My husband recently
purchased a Remington typewriting machine for me, so you'll find
the manuscript easy to read. The story, which I brought with me
today, is short, but I have others that could run as continuing
stories in several issues. And my husband would like to place an
advertisement in
The Town Tattler
for Remington Typewriting
machines, which are being sold in one of his stores."

Priscilla quickly tallied up the
advertisements she'ad already secured: the latest in Boulevard
Velveteen from Jensen's Drygoods; the new Pivot Corset from Madam
LaFoy's Ladies Apparel; Tissue Paper Flowers from Jerome Novelty;
Heminway Spool Silks and Madonna Embroidery Cotton from Merrill's
Dry & Fancy Goods. As each advertisement would first appear,
she'd include a short descriptive piece about the product. But her
best advertisement, which would take up one-quarter of a page, was
from A.L. Dutton Specialty Wear for Women for their latest in
bicycling costumes, promoting the new divided skirts and bloomer
costumes. She'd be including a four-part essay, which would run in
the next four issues, and which would address the health benefits
of bicycling.

She'd sold a number of subscriptions to the
British ladies, but she'd lost count of the number she'd sold to
the homesteader's wives, most of which had been paid for in goods.
The shelves in her pantry were now stocked with jams and jellies
and canned fruits and vegetables, and she had several jars of
pickled eggs and pickled pig's feet. And out back, Jim had hastily
built a henhouse for her four laying hens. She had also accepted
teacups, and sets of dishes, and kitchenware—items she hadn't
brought in the covered wagon, but planned to purchase upon arrival.
And today, she accepted a pair of ladies walking boots that a woman
ordered from Bloomingdales's and found too small.

"Have you a title for your story?" she asked
Lady Rumsfeld.

"Yes," Lady Rumsfeld replied. "I am calling
it
The Runaway Bride."
She reached into the pocket of her
satchel and withdrew her manuscript. Handing it to Priscilla, she
said, "I've chosen the pen name Vivian Penworthy. That is, if you
have no objection to my using a pen name."

"No, of course not," Priscilla said. "But
many of the most popular writers of Dime Novels are now using their
own names, Metta Victor being the exception. I'll read your story
tonight. Basically, what I'm looking for in romantic stories is
love and a happy ending. A young woman finds herself in dire
circumstances and alone in the world, she attracts a handsome man
far above her station, and after a series of mishaps and
separations, the couple is united, and they marry."

Lady Rumsfeld smiled. "I believe you'll like
my story then."

"If that's the case, I look forward to
publishing others. Perhaps you could bring 'round your longer
stories as well."

Lady Rumsfeld smiled broadly. "I will deliver
them to you tomorrow."

Lady Ashbury, who had been waiting patiently
for her daughter to finish, reached into her hand bag and withdrew
several handwritten papers. "I have some items for the society
column, and something for your Tattle Tale column," she said. "I
did not mention the name, but there's a woman among us who is
making claims about having gowns made by Frederick Worth, but on
close inspection, it was easy to tell that the gown was a cheap
imitation. I just want to draw attention to the fact that if a
woman goes around making false claims, she
will
be
exposed."

Priscilla paged through the papers. "I'll see
that these are included," she said. "One point I'd like to mention
though. When placing items in the Tattle Tale column, if you
include a person's name, then you must include your own name as
well. But since you haven't included a name in the one you're
submitting, it can be signed, Anonymous."

Lady Ashbury smiled. "I understand," she
said. "One thing more. My husband would like to include an
advertisement. Actually, it's for our eldest daughter. We have just
set her up in her own millinery shop on 16th Street, which will
open next month, and she'll be calling it Millie's Millinery. My
husband and daughter will stop by to discuss with you what they'd
like in the way of advertising. I just thought I'd let you
know."

"I look forward to that," Priscilla said.

Lady Whittington glanced around the room.
"Has Trudy been underfoot too terribly much?" she asked.

"No," Priscilla assured her, "she's a delight
to have around. She's also been very helpful. She has a fine flare
for writing, and we'll be publishing an excellent article that she
wrote about Viscountess Harberton and the Rational Dress Society,
which, as you probably know, the viscountess founded. They are
against the wearing of tight-fitting corsets, heavily-weighted
skirts, high-heeled shoes, and anything impeding movement of the
arms or rendering healthy exercise impossible. The new
Pre-Raphaelite style of dress they are promoting is based on
considerations for health, comfort and beauty."

"Trudy did tell me something about it," Lady
Whittington said, "and that you purchased one of the new gowns for
yourself. I'd be interested in seeing it."

"It hasn't yet arrived," Priscilla said. "I
purchased it from a catalog put out by the Liberty & Company
Artistic and Historic Costume Studio. I expect it to arrive
shortly. But we will be including an illustration with Trudy's
article. It should be of interest to readers."

"Well, it seems to be keeping Trudy's mind
off the young man at the ranch," Lady Whittington said, "so that
was what we were after. I am also glad to see Trudy interested in
her father's campaign. She has been making leaflets to distribute
at the fourth of July picnic where the candidates will be greeting
voters. Which brings up the reason I'm here. I'd like to place an
advertisement in your paper for Adam. I have this engraving of
him—" she dug into her handbag and pulled out a metal plate "—and
I've jotted down a few lines that tell a little about him."

"Does Adam know you're doing this?" Priscilla
asked.

"Well, no," Lady Whittington admitted. "It
was Trudy's idea. She wants it to be a surprise for her father. I
told her I'd pay for the advertising space if you'd be willing to
include it."

Priscilla didn't want to take an open
position on the election at this time. By placing a picture of Adam
in
The Town Tattler
, she would, in effect, be doing that.
But she didn't want to disappoint Trudy either. Of course, Adam's
opponents were welcome to take out advertising space as well. So
she'd include an editorial about the race, stating that The Town
Tattler did not take a position, but welcoming candidates to
promote themselves through the paper, and for readers to write
opinion pieces about candidates. "I'll include it in the next
issue," she said, hoping Adam would welcome the piece, fearing he
would not. But once he learned that Trudy was behind it, he'd hold
back any critical comments he might have had.

The women were gathering their things to
leave when the door swept open, and Adam walked in, unannounced.
Lady Whittington looked at him in shocked surprise. "We were not
expecting you for several days yet, Adam," she said. "Why are you
here?"

"I might ask the same of you," Adam said.

"We are here on business," she replied.

"So am I."

Lady Whittington's brow gathered in a puzzled
frown. "May I ask, out of curiosity, what kind of business you have
with Miss Phipps."

"No, Mother, you may not," Adam replied.

Lady Whittington lifted her chin and gave a
short, "Harumph."

Priscilla stared at Adam with guarded
curiosity. After her brusque words to him following their
passionate kiss in the hallway the day she was moving out of his
house, she had not expected to see him again, at all. That he
showed up at this particular moment was awkward. "Can it not wait
until tomorrow?" she said. "As you see, I'm busy."

Lady Whittington's gaze shifted from Adam to
Priscilla, and back to Adam, her frown replaced by awareness. "We
are finished now," she announced. She returned to Adam. "Will you
be staying at the house tonight, or will you be returning to the
ranch?"

Adam eyed Priscilla in a way that made her
face flush, then he said to his mother, "I will not be staying at
the house."

"Then you will be returning to the ranch, I
presume," his mother said.

"Or I might stay at the Cheyenne Club," he
replied. "I have some business to tend to there, and if it runs
late, I'll take a room."

Priscilla felt her temper rise. She had a
fairly good idea what that business was. Although the Cheyenne Club
was not a brothel, it was rumored that clandestine affairs were
frequently carried on behind the closed doors to the private rooms
upstairs.

But she had no claim on Adam, nor him on her.
He had, however, stopped by for a reason, and she hoped it didn't
include a bathtub and a deflowering because that was not an option
this particular evening. Nor would it be in the near future. During
the two weeks that Adam had been gone, more incidents of cattlemen
threatening and terrorizing farmers and homesteaders had occurred.
A farmer's mule had been shot and killed. A homesteader's wife
almost raped by three cowboys, the husband arriving in time to
chase the men off, and another fence torn down and the crop
trampled by livestock.

The women bid their farewells, but as Lady
Whittington was leaving, she looked at Adam, and said, "If you'll
stop by tomorrow, I'd like to have a word with you."

"As you wish," Adam replied.