Katie Rose (28 page)

“Charles—”

“And how did Albright become the villain here? He is not even on trial! I suppose every man who consorts with a married woman is a murderer!”

“Charles—” Winifred gestured violently to the bushes behind him.

“I am outraged at your tactics, Miss Appleton! Outraged! You and Shane should both be ashamed of yourselves!”

He almost enjoyed a moment of satisfaction—until he noticed that Winifred was not looking at him at all. Instead, her eyes were fixated behind him, wide with warning and anxiety. Slowly he turned, and to his astonishment, he saw a throng of reporters scribbling frantically.

“That is what I was trying to tell you,” she said softly.

Then the newsmen rushed him.

“Mr. Howe, do you often visit the defense?”

“What is the nature of your relationship with Miss Appleton?”

“Do you agree that Miss Appleton is the brains behind Mrs. Black’s defense?”

“What is your position on the Albright angle? Will the prosecution call him as a witness?”

“Do you believe in women’s rights and free love?”

Charles stared at them, aghast, then closed his eyes, wincing as he envisioned the story they would write about this. Winifred held out her hands, as if silently beseeching him, but he turned coldly on his heel and marched through the wall of reporters, tossing the newspaper to the ground. The newsmen were still shouting questions as he got into his carriage and the vehicle cleared the curb.

Some men, he thought, were born fools. Others became fools.

He hesitated to think which category contained himself.

W
INIFRED CLOSED
the door, refusing to give the reporters an interview. Charles was furious with her. Never had she seen him so angry. As she walked slowly toward the parlor, she sorted out her thoughts.

Had she been wrong to use the press that way? Her conscience stung her at Charles’s scolding. But how else could she hope to get a fair trial for Mrs. Black, except by exposing the hypocrisy beneath society’s double standards? Why was it so hard for Charles—or any man—to understand?

Mrs. Stanton didn’t think men could understand. Neither did Miss Anthony. For every enlightened male who supported women’s rights, a thousand, no maybe a million, wanted to keep the status quo. Men did not see women as equal partners, as people like themselves. Instead, they saw them as inferiors, as children, as pretty ornaments to wear on their arms or
dolls to be adorned and admired but never taken seriously. Under these circumstances, how else could she help Mrs. Black?

Yet Charles was different, Winifred knew. Never once had he treated her with anything less than respect. His offer to let her apprentice with him clearly showed his appreciation for her brain, even if he didn’t think she would stick to it. And even during their passionate moments, he always made her feel cherished. Why, then, was he being so stubborn?

“My, I have never seen Mr. Howe like that,” Aunt Eve said solicitously, coming into the parlor with the tea tray. “He was in a fine passion, that is for certain.”

Winifred turned quickly to her aunt. “What did you say?”

The older woman glanced up. “I said Mr. Howe got himself into a fine passion. Why, dear?”

“Nothing,” Winifred replied. “It is an interesting choice of words.”

For a long moment, staring into her teacup, Winifred absently stirred the brew. Passion. It really was the root of all disasters. Then, frustrated, she set down her spoon. “Oh, it’s no use,” she said to her aunt. “Why doesn’t he understand? How can someone as intelligent as Charles fail to see the opposing side?”

“Is there another side?” Eve asked softly.

“Of course there is. There always is. Why, one only has to stand in the other fellow’s shoes …” Winifred’s voice trailed off as the impact of her own words struck her forcefully.

“Yes, dear?” Eve prodded gently.

Winifred turned to her aunt in dismay. “Oh, Auntie, I see now why Charles feels the way he does! He gave me the information about Mrs. Black’s lover, and I gave it to the press, which he sees as a betrayal. But they would have found out anyway! He doesn’t
understand. He never will. He only sees things in black and white.”

“Yet that is one reason you think so well of him,” Eve reminded her. “Charles is a good man, and as such, he has strict moral values.”

“True,” Winifred agreed. “But he doesn’t see that Mrs. Black is not being tried the same as, say, her husband would be. Somehow I have to make him understand that this case is not black and white, that there is gray—”

“Winnie.” Aunt Eve took her niece’s hand and held it within her own fragile grasp. “Consider what you are fighting here. You are doing everything you can to help this woman, and that is truly noble. But are you fighting something else too, beneath all this? What is making you push Mr. Howe away?”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You deliberately outrage the one man you seem to admire above all others, a man who obviously has feelings for you.”

“Why—that is ludicrous!” Winifred set her cup down firmly as if to punctuate her declaration. “Mr. Howe and I are … friends. That is all we can ever be. We disagree on how this case should be handled. Otherwise, I am perfectly happy with our friendship.”

But how could they just be friends? They had made love. Overwhelming emotions had washed over her. Friends? Charles had offered her marriage, and she’d had a wonderful image of herself as his wife, with his children.… Winifred fought the constriction in her throat and quickly reached for more tea.

“I see.” Eve smiled fondly at her. “You know, dear, it is not wrong to want a man. It does not mean you are betraying the women you are fighting for, or the fight for the society you long to change. And it is
not weakness to admit that you need someone. That, my dear, is the beginning of real strength.”

Winifred sipped her tea so quickly, she burned her tongue. “Auntie, I am not Penelope. I do not need gentlemen callers to feel complete.”

“Is that why you lie awake late at night, unable to sleep? Or why you are most alive when arguing with Mr. Howe? Or perhaps the reason lies in your refusal to feel?” Eve’s voice was filled with sympathy. “Dear, after my husband died in the war, I was frozen, unable to feel any emotion. I did not know it then, but the pain of his death was so intense that I had decided not to experience it at all. As a result, I no longer felt the pain, but I no longer knew great joy, either.”

Winifred felt an intense interest in what her aunt was saying.

“What changed that?”

“You did. All of you.” Eve smiled gently again, her eyes filled with tears. “When I took you and your sisters in, I did not know that loving you would reopen my heart, that Pandora’s box of emotions. Yet I have never regretted it. Certainly, I felt the loss of my husband, and the pain was keen. But I also felt love, and nothing can replace that joy.”

Winifred rose slowly, setting her teacup aside. There was truth in her aunt’s words, and it struck her in a secret place that she had hidden for so long, she’d forgotten its existence. She was not sure even now she wanted to explore that secret place—to examine her aunt’s wisdom and her own motives.

“I do not think—”

“I know how hard it was on all you girls when your parents died,” Eve continued gently. “Penelope cried openly for days, and Jennifer was furious. But you, dear, never showed what you were feeling. Instead, you buried yourself in your books. I am not
saying that is wrong. I just want you to realize that your anger at Mr. Howe may be coming from very different feelings, ones that you aren’t letting yourself feel.”

Winifred was not ready to talk about it, but her aunt’s words had hit home.

“I will give your theory some thought, Auntie. But in truth, it may be too late. Charles is so angry, I don’t know if he will ever forgive me.”

“T
HE UNMITIGATED NERVE
of Miss Appleton, using the press like that! We will never get you into the governor’s mansion with that kind of publicity!”

Charles’s father sat at the head of the table and carved the roast beef while he spoke. He speared a huge slice for his own plate and, chopping off a large piece, thrust it into his mouth.

“I told you I am not running for governor,” Charles said in frustration. “After the Governor’s Ball, there certainly is not much question of it anyway.”

“Pshaw, my boy! That won’t hurt you much. We have already spoken to the right people and made sure the correct story got around. No one thinks less of you for taking a swing at Mr. Marton. Where the hell is the gravy?”

“I will get it, dear.” His mother called for the maid, who placed the gravy boat before his father, barely hiding a scowl. Charles laughed silently, recalling Bridget Flynn. Maybe the Blacks were not the only ones whose maid harbored resentments.

“In the long run, the story has only helped your image,” his father continued, completely unaware of the servant’s displeasure. “But this Black case is something else altogether. I don’t like it. No one likes it. Can’t Marton or one of the other lawyers handle it?”

“I have no choice but to prosecute it myself,” Charles said firmly, helping himself to the potatoes. “No one else in the office is available. And besides, I have to finish what I’ve started. You should know that today’s newspapers have shredded my reputation entirely. The press witnessed an argument between myself and Miss Appleton yesterday. The write-ups are simply horrendous.”

They were even worse than he’d feared. The reporters had had a great time with his dressing-down of Miss Appleton. The
Times
suggested that Miss A. had bewitched him, while the
World
speculated that their relationship was intimate.
Harper’s
even splashed a Nast cartoon of himself and Miss Appleton dressed as boxers on the front page, their gloves raised, prepared to do battle. It was incredibly humiliating, as was the story that followed. After reading the first few sentences, he’d simply tossed the papers away, unable to bear the rest.

“I told you to stay away from that woman!” his father thundered. “These suffragettes—Winifred Appleton in particular—are nothing but trouble! This case is ugly, no matter how you look at it. If you convict this woman, particularly after all the publicity, the women of New York will hate you. And if you don’t, the men will be furious. There is no good outcome. There never is, when a petticoat is involved.”

Charles glanced at his mother. Normally, she would have let such a stern lecture pass with merely a small flinch. But today, to Charles’s surprise, she refilled her wineglass and spoke softly.

“It is so hard to believe that a woman could do such a thing. Attempt a murder, I mean.” She shuddered, drinking deeply of her glass. “Women are life givers, not takers. Are you absolutely certain she’s guilty?”

Charles gazed at his mother incredulously. “There is no doubt. I would not prosecute the case otherwise. The maid saw the woman give her husband his tea. He drank it and became ill with convulsions. The chemist confirmed poisoning. The woman even confessed—or said she did not remember if she did it, if you want to believe that nonsense.”

“It’s that damned Miss Appleton, distorting the facts, using the press as if it were her own personal vehicle!” Charles’s father shouted, pounding the table. “That woman should be thrown in jail! Using the suffragettes, trying to turn this case into a ploy for women’s rights, hiding Monica Black behind her skirts. It is despicable!”

Before Charles could defend Winifred, his mother surprised him again.

“Dear, what else has she?”

His father’s head swung violently around to stare at his wife in disbelief. She shrugged, delicately picked up a piece of bread, and spoke softly once more.

“You blame Mrs. Black and Miss Appleton for hiding behind their skirts, but what else do they have? They have no voice in the courtroom. Not a single woman will sit on the jury and understand Mrs. Black’s view. Nor will a female judge ever preside on the bench. Mrs. Black is shackled from the start, treated without respect or dignity. She is held to the same standards as men, but without any of their power or choice. If she and Miss Appleton hide behind their skirts, what other means have they?”

His father opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it once more. Instead of delivering another bellowing lecture, to Charles’s amazement, the older man got up and stormed away from the table.

Charlotte Howe gazed at the empty place for a long moment, then picked up her fork and resumed
eating as if nothing had happened. She gave Charles an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, dear. I know you did not come to dinner to hear this.”

“I don’t mind.” Charles gazed at her in amazement. After all his father’s bullying, his mother’s calm opinion surprised him, particularly since it echoed Winifred’s. Charles stared at her for a long moment, seeing her in a different light. She was dressed in a high-necked lace gown as always, her deportment was perfect, and her voice was properly soft and low. Had she ever been young? Had she ever laughed out loud? Had she had ever kissed his father, or any man, with the kind of passion he felt for Winifred?

He longed to ask her, but something in her manner forbade such intimacy. Instead, he changed the subject to something he had been wondering about for some time.

“How is Father’s heart condition?”

A sparkle came into her eyes, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. But instead of letting them escape, she picked up her wineglass, sipped from it, then gazed at her son with an expression he would never forget.

“Your father does not have a heart condition, dear. He just wants us all to think he does, so he can get his own way. I placate him because it makes him happy. Would you like more beef? I think it’s getting cold.”