The Firebrand. Susan Wiggs

does it say that I protested the arrest on the grounds that I was simply exercising my constitutional rights?”

      “It says you created a public scandal.”

      She crossed her arms over her chest. “A public scandal occurs with every election in which women are denied the right to vote.”

      “According to this report, you had a mob of radical suffragists in your shop trying to corrupt decent women.”

      She laughed, looking genuinely incredulous. “I had a group of voting registrars, assisting American citizens in registering to vote.”

      “You were arrested.”

      “My constitutional rights were trodden upon.”

      “You were made to pay a fine.”

      “By a twisted, unfair, corrupt judge. And I never did pay.”

      He slapped the file shut. “So this shop is where you advocate free love and divorce on demand? Where you meet your lovers?”

      “So what if I do?” she retorted.

      “My point, Miss Hathaway, is that the loan committee is bound to view your so-called passion in quite a different light. To them, your actions will seem a sign of irresponsibility and immaturity, making you a bad risk.” He wondered why he was taking the time to explain all this when it should be a foregone conclusion. “I’m sorry, Miss Hathaway. The loan is due, and there can be no extension.”

      She sat very, very still. Her absolute stillness discomfited him. As did her direct stare. Finally she spoke. “I love my bookshop with a passion you will never understand. I don’t know why I’ve tried to explain it to you. Sir, you have a heart of stone. You have never loved a thing.”

      Her bald statement seared into him like a brand, igniting a rage and resentment he hadn’t known he possessed. “Love has nothing to do with it,” he snapped. “But I wouldn’t expect a woman to understand that. Like all of your sex, you are a creature governed by sentiment, not sense. You belong at home rather than struggling through a morass of crass commerce. Look to your duties as a mother, and leave the commerce to men.”

      “I have heard such views voiced before,” Lucy said, unaware of the absurd bobbing motion of the feather in her hat. “I have heard such views from Southerners who favor slavery. They claim slaves are incapable of looking after themselves and need to belong in bondage to men who will ‘care’ for them. Tell me, Mr. Higgins, do you favor slavery?”

      “Don’t be ridiculous. No thinking man approves of slavery. It took a war to settle that, but it’s settled.”

      “Then perhaps it will take a war to settle rights for women.”

      “I don’t doubt that you shall do your part.” In spite of his outrage, he felt a reluctant compassion for her. “Look, Miss Hathaway. You seem a genuinely determined woman. Perhaps, given time, you might be able to eke out a living as a bookseller. But I’ll never convince my associates of that. They are a conservative lot, as intractable as they come.”

      She leaned forward again, her eyes bright with optimism. “You must be my advocate, then, Mr. Higgins. You must convince them that I am a good risk.”

      “You’re 486 in arrears, Miss Hathaway. I cannot tell them it is light when it’s dark, or it’s Wednesday when it’s Friday.”

      “I see. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” She shoved herself back from the desk. With the motion, her fingers pushed at the leather-and-felt ink blotter, and the single framed picture on his desk fell facedown.

      They both reached for it at the same time.

      “I didn’t mean to—”

      “No harm done—”

      They both spoke at the same time.

      Their hands touched. And just for an instant, a current of recognition sizzled between them. Rand felt it all the way through him, hand and heart and body, and it astonished him. He hadn’t felt anything remotely like this in years.

      Lucy glanced down at the sepia-toned photographic portrait, but looked immediately back at him, eyes wide as if she, too, felt the bright heat of their connection. “I thought you said you had no children.”