Violet Fire by Brenda Joyce Page B

principal parties, too?”
    Hesitant murmurs had followed.
    â€œWe are equal! And with the vote we can pass new laws—laws that will give us a chance to obtain custody of our children in cases of divorce, laws that will enable us to keep our own property when we join in marriage…”
    Rathe heard enough to know that the conservative andgenteel ladies of Natchez were intimidated by Grace’s views. He found himself straining to hear everything she had to say, and realizing for the first time that Grace actually had quite a few good points. If all married couples had the relationship his father and mother or his sister and his brother-in-law had, the laws Grace wanted to change wouldn’t really matter. But those kinds of relationships were rare, as he well knew. Many women were unhappy in their marriages and stuck there. But, he mused, many men were unhappy, too. Yet this was the point Grace was making—men did benefit from both society’s double standards and the power they wielded through the vote. Women suffered.
    He was still listening intently when she abruptly changed the subject to one more suitable for conservative ladies—temperance.
    â€œIt’s disgusting,” Sarah Bellsley cried. “The decadence, the sin, the shame! Why, I won’t mention names, but three of the ladies here have husbands who pass every evening on Silver Street, spending all the family’s income on liquor and—and—hussies!”
    â€œSilver Street is abominable!” someone shouted furiously, and Rathe winced.
    A chorus of rousing war cries greeted this statement.
    â€œMy Willard changes beyond recognition under the influence,” a woman stated. “Normally he’s so kind. But with whiskey in him he becomes a demon. I’m afraid of him. I can’t—don’t dare—even criticize him!”
    Murmurs of understanding and affirmation rippled through the assemblage. The ladies agreed that it was their Christian duty to form a temperance union.
    Outside Rathe shook his head. There were going to be a few unhappy husbands in the days that followed. Leave it to Grace to stir up Natchez.
    Soon the meeting drew to a close. Rathe puffed on a cigar and watched the ladies as they left. Their goodbyes seemed interminable. As the carriages dispersed he spotted Grace, coming through the picket gate, walking slowlydown the street. He watched her approach from the shadow of an ancient walnut tree. Did she really think she could walk back to Melrose alone at night? Did she really think he would allow her to walk back there alone?
    He leapt down from the carriage in an easy, graceful movement. He didn’t want to scare her, but when he moved forward into the illumination provided by a gaslight, she gasped and jumped.
    â€œIt’s me,” he called. “Rathe. At your service, madame.”
    She stared, then snapped, “What is wrong with you? Haven’t I made myself perfectly clear?”
    He shook his head with mock sadness. “Why did I suspect it would be like this? I’m driving you home, Gracie. Don’t be a stubborn fool about it.”
    â€œI don’t want anything from you,” she cried furiously.
    â€œI know you don’t. You have made that abundantly clear. Bend a little, Grace. It’s dark out, it’s a long walk to Melrose, and there are always thieves and riffraff out at night.”
    â€œOooh,” she cried.
    â€œDoes that mean yes?”
    â€œDo you always get your way?”
    â€œUntil recently,” he muttered.
    She hadn’t heard. “Oh, all right, I give up! If you’re going to make so much trouble about it…”
    He watched her march to the carriage, head high and shoulders stiff like a little martyr. He found himself smiling. Then he caught himself and ran forward to help her climb in. She ignored his hand, swatting it away, hoisting her skirts and starting to step up. She was too much to