Violet Fire by Brenda Joyce Page B

you? Are you the new governess at Melrose?”
    â€œYes, I am,” Grace said, “My name is Grace O’Rourke.” She held out her hand, then wanted to kick herself, but it was too late to withdraw it.
    The women stared at her hand. Finally the plump woman took it. “So women shake hands up north? I’m Sarah Bellsley, and this is Mary Riordan and Suzanne Compton.”
    Grace shook the other women’s hands too. “I was wondering if we might have a women’s meeting one night this week.”
    â€œWhat kind of meeting?” Mary asked.
    â€œA meeting to discuss some issues that are very important to today’s modern woman,” Grace said, holding her breath.
    â€œOh, I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Suzanne said. “And that way we could introduce Miss O’Rourke around.”
    â€œOh, I would so appreciate that,” Grace put in quickly. “And please, call me Grace. It’s so very hard to move to a new place where—”
    Sarah laughed and patted her arm. “I will organize a ladies’ social for Wednesday evening, dear.”
    â€œOh, Sarah, thank you,” Grace cried, clasping her palm.
    When Grace climbed into the buggy forty minutes later she was flushed with exhilaration. Allen picked up the reins. “All ends accomplished, Grace?”
    She grinned at him. “So far, Allen, so far.”
    Â 
    Allen chose a beautiful spot for their picnic. The meadow was green and fragrant with honeysuckle. Tall, stately oaks provided shade, and oleanders crept along a fresh white fence in a riot of pink. Nearby, a spotted cowchewed its cud and eyed them lazily. Grace leaned back on her elbows and laughed.
    Allen grinned. “You’re feeling mighty pleased with yourself, now aren’t you, Grace O’Rourke?”
    Laughter bubbled out of her. “You know me too well.”
    He raised his glass of lemonade. “Natchez will never be the same.”
    Grace lifted her glass. “Amen.”
    They sipped in companionable silence.
    Then Allen said, “You do realize the ladies here are more concerned with finding husbands for their daughters than attaining the vote.”
    â€œI realize.”
    â€œNatchez is especially conservative, Grace. I think it’s because there’s so much old money here. Even the War only put a dent in it. Why, there isn’t even a temperance union here.”
    â€œThat’s sinful,” Grace said. “Is Silver Street as bad as they say?”
    Allen laughed. “Now how would you know about Silver Street?”
    â€œI have ears,” Grace said.
    â€œYes, it is,” Allen said seriously. “And it’s no place for you to explore.”
    She smiled. “Plenty of saloons and gambling halls and dens of iniquity?”
    â€œWhat’s going on in that sharp mind of yours?”
    â€œMaybe the ladies will find temperance easier to swallow than suffrage.”
    Allen shook his head with a fond smile.
    At the sound of riders coming down the road, they looked up curiously. Two big chestnuts and a bay came into view. Grace saw Allen stiffen. “What’s wrong, Allen?”
    The riders veered off the road, toward them.
    Allen got to his feet.
    â€œAllen? Do you know them?”
    â€œThey’re a pack of Southern riffraff,” Allen said, low,“even if they are the old planter class. Rawlins is one of their leaders. I want you to stay out of this, Grace.”
    She was on her feet. “Allen, you’re worrying me!”
    â€œHey, look at this,” drawled a blond man. Clad in breeches, a fine linen shirt, and gleaming boots, astride a magnificent thoroughbred, he was every inch a Southern aristocrat. He was flanked by his companions, who were equally well-turned out. “If it isn’t the schoolteacher!”
    â€œHello, Rawlins,” Allen said levelly.
    â€œWhat a surprise,” drawled Rawlins. “Hey, Johnny, Frankie,