- Summary
Chapter One
January 1924
The voices continued . . . muffled, no matter how hard she pressed against the thick, wooden door.
Did they say Kirby? Who's Mr. Kirby?
Impatient, she pushed away from the heavy barrier, and shouted, "You can't do this mother. I'm seventeen, a grown woman. Mother, let me out!" Ruth Squire rattled the lock while her other fist pounded the door. "Do you hear me?"
No answer; and she didn't expect one. She'd known discipline, the consequence of a strong will, and zeal for adventure. But this - never this, locked inside her second-story bedroom. Her hands dropped. She wandered around the room, claustrophobic, crazy from confinement, back and forth, pacing like a caged lion.
"What's she going to do this time? Even father won't talk to me." She stopped, and flung herself across the rumpled bed. The metal springs squawked in protest.
The flicker of the gas street lamp outside her window did nothing to soothe her. Although . . .
No, not the window, that's what got me in trouble in the first place.
Alone against the world, everyone gone - her best friend Ginny, father, and worse, she'd made an enemy of her mother. Instead of rage and exasperation, mother remained calm, determined, even sinister. "This side of her is something to fear, I think.
The growl in her stomach intensified, and thirst ravaged her throat.
What time is it? Do they mean to keep me in here until morning, no food or drink?
Her ear twitched . A key rattled in the lock, and she jumped up as the door swung open.
Priscilla and Robert Squire entered bearing a white linen-covered tray. "You will eat now, Ruth. We'll talk after you're finished."
"I'm not hungry, take it away." Her stomach lurched at the look on her father's face, sad, blue eyes cloudy, no sign of the familiar, easy smile of assurance. Although he stood taller, he wilted beside his wife, a shadow of a man. One hand smoothed his peppered hair; the other jingled the change in his pocket. He made no eye contact.
The tray hit the nightstand with a bang. "There is no room for argument. I said eat." Priscilla crossed her arms against her ample bosom.
Robert sat across from her, head hung low.
Fists clenched, she stared at both parents, but the warm aroma of Sarah's biscuits broke down any defiance. She lowered herself into the chair, hesitant, eyes steady on the enemy, and devoured the light, flaky scones, and warm tea in short order. The back of her hand swiped across her mouth, a move she knew mother would abhor, and swallowed the last of the tea in one gulp.
"We've done our best to lead you on the right path. This was your last chance, and now its time for desperate measures, " her mother began.
"We wanted to have a little fun, mother. All the kids like to dance." She knew her attempt to wiggle out of trouble would prove futile, but tried anyway.
"I'm not interested in the other kids, or the fact you value fun over responsible behavior. You're not yet eighteen and you'll not spoil my plans to have you properly married one day, with a family of your own."
She tossed her shiny black hair, chin resolute. "Marriage? I want to have fun, go places and see the world. I don't want to be like you," she spat.
The quick slap resounded through the room. She reeled backwards, held her hand to one burning cheek, and blinked in horror.
Though not tall, Priscilla Squire stood strong and broad, a stout woman, in a dark blue, shapeless dress and sensible shoes. Long, streaked, gray hair pulled back in a bun, and faded, lackluster brown eyes completed the severe look.
Father sunk lower in his chair, and shuddered.
Mrs. Squire rubbed the palm of her hand, and walked toward the door. "Come morning you'll have the run of the house, although Sarah's duties tomorrow include sentry, and keeper of the keys. Don't try to leave, Ruth. We've arrangements to make in the morning. Now sleep."
Mother's perfunctory remarks stunned her. "Arrangements? What arrangements? Father, what's she talking about?"
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