Page 69 of Love’s Silver Bullet

“The ‘1872 Rules for Teachers’ document expressly prohibits teachers from marrying,” Mrs. Feuerstein stated emphatically, squinting as if she smelled something bad.

Aunt Marie bobbled her tea, obviously upset over the direction the conversation was taking. “Now, Rhianne—”

“Female teachers only,” Libby said with a bite to her tone, the sudden square of her shoulders indicating her temper was now as warm as the tea in her cup. “Not male teachers, ironically, which is just another one of the many injustices men perpetrate on women.”

Mrs. Feuerstein grunted, the sound strangely at odds with the bounty of diamonds gracing her person. “Rules are rules,” she snapped.

“My, but we’ve had a hot summer, haven’t we, though?” Mrs. Carrie Booth Schmidt said in a rush, dabbing a handkerchief to her neck. Sheridan sent a gentle smile to the sweet, silver-haired woman with the kindly face, grateful for her valiant attempt to steer the conversation away from a fistfight between Aunt Libby and the bejeweled snob.

Aunt Libby’s china cup clinked back into her saucer with attitude while she leaned forward on the edge of her seat with a touch of fire in her green eyes. “That primitive document of balderdash, ma’am, also mandates teachers to clean chimneys, bring a bucket of water and a scuttle of coal to school each day, and forbids riding in a buggy with a man unless he is her father or brother.”

“Now, ladies—” Mrs. Sherida Stewart began, wringing her napkin with a gentle pinch of her face while Aunt Marie upended her tea like a shot of whiskey.

“And another thing,” Libby continued with a jut of an auburn brow, “although the ridiculous prohibition against married teachers is customary for this time, fine organizations like The National Woman Suffrage Association are working to change that.

Barely taking a breath, Aunt Libby forged on with a pointed look. “But, fortunately for my niece, that will not be necessary because asinine rules such as the 1872 Rules for Teachers”—Libby hissed the document title as if it were a profanity—“are not strictly followed on the Comstock, thank God, evidenced by the several married female teachers in Virginia City over the years. A fact that not only reveals a necessity born out of the scarcity of women in the mining West, Mrs. Feuerstein, but obviously an elevated intelligence as well.”

Brrrrrrrnggg!

At the sound of her new-fangled doorbell, poor Aunt Marie shot out of the settee like one of the tiddlywinks Sheridan used to play with when she was small. Exchanging glances, Sheridan and Maggie bit back smiles as Marie bolted for the door. “Oh, that must be Grace,” she said in a flutter, leaving Mrs. Carrie Booth Schmidt, Mrs. Sherida Stewart, and Mrs. Monika Cotrill frantically fanning themselves with their handkerchiefs while Aunt Libby stared Mrs. Frankenstein down.

“Grace! I’m so glad you could come by.” Aunt Marie quickly ushered in a pretty girl about Sheridan’s age, all but dragging her into the parlour. “Sheridan, I wanted you to meet my next door neighbor, Grace Carmody. This will be her first year at Vassar too.”

Tall and willowy with shiny black curls piled high on her head, Grace extended her hand to Sheridan with a generous smile. Silky skin kissed with just a hint of a blush, complemented clear gray eyes as soft and gentle as a doe, the epitome of her name. “I’m so glad to meet you,” she said, “because now we’ll both know someone on our first day of school.”

Shaking her hand, Sheridan grinned, peering up at what she sensed in her spirit might become a very good friend. “And thank God too,” she said as she leaned close to deliver both a wink and a whisper, “because to be honest, I’m shaking in my boots.”

Even Grace’s soft laughter matched her name as she bent to give Sheridan a quick hug. “Me, too,” she said with a giggle, “and I don’t even own any.”

Aunt Marie laughed as she cupped a hand to Grace’s waist to introduce her to everyone else. “Ladies, this is my neighbor Genevieve Carmody’s granddaughter from New York City, who will be staying with her while she’s attending Vassar.” Aunt Marie introduced everyone else to Grace, and Sheridan couldn’t help a squirm of a smile when Mrs. Feuercrab grunted a hello.

“Have a seat, Grace, and I’ll pour you some tea.”

Grace glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. “Oh, I wish I could, Mrs. O’Shea, but Grandmother has tickets for the John Philip Sousa performance tonight at the Collingwood Opera House, and we’re going to dinner prior to, so I don’t have much time.”

“Surely you can stay for one cup of tea, dear, can’t you?” Not one easily dissuaded, Aunt Marie prodded Grace to the divan where Maggie and Aunt Libby were sitting, promptly seating her between the two. “Cream in your tea, Grace? And sugar?”

“Yes, please.” Biting her lip, Grace offered Maggie and Libby a nervous smile before her gaze locked on Sheridan’s, both of them busting out in laughter with a hand to their mouths that drew an immediate scowl from Mrs. Feuersnob.

“So, young lady,” Mrs. Feuersnub said with a familiar pinch of her nose, “what course of study do you hope to pursue?”

Aunt Marie jumped up like a jack-in-the-box, all but shoving the tray of pastries under Grace’s nose. “Scones, sweetheart?”

“Thank you, Mrs. O’Shea, but Grandmother would scold if I ruined my dinner.”

A nervous giggle popped out of Marie’s mouth as she set the tray back down. “Yes, I suppose that does sound like Genevieve …”

Boom! Boom!

Sheridan’s startled gaze—and everyone else’s—shot to where Mrs. Feuerstein pounded a cane on the polished wood floor, a personal item Sheridan hadn’t noticed before. She couldn’t help it when her mouth twitched. Probably to whop people if they didn’t agree with her.

Grace blinked at the woman, clearly taken aback. “Oh, yes, well, I’m enrolled in the Schools of Art and Music, Mrs. Feuerstein.”

“Good heavens, you don’t plan to go into burlesque, do you?”

“Rhiannon!” Aunt Marie went as pale as her cream tufted settee and Mrs. Schmidt gasped, while poor Mrs. Cotrill dropped her teacup which was, fortunately, empty.

Sheridan nervously gnawed on her lip when Aunt Libby sat up as stiff as Mrs. Feuerstick’s cane, green eyes glittering more than the woman’s gaudy emeralds. “What on earth kind of question—”