Violet Fire Read Free

brandy snifters. Rathe casually picked up the two cards the dealer slapped on the gleaming oak table.
    He had shed his black cutaway evening coat and his silk tie. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing large strong forearms. His silver and blue waistcoat hung open across a broad expanse of chest. He puffed on the cigar, watching closely as van Horne took two cards, Parker one, Bradford Ames two, and Martin three.
    The library, like the rest of van Horne’s home, was boldly opulent. The rug was Oriental, a pattern of twining red and turquoise and gold. The walls were a gold brocade, the draperies gold velveteen. The woodwork was mahogany, the furniture rosewood, the work of the famous New York furniture-maker, Henry Belter.
    â€œI’ll call,” Rathe drawled.
    Suddenly from outside the quiet room there came a shriek. It sounded like “Liberate!”
    â€œWhat the hell was that?” Ames asked, pulling on his elongated mustache.
    Rathe shrugged. Then there was the sound of glass shattering and another high-pitched scream that most definitely sounded like “Ladies liberate!”
    For one instant, every man in the library froze. Then Rathe was on his feet and striding forcefully to the door. As he opened it there was another crash, and from somewhere in the vicinity of the foyer, the vibrant cry: “Down with male tyranny!”
    And then came another scream, this one hysterical and unmistakably Mrs. van Horne’s—“Get her off my piano!”
    Rathe was at the library door before any of the others and racing down the hall. He stopped short at the sight that greeted him—and laughed.
    A tall slim woman clad in a shapeless wool dress and a bonnet that hid half of her oval face was standing on the piano in the middle of the plush parlor, while the women stood and gawked.
    â€œLadies,” she cried, “we are not just God’s human beings, we are citizens under the law—under the Fourteenth Amendment. We are entitled to the vote just as the freed Negro is!”
    â€œStop her,” wailed Jocelyn van Horne. “She’s going to ruin my piano!”
    â€œHow did she get in here?” van Horne demanded furiously. “Get her out of my home!”
    At that, the woman calmly pulled a gun from beneath her shawl. The crowd gasped. “Not until I finish what I came to say,” she cried, glaring fiercely around the room. “Your servants couldn’t stop me,” she went on, gathering force as she spoke, “because I have right on my side and I will be heard.” She waved the gun in the air. Cornelia Martin screamed and Thad Parker made a lunge for the intruder, which she deftly eluded. Rathe was busy studying her weapon. It was an old Colt five-shooter from 1840 or so—he seriously doubted it would still fire, a fact which amused him greatly.
    â€œLadies,” cried the woman, “only gross injustice could have brought me here tonight. I have sought you out, braved the male tyrants at your door, broken through thewalls that imprison you to preach the message of liberation. Tomorrow is Election Day. I beg you, I implore you—go out to the polls! Demand your rights! Follow the example of our fearless leader, Susan B. Anthony—”
    â€œYou are trespassing,” yelled van Horne. “I warn you to get down from that piano now, or I will send for the police.”
    Rathe was smiling.
    The woman’s oval face was no longer the delicate white of ivory, but heavily flushed. “Ladies,” she went on, ignoring van Horne completely, “why is it that as soon as we marry we cease to exist in the eyes of the law? From that moment on, our husbands own us. They take our property, deprive us of our rights, and administer chastisement at whim! If single and the owner of property, we are taxed to support a government that gives us no representation. We must demand a say in our government. I beg you all, tomorrow