The Firebrand

“Have you any proof of that?”

“I do. You see, my shop is not merely a place where people come to buy books.”

“That would be entirely too simple.”

She sniffed. “The Firebrand is a meeting place where people exchange ideas. They talk about the books they’ve read, and of course buy them.”

“Then why aren’t you showing a profit?”

“Look at my balance sheet. The foreign tariffs on my imports are exorbitant.”

“Then why import foreign publications? Sell American works.”

“Spoken as a true chauvinist. I’ll have you know I am the only bookseller in the area who carries French periodicals. Everyone else thinks they’re immoral, just as everyone else thinks the science tracts from Germany are ungodly and English periodicals are tedious. I proudly carry them all.”

“And pay a small fortune in tariffs. Tell me more about these immoral French magazines. I’m fascinated.”

She turned bright red but didn’t shrink from replying. “The most recent issue is about techniques of physical love. If you like, I could send you a copy.”

“No, thank you.” He felt his face turning redder than hers. “We don’t all share your views on free love.”

She grinned, but her blush deepened. “So you do remember.”

He took refuge in anger. “Tell me, did you ever manage to find what you were looking for the night we met? Did you find a lover, Miss Hathaway?”

“Of course,” she said, her hands twisting in her lap. “Dozens of them! Mainly Frenchmen, for obvious reasons.”

“In that case, you should qualify for a reduction of your tariffs. They’re cutting into your profits.”

“When it comes to the hearts and minds of my customers, sir, I can wait for profit.”

The odd thing was, Rand realized, she did have a passion for what she was saying. She had built her shop out of idealistic dreams. A bookseller. What a perfect occupation for this woman. How she must love knowing what everyone was reading. How she must love telling people what they should read next.

The receipts from the shop were unusually high, which indicated that she was indeed selling books. He suspected it was quite impossible to get away from Lucy Hathaway without buying at least one book.

“An admirable sentiment,” he said, not allowing his judgment to be swayed by the force of her personality. “But the trouble is, the bank won’t wait. Your notes are due.”

“I expect receipts to pick up,” she said as if she hadn’t heard him. “I’ve had lectures from some of the most respected leaders of our age—Miss Clementina Black, Mrs. Kate Chopin and Mrs. Lillian Paul in the past year alone.”

“Radical activists are always a lucrative draw.”

She dismissed his sarcasm with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been corresponding with Miss Harriet Beecher Stowe, who has agreed to present a lecture and sign books when she comes to Chicago.”

“And this event is scheduled?”

“Not…exactly. Miss Stowe is currently in South America, observing the mating habits of the Andean llama.”

“Fascinating.”

“I also create events for my customers to draw them into the shop. Mrs. Victoria Woodhull is coming for the Centennial March this summer, and last year, I set up a registry for voters.”

He removed a newspaper clipping from the file. His predecessor had been thorough in keeping records on this particular client. “It says here you were arrested for encouraging women to register illegally to vote.”

“And does it say that I protested the arrest on the grounds that I was simply exercising my constitutional rights?”

“It says you created a public scandal.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “A public scandal occurs with every election in which women are denied the right to vote.”

“According to this report, you had a mob of radical suffragists in your shop trying to corrupt decent women.”

She laughed, looking genuinely incredulous. “I had a group of voting registrars, assisting American citizens in registering to vote.”

“You were arrested.”

“My constitutional rights were trodden upon.”

“You were made to pay a fine.”

“By a twisted, unfair, corrupt judge. And I never did pay.”

He slapped the file shut. “So this shop is where you advocate free love and divorce on demand? Where you meet your lovers?”

“So what if I do?” she retorted.

“My point, Miss Hathaway, is that the loan committee is bound to view your so-called passion in quite a different light. To them, your actions will seem a sign of irresponsibility and immaturity, making you a bad risk.” He wondered why he was taking the time to explain all this when it should be a foregone conclusion. “I’m sorry, Miss Hathaway. The loan is due, and there can be no extension.”

She sat very, very still. Her absolute stillness discomfited him. As did her direct stare. Finally she spoke. “I love my bookshop with a passion you will never understand. I don’t know why I’ve tried to explain it to you. Sir, you have a heart of stone. You have never loved a thing.”

Her bald statement seared into him like a brand, igniting a rage and resentment he hadn’t known he possessed. “Love has nothing to do with it,” he snapped. “But I wouldn’t expect a woman to understand that. Like all of your sex, you are a creature governed by sentiment, not sense. You belong at home rather than struggling through a morass of crass commerce. Look to your duties as a mother, and leave the commerce to men.”

“I have heard such views voiced before,” Lucy said, unaware of the absurd bobbing motion of the feather in her hat. “I have heard such views from Southerners who favor slavery. They claim slaves are incapable of looking after themselves and need to belong in bondage to men who will ‘care’ for them. Tell me, Mr. Higgins, do you favor slavery?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. No thinking man approves of slavery. It took a war to settle that, but it’s settled.”

“Then perhaps it will take a war to settle rights for women.”

“I don’t doubt that you shall do your part.” In spite of his outrage, he felt a reluctant compassion for her. “Look, Miss Hathaway. You seem a genuinely determined woman. Perhaps, given time, you might be able to eke out a living as a bookseller. But I’ll never convince my associates of that. They are a conservative lot, as intractable as they come.”

She leaned forward again, her eyes bright with optimism. “You must be my advocate, then, Mr. Higgins. You must convince them that I am a good risk.”

“You’re 486 in arrears, Miss Hathaway. I cannot tell them it is light when it’s dark, or it’s Wednesday when it’s Friday.”

“I see. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” She shoved herself back from the desk. With the motion, her fingers pushed at the leather-and-felt ink blotter, and the single framed picture on his desk fell facedown.

They both reached for it at the same time.

“I didn’t mean to—”