Crack!
Winifred Myles dropped the willow bat and darted straight to first base. When none of the outfielders caught the ball, she gestured at her teammate Drusilla Connor, who vacillated at second base, to keep running. “Go!”
Winnie hoisted her skirt above her ankles and sprinted after Dru—to second base then third, her peripheral vision fixed on the ball, and kept running until she reached home, almost tripping over Dru, who’d fallen across the flour sack marking home base.
Two runs! Not that the score counted—this was practice, after all, and half of the team’s eight players couldn’t cover the diamond they’d marked off in chalk in a local park. However, they’d all given their best, and every last woman on the field panted or flushed pink with exertion. A few of them even smiled.
Winnie clapped her hands, causing the fresh blisters on her palms to sting, but she didn’t mind. They were badges of honor to a baseball player—if not to the proper lady Papa wished his daughter to be. “Splendid effort, ladies!”
“Ugh.” Curly-headed Dru propped on her elbows.
Winnie tugged her dearest friend to her feet. “You, too, Dru.”
“I’ll have a splendid bruise to match my effort.” Dru stood tall—a full six inches taller than Winnie—and tenderly rubbed her hip through the dirt-smeared gray wool of her skirt, grimacing at the contact. Then her gaze shifted somewhere past Winnie’s ear. Her eyes widened, her jaw gaped, and her hand fell at once.
Winnie spun around. A well-dressed couple strode toward them over the grass, right through center field.
Gawkers, come to marvel at the ladies playing baseball? It wouldn’t be the first time. It was also possible these folks were ignorant that their afternoon stroll interrupted a baseball game.
Taking a long, deep breath, Winnie tramped across the rough grass to intercept them. The gentleman’s stride seemed purposeful, his broad shoulders relaxed. The chestnut-haired young woman on his arm didn’t look happy, however. One of her hands clenched in a fist at the waist of her bronze polonaise walking suit, like she was upset with something he’d said.
Well, she might not like Winnie asking them to step aside, either. She forced a smile. “Good afternoon.”
“How do you do?” The gentleman tipped his hat, revealing a thick shock of light brown hair.
Winnie didn’t have time for small talk, but she knew her manners. “Well, and you?”
Twin dimples appeared in the man’s fresh-shaven cheeks. “Fine, thank you.”
“Fine,” the lady on his arm echoed, but her tone implied the opposite.
Now that they were a mere three feet from each other, it was obvious the lady was young, still in the schoolroom if not barely out of it, and the gentleman was some ten or twelve years older than his companion. An odd pairing, not that it was any of Winnie’s business. In fact, her business was baseball, and she’d best get back to it.
She gestured behind her, where the ladies of her team waited among the flour sack bases and the chalk-drawn pitcher’s box. “I beg your pardon, but we’re in the middle of baseball practice. I wouldn’t wish for you to be struck by a stray ball.”
“I wouldn’t want that, either.” Releasing the lady’s arm, the man reached into the breast pocket of his coat and withdrew a sheet of paper. “But surely the Liberty Belles take excellent care with their aim.”
Ah! She didn’t need to see the paper to know precisely what it said:
Ladies, Take a Swing at the Bat.
Join the Liberty Belles All-Female Baseball Team
as we Prepare for an Independence Day Exhibition Game vs. The Patriots.
All Proceeds Benefit Charity of the Winner’s Choice.
Liberty Belles will Donate to the Children’s Hospital.
Francis Field, Sunny Afternoons at Three.
See Miss Myles, Captain.
Winnie’s hands clasped under her chin. “You found one of my flyers.”
“You’re Miss Myles?” His blue eyes flashed.
“I am.”
“I’m Beck Emerson. This is my sister, Louise. She’s interested in joining the Liberty Belles.”
Beckett Emerson? Just this morning, Papa saw his name in the newspaper and said how he respected his business sense but called him something of a recluse. Winnie had imagined the elusive Mr. Emerson to be an ancient fellow, peering down at Philadelphia from the upstairs rooms of his closed-up mansion. The man before her, however, was young, hale, and definitely too toned and ruddy-cheeked to closet himself up in his rooms all day.
And he’d brought his sister to play baseball!
“Perfect. We’re one player short.” Winnie thrust her hand at Louise. “You’ve played before?”
“A time or two. Beck’s mad for it.” The young lady’s handshake was as halfhearted as her tone. Winnie bit her lip. A gal couldn’t hold a bat with a grip like that.
The gentleman shook Winnie’s hand next, his strong clasp much more suitable to catching a ball than his sister’s. Much warmer, too, sending a prickle of heat up to her elbow. She rubbed her arm when he let go and turned back to his sister. “What’s your favorite position, Louise? I hope you don’t mind me calling you that, but we go by our Christian names here on the field.”
“I go by Lulu, actually.”
“Most of us go by nicknames, too. I’m Winnie. Dru Connor plays catcher, and these three gals are Irene Huntoon, Gladys Franks, and Rowena Quaid, who most often play as first, second, and third basetenders, respectively.” As Winnie spoke, the ladies waved. “Colleen Yancy’s our short scout, and Fannie Quaid and Nora Huntoon are scouts in the outfield.”
Lulu nodded but didn’t look excited at the prospect of joining in.
Maybe she was nervous. Winnie gathered the willow bat from the ground, extending it with a smile. “Would you like to try a turn as striker?”
Beck Emerson nudged his sister. “Give it a go.”
“Fine.”
There was that word again, uttered with not-at-all-fine irritation. Oh dear.
Winnie gestured to the others to take their positions and she moved to the pitcher’s box. Colleen tossed her the lemon-peel ball and Winnie squared to face Lulu.
Lulu knew how to hold a bat, at least. Winnie gently tossed the ball underhanded, forty-five feet toward home base.
Lulu swung at the easy pitch. And missed. Dru caught the ball and tossed it to Winnie.
“Let’s try again.” Winnie held it up. “Ready?”
Lulu nodded.
Winnie pitched. Lulu hit it this time and sent it bouncing toward Winnie’s feet. Winnie sent her a few more pitches, and Lulu had similar success—or lack of it—but it didn’t matter. Not everyone was a strong striker, and practice would help.
“Shall we try throwing and catching?”
“I just buffed my fingernails, so I’d rather not, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Winnie wasn’t that old. Dru hid her mouth behind her hand, but it was obvious she snickered. So did Gladys. Winnie cast them a quick glare, reminding them they were mere weeks younger than her twenty-two. Papa reminded her often of her age, anyway, and that she and his protégé Victor would make a lovely married couple. Smothering the irritating thought, she turned back to Lulu. “Call me Winnie. And I hate to say it, but all of our fingernails will be in sorry shape until the exhibition game.”
Lulu peeked at her brother and then rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
But this was not fine. Not at all. The Liberty Belles needed one more player, but clearly Lulu Emerson was not interested in being that woman.
“Lulu, if this isn’t of interest to you—”
“Miss Myles?” Beck Emerson marched toward her over the grass. “A word, please?”
Beck Emerson walked beside the pretty pitcher out of the others’ hearing, their steps muffled in the damp clusters of grass underfoot. Wait—had he thought her pretty?
He had no business thinking such a thing about anyone. But gazing down at her warm brown eyes and the pert tilt to her nose, he allowed himself to find her objectively attractive.
Even though the feeling was far more subjective. He even liked the frayed cuffs of her rust-hued jacket and the fact that dirt smeared her matching skirt with a thin spot above her knees, testifying to the fact that she’d slid into a base a time or two. A woman who liked baseball this much was a rare treasure. She might even like it as much as he did.
And she was pretty—
He brushed the traitorous thoughts aside. “Your team looks quite good.”
“Thank you, Mr. Emerson, but pardon my bluntness. This seems to be more your idea than your sister’s.”
He couldn’t deny it. “It is.”
“She shouldn’t be forced to do something she doesn’t want to do.”
“I’m not forcing her. I’m strongly encouraging it, but she’s here of her own volition.” This was coming out wrong. “She enjoys baseball, or at least she did until recently. But right now she needs baseball.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Lulu is seventeen years old and thinks herself madly in love. I told her I’d be more amenable to her marriage if she devoted herself this summer to some sort of service, like playing on your team to benefit charity.”
“She can do charity work in other ways.”
“But not like this, learning cooperation and teamwork—skills she’ll need if she’s to enter into the partnership of marriage.”
Miss Myles nodded. “That makes sense. Baseball is a cooperative effort, but she’s not that interested—”
“She agreed to this. I wouldn’t have brought her otherwise.” It was true. Lulu was motivated to do anything to get Beck’s blessing on her marriage. Beck was equally motivated to get Lulu occupied with something that wasn’t her beloved Alonzo, so he determined to entice Miss Myles. “You’re playing for the Children’s Hospital, I see. Is anyone sponsoring the team?”
Her jaw went slack. “No.”
Ah, he’d piqued her interest at last. “Emerson Works will sponsor you, then, and I’ll make a significant donation to the Children’s Hospital.”
Her temptation to accept was evident in her wide eyes. Then, back on the field, Lulu fumbled a ball and refused to chase after it. More than one of the teammates crossed her arms or rolled her eyes.
Despite his insistence that Lulu agreed to be here, she wasn’t demonstrating it. No doubt Miss Myles weighed her desire for sponsorship against having Lulu on the team.
He’d spare her from saying no. “I see I can’t convince you to let Lulu on the team. I’ll make the donation to the hospital anyway, but before I go, one suggestion: You’re a good pitcher, but you’re rushing. That makes your body bend, and your arm is too low.”
Her brows lifted into perfect little arches. “Lulu said you enjoy the game. Are you a pitcher?”
“Once. I played every spare moment I had before the war. During the war, too, until I couldn’t play anymore.” He glanced down at his left hand.
She looked at it then, as if she hadn’t noticed it hanging lifeless at his side until this moment. When she said nothing, he grinned, as he always did to set people at ease.
“War injury.”
“The war between the states?” Her eyes crinkled in disbelief.
“I was sixteen when I joined the army, too young, but my father didn’t stop me.” Father had wished he had prohibited it, though, when a minie ball struck Beck’s left shoulder, damaging the nerves and bones.
“You’re a brave fellow, Mr. Emerson.”
At least she wasn’t repulsed by him, like other women of his acquaintance. “I appreciate your time. Lulu and I won’t keep you any longer.” He nodded and turned.
“Nonsense. Lulu should finish practice if she’s to be on the Liberty Belles.”
He turned back. “She’s on the team?”
“Of course. Every lady wishing to play may join. It’s only that I am not convinced she wishes to play.”
“Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary. Neither is your sponsorship, but any donations are joyfully accepted.” She grinned, a pleasing sight. So pleasing he almost didn’t catch her next words.
“Why not share your expertise with the whole team? Help us train.”
“Me?” Surely he’d heard wrong.
“Yes.”
No. He had a full schedule. And one arm. “I’m not suited for it.”
“I thought your advice for me to be quite sound.” She pretended to pitch, taking her time, her eyes crinkled in amusement.
But this wasn’t funny. “I have a business.”
She nodded, as if she knew. “It would be for but a few weeks, and it’s for a good cause. Besides, I’ve heard you’re a fair, knowledgeable man.”
She had? “Where?”
Her eyes twinkled. “My father is Hector Myles. He invited you to a soiree at our home tonight benefitting the hospital, but you haven’t responded. Did you misplace the invitation?”
His collar suddenly pinched his neck. “No. It’s on my desk.”
“Perhaps you have other plans relating to the Centennial celebration.”
There were dozens, since Philadelphia’s Centennial Exhibition celebrating the hundredth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence lasted from May to November and had inspired dozens of social events, but he couldn’t lie and claim he had a conflict. “No.”
“Good. We can discuss baseball tonight, then. See you at eight?” She smiled and walked backward so she could still look at him while she rejoined her teammates.
“You’re persistent, Miss Myles.”
“I’m my father’s daughter.” Her smile widened into a mischievous grin. “I don’t like to hear ‘no’ very often.”
Beck believed it, but she’d be hearing it from him very soon. Tonight, in fact. He was stuck going to the soiree, but he would not be coaching the Liberty Belles.
What a ridiculous notion, indeed.