Once I was free, I would bask in the looks of admiration and welcome the wave after wave of compliments unchecked. Men would strain the very limits of their imaginations to outdo each other with flowery praise simply to win my smile. Those who were granted a touch of my hand would struggle to keep themselves from exploding with desire. My beauty was that powerful.

I knew I sounded very brave and sophisticated, which was why my womanly talks had become so famous among my peers, but I felt like a runner who had her ankles chained together or a bird whose mother wouldn’t let her try out her wings. What good was my beauty and charm if it was all kept locked up until my parents, like the parents of practically all the girls I knew, decided what man deserved the key?

Maybe that would be their futures, but for me, it was something I was determined I’d decide for myself, no matter what the risks.

And I had no doubt there would be some.

I was just not prepared for how many and how quickly they would come.

Chapter 2

On my sixteenth birthday, my father presented me with a new, very fashionable cherry-red bicycle, one with pneumatic bicycle tires, top of the line. Especially for young women in 1890, cycling had become the rage. Some wore puffed knickerbockers when they rode, but I saw the gift as a doorway opening me to more sophisticated clothing. I immediately asked for a divided skirt with a shorter hemline so I could ride more comfortably. My mother, so unaware of sportswear, started to object until I explained how the skirt would look like a normal full skirt when I dismounted.

“I must have a new hat and new shoes, too,” I declared. “How silly I’ll look now wearing a child’s bonnet. I should have a new pair of lace-up boots, proper stockings, and pretty petticoats.”

“Pretty petticoats! Why does that matter? Who would see you in them when you cycle?” my mother asked, her face lit by lightning.

“Not when I cycle, Mother, but when I dress, I would, and so would you,” I said calmly. I was sure she could see defiance swimming in my eyes. “Why can’t young women be proud of themselves, proud of how they look, even if it’s only in their mirrors?”

“Women proud of themselves? Look what you’ve started, Harrington Dixon,” my mother complained. She waved her right forefinger at him like a hell-and-brimstone preacher. “Pride goeth before a fall. Remember that.”

“Oh, it’s nothing really that terrible, Rosemary,” he said calmly. “All young women are driven by the same fancies. You were simply better at hiding it.”

“Fiddlesticks. I never—”

“Rosemary . . .” He smiled. “You’ll come along and help choose nice things.”