The Female of the Species

J. Bennett-Smith

Description

Cincinnati, 1884. At a young age, Rachel Haufmann, the headstrong daughter of a riverboat magnate, learns the hard way that life isn’t fair, particularly if you’re born female. Her father exiles the man she loves. She comes to resent the boundaries that society places on her gender. Then a charismatic riverboat pilot teaches her the unwelcome lesson that, as a woman of means, she is little more than prey to ambitious men. Rachel flees to England with no intention of ever coming back. But five years later, when her father is murdered, the embittered Rachel returns to Cincinnati to confront those she left behind and to wrestle with the emotionally scarred woman she has become.

Sujets

• Especie
• Species
• Female
• Joan
• La Mutante
• Bennett
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Xlibris US
• Date de parution: 20 mars 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781669857433
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES
 
 
 
 
 
 
J. Bennett-Smith
 
Copyright © 2023 by J. Bennett-Smith.
 
Library of Congress Control Number:
2022922312
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-6698-5745-7

Softcover
978-1-6698-5744-0

eBook
978-1-6698-5743-3

 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
 
 
 
Rev. date: 03/16/2023
 
 
 
Xlibris
844-714-8691
www.Xlibris.com
848270
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
 
 
 
 
 
 
To all the awesome women in my life.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special thanks to Louis C. Hunter for his comprehensive book, Steamboats on the Western Rivers, an Economic and Technical History, which, among other information, provided many of the anecdotes that were incorporated into this novel.
And I wish to express my gratitude to Melissa Bellows who graciously provided the finished art for the cover design.
CHAPTER 1
Y es, I’ll sleep well tonight, August reflected as he rode through the chill of the early spring night. As the cold, damp air penetrated his wool overcoat, August shivered, but no sense of foreboding accompanied the shutter.
A high-pitched chirp of spring peepers accompanied the clop of his horse’s hooves, and the screech of a barn owl punctuated their rhythm. The nocturnal music masked the sound of a twig snapping on the darkened road ahead, just on the other side of a small wooden bridge.
After many months of self-doubt, second guessing and arduous negotiations, August was at last embarking on a course of action. Tomorrow he would meet with his lawyer to have the final contract crafted. And the following day he would make a new will.
“Lordy, I’m looking forward to a nice shot of bourbon tonight, old boy,” he said to the old gray as a long sigh escaped from deep inside him.
August lived a little over five miles from downtown Cincinnati. Usually the trip on horseback from office to home took less than an hour if he push the horse into a trot for an extended period of time. But now, in the dark, with the roads soggy from spring thaw and early rains, he knew he would never make it in under an hour and a half. Besides, he was just too tired to sit a trot for any length of time. He would relax and let his mount set the pace. The horse had made the trip so often that August knew he didn’t even have to direct him. As soon as his substantial weight had settled into the saddle, the old dapple had turned and started walking toward home, first down the cobbled Cincinnati streets, past long-closed businesses, and then through the expanding residential areas springing up along the river, and finally down the darkened river road.
About a mile before the turn off for his house, the road dipped down into a small valley and crossed a narrow bridge over one of the thousands of tributaries that flowed into the Ohio River as it meandered its way from Pittsburgh to the Mississippi River. As shod hooves drummed the weathered planking of the bridge, their staccato rhythm echoed up the creek bed. August smiled as the noise awakens comfortable, old memories. Just up from the bridge was a swimming hole. Many a lazy summer Sunday afternoon had been spent their picnicking on these grassy banks with his wife and young daughter. He recalled once again just such an afternoon with bittersweet amusement. He had decided to teach his daughter to swim. Although in violation of his rules, the precocious Rachel spent so much time either on the banks of the river or at the docks that he had thought it in her best interest to be able to swim. However, when August announced his intentions to his daughter, rather than the excited reply he expected, he heard, “Oh, Papa. I’ve known how to swim for years. Danny taught me,” said with a ‘you should have known that’ casualness.
Danny. For Rachel everything seemed to revolve around Danny. Even the estrangement that now existed between father and daughter.
“Well, that will be set right also.”
As horse and rider crossed the bridge, August was too absorbed in his reflections to hear the rustling of the brush at the side of the road. But the old dapple gray wasn’t. He came to an abrupt halt, startling his rider.
Thick clouds veiled what little light the sliver of a moon afforded, so August sat quietly. After a few moments of silence, he pressed his calves against the horse’s warm flanks, urging him homeward again. However, the usually calm and responsive horse balked, snorting in protest.
The brush crackled again. This time August heard it.
“Who’s there?” he demanded, his authoritative voice screening a growing uneasiness. He heard the moist ground in front of him sucking soft footsteps and picked out the vague outline of a person emerging like an apparition from the twisted undergrowth. As he was reaching beneath this coat for his pistol, the clouds parted briefly and the moon, looking like a discarded fingernail clipping, cast a pale silvery light, a light so gossamer that the road, the brush and the unexpected stranger seemed ethereal.
“Good heavens, you scared me! What are you doing here? You almost took what little life I have left from fear of you!”
“You should have talked to me, August,” the ghost-like form replied in a voice like a whisper.
“Of course we need to talk, but not here. Come up to the house with me. Join me for a drink,” August replied with impatience.
“It’s too late for that,” was the sharp retort. “August I know what you’ve got planned. I can’t let you do it. You’ll not cheat me out of what you promised!” The voice was calm but determined.
“If you really knew what I had planned, you’d embrace it whole-souled. Stop this nonsense and let’s go have a drink for old times sake.”
The figure stepped closer and could now be seen clearly, but it took several seconds for August to realize that a gun was leveled at him.
“Good Lord! Put that damned thing away before you hurt someone!” he said with mounting irritation. It was all too ludicrous. August couldn’t possibly take the gun seriously. He dismounted and walked towards the ghostly form. “Now, give me that right now,” he demanded, holding out his hand for the gun.
“Yes, August, I’ll give it to you,” the person agreed nervously, softly. Too complying.
August Haufmann smiled with relief. Another problem solved. Another disaster avoided. It had been that kind of a day. The smile faded, however, as he fixed his eye on the unexpected visitor and saw no smile returned. Too late he felt the panic that comes with impending death. Time stood still as he watched the ghostly figure squeeze the trigger and heard the hammer release. He saw the small explosion of light at the end of the barrel. But he never heard the report shatter the night.
His last thought was regret. Not about his death, or that his plans would go unfulfilled. But that he and his daughter Rachel had never fully reconciled since their fight over Danny those long years before.
CHAPTER 2
M etal against metal. It reminded Rachel of her relationship with her father.
Metal against metal. The muffled, steady rhythm of the train wheels on endless tracks and the gentle rocking of the coach should have been enough to lull the exhausted woman to sleep. But instead, she rested her temple against the cold window glass and stared out at the misty Pennsylvania landscape, awash in spring blossoms and new green foliage. The chill of the window felt good on her throbbing head. The train’s vibration provided a gentle massage. But relaxation was impossible.
She hadn’t had a relaxed moment since she received the cable that her father had been killed, the apparent victim of a late-night robbery only a mile from home.
Rachel didn’t cry when she read the bad news, but she felt as if something had died inside her. She merely sat in her modest Cambridge lodgings staring at the cracking plaster and its blistered wallpaper for over an hour, as she now stared at the passing landscape. Then she had methodically packed her bags, left a note for her landlady, took a train to London, and then another to Southampton to catch the