Triumphant Love: Banished Saga, Book Nine

by Flightner, Ramona

  Sophie reached forward, her gnarled and wrinkled fingers gripping Zylphia’s. “Your husband is dedicated to you.” She sighed as she saw Zylphia’s uncertainty. “Do you know what I witnessed that evening at Perry’s concert? I observed a man, uncomfortable in society’s glare, who yearned for his wife to be by his side. Don’t push him away, Zee.”

  Zylphia squeezed her friend’s hand. “He’s hiding something from me, and I don’t know what it is.” She shivered. “I thought we were to have no more secrets.”

  Sophronia sat back in her chair and tapped her fingers on the chair’s wooden arm. She looked around the studio, noting the recent work Zylphia had completed. “Well, he should understand your mood by looking at your art,” she said with a wry quirk of her lips.

  The paintings scattered around the room were of Boston in winter. Although Zylphia had painted wintery scenes before, they had always had a hopeful aspect to them. A red wreath on a door inviting in a visitor. Holly branches bursting with red berries. Children playing in the snow. These paintings, devoid of any bright color, were dark, with the impression of a shroud of gray mist over every scene, as though an impenetrable sadness had descended over the city.

  “He hasn’t entered my studio in weeks,” Zylphia said. She took a sip of tea, as though the statement did not bother her. However, her hands shook, and she set the teacup in its saucer with a rattle. “I don’t know what I did.” She sent a severe look at her friend. “Before you tell me to confront him, I have. Many times. He insists everything is fine.”

  Sophie made one of her customary harrumph sounds at the word fine. “I loathe that word,” she grumbled. “Every time my husband said that to me, I badgered him until we either argued or made love.” She smirked at the younger woman, who flushed. “I suggest you do the same. It would save you months of misery.”

  Zylphia shook her head. “I’ve tried. He’s begged me to stop harassing him. That I’ll understand soon enough.” She closed her eyes and whispered, “To trust him.”

  “Oh, the devil,” Sophronia muttered. “How are you to discern what is truly occurring when he asks that?” She looked at her friend. “Can you? Trust him?”

  “I’m trying.” The younger woman bit her lip. “I know I’m failing because he watches me with hurt in his gaze. I don’t know what to do.”

  Sophronia settled in her chair, her gaze roving over her friend. She had become well acquainted with Zylphia when she became a passionate suffragist in 1914. She was her beloved Clarissa’s cousin, in a roundabout fashion, and, for that reason alone, there was little Sophronia wouldn’t do for Zylphia. However, for Zylphia’s own merit, Sophie loved Zylphia. The McLeod women were the daughters of Sophie’s heart.

  “Don’t imprison yourself in this house. Visit your friends. Become active again in the movement. We remain hopeful to have the vote by the presidential election this fall.” Sophie smiled sardonically when Zylphia shook her head, as though that were a pipe dream. “And paint. Paint what you feel. But try to find color, Zee. You weren’t meant to live in a world of grays and black.”

  “And Teddy?” she whispered.

  “Is it so hard to do what he asks?” Sophie whispered. “To trust him?”

  Zylphia rose and walked to the blank easel. “I thought, after everything we suffered … The fight over my lost citizenship. Our lost baby. My unremitting nightmares when I returned to Boston after my time in jail and the forced feedings.” She let out a stuttering breath. “I thought we could survive everything. Anything. Especially after we lost Savannah and Melinda.” She held her head in one hand and rocked it from side to side. “But I can’t banish my doubts.”

  Sophie tapped her cane on the floor, this time not out of agitation or disagreement, more to garner Zylphia’s attention as she stared into space. “Do you ever imagine he’s planning something good for you? Why must it be something to harm you or your relationship?”

  Thrusting her arms in the air in frustration, she spun to confront her friend, rolling her eyes at the suggestion. “I tell myself that, but I can’t imagine what it would be.” She swiped at her eyes when they welled with tears. “And the one thing I wish I could tell him, I can’t.”

  When her friend stared at her with concern and confusion, Zylphia whispered, “I fear I’ll never become pregnant again.”

  “Oh, Zee,” Sophie murmured. “Share this concern with your husband. Let him soothe you, as you would him.” Sophie frowned as her young friend murmured, “Perhaps,” and then stared into space again.

  * * *

  Zylphia entered Sophronia’s formal front sitting room, facing Beacon Street and the Boston Common. Faint street noise carried up through the windows, and the weak March Boston sun shone through the pristine glass. The walls were once again a soothing light yellow in color, and one of Zylphia’s own paintings hung over the fireplace, a serene rendering of dawn’s light over the Charles River. Zylphia barely spared it a glance, for she feared, if she truly looked at it, she would study it to discover ways to improve it. “Parthena,” she murmured, sitting beside her friend. “I’m so happy to see you.”

  Parthena’s blond hair was tied back in a severe chignon, and she wore the muted gray wools of someone in mourning. “I had nothing better to do.”

  “Gracious as always,” Sophie muttered and glared in the younger woman’s direction. Although Parthena was a valued member of their group, she was also a distant relation, and Sophronia found her perceived insolence difficult to tolerate. Sophie wore a dark shade of lavender bombazine that highlighted her silver hair and made her aquamarine eyes shine.

  Rowena burst into the room, her auburn hair barely held back by its pins and a splotch on one sleeve of her pumpkin-colored dress. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she gasped. “Benjamin was fussy.” She flushed with pleasure as she spoke about her six-month-old son.

  Parthena stiffened at the mention of Rowena’s baby and made a noise of disapproval.

  “You should have brought him,” Zylphia said with a smile, while she ignored Parthena’s glare. “I love seeing how he’s grown and changed.”

  Rowena smiled. “Every day he’s a little smarter and a little more interactive. Perry wanted to watch him while we met.” She glowed with happiness at the mention of her husband. Rowena looked at the gathering of her close friends, her smile bright, while she ignored Parthena’s scowl as she sat across from her resentful friend.

  Sophronia cleared her throat and spoke in her authoritative, scratchy voice. “As you know, at the last NAWSA meeting, Carrie insisted on the formation of the League of Women Voters. I know it is difficult to comprehend, but we must have faith that soon every woman in this country will have the right to vote.”

  Carrie Chapman Catt was currently president of the National American Woman Suffrage Association. Although the women in the room preferred Alice Paul’s tactics and were ardent supporters of Paul’s group, the NWP, or the National Woman’s Party, they understood the need for solidarity among all suffragists.

  “Now, as of today, March 5,” Sophie continued, “we are only three states short of reaching our goals. I find it difficult to believe we will be thwarted and unable to vote in the upcoming presidential election on November 2.”

  Rowena pushed back her auburn hair and pulled out a notepad from the small bag she had dropped at her feet. “As you know, we need three-fourths of the states to ratify the amendment, which means thirty-six of the forty-eight must ratify. I fear none of the southern states will ratify. Virginia, Alabama, South Carolina, Maryland, and Georgia have already voted the amendment down.” She looked at her notes. “So far thirty-three states have ratified it, with the last one being Oklahoma on February 28.” She paused as Sophie made a grunt at that comment.

  “Never thought I’d hear the day that Wilson would intervene for our amendment,” Sophie said with a wry smile. “He’s finally seen sense.”

  “It’s dragged on long enough, and he needs to maintain the appearance of promoting some progre
ssive causes,” Zylphia said wryly. “Too many of his war tactics affected progressives.” They all sobered for a moment, as they considered the laws that had affected the outspoken members of society who had been jailed for their beliefs.

  “Speaking one’s truth should never cause one to be jailed,” Rowena whispered.

  Zylphia nodded. “I know. But Montana’s Sedition Act was a horrible experience, and I know many across the nation fared little better.” She paused, thinking about the Sedition Act of 1918 passed by Congress that made it illegal to say anything against the government or the war. “My only hope is that it will be repealed soon.”

  “It’s hard to believe we are still living under such a law, although we haven’t been at war for over a year,” Sophie said with a harrumph. Glancing at Parthena and frowning as she sat in a dazed stupor, while the conversation continued around her, Sophie looked to Rowena and nodded.

  Rowena tapped her pencil against her notepad. “As you know, I have not been in Washington, DC, with Alice, and I’ve not written many articles on the ongoing struggles. I know we only need three more states to vote in favor of the amendment, but I fear those could be the most difficult to attain.” She flushed with frustration. “In the past six weeks, three states voted down the amendment—Maryland, Virginia, and South Carolina.”

  “Shortsighted fools,” Sophie muttered. “Why must they always be afraid of women?”

  Zylphia looked at her good friend. “I fear the men there are afraid of enfranchising all women. They’d be perfectly happy to grant the right to white women only.”

  “Fools,” Sophie said again. “Everyone has the right to vote, regardless of color or creed.”

  “Well, I fear that, once again, your views are deemed radical for our time. Too many disagree with you and are blinded by their prejudice,” Rowena said with a long sigh.

  Sophie looked at her young friends with a passionate, yet frustrated gleam in her eyes. “You didn’t lose your husband to the Civil War. You don’t remember what that war was like. When we tore ourselves apart as a country and then attempted to stitch ourselves back together again. I fear we didn’t do a very good job of it.” She gripped her cane and thunked it on the floor once to rid herself of her pent-up energy, as though attempting to focus on the present to avoid the quagmire of her memories of the past. “Now,” she said, as she focused on Rowena again, “what states have upcoming votes?”

  “From my sources, Mississippi will begin discussing the amendment soon. West Virginia is waiting for Jesse Bloch to race across the country from California to cast his vote in favor of suffrage. Once he does, he will break the tie in the West Virginia Senate, so he, and West Virginia, can vote in favor of the amendment.”

  Zylphia and Sophronia laughed with delight. “Oh, how marvelous,” Zylphia breathed. “He will receive a hero’s welcome when he arrives.”

  Rowena smiled. “Yes. Thankfully the House has already passed the measure, and those in the Senate who favor the Susan B. Anthony Amendment have refused to adjourn until Jesse arrives. Thus, none of the other senators can leave. Quite an uproar is brewing in West Virginia, at the ongoing expense of keeping the legislature in session, while they await the arrival of their vacationing senator.”

  Sophie beamed and tapped her cane with delight. “This is the sort of publicity we need in the national papers. A man so committed to the cause that he races from one coast to the other to cast the pivotal vote.”

  Rowena extracted a newspaper from her bag and grinned. “Actually it’s better than that, Sophie.” She grinned as she cleared her throat. “It appears the newspapermen got it in their heads that Jesse was vacationing in Pasadena, and, when he heard the news, he raced to the train in his bathing suit.” She handed the paper to Sophie, who read the short article with delight, and then passed it to Zylphia.

  Sophie cackled. “Oh, I must meet this young man.”

  “Well, it seems we will soon have our thirty-fourth state ratify the amendment. How many does that leave us to attempt to earn the vote?”

  “Just two more will be needed to ratify suffrage to reach our three-fourths quota.” Rowena looked at her notes. “By my calculation, we have nine remaining states to vote on the amendment, including Mississippi.” She shook her head. “Which I fear we will not win.”

  “So eight states possible,” Sophie said. “One of those is Washington. We should win that with ease.”

  Zylphia nodded. “Yes. They are like the other western states and in favor of suffrage. I don’t understand why they’ve yet to ratify the amendment.”

  Rowena shrugged. “From my sources, I’ve heard they would like the distinction of being the last state to ratify.”

  “Well, I hope they don’t wait too long. We need to keep the momentum going. Especially as the backlash against prohibition and women voters grows.” Sophie frowned. “I never would have thought a criminal underground due to prohibition would sprout up overnight the way it has.”

  “When a group sees the potential for profit, they will do all they can to make as great a profit as they can,” Rowena said. She replaced her writing tablet in her bag.

  “Before you leave, Rowena, I’d like to speak about the newly formed League of Women Voters. I believe Carrie was correct in the formation of such a group.” Sophronia stared at Zylphia’s painting for a moment before she continued to speak. “I believe women will need to support each other and to help educate each other about important issues. The fact that the league is to be nonpartisan is also a wise idea, as it allows all women to meet and to discuss their points of views, without excluding women of differing viewpoints.”

  Zylphia grinned slyly at her friend. “You approve because it will give you the opportunity to attempt to sway them to your way of thinking.”

  “Never discredit the power of a well-formulated argument,” Sophie said with a smile. “Now, one of the first things I believe we should focus on, after we obtain the vote, is ensuring that women who are born in the United States and are citizens do not fear the loss of their citizenship due to who they marry.” She nodded to Zylphia. “It is a cruel and unjust law, and, if we have the backing of a sizeable voting group, I’m certain congress will be persuaded to our way of thinking.”

  “Is this something that concerns others?” Zylphia asked.

  “I’ve exchanged letters with Carrie, and she too fears it is dangerous to the cause. She would like to focus on a new law that forever alters that precedent.”

  Zylphia’s bright blue eyes shone as though fighting tears. “I never want another woman to suffer what I did, merely by marrying for love.”

  “I agree,” Sophie said with a smile. “However, for now, we must focus our energies on obtaining those last states’ votes.” She gripped Rowena’s hand as Rowena rose to leave. Parthena followed a moment later with barely a mumbled word of goodbye.

  Zylphia remained, sipping at her now-cooled cup of tea. “Sophie? What can we do for P.T.?” She called Parthena by her nickname, from before she had married her husband, Morgan Wheeler.

  “I don’t know, Zee. It’s been months, and she isn’t improving. I had hoped she would emerge from her fog of darkness somewhat by now, but it seems as though nothing is touching her.” Sophronia clutched her cane with both hands. “I must think about this and attempt to find a way to reach our friend. For she cannot remain as she is.”

  * * *

  Parthena sat at her piano, her index fingers tapping at a few keys but not truly playing any songs. She closed her eyes and recalled the months she had practiced and had attempted to compete with the likes of the world-famous pianist, Lucas Russell. Although theirs had been an ill-advised love affair, she had blossomed under his faith in her musical abilities. She fought embarrassment and guilt for her persistent infatuation with Lucas after she had married Morgan.

  She sighed as she thought about her husband, Morgan Wheeler. Although she had known him all her life, after she married him, she found they had been mere acquainta
nces. Morgan had hidden his dedication and love for her behind a facade of disdain and disapproval. She sniffled as she recalled his devotion to her after she spent time in a Washington, DC, jail and then their reconciliation. “How I miss those times,” she whispered.

  For the past several months, he had again retreated behind his austere wall of cold civility. Although he was never outright rude, she felt the change in their relationship. Where before she felt like she lived in a time of perpetual spring, she now felt as though an arctic frost had pervaded her home. “I don’t know how to fight that,” she murmured, as her fingers stroked the piano keys.

  Soon, mournful music poured from her, and she leaned forward, her hands slamming with passionate intensity onto the keys, as her deep emotions spilled from her. Unbeknownst to her, tears poured down her face as she played. Only when the keyboard blurred did she stop playing. The resounding quiet, after the previous minutes of intense music, was as jarring as any music she had played.

  Covering her face with her hands, her shoulders slumped as she sobbed. After many long minutes—yearning for her husband to enter her study to soothe her, but where those needs remained unmet—she rose and stumbled. Catching herself, her hands landed on the keys, provoking a jumbled-up sound.

  She careened to the plush settee in her sitting room and sat, holding a piece of embroidery work, so that she would appear industrious. However, her needle didn’t move once, and she sat, staring into space, mourning all she had lost.

  * * *

  Rowena Hawke entered the comfortable home on Marlborough Street, which she shared with her famous musician husband, Perry Hawke. Perry was a world-renowned singer, and he was frequently away on tours. However, he had been in Boston for over six months, to spend time with his family, and she had relished every day of his hiatus.

  She set her sky-blue hat on the peg by the door and tiptoed inside, listening for her husband’s beautiful voice. Rather than the operatic singing he was famous for, she heard him crooning a lullaby to their six-month-old son, Benjamin.