by Diana Forbes
“I don’t see how it’s your concern,” I said between tight lips.
“So, you believe our Government is going to let a bunch of flag-waving Socialists incite strikes from Chicago to Milwaukee, then stand by and do nothing? Stone Aldrich could go to jail, and you’ve been hanging around him for weeks. I came here out of concern for you, Penelope. To protect you, dammit. Is your mother home, because we can settle this right now.”
Nervously I glanced up at the lit window. I could make out only Stone’s head, not hers. It was 5:30 p.m. It felt like midnight.
“Mr. Daggers, I appreciate your coming here. But I”—it almost choked me to speak—“You can’t come in.”
I just wanted to be upstairs and out of the rain. And far away from Mr. Daggers, and his horrid accusations. Water wormed its way down my collar and through the back of my corset. I was drowning in my clothing.
Mr. Daggers placed his large, wet hands on my shoulders. My body spasmed. Thunder drummed the sky.
He asked me why I thought he was in Boston. Truly I had no idea. But he had to leave. I was wet. It was dark. And Mr. Daggers was frightening me. He was like a thug wrapped in beautiful clothing. Several layers under, you realized he was dangerous.
“Do you think the managers of the companies where these strikes occur idly sit by? Of course they don’t. They act. After a strike, the unionists receive threats. So do their friends. You could be in grave danger.” He shook my shoulders. “There’s rumor of a railroad strike in the coming months. I work at the New York Stock Exchange. Railroads comprise 60% of all issues at the Exchange. Don’t you think I hear every damned thing there is to know—and more—about the railroads? Don’t you?” he repeated as if talking to a child. “Stone Aldrich’s been trying to disappear these last few weeks. Not draw too much attention to himself, while he plots with the Socialists to strike against the railroads. And he almost succeeded—were it not for your mother’s boasting about him in her letters to me.”
My mother had been writing to him? Dear Lord.
I stiffened. “A favor please,” I said.
“Yes, darling. Anything.”
“Get your bloody hands off my shoulders.”
I threw them off, refocused my attention back to the front door, and turned the key in the lock.
Mr. Daggers continued to my back, “He’s a great artist, but a terrible businessman. You can tell a lot about a person by the way he conducts business.”
I spun around. “And what can you tell about someone by the way he conducts his marriage?”
He leaned in toward me. I jumped backward. Raised my hand to fend him off.
He reached around my hand and gently moved some hair out of my face. “I love you, Darling. I’d never hurt you. In fact, I’d love to help you get more speeches, and make your mark.” He promised to have someone else from his office come talk to Mr. Aldrich about the railroad strike, then urged me to cut all ties with him. Fuming, I said nothing.
Turning around again I dove through the archway, ran upstairs, and collapsed inside on the parlor couch. I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Lucinda?” I called.
Casually glancing out the window, Stone mentioned that she was at her third interview at the Latin School. He seemed untouched by the elements. I had never seen anyone look so dry. I shivered, wondering if I should toss a few logs into the fireplace or just give up on warmth. I needed to change out of my clothes. Had to—to avoid getting ill.
“Mother,” I called out feebly, hoping she’d left Boston for good.
“She retired to her room,” he said. Well, that was a relief.
I stood up so I would stop dripping all over the torn couch fabric. I stomped around the parlor to shake some of the wetness from me. I felt him staring at me with an amused smile, and so I stomped a little harder.
“You’re a mess,” he said. He tucked the letter inside his jacket pocket. “Can I make you some tea?”
“Maybe another time, Stone. I need to ask you something. It’s urgent.” A bolt of lightning lit up the sky, and I peered out the window. I couldn’t see Mr. Daggers lurking outside, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still there.
Thunder shook the flat, testing my faith in things I knew little about, such as the foundations underneath buildings and the longevity of Boston architecture. Large tree branches outside dropped their leaves, causing a rustling sound that increased with the wind.
“Anything, Penelope. What’s on your mind?” He paused to remove his navy wool jacket and placed it around my shoulders.
This man was a threat to society?
My shoulders snuggled into his jacket, which felt like a warm blanket. I didn’t dare meet his eyes. He reached into his open jacket that rested on my shoulders and stroked my arm tentatively. Tiny bumps formed along both of my arms.
“You’re trembling,” he said.
“No, I’m…I’m all right.” I took a fortifying breath. It was time to learn who this man was. “So, why are you really in Boston?” I asked. “The truth. Now.”
“I already told you: to paint trash cans.”
“No, really.”
“To paint—why?”
“Are you hiding from your investors?”
His blue-black eyes shone as if laughing at a private joke. “No.” He removed the letter from his pocket and re-read it. Folded it this way and that until it looked like a toy train, then returned it his pocket. “Believe me, they know where to find me.”
Leaning away from my clothing, I wrung out my hair. Water puddled on the floorboards. “Do you know a man named Mr. Daggers?”
Stone raked a hand through his dry chestnut locks. He paused. “You mean the financier?”
“Yes.”
“I met him once. He buys up property seized during bankruptcies. Also sells railroad bonds for six percent interest. Always brokering scandalous deals that earn him millions. A real capitalist p—” he interrupted himself. “Why?”
I breathed deep, steeled myself to ask. “Are you a bad businessman?”
Stone laughed again. “Is that what that carpetbagger told you? I’m an artist, Penelope. I don’t even consider myself a businessman.”
I nodded, remembering his confrontation with the loan shark. “Do you often have trouble exhibiting your paintings?”
Stone paused. “Why, yes. That’s true. Some think I’m trying to say something with them, but mostly I’m trying to show something.”
I exhaled. “Mr. Daggers, he—er—please don’t take this the wrong way, Stone, but—are you plotting to overthrow the American government?”
Stone chuckled. The laughter traveled up through his body like refreshing puffs of smoke. “No. But I do wish our Government would be kinder to workers. I think an eight-hour workday is reasonable. Don’t you?”
I tried to calculate how many hours a day I worked at Verdana’s. Maybe five.
He crunched down on the couch next to me, but I wiggled away from him, struggling to keep my composure. I fingered the gold buttons on his jacket. He was inches from my face. I could feel him breathe, though I could barely breathe.
I thought about the way he’d entered my life—by accident. And now that I’d acclimated to his ways, to his artistic edginess, I didn’t want him to pack up his bags and move back to New York. If he did, he’d vanish from my life forever. If he’d only stay, I felt we could arrive at a plan. I could stay in Boston for a year or two. And he could find another position at a Boston publication while I nursed him back to health. Successful or not, he needed a woman to take care of him. I wondered if I could apply for the position.
The winds picked up outside. My dress was still soaked through, and I shivered as I became conscious of my partly exposed cleavage. I remembered when Mr. Daggers had kissed me, and the secret shame it caused. But Stone was different: under his rough exterior and his fingernails splashed with their rainbow of oil paints, he was considerate and kind. I was sure of it.
Damn that Mr. Daggers for making me question
my judgment! Even though he was a gentleman, he had a way of making me feel base. He erased my optimism and made me see the worst in people. I glanced sideways at Stone, so dry and at ease. A good man, surely.
How I wished he would brush against my cheek again or possibly even kiss me. Fishing for that touch from him that would prove that he reciprocated my feelings, I inched closer to him on the couch.
He touched my hair! I leaned toward him, parting my lips.
“I am more fond of you than I can help,” Stone said, moving my hair away from my face. “But I already have a true love.”
He paused, then said ruefully, “Her name is ‘Art.’ And she’s my only mistress.”
Chapter 18
The Magic of Bloomers
Friday, July 7, 1893
The morning sun streamed through the parlor windows, but I did not care to rise. Shame ripped through my body. Blood pulsed through my temples. How could I have developed feelings for a man who would never be mine—yet again? I burrowed under the blanket on the couch wishing I could become invisible for a while, or perhaps for eternity.
I sidled into the airless water closet across the hallway, holding my breath so that I wouldn’t take in its smell. I rapidly brushed my teeth with one of the new fancy tooth powders from Chicago. I passed a wet cloth over my face, then glanced in the mirror with the tarnished frame. My hair resembled red hay. Gray eyes blinked back tears. Dashing back across the dark hall and into my bedchamber, I yanked open the door of the mirrored wooden cabinet. I spotted Verdana’s bright purple bloomers peeking out from one of the drawers. I snatched the silken trousers and put them on.
There was something about the ridiculous pants that made me want to swagger like a man. They made me feel free and powerful. I tromped out to the parlor. The trousers looked awful but felt liberating. This was how men felt every day—like they owned the world.
“You can’t wear those,” Stone said, suddenly entering the parlor from the kitchen. Who was he to declare what I could and couldn’t wear? Then he smiled, and a light seemed to enchant his face. Men who wanted to do nothing but paint should not possess such criminally nice smiles. It was most unfair to the female population.
“I’m off to Verdana’s,” I said, avoiding eye contact.
He reached out for my arm. I jerked it out of his reach. “Please don’t go,” he coaxed. “I must talk to you. I thought we’d take a carriage and head over to a different part of town.” He inclined his head toward Lucinda’s room where we heard no noise of any kind.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at his face. The scars along his crown didn’t look like they required further medicine. “You should return to New York without delay.”
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to discuss.”
I stamped my foot against the cheap, wobbly floor. “Art’s your only mistress. You need to get back to her. She’s getting lonely.”
He threw me a sorrowful expression that begged forgiveness. “Come,” he said, latching onto my arm. “Let’s take a ride around the city. I’ll explain all.”
I shook his arm off again. “I’m sorry, but this request of yours is completely—”
“Of course Penelope will accompany you!” Mother bellowed from the kitchen.
I hadn’t realized she was in the flat, but there she was. Dressed like a large yellow hen, her trademark blonde chignon in place, she emerged with a sense of purpose. Powdered and rouged, she looked ready to ride with the son-in-law that would never be hers.
“Mother, why don’t you go instead?” I would not let her push me into this. Not this time. She could spend the day with a man who just wanted to paint. I had better things to do.
She pulled back her shoulders. “Nonsense, darling. He wants you to go with him. And I have so many items to catch up with around here.” She ran her index finger along the mantel, checking for dust, then frowned at her finger.
Turning around, she paused as she ogled my bloomers. “Go change into a dress, please. Let’s do our best not to impersonate any men today, shall we? Especially when men are about.” She crossed her arms. Her ample bosom heaved as she made a whistling sound through her teeth. “I don’t know why the men can’t behave like men and the women can’t behave like women around here, but let’s not set any precedents.”
She directed her sharp gaze at me, took a giant breath, then stormed out of the flat. “I arranged for a brougham to pick you both up in ten minutes,” she called merrily, from outside. She returned, out of breath. “And Penelope,” she continued, “you really should consider getting a haircut. I can’t even see your pretty face under those tresses.”
I touched my hair. The ends felt coarse and straggled.
“No,” I said.
“What?” she asked.
“No. These pantaloons will do just fine. They’re comfortable, and I can breathe in them.” I jerked my thumb to the window. “And Stone? You’ve got ten minutes to pack up your things and get out.”
Chapter 19
Mass Appeal
Monday, July 10, 1893
I stormed out of the flat in the purple bloomers and spent the next three days at Verdana’s expressly to avoid him. This, I kept reminding myself, was the smartest decision I had made since coming to Boston. When I returned to the flat, Stone’s belongings had vanished like a puff of smoke. And, save for Mother’s grim face and studied silence, it was as if he had never been there at all.
The sun fell fast on the horizon, lending a chill to the summer air. With the speed of zealots, Verdana and I dashed over to the bicycle merchant’s, who was about to close shop. Verdana implored the shy youth working there to rent us a safety bicycle and a quadracycle for the speech we were to give two hours hence.
He hesitated. “I can’t let you keep them overnight. What if you don’t return them?”
“Of course we’ll return them,” said Verdana.
He scanned our faces. “There’s been a rash of thefts.”
“We’re not thieves,” I said. “We’re suffragists.”
At last he agreed, but looked positively crestfallen when Verdana handed him only two dollars. I reached into the pocket of my green dress and extracted an extra dollar to add to the sum.
Verdana rolled her large, childlike eyes at me. “That’s too much, Lady Bountiful. You’ll be paid only a half-dollar for your efforts tonight. We need to conserve our money.”
I sighed, realizing the hard truth behind what she said. I had to stop thinking of myself as a member of the upper middle class, ensconced in a large home with servants.
The youth returned the dollar to me. “Keep it, Miss. That you’d give it so freely lets me know you’re honorable.”
I slid the money back in my dress pocket. I’d need to acclimate to living in reduced circumstances. For at this rate, it seemed unlikely that I’d ever find a man to share my burdens. I had only myself, but there was strength in that, too.
With no light left in the sky, we rode our cycles to the Tremont. I was terrified we’d be trampled to death by a horse whose owner failed to see us. Gas lanterns loomed every three hundred feet or so, leaving numerous unlit pockets for mayhem to erupt. Everyone warned that Boston was unsafe after dusk. Once darkness fell, the criminal element took over. As we pedaled, my thoughts about Stone went ’round in circles, too. He was unsuccessful, un-American, and uninterested. Un-American, uninterested, and unsuccessful. Uninterested, uninterested, and uninterested.
Through diligent practice during the last few weeks, Verdana had blossomed into an accomplished cyclist. As a result, she didn’t need to pay attention to her feet when pedaling. By rote, they were in the right place and did the right things, more or less automatically. Instead of worrying about her own skills, I imagine she wished to make the journey more palatable for me by talking nonstop. But it had the opposite effect. I couldn’t keep up with either her feet or her mouth.
“Don’t you miss Stone Aldrich?” she asked. “Your mother was a genius to keep him th
ere with you in the flat. How did she manage it, I wonder? Truly, I admire her. Can you hear a word I’m saying, or should I repeat it all?”
Listening to Verdana’s prattle made me recall the disgruntled loan shark who wanted to wring Stone’s neck. For the first time since my father’s reversal of fortune, I spotted the silver lining of living in reduced circumstances. No one could defraud me or take me for a mark. And no one would pretend to fall in love with me to make an advantageous marriage.
The Tremont Hotel teemed with women. Verdana had done a masterful job of publicizing our speech, and I heard clusters of guests buzzing about unicycles, bicycles, and quadracycles. The stir of excitement built as more and more women filtered in, asking dazed bellboys where the speech would take place. But I felt wobbly. After the long ride in the dark, exhaustion had taken its toll.
“Is there some place I can lie down?” I gasped out.
Verdana’s face scrunched into a frown. “What if you fall into a deep slumber? What if I can’t wake you? We have more than two hundred guests tonight to witness our bicycle demonstration, and—”
I put up my hand to stifle a yawn.
Wide-eyed, Verdana instructed me to wait in the reception area crowded with bellboys politely struggling to accommodate the press of suffragists. She ran to consult with some of the bonneted leaders of the Movement. On the verge of collapse, I sat down on a bench and waited.
My skin prickled. The air stilled, yet rippled around me. Tiny bumps formed along my arms, and the feeling traveled up to my neck.
I knew I was being watched.
I was conscious of a pair of eyes, but the vestibule overflowed with so many women that I couldn’t locate to whose face the eyes belonged.
The sensation persisted, and I looked up as a space about twenty feet in front of me started to clear. Then I saw it—the face I could never dislodge from my mind—Mr. Daggers’. Only days before I had never wanted to see him again. And now I just wanted the crowd of women to part so I could run up to him, throw my arms around him, and say, You were right about Stone Aldrich. Thank you for trying to save me.