Mistress Suffragette

by Diana Forbes

  “But, Mother,” I said, “we don’t own a dog.”

  She clapped her plump hands. “That is of no concern, whatsoever.” She flashed me a wide-toothed grin. “We’ll either buy one or borrow one for the occasion. We’ll rent one, if need be.” She pumped her fist in the air. “But, as God is my witness, by the time this dog dinner party rolls around in August, we’ll have a dog to bring. Don’t you worry your pretty head about that.”

  I glanced down at the card in my hand, then considered the dog hiding inside the stable. If my mother really put her mind to it, I was certain we could find a real dog by August.

  Saturday, July 22, 1893

  The visits from Mr. Daggers became a regular irregular occurrence. He’d just show up, unannounced, at all hours and multiple times a day with a heat that would demand to be alleviated. At first, thrilled for the companionship, I’d kiss him for a few minutes in the White Room but then withdraw in a fit of moral repugnance. He’d become aroused and stomp off angrily when I pushed him away. Often I’d burst into tears. Sometimes he’d return, telling me how much he loved me and wooing me with fantastic stories of how he’d kept the Panic from ravaging the financial portfolios of his many friends. Other times he’d accuse me of toying with him and would threaten to never see me again.

  He consistently painted his wife as a spoiled homemaker preoccupied with nothing more significant than dirty silverware and hostesses who served themselves first, forcing me to revisit the positive impression she had made on me. And yet, he’d been spot on about Stone Aldrich. As a result I didn’t know whether to trust Mr. Daggers’s judgment or my own. We argued about his wife and the tenuous future of our relationship for hours. Then he would start kissing me to bring the argument to a close; and there we were, the two of us embroiled in the throes of something as sordid as it was exhilarating.

  We kissed and fought in the White Room. We kissed and fought in the stable. We kissed in the rose garden, and I wept afterwards under the weeping willow tree. I felt morally reprehensible for entertaining another woman’s husband, but the intimacy felt so freeing that, somehow, I persuaded myself that the liaison was all right as long as it didn’t last too long, go too far, get discovered, or become a habit.

  With Lydia fighting her consumption so valiantly upstairs, my parents’ attentions were diverted; and Bess would just sigh and roll her big brown eyes every time he visited me, nervously touching the onyx amulet that hung around her neck. Sometimes, in his whisky-induced passion, he’d muss my dress or wrinkle a pleat. Then Bess would grimly take the dress to iron away the evidence.

  Late in the day Saturday, he arrived by horse and asked me to ride with him to the beach. I mounted my gray steed Silver, and Mr. Daggers mounted his brown mare. We galloped toward the cliffs near the ocean. Several miles from my parents’ house, we tied up our horses under some elm trees in a clearing near the top of the cliffs. The breeze from the ocean pushed back our hair, and the fading afternoon sun played across our faces. He drank from his flask. Then he took my hand in his. He kept his dark gaze directed at the ocean, spread out like a floor of glass beneath us.

  He squeezed my hand. “I could put you up in an apartment in New York and visit with you every day.” He kneaded my fingers. “I’d take you to the theater sometimes, too. You wouldn’t just have to stay inside, you know. I treat my mistresses well.”

  “Mistresses?” I was horrified at the plurality of it.

  “I don’t have an English teacher’s vocabulary,” he snapped, taking another swig of whisky.

  “I teach French.”

  “Damn, you can be annoying. I just meant I’d treat you well. I’d give you an allowance.”

  “And your wife? Do you treat her well?”

  He slipped the flask back inside his jacket. Then, still holding my hand, he raised his other hand to his eyes to follow a seagull’s progress. He craned his head to follow the bird’s assent over the shoreline. “You’re unlikely to speak about it in public. That’s the only thing she cares about—how things look to the outside world.”

  As we watched the waves lap the shore below us, I thought about my sister fighting for her life. What if she died, and I was the only daughter left? If this affair were discovered, it would blow up my family’s reputation, destroying everything my father had worked to build. On top of his financial collapse, he and Mother would never be able to hold up their heads in Society. Appearances were critically important—Mrs. Daggers was right.

  Her husband moved in closer, snuggling his arm around my shoulder. I could feel the heat coming down from the sky, bouncing off my face, and inflaming me with a sort of wanton passion. He nibbled at my neck. I wanted him—it was undeniable—but my reason fought against the sentiment. I couldn’t continue to give in to him. He might not care about betraying his wife, but I couldn’t do it. She had been so lovely to me—so much nicer, in so many ways, than he.

  I wiggled out of his grasp. “I can’t. I’d feel too guilty there. I feel badly enough about it here.”

  He turned to me. “You stubborn woman. You think you can endlessly tease me with no consequences attached?”

  My head reached to just under his chin, and looking up, I could see his teeth glistening in their wolfish manner. His neck turned a shade of magenta; and from my position just under him, I watched the purple color travel up his face. His internal barometer changed from a romantic reading to one that was highly vexed.

  He slapped me across the face—hard. I stared at him, not sure who he was anymore. Then he slapped me across my chest.

  “That’s it,” I said, reeling. “We’re done.” I tried to brush past him.

  “Not quite.”

  His eyes narrowed as he pushed me backward against a nearby tree. His tongue jerked inside my mouth, blocking my breathing. I pushed his face away from mine.

  “Stop it,” I cried.

  He hit me hard across the face again. My eyes teared up so that I could barely see him. But I could feel him. Unbuttoning my dress like a savage and scavenging around inside it, trying to remove my breasts from their moorings in my armor-like corset.

  “I’m afraid you don’t understand,” he threatened, his lips one inch from mine. “But let me make myself clear so there’s no confusion. No one says ‘no’ to me.”

  His thighs knocked mine hard against the tree, pinning me in place. The tree bark chafed at my back, and I could smell the whisky on his breath. His face clenched. His large hands reached under my dress skirts and fumbled with my undergarments. I started to first say and then scream, “No!”

  “The more you scream the more it will hurt.” He started unbuttoning his pants. “So, I advise you to shut up.” He placed his hand over my mouth. “We’ve done things your way, and now we’re going to do them my way.”

  I thrashed against his thighs.

  He laughed gruffly. “Understand this: I’m a man, and I have needs. Don’t you see,” he said, while tacking me hard against the tree with his taut upper leg muscles, “that I’m doing you a favor?” He moved his hand away from my mouth and tried to kiss it while I jerked away my head. He pulled my hair. “Your parents are broke. Your sister lies dying. You can be my mistress and retain a shred of dignity, or have nothing—no name, no money, no house, no husband, nothing. I offer you a way out, and yet you fight me. Pity, because women who fight me learn that I will be serviced.”

  Just under his boots, I spotted my weapon. It was a large, loose tree branch that must have broken off during a storm. The branch was about three feet long, four inches in diameter, and still with most of its leaves attached. He kept stepping on it each time he adjusted himself, pushing me against the tree trunk, which created a slight rustling sound underfoot. If I could just distract him long enough, I’d be safe. What was it his wife said that day on the rocky cliffs? He was deathly allergic—

  “Watch out, there’s a bee!” I screamed.

  “What the devil?” Mr. Daggers cried, releasing me from his legs’ strangleho
ld. “I don’t hear any buzzing.” He laid one of his large hands against my shoulder and craned his head to search for the stinging pest, blocking the sun from his eyes with his other hand. “Where is it, blast it? I’m goddamned allergic to bees!” he yelled. He turned back to inspect my face to check the veracity of my statement.

  “It’s over there.” I pointed to an invisible spot just above his head.

  Distracted, he followed my gaze and dropped his hand from shoulder, pivoting away from me. While his head was turned, I reached down to grab the tree branch off the ground and held it up in the air like a sword.

  “Where is the goddamned bee?” he asked, spinning around to see my raised weapon. I lifted it higher with both hands and conked him on the head.

  “Ouch!” he yelled.

  He reached for the piece of wood, but my hands held fast. I hit him on the head again as hard as I could.

  “Stop it!” he screamed.

  I pounded him on the head with the branch over and over until some of the leaves got caught and pulled at his hair.

  “Stop doing that,” he yelled. “I mean it. Stop it, woman.” He flung his arms up to the top of his head to form a human helmet against my thrashing. But he also seemed worried that I’d lower the branch to scratch out his eyes. He moved his arms up to his crown to protect it and then down to his face to guard it like a mask, as I flailed the tree branch around menacingly.

  “You’re nothing but a bully,” I shouted. I swung the wood piece at his head with a severe thwonk, as the leaves whistled past his face. “I have half a mind to report you.” I bonked him on the head again. A tiny ribbon of blood trickled from his forehead. Better the blood be on him than on me. I hit him on the head again.

  “Get away from her!” a familiar voice yelled. I felt a fluttery rush as my cousin rode full throttle at Mr. Daggers.

  “Oh, thank God,” Mr. Daggers muttered, as he backed away from me to safety—far from both me and the tree branch. “Sam, I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life,” Mr. Daggers said.

  “If you ever bother her again, I’ll have you arrested,” Sam yelled, dismounting from his white horse.

  Mr. Daggers scoffed, lips curling into a pout. “You should have her arrested. She’s the one who led me on. Your cousin’s nothing but a whore. She wanted it, and I was just doing the gentlemanly thing and trying to please her.”

  “He’s lying,” I said between clamped teeth. I swung the branch in the air like a baseball bat lest Mr. Daggers venture near me again. But he didn’t look as if that were likely.

  “Don’t worry, Sam,” Mr. Daggers continued, as he untied his horse. “She’s more likely to bother me before I bother again with the likes of her. We are done. Good day, Penelope.” And with that, he made a great show of fastening his pants. Then he mounted his mare, brushed some leaves out of his hair, cursed, and rode off into the pink twilight.

  I put the tree branch back on the ground. Maybe it would help another woman in distress someday. I got busy straightening my dress while Sam awkwardly watched. Eventually, I looked up.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, tying his horse.

  “I don’t know.”

  His pale blue eyes became pinpoints. “Should I have him arrested?”

  “No, leave it alone,” I said, sullen.

  “You know that what he did is a crime, don’t you?” he asked sharply, walking toward me.

  “He didn’t do anything.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean it. He didn’t.”

  “You shouldn’t let him get away with it. He’ll just turn around and prey on another victim. Really, it’s an abomination.” Sam bent down to pluck a dandelion and blew on it. “Wait until Verdana hears about this. You really think that she won’t want you discuss this on the tour? You women are supposed to be role models for the Movement, and yet…”

  I felt my eyes flash with rage. “Now, listen here, Sam. I’ve said several times that he did not accost me, and he didn’t. Do you understand? He may have tried to, but he did not succeed. Meanwhile, that man, that scion of Society who the press follows like a bloodhound, received some serious head injuries from me. I won’t have this incident reported in the newspapers, not with the pain my parents and sister have already endured, and not with your own fiancée trying to talk about how ‘strong’ women are. You leave this be, or I swear I’ll leave the Movement forever and Verdana will have to fend for herself. But if he ever tries anything like this again, have no fear, I will shame him to the ends of the universe.”

  “Fair enough,” said Sam after a pause. “I’ll support your wishes even if I disagree with them. But in times of crisis, family members need to draw close. Creeps like him should not be allowed to walk away scot-free. I’ll even buy you a pistol, if need be.”

  I shook my head. “Absolutely not. I’d rather defend myself without deadly weapons, thank you.”

  When you have spent your whole life with an invisible gun pointed at your head, you are not inclined to want to own a real gun. At least I wasn’t—not yet.

  He looked at me with something akin to disbelief, and I regarded him as if he were an old, crotchety knight whose purpose had been discarded long ago.

  I had, after all, rescued myself.

  Chapter 25

  Outwitting Madame Tomato

  Monday, July 24, 1893

  If someone had said make a wish, I would have wished this whole sordid turn of events with Mr. Daggers had been a dream I could just blink away. But I couldn’t, and so I did the next best thing. I became stronger.

  If Sam told Verdana about the brouhaha with Mr. Daggers, she hid it masterfully, and I concluded no one could be that fine an actress. But now a secret loomed large among us. I could feel it, hovering over us, straining relations. The lovely pair was staying at Sam’s parents’ house, which also cut down the number of times I cared to visit.

  My parents stood vigil upstairs, tending to Lydia’s care with a coterie of doctors. George Setton stopped by the house daily but lurked in the Pink Room, hiding behind his little notebook of valuations. I never once heard him ask to see Lydia. Meanwhile whenever I tried to visit her, I was shooed away so the primary physician could attend to her. If he was busy, a second doctor stood ready plus a string of nurses who brooked no interference from me. It was difficult to get past them.

  Hence, I spent much of my time alone. When I wasn’t listening to Mozart on the gramophone in my father’s den, I buried my sorrows in books. Newport boasted several excellent reading libraries, and I stole down to them whenever Mother decreed that I could leave the house.

  I studied up on suffrage issues and even abolitionist issues since there was little literature available on the former. The libraries also had newspapers, only a few days out of date, and when closing hour drew near I would select a periodical to bring home, then take great care to hide it from Mother’s prying eyes. The next day, I would return it to the library and request another one. I read the Boston Herald, the Chicago Tribune, the New York Times, and the Los Angeles Times. I devoured every newspaper I could lay my hands on. I delved deep into the stacks so I could read not just about what had happened this year, but as far back as the library had copies of that particular paper. I omitted only the Society pages to avoid stumbling on Mr. Daggers’s name.

  I followed Susan B. Anthony’s heroic fights on the suffrage front. In 1872, she was arrested for voting in a presidential election. Arrested. And put behind bars. Justice Ward Hunt refused to allow her to testify and explicitly ordered the jury to return a guilty verdict, then read an opinion that he’d written before the trial had even started. The sentence was a $100 fine and no imprisonment—yet she refused to pay the fine. She was my heroine.

  In a few weeks, Susan B. Anthony was headed to the Chicago Exposition where the National American Women Suffrage Association would hold its meetings between August 7th and August 12th. Without a doubt, this redeemed the so-called White City for its sin of being George Setton
’s birthplace.

  Our own speech loomed just ahead. Pity that no one within a twenty-mile radius wanted to hear it. The Ladies Bridge and Mahjong Society politely declined our offer to speak. The new golf course assured us that, sadly, they were under the siege of renovations. The Ladies Auxiliary was preoccupied with training school children how to care for cats. The Mercantile Library wrote that its employees would be on holiday during that particular week (and for several weeks thereafter, indefinitely even).

  Failing to land a speaking engagement at a public venue, I turned to the Newport residents for help, hoping that one might lend us her home. That’s when my mother put her foot down—literally. She placed her pink, slippered foot in front of the massive oak door to the house.

  “Remember the Dogs’ Dinner,” she urged, wagging her index finger back and forth like a tiny tail. “Don’t do anything to cause the invitation to be rescinded.”

  “I won’t, Mother. I promise.”

  “Newport Society is a dog-eat-dog world,” she muttered. “In a world of basset hounds, we are miniature poodles.”

  I deposited calling cards at several of the cottages that hosted balls even as I worried their owners would sniff the whiff of desperation in my flurry of house calls.

  Everyone said no, ever so tactfully. The Wetmores begged off, claiming a prior engagement. The Berwinds were in Paris. I’d heard that Amy Adams Buchanan Van Buren was sympathetic to the cause, but she and her husband were sitting out the rest of the season in New York City (in the offices of their divorce lawyers, some said). Several residents dropped that they were letting their houses for the season (there was a Panic, after all).

  Fortunately we had a friend in Mrs. Clarissa Clements, Willard Clements’s mother. But it wasn’t because she was so forward-thinking, as much as a true believer in social favors. “Edgar Daggers thought you’d need a venue, dearie,” she told me. “He asked me weeks ago. Of course I said I’d be happy to open my house to you if he and Evelyn would invite my Willard to the Thanksgiving turkey hunt up in Tuxedo Park.”