Mistress Suffragette

by Diana Forbes

As he drew near, I caught his clean, well-perfumed scent, a scent I’d come to associate with him, with us.

  “Evelyn was called away, thank God. I think she’s looking at houses for us. Now, come here. There’s something special I want you to have.”

  He pulled out the gold pocket watch from the inner pocket of his smoking jacket and handed me the timepiece.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t accept this.”

  “Of course you can, darling. It’s my apology for being such a cad last time. I insist that you keep it.”

  I stared at the watch. A cad last time? What about the time before that? And the time before that? He was just a cad. Time had nothing to do with it.

  The watch felt ponderous in my hand. It was very handsome, quite possibly the most regal pocket watch I had ever seen. A watch a pharaoh could take with him into the afterlife: his beloved object. I handed it back to him.

  He leaned over me and slipped the watch in my pocket. “Also, it’s a way for you to have a piece of me near you at all times,” he said, sitting down on my couch.

  I wondered how many years’ rent his pocket watch would cover at the Windermere. But wouldn’t it set a strange precedent for me to accept it? Would he try to buy me off with gifts every time he mistreated me? And what about my promise to Amy?

  “I can’t,” I said, feeling its weight drag down my dress. “Amy wants our liaison to end. And I work for her.” I stared at him, trying to memorize his features—wondering if I could pull away without ever seeing them again.

  He chuckled. “Amy doesn’t own you. We’ll simply have to be more subtle. Let’s start tonight. Did anyone see you come in here?”

  “Only the girl who works for you.” I recalled the parlor maid’s mischievous face. I bet she’d uncorked many of his secrets.

  “She’ll keep quiet about it.”

  I cocked my head at him. “Uhm—who’s Miss Fitzgerald?”

  He bolted upright. “She’s nobody. Why? She works at the home for unwed mothers.” He slapped his large hand against the couch arm. “I was talking to her about a building.”

  I bit my lip. Did I trust him? Or didn’t I? I heard his watch tick in my dress pocket. His eyes widened—all innocence and charm.

  “It’s a business arrangement,” he said, kicking the couch with his slippered foot.

  A business arrangement? What wasn’t? Sam, wanting to marry me so he could work for my father? Mr. Daggers offering me a job in his employ? Everything was a business arrangement, but always at great cost to the woman.

  “Your brow looks so furrowed, darling. Come, let me kiss it,” he said, stroking it with his large, smooth hand. “You wanted someone to love you, and I have, wholly and completely.”

  “You have,” I echoed, looking at him. I just wasn’t sure if I wanted to share that love with others—his wife, Mrs. Streuthers, and possibly Miss Fitzgerald.

  And wasn’t love but a frailty of the mind?

  He reached over to me. “Now, come here, my love. You mustn’t be frightened. Tonight will be your initiation. It won’t hurt unless you resist me.”

  “Mr. Daggers,” I gasped, as he unbuttoned his trousers to expose his long white drawers. “I’m not ready yet. And frankly, I don’t know if I ever will be.”

  “You’re ready,” he coaxed, stroking my cheek with his finger. “And I’m getting fed up with the delay.”

  He shrugged off his smoking jacket and started to unbutton his shirt. He wasn’t a thin man, and I knew that without weaponry on my side he could easily overpower me. I glanced over at the Tiffany lamp.

  His torso was substantial but well toned, and I wanted to see more. I also knew I could stop him if need be.

  Gently he lifted my legs off the floor and lay me down on the couch. Crawling until he was almost on top of me, he stroked my hair. My ankle brushed against his, then nestled there. He unbuttoned a few of my dress buttons. “I love you,” he said, nuzzling his lips into my bosom. Tenderly he strummed my lips, then gently placed his large hands on my shoulders.

  He pushed my shoulders down. “Just breathe,” he said, and I did. He lifted up from me just enough to slip off his pants. He placed both of my hands on the band of his calf-length drawers, loosening the drawstring. “Pull them down slowly.” Guiding first one of my hands, then the other, he helped me slowly unbutton then fold down the top of his drawers. “Yes, just like that.” Then he placed his hands back on my shoulders.

  “Keep rolling down the fabric,” he instructed, breathing deeply. “Slowly. Don’t rush. It’s more sensual that way. No, slower.”

  My hands obeyed his words.

  “Now, listen to me,” he said. “I’m tired of waiting for you. It makes me do things I regret.” He glanced at the closed door.

  Hypnotically I complied. I wondered if, in fact, he had hypnotized me. Perhaps with his power, his promises of a life free from his wife, or his golden pocket watch.

  “Take them off for me now, will you, my love?” he said, standing up.

  I stood up so that I could get a better grip on the undergarment and slowly rolled it down over his taut body. It was the first time I’d ever seen a man fully exposed, and I could feel perspiration form all along the inside of my corset. I wondered what it would feel like to let him inside me. He was quite large down there, and it was obvious that the arousal I felt was mutual. As I stepped back to better observe him, he put my hands on his long drawers again and urged me to keep pulling them down over his body.

  When his drawers were three-quarters of the way down, about at his knee, I noticed a dark red spot on them.

  I touched it. It was still damp.

  “Is this blood?” I asked, sucking in my breath.

  He looked down at me. “I don’t know. Why?”

  I sniffed the scent of the room again. It wasn’t just the sickly sweet smell of brandy. It smelled like brandy mixed with blood.

  He brought his large hands closer to my neck. “It’s not my blood.”

  “Then whose blood is it?”

  “How the devil should I know?”

  The vision of his parlor maid’s elfin face floated in my head, and suddenly I knew. He was having sexual improprieties with her and every other lapsed maiden who worked in the household. I could picture him knocking on their doors at night, exerting his droit du seigneur, his so-called master’s privilege, threatening them with repercussions if they told anyone.

  It was like an open secret that everyone knew—the parlor maids who slept with the master. Perhaps the one who escorted me to his room had serviced him earlier that day. And the dark-haired maid in flight was fleeing from her first encounter with him, the one responsible for this blood. He was a polygamist—without the responsibility of having to marry his conquests.

  A baby’s cry from the street below shattered the awkward silence. It brought me back to his pregnant wife—he was still bedding her whenever she’d let him, too. And Mrs. Streuthers. And Miss Fitzgerald. And probably every woman he’d ever lured to The Lantern with the promise of a free meal. And every woman he’d taken to the stable with the promise of a free ride. I pictured his beloved pocket watch, now in my pocket. I was one in a long chain of women who had been duped by his power and his charm. And who had been seduced by the words “I love you,” which clearly meant nothing on his lips. I’d had the hubris to think I could change him. But I couldn’t make him stop viewing all women as objects. Or could I?

  I recalled the very words I’d used to describe the cause. The Movement gave women a platform. But instead of taking advantage of it, I’d almost sacrificed the platform on the altar of this man’s couch.

  “Is this a virgin’s blood?” I asked, thinking of all the women he’d sacrificed in the household. The girl that I’d met looked to be my age, possibly younger. I’m tired of waiting for you, he’d said. It makes me do things I regret. How many parlor maids had he bedded while he was waiting for me to comply with his sexual wishes?

  “Keep unrolling my
drawers,” he growled. “And stop asking stupid questions. You’re ruining the mood. I have no idea if she was a virgin.”

  “Really now? Will this help you remember?” I reached over to the Mason jar and, with one twist, removed its lid. Five bees came roaring to life.

  One bee flew straight toward his exposed appendage.

  “Ouch!” he screamed, as the bee stung its target. “I’m goddamned allergic to bees!” Shooing the bee away, he quickly pulled up his drawers. He waved his hands around his face, then yelped as a second bee stung him on his cheek.

  “Yes,” I said, calmed by the sight of the bees homing in on my target. “But it appears they like you very much.”

  I reached into my other dress pocket and pulled out the Colt .45.

  “Put that down,” he yelled.

  “Was she a virgin?” I repeated, slowly removing the bullets from my pocket. “It’s a simple question.” I slid the bullets into the chamber. “A simple question merits—”

  “She was a virgin!” he shouted.

  I whirled away from him and pointed the gun at the vase of daisies. I pulled the trigger. Bang! The vase shattered to the ground, spilling water and daisies everywhere. Two of the bees flew toward the flowers splayed on the floor.

  Then I pivoted toward him, raised the gun, and formed a sightline to his heart.

  “Listen, darling, I am a cad. And for that I am truly sorry. But please put down the damned gun. I’m sure you don’t want to kill me. We can still work things out.”

  Backing away slowly with my gun still leveled at his chest, I unlocked the door. Then I ran out of the den and down the stairs as fast as my legs would allow. I emptied the gun of bullets and slipped the weapon back in my pocket for speedier flight. But within seconds, Mr. Daggers was on the staircase following me, screaming obscenities.

  I stopped mid-flight and felt around in my other dress pocket. I extracted his heavy pocket watch, then turned around. Clutching the wooden banister in one hand and holding the gold watch by its long chain in my other hand, I swung the watch at Mr. Daggers’s livid face just as he caught up to me, swinging it over and over until the gold piece hit him squarely in the eye. His large hands reached for the watch and he screamed—“Whore, wretch”—and other obscenities. “Bastard, lying bastard,” I mumbled to myself to block out the sound, and kept hitting him in the eye with the timepiece. I pictured his face as a target and the weapon in my hand as a pistol, and I swung the pocket watch at him until I could practically feel the weapon reverberate in my hand.

  “Take that, you brute,” I screamed.

  His dark eye went bloodshot, and he yelled one last time before collapsing on the staircase. His hand covered his injured eye as he keeled over in pain.

  Love had been blinded at last.

  As I ran down the last staircase and skidded into the foyer, his wife was just entering from the outside door. Her abundant, ropey hair looked longer than ever—the brown mass practically reached her waist, discreetly rounded with child.

  “Penelope,” she said, putting up her hands to stop me. “You seem like you’re in a terrible rush. I am awfully sorry I’m late. I wanted to give you some moments alone with my husband, and I suppose the time escaped from me. Would you like a little more time with him? I have several cooks readying dinner for us, and they can easily accommodate your schedule. Don’t tell me you’re leaving already.” She flashed me her enigmatic smile.

  “Cooks?” I asked, out of breath.

  “Why, yes.” She removed a light stole from around her shoulders and tossed it on a hat rack near the door. “Cooks, and their young assistants, the sous-chefs. I try to keep a lot of women in the kitchen, although sometimes the men are actually better chefs.”

  “Mrs. Daggers…” I turned around to make sure Mr. Daggers was not right behind me on the staircase. “Your husband is an insatiable beast. He’s having improper relations with every single woman on your staff.”

  Her face hardened. “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself and your mouth closed. Especially when you’re one of the girls he’s been carrying on with.” The pocket watch dropped out of my hand and clattered onto the stone floor. I fumbled to retrieve the watch and stuffed it in my pocket.

  Her almond eyes turned to beads. “Oh, you think I don’t know about The Lantern? And the stable on 44th Street? I keep his calendar, dear. I know exactly where he is at all times, and with whom.”

  “Mrs. Daggers, I—”

  “I offered you a position here so you could sate him. But you refused.”

  “Yes, I know. I apologize. I was foolish enough to think I was the only one of his on the side.” I took a step toward her. “But he’s had his way with that parlor maid and some virgin maid and someone outside your household named Mrs. Streuthers.”

  Mrs. Daggers laughed her silver bell laugh and pointed to the stairwell. “We have many more young girls who work here than those two.” She put her hands up to her eyes like horse blinders. “He pays the bills, and I look the other way.” She reached out to me and deliberately fastened the top button on my dress. I looked down, humiliated. In my haste, I’d left more undone below it. “I suggest you do the same,” she said, “or I’ll make your life miserable. I know everyone in this town. From what I understand, you know no one except my husband. That makes it easy to banish you. And make no mistake, he turns on young, impoverished girls quickly. Spits them out as fast as he plucks them, trust me on that.”

  I thought about his building for unwed mothers. How many of them had he put in that home? And what could I do about men like him? I took a deep breath and clasped her hands, even as her face reddened and she screamed at me to leave.

  “What if you have a daughter?” I asked, lifting my head and staring straight at her. “Do you really want that man to raise her? He’s a monster.”

  Monday, September 25, 1893

  A few days later, I requested a private audience with Amy Van Buren. Under her broad-rimmed hat, she looked surprised but pleased. She suggested we climb the stairs and discuss the matter in her atrium.

  “It’s over,” I said. “Things between me and Mr. Daggers are over forever.”

  “You trimmed yourself back,” Amy said with a rare smile. “Was it your love for the Movement that made you see the light?”

  “That, and the fact that I saw him for the monster he was.”

  She nodded, her purple and white polka dot garden hat a fashion statement all by itself. “Sometimes the Movement saves the women inside its ranks.” She plucked a pink African daisy from a vase and stuck it in the buttonhole of my dress. “You should use the experience to educate other women. Perhaps draft a speech about him.”

  I bit my lip. “I can’t.”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks. You not only can, you must.”

  “But I was partly to blame.”

  “Yes, but at least you discovered the truth about him.” She lightly gripped my wrists. “You need to write a leaflet about him, warning other women to avoid him. Then put up hundreds of these leaflets in his home for unwed mothers. I bet Verdana would even help you.”

  Remembering Mrs. Daggers’s threat, I shook my head. A spider scampered across the cement floor. I hated this city where people spun tangled webs. Amy’s perfume brought back the scent of my parents’ rose garden. I missed home where I could ride horses all day and not worry about predators, threats of vengeance, and the broken promises of playboy philanthropists.

  She released my wrists and touched my arm. “You know, it doesn’t have to be about Mr. Daggers, specifically, but about men like him. View him as an archetype, and write about that. Maybe start with a leaflet, expand it into a pamphlet, and then eventually write a whole book. Women aren’t toys. Women should protect themselves from men who treat them badly.”

  Now that I could write about.

  I threw my arms around Amy Van Buren and hugged her. “Thank you, Amy.”

  She gasped at my display of emotion and ever so gently tried to
pry herself loose from my grasp. But I wouldn’t let her go. She was like the mother I wished I had. She had been a champion, not a detractor. She had protected me from married men—not thrown me at them. She had helped me find my passion for the Movement. She was going to have a hard time shaking me off.

  “Now, now,” she said, patting my back. “I didn’t do anything.” She tried to wiggle away from me.

  “You did. You insisted I do the right thing.”

  She continued to nervously pat my back as my hold on her tightened.

  “Yes, but so far you’ve only done half the right thing,” she said. “You rid yourself of the beast, and that’s a start. But the other half is sharing the experience. Otherwise he’ll only continue his shenanigans. You’re the one who said the Movement gives women a voice. It’s time to celebrate yours.”

  I remembered how Sam had urged me to tell others about Mr. Daggers so he couldn’t prey on women anymore. But could I do it in a compelling way? And if I were to write a whole book, how many years would it take to finish it? And would a publisher even buy it? Weren’t all publishers in the world men? Would they be sympathetic or rush to protect one of their own? I pictured my hair turning gray before I’d find anyone to publish my book.

  “A book? What if no one agrees to publish it, Amy?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course they’ll publish it,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m a Van Buren. If they don’t, they’re going to have one hell of a time getting invited to my parties.”

  I remembered the thirty-six Shepherd’s Pies sitting in her larder and some of the balls I’d attended at Marble House. In Newport, she’d thrown oyster tastings, yacht outings, and parties so lavish that all of Society wheedled for invitations.

  I pulled away from her and looked her in the eye. “So, you’ll help me, then?”

  “I won’t write it for you, dear. Only you can write it. But I have no doubt that, together, we’ll find someone suitable to publish it.”

  Amy walked over to one of the atrium’s seven windows and stared down at Millionaire’s Row. She was the queen bee of the world’s richest hive—Manhattan. Her clan owned half a dozen mansions on Fifth Avenue. If the Van Burens wanted something published, chances were excellent that it would be.