A Lack of Temperance

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  “Oh, it was shocking. I’ve never witnessed anything like it. Mrs. Trevelyan shattered a window with a hatchet and intentionally started a fire inside the saloon. And yes, several people were injured.”

  Mrs. Lucinda Fry clucked her tongue. “I knew it. What was she thinking? She never listens to me. There go any hopes we had for—”

  She stopped in mid-sentence when Josephine Piers appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Piers hesitated when she saw the little crowd of women on the porch. She stepped back in retreat.

  “Josephine, dear,” Miss Elizabeth Shaw said, “please join us. We were talking about Edwina’s indiscretion last night.”

  At the mention of Mrs. Trevelyan’s name, tears welled in the woman’s eyes. “That indiscretion, as you call it, is God’s work, Sister Elizabeth. Mother Trevelyan was destroying that evil place. I’m proud to say I was with her last night.” She jutted her chin up in defiance, but her hands were shaking. One hand was wrapped in a bandage. So she was one of the women in blue I saw last night. Maybe even the one who left blood on my sleeve.

  “We all know you’ve wielded your share of hatchets and canes, Josephine,” Mrs. Fry said. “You also know our feeling about it. This is a temperance organization, not a militia. I don’t know how many times I have to say it. We’re supposed to advocate moderation in all things, not just in drink. We’re supposed to all be on the same side in this fight.”

  “But we are, Sister Lucinda, each to her own. You serve by writing letters, drinking tea, and raising funds. I serve by smashing bottles with bricks and sitting in prison cells.”

  “We do appreciate your passion, dear,” Miss Lizzie said, “and we could all use more of your youthful energy. It’s just that . . .”

  Mrs. Lucinda Fry frowned and snapped her book closed. “No harm comes by our letters and tea, unless you count paper cuts. Maybe you’d be happier if we drew blood on the occasional chipped china cup, Josephine?”

  “Now, ladies, let’s not argue,” Miss Shaw said. “This is Miss Davish, Josephine, Edwina’s new secretary. Miss Davish, dear, this is Mrs. Josephine Piers, one of Edwina’s closest friends and associates.”

  “Yes, we’ve already met,” Josephine Piers said. “You haven’t reconsidered, have you, Miss Davish?”

  “Reconsidered what?” Mrs. Fry said.

  “Mrs. Piers was kind enough to offer to continue as Mrs. Trevelyan’s secretary,” I said.

  “Josephine, dear, why would you want to burden yourself further?” Miss Shaw said. “You already do so much.” She pointed to the woman’s injured hand. “And whatever did you do to your hand?”

  “I cut it on a broken liquor bottle. But it’s merely a surface scratch. I can still serve as secretary.”

  “No, no, it was nice of you to step in temporarily, but let the girl do her job,” Mrs. Fry said. “Knowing Edwina, Davish here has already been well paid.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right. My energy could be better spent. She’s only a typewriter. I can serve the cause in many important ways.”

  “Yes, dear,” Miss Shaw said, “just try to be more temperate in your actions from now on.”

  I was grateful that the conversation came back to the subject of the saloon smashing (I am not only a typewriter, I thought).

  “Has this happened before, last night, I mean? Aren’t you worried about the police?”

  “Saloons are the devil’s work, home wreckers, the bane of a happy existence, Miss Davish,” Josephine Piers declared, her voice rising with each consecutive phrase. “We were doing a righteous and heroic act. God’s hand guides us. We shall prevail. You’ll see. Proposition 203 will be passed and victory will be ours.”

  “Josephine, dear, we all pray the men pass the proposition, but I can see this is upsetting you. Why don’t we go in to breakfast?” Miss Shaw patted Josephine Piers’s arm. “Lucy, why don’t you go with her? I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  “Oh, all right,” Mrs. Fry said. “Come to think of it, I am starving. Davish, help me out of this chair.”

  “Poor Josephine, she rarely quarrels with anyone. She must be worried about the convention,” Elizabeth Shaw said, watching her sister and Mrs. Piers leave. She picked up ajar of cherry preserves that had been sitting on the railing and unexpectedly scooped several spoonfuls into her mouth. She continued talking as if eating jam straight from a jar was the most natural thing to do. I was astounded.

  “And of course, there’s the vote. Josephine’s quite dedicated and has worked tirelessly for the cause. Like many of our members, she came to us fleeing an abusive drunk of a husband.” I recalled the scars on Mrs. Piers’s face and shuddered. “Thinking about Cordelia’s gruffness this morning, it seems we’re all a bit on edge. Nothing good comes from saloon smashing.”

  “It’s true then, Miss Shaw, that Mrs. Trevelyan does this on a regular basis?” I said.

  “Oh, do call me Lizzie, dear. And my sister, Lucy. Everyone does, except Josephine, of course. And I’ll call you Hattie. My favorite great-aunt, Harriet Shaw, had us call her Auntie Hattie, you know.” She patted my knee. “Yes, Hattie, this was not the first time Edwina, Mrs. Trevelyan to you, has caused a great scene.” Miss Lizzie Shaw’s head swayed back and forth.

  “Why does she do it?” I asked. “What does she hope to accomplish?”

  “You heard Josephine. Many in the coalition call for such brash action. I fear it may cause a rift in the membership. Lucy and I are very much set against it. Sermonizing, protesting, yes, we can all agree saloons breed evil and destroy families, but we must not condone such violence. Violence is the antithesis of temperance, Hattie. We must all remember that. And Edwina crossed the line again.”

  “But I still don’t understand. Isn’t that hypocritical?”

  “Yes, there are those, myself included, who would say advocating temperance while participating in anarchy is hypocritical. Yet, as I said, members disagree.”

  “If so many members disagree with her, why is she still the president of your club?”

  Miss Lizzie patted my cheek, then rose. “Welcome to the temperance movement, dear.”

  “How’s Mother Trevelyan, Josie?”

  After her insistence, I had joined Miss Lizzie and her sister in the dining room. They had assured me Mrs. Trevelyan wouldn’t mind. Miss Lucy, who had claimed to be famished, picked at her food while her sister, after eating everything on her own plate, astonishingly began eating off her sister’s plate as well. It was two hours before I was able to get away from the breakfast table. When I did, I headed straight for Mrs. Trevelyan’s room. Josephine Piers was leaving as another woman, with thick spectacles and a bulbous nose, arrived. Mrs. Piers closed the door behind her.

  “I’m not sure, Eleanor,” Mrs. Piers said. “She’s not in her room.”

  “Really? I thought we were supposed to meet her here.”

  “So did I.”

  I didn’t bother asking the women if I could see for myself. Instead, I set to the task of finding Mrs. Trevelyan, wherever she was. Starting in the basement and working my way up, I made a systematic search of the entire hotel—the storerooms, the laundry, the parlors, the library, the dining room, the ballroom, the hairdresser’s salon, the baths, as well as the servants’ quarters, the offices, the service rooms and pantry—with no luck. No one had seen her, including the doorman. I took a quick stroll through the gardens, checking every porch and bench, just in case. When I returned to the lobby, I encountered the American Women’s Temperance Coalition in full force for the first time. From the number of women I’d seen wearing the sky blue AWTC buttons, I would’ve guessed no fewer than a third of the hotel’s guests were coalition members, here for their annual meeting. But no Mrs. Trevelyan. It was frustrating. Instead of helping the lady with her duties, as I had expected, I spent the remainder of the morning mingling with the crowd inquiring after her whereabouts. Though no one was able to answer with certainty, many members were quick to speculate.

  “Did you check the dini
ng room? She likes to linger over coffee.”

  “She might’ve had an appointment at the American Bathhouse this morning.”

  “There’s a lot of meetings scheduled for this week. Maybe she’s meeting with the other organizers. I’d ask Cordelia Anglewood or Diana Halbert.”

  “I saw the police earlier; maybe she’s with them.”

  Once, after I introduced myself to a Mrs. Miller, the lady exclaimed, “Her secretary? Too bad. After last night, Edwina probably skipped town.”

  Now, after talking with coalition members, asking questions, and listening to their gossip, I was no closer to having a face-to-face meeting with my new employer than when I’d started. And I had completed all my work the night before. Now what do I do?

  CHAPTER 6

  I went hiking again. This time I brought my plant press and made it a collecting trip. I was thrilled to find Ozark chinkapin, Arkansas beardtongue, and two species of goldenrod, amazingly still flowering, to add to my collection. Happy and exhausted, I was making my way back to the hotel when I came upon Harding Spring again. A group had gathered below the outcrop of limestone that jutted out over the spring’s pool. Cordelia Anglewood stood on top of a limestone rock with Josephine Piers stationed next to her on the ground. It was one of the coalition’s testimonial meetings. Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzie shared a bench with a woman with a white toy poodle in her arms, and waved to get my attention. Others I’d met were scattered throughout. I was flattered to be asked to join them and found a bare spot on the grass at Miss Lizzie’s feet. Several disapproving faces regarded my plant press.

  “What is it with you and dead plants?” Miss Lucy whispered.

  Cordelia Anglewood lifted her arms in the air. “Let us pray.” Everyone bowed their heads.

  “Lord, we thank you for this water to refresh our bodies and for your love to refresh our souls. May we rid this world of the poisons of man and bring the fallen to your sobering embrace. Amen.” She raised her head and gazed out at the gathering. “On behalf of the American Women’s Temperance Coalition, I would like to welcome one and all. We, a gathering of the faithful, stand here today, as every day, as a force against the destructive power of alcohol and its hurtful effects on society and families. Blessed be they who fight for the sanctity of the home.”

  Unlike the night before, Mrs. Anglewood was eloquent and welcoming. Her countenance was somber and her gaze radiated the conviction of her words. I listened intently.

  “We gather here at the healing waters of Harding Spring to hear the testimonials of those who have suffered from the evils of demon drink. If you have a story to share, please come forward.”

  Several women stepped forth, including a reluctant one who was urged forward by unseen hands. The woman with the poodle stood up; Miss Lucy grasped the woman’s hand.

  “Cordelia wants testimony of temperance, Edna, not another story about Charlie.”

  “Oh.” Edna sat down, hugging her dog Charlie close.

  “I was a drunk,” one woman admitted. “But with the help of Sister Cordelia, I was able to go to the sanatorium and get sober.” She smiled at Cordelia, who nodded back. “I haven’t taken a drop in four years. Now I have a husband, two beautiful children, and I’m the one to speak at the meetings. I owe it all to the AWTC.”

  When not at their annual convention, members, it seemed, held weekly meetings in towns across the country, serving as support to families of homes broken by alcohol. They produced educational leaflets, such as how to rid alcohol from the home, and provided refuge for women and children in cases of abuse. Moral, emotional, spiritual, and in some cases, financial support was freely given to all those who sought help in the fight for temperance, for themselves and their families.

  “That was me once,” Miss Lucy said, suddenly standing and pointing to the previous speaker. “I wasn’t always an old lady and I wasn’t always sober. One day I was so drunk from laudanum that I drove a horse and buggy two miles down the middle of the sidewalk and straight into my in-laws’ house. But I too found salvation in the AWTC. So let that be a lesson to all of you. Temperance works!” A cheer arose as Miss Lucy took her seat. I tried in vain to picture this straight-backed bespectacled old woman wildly riding a horse into someone’s front parlor.

  “Old Mr. Fry never forgave her,” Miss Lizzie whispered to me, “but Oliver did, rest his soul.”

  Before I could ask more, another woman stood and announced, to applause, that her husband had signed the temperance pledge. She pulled a man into the open space in the middle of the crowd. He held a wide-brimmed Stetson hat in his hands and kept his eyes on the ground.

  “This is my man. He used to curse at me and kick our horse. Now he’s going to vote Yes for Proposition 203.” A loud cheer erupted.

  “What is Proposition 203?” I asked Miss Lizzie, whispering. “You mentioned it before.”

  “It bans the sale of alcohol in Carroll County, dear. We’ve tried to get it passed every two years for the past fourteen, as allowed by law. But we haven’t been successful. That’s one reason we’re in Eureka Springs. It’s on the ballot in tomorrow’s election. We are all very hopeful.”

  “It’s one of the most important things we can do, Davish,” Miss Lucy said.

  “Do you try to influence the ballot in other places as well?” I asked.

  “Everywhere we can, dear,” Miss Lizzie said. “Everywhere we can.”

  With a brave countenance and fresh green and black bruises around her left eye, another woman stepped forward and described her harrowing flight from Omaha to Eureka Springs with her three children in tow and a drunkard in pursuit.

  “I’d read one of your leaflets. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  When Josephine Piers put her arms around the woman and said, “You’re safe now,” I think even the battered woman believed it.

  Cordelia again took the stage.

  “Thank you, brave ladies, for sharing your stories of courage and redemption, and you, good man, for your valiant vote.” There was more applause. “Before we adjourn, I’d like to remind everyone of tonight’s vigil in the Summer Auditorium at the Assembly Grounds. For our newcomers, it’s on the north edge of town, down the hill from Grotto Spring. We will pray for President Harrison’s continued guidance and leadership. We will pray that we don’t lose our great supporter in the White House, Mrs. Harrison. We will pray for redemption of this land. May God see fit to pass Proposition 203 tomorrow and rid this valley, this entire county of drink.” Several women cheered. “God bless you all.”

  She gave the floor to Josephine Piers, who led the final prayer. Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzie stood, leading everyone in song. Their voices were soft but clear. To my surprise, the meeting ended without an appearance by or single mention of Mrs. Trevelyan. Yet the moment the women began mingling, dipping their cups in the spring well and socializing in general, Edwina Trevelyan’s name was on everyone’s lips.

  “Cordelia is terrific, but I thought Mother Trevelyan was going to lead the testimonials this year?”

  “Where’s Edwina? What’s keeping her? Surely, nothing’s more important than being here?”

  “Is it true that Mrs. Trevelyan was arrested?”

  I passed through unnoticed as I approached the spring. Josephine Piers spotted me at the edge of the limestone wall encircling the pool. We were both leaning over, filling tin cups.

  “Wonderful meeting, wasn’t it, Miss Davish? Sister Cordelia’s confidence has a way of inspiring the most remarkable testimonies.”

  “Yes, I’ve never been to anything like it.” And I meant it. The last twenty-four hours had acquainted me with both the best and the worst aspects of the temperance movement. Until yesterday afternoon, I had known very little of what my dear, departed father had called “those teetotalers.”

  “I rejoice that you decided to join us and partake of the waters.”

  “These,” I said, holding up the cups, “are for Miss Lucy and Miss Lizzie. But thank you for your concern.�
�� I hastened back to the sisters without spilling a drop.

  “Well, Davish, did you find her?” I handed Miss Lucy a tin cup.

  “Find who? Mrs. Trevelyan?”

  “No, the vanished crew of the Mary Celeste. Of course I mean Edwina.”

  “Lucy, dear,” her sister said, “be nice.”

  “Well, you saw her this morning. A pack of bloodhounds couldn’t have sniffed out Edwina as thoroughly as this girl. Well, Davish?”

  “No, Miss Lucy, I haven’t seen her yet today. Have you?”

  “Come to think of it, no, I haven’t.”

  “Nor has anyone else that I’ve spoken to. I’m at a loss as to where she could be.”

  Miss Diana Halbert, a schoolteacher from Memphis, leaned over Miss Lucy’s shoulder. “She’s hiding with her tail between her legs somewhere.”

  “Others think so too,” I said, “but I’m not so certain.”

  “Charlie runs with his tail between his legs sometimes,” Edna offered.

  Several others around me cocked their heads, listening. Conscious of the eavesdroppers, I lowered my voice. “Is it possible she was arrested?”

  “No, dear, Cordelia or Josephine would know if she had,” Miss Lizzie said.

  “What if they aren’t telling anyone? The news could be disruptive.”

  “Come now, Davish. You make it sound so sinister,” Miss Lucy said, too loud for my comfort. “I’m sure you type a thousand words a minute and your middle name is Pitman Shorthand, but you have no idea what you’re talking about. Cordelia would never do a thing like that.”

  “Lucy’s right, dear. Cordelia wouldn’t keep it a secret. She’d be the first one to crow over the news.”

  Miss Lizzie glanced behind her. Several women, staring in our direction, conspired behind fans. One of them pointed at me. Miss Lizzie lowered her voice to a whisper. “Maybe we should talk about this later, dear. It might prove unpleasant if the others think you’re meddling.”