by Lynn Austin
“What’s so funny?”
“You look very authentic. If the widow could see you now she would pop all her corset stays.”
“I’m too tired to laugh,” Flora said with a sigh, but she did manage a smile. “You look ridiculous yourself with blue fuzz all over your arms.”
“That wool is so itchy! But I don’t dare to stop to scratch my arms.” They dove into the lunch Maria Elena had packed as if they hadn’t eaten in days, careful to hide the contents from the other girls. “By the way, I figured out that we each earned about thirty-three cents so far this morning.” Rebecca said with a mouthful of sandwich.
“That’s all?”
“I’m afraid so.” Flora closed her eyes, but whether it was from fatigue or discouragement, Rebecca couldn’t tell. She gave her the last piece of apple and folded up the soiled newspaper like the other girls were doing as if she intended to use it again.
“I’m so thirsty,” Flora said when they finished. “I’m going to get a drink from the spigot over there.”
“No, don’t!” Rebecca grabbed her arm to hold her back. “The water may not be safe to drink in this part of the city. Besides, you’ll have to wait five more hours before you can use the privy. ”
Flora groaned and slumped down again, her shoulders drooping. “I’m not sure I can work five more hours, Becky. Can’t we just leave?”
“I suppose we could, but Rufus won’t be back to pick us up until six fifteen. It’s a long walk home.”
Flora tried to pat her hair the way she normally did to check her hairpins and ended up with a greasy hand. She made a face and wiped her fingers on her skirt. “At least we have a nice home to return to, and a wonderful dinner to eat.”
“Not to mention a warm bath,” Rebecca added.
“What do these poor girls have to look forward to after working ten hours?”
“I figure they’ll have about sixty-six cents and another long day of work ahead of them tomorrow.”
“Oh, Becky. And the sad thing is, they’re thankful for that.”
“Listen, we need to write everything down tonight in our report for Father—how exhausted we feel, how terrible the working conditions are, and how hopeless life must be for all these women and girls. Maybe he can help us figure out what to do about it.”
They made it to the end of the workday—barely. Rebecca’s feet and shoulders had never pained her so much in her life. Flora complained of aching legs and a stiff back. She fell asleep in the bathtub and was too exhausted to hold a pen or write a word in their report. Rebecca wrote it for both of them, fired by indignation and exhaustion and fury. They ended their report with a list of ways to solve the factory’s terrible working conditions, such as providing stools for the girls while they snipped threads, and additional breaks in the morning and afternoon so the workers could get a drink or use the privy.
They presented their report to Father the following evening after supper, requesting a meeting in his study. His face darkened as he read, the creases in his forehead multiplying. He hadn’t even turned to the second page when he set down his cigar and lowered the paper to stare at them. Their placid, dignified Father looked furious. “You went to this place? By yourselves? Without a chaperone?”
“Yes, but we had a very good reason to,” Rebecca said. “Please keep reading, Father, and you’ll see what we hoped to accomplish.” He left his cigar smoldering in the ashtray and returned to the report. By the time he finished the last page and tapped the paper into a neat stack, he seemed less angry. Rebecca tried not to fidget as she waited for his response.
“You have made your point very well.”
“Will you help us do something about it, Father?”
He paused for a long moment. “I can tell that you were moved by what you’ve experienced. I’m proud to know that my daughters have such compassionate hearts. But I’m sorry to say that what you witnessed takes place in cities and factories all across our nation, every day. At the same time, there are good-hearted Christian men and women in those cities—and here in Chicago, as well—who are working hard to change things. It won’t happen overnight. There will still be plenty for you to do once you’re older.”
“But I want to do something now,” Rebecca said. Flora nodded in agreement.
Father shook his head. “When you’re older.” He picked up his cigar and puffed it back to life. When the end glowed red again, he looked at them and said, “Your mother also had a tender heart toward the less fortunate. She would have been pleased.” Rebecca started to speak, but he raised his voice, interrupting her. “However, I intend to put measures in place to ensure that you never do anything like this again. You acted foolishly. You were fortunate that you didn’t encounter any danger. I’m instructing Rufus not to listen to you if—”
“Please don’t blame him, Father,” Rebecca said, scrambling to her feet. “He argued very strenuously against taking us, but we threatened to take public transportation if he didn’t. He only agreed so he could watch over us.”
Father continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I also intend to ask Mrs. Worthington to exercise a more active, guiding hand in your lives from now on and supervise you more closely.”
Rebecca had sat down but she leaped to her feet again. “No, Father! Please! The only reason I wanted to go to that part of the city to begin with was because I was so bored with all the things she makes us do. I wanted to learn new things and use the good mind God has given me. Since we couldn’t go abroad again because of the war, I talked Flora into exploring with me.”
Father held up his hand. “We’ll travel abroad again, Rebecca, all in good time. I know how fertile and curious your mind is. That’s why I’ve been making arrangements for both of you to study at Northwestern Female College this fall—against Mrs. Worthington’s advice, I might add. She fears you’ll turn into bluestockings and intimidate all your suitors.”
“Ha! What suitors?” Rebecca said with a laugh. “You mean her nephews?”
“That’s enough, Rebecca,” he said. But there was no anger in his voice. His expression softened. “Believe me when I say that I have your best interests in mind when making decisions on your behalf. But I’m not going to live forever. It’s my duty—my desire—to see you happily settled in homes of your own, with husbands I can trust to take care of you after I’m gone.”
Rebecca nearly jumped up again to protest that she was capable of taking care of herself, but she remained silent. When she thought about it, she really didn’t want to remain alone all her life. While she wanted to travel and study and learn as much as she could, she also longed to fall in love with a man who enjoyed exploring as much as she did, one who would be her companion as they traveled the world together.
Father wasn’t finished. “Mrs. Worthington assures me that the lessons she is teaching you and the direction in which she is guiding you will lead to a fine future when it comes time to marry. That’s why I’ll be making sure she monitors you more closely from now on. Is that clear?”
“Very clear,” Rebecca replied. She would be back to a cage that felt much too small.
Flora lifted her hand in the air, like a student asking for permission to speak. “I have one question, Father. Since most of those poor little girls had no shoes to wear, may I please have your permission to organize a charity drive to provide shoes and clothing for them?”
He looked surprised. And pleased. “Of course, Flora.”
“And then—since we won’t be allowed to go back to that neighborhood again—will you please help me find a way to distribute them?”
A brief smile flickered across his face before disappearing. “Yes, Flora. I support several reputable charities that can assist you. I’ll pass the information on to Mrs. Worthington, and you two can work together on your project.”
Rebecca excused herself and hurried from the study, not waiting for her sister. Without meaning to, Flora had put her to shame with her last request. After everything they had witness
ed in the factory and in that neighborhood over the past few days, Rebecca still thought only of herself and her need for adventure. Flora’s soft heart led her to think of others first. Rebecca longed to learn new things, but as she bounded up the stairs two at a time so no one would see her tears, she thought that perhaps her best teacher would always be Flora.
Chapter 8
CHICAGO
1865
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO
Rebecca couldn’t stop grinning as she sat at the breakfast table on a rainy morning in April with the daily newspaper spread before her. She and Father and Flora had been anticipating this news for weeks, praying for it at home and in church. Now the headline made it official: The war was over. General Lee had surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to General Grant. She held up the front page as Flora hurried into the morning room with an armful of schoolbooks and slid into her place across the table. “They signed a peace treaty, Flora, in a village in Virginia called . . .” She turned the paper around to read it again. “Appomattox Court House. I think I’m nearly as happy as the battle-weary soldiers.”
Flora closed her eyes for a moment and gave an enormous sigh. “Oh, thank heaven. Think of what this means for all the former slaves. They can finally live their lives as free men and women.” Flora thanked Maria Elena as she placed a plate of eggs and toast in front of her, then bowed her head to pray before eating.
“Yes, and our lives can get back to normal, too,” Rebecca said after Flora finished. “We can take our long-postponed trip to Europe this summer.” She spread strawberry jam on her toast and continued to read the related articles about the war until their carriage pulled up in the porte cochere outside.
Rufus waited at the front door and held an umbrella over their heads as he helped them into their seats for the drive to Evanston. Rebecca would graduate from Northwestern Female College with a Laureate of Arts degree in history in two months. Flora would earn her Laureate of Literature degree next year. What perfect timing for a trip abroad.
“I wish I knew how I could help,” Flora said as the carriage jolted forward, then turned into the busy street.
“Help who? With what?” Rebecca had brought the newspaper with her, but she folded it and laid it in her lap.
“The former slaves,” Flora replied, as if it should be obvious.
“Oh, yes, of course. I’m sure there will be ways for us to get involved. But to be honest, I want to travel first. I’ve been planning this trip abroad since before the war began.” Flora didn’t reply right away, and her lack of enthusiasm worried Rebecca. She waited, listening to the carriage wheels splash through puddles and the rain tapping on the carriage top like nervous fingers. “Well . . . ?” she finally asked.
Flora shook her head. “I don’t see how we can travel now, Becky. Father seems so unwell. Haven’t you noticed how winded he is after climbing the stairs?”
“Yes. I’ve noticed.” Over the course of the war, Father’s once-sturdy frame had withered, along with his appetite. Just last evening Rebecca had watched him push away his untouched dinner plate and had asked, “Should we be worried about you?”
“Not at all,” he’d replied. “Just a bit of indigestion.” Rebecca chose to believe him. After all, he was bound to start slowing down at age sixty-three.
“If he doesn’t want to travel, he can always hire a chaperone for us. It can’t be that hard to find a seasoned traveling companion, can it?”
Flora was still shaking her head. “I don’t want to go anywhere until Father is feeling better. It wouldn’t be right to leave him here all alone when he’s unwell.”
Rebecca turned toward the window, afraid to speak, afraid she’d be unable to hide her disappointment. The city looked gray and gloomy beneath the soggy sky, and she longed to get out of Chicago. She loved her father and would be devastated if anything happened to him, but she’d waited a long time to travel and she couldn’t suppress her frustration to think she may have to wait longer. Flora also didn’t speak again until the carriage halted in front of the college and Rufus appeared at the door with the umbrella.
“Mrs. Worthington is coming to the house today at four o’clock,” Flora told Rebecca. “Don’t forget.”
“How could I forget?” The widow had hovered over them since they’d gone undercover in the uniform factory. Now at age twenty, Rebecca was sick of being guarded. But the widow was Father’s constant companion, burrowing into his life like a backyard gopher.
“Well, don’t get lost in the library with your head in a history book,” Flora warned.
“Don’t worry. I’ll meet you here in time.” Rebecca strode through the misting rain into the building, letting her sister use the umbrella since Flora was much more concerned about her appearance. Excited voices filled the hallways as the students cheered the news of the peace treaty. Rebecca didn’t greet anyone, hurrying to the sanctuary of her classroom instead. She loved this world of academia with its lectures and term papers and exams. Her passion for history and research had flourished in college, but this chapter in her life would soon come to an end, too. She had no idea what was next. She had hoped that traveling abroad would give her a new sense of direction.
The school day felt like a holiday with students and teachers celebrating the end of the war and the return of their brothers, fathers, fiancés, and friends from the battlefield. Rebecca found it hard to join in, aware only of her frustration and the guilty knowledge that she was being selfish to want to travel when Father was ill. Should she ask him to consult a physician? Maybe she should ask Mrs. Worthington to intervene. It was in the widow’s best interests that Father recover his health. But what if he invited her to join their excursion? Or worse yet, what if he married her? Rebecca had asked Father to wait until she’d graduated from Northwestern Female College before marrying the widow, and he had agreed. But now that time was drawing near.
The moment the widow arrived that afternoon, Rebecca raised the subject of Father’s health. Mrs. Worthington had just entered the parlor and hadn’t even removed her hat or cloak when Rebecca said, “We’re concerned about our father. Have you noticed that he seems unwell lately? Remember how he had to cancel your dinner plans last week?”
The widow took a moment to reply as she removed her hat and gloves and set them aside. She perched with perfect posture on the edge of the horsehair settee. The newly remodeled parlor was dainty and frilly, suiting the widow’s taste, but not Rebecca’s or Flora’s—and certainly not Father’s. But the little table near the fireplace did provide a quiet, cheerful place for Rebecca to spread out her books and study on rainy afternoons.
“He has seemed tired, lately,” the widow finally said. “I’ll speak to him about your concerns. However, what we need to accomplish today is—”
“Now that the war is over, Flora and I plan to travel to Greece and Egypt this summer,” Rebecca interrupted. “I’ve been studying Murray’s Guidebook to Modern Egypt and Thebes, and our itinerary is all set. All we need is a departure date—and possibly a chaperone if Father isn’t well enough to join us.”
Mrs. Worthington leaned forward to rest her hand on Rebecca’s arm. Rebecca knew by the forlorn tilt of the widow’s head and the sad expression in her eyes, that bad news was on the way. “My dear, there won’t be time for travel this summer. Now that the young men are returning from the war, the competition for husbands will be fierce. We need to make sure you two girls are at the very top of every eligible man’s list.”
“Not this again,” Rebecca said with a groan. She slouched back in her seat in disappointment. She and Flora had enjoyed a reprieve from Widow Worthington’s matchmaking plans after most of the eligible men had gone off to fight the war. Only those who were physically unfit or so cowardly they had paid for substitutes had been left behind. Everyone agreed they wouldn’t make suitable husbands.
“Sit up straight, Rebecca, and listen to me. It’s critical that we attend to your social calendars today to make certain your sched
ules are full of opportunities in the coming weeks.”
Panic squeezed the air out of Rebecca like a too-tight corset. The glorious months of summer travel would be squeezed from her life like juice from an orange. “But I don’t want a full schedule or—”
“Your father has assured me that this is what he wants for you.”
“Surely it won’t make any difference in our marriage prospects if we’re away for two or three months.”
“Rebecca, dear, you and Flora aren’t the only eligible women in Chicago. I’ve known couples who have met, become engaged, and then married in two or three months’ time. The returning soldiers will be eager to settle down and resume civilian life.”
The sun had made a brief appearance that afternoon after the stormy morning, but it slid behind a cloud at that moment, and it was as if all the lamps in the room had been snuffed out. All hope of traveling was being extinguished, too. When the sun failed to reappear after several minutes, Rebecca felt doomed.
They spent the rest of the afternoon planning a dinner party at Mrs. Worthington’s house to welcome home what the widow called the “important” soldiers—the ones who would be high on every marriageable woman’s list. Rebecca wasn’t surprised to find two of Mrs. Worthington’s nephews, Frederick and Thomas, topping the list. “Nothing like a little nepotism to sharpen Cupid’s arrows,” Rebecca grumbled to Flora as they dressed for dinner on the appointed evening.