Mercer Girls

by Libbie Hawker

  As quickly as she could, and in language that seemed dull as tarnished copper beside Abigail’s deft wordplay, Jo recounted the tale of Dovey’s predicament. She explained how Dovey had toiled in a dangerous field—one typically dominated by men—so that she might pursue her ambitions and fund a business. And that business would bring revenue to Seattle and taxes to Olympia, as surely as any man’s enterprise.

  “Yet now my friend stands to lose all her estate—everything she has worked so hard and honestly to obtain—to a law which no woman of our territory ever approved. This is a law which every woman would strike down for its injustice and archaic sensibility, were it only in our power to do so.”

  Jo fell silent. She could think of no lovely or moving words to conclude her impassioned speech. She clasped her hands at her waist and pressed her lips together, and listened to the mad hammering of her heart in her ears.

  “Thank you, ladies,” the man with the gavel said shortly. “You may exit the chamber.”

  That’s all? Jo glanced at the man in disbelief, but he was absorbed in a stack of papers, already prepared to move along to the next item on his agenda.

  With the twinge of minor indignation that always follows an anticlimax, Jo shuffled after Susan and Abigail as they glided from the chamber. The two suffragists moved with a confident grace that was entirely at odds with the lump in Jo’s chest, the sense of sudden defeat she was feeling.

  When the chamber door closed at their backs and Jo stood in the outer hall once more, she felt her nervous energy drain from her body, replaced by a deep, steady calm. Mingled with that calm was no small dose of disappointment.

  Dovey and Sophronia leapt up from the bench where they’d waited.

  “Oh, we could hear your voices,” Dovey whispered excitedly, “but not your words. What happened? What did you say?”

  “I hardly think it matters what we said,” Jo replied. “They seemed to dismiss our words out of hand.”

  Abigail laughed under her breath. “No, no—that is just the way a legislature meeting functions. Susan and I spoke to our friend Bigelow at great length before we agreed to make this trip, to address the chamber. It went exactly as we expected—exactly as we’d hoped.”

  “That man with the gavel … he didn’t seem to hear us at all.”

  “He did, Jo. All the men heard, believe me.”

  Susan nodded, and her smile shone with pride. “How could they help but hear you, and take your words to heart? You spoke very well, Josephine Carey, fearless leader of the Seattle league. Very well indeed.”

  On the carriage ride back to the pier, where the Wild Wood waited to return them all to Seattle, Jo finally allowed a certain glow to rise in her chest, to spread through her belly and her limbs. Finally it found its way to her face, where she wore it as a beaming smile. She had spoken well—she could feel it. Perhaps her words had even moved a man or two. That was how equality was won—wasn’t it?—by moving a single heart, a single mind, one and then another, then another. She had struck a firm, steady blow against injustice today—she had achieved something worth the risk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  A CHANGED WOMAN

  Word of the triumph in the legislative chamber flew from Olympia to Seattle, darting across the telegraph wires faster than the Wild Wood could sail. By the time Sophronia and her friends arrived at the pier, a crowd of women—and no small number of men—was waiting at the waterfront to greet them.

  The crowd set up a great “Hurrah!” as the suffragists and their Seattle companions emerged from the ship’s cabin. Sophronia hesitated, unused to the adulation of crowds, but Susan and Abigail led the way down the ramp as if the cheers and salutes of welcoming parties were all in a day’s business.

  Henry Yesler, owner of the massive waterfront mill, and his wife, Sarah, were the first to greet the women. Mr. Yesler’s beard and gray-streaked hair were somewhat less than neat—whether from the waterfront breeze, or from hygienic laxity, Sophronia could not tell. He certainly did not resemble the man of great wealth and influence he was. One might have been more inclined to take him for an itinerant logger than Seattle’s powerful millionaire. Sarah looked the part of the rich man’s wife; her well-fed figure was draped in layers of green velvet, a pearl choker encircled her neck, and her auburn hair was tucked away in the bejeweled net of a sumptuous snood.

  Sarah Yesler clasped Sophronia’s hand in warm congratulations, but Sophronia could not help shrinking back from the woman. Talk among the members of the Women’s League had painted a shocking picture of the Yeslers, adherents to the Spiritualism movement. Their unconventional views had led down a crooked path to even greater eccentricities—and not the least troubling of these was their enthusiasm for so-called free love.

  But as Sarah showered praises on her head, Sophronia banished the scandalized voices of the Women’s League from her mind. Sarah Yesler might be eccentric, but here she was on the dock, proving herself a kind and generous woman—and a person greatly interested in suffrage.

  With her belief in scattershot and temporary love, she may not be the type of suffragist who will vote to rid the city of prostitution. But if Jo’s account of the unconcerned legislature is any stick to measure by, we will need every ally we can find.

  Sophronia returned Sarah’s handshake with a solemn nod, and only in that moment realized that she had committed herself to the cause. She had joined the fight for women’s voices; for better or worse, the cause had planted itself deep in her heart and, against all odds, taken root. It seemed Sophronia was a suffragist.

  “We are so proud of your efforts at the legislature,” Sarah said. “Look how you’ve inspired all of Seattle!”

  Sophronia smiled a little shyly. “Mrs. Yesler, this small crowd can hardly be called ‘all of Seattle.’ I don’t see one member of the Women’s League.”

  Sarah offered a saucy wink. “All of Seattle that matters. Listen, dear—Henry and I would be honored to host you ladies of the local suffrage association—and Miss Anthony and Mrs. Duniway, of course—at our home tonight for supper. Do say you’ll come!”

  Sophronia concealed her surprise with real effort. The Yeslers were the wealthiest couple in the city; it was no small honor to receive an invitation to their home. “Of course we would all be delighted,” she said.

  “Good,” Sarah replied, grinning. “I had no idea our fair city boasted a suffrage association. I must hear all about it—and join, of course.”

  Mr. Yesler sent for carriages to bear them back to his house—a rather strange, flat-topped, plain-sided building not far from his mill, looking more like a general store than the home of the city’s most successful businessman. As they waited for their carriages, Sophronia was lauded and congratulated by more men and women than she could count, and her wrist developed a tingle from all the handshaking. Both women and men pressed around, inquiring about the suffrage association, thanking her for her work on the city’s behalf. For once, and quite in contrast to her interactions with the Women’s League, Sophronia felt as if the kindness she received was heartfelt, the enthusiasm real. She glowed amid the praise.

  “How may we join the suffrage association?” one of the women asked.

  Sophronia exchanged a wry glance with Josephine, half fearful, half amused. There was no association—not yet, at least. But Sophronia told herself boldly, There’s no time to start quite like the present. She announced, “All are welcome! The next meeting of the Washington Women’s Suffrage Association will be at my Northwest Reform Home for Fallen Women, a week from today!”

  Despite the strange, stark exterior of the Yesler home, the inside was glittering and grand. It was laid out like a long hall, or like the ballrooms of the East Coast, full of soaring spaces and shadowed heights, and warm, polished woods and bright draperies that made Sophronia feel dizzy with luxury. She sat at a mahogany table, in a carved chair that by itself would have cost her minister father three months’ salary, and spooned up her soup from a delicate bo
wl that likely cost more than all the workaday ironstone dishes in her home for fallen women put together. Sophronia gazed about her calmly, affecting the air of one who is used to a millionaire’s luxury, while she discussed the Suffrage Association with the enthusiastic Sarah Yesler.

  At last, the celebration wore to its end. Sophronia said her farewells to the Yeslers—and bade an especially warm good-bye to Susan and Abigail, who had accepted the hospitality of the Yeslers for the night.

  “It has been such a long day,” Sophronia said to them all, “and I have so much to do in the morning. One’s hands are always full with a reform house to run.”

  “But dear,” Sarah said, “how are you getting home?”

  Sophronia shrugged. “I’ll walk, I suppose. It’s not a terribly long way.”

  “Are you well to walk?” Dovey asked cautiously. “Remember—”

  Sophronia was not likely to forget that long-ago night, the strange man who had grabbed at her breast and torn her bodice. But she brushed away Dovey’s concerns. “I will be perfectly well.”

  Mr. Yesler stood, setting aside his small crystal cup of digestif. “Nonsense, my good lady! I’ve carriages aplenty here. Let me send for one to drive you home.”

  It would have been ungracious to turn away Mr. Yesler’s offer—and Sophronia truly did not relish the idea of walking through Seattle alone, after dark. When her carriage came rolling around the corner of the Yesler home, she climbed in and settled into the tufted-velvet seat with a sigh of satisfaction. True, her route would take her from the wealthiest home in the city to the blighted neighborhood at the edge of Skid Road, the place she called home. But Sophronia wasn’t ashamed. Tonight, her house for fallen women had become something more, taken on a shine of future greatness. Now it was the meeting place of the Suffrage Association. It was a place to make great things happen.

  As the wheels rattled over the cobbles, Sophronia wondered at the change that had come over her. It had stolen over her spirit so suddenly that she couldn’t tell the exact hour of its arrival. What had made her embrace suffrage so thoroughly? Why did she no longer consider it a sin? Perhaps it was the womanly ways of the suffragists—strong and bold yet still modest, and respectable through and through. Perhaps it was the sense of awe she’d experienced in the legislative building, her desire to be a part of the great monument of government. Perhaps it was simply God, whispering a new mission into her heart—her truest and most direct path, the reason He had brought her to Seattle. Whatever it was, Sophronia suspected she was a woman changed for all time. And she was glad of the change—truly glad.

  The carriage halted outside her home. She stepped out into the street and froze, staring toward her small porch with a sudden tremor of fear. The night was chilly, heavy with the scent of thick mud from nearby Skid Road. The silence, save for the blowing of the cart horse and the creaking of the driver’s seat springs, was absolute. She peered hard at the porch—there was someone standing there, shrouded in darkness. The figure was tall and square-shouldered—male.

  Her heart pounded, and she recalled the whiskey stink on the breath and body of the man who had attacked her. She could see again the wicked flash of his eyes, hear his grating laughter as he’d reached for her. She nearly climbed back in the carriage and demanded the driver take her back to the Yesler home.

  But then the man came down the porch steps, stepping into the faint wash of lamplight from a window above—and Sophronia’s fear turned to a great leap of hope—a joy so fierce and poignant that it filled her chest with a throb of pain.

  Sophronia hurried across the cobblestones, staring in disbelief. “Harmon! Harmon Grigg!”

  Harmon’s face was pink from the October night; he sniffled in the cold. He held a bouquet of flowers, the late blooms of autumn—scraggly asters and a few wilted sunflowers, their leaves limp and hanging.

  “I have no right to come to you again,” Harmon said quietly. “Yet here I am, all the same.”

  He held out the flowers, and Sophronia took them in silence.

  “Not a day has passed since we last parted that I haven’t thought of you with regret—and love.”

  “Harmon … it has been seven years.”

  “I know. Seven years, and I have met no other woman as good and worthy as you. Seven years, and you have haunted my heart each day and night.” He hesitated, shuffling his feet. “Seven years, and I have not so much as looked upon a fallen woman, Sophronia—except with Christian pity.”

  “I … I’m glad to hear it.” Gently, she brushed the petals of a sunflower with trembling fingers.

  “Miss?” the carriage’s driver called.

  “I’m all right,” Sophronia told him. “You may go.”

  The carriage rattled off into the night. When they were alone, Harmon raised his eyes to hers, and Sophronia could see the pain in his eyes—seven years of regret, of loss. She had felt that pain, too.

  “Won’t you please—” Harmon began, but Sophronia took his hand in her own, and he fell silent.

  “I was wrong, Harmon. I’ve always regretted driving you away. I don’t know just what motivated me to do it. Fear? Insecurity? I’m afraid it may even have been something simpler, and more difficult to excuse: pride.” She swallowed a lump of shame in her throat. “I’ve been straying my entire life, chasing such a strange dream—a vision of womanhood I could never attain. No woman could attain it. I know that now.”

  “Then you’ll reconsider your decision?” Harmon asked. “I don’t believe you were unjust, to cut me off. But I’m a different man now, Sophronia, and nothing would make me happier than to keep you tenderly for all my days.”

  “A different man?” She gave him a quavering smile, and tears blurred her eyes. “I am a different woman, too. Different—and better.”

  And then, to show him just how far she had changed, Sophronia stepped deliberately into his arms and kissed him. The feel of his lips against her own, the nearness of his body, sent a hot thrill racing along her veins.

  Sophronia was a changed woman—that was certain, and no mistake. No one was gladder of the alteration than she.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  HER OWN DETERMINATION

  Autumn still clung to Seattle with a weak, chilly hand. The day’s ration of rain had finally let up, and the clouds skated away to the south just long enough to admit the brief glow of the early sunset. Dovey leaned on the rail of the Yeslers’ porch and watched the sky fill with ruddy light. It touched the tips of the evergreen trees that covered the hills, and laced the long black slash of Skid Road with a flush of fire.

  The beauty of the moment seemed all the more precious for its fleeting nature. Now she stood alone, a woman free to do as she pleased, without the watchful guardianship—the ownership—of a husband. But in the six weeks since she’d gone to live at Sophronia’s house for fallen women, Dovey’s father had only tightened the squeeze of his fist. As winter came on, John Mason grew more desperate for a livelihood of his own. His impatience to see Dovey “reformed” and properly married—and his greed for her money in his pocket—increased by the day. Dovey’s self-determination seemed as evanescent as the sunset—glorious and bright but already brooding on the edge of a long, cold night.

  A carriage arrived from the direction of the waterfront, the horses lifting their feet high as they splashed through the great, dark puddles that reached across the road. The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Yesler house; the footman stepped quickly to open the door, and offered his hand to the ladies inside.

  Despite her dark mood, Dovey couldn’t help grinning when Susan Anthony and Abigail Duniway stepped down onto the cobbles. It had been all of a month since their last meeting, and all that time, as she’d worked tirelessly with the Suffrage Association, Dovey hadn’t forgotten a moment of their excursion to the Legislative Building.

  Despite two long days in Olympia, working to see Judge Bigelow’s bill transformed into law, both ladies looked as fresh and smart as if they’d ju
st emerged from their boudoir.

  Dovey shook their hands warmly. “It’s so good to see you again, ladies. We’ve worked so hard since your last visit to Seattle—the Washington Women’s Suffrage Association, I mean. You simply won’t believe the successes we’ve found. We’ve made a great case with the men as well as the women of the city—more contributions are made every day, and we’ve begun to venture out of the city to rally support for the vote in other towns, as well.”

  “That’s fine, Dovey,” Abigail said. “Very fine.”

  “I’m so pleased to hear it,” Susan added. But her mask of serene composure slipped for a moment, and Dovey saw a hint of weariness in her eyes, the briefest sag of defeat in her posture.

  In a heartbeat, Susan was herself again. But Dovey could not unsee that startling vision. “Susan,” she said, taking her by the arm, “what’s the matter?”

  She shared a slow, cautious look with Abigail—then Susan drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders, as if steeling herself for a particularly unpleasant task. “We have encountered a … a setback in our efforts. With the bill.”

  Dovey’s gut filled with all the cold of the autumn night. “What do you mean?”

  Abigail took Dovey’s hand, as if trying to impart courage and perseverance right through her palm. “We only just learned today that the Territorial legislature has enacted a certain law. It restricts women from attaining the vote unless suffrage is made a Federal law first.”

  “But … what exactly does that mean?” Dovey asked tremulously.

  “I’m afraid the vote must be granted to all the women of the United States before women in this territory enjoy the privilege.”