“Harmon Grigg.” Sophronia introduced him in an uncharacteristically shy voice. “He’s the minister here—and … and my beau.”
“Well,” Dovey said, properly startled. “All this time I lived with you, and I never knew it.”
“Jo isn’t the only one who can keep a secret,” Sophronia returned with a touch of her old loft and primness. Then she turned to her beau. “There’s to be a wedding, Harmon. And it must be tonight. Can you help us?”
Harmon gave a joyous laugh, and clapped Virgil heartily on the shoulder. “Why, of course! Come in. There’s no better time than the present.”
Virgil helped the minister light the chapel’s lamps. Little by little, the warm wood interior of the church revealed itself as the pools of light spread. The lively glow illuminated Dovey’s friends, too. The hems of their dresses were mud-stained from their search of the Yeslers’ property, their hair and hats in disarray. But for all their ruffled state, Dovey thought she’d never seen a lovelier group of bridesmaids.
“There’s no one I’d rather have stand with me at my wedding than you,” she told Jo and Sophronia, taking their hands. “And you, Susan and Abigail. I can’t tell you just what it means to me, that you ladies should be here with me.”
Susan brushed a speck of dust from Dovey’s shoulder—a futile gesture, as Dovey was the most bedraggled figure present, thanks to her late-night ride. “We’re pleased to be here,” Susan said. “And pleased to count you a friend.”
When the lamps were lit, Sophronia’s minister took his place at the altar. The Bible lay open before him. Virgil stepped up beside him, wearing a game smile of jocular disbelief. And as Dovey stepped toward her bridegroom, with Jo and Sophronia a half step behind, she found that she was glad of this wedding after all—truly contented after all. She had taken her fate into her own hands. She was strong and clever, a woman of her own determination, even when all the laws of the Territory sought to hem her in.
She reached the altar and glanced back down the length of the chapel. Susan and Abigail waited in the pews, their eyes steady and encouraging, their demeanors unshakable, like two bulwarks against the lashing wind of injustice. I am as strong as you, Dovey told them silently just as the minister began the sacred words. We will keep fighting, all of us together. And one day—God send it’s soon—we’ll win.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
VICE OR PREFERENCE
The gala’s final attendee offered her gracious thanks to Sophronia, then swept from the Occidental’s lobby in a rustle of silk and a cloud of orange-blossom perfume. Sophronia turned to the long table, strewn with flower petals and half-empty bowls of hazelnut comfits. The pretty, spangled singer imported from Portland and billed as the night’s great attraction was only a lure, an enticement meant to funnel donors through the doors of the Occidental. At the table’s center, amid the nuts and empty punch cups and the detritus of celebration, stood the gala’s real star: the wooden collection safe, artfully painted with the words WASHINGTON WOMEN’S SUFFRAGE ASSOCIATION.
Sophronia gave the box a brisk pat. She had spent most of the singer’s performance hovering in the vicinity of the collection safe, and she had heard many a satisfying clink throughout the evening as the enchanted audience dropped their donations in. The night had surely been a rousing success, and as pleased as Sophronia was with the donations, she was more delighted still to see that nearly as many men had attended the event as women. The men had made contributions to the collection box, too. Enthusiasm for the cause was growing among all the residents of Seattle, male and female.
Funny, Sophronia mused. Asa Mercer went to Massachusetts eight years ago seeking women who could influence the men of Seattle toward a positive change. Certainly suffrage had not been what Mercer had had in mind; but here they were, gentlemen and ladies working together to reverse the legislature’s November ruling, or at least to present a new bill promoting suffrage, with terms more acceptable to the Territorial government. We’ve changed the men for the better, and no mistake. You couldn’t have predicted it, Mr. Mercer, when you stood in Lowell’s town square so long ago. But we press on for justice, and work together now, hand in hand.
Sophronia had seen Mr. Mercer himself at several of the Suffrage Association’s fund-raisers. He had always been a man of far-thinking habits and was enthusiastic about the cause. That knowledge suffused Sophronia with a glow of gladness. She had never befriended Asa Mercer, but she thought him an upstanding man and was grateful to him every day for providing her with the opportunity of Seattle itself—the chance to start her life anew. Now, at last, Sophronia was just what she had always aspired to be: a missionary for the greater good.
She swept the wilted flower petals into a box, shaking her head and smiling at her own past follies. To think she had ever thought the vote would be detrimental to women! She saw the world more clearly now. She perceived that suffrage could be just the thing—perhaps the only thing—that might save Seattle from its stew of sin. And so she strove toward the vote with all her might, and felt a righteousness in her work, a satisfaction she had never known before.
Sophronia cherished that same sense of righteousness and joy with Harmon, too. Their engagement brought a flush of pleasure to her cheeks whenever she thought of it. Harmon was as kind and loving as he had been in their days of courtship, and his dedication to the Lord’s work had only deepened over the years. Best of all, he seemed determined never to err with loose women again, no matter what temptations might cross his path. And God knew, Seattle’s roads were strewn with temptation. It wasn’t always easy for Sophronia to trust Harmon, but she gave him her best effort, her most honest faith—and he gave Sophronia his best in return.
The Occidental’s door swung open, and a woman in a showy gown glided into the lobby. Her silk was of the deepest wine-dark purple, trimmed with cut-glass beads that glittered in the light of the oil lamps. Cuffs of white rabbit fur turned up at the ends of her sleeves.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Sophronia said, straightening from the cleanup. “I’m afraid you’ve missed the gala.”
“No matter. I didn’t come to hear some Oregon canary twitter.”
Sophronia blinked in surprise. She had been so distracted with her task—and her thoughts of Harmon—that she hadn’t recognized Dovey. And no wonder; rather than her usual tumble of curls falling to her shoulders, Dovey had swept her hair up in an elaborate nest of twists and braids. She looked altogether elegant and mature.
“Why, don’t you look fine,” Sophronia said. “Married life agrees with you, I suppose.”
Dovey shrugged. She crossed the room to the collection box, opened her beaded purse, and dropped such a steady stream of coins inside that Sophronia stared in frank amazement. It was a very generous donation.
Sophronia raised her brows, a mute inquiry.
“I’m still working,” Dovey said.
“Not collecting taxes still? It was shocking enough when you did that work as a freewheeling spitfire, but you know it’s terribly improper for a married woman to work at such a job.”
“I like the work,” Dovey said nonchalantly.
“But you have a husband now! It would be proper to leave the work to Virgil.”
“Well, it’s a good thing I do continue to work,” Dovey rejoined, even as she dropped her purse on the table and began gathering up the empty punch cups. “That was a large donation I just made, and you’re welcome, by the way. Now that my father has finally decided to skitter back to the East Coast to fetch Mother, it’s full steam ahead with the old ambition. He leaves for Boston as soon as his loose ends in Seattle are tied up, and I’m just about ready to start my business. When I get my cathouse going, I may donate even more to the Association.”
“Oh,” Sophronia groaned. “You can’t be serious about that! A brothel would only bring shame on your husband, and after all he’s done for you … !”
“I help out with the Association however I can, Sophronia. You know that.”
&n
bsp; “As do I, but—”
“This business I intend to start—and soon, too—is in the best interest of our cause.”
Sophronia began stacking the comfit bowls on a silver tray. She nested each one with a louder clink than was strictly necessary. “How can you make such a claim? You know all the suffragists are opposed to prostitution.”
“Not all of them,” Dovey said. “Just most. And anyway, the ‘seamstresses’ of this city are very much in favor of winning the vote. Why not? Their houses are taxed like those of any businessman, and as much money as they earn—well, their contributions to the city’s coffers are considerable. You remember the incident of the silver dollars.”
“If only I could forget it,” Sophronia muttered, resisting the urge to wipe her hands on the tablecloth.
“The ladies who are really good at their work make more money than half the men of the city. I’m an ally to those ladies, Sophie—an influence for the cause, planted conveniently among some of the city’s richest taxpayers. I’m a bridge between the fine ladies of Seattle and the seamstresses. I can convince those rowdy girls to make substantial contributions to our cause—and once I’ve got a position of real standing among them, as the owner of a good establishment, my influence will go even farther.”
“We don’t need any more of their foul contributions. As you say, I recall the silver dollars all too well. Besides, the seamstresses certainly will not contribute once they understand the direction I intend for our Association.”
Dovey, who had been gathering up the bright paper-flower decorations from the lobby’s end tables, straightened slowly and turned to Sophronia with a wary squint. “What are you talking about?”
“I intend to use the vote to put an end to vice in Seattle—and in the rest of Washington Territory, too.”
Sophronia braced herself for a storm of anger. Dovey loved vice too well, and was ever prepared to embrace sin.
But after a moment of shocked silence, the young woman threw back her head and gave a loud hoot of laughter. When she had recovered herself enough to speak, she said, still chuckling, “If you want to do away with vice, Sophie, you’ll need to secure the men’s support—not only the women’s. But it’ll never work, your crazy plan—you’re looking at this all wrong! A woman is a woman, whether she’s a seamstress or a fine lady up in the heights. Either we’ll all have the vote, or none of us will; once we win suffrage, you can’t exclude a woman from casting her ballot just because you don’t like how she earns her keep. You think you’ll convince all the working women of Seattle to do away with vice—that very same vice that puts the jingle in their purses? You’d have more luck convincing the stars to turn off at night.
“Besides,” Dovey added, more soberly now, “I strenuously object to the very idea of ‘vice.’ There’s no such thing—there’s only preference.”
“Sin is sin,” Sophronia said stiffly. “It’s in the Bible, the very word of God, as plain as day. The Lord has destroyed cities before, for being too far gone to sin. He won’t hesitate to do the same to Seattle, I’m sure.”
“And you think that’s why He led you to Seattle—is that it? So you could stop the fire from the sky with a wave of your righteous little hand?”
Sophronia stifled a gasp. She willed herself to calm so she would not betray her shock to Dovey. That was precisely what Sophronia felt, deep in her heart—though she certainly did not picture the event as such a melodramatic caricature. But her mission was, she now knew, to save Seattle from its own morass of sin. And all of Dovey’s mischievous affinity for vice wouldn’t convince Sophronia that sin was a force to be tolerated in the world.
“We’ve been allies in recent days,” Sophronia said coolly, “and I’m sure I appreciate your contributions to the Suffrage Association. But you’re asking me to turn a blind eye to immorality—to chuck degradation under its chin.”
“I’m not asking you,” Dovey said. “I’m telling you. You can’t change the face of Seattle, Sophronia. It’s a losing proposition.”
“Still, I shall try. For the good of the city and all its people, I shall try.”
“You don’t know what’s good for the city and all its people. I told you once, long ago, that the seamstresses are hardworking girls, worthy of your respect. You propose to do away with their sole occupation. How is that good for them, Sophronia?”
Sophronia sighed in exasperation.
“I’ll tell you why you can’t alter this city’s character,” Dovey said, gathering up her purse and taking the folds of her fine skirt in one hand. “Because I won’t allow it. We’ve been allies—that’s just as you say. But I won’t be your ally in this. When women have the vote, you’ll see just how the chips fall, Sophie. You’ll see.”
Dovey turned and floated out the Occidental’s door, her elegant gown sparkling, carrying her head as high as did any fine lady in the hills. Sophronia watched her go. Bitterness turned her mouth in a frown so firm and vehement that her cheeks and chin ached. She was fully prepared, despite the recent goodwill that had bloomed between, to return to the days when she and Dovey had been enemies. The girl was simply no good—trouble, through and through. It was up to Dovey whether she made right with God before the fire rained from the sky. Sophronia could do nothing to save that spitfire from sin, and she was tired of trying.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
SANCTUARY LOST
Jo woke to a soft spill of morning light gleaming through white lace curtains. She sat up slowly in the soft bed, stretching her arms and back, taking in the quiet peace of birdsong in the dense woods outside. She had stayed the night at Dovey and Virgil’s modest white house on the north end of town—not for the first time. Jo had come to Seattle often this spring, busy with obligations for the Suffrage Association. Dovey was ever a welcoming hostess, and had put Jo up in the spare room yet again after Sophronia’s fund-raising gala. Jo had slept as well as she always did at Dovey’s place. But the woodland sounds outside the window made her long for her own quiet, one-room house in Coupeville and the gentle peace of Whidbey Island. It was time to return home—and there remain for as long as Jo could arrange it, drinking in the springtime tranquility, enjoying her easy days with Bill.
She rose, splashed her face with water, and dressed in the soft morning light. Then she made her way out into the cozy, white kitchen, where Dovey sat glaring at her Staffordshire teapot. A banner of steam lifted thinly from the pot’s spout.
“Good morning,” Jo said.
Dovey seemed not to hear, gloomily absorbed in the steeping of her tea.
Jo fetched her own china cup and sat at the table opposite Dovey. “I didn’t hear you come in last night. Were you out late after Sophronia’s gala?”
“I went riding after,” Dovey said. “Sophronia streaked me, all right, and I was a regular storm of anger. I still am.”
“I can tell. Did you heat the water for the tea with the blaze in your eyes?”
Dovey yielded to Jo’s cheer with a reluctant smile.
“Now tell me just what happened between you and Sophronia,” Jo said.
Dovey obliged, regaling Jo with a tale she’d heard more times than she could count, ever since their first meeting at the Lowell train depot. When Dovey had finished her complaints, Jo sighed, truly vexed at the persistent hardheadedness of both her good friends. “You and Sophronia could get along just fine, if you’d only make up your minds to do so.”
“But she’s wrong, Jo—she’s just plain wrong about the vote, and the working women of the city, and … well … about everything!”
“I suspect she feels the same about you.”
“It doesn’t matter what she feels about me,” Dovey said stoutly. “I won’t let her ruin the livelihood of so many women. If Sophronia has her way, the vote will mean poverty and destruction for women all across Seattle. That’s not what I’ve been working for—nor you!”
“If the two of you would only discuss your points of view civilly, without riling one another—�
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“It’s impossible not to rile Sophronia! She was made to be riled. No—if she persists in this mad idea to vote out vice, then I’ll withdraw my support from the Suffrage Association.”
Jo set aside her tea with an uneasy frown. “That’s a strong measure, Dovey. Your contributions have been so helpful—they’ve allowed us to accomplish so much.”
“Oh, that’s not the half of it. I’ll influence the city’s prostitutes to work against the Association, too.”
“Dovey—you wouldn’t!” With their good friend Dovey supporting the Association so wholeheartedly, the seamstresses had begun to donate a respectable sum each month, too. A withdrawal of their support would spell a major setback for the cause—perhaps an outright disaster.
“Sophronia won’t listen to sense, Jo. And I can’t sit by in silence while she stampedes over the rights and well-being of so many women!”
Jo shook her head sadly. “I hate to see the two of you at odds—I always have. But it’s simply intolerable to watch you and Sophronia quarrel with the Association between you, like a couple of dogs tussling over a bone. It isn’t dignified, that’s what.”
Dovey shrugged and sipped at her tea. “I’ve never been terribly concerned with dignity.”
“I do hope you and Sophronia find some cause to mend the rent between you. And soon, too—before you topple the Association with your squabbling.” She stood and smoothed her skirt with cool poise. “Now I must go, Dovey. The boat leaves soon for Whidbey Island. Thank you for your hospitality; write me, if I don’t see you again soon, and tell me how things stand with the Association.”
Mercer Girls Page 36