Jo brooded at the ship’s rail, all the way back to the island, paying no heed to the bright spring day. Even on the walk from the pier to her house in the woods, she remained indifferent to the charms of the fresh, new season. The crocuses blooming beneath the evergreens and the apple trees, fragrant with their clouds of blossoms, made no impression on her mind or her heart. All that existed for her was the gloomy distraction of the Suffrage Association’s imminent danger—its treacherous balance between Dovey and Sophronia, those irascible girls who had never learned the meaning of forgiveness.
Jo forgot all her dark intensity the moment she stepped inside her house. Her fretful rumination vanished in a sudden chill of terror. Every shelf in her home was empty, all her books and knick-knacks strewn about and broken on the floor. Large, heavy boot-prints, outlined in dried mud, tracked about the room, showing where some invading brute had trampled as he’d rummaged through Jo’s belongings. The quilt and sheets had been dragged from her bed and lay crumpled in one corner as if carelessly thrown; Jo saw with a shudder of dread that the mattress had been slashed with a knife, and spilled its feathers onto the floor. Her night table was overturned, the porcelain pitcher that held her water smashed on the floor below.
“My God,” Jo gasped.
The smell of lamp oil was acrid and thick in the air. Jo stared about her at the terrible disarray, dulled by the force of her panic. A great puddle of oil lay on the floor near the crumpled bedsheets. She approached it cautiously and bent over the mess. In the center of the puddle, the end of a cigarette lay, sodden and unburning. Thank God, Jo thought, shivering with relief. The butt had snuffed out before it could light the fuel.
Jo reached down slowly and picked up the cigarette. The paper was soaked in oil, its whiteness discolored. But still she recognized the peculiar way its end had been twisted and crimped—recognized it at once, even after eight long years.
Clifford had found her. He had come to her home—stood in her own room, defiled her blessed sanctuary. He had found her. Josephine’s long, dreadful nightmare had finally come true.
Jo dropped the cigarette on the floor and straightened quickly, spinning as if she might catch sight of Clifford at the door. But he was not present now—at least, not that Jo could see. She staggered toward the door, then froze halfway across the room. Her immediate instinct was to give in to blind panic, to run screeching outside. But only the Lord knew whether Clifford was lurking outside, waiting in the woods to ambush her.
Bill, Jo thought frantically. I’ll tell Bill. He’ll take me in—protect me. He’ll stop Clifford.
But no—she discarded that thought with a desperate shake of her head. Bill had gone down to Portland and wasn’t due to return to the island until late that night. His boat from Olympia to Seattle might have landed in Seattle by now, for all Jo knew—but the distance between them seemed impossibly wide, and for all the aid or comfort he could grant her, Bill might as well have been at the North Pole or locked in the Tower of London.
I must rely on my own wits, she told herself sternly, trying to force some sense into her jolted brain. She had no way to reach Bill now. She must seek the aid of whomever was close to hand.
Jo turned and walked briskly out her door, flinching at the sight of the forest, all the shadows and concealments that leaned and crouched beneath its boughs. She returned to the lane and moved as quickly as she could—without giving in to panic and running like a frightened rabbit—down the narrow dirt road. Her nearest neighbor was a quarter-mile away. As she bore steadily on toward the Andersons’ property, Jo imagined she could feel Clifford’s hate-filled glare watching her from the trees, sliding through the pines to keep pace with her flight.
She reached the Andersons’ fence line and found the family’s eldest son working in the garden.
Jo called to him. “James! James, come here, please!”
The boy, fifteen years old and strong as an ox, looked around, noticed Jo’s frantic wave, and dropped his hoe. He hurried to the fence with a greeting for his teacher, but when he saw the fear in Jo’s eyes, the words died on his lips.
“Where is your father?” Jo asked.
“Gone to Seattle, Miss Carey—and my mother with him. They’ve taken all the children, too. It’s just me at home.”
Jo gritted her teeth. There was nothing for it; she must trust her safety to the neighbor boy.
“I have a task for you,” she told him, struggling to remain calm. “I’m afraid it’s terribly important, but I’ll pay you—or my friend will, at least. Run inside and fetch me two pieces of paper and a pencil.”
James did as she asked, and quickly, thank God. Jo used the square top of a fence post as a writing table, and quickly scribbled out one note to Dovey and Virgil. They, at least, had guns, and knew how to use them. They had also had no small experience with confronting angry men. Perhaps, if James could reach one of them in time, they might prove useful to Jo.
The other note she jotted to the local sheriff, begging for his aid. But Jo had heard from many a resident of Coupeville that the man was often difficult to find—the island was a big place, after all—and she hung little hope on that weak thread.
Quickly, Jo gave the boy instructions on where to find Dovey, and thrust a few coins into his hand for the boat fare to Seattle.
“Dovey will pay you very well for this service,” she told him. “Only please, don’t allow yourself to become distracted. Find her or her husband as quickly as you can.”
“I will, Miss Carey,” James said. “I promise!”
She watched James sprint off toward town, heading for the piers and their rank of southbound steamers.
I’m not foolish enough to board a boat to Seattle myself, Clifford, Jo thought resolutely. He had not leapt out of the forest between her home and the Anderson place, and so she felt certain that he had retired to the docks to skulk about the boats. There Clifford assuredly waited, at Jo’s most obvious point of egress, grinning his hate-filled leer, watching for Jo to come flying from the woods, scatterbrained and shrieking like a chicken fleeing a fox in the coop.
I’ve evaded you all this time. I’ll avoid your clutches still. Just see if I don’t.
Jo watched James sprint down the road until he was merely a speck among the distant homes and shops of Coupeville. Then she returned to the road and set off for her schoolhouse. It waited in a peaceful patch of sunshine at the top of a small rise, less than a quarter mile from the Anderson home. There, Jo would shut herself in and wait, calm and patient, for help to arrive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
AN URGENT MESSAGE
Dovey splashed an armload of linens into the dolly tub and cursed as the breeze shifted, pushing the fire’s smoke directly into her eyes. She lifted the peggy stick with a grunt and plunged it into the steaming water; the odor of hot lye rose up to strike her in the face.
Laundry, she grumbled to herself as she worked the peggy stick up and down, beating the clean back into her linens. Truly the most disagreeable aspect of married life.
The wind shifted again, buffeting Dovey’s eyes with the sting of smoke and lye. She stepped away from the fire, hissing as she wiped the reflexive tears on her sleeve. When her vision had cleared, she saw a lone figure hurrying down the lane toward her gate.
It was a man, and for a moment Dovey wondered whether it was some cranky old shipwright or lumberman come to seek his vengeance for years of taxes collected. But then she blinked away the last of her tears and saw that it was only a boy, lanky as a colt, his face screwed up with an urgency that made Dovey’s heart go still.
“You Mrs. Cooper?” the boy panted.
“Yes, sir,” she said cautiously. “What’s the panic?”
He approached and held out a folded piece of paper. Dovey took it and read the note through once—then again, this time with a quiver of increasing anxiety.
“Lord,” she breathed.
“Mrs. Cooper? Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes. Wait here.” She ra
n into the house and found two silver dollars—more than enough to pay the boy’s return fare to Whidbey Island and compensate him for his service, which Jo’s note begged her to do. Then she sent the boy on his way and stared at the note again, Jo’s handwriting blurring into dark, indecipherable lines as Dovey’s head turned to a mush of fear. She stuffed the note into the pocket of her work dress. Not knowing just what in God’s name she should do, or even in which direction she ought to step first, Dovey turned in a helpless circle in her yard, staring up at the trees that arched overhead.
Virgil was off collecting, and although Dovey knew that Jo’s Bill was due back at the nearby docks to catch the next steamer to Coupeville, she couldn’t be certain of finding him. The docks were always a tangle of men and horses and cargo. Even if Bill’s boat were on schedule, the docks would be a labyrinth to navigate, and that would only waste precious time.
The police. Dovey discarded that idea instantly. If there was any vice to be found in Seattle, it was among the men who wore the silver stars of law enforcement. That corrupt gang of rowdies was in sweet with every businessman in the city, and no man of money liked those tax-grubbing Coopers one bit. Dovey knew she would find no help for Josephine there.
She ran to the end of the lane and stared down the hill, out at the small square of Puget Sound she could see from this vantage. A steamer was arriving, a low black slash creeping slowly down from the horizon. Dovey knew from many years of watching the boats come and go that it was the Townsend, which made regular runs between Seattle and Coupeville. She had an hour at most until it arrived—maybe, if she were lucky—offloaded its cargo, and then returned to the island.
But what help could Dovey rally in that single fragile hour? She had no idea when Virgil might return from his collecting circuit. Nor did she know just where he had gone today. Dovey ran through her short list of allies, flipping her thoughts as fast as one riffles through the pages of a book. She came up only with prostitutes and ruffians, and knew she couldn’t convince any of those women to come away just now. Most of the seamstresses were sleeping, preparing for their nightly shift. They wouldn’t be inclined to travel so far to aid a woman they didn’t know—not even for Dovey’s sake.
The only other friend she could name—the only help she could think of at all—was Sophronia.
“Hellfire,” Dovey growled.
She stalked away from the laundry kettle—let it boil itself dry!—and went to the corral to saddle Virgil’s fastest horse.
Dovey rode breakneck through the streets of Seattle, as fast as if the Devil himself were on her heels. She reined in hard outside Sophronia’s house for fallen women; the horse tossed its head high and gave a groan of displeasure as it skidded on the cobbles. Dovey threw herself from the saddle and careered up the steps, shouting as she pounded at the door.
Sophronia answered it at once, face flushed, eyes wide with anger at the rude intrusion. When she saw it was Dovey howling like an alley cat on her doorstep, Sophronia’s cheeks burned all the redder.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, as if fearful the whole city might overhear and know that she was associating with the uncouth Dovey Cooper.
“Jo’s in danger,” Dovey blurted. “Clifford’s back. He’s tossed her place and nearly burned it down. She needs our help, Sophie. Come on! There’s a steamer heading up to Coupeville, but it leaves soon. We’ve got to go—now!”
Sophronia shook her head in befuddlement. “Clifford … But what can we do to help?”
“I don’t know, but there must be something!”
“We must contact the police!”
“You know they won’t stir a finger. Especially not if the trouble’s up on the island. It’s us or no one, Sophie. I know you don’t like me any, and the feeling might be mutual. But we have to help Jo. She has no one else to rely on!”
Sophronia hesitated, going even paler than was usual. Finally she pulled a letter from her pocket. “Dovey, I’ve just received this correspondence from Susan Anthony. It seems she has secured an opportunity to speak before the legislature again—one last time to make our case, to convince them to revoke the November decision and give us the vote. But our only chance to speak is tomorrow morning. We must be there—all the way down in Olympia. We can’t leave it all to Susan, who isn’t from Washington. We must represent our case! And … if we go all the way up to Coupeville, how can we make it to Olympia on time?”
Dovey growled in frustration. “Jo is more important than anything, Sophie—even more important than the vote!”
Sophronia swallowed hard. For a moment, Dovey thought she’d argue again. Anger and disbelief bubbled in her gut, wringing her with helpless nausea.
But then Sophronia’s eyes seemed to clear, the veil of shock and indecision falling away. “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll just have to trust in the Lord to provide a way. Let’s go, Dovey. We can’t leave Jo on her own with Clifford lurking about.”
“Good old Sophie! I could kiss you, do you know that?” Dovey took Sophronia’s hand and pulled her down the porch steps, into the street. Virgil’s horse stood waiting, watching Dovey with a dark, rolling eye.
“I’ll mount up first, and then I’ll pull you up behind me,” Dovey said.
“A horse? Riding?” Sophronia covered her mouth with her hand, and Dovey feared she might faint.
“It’s not as hard as it looks.”
“But—”
“Jo, Sophie! There’s no time to argue.”
Dovey hoisted her foot into the stirrup and, with a hop and an elaborate curse, wrangled herself aboard. She reached down to grasp Sophronia by the forearm. The prim, proper lady had never attempted to mount a horse before; Dovey had to lean and pull and haul at her until finally she was more or less astride, squeaking in fear at the height and the unfamiliar movement of the animal beneath her.
“Hold to me tightly,” Dovey said.
Sophronia obliged, with a grip so tight Dovey feared she would be squeezed right in half. She kicked the horse’s ribs, and he sprang forward in an eager lope.
“Dov-eey!” Sophronia shrieked and plunged her face into Dovey’s curls, hiding herself from the men on the boardwalks who turned to point and stare at the spectacle of two women bumbling astride down the street.
The horse tossed its head and grumbled at the way Sophronia jounced and jostled on its back. Dovey feared that it might take to bucking if she couldn’t get Sophronia to relax.
“Let up your grip a little,” she said. “Loosen up your hips; let your body go all wiggly, so you can move with the horse’s stride.”
“I … I can’t!”
“Sure you can,” Dovey said. “Just pretend you’re a seamstress looking for a nice man to take back to your crib.”
“Dovey Cooper! You are simply an outrage!”
Outrage she might be, but Dovey’s advice was good. Sophronia relaxed, after a fashion, moving with the horse just enough that it pinned its ears and snorted but decided not to throw both women from the saddle. Soon Dovey and Sophronia were leaning and shifting together, flowing in time to the horse’s rhythmic stride.
They made it to the dock just before the Townsend cast off its lines. Dovey thrust the horse’s reins into a dock boy’s hand, followed by a few coins to stable him until she returned. Then she helped the mortified Sophronia down from the saddle and hauled her up the Townsend’s ramp.
“My,” Dovey breathed, watching as the ramp was pulled away from the steamer just moments after their boot heels hit the deck.
“Dovey …” Sophronia muttered.
Dovey turned to look at her, bracing for the tongue-lashing she knew must be coming, the lecture on proper behavior, the scolding in the name of the Lord. But Sophronia said nothing. She only threw herself into Dovey’s arms, and they clung to one another, shaking with fear and excitement, as the Townsend pulled away from Seattle and turned its great black nose to the north.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SILK RIBBON
S
The sun had fallen below the horizon by the time Dovey and Sophronia hurried across the little town of Coupeville and gained the wide, rutted dirt road that led up into the pines. On a distant rise, a whitewashed building, tiny across the expanse of farmers’ fields, stood out sharply against a backdrop of forest—Jo’s schoolhouse, the narrow tower of its belfry held up like a signal of distress against the oncoming night.
“There it is,” Dovey panted. “She said in her note that she’d take shelter in the school.”
“We’re almost there, thank God.” Sophronia seemed to find a fresh burst of energy; she rushed past Dovey, holding her petticoats high, showing far more of her ankle than she ever had before.
They were both flushed and out of breath by the time they made it to the schoolyard. Dusk was descending, pulling a shroud of violet shadows across the fields, dimming the small school’s whitewashed siding to gray.
Dovey and Sophronia hesitated at the paling fence that marked out the schoolyard’s boundary. They watched the building in silence, wary for any sound, any sign of movement. Its small, covered porch was empty and dark. There was no sound save for the intermittent drip-drip of water falling from the schoolhouse roof, onto the lid of a fat rain barrel squatting at the porch’s side.
“Should we—” Sophronia began, but Dovey stilled her with a hand on her arm.
Something in Dovey’s gut told her not to call out, to keep as silent as a mouse under a cat’s nose until she knew for certain that the coast was clear. Without taking her eyes from the schoolhouse, she grabbed Sophronia’s hand, and together they made their way stealthily up to the porch.
They weren’t more than a few feet away when Dovey knew her instinct had been keen—and possibly sent by a merciful God. All at once, a man’s harsh voice boomed inside the schoolhouse. Dovey could make out no words—perhaps he wasn’t speaking any words but only hollering in a thick, hoarse rage—and then, so loud and clear that the sound seemed to impact deep in Dovey’s stomach, the smack of a fist hitting flesh. Jo’s voice cried out wordlessly in pain. Then, clear as an alarm bell, she screamed for help. Her sobs came stifled through the schoolhouse’s walls.
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