by M. J. Rose
“I … I guess…” Ash stammers, and tries to imagine all that has been hidden behind Clarey’s silence, but she can’t. Finally, she looks into the back seat at her stepma, who really isn’t that at all, but just a girl taken so far from her home that she had no hope of finding her way back.
Ash can’t help but worry as they travel on, the countryside flattening and becoming less familiar, the farms crowding closer together, then disappearing into town after town. Each time, the town is larger, the buildings taller, until finally the buildings don’t end. They tower over the road on both sides like the tall rock walls of a canyon. And there are people. So many people! Wagons and harnessed teams, and cars, and pushcarts loaded with fruits, loaves of bread, fish, hams, sausages. Everywhere, there is noise. Voices and horses, bells ringing and wheels clattering, men yelling and dogs barking, engines chugging out smoke and trains whistling by on high bridges, with caves underneath for wagons and autos to pass through. Traffic clogs the roads and slows the way, and the reverend sounds the Model T’s horn, adding its voice to all the rest as they pass into the city.
“Move along! Move out of the way!” she shouts. “Make haste! Make haste!” Over and over, she checks the pretty gold watch she wears on a chain around her neck. She grumbles and murmurs about the late hour of the day. “We’ll miss it. We’ll miss it.” She complains, her face anxious and moist, “They’ll be starting soon.”
And then later, “Oh, by now they’ve begun. We’ve still so far to go.”
And as even more time passes, the light dims between the buildings, and the evening sharpens the icy edges of cold autumn wind, “They’ve been under way for over an hour now. Oh! It’s too long,” the reverend frets. “Surely, it’s too long. We are so very late.”
Rising onto her knees, Ash leans over the car door. “Out of the way!” she calls. “Move along!”
In the back, the twins echo her chorus. “Move ’long! Move ’long!”
Clarey takes up the call in her own language, as well.
Their efforts are of no help. Dusk presses in as the Tin Lizzie inches onward, working its way over bridges and through streets, each more congested than the last.
“Look! The crowds!” The reverend points down an alley when finally they’ve reached the heart of the city. “There are spectators in place yet!”
“I hear somethin’!” Dab rises in the back seat and leans out, and Clarey grabs the little girl’s dress to pull her down.
“I hear it, too!” Blue agrees. “Somebody’s singin’ someplace.”
“It’s a band,” the reverend corrects, turning an ear toward the rhythmic sound. “Oh, a band playing. In the parade. They are still here! We might make our way, after all. Hold tight, children. The autos are last in the parade.”
Inch by inch, foot by foot, they count down the distance together, as the music of one band fades and another strikes up. Voices echo along alleys and bounce off walls, the shouts from countless mouths they cannot see.
“Votes for women!”
“A vote for suffrage is a vote for justice!”
“Women suffrage in New York now!”
“Women suffrage in New Jersey now!”
When finally they reach East Eleventh Street, moving only as fast as any one of them could have walked, the old woman releases the steering wheel and throws her hands up, then grips the wheel again.
“Glory be! There they are!” she cheers. Ahead, dozens of automobiles sit parked and ready, their metal skins adorned with yellow flags and banners, their occupants milling about in coats and blankets, struggling to keep warm as the moon crests the tall buildings, and electric lights flicker to life overhead. “We have arrived, after all,” the reverend cries out, seizing Ash’s hand and lifting it triumphantly into the air. “My dears, we have arrived. I couldn’t have made it without you. Thank you for helping an old woman accomplish one more mission.”
Ash takes in the cold, weary-looking yet determined crowd as a woman guides the reverend’s automobile into place at the rear of the line. For a time, the five of them sit quietly, catching their breath and gazing down the long row of automobiles, dozens upon dozens. More than Ash would have imagined there were in the entire world. Drivers and passengers cluster around the cars impatiently, rubbing their hands and jumping up and down to stay warm.
“I’ll bet they’re hungry,” Ash muses. “Maybe they might like some apples.”
“Smart girl. I believe that is a fine idea,” the reverend agrees. “A very fine idea. But you children stay near. If you hear a whistle or see engines being cranked, hurry back to the Lizzie.”
Slipping from the Model T, Ash, Dab, Clarey, and Blue hurry among the crowds, distributing the crimson and yellow Dabinettes, the Blue Pearmains good for eating or baking. The lemony, sweet, golden Ashmeads are passed from hand to hand, the bounty of the orchard Grandmother started and Ma tended to the last of her days, high on the mountain. The moment is joyous in some new way. Ash can’t help thinking that her mother would be filled with happiness at seeing them here, in this strange place that feels like something from a dream.
In return for the apples, other paraders offer sweets and pocket pies and breads and tiny jars of jam from their baskets. The children return with so much that they feast in the Model T together as the moon rises higher overhead, pushing its glow into the sharp, square canyons between buildings.
And then, finally, the time arrives. A group of men marching in support of women’s suffrage troops through the intersection ahead. They carry banners and sing in loud, raucous voices.
When the end of their procession passes, the whistles blow, and the autos follow, taking to the parade route in formation, line after line, until finally the very last turns onto Fifth Avenue.
Ash gapes at the rows of spectators flanking the street, men and women of all shapes and sizes. Children propped on their fathers’ shoulders, wrapped in scarves and hats and blankets. Thousands upon thousands of people, braving the cold October night to witness the last of the parade.
“Sit tall and wave, children,” the reverend Octavia Rose commands, as she unwraps her mud-spattered scarf and hands it to Ash. “Now is the time to go forth and show the powers that be that until women’s voices are heard, we will persist in making of ourselves a fine and proper nuisance!”
Scrambling onto her knees, Ash leans over the door to hold up the square of silk, yellow-gold like autumn leaves on the mountain, like the apples for which Ash was named. Laughing, she watches as the fabric unfurls, straining against its tethers as it rises into the night sky and takes flight.
A First Step
M. J. ROSE
Grace was already dressed for the day ahead in a white pinafore, black stockings, shoes, and her lovely white coat. Draped diagonally across her chest was the sash that Katrina and Grace had sewn and embroidered together. White satin, edged with amethyst ribbon, the green letters spelling out Miss Suffragette City. An appliqué of the Statue of Liberty finished the piece.
“I’m all ready for our parade. Look!” Grace sang out, as she ran into the dining room and pirouetted in front of her aunt Katrina.
Grace had been followed by Ginger, the cocker spaniel who never left the seven-year-old’s side, and who now, sensing the child’s excitement, was wagging her tail as fast as a propeller.
Katrina, who had been standing at the sideboard, spooning eggs onto her plate, did as the tiny terror demanded and regarded her niece. The morning light shone through the stained glass windows, casting lovely blue and green watercolor reflections on Grace’s coat. The dining room windows, like all the windows in the Thirty-Sixth Street apartment, had been designed by her father-in-law, Louis Comfort Tiffany. Not only the windows, but the vases, silverware, glassware, accoutrements on the desktops—everything including her own engagement and wedding rings—were all from the family-owned emporium on Fifth Avenue, Tiffany & Co. Sometimes Katrina looked around at all the beauty thinking that she was plainer than everything in her o
wn house. It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her looks, but she was realistic about them. Her husband, Charles, the only surviving son of the owner of Tiffany’s, had chosen his bride for her brains, not her beauty. Back then, that had been what was important to him.
“Aunt Katrina?”
The little girl was waiting for a reaction.
“You’re the very spirit of the day, darling,” Katrina said with a wide smile. “But”—she glanced over at Grace’s nanny, Tribly—“it’s too early to be all dressed and ready to go. The parade isn’t till this afternoon. Let’s take off the sash and coat, and put on an apron so you can have breakfast with me.”
“Ready to go where?” Charles Tiffany asked, as he strode into the dining room.
Ginger went to greet her master, tail wagging, knowing that she was soon going to get some eggs.
Katrina gave her husband one of her wide smiles and, instead of answering him right away, greeted him. “Good morning, dear. Breakfast looks especially good this morning. Can I make you a plate?”
Charles came over and inspected the silver salvers.
Katrina watched him, judging his mood. He seemed pleased enough as he kissed her on the forehead and told her that, yes, he’d appreciate a plate. She’d always enjoyed listening to his voice. It resonated with his fine education. He’d gone to the best prep school and then on to Yale. Like his father, Charles was a tall man with thick chestnut hair and brilliant blue eyes. But unlike Louis Comfort Tiffany, Charles didn’t take in everything around him. He didn’t notice beauty with the same appreciation that his father did. After all, he didn’t create exquisite objects like his father did; he only sold them. She often wondered if that’s why there was a joy in the father’s eyes that was missing in the son’s. Katrina hadn’t been aware of it when she’d first met Charles. She hadn’t even realized it the first few years they’d been together. One day, she’d broken an iridescent vase that her father-in-law had given her and been distraught over it. Charles had called in the maid to sweep up the pieces, and then, as if it had been an ordinary white china cup, told Katrina not to be so concerned, that he’d bring another home from the store. As if they were all interchangeable. She was certain that he had to know better, with a father who noticed every feather and pebble and shaft of light, that no two vases were alike. That each had a patina and sweep of color unique to itself, and that the one she’d broken was especially beautiful. But he hadn’t seemed to. As the years passed and Katrina continued to study the dynamic between father and son, and listened to the nuances of Charles’s stories about growing up, she came to better understand her husband’s reactions. Too many times, Louis Comfort Tiffany had adored his glass, ceramic, and jeweled creations and often made more of a fuss over them than over his family, which created resentments among his children.
Katrina added more eggs, bacon, and tomatoes onto the plate she was holding and took it over to Charles. Returning to the sideboard, she prepared another for herself as she addressed Grace’s companion, Tribly.
“Nanny, help Grace change so she can have breakfast with us.”
The two of them left, and Katrina watched the little girl skip out of the room holding Tribly’s hand.
When Grace had come to live with her aunt and uncle while her parents spent the year in India, Tribly had come with her. That, as it turned out, had been a very good thing. As much as both Katrina and Charles loved their nieces, nephews, and godchildren, without children of their own, they were a bit lost when it came to day-to-day caretaking.
Grace was a highly intelligent and sensitive little girl. But being an only child meant she was something of a loner, possibly too attached to her mother and father. She hadn’t handled the transition as well as Katrina had hoped. Tribly’s presence, though, had helped both emotionally and practically. Almost as much as Ginger, Katrina and Charles’s spaniel.
Katrina had taken to teaching Grace sewing and embroidery. Katrina’s stepmother had taught her, and she was enjoying passing the hobby on. She and Grace practiced by creating a wardrobe for Ginger, who patiently put up with the fittings. Katrina wasn’t sure who was more proud of the clothes when they went out for walks: Ginger wearing the concoctions, or Grace showing off her prowess with the needle.
“So where is it that Grace is going today?” Charles asked his wife.
Katrina put her plate down next to him and took her seat.
Before she could answer, Wilson, the butler, emerged with a silver pot and proceeded to pour wonderfully fragrant coffee into Minton Somerset Green china cups, made exclusively for Tiffany & Co.
“I thought I’d bring her to the march,” Katrina said, as she splashed cream into hers.
Charles took a sip of his black coffee too quickly and grimaced.
Katrina silently cursed, knowing from the louder-than-usual clink of porcelain what was coming.
“We discussed all this and agreed Grace would stay home today,” he said.
“We did. Yes. But I changed my mind. Grace should be exposed to what is going on in our world. Today is going to be historic. I know it. And I want her to experience it. This fight for the vote is nearly seventy years old.”
“Yes, but we agreed,” he repeated.
“This is Grace’s future. I want her to see women marching, with the men who support them—” She paused to take a sip of her coffee, surprised that despite the scent and the cream it was a bit bitter. “Oh, Charles,” she pleaded. “What harm is there?”
“The harm is the child’s safety. Why do I have to remind you? My responsibility is to take care of Grace. And of you, my dear. Of everyone who lives under my roof. These suffrage events can turn ugly, Katrina, you know that. If it were up to me you wouldn’t even be marching. But there’s nothing I can do about that, is there?”
Ignoring the question, Katrina continued. “How many protests have I attended and how many parades did I march in in college? I’m hardly one of the precious vases or lamps from the store, Charles. I haven’t gotten chipped, smashed, or dropped in any of them. And I won’t today.”
“You can’t know that. You’ve had luck on your side. These marches are not safe. We both know there have been women badly hurt both here and in England. Imprisoned! And you are much more precious to me than any one of our vases or lamps. I couldn’t bear it if anything was to happen to you. Or to Grace.”
His sentiment was heartfelt, and Katrina knew it. She sighed. Navigating a marriage was no easy thing, and she was the first to admit she didn’t always get it right. It was like the new car that her father-in-law had just purchased, that she had borrowed to practice driving at Laurelton. Turning the wheel required a lot of strength, and even when you managed it smoothly, there was no controlling the road beneath the chassis.
Grace came running back into the room.
“I don’t believe I got my morning hello,” Charles said to the little girl.
She skipped over to him and kissed him good morning. Gently, he reached out and brushed an errant curl off her forehead. And for what felt like the millionth time, Katrina felt a pull deep inside her.
At first she’d thought that she had been the one unable to conceive, because it seemed impossible that her strong, capable husband would be sterile. Katrina’s grandfather had been a doctor. She herself had been in the 1897 graduating class of Bryn Mawr with a double major in chemistry and biology and understood more than most women about the goings on inside the womb. When after two years she still had not fallen pregnant, Katrina and Charles sought advice from physicians, none of whom discovered any reason for it, other than the mumps that Charles had contracted during childhood. The illness must have made him sterile.
Once the two of them accepted the situation, Katrina brought up the idea of adopting a foundling. She was a secretary of the executive committee of the Infirmary for Indigent Women and Children and treasurer of the Sunnyside Day Nursery. She saw children in need who broke her heart, whom she and Charles could do so much for. But her proud, stubb
orn husband hadn’t been able to embrace the idea.
She had forgiven him for his sterility, but Charles had not forgiven himself. He had learned to cope with the fact that unlike his father, he was neither artist, nor jeweler, nor inventor of a unique style of stained glass. Charles could accept that there were many things Louis Comfort Tiffany had done that he would never do. But there was one thing the elder Tiffany had done a half-dozen times that Charles could not accept. And that was his ability to father a child.
Now here they were. Married fourteen years. And suddenly a child had come to live with them, bringing with her so much joy. And yet at the same time reminding Katrina, and she assumed her husband, all too often of what they didn’t have.
Before Grace had moved in for the year, Katrina and Charles had settled into their routine. They were eminently busy between the work they both did—he at the family-owned concern, and she with the suffrage movement and various charities and garden clubs—plus their social engagements, family obligations, and weekends in Long Island. They frequented the opera and the theater. They shared a love of tennis, golf, and sailing. They seemed to have worked out a life that even without children was rich and fulfilling.
Then Grace had arrived. It was different than having dinner with their extended family that included many nieces and nephews. Different than spending weekends with friends who had children.
Day after day, this feisty little creature who cried and laughed and learned and gave affection with abandon reminded Katrina of what she’d never had. And, she imagined, reminded Charles of what he could not give his wife.
She’d thought she’d come to terms with their childlessness but now she saw she’d only buried her feelings under a pile of good works. What had her husband done with his?
“Uncle Charles, I’m going to march in the parade with Aunt Katrina!” Grace told him as she scooped eggs onto her fork.