by M. J. Rose
A sniffle, like a mouse with a cold, drew her attention to the near corner. A figure huddled underneath a table displaying an array of weaponry and other artifacts.
Alva bent over, hands on her achy knees, and stared into the darkness. If this was a thief, it was a small one, probably a street urchin who wandered in during the riot of noise and nonsense from the parade.
“Step out from there at once,” she said.
The mouse sniffled again.
“I said, out.”
The creature, a girl, looked up at her with big eyes, but most of her body was hidden in the shadows. She blinked but didn’t move. A glint of light caught Alva’s eye. The child had taken hold of one of the weapons—a sword, by the looks of it.
“You’re going to cut off your own finger with that. Is that what you want, blood spurting all over, ruining my floors and tapestries? I’ll make you clean it up yourself, don’t think I won’t. Now hand it over.”
The girl still refused to move. Alva reached down and got a good grip on her arm and dragged her out. She squealed but otherwise stayed mute, slowly rising to her feet.
This was no street urchin. No more than four feet tall, the child wore a white coat trimmed with lace. In the dim light, Alva recognized the familiar purple and green sash of the suffrage movement. Her hair was the same color that her daughter, Consuelo, had had at that age, a rich chestnut that turned auburn in the sun, and she wore something clunky around her neck, some kind of box. One of those Brownie cameras that were all the rage. She didn’t let go of the sword, even raised it slightly, so the tip pointed at Alva’s knees. The girl had gumption.
“What are you doing in my armory, child?”
When she finally spoke, her voice was deeper than Alva had expected, not the high-pitched singsong typical of her age. “I saw the knights from the street and wanted to see what they were. I thought it was a museum.”
“Did you see a sign on the front door that said museum anywhere? Did you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“That’s right, because this is my house.”
The girl offered up a shrug. Her lack of amazement bothered Alva to no end. She’d chosen every finish, every piece of furniture, all the art other than Oliver’s collection, and the very least this puny trespasser could do was act impressed, like the committee ladies had. Upon closer examination, Alva could see that the white lace trim of her coat was delicate, expensive. She came from a good family.
“I take it from that hue that you were part of the spectacle outside.”
The girl nodded.
The thought of young children being paraded in the streets, against anyone’s good sense, set Alva off once again. “I can’t tell you how angry this makes me, young lady. This is simply not right.” She grabbed the sword out of the girl’s hand and placed it back on the display table. “Now, let’s go. We’ll take you home. I’m sure your parents are terribly worried. As they should be.”
The girl shook her head.
“What? You don’t want to go home?”
She shook her head again, her mouth in a stubborn pout.
Enough with this nonsense.
Alva indicated that the girl should follow her and led her back into the foyer. Alva’s coat lay on a nearby chair, no sign of Marjory anywhere. She put it on and buttoned it up. The hat would have to do as well. Really, this day had everyone topsy-turvy, not a soul willing to attend to her. Thank goodness her driver, Richmond, was waiting outside in the Pierce-Arrow, one of the favorite automobiles of her fleet. He dashed out as soon as he saw them descending the steps and opened the door. Perhaps all was not lost.
“Take us to the police station, Richmond. We appear to have a trespasser in our midst.”
She hoped the threat of the police would get the child to reveal where she lived, or at least whom she belonged to. But no luck. Once inside the car, the girl stared out the window at the sidewalks pressed with people.
“We’ll have to cross the parade route to reach the police station, ma’am,” Richmond answered. “Unless you want me to head north and then loop back.”
She checked her timepiece. Half past six. “The parade should be over by now. Take the direct route, please.”
The automobile crawled along, stymied by the volume of people in its way. The girl straightened out her sash and placed her hands on her lap, completely at home, as unmoved by the automobile’s luxurious interior as she’d been in the Madison Avenue mansion. Exactly what the world needed, another child of wealth and unctuousness, although Alva had to admit she’d brought three such children into the world, with varying degrees of success.
“Do you know the meaning of the colors of your sash? Or are you as ill-informed as the rest of them?”
The girl lightly traced the colors on the fabric with her finger. “Purple is for royalty, which is in every woman’s veins, no matter what her station. White is for purity of heart and purpose. Green is for hope, renewal.”
“Well, you’re right.” Alva sniffed. “But that makes it all sound so pretty, like a garden party. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: the only way to achieve suffrage is to get the votes from the politicians, by whatever means necessary. Grandstanding, bribes, shaming, blackmailing, I know every trick in the book. I’ll tell you what won’t work: making young girls who don’t know any better walk up Fifth Avenue on a bitterly cold day.”
The more she stewed over it, the more heated Alva became. Children these days were oblivious to what had come before them. This one, for example, would have a decent life handed to her on a silver platter, all because Alva’s exertion on behalf of women’s rights had eventually paid off. The girl would prance through the world, unaffected by isolation and cruelty.
Luckily, as long as they were stuck in this car together, Alva could take full advantage of the opportunity to straighten her out. “You appear to come from a family of means, so you probably have no idea what it’s like to fight for something truly important.” She waited until the girl stared up at her to continue, hoping to shock her. “I married first for money—after my father lost his fortune and my family was left practically penniless—then later, for love. Husband number one was a philanderer, and when I insisted on getting a divorce, I had to convince even my own lawyer I was serious. My settlement rocked the establishment—full custody of the children, a generous financial settlement, the house in Newport—such terms were unheard of in those days. I showed all these ladies what it’s like to demand respect, to get their own way, just as I’m doing now—”
The girl cut her off. “You’re sitting in an automobile.” She pointed outside, to where figures in white still teemed along Fifth Avenue under the shimmering streetlamps. “When you ought to be out there marching with them.”
How dare she? The gall of this child.
The gall of this child. Exactly the phrase Alva’s father had said many times about Alva, who’d rejected the tedious life of restriction most girls her age led, and misbehaved dreadfully, committing acts that she would never have tolerated from her own children. Like the time a boy pelted her with apples in a Newport orchard one summer, angry that she’d been accepted into the gang of miscreants who liked to climb trees and spread mayhem. Alva had thrown her attacker to the ground, choked him, and then stomped on him, hard, until she had to be pulled off by the others. The fire that poured through her body as she pounded on him had exhilarated her. She’d wanted nothing more than to keep punching and kicking. That would show them all.
That would show her father, who’d been bereft when her brother died at thirteen. Alva had tried to comfort him, but apparently a daughter was not worth the same as a boy. The loss of a son superseded the presence of a daughter, even one standing right there in front of him, hoping to provide what solace she could. She knew instinctively that his grief would not have been as vast if it had been she who died.
Ever since, she’d forced people to pay attention to her, whether in Newport or Europe or New York, whi
ch made it even sillier that, as the girl had pointed out, Alva hadn’t had the courage to set foot in the parade.
At that moment, when Alva had reached the curb, it had been as if an invisible blockade had prevented her from moving forward. A visceral foreboding had enveloped her, that if she joined the parade, she would be swallowed up by it, lost forever. All these years she’d fought so hard against being invisible, first because of her looks, now because of her advancing years, and as she’d stood frozen in place, her heart had begun to thump and she’d had to go home.
Because of a health condition, that’s all it was. Not a lack of nerve. Angina ran in her family, she reminded herself. And now to be questioned by a child for her commitment to the cause?
“Let me tell you something, dearie. I get the job done, and I get it done better than anyone else. Where other women are content to decorate their fancy houses, I build them. My vision is paramount, even to the architect’s, and when I’m finished, my buildings inspire awe. The highest ceilings, the largest ballrooms.” The girl nodded gamely. She was a tough nut, this one. As Consuelo had been. Alva found herself desperate to impress her. “And that’s not all. Where some mothers marry their daughters off to respectable but dull businessmen, I infiltrated English royalty. My daughter is now the Duchess of Marlborough, presiding over a palace in England with one hundred and eighty-seven rooms.”
“I would get lost in a home so large.” The girl turned away again, pressing her forehead to the window.
There was no end to the insults. Alva was about to lash into her again when the girl let out a small sigh, enough to fog up the window ever so slightly. Then a single tear worked its way down her pale cheek.
Alva sat back into the leather seat, defeated and spent. Her bitterness came from missing Oliver. That’s what Consuelo had said in a fit of frustration the last time they’d seen each other, when Alva had harangued her for some trivial matter. And she’d been exactly right. No cause, no fight, could replace the kind man who’d loved Alva like none other, the only person who’d been undaunted by her rough edges. She was filled with a desperate desire not to let him down. “Tell me your name, child.”
The girl wiped away the tear with her sash. “Grace.”
“I’m sure your family is very worried, Grace.”
“My uncle will be very angry with me.”
“Why will he be angry?”
The girl took a moment to respond. “I ran into the parade, when he told my aunt I wasn’t allowed to march.”
At least the girl’s guardian had some sense. Still, it was a bold move, to run off like that. She had reckless courage, something Alva knew something about.
Alva raised her eyebrows. “You have a mind of your own, it appears. Do you often get yourself into trouble?”
Grace broke into a mischievous grin. “Last summer, when my governess told me I wasn’t allowed to swim, my friends distracted her while I thumbtacked her dress to the bench where she sat. Then we ran into the water. You should have heard her squawking when she realized she couldn’t come after us.”
It was the most she’d spoken all day, on a subject of which Alva wholeheartedly approved. Perhaps there was hope for future generations. “Well, that’s one way to accomplish one’s goals.”
Grace pointed to Alva’s chest. “Your pin is beautiful. It’s just like my aunt’s.”
Alva traced the jewels of the suffrage pin with her fingertip. She’d bought the bauble from the man who made jewelry for Tiffany’s, and wore it every day. “Tell me, what is the name of your uncle and aunt, and we’ll take you home directly.”
“There he is!”
In a flash, the girl was out the door, the rush of cold air stinging Alva’s cheeks. She tried to reach out and grasp her, stop her from running into the mob, but she was too fast.
“Richmond, drive after her,” she ordered.
He gestured to the crush of bodies that now surrounded the car. “There’s nowhere to go.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Alva yanked open the door and heaved herself out. Grace was nowhere to be seen, lost in a sea of white, even this late, when it should all have been over and everyone back home preparing for that evening’s entertainment, whether a trip to the opera or an intimate dinner party for twenty.
Alva pushed her way through, hoping to get a better view. The sidewalks on both sides of the street were impossibly crowded with dark-clad spectators, rooted in place. The parade’s participants glided between them like a river of white.
Without thinking, she stepped off the curb and was swallowed up by the marchers.
She was marching.
Her heart pounded and her breathing grew short, as if she were dying. As Oliver had.
She screamed the girl’s name, but a band playing behind her drowned out her cries. The women around her were staring, concerned, as if she were a madwoman. Alva stopped yelling and glared back. How dare they? These ridiculous ladies, showing off their tiny figures in silk and chiffon, attracting all sorts of insults and derision. Alva straightened up and kept moving forward, not that she had much choice in the matter; it was like being enveloped in a stream of molasses.
They’d all be mocked in the newspapers tomorrow, Alva was certain. If they wanted to win the vote, they had to act like men, not Gibson girls.
Just as she’d done with husband number one, the Vanderbilt heir who’d had affairs right under her nose and done whatever he wished, after she’d spent years single-handedly lifting the family name up to the top of the social register, holding extravagant balls and planting fawning stories in the press, doing whatever it took to succeed.
The first Sunday after the divorce had been granted, Alva had walked into church expecting to be heralded by her peers for leading the way toward women’s independence. No longer would wives have to suffer silently while their husbands’ philandering ruined their good name. With her settlement, Alva would live life as she chose. Wasn’t this cause to celebrate?
Apparently not. They’d literally turned their backs on her, left her seething in her pew. Then, at parties, women whom she’d once considered her friends openly snubbed her. Even now, Alva’s cheeks turned red with rage at the memory. The desolation of their rejection still stung, twenty years later. Right when she’d most needed support and a kind word, she’d been ostracized, made fun of, and belittled for having threatened the social mores of the upper crust.
Ahead, a flash of auburn hair under lamplight caught Alva’s eye. The girl wasn’t far, only ten or fifteen feet away at best. Alva pushed through the crowd and took hold of the girl’s shoulder, so bony and fragile even under her coat.
“Unhand my niece at once.”
Alva looked up to see Mr. Charles Tiffany on the other side of Grace, holding her hand tightly in his. She’d met him several years ago and had ordered countless pieces of jewelry from his family’s store. She’d been especially pleased to see his wife at several women’s suffrage meetings, looking serious and attentive, able to hold her own during their lively discussions.
A wave of recognition passed over his face. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Belmont, I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Mr. Tiffany.” She nodded at him. They were pressed closely together, the three of them, surrounded on all sides by marchers as the parade funneled to its end point at the southeast corner of Central Park. The proximity was ridiculous and embarrassing, as this entire day had been.
“Grace, where on earth have you been?” he asked of the girl. “I’ve been sick with worry.”
“I was with her.” She looked over at Alva.
Alva pursed her lips. “That is correct. Your niece was found on the premises of my home, hiding under a table.”
“What?”
“I saw the knights and thought they could save me,” Grace said.
Mr. Tiffany screwed up his face, confused.
“I have an armory,” Alva explained. “She must’ve seen it from the street and crept in.”
“Right,
my wife told me of your exhibits.” The condescension in his voice was unmistakable. “Grace, you should have never run away. We must find Mrs. Tiffany and get out of here at once. My God, if the papers see me…”
His discomfort pleased Alva greatly, and distracted her from her own. “You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Tiffany. We’re trapped until we get to Fifty-Ninth Street.”
He looked around wildly. “The men at my club will ridicule me—this is untenable. I do not support women’s right to vote, under any circumstances. Period. Now, if we can only move over to the right, it looks clear over there.”
“No, Uncle, I want to march to the very end.” Grace looked up at him, frowning.
Alva blocked him with her shoulder. She didn’t want him to have the last word, for the girl to think a man could bulldoze his way through a crowd or out of an argument.
“If the papers see you, Mr. Tiffany, you’ll have more women buying jewels in your store in the next week than you ever imagined. We support our supporters.”
He tried again, but she blocked him with her entire body this time. He wasn’t going anywhere but forward.
“Please, I must get by.”
“Mr. Tiffany, I’m surprised your wife hasn’t schooled you properly on the basics of our cause.”
“How dare you?”
“When a man brings home disease or muddies a woman’s good name by his immoral actions, we must be able to support ourselves, free and clear. At the moment, we’re at the mercy of mercurial politicians whose interests don’t align with ours. This nonsense has been going on far too long. We must have the right to vote.”
“What do you mean, ‘brings home disease’?” asked Grace.
“Do not listen to this, Grace.” Mr. Tiffany looked as though he were about to levitate into the air, fueled by indignation and bile. “Mrs. Belmont, you are corrupting young ears with your talk. We men are here to protect you from your own worst interests, including your outrageous statements. What if you were on the Titanic as it sank into the icy sea? Would you prefer that the men leap ahead of you into the lifeboats, leave you and your children to die?”