by Lynn Austin
“My husband cares about his workers just as much as I do. And since most of our workers are eligible to vote, perhaps you should care about them, as well. I intend to hold meetings at the tannery and inform our workers of their rights—and of your lack of concern for them during this crisis. The population of The Flats is quite large, you know. We’re talking about a sizable group of voters. They may be interested to know how their informed vote can bring about change for their neighborhood. And who knows, perhaps someone from that community might decide to run for councilman—or even mayor.”
He pushed papers around on his desk as if Bebe were an annoying fly and he were searching for the swatter. “Are you finished, Mrs. Garner?” he asked without looking up. “I believe I have another appointment.”
“I’ll see you at the next city council meeting,” she said with controlled fury, “along with some citizens from The Flats. We’ll see what you have to say then!”
“Women aren’t allowed in our council meetings. Only registered voters may attend. Good day.”
Bebe had never felt such helpless rage in her life. She stalked out to her waiting carriage, sank down on the seat, and wept with anger and frustration. The driver surely could hear her, but she didn’t care. She thought of Millie’s heartrending tears as she’d held her lifeless child, and Bebe sobbed harder.
“Shall I take you home, Mrs. Garner?” the driver asked when her tears finally subsided.
“No. Take me back to The Flats, please. I have more work to do.”
Horatio stared at Bebe in amazement that evening when she told him about her conversation with the mayor. “You really said all of those things to him, my darling?”
“I would have said a lot more if he had taken me seriously. But he was laughing at me, Horatio!”
“To your face?”
“No . . . but he was laughing inside, I could tell. Lucretia Mott is right, you know. She came to one of our anti-slavery meetings back home and told us that women must win the right to vote. Coldhearted men like the mayor will never have the same compassion for children and poor people that women have. It’s going to be up to us to make every neighborhood safe from disease.”
By the time the epidemic and the flooding subsided, Bebe and Mary MacLeod had become good friends. “Won’t you come inside and share a cup of tea with me?” Mary asked when they finished their last workday together. “Our home isn’t fancy, but—”
“I would love a cup of tea,” Bebe replied. They sat by a cozy fire in the cottage kitchen, eating Mary’s homemade scones.
“I wanted to show you this,” Mary said, handing Bebe a photograph. “He’s my fiancé, James Lang. He died at the Battle of Shiloh.”
He looked like a boy to Bebe. But hadn’t they all been mere boys? “He has a very kind face,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“I loved him,” she said simply. “I still love him. No other man can ever take his place.”
“I fell in love with Horatio when I visited my brother Franklin in the army hospital in Philadelphia.” Bebe remembered how different Horatio had been back then compared to the Horatio who had to get up and work at the tannery all day.
“Do you hear what everyone in The Flats is saying about you?”
Mary asked as she poured more tea. “You have won undying gratitude from the workers and their families.”
“I’m not finished down there. The cholera epidemic may be over, but the city still needs to do something about the sewage. Are you willing to fight that battle with me, too, Mary?”
“Of course. Tell me what I can do.”
Bebe looked up at her new friend and smiled. Mary might have been large-boned and plain, but her kind, gentle nature made her seem pretty. Mrs. Garner’s society friends worked so hard at dressing up the outsides of themselves but they could never compete with Mary’s inner loveliness and strength.
“I don’t know exactly how I’m going to fight that battle, yet,” Bebe said. “We need to figure out a way to storm the city council meeting and get someone’s attention. We’ll talk about it some more tomorrow.”
But the next morning when Bebe tried to get out of bed, the room spun so wildly that she had to close her eyes to make it stop. When she opened them again, her stomach seemed to turn inside out and she was struck by such a violent wave of nausea that she barely made it to the chamber pot before vomiting. Nor could she stop vomiting. Horatio leaped out of bed in a panic, ordering the servants to send for Dr. Hammond, immediately.
“Oh, my darling,” he moaned. “I was so afraid you would catch that vile disease.”
“It’s not cholera,” she told him. “Vomiting isn’t a symptom.”
“Please don’t die on me! Please! I can’t live without you, Beatrice.” He looked so pale and shaken that she wondered if he was ill, too.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. But she wasn’t fine. She felt so wretched that she had to lie down again.
Dr. Hammond arrived an hour later. By the time he’d finished examining her, he was smiling as he called Horatio into the bedroom. “I expect your wife to make a full recovery in approximately eight months,” he said. “That’s when your baby will be born. Congratulations, Mr. Garner.”
“M-my baby?” Horatio stammered. “She’s having a baby? . . . Oh, my darling, how wonderful!” He broke into a wide grin, then hugged Bebe so tightly she feared her ribs might break. When Horatio finished walking Dr. Hammond to the door, he returned to the bedroom. His handsome face was somber as he took Bebe into his arms again.
“Now listen to me, my dearest. No more excitement of any kind for you. No more trips to The Flats, no arguments with the mayor.”
She gently freed herself from his arms and started to get out of bed, feeling much better now that the nausea had passed. “But there’s more work to be done down there and—”
“No, Beatrice. I withdraw my permission for you to go down to that place ever again. From now on you need to stay at home. In bed. For the baby’s sake.”
She tried to laugh away his concern. “Don’t be silly, Horatio. Women have babies all the time, and they don’t stay in bed.”
“I don’t care what other women do. You’re my wife, and I want you to stay home and not exert yourself. I want to make certain our child is delivered safely into this world.”
“But I can still do some sort of charity work even though—”
“No. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you down in that terrible place. I want you to follow Mother’s example and be a respectable wife from now on. Women from our social station are supposed to have a proper period of confinement when they’re in your condition. I’m sure Mother will explain it to you.”
“Your mother hates me, Horatio.”
“That isn’t true. Please give her a chance, Beatrice. My fondest wish is that you and Mother would become friends.”
Bebe could only nod. Her own mother had advised her to make peace with Mrs. Garner, too. “I promise to try, Horatio. Now may I please get out of bed? Mary MacLeod is expecting me to call on her this morning.”
“We need to talk about her.” Horatio looked like a stern schoolmaster about to scold his pupils. “Now that the flooding has subsided, I don’t want you to see her anymore.”
“But why not?”
“Why not? I hardly know where to start. The MacLeods are not our kind of people, Beatrice. It’s bad enough that Father has saddled me with her brother for the next five years, but I don’t need you socializing with the rest of his family, as well. Please respect my wishes, darling.”
Bebe felt another wave of dizziness, as if the bedroom walls were floating toward her. “But Mary is my friend. Can’t I just visit her now and then?”
Horatio looked wounded. “I’ve given you a life and a home that many women would envy. Isn’t that enough for you? Aren’t I enough?”
“Of course you are.” Bebe pulled him into her arms so he wouldn’t see her tears. If she had to choose
between losing her new friend and losing Horatio there was no contest. He was working hard and staying sober, and those were the most important things right now, especially with a baby on the way. But she couldn’t help feeling the loss of her friend along with her hopes of living a more meaningful life. She would have to lay aside her own wishes once again, and she didn’t want to. She felt the seeds of bitterness and resentment begin to sprout in her heart and recalled Hannah’s warning about weeding them out before they grew. If only she knew how to do that.
“I’ll do whatever you want,” she told Horatio.
For now, she said in her heart.
On a warm morning in May of 1869, Bebe went into labor. The delivery proved to be very difficult and painful, lasting nearly two days. Horatio worried and paced and fretted the entire time.
“Your wife is having a hard time,” the doctor told him, “because she is so tiny and her baby is so big.”
Bebe thought her pain worthwhile, though, when she finally held her daughter in her arms. She was a beautiful baby, ruddy and fair-haired like Horatio. “Are you all right, my darling?” he asked when the doctor finally allowed him into the room.
“I’m fine now. Just very tired.” Bebe remembered how disgruntled her own father had been after she’d been born and asked, “Are you disappointed that we didn’t have a son, Horatio?”
“Not at all! How could anyone be disappointed in this wonderful child? She is the most beautiful baby in the world!”
“Do you like the name Lucretia? We could call her Lucy.” She didn’t tell him that she had chosen the name in honor of Lucretia Mott.
“Could we give her my mother’s name for her middle name?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.”
Horatio lifted Lucretia Frances Garner from Bebe’s arms and waltzed slowly around the room with her, talking to her nonstop and telling her what a strong, brave mother she had.
“I’m so tired, Horatio. Can you talk to her later? Lucy and I both need to rest.”
“Yes, of course.” He gave the baby to the nurse he’d hired and kissed Bebe’s forehead. “Go to sleep now, my darling. You deserve a very long nap. The nurse will take good care of both of you.”
Bebe sighed and closed her eyes. Moments later, she was asleep.
While she slept, Horatio went downtown to his former club with a fistful of cigars to celebrate his daughter’s birth.
He came home roaring drunk.
CHAPTER
16
My sister Alice’s wedding was two weeks away, and I was still safely tucked away at Grandma’s house, enjoying the peace and quiet. Then Grandma heard about a big temperance rally that was going to be held in the state capital of Harrisburg. “Should we go, Harriet?” she asked. “It would take us about two hours to drive there.”
I felt torn. On the one hand, I had promised my mother that I would keep Grandma Bebe out of trouble so there wouldn’t be any family scandals before the wedding. But on the other hand, maybe I finally would get to see some axe-wielding at a gathering this big. “What do people do at these rallies?” I asked her.
“Oh, the speeches are very inspirational. Some of our national leaders will be there, and there is usually a call to sign The Pledge and abstain from alcohol. I heard Frances Willard speak at one rally, but she has since passed away, I’m sorry to say.”
“Will Carrie Nation be there?”
“She passed away last year.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” I was beginning to get the feeling that I had missed the boat when it came to the more exciting exploits of the temperance movement. “I would still like to go, Grandma. Can we? Please?”
Grandma agreed. But when we awoke to a downpour on Saturday she began to have misgivings. “I’ve driven to Harrisburg in the springtime before,” she told me. “The dirt roads can be quite muddy this time of year.”
“But we have to go! Please, Grandma? Please?” She didn’t know it, but I planned to surprise her by signing The Pledge, swearing to forsake all alcoholic beverages for the rest of my life. After hearing about my grandfather, I never wanted to take a single sip. Grandma was going to be so pleased.
We left Roseton early in the morning and made it over the first range of hills without any trouble. We saw some pretty huge puddles in the road, and the mud looked deep and squishy in places, but Grandma steered smoothly around all the obstacles. Twenty minutes into our trip, though, we came to a quagmire that had completely swallowed the road. Grandma stepped on the gas to plow straight through it, but the car never made it to the other side. We ground to a halt, stuck in the mud—sunk clear up to our axles, judging by the spinning sound that the wheels made. A shower of muck sprayed out from the rear wheels and splattered down on the rear window. We were going nowhere. Grandma lifted her foot off the accelerator and let the car engine die.
“Oh, dear,” she said with a sigh. “I was afraid this would happen.”
I started to open the passenger door, certain that if Grandma knew how to fix a tire, she would surely know how to get us out of this mess, too. But she stopped me before I could climb out.
“Where are you going, Harriet? Stay in the car. It’s much too wet and muddy out there. You’ll ruin your shoes.”
“But we’re stuck. Shouldn’t we do something? Jack up the car, maybe? Or start pushing?”
“No, we’ll just wait. Another car is bound to come along soon and help us out.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “But . . . but you said that only women in fairy tales wait to be rescued.”
“Harriet dear, neither one of us is capable of getting this car out of the mud by ourselves.”
“But you said—”
“I know, I know. But there are exceptions to every rule, and this is one of them.”
My disappointment was as deep as the mud. How was I supposed to learn anything about life if Grandma was going to contradict herself? I heaved a loud sigh to let her know how frustrated I was. “First you say, ‘Don’t wait to be rescued.’ Now you say, ‘Wait for help.’ How am I supposed to know what to do when?”
“Well, I suppose time and experience will teach you the difference.”
I sighed again and sat back with my arms folded, waiting for an explanation. Grandma stared at the fog-shrouded mountains in the distance for a long moment. Rain pattered softly against the roof and slid down our windshield like thin, glassy fingers.
“Sometimes you can look at circumstances,” she finally said, “and you can clearly see what needs to be done. Take my mother’s situation, for instance. She didn’t wait for someone else to help the runaway slaves; she did what she could to rescue them herself. And in my own situation, I knew that I had to do whatever I could to rescue Horatio so that he wouldn’t drink us all into ruin.”
I waved my hand impatiently. “I understand that part. Like you said, ‘Only women in fairy tales wait to be rescued.’ ”
“Yes. But there were other times in my life when I took matters into my own hands, and . . . well, things didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped. . . .”
Bebe sat in the parlor with her four-year-old daughter on her lap and held up two books for her to choose between. “Which story shall we read today, Lucy?”
“Both! I want to hear both of them!”
“No, we have time for only one of them before your nap.”
“But I want both!” Lucy pouted.
Reading stories before Lucy’s afternoon nap was one of Bebe’s favorite rituals, and one of the few times she had Lucy all to herself. Lucy resembled a little angel, with her halo of curly blond hair and her sweet rosy face—but her temperament didn’t always match her appearance. Bebe glanced at Lucy’s nanny hovering nearby. The woman always gave in to Lucy in order to avoid a temper tantrum, but Bebe was determined not to spoil her only child. She laid one of the books aside.
“If you can’t make up your mind, we’ll read this one.”
“No! I want two books!”
Bebe ignored her
daughter’s stubbornness and opened the book, hoping Lucy would settle down once they started reading. Several pages into the story, the front doorbell chimed. Bebe paused, waiting for the servants to answer it, listening to hear who it was. Lucy listened, too, and when it became obvious that a deliveryman had arrived at the front door with a package, she slid off Bebe’s lap, squealing with delight and clapping her hands. “For me? Is it for me?”
Bebe laid aside the book and followed her to the front hallway.
“Yes, Miss Lucy. It’s for you,” the butler said. Lucy snatched the package from his hands without a word of thanks and began tearing off the brown paper wrapping, scattering it all over the floor. Mrs. Garner descended the stairs to watch the destruction, wearing a pleased smile on her face.
“I was wondering when my surprise might arrive for you, Lucy. Open it carefully, dear. You wouldn’t want to break it before you’ve had a chance to play with it, would you?”
Bebe stifled a groan. “Not another toy, Mother Garner. The playroom is overflowing with toys as it is. No child needs that many playthings.”
They were expensive toys, too. Last week Mrs. Garner had purchased a wooden rocking horse for Lucy, with a mane and tail made of real horsehair. The week before, she had brought home a stuffed bear with glassy eyes and velvety fur and paws that really moved.
Lucy tore open the box and quickly dug through the straw packing material to retrieve her prize. “Look, Mama! A dolly!”
Bebe crouched beside her daughter. She had to admit that the doll was beautiful—even more so than the five other dolls Lucy already owned. Its hair felt like real human hair and the eyes in its dainty porcelain head opened and closed when Lucy moved her. She even had tiny eyelashes. According to the label, the doll had been imported all the way from Germany.
“She’s lovely, Lucy. You must give her a very lovely name to match.”
“And you must be careful with her,” Mrs. Garner added. “You don’t want to get her hair mussed or her clothes wrinkled.”
“Aren’t toys meant to be played with, Mother Garner?”