A March to Remember

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  Walter took a deep breath and sighed. “Let’s walk,” he said, suddenly uncharacteristically solemn.

  I nodded, afraid my voice would betray the sudden anxiety that clutched at my heart. Something was wrong.

  “I’ve heard there’s a lovely botanical garden not far from here,” he said, trying in vain to sound calm. “I know you would like that. Let’s go there.”

  Normally so easygoing, why was Walter suddenly tense? Bones in his jaw protruded slightly as he clamped down on his teeth, his skin was pallid, and beads of perspiration glistened on his brow. I looked about me, trying to distract myself from Walter’s uncharacteristic mood. A brougham, with an elaborate monogram of MLS painted in gold leaf on the door, was parked nearby. A man, pulling off his gloves, stood waiting for the driver to open the door. I stared at him for a moment, struck by his resemblance to our host, Senator Smith. And then, as the driver reached to open the door, the man jabbed the poor driver in the back with his black umbrella, fuming for having to wait. Embarrassed to have witnessed such boorish behavior, I looked back at Walter, hoping to find a change. It was a mistake. His face was drawn, and when he noticed me looking at him, he struggled to offer me a limp smile.

  Oh, Walter, what has happened?

  I walked beside him, wordlessly guiding him toward one of my favorite places in all of the city, while my stomach clenched and breathing became a chore. Walter, an exceptional physician, a compliment I never thought I’d give any doctor, didn’t take long to notice I was struggling to keep my composure.

  “Is there something wrong? Are you ill?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” I said, my laugh sounding feeble even to my own ears.

  Walter’s smile was as feeble as my laugh, not at all like the grin he’d given me moments ago from the train. What had happened in those few moments? Had he recovered from his joy of seeing me and sobered to the reality of our situation? Had he received bad news and hesitated to tell me? Was he due to leave for a tour of Europe and wished not to go? Had his mother changed her mind?

  Walter took a deep breath, and I feared the worst. “You like the watch pin I sent you then?” He pointed to the gift pinned to my dress.

  “You know I do.” He was doing everything to avoid saying what must be said. “Please tell me. I can’t take the anticipation anymore.”

  I put my hand to my chest, nearly gasping for breath. My corset suddenly felt too tight. I’d been so excited to see him and now, if he didn’t speak soon, I feared I would run away and not come back.

  “Indulge me a few more minutes? Is the garden far?”

  “No, look.” Unable to say more, I pointed toward the towering circular conservatory, the sun glinting off the hundreds of glass panels on its dome, a few blocks away. He patted my hand and we strode in silence until we passed a police station with a sign on the door that read FE, FI, FO, FIGHT, WE SMELL THE BLOOD OF A COXEYITE.

  “What’s that all about?” Walter said. My heart beating too hard to answer, I led him quickly past. The last thing I needed to worry about was the threat of Coxey’s Army.

  When we arrived, he began scouring the outdoor gardens, looking about him nervously, until he spied the spot where he was to tell me the crushing news. He took my hands in his and led me to the marble wall that encircled the famous Bartholdi Fountain, in the shadow of the ornate, thirty-foot-tall cast-iron sculpture including reptiles, seashells, tritons, and three classical female figures holding a large basin encircled with a dozen lamps. The mist from the cascading water cooled my flushed face. He sat. I didn’t. A flash of concern passed over his face. He patted the spot next to him.

  “Please, Hattie, don’t make this harder than it has to be.” And there it was. Confirmation that he’d traveled all this way to tell me face-to-face that he’d bent to the wishes of his mother and was engaged to someone else, that he was dying, that . . . that for whatever reason, I’d never see him again. “Will you sit?”

  The smell of the water mixed with the scent of the nearby rose garden filled the air as a brilliant red cardinal alighted and then disappeared into an arborvitae hedge nearby. At any other time, I would have inhaled the sweet scents deeply. Now I could barely breathe.

  “No, I’ll stand.”

  “Very well,” he said, the words forced from his lips. “After what you’ve been through, it’s only fitting I should do this properly.” He inched to the edge of the wall and took my hands in his. With his soft skin against mine, I had to look away. “At least I won’t have to get my knees dirty.” He chuckled.

  Knees dirty? Was he planning to beg my forgiveness for leading me astray? For elevating my hopes, only to dash them when I had so gallantly fought against such a bitter end?

  “Just say what you have to say.” I could taste the bitterness in my mouth.

  “Dearest Hattie, will you not even look at me?”

  “No.” Tears welling in my eyes slowly dripped down my face. With both of my hands in his, I had no way of brushing them aside as I wanted to.

  Suddenly Walter was on his feet, his hands cradling my face, staring into my eyes. “This isn’t at all what I wanted. Oh, Hattie, my God, why are you crying? Please, if I’ve been wrong . . . Oh God. How could I be so wrong?” He took several steps away and turned from me. We stood in silence for a moment as I drew my courage to speak.

  “I’m sorry, Walter. I didn’t mean to break down.” Not taking the time to find my handkerchief in my bag, I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. “Please, say what you came to say. I’ll be fine.”

  He swiveled around to stare at me and then the smile I so adored widened across his face. He took one step, and I was wrapped in his arms as he kissed my eyes and my cheeks where my tears mingled with his kisses.

  “And here I thought for a moment . . . oh, how could I have ever doubted you?”

  “Doubted me? Oh, Walter, what are you talking about?”

  With his face mere inches from mine he said, “I love you, Miss Hattie Davish. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Waves of shock and disbelief rippled through my body so that I couldn’t feel my feet or hands and as quickly were replaced by overwhelming relief, happiness, and joy. My head swam and tears blurred my vision. How could I have misread his nervousness for rejection, his hesitation for having to relay tragic news? Walter loved me. I knew he did. Why was I so quick to believe he’d given up?

  It didn’t matter now, I realized, as he stared at me in anticipation of my answer.

  “Well? Will you have me, Hattie?”

  What else could I say? “Yes, my dearest Walter. Yes!”

  He swept me into his arms, and swung me in a circle like a whirligig. We both laughed in relief and joy. The disapproving stares of a middle-aged couple strolling by brought me back to myself, and Walter put me back on my feet. Still clutching each other’s hands, we sat simultaneously on the fountain wall and leaned in, neither wanting to be farther apart than we must.

  “So your mother gave you her blessing after all?”

  “Yes, though I won’t go into the details of our last meeting. Suffice to say, she will not stand in our way and will welcome you into her home.” That was as much as I could expect from the woman who was disappointed in her aspirations to find her son a wealthy, socially suitable wife.

  “I know both Father and Mother would’ve adored you.” I only wished I’d had the chance to introduce them to this wonderful man. “Though Mother, having raised me to be a ‘good Catholic girl,’ wanted me to marry a ‘nice Catholic boy.’ So despite having married a Protestant herself, she would’ve tried to convert you.”

  “She wouldn’t need to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I spent our time away wisely, dearest Hattie. I know how much your faith means to you, and I know you would never ask it of me, so I did it for you.”

  “You converted?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, now I too believe in One Holy Catholic and Apost
olic Church.”

  “Oh, Walter.” I was so full of joy that I couldn’t say more.

  “But what about Sir Arthur?” Walter said. “Will he give us his blessing, despite losing you as his secretary?”

  “Oh!” I gasped, my hand flying to cover my mouth.

  “You did mention this inevitability to him, didn’t you?”

  I was mortified to have to admit I had never mentioned the possibility, let alone the inevitability, to Sir Arthur that I might marry and leave his employ. I loved Walter, but I had never committed to the idea that we would someday marry. After his mother’s rejection of me in Newport, it seemed too much of a dream, like I was setting myself up for a terrible disappointment. And yet when Walter had written to tell me he was coming to Washington and had news he wanted to discuss, I’d immediately hoped for a proposal. So why hadn’t I broached the subject with Sir Arthur? He’d been so good to me, I couldn’t imagine marrying and leaving him without his well wishes. Was that why? Did I doubt he would wish me well? Would he concern himself only with the loss of a trusted servant? Or had the appropriate moment simply not presented itself? I hoped it was the latter but feared it was the former.

  “I haven’t spoken to him about it.”

  “Not at all?” Walter’s eyes widened in surprise.

  I wanted to tell him I’d done it, that I hadn’t feared what Sir Arthur would say, that I hadn’t doubted there would ever be a need to discuss it. I’d found avoiding the truth and sometimes outright lying had come easier and easier to me, ever since I’d gotten caught up in crime and murder, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t lie to this man.

  “Not at all.” Walter silently contemplated this revelation.

  “Then we must speak to him as soon as possible, mustn’t we?”

  “Yes.” I was relieved not to be chastised for my lapse. “In fact, I have to meet him at the Capitol in an hour. Maybe I can speak with him then.”

  “Oh, no, I’ve arranged to have a late luncheon with my sister. As one of my biggest allies in this world, she has a right to know the happy news first. She lives in Dupont Circle. Do you have time to at least come and meet Sarah?”

  Walter’s sister, Sarah, Mrs. Daniel Clayworth, was several years old than her brother but, unlike Walter, had made her mother proud in her choice of a spouse. Sarah had married a wealthy banker from the state of Missouri who was now serving his third term as a United States congressman, and the couple was entrenched in Washington’s high society. Walter adored his sister, writing of her often in his letters, but with Sarah having lived first in St. Louis and then in Washington, they saw each other rarely. Needless to say, I hadn’t yet met her.

  “I’m so sorry, Walter.” I glanced at the watch pinned to my dress, his gift to me. “You’ll have to go without me. Sir Arthur wants me to cover the Senate’s session this afternoon. Dupont Circle is a bit far, and I can’t risk being late. You know how Sir Arthur is about punctuality.” I tried to keep the relief from my voice. After the fiasco of meeting Walter’s mother, I was none too eager to meet the sister. “I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Of course, I’m disappointed, but you have to do what you need to do.”

  “Can we see each other tonight?”

  “I have a better idea,” Walter said, brightening. “I’ve never been to a session of Congress. Maybe I can meet you there. And I’ll bring Sarah, if she can join us, so you two can get acquainted.”

  “This afternoon?”

  “Nervous?” he asked, though he hadn’t needed to. He could easily tell I was nervous.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Don’t be. She’s eager to meet you and will love you as much as I do.” I nodded, praying she would love me even half as much. It would be an improvement over Mrs. Grice. I said as much. Walter laughed, his head tilting back, his Adam’s apple prominent.

  Oh, to kiss him right there. Blood rushed to my cheeks at the thought. I glanced at my lap to compose myself before he noticed.

  “You’re right. No one could love you as much as I do.” And with that he put his arms around my shoulders, pulling me the few inches toward him that separated us, and kissed me with all the abandon and joy of a man in love. And the world melted away.

  CHAPTER 4

  My trousseau!

  After a reluctant parting with Walter, I walked about for a few minutes to calm myself before meeting Sir Arthur for the Senate session. As I passed Hutchinson’s Ladies’ Furnishings on Pennsylvania Avenue, the window dressing caught my eye. Bolt after bolt of lace, draped across bars suspended high from the ceiling, flowed down and across the floor like waterfalls, with individual silk flowers of every color scattered and “floating” among them. And then it hit me. My trousseau. I didn’t have a trousseau.

  Unlike some girls who had years of linens and underclothes delicately sewn and stored in a hope chest, waiting for the groom to come along, I had not spent a single moment contemplating what I would need if I were ever to marry. But I was now engaged (I still couldn’t believe it!) and, as I admired the lovely lace in the window, realized I was terribly under-equipped. I pulled my notebook and pencil out of my chatelaine bag and jotted down the minimum I needed to properly furnish myself.

  1. a reception dress

  2. walking dress

  3. suit dress

  4. three day dresses

  5. two housedresses

  6. three nightgowns

  7. three petticoats

  8. two chemises

  9. three pairs of drawers

  10. six handkerchiefs

  11. three corsets

  12. two dozen pairs of plain stockings

  13. a tablecloth

  14. a set of towels

  I still had a little time before meeting Sir Arthur, so I stepped in and, after explaining my predicament, found an enthusiastic shopgirl to help me. She looked at my list and within minutes pulled everything I needed from the glass cases and wooden shelves lining the walls of the store. Not having anticipated the extra expense, I stood firm when she suggested adding more drawers, chemises, and nightgowns to my order. The only extravagance I allowed myself was to add embroidery to the petticoats and exquisite French lace to the nightdresses. As the shopgirl took my address to have my packages delivered, a gasp behind me made me glance up. Two women in shirtwaists and skirts, their heads bent toward one another, whispered while staring and pointing at something at the door. I followed their gaze, and my mouth opened agape. Standing just inside, in a crimson evening gown covered with flounces of alternating yellow and lavender lace, was the “fallen woman” I’d seen sunning herself on the balcony of the bawdy house this morning.

  I couldn’t decide what was more astonishing, that she had the audacity to come in a respectable shop, which was, to be fair, mere blocks away from the establishment where the girl worked, that she was wearing an evening gown in the early afternoon, or that I’d seen this same girl twice in one day.

  Either way, close your mouth, Davish, I chided myself, and stop staring. She might be what she was, but that didn’t give me cause to act less than respectable.

  As I clamped my jaw shut and looked slightly away, though keeping the girl in my sights, she glanced about her as if not certain how to proceed. Immediately a matronly woman, in a simple but well-tailored black dress, most likely a senior member of the staff, approached and whispered something to the girl.

  “No, I will not leave,” the girl said with a harsh twang, defiantly loud.

  “If you don’t go quietly, you will be forcibly removed,” the matron said.

  “I’m going to be respectable very soon and you’ll regret treating me like this.”

  “That’s all very well. But please leave.” When the girl in the garish dress didn’t move, the matron waved her hand to a man in the cap and uniform of a guard, who immediately approached. “Mr. Homer, would you please escort this ‘girl’ from the store and see that she doesn’t return?”

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” the guard said,
gripping the girl’s arm.

  “Let go of me!” The flounces on the girl’s dress flapped as she struggled to free herself from the guard’s hold.

  “Mr. Homer?” the matron said. And with that the guard opened the door with one hand and proceeded to drag the girl outside with the other.

  “You can’t treat me like this!” she shouted. “You don’t know who I know. My man is powerful in this city. Just you wait until I tell him what you’ve done.”

  And then the door closed behind her and all was quiet in the store once more. The matron wiped her hands on her skirt, turned her back on the door, and returned to the accessories counter.

  “I have to admit,” the shopgirl helping me said, as she finished writing my address and then leaned over the counter, “I’ve never seen one of ‘them’ before.”

  If only I could say the same thing.

  * * *

  “Sir, may I have a word?”

  Sir Arthur checked his watch. A slight frown inched across his face. “Later perhaps, Hattie. There isn’t time now. The session is soon to begin.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Here’s your gallery pass.”

  Sir Arthur handed me a small piece of paper with an etching of the Capitol and the United States Senate Chamber across the top. Next to the typewritten word ADMIT, Sir Arthur Windom-Greene and friends was handwritten. It was signed Meriwether Lewis Smith, U.S. Senator. After ordering my trousseau, I had met Sir Arthur at the Smith home on Lafayette Square. I’d accompanied him on the ride to the Capitol, a massive white stone building dominated by a towering central dome flanked by two wings, in silence. Equally overwhelmed by the imposing presence of the iconic seat of America’s government and the daunting task of broaching the subject of my engagement with my employer, I’d said nothing during the entire ride. Now waiting outside the Senate Chamber, I drew up my courage to speak.