Secret Sisters

by Joy Callaway

  I shook my head, shoving the litany of offenses I felt at his assumptions to the back of my mind.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Grant. I truly am. But campaigning for our stupidity as a sacrifice to our future husbands and children is the most narrow-minded, idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” He jerked forward, raising his voice. “There’s value in educating women—personal wellbeing, first and foremost. I’m not saying that women should sit idly like brainless peons. What I am saying is that, whatever they do, the family should remain first priority. If women are tempted to relinquish that responsibility, who will pick it up? Certainly not men. And I know I’m not the only one of this opinion. Some of the girls studying divinity aren’t intent on a degree, but a husband. They know that understanding is important in a marriage and that mothers equipped with learning are their children’s best teachers.”

  Despite the cold, I felt heat prickling my skin.

  “Your mother is just one person, one case, Mr. Richardson,” I said, ignoring his praise of the divinity girls. “Plenty of modern women balance both.”

  “Is that so?” He shifted his weight, causing the cab to rock slightly. “Name one.”

  “Elizabeth Blackwell,” I said, choosing not to elaborate that the first female doctor in America was a spinster.

  He took a moment to respond. Perhaps he’d never heard of her.

  “The good doctor has never married, Miss Carrington,” he said with a tight smile.

  “Even so, there are plenty of women who work in the factories or in seamstress shops every day, lest they be forced to live on the streets,” I argued. “And I’m certain that at least a sizeable majority of them are good mothers.”

  “That’s different. They have to work. They’re not seeking it out because they want to. When they go home to their children, they pay attention to them, they nurture them. The women I’m speaking of are upper-class women who choose to work because it’s their lifeblood. Look at Elizabeth Cady Stanton or Matilda Gage. Surely they’re out of the home at speaking engagements much more than they’re there.”

  “You’re only speculating about their schedules, and, in any case, they’re fighting for change for their daughters, for all of us. Not to mention, I’ve heard both are wonderful mothers.”

  I looked at Grant and knew the argument was falling on deaf ears, but I didn’t need him to agree with me. He was nothing to me, to any of my sisters, and beyond the favor he was doing for me, he had no place in my life. Regardless of men like him, we would persevere. We would become more than the repressed women of our mothers’ era, locked in our homes without a voice besides our husbands’.

  The sleigh stopped moving and the bells tinkled at random as they settled. Grant cleared his throat and forced a smile at me. The carriage door opened and a footman in a maroon suit stretched out his hand. I took it and stepped out of the cab, Grant on my heels.

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I want to believe you’re right,” he whispered, “but I don’t think it can be done without a price.” His eyes searched my own for something—perhaps for a way to reconcile his beliefs. “You’ve somehow compelled me to help you anyway, regardless of the fact that the thought makes my heart wither.” He sighed. “Even so, because I don’t want you to meet the fate of those before you, because I don’t want you to sacrifice future happiness for the hollowness of a profession, I don’t wish you to succeed tonight, Beth. I hope you fail.”

  9

  Of course he wanted me to fail. The statement didn’t shock me, but the way he’d said it so bluntly made anger rise anew. Regardless of our argument, he’d wanted to escort me into the hall as a proper man should, but I’d gone ahead of him. I knew I’d have to concede at some point—I was his date, after all—but I could barely stomach him right now.

  “Beth.” Will materialized beside me as I crossed over the hall’s foyer, Lily’s arm in his.

  “Are you—”

  “You’re upset,” she whispered, interrupting Will. I knew Grant was mere paces behind me, so I shook my head in case he was close enough to hear this exchange. There was no point in causing a scene. He’d simply confirmed he was the person I’d thought he was.

  “What’d he do?” I could feel Will’s eyes on my face, waiting for an excuse to confront him.

  “Nothing. I was cold. He was walking too slowly.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I glanced over at Lily and narrowed my eyes, hoping she’d let the issue drop. Lily loosened the collar of the Russian fur coat she’d borrowed from Mary with her free hand and pursed her lips as though she’d forgotten how adamantly Grant opposed us. Recanting our conversation in front of Will meant having to tell him why it mattered, letting him in on our secret. Will leaned in to me.

  “I don’t believe you either. The look on your face . . . you look as though you want to kill him. If he’s insulted you in some way, I—”

  “He hasn’t. I told you. I was cold.” I turned away from Lily and Will to join a throng of strangers flooding through the open double doors to the main hall. The venue looked lovely—obviously not the doing of the brothers. Silver candelabra were set atop lace tablecloths, the tables situated in a semi-circle around an open wood floor. Enormous bouquets of baby’s breath and lily of the valley were placed randomly around the room on windowsills—beneath colossal silver Iota Gamma letters situated on a bare wall, and atop the closed lid of the grand piano in the corner of the room. I lingered on the woman at the piano bench, expecting to see Miss Rigby, who always played and sang for these sorts of functions, and instead spying a woman dressed in black. I squinted, trying to make out her face, when the musician’s gaze lifted from the music to scan the room. I lurched from my position against the wall.

  “Mary,” I said when I reached her. Her lips lifted as she swayed to the melody of Brahms’ Rhapsody in B Minor Op. 79 No.1, her fingers tripping over the notes. She hadn’t come to Whitsitt to study performance, and I knew that the only piano instruction she’d ever had had been from her elderly neighbor and sometimes nanny when she was young. “What are you doing here?”

  She didn’t look at me, but laughed under her breath. Her shoulders rustled the black mass of feathers pluming from her demure trilby.

  “Is that a D?” she asked me, nodding toward the music. “Thirty-first measure, second beat?” The candle next to her stand was dwindling, but I didn’t bother to look—not that I’d know how to read the music anyway.

  “You don’t trust me, do you? I promised I wouldn’t mention that we’d organized,” I whispered.

  “On the contrary,” she said, leaning toward the stand. “Both you and Lily were attending tonight. I didn’t want to be the only founding member absent when President Wilson agrees to charter us.”

  Mary flipped the page and stole a glance at me. “Go on then,” she said. “Retrieve a drink or walk around a bit until you are calm. You reek of anger.”

  “I’m sorry.” I fingered the black lace at the edge of my puffed sleeve. “Grant has—”

  “Insulted you? Attempted to douse your enthusiasm?” Mary grinned. “You know what he is and somehow expected him to change his mind?” I watched her fingers clumsily search the keys as she began the lovely fluid notes of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 23. I suppose, deep down, I’d thought there was a chance Grant could come to his senses. There had been a moment in the sleigh where he’d let the mask of arrogance and strength drop away in front of me, and for that moment, I’d let myself believe that he wasn’t the man I thought he was.

  “You’re right,” I said, my anger cooling. I looked over the sea of black tuxedos and fine silk dresses spilling through the doors toward their seats, and spotted Lily and Will at a table beneath the Iota Gamma letters. She was laughing hard, hand covering her nose and mouth before Will grasped it, stared at her for a moment, and kissed her gloved palm. A stab of jealousy startled me. Had he been lying to me about his feelings toward her? But why would he?
Surely he knew I’d be supportive of his pursuit of Lily.

  “How’d you convince Miss Rigby to let you play?” I asked, still scanning the room for Grant.

  “I didn’t have to,” Mary said, her eyes glistening with mischief. “She was tied up . . . or rather all of the violin strings were. Someone had gone in and tangled them. There’s a concert tomorrow, so it was imperative that she sort them tonight.”

  I laughed.

  “How did you think to—”

  “President Wilson. At the table to the right of Mr. Buchannan and Lily,” she interrupted, jerking her head. Sure enough, I spotted his head of thick white hair, as fluffy and stark as a cotton blossom against the low light, as he helped his wife to the table, situating her indigo skirt in front of the chair legs.

  “Won’t you come sit next to me, my dear?” Grant’s voice startled me. I conceded because I couldn’t see an alternative, taking his outstretched hand. “Excuse us, ma’am,” he said, tipping his head at Mary, who didn’t bother to look up from her music.

  I steeled myself for a verbal lashing for the way I’d stormed away from him, and prepared to tell him that his ignorance negated my respect. Instead, he remained silent as he led me across the room. I felt stares, likely those accidentally sliding from my date to myself, and stole a glance at Grant before turning away just as quickly. I didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to appreciate the way his smile was returned by everyone it fell upon.

  “Mr. Richardson, lovely to see you.” The Vice President of Admissions, Mr. Stout, rose from his chair at a table in the middle of the semi-circle. “I see that we have the honor of your company this evening,” he continued, gesturing to Grant’s name in perfect calligraphy on a name plate next to mine.

  “That you do,” he said, clapping the man on the back of his brown jacket. I glanced across the room, disappointed to see that we were seated as far from possible from Will and Lily and President Wilson. “If you’ll excuse us for a moment,” Grant continued, turning from Mr. Stout and those at the rest of the table and leading me a few paces farther to an unoccupied space against the wall.

  “What are you doing?” I tried to pry my fingers out of his grip, but he tightened it.

  “I’m doing you a favor that you’ve gladly accepted, so you’ll listen for a moment,” he said, his voice edged with fury. “And when we return to the table, we’ll not argue in front of my guests.”

  I stared over his shoulder at the wait staff filing out of the kitchen instead. His free hand materialized on my chin and tipped my face to his. I jerked it away, veins coursing with fire, but held his gaze. Grant was smiling—likely to keep up the appearance that he was having a civil conversation—but his dark eyes were tapered and nearly black with anger.

  “You came here tonight knowing how I felt about your . . . your fraternity.” He whispered the last words. At least he had the decency to be discreet. Mary’s words echoed in my head. I knew she was right about the kind of man he was. So was he. “And yet you somehow seemed offended, or rather, shocked, when I mentioned it. I told you about my family to explain my stance and you—”

  “You told me that you hoped I’d fail.” I slung my hand from his grasp as small group of divinity girls started to sing The Doxology behind me.

  “Of course I do,” he said, his tone suddenly warmer. “You’re a smart woman. Surely you could deduce that I meant it as a compliment.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t need to repeat myself,” he said. “If you don’t remember what preceded that statement, which was my reason for saying it in the first place, then I suppose you’ll never know.”

  I stared at him, vaguely recalling some mention of his desire for my happiness, but none of the rest.

  “Very well. All I ask is that you remain somewhat civil to me for the remainder of the evening. After that, we’ll not speak again,” he concluded, holding out his hand to lead me back to our table. When I didn’t take it, he took my wrist and enveloped my limp palm in his. “I’d hoped that if I was honest with you, you’d understand my point of view. It was my wish that we could at least coexist. The Republicans and Democrats do it often . . . though not very well, I’ll admit.”

  “The fraternity is my passion. Your views are insulting,” I said in a low voice, smiling at Will’s friend, Mr. Stephens, who’d looked up from his seat at the table next to us. Across the vacant dance floor, I could see Will laughing, gesturing toward someone out of my view with his fork. I glimpsed President Wilson and then my eyes caught thinning salt and pepper hair and my breath hinged in my throat. Professor Helms. He was here. I’d thought the ball would only be attended by administrative faculty, the board, and a few select professors invited as special guests by fraternity officers. I never figured someone as unimportant as Professor Helms would make the cut. I looked back at Lily, but her back was toward him as she talked to an older woman I didn’t recognize. I’d have to distract her. I couldn’t let him speak to her. It would ruin her evening.

  “And yet, I’m still willing to help you. Perhaps I’ve lost my mind.” Grant’s voice startled me back to the moment as he pulled my chair out for me. “Don’t fret about the situation of our seats. You’re looking at President Wilson. I’ve already spoken to him and the two of you will have a dance. I always cut in and take a turn with his wife, Merrilee, anyway.”

  “Good of you to finally join us,” Mr. Stout said. He wiped a bit of chowder from his long brown beard and chuckled, setting his round belly to shaking. “I quite thought you were going to miss the first course. Chowder’s wonderful.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Grant said. “Apologies for our tardiness. Miss Carrington and I had some details to discuss.” He shook his linen napkin and set it gently over his lap. I took a spoonful of the chowder and lifted it to my lips, savoring the sweetness of the corn and the salty bite of the ham. Seated as we were at the end of the table, our appearance had been ignored by the rest of the guests, who seemed to be absorbed in conversation headed up by a brother I recognized but didn’t know. The man took off his glasses and gestured to one of the divinity girls sitting beside him, but I couldn’t hear him over the hum of voices and music.

  “So. Miss . . . Carrington, is it?” Mr. Stout started. I nodded and lifted another spoonful to my mouth, realizing as I did that the corn bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Stout’s teeth, both in color and size. “What are you studying? And how did you manage to catch the eye of Mr. Richardson here?”

  Grant choked on his soup.

  “She quite startled me, Mr. Stout,” he said quickly, nudging me under the table, as though he was worried that I’d recount the real story. Despite my feelings about Grant, I narrowly kept from laughing. “The woman has as much gumption as she does beauty. When I happened upon her, I was appalled that I hadn’t noticed her before.”

  “I’m studying medicine,” I added, watching Mr. Stout’s face. I played a game with myself from time to time, betting how long it would take for a man’s expression to go from jovial to stern at the discovery of my major. In this instance, it took five seconds, and then Mr. Stout’s gaze settled on Grant.

  “Is that so?” Mr. Stout asked as Grant concentrated quite hard on buttering a sweet roll. “And you’re not worried that that line of work will, you know, interfere with her . . . abilities, if the two of you were to progress in your affection?”

  Grant’s face burned deep auburn, which surprised me. I hadn’t assumed he could blush. Mr. Stout seemed to be waiting for an explanation as to why he’d waste his time on a woman whose delicate brain couldn’t handle the mental stress of a medical degree. My fingers closed around the roll on my plate, and I wished, more than anything, I could bean Mr. Stout in the forehead with it.

  Instead, I spoke up.

  “That’s actually a misconception—”

  “I’m not concerned, actually,” Grant interrupted.

  “That’s strange for a man who’s clearly on the traditional side of suffrage,
” Mr. Stout said as a waiter deposited the main course in front of him. He inhaled the aroma of the roast pork and potatoes and licked his lips before turning to me. “Your beau may not have mentioned that I’m quite progressive in my views—one of the only faculty at Whitsitt to wear the badge—but it serves the college well. As I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve got to take so many female students per Patrick Everett’s arrangement.”

  “He’s not my beau,” I said. “We’re only . . . friends, I suppose.” The qualification was a stretch.

  “Well, that’s just marvelous. Broadening your horizons, are you, Mr. Richardson? I’m impressed.” Mr. Stout, I noticed, spoke with his mouth open, the mix of potatoes and meat now a disgusting brown puree that sprayed from his mouth. My mother would have made him sit with his nose in a corner for at least half an hour for such poor table manners.

  “I’ve always been an advocate of listening to other views beyond my own. You know that,” Grant said, cutting a piece from his roast. His complexion had returned to his normal olive tone.

  “How is it that you came to study medicine, Miss Carrington?” Mr. Stout asked. “I so often hear that our female students choose a conventional course—divinity, secretarial science, nursing, and the like.”

  “My mother died from a sudden and undiagnosable illness,” I said, amazed that the sentence had come out without my voice shaking. “It hardened her heart, then her lungs. When she finally passed on, she was blue from oxygen loss. The physicians had no other choice but to stand by and watch her die.” I paused to take a sip of wine, unable to look at either Grant or Mr. Stout, though I knew both of them were watching me, likely waiting for me to burst into tears. “Nothing they tried could stop its progression. I want to find a cure for illnesses like hers, or at the very least find a name for them.”

  As I spoke, I saw my mother’s face, smiling at me as they’d wheeled her away to the hospital room, gray eyes like mine alight with the promise that they’d be able to cure her. She’d been having trouble breathing for several weeks before that, and our physician, Doctor Pines, had run out of treatment options at home. He’d recommended that she be admitted to St. Luke’s Hospital, and she never came out.