I could not tell if the speaker was sincere, but the grand dame next to me smiled with apparent delight.
“Ah, Bertha, always a delight to see you and to partake of one of your events. And of your fabulous teas,” Mrs. Chickering replied with a smile, patting Bertha’s hand with her free one but keeping her right arm looped through mine.
Bertha smiled, tilting her head toward me. Her thin lips, now turned down in disapproval, did nothing to improve her emaciated appearance.
“Bertha, I don’t know as you’ve met my dear friend?” Mrs. Chickering asked, pointing at me, then raising an eyebrow toward Bertha as though daring her to turn me away.
“Oh, no. It’s an honor, I assure you, to meet a…a dear friend of yours,” Bertha stammered out, her voice more whining and high-pitched than when she had first approached us, causing me to attempt not to grimace at the sound.
I wondered why she, the mistress of such a grand home, would be solicitous of Mrs. Chickering. “Clarissa Sullivan, ma’am,” I murmured, nodding demurely.
“Of course,” Bertha effused, her thin lips turned up in a slightly feral smile. “You always were a forward thinker, Sophronia. Just like you to invite the immigrant masses to our gatherings.”
I squinted at her emphasis on immigrant but knew now was not the time for clarification.
Bertha eyed my dress critically, raised an eyebrow and sniffed as though to imply my presence was tolerated solely due to my association with Mrs. Chickering. “Please, make yourselves welcome,” she called out in her grating voice.
Mrs. Chickering and I moved on; she cut a wide swath through the room with me following in her wake. Either the other guests did not like her, or they were in awe of her, and attempted to appear busy with their own conversations. I imagined it was a mixture of the two. We arrived at a black walnut settee covered in mauve-colored satin with an ornately carved back panel of a hunting scene.
“Harrumph,” Mrs. Chickering muttered. I glanced curiously toward her, wondering what had upset her. Mrs. Chickering murmured, “I’ve always hated this settee, never understood why a suffragette would own the piece. And I’ve told Bertha. Now for some perverse reason, I find this is always the settee open to me.”
I unsuccessfully attempted to glance at the carving to determine why it was offensive, craning my neck to decipher the scene.
“You’ll pull a neck muscle, and you look like a simpleton, turned around like that,” Mrs. Chickering barked. I hastily faced forward, flushing fiercely. I began to doubt that meeting her had been providential.
“It’s a scene of Apollo hunting Daphne and her running away,” Mrs. Chickering hissed. “I know it’s from mythology. I know we must respect the past and ancestors. But don’t you think a good suffragette would turn and fight? Not run away and want her father to turn her into a tree, but to give her quivers and arrows and shoot him?” she demanded with righteous indignation. I laughed, caught completely off guard by her outrageous comment.
She turned toward me, her aquamarine eyes bright as though fire-lit. I sensed she, too, was trying not to laugh. I finally said, “It would be a nice twist to the story and a wonderful conversation piece.” My eyes danced with mischief and merriment. I began to relax in her presence.
“Exactly, my girl,” she said. “Unfortunately, Bertha, not the smartest woman of her day, married an even simpler man, a banker,”—this word said with absolute derision—“and he wants everything as basic as possible. Lest he become confused.” She grunted as though she couldn’t imagine such people. “Though of course the Searles are exceedingly wealthy and the ‘right’ sort of people,” Mrs. Chickering said with a quirk of her eyebrow.
Mrs. Chickering attempted to settle back against the uncomfortable carving of the settee, grimacing in disgust.
I too wished for a cushion to protect my back. I lowered my voice, afraid of being overheard by too many attendants. “What exactly happens at one of these events?”
“Depends on the day and the mood of those here,” she murmured. “Some days I just partake of delicious teas and cakes and give my cook the afternoon off.” She raised her eyebrows again, and I found myself enjoying her irreverence. “Other days someone or other has a fire in their belly, and there are good discussions on our cause. Not that we’ve made much progress lately.”
“Surely keeping the public aware of the need to vote is essential,” I argued, feeling my excitement and passion for the cause rising.
She waved her right hand in a somewhat dismissive manner. “Of course it is and always will be. But the public has been aware of our wishes for decades now and has had no desire to treat women as anything other than a herd of sheep who follow the will of their men.” She looked at me, arching her eyebrows again, daring me to argue.
“Not all men expect women to be that way,” I countered, thinking of Gabriel, silently hoping he was different.
“If you are fortunate, my girl, if you are fortunate,” she murmured, nodding a few times, a wistful expression in her eyes.
I smiled, thankful she had agreed.
“No, back in the day, we were filled with fire,” she said, raising her fisted hand slightly at the word fire. “We had finally emerged from that dreadful conflict,”—at which she nearly crossed herself—“and we women had hopes of being treated as equals. It turns out that white men weren’t serious on that front, no matter what the amendments say,” she whispered, looking at me.
I merely nodded.
“Back then we thought it would be a short fight. That we’d have the vote by now. Some—” and she nodded vaguely toward the room so I didn’t know whom she truly meant “—thought we’d be included in the scope of the Fifteenth Amendment.” A long sigh followed. “But here we are, more than thirty years after the war, still toiling.”
“It’s worth it, surely,” I said.
“Of course it’s worth it, my girl. Just like it’s worth my believing that someday I’ll meet my maker in heaven. Though I believe He’ll be too busy for more than a quick salute.” She eyed me closely, and I again felt the full effect of those aquamarine eyes.
I chuckled, imperceptibly saluting her. I hid my actions to anyone watching our conversation by acting like I was checking my coiffure. Mrs. Chickering guffawed, seeming to enjoy me as much as I was now delighting in her.
“Why are we alone to one side?” I asked in a low voice, glancing around the room, watching all the well-dressed, demurely attired men and women surreptitiously watch us in return.
“I am a bit outspoken for their tastes,” Mrs. Chickering proclaimed. “Many of them prefer the insipid commentaries of Bertha to anything of true substance. They live in fear that one of my statements will be quoted in the newspaper. Harold Zimmerman, one of our few male members,”—she nodded toward a balding man with a large paunch—“endeavors to ensure that nothing that has not been approved by him appears in any printed press.” She sniffed her disapproval, glaring in his direction. He sensed her attention, glancing toward her. He blanched at noticing the full effect of her displeasure and quickly looked away.
She moved restlessly on the settee, I imagined in an attempt to find a comfortable position.
I had given up, accepting that, from my backside down, I would be numb for the foreseeable future.
“Now, tell me about you, Clarissa Sullivan, the so-called immigrant upstart.” She pinned me with an intense stare, making my heart race at having her full attention.
“I live in the South End with my da, stepmother and brothers. My mama died eight years ago from a wasting disease. My da runs a successful blacksmith shop and my brother, Colin, works for him. As I am not yet married, I wanted to have a profession.” After a short pause, I murmured, “Needed one, really. I work as a teacher at the Wells School in the West End.”
“You mean to tell me, my girl, that you teach, and teach a mass of poor children in that wretched West End?” Again the near crossing of herself. “Though you don’t need to?”
I
looked at her, trying to determine her real question. Finally, I answered, “I need to. For me. For my sense of purpose.”
A full smile bloomed on her face, and she sighed with contentment. “You’ve been a suffragette for a while, my girl, and not known it.” She patted my hand affectionately, and then seemed to lose all interest in our conversation as tea was brought out on large trays.
Most men and women slowly rose from their seats to wander toward the teapots and trays of food. However, Mrs. Chickering and I had an overflowing plate of sandwiches, cakes and cookies delivered to us along with perfectly prepared cups of tea by a gracious maid. I smiled my thanks to her, unsure why we had been granted the courtesy.
“It’s done for all of the older generation,” Mrs. Chickering said, nodding toward a few of the other women, “and anyone who is sitting with us. It shows their respect. In the beginning I railed against it and marched up there to pour my own tea. Now I simply enjoy not having to balance a cup of tea with my cakes as I walk. I enjoy their solicitude, makes me feel welcome here, even if some of them wished I lived in Wyoming. Though at least I’d have the vote there.”
I choked on my tea, unable to imagine living so far from Boston.
“Eat up, my girl, Clarissa. Bertha’s cook makes some of the finest pastries you’ll ever eat.”
We ate slowly, drank cups of tea and watched the room. A handful of women wandered over to speak a few words with Mrs. Chickering, although none remained in her company long. I enjoyed watching the room and seeing everyone interact, yet began to feel purposefully ignored. I stiffened my spine, intent on maintaining a placid expression. Finally, after everyone had settled again, it seemed as though the meeting would start.
At first, I sat enraptured, listening to the speakers, both women and men, discuss current concerns and strategies.
Then a young plump woman, with a face appearing to be in a perpetual state of frowning, stood to speak in an upper-crust Bostonian accent that grated on my nerves and reminded me of my grandparents. “I am sure we are all in agreement that the current course, the present argument, is the correct one,” she said in a husky voice, expecting approval from those gathered.
I heard an overwhelming murmur of agreement from most of the attendants, though I heard Mrs. Chickering snort in disapproval. I felt like a fish out of water, as if I had entered a room in the middle of the conversation and had missed the crux of the argument. The severe-looking woman, attired in a dull gray dress, continued speaking. “The argument against the immigrant vote and for educated white women’s vote is quite sound,” she said.
I gasped, then tried to cover up my alarm with a few coughs. Mrs. Chickering harrumphed again, as though echoing my sentiments. The disapproving plump woman looked severely toward Mrs. Chickering. “You disagree, Sophronia?”
“As well you know, Gertrude,” Mrs. Chickering ground out. “Why the lot of you could ever put your pea-brained heads together and create an argument denying anyone the vote and then think this helps the women’s cause is beyond me.” She exhaled loudly, staring fiercely around the room, daring anyone to countermand her previous statement. “Shouldn’t we work toward the rights of all people? Isn’t that what the movement is for?”
Another woman—with lips that seemed to be perpetually turned up, mockingly at the corners—spoke softly. “Your generation had your chance to do it your way and failed. Now it is our turn.” She tilted her head toward Mrs. Chickering in a challenging way.
“You think, Mrs. Cushing, that disenfranchising some will lead to the enfranchisement of others?” Mrs. Chickering shook her head, seeming at a loss for words.
Mrs. Cushing spoke up in a soft, gently derisive voice. “I am sure you can find guidance in your Woman’s Bible.”
Mrs. Chickering glowered at the young woman as a few of the attendants snickered. My eyes grew round at the reference to the controversial rewriting of the Bible by one of the earliest founders of the suffragist movement, Elizabeth Cady Stanton.
Mrs. Chickering tilted up her chin, meeting Mrs. Cushing’s gaze. “Yes, I might just learn more about my own sense of self and worth outside the control of the preacher man. Thank you for your kind suggestion,” she replied.
Mrs. Cushing flushed red, losing any semblance of a smile.
“Now,” Mrs. Chickering spoke up in a loud, authoritative voice, “I know our leaders have not spoken openly against these ideas. However, no one in the suffrage movement would truly wish for one to gain the vote at the expense of another. Even if they are currently poor and immigrant.” She paused to pass a severe look around the room. “Many of you seem to have forgotten that your forebears were all immigrants at some point. Though, unfortunately, many of you were never poor.”
“Mrs. Chickering,” Gertrude interrupted, “how dare you compare us to these immigrants? They are uneducated. They don’t speak English. Or if they do, it’s an accent you cannot understand. And they are not good Protestants,” she finished with a fervor, so upset she nearly stammered.
“As our esteemed leader, Susan B. Anthony, said, ‘There is no true freedom for women without possession of all her rights.’ I like to think that is true for all people. Immigrant or well established. Woman or man. Educated or undereducated.” Sophronia sat tall, appearing at peace.
I glanced at the others in the room, and they seemed deflated, as though their argument had lost steam. I feared it had merely stalled for the day and that it would resurface again soon.
After a few tense moments, another woman spoke up. “I believe it is time to discuss the celebratory preparations for Mrs. Ward-Howe.” At this, a boisterous discussion began, with petty arguments over the cake and music. “It is in less than two months’ time, and all are expected to come. There is still much planning to be done.”
Excitement coursed through me at the thought of seeing, maybe actually meeting, Mrs. Ward-Howe, a legend in the suffragist movement. After a few more moments, Mrs. Chickering turned to me during a particularly long-winded talk by a Mrs. Audley, pinning me with an intense stare. “You will be there, my girl,” she intoned.
“I will do my best,” I murmured.
“Humph…” she said, pursing her lips in displeasure. “Do your best to come to tea at my house in a few days,” she whispered in a carrying voice. She handed me a calling card with her address on it. I nodded a few times, uncertainty filling me at how I would manage tea at her house.
The discussion about the ceremony for Mrs. Ward-Howe ended, signaling the completion of the meeting. I quickly stood, knowing I had tarried too long. “I must hurry home,” I whispered to Sophronia. “I will call in a few days.” I clasped her hand, then slipped out of the ornate room and house.
CHAPTER 14
THE SCHOOL YEAR CONTINUED, although my students became increasingly restless. I found my mood mirrored theirs perfectly, although my restlessness derived from inner doubts and turmoil rather than a desire to be outside. I had enjoyed the suffragist meeting and encountering Mrs. Chickering, but the gathering had stirred up my deeply suppressed longings for more from life.
One afternoon after a meeting with the principal, Mr. Carney, I returned to my schoolroom to find Gabriel there. It had been a particularly harrowing day with my students Susie and Debra nearly coming to blows over a piece of ribbon. I began to enter my classroom, only to stop short upon the realization Gabriel was not alone. I remained in the hallway, skulking outside the door, listening to the discussion, fascinated by the play of emotions across Gabriel’s face.
Gabriel stood amid the pupils’ desks, his tall frame rigid with anger. The day’s lesson about comportment remained on the chalkboard behind him. He turned to watch Florence as she moved around the room, farther away from him. I saw Florence’s ashen face for a brief moment, and I realized that, by luck or misfortune, Florence had decided to visit me at the same time and was now confronted with an irate Gabriel.
“How is my cousin Henry, Miss Butler?” Gabriel asked.
Flore
nce gave a start, as though she had been struck. “I do not know what you mean,” she protested.
In a low voice, Gabriel said, “Oh, I think you do.”
She glared at Gabriel, standing up straight, bringing her shoulders back. She stood as tall as her five-foot-six-inch frame allowed. “Who are you to speak to me in such a manner?” she asked. “You, who would sacrifice your own brother’s happiness out of pride.”
“Is that what I did?” he demanded, fire filling his eyes.
“You tell me, Gabriel,” Florence demanded. “One minute, Richard and I were to marry, the next, he won’t even acknowledge he knows me. Scorning me,” she nearly sobbed out.
“And why should he acknowledge the likes of you?” Gabriel asked.
“How dare you!” Florence cried out, looking as though she were about to hit him. “How dare you treat me in such a manner?” Tears began to pour down her cheeks. “Was it because I’m poor? Unattractive? Forward thinking for a woman?” she demanded.
Gabriel watched her without emotion. “You know damn well that’s got nothing to do with it, Florence,” he bit out.
“Then what, Gabriel? I’ve waited four years to know why. Why?”
“You’re a liar. How could we ever trust the likes of you?”
“What?” Florence gasped, confusion evident in her expression.
“You heard me,” Gabriel stated, taking a deep calming breath. “After I found out about your true past—and about you and Cousin Henry and Aunt Masterson—no way in hell was someone with ties to them marrying my brother,” Gabriel hissed. Florence watched him with dazed eyes, the fight and bluster slowly seeping out of her. She collapsed onto a chair, staring vacantly into space, as though remembering long-ago scenes.
“How could you get it so wrong?” Florence asked. She looked at him with devastated eyes. “Be thankful you have no idea what it is to be truly alone, to be so unloved, Gabriel,” she whispered in a tortured voice, the words sounding more like a curse than a benediction.
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