Banished Love

by Ramona Flightner

  Mrs. Smythe reached for the card, raising one eyebrow in surprise at the fancy paper. She frowned as she read the card. “I am not acquainted with a Mrs. Chickering,” she said quietly before pinning an intent gaze on me. “Clarissa?”

  My eyes grew round before I could hide my reaction.

  “You do know her,” Mrs. Smythe hissed accusingly. “Now is not the time for me to discover illicit associations with inappropriate persons of questionable backgrounds, Clarissa.” She fingered the expensive card as though determining her actions. She turned toward Bridget, replying in a cool voice, eloquently expressing her dislike at the task at hand. “Please invite her in. Prepare another pot of tea and fresh sandwiches.”

  “Yes, mum,” Bridget said, bobbing another quick curtsy before making a hasty retreat.

  A moment later, Sophie sailed into the room in a burgundy taffeta dress with decorative gold buttons down the front, head held high, as if her inclusion in our afternoon tea had never been doubted.

  “Clarissa, my girl,” she called out in her scratchy voice, her aquamarine eyes sparkling with delight. “Wonderful to see you again.” She leaned toward me to grip my hands. I smiled fully, delight filling me and momentarily banishing the anxiety of having her meet Mrs. Smythe.

  “Sophie, it is wonderful to see you. Please, make yourself comfortable.” I gestured toward a settee, though worried it would be as uncomfortable as the Searles’. “Please, sit here. This has always been my favorite chair.” I stood and ushered her into my seat, farther away from Mrs. Smythe.

  She settled herself, holding herself regally, back straight, feet curled under the chair, surveying the room. Her gaze met Mrs. Smythe’s frown, and they sat studying each other for a few moments.

  I eyed them warily, uncertain of the outcome of this impromptu meeting. Bridget entered carrying a tea tray that she placed on a small table. She was dismissed with an absentminded flick of the wrist from Mrs. Smythe. I began to prepare cups of tea, thankful for the activity as I watched them silently assess each other.

  “Mrs. Chickering,” Mrs. Smythe simpered, primly folding her hands on her lap. “We are honored you desired to have tea with us this afternoon. I was unaware that you had any association with a member of my household.”

  Sophronia leveled her piercing blue eyes on Mrs. Smythe, causing Mrs. Smythe’s cheeks to flush. “I called to ascertain how my favorite protégé progresses. I worried because I have not seen her at our recent meetings.” Her authoritative tone brooked no argument.

  “Your protégé, you say?”

  “Hmm… The most promising new suffragette I’ve met in a while.”

  I choked on my bite of shortbread, causing paroxysms of coughing, although neither woman paid me any attention.

  Mrs. Smythe glared at Mrs. Chickering, avoiding looking in my direction, raising her eyebrows inquiringly. “Suffragette?”

  Mrs. Chickering met Mrs. Smythe’s glare with a look verging on a smirk, nodding a few times.

  I briefly closed my eyes.

  Mrs. Smythe paled for a moment before her cheeks became even rosier, belying her anger. “Well, I never! The insolence.” At this, she sent a fierce glare in my direction. “And when I think of all I have done to try to give her proper guidance. Instill a sense of propriety. And she does this? Decides to associate with a group of extremists who terrify men? How will she ever marry now? Who would want her?” she wailed.

  I watched her, beginning to feel amusement and a kernel of pity for her as I realized I was overturning her perception of the world. I had finally calmed my coughing fit by this point, although my voice emerged as a weak gasp. “You’ve known my beliefs for some time,” I croaked out.

  “A schoolgirl’s idealism,” she snapped. “Nothing to be acted on.”

  Mrs. Chickering cleared her throat, as though to remind Mrs. Smythe she remained present. “I think it takes a tremendous strength of character to have beliefs and then actually act on them,” she said with her own fervor. “I would hate for women to lock away their desires for a better world once they leave school or marry. They, as women, have lives, have hopes and dreams for the future, independent of what a man might want.”

  “How dare you come into my house and tell me that what I have is not sufficient?” Mrs. Smythe gasped.

  “I am saying no such thing, Mrs. Sullivan,” Mrs. Chickering replied. “I believe you need to understand that your stepdaughter has beliefs and aspirations that are different from yours.”

  “Aspirations that include the vote?” Mrs. Smythe scoffed. “Men have voted in the past, they will continue to vote, and I have no desire of it. I feel as my husband does on all things to do with politics, so it would only be giving the same politician two votes rather than one. There’s no purpose to women having the vote.” Her eyes flashed, true enmity in their depths as she glared at Mrs. Chickering. “And didn’t we women of Massachusetts show you suffragettes we didn’t want the vote in’95? No one voted for women to become enfranchised then, and they won’t now.” She sighed loudly, as though trying to calm herself.

  “An aspiration for independence?” Mrs. Smythe continued, unable to stop speaking. “Are you telling me that someday it should be lauded, hoped for, that young women become independent and have no need for marriage? No need for children? How could that ever be a hoped-for future? You and your group want too much for women. Women should focus on their home, on creating a moral, upstanding environment in which to raise children. She will want for nothing if she has such a home,” Mrs. Smythe argued.

  “So I suppose women should remain tied to the kitchen stove with children at their ankles, and a husband who might, or might not, come home with a paycheck as their only recourse?” Mrs. Chickering countered. “Relying on the benevolence of men to write laws and enforce them without women having any involvement in the legislative process? Sitting at home knitting, hoping that men will ensure that our rights are protected? That is all you envision for women? Nothing more?”

  “It has been enough for generations. I do not know why it should need to change now,” Mrs. Smythe snapped, banging down her teacup with such force I thought she might crack it.

  “Was that enough for you in your first marriage, Mrs. Sullivan?” Mrs. Chickering asked, pinning her with an intense gaze.

  Mrs. Smythe flushed all the way down her neck to her dress, and her mouth turned down mutinously, but she refused to respond.

  “I heard you never knew if your first husband would come home with a paycheck. That he, more often than not, drank away every cent of his pay each Saturday night after payday. And was none too pleasant when he came home from the saloon. That you lived on credit to survive, and you barely eked out a survival with that.”

  “How dare you?” Mrs. Smythe whispered, tears threatening, though they appeared to be tears of rage.

  “I dare because I envision a better future for your stepdaughter than you do,” Mrs. Chickering argued. “I dare because only through obtaining the vote for ourselves will we begin to be independent women who do not have to depend on drunken, at times brutish, men for survival. We will have more than the hopes of a good marriage. We will have educations. We will have vocations. We will be at liberty to choose the futures we want.” Her voice rang out with the sincerity of her beliefs.

  “You simply fill her mind with empty promises, and, in the end, she will only be disappointed in life,” Mrs. Smythe countered. “When you learn not to expect too much, it is harder to be disappointed.” She pursed her lips after that whispered statement as though she had admitted too much.

  I sat in rapt attention, fascinated by their exchange.

  “I had hoped to invite you also to Mrs. Ward-Howe’s birthday celebration in a few weeks, but I think that might be more than your constitution could handle,” Sophie said. “I sincerely hope Miss Sullivan will be allowed to attend.” Another long clashing stare was exchanged between the two women.

  Mrs. Smythe took a deep breath as though considering her
answer. “I shall have to discuss this with her father.”

  Sophie nodded a few times as though realizing she could hope for no more. “Then I will take my leave. I thank you for this delicious tea, and I hope to have Miss Sullivan’s company at the celebration.” She nodded toward Mrs. Smythe before smiling in my direction.

  I returned to the chair recently vacated by Sophie. Mrs. Smythe settled into her chair, tapping its wooden arm in a nervous tattoo. Outside a mockingbird sang, its repetitive calls jarring rather than soothing today. I glanced around the room, noting small changes. The faded table coverings had been replaced with new purple satin cloths, and many of the small items I remembered from my mama’s time had been replaced with impersonal ready-made effects purchased during one of Mrs. Smythe’s recent shopping excursions. Discolored areas appeared on the rose-colored wallpaper, the paintings either rearranged or replaced. I studied a scene of a wave crashing onto the seashore, one of the few remaining paintings from my mama’s time.

  “Clarissa,” Mrs. Smythe said, distracting me from the ocean scene. She leveled me with her most severe glare. “How dare you associate with the likes of her? Have you not better sense, girl, than to mingle with extremist women?”

  “I believe in our cause. I believe in what she says. I have the hope of a more independent future and that I do not have to depend solely on a man.” As I spoke, a true passion rose in me.

  She waved her hand as though my last comments were of no consequence. “And how are you to survive in this independent women’s utopia?” she snapped. “Do you honestly believe you earn enough money, on your own, to live comfortably as a teacher?”

  “There is no reason I can’t believe in suffragism and have a full life. Many of the suffragettes are married. Look at Elizabeth Cady Stanton. There are men who admire independent women,” I argued, silently hoping it was true.

  “Is that what you talk about at your meetings? This mythical man who would want any of you Amazonian women who think and act independently? It’s about time you learned something about life, young lady. I would have thought you would have learned it by now after your earlier disappointment. Men don’t want women who act and think like you, Clarissa,” she said. “They want women who agree with them, who do not challenge them. Who believe in the traditional running of the world and aren’t trying to turn everything upside down. Women like your cousin.”

  “Yes, of course. Savannah.” I looked away for a moment. “If you will excuse me?” I asked as I rose and left the room without gaining her permission.

  I trudged up the stairs, snippets of conversation flickering in and out of my thoughts. I needed to discuss what had just transpired with someone, yet knew no one in my family would understand. Upon entering my bedroom, I collapsed into the chair in front of my desk, fidgeting and trying to tidy the desk, although Mary kept my room spotless. I reached into a desk drawer and extracted writing paper, pen and ink. As I tapped the pen a few times, uncertainty and desperation warred inside me.

  I decided to write to Gabriel.

  May 3, 1900

  Dear Mr. McLeod,

  Please forgive me for writing today. I feel so alone with my thoughts roiling around me, and I desperately need a friend. I hope I do not offend.

  I just finished a very trying tea with my father’s new wife, Mrs. Smythe. One of my new friends called, and Mrs. Smythe took an immediate disliking to her. I now must admit to you that I have attended a suffragist meeting without my family’s knowledge and that this new friend of mine is a fellow suffragette. She is very loyal, smart, forward thinking and committed to the cause. She also enjoys rousing the ire of those who are not as convinced of the rights of women to vote and particularly enjoys riling unsupportive women as, in the end, it will benefit all women.

  Of course, Mrs. Smythe was horrid to her, doubting our cause, doubting my ability to find any happiness with my beliefs. But, I ask, why should independence in a woman scare a man so that he wouldn’t want to marry her? Shouldn’t he want a woman who can think and be concerned about topics outside of the home sphere?

  As I reread this letter, I realize I should not send it to you, but it has brought me comfort to write it. I miss you, Mr. McLeod. I miss our discussions. I hope you are well.

  Yours sincerely,

  Miss Clarissa Sullivan

  After I finished writing the letter, I quickly folded it in half, crammed it in an envelope, and scrawled Gabriel’s name and address on the outside before freezing in place. I closed my eyes in resignation. Sighing, I sat back in my chair and took solace in the fact that the mere act of writing him had relaxed me. I collapsed onto my bed in exhaustion, falling into a fitful sleep. I slept soundly, awakening a few hours later. When I awoke, I knew someone had come into my room while I slept because I now had a throw blanket over me, and my letter was gone.

  CHAPTER 18

  I ROSE, PANICKED. I searched unsuccessfully behind my desk with the unrealistic hope that my letter had fallen behind it. I looked at myself in the mirror to see my ashen reflection and panicked light blue eyes. After leaving my room, I slipped down the back stairs, hoping to meet Mary.

  I arrived in the kitchen to find her and Bridget busily helping to prepare supper. The basement room was cooled in part by the slate floor, although it was still quite warm. A small window was propped open and a faint waft of fresh air entered. A pot bubbled on the stove, drops flying out and making singeing noises every few moments. The air was redolent with the smell of freshly baked bread, and I saw the loaves cooling on the table. I glanced guiltily toward the clock, not realizing I had slept so long. After a few moments, Bridget rushed upstairs with a tray, while Cook stepped into the nearby larder, and I was alone with Mary.

  “Mary,” I whispered, “did you enter my room this afternoon?”

  “Yes, miss,” she said smiling. “The missus sen’ me to fetch ye, but ye were sleepin’ so peaceful, I couldn’ wake ye.” She continued to slice vegetables and prepare the meal. I stood in the kitchen, feeling useless. Being a horrid cook, I knew the worst thing I could do was to offer to help.

  I glanced toward the stairway, listening for Bridget. I began to fidget, wringing my hands a little. “Did you happen to see a letter? On my desk?” I tried to hide any anxiety or urgency from my voice, although I knew I failed when Mary watched me curiously.

  “Aye, miss, I saw the letter on yer desk. The mailman was on ’is rounds. I posted it for ye,” she said, smiling.

  “Ah, you posted it. Right.” I felt like fainting, and gripped onto the back of a nearby chair.

  “Ye did want it posted, miss?”

  “No harm done,” I said, flushing at the thought of Gabriel reading my letter. “I should go up.” I smiled wanly to Mary before ascending the stairs to the parlor.

  ***

  Four days after Sophronia’s visit, I received a letter from Gabriel.

  May 6, 1900

  My Dear Miss Sullivan,

  I opened your letter, delighted to hear from you again. I had not hoped to read such a letter from you. Your honesty and passion for life jumped off the page, making me feel as though you were here with me. I could easily envision your afternoon tea and the two elderly dragon ladies fighting over you. I can see why both sides would battle so fiercely for you. They are attempting to propose their vision of the world as the vision to be emulated and desired.

  Take care, Miss Clarissa. As you watch these two duel, and as you spend time with each woman separately, continue to determine what it is you envision for yourself, not what anyone else wants. It may be an amalgam of the two.

  Not all men are frightened so easily by independent, free-thinking women. Some actually like a woman with spirit.

  I, too, miss you, Miss Clarissa. I hope you are well.

  Gabriel.

  P.S. Please come by the workshop with your cousin. I am sure we can find more to talk about than the sideboard.

  The following day, after an interminable wedding gown fitting with Savan
nah, I cajoled her into accompanying me to the workshop. In reality, I had bartered my time watching her preen in a mirror for her time in a dusty workroom. Savannah was convinced she had received the poorer part of the bargain, but, after three mind-numbing hours of watching a dress be pinned at varying lengths, I no longer felt any sympathy for her.

  The balmy spring weather from earlier in the week had disappeared, replaced by a cold, blustery wind with a heavy fog but no rain. I liked the moodiness of the day, although Savannah believed it to be a bad omen. She attempted to convince me to postpone the visit to Gabriel’s, but I would not be forestalled. We rode the trolley to Haymarket then walked the short distance to his workshop.

  As we reached the top of the stairs, I shushed Sav, who was gasping in an unladylike manner after the climb, because I heard voices arguing. Two deep male voices were in blatant disagreement. I inched toward the door, fully intending to announce our arrival, but stopped short when I heard my name spoken. My eyes grew large, and I grabbed Savannah’s arm to keep her in place, out of sight. We both leaned in, listening avidly to the discussion.

  “Gabe, I know you’re fascinated by this Clarissa, but you must see it can’t go anywhere,” the unknown voice stated. He blew out a breath, and I imagined I heard pacing. “Granted, she is beautiful, smart and appears kind. But can you really see her interested in one of us?”

  “Listen, I enjoy her. That’s all there is to it. There is nothing going on that is indiscreet or scandalous,” Gabriel’s indignant voice replied, with the sound of him sanding wood filling the air.

  “Gabe, don’t be such an eejit, as Da would say. I’ve seen your elation at the arrival of her letters. You can’t fool me that there is nothing growing between the two of you,” the voice argued.