He was looking at the early pages, counting and simple addition. The baby stuff. Even girls were taught that, but they didn’t usually bother to buy a book for it.
“I know that part, teacher, but…”
Gently she took the book from him and opened it to the middle. “I don’t understand this part. I read it twice, but I don’t understand it.”
She had a good head for figures, she knew. But this stuff was new and complicated.
“Well, that’s for boys, Rose.”
“It doesn’t say so.” Rose wished the words back as soon as she said them. She’d meant to be polite, but today had been just too much…today.
“Rose, you don’t need to learn all this. Look, gills and furlongs? Pounds and shillings and dollars and cents? This is for men, who have to deal with business and farming matters. Your husband will take care of all that.”
Rose had prepared for this. She flipped open another of her schoolbooks, called The Brief Remarker on the Ways of Man. Fortunately it fell open to the page she wanted; Mr. Davis was gathering up his books and things and was clearly ready to leave.
“Listen to this, Mr. Davis. Please,” she added. She took a deep breath and read declaimingly, “ ‘The sexes are equal as to mental powers!’ ”
You weren’t supposed to talk about what was in the lessons; you certainly weren’t supposed to argue about them. You read your lessons aloud when you were called on, and if there were questions in the book, you memorized the answers, which were also in the book, and repeated them word-for-word. That was school. Mr. Davis gave her a look that plainly said he wasn’t being paid enough for this.
“Read the whole sentence, Rose.”
Rose had been hoping he wouldn’t remember the whole sentence. “ ‘Admitting—whatever be the real fact—that the sexes are equal as to mental powers, it is evident that their destinations are different.’ ”
“The essay, as I’m sure you know, Rose, argues that girls should not have the same education as boys.”
“I think the book is wrong, teacher.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Rose feared she had gone too far.
Mr. Davis looked at her, exasperated. Rose realized that her audacity could hurt the other students of color as well—and Mr. Davis was the only teacher who’d agreed to teach them.
“Perhaps you should write a book of your own that sets everything right, then.”
“I don’t want to write a book.” There was no going back now, so she plunged on. “I want to be a scientist.”
Mr. Davis pinched the top of his nose, like he was getting one of his headaches. “Rose…”
“I need to learn arithmetic. Mrs. Stanton up on the hill learned arithmetic all the way to the end of the book like the boys,” said Rose. “And then she learned geometry.”
“Mrs. Stanton up on the hill is the daughter of a wealthy and famous judge,” said Mr. Davis. “I doubt any parents complained. If I were to put you in the higher arithmetic class, the only girl, and colored at that…”
Those everlasting parents who might complain. Rose wished all those complaining parents to perdition.
But she sensed that Mr. Davis was about to give in. She waited hopefully.
“Five minutes,” he said at last. “I can spare five minutes after school every day to hear your arithmetic lesson.”
“Thank you, Mr. Davis!”
“But if you ever, for one day, don’t study your lesson, then I will no longer be able to spare five minutes.”
Rose felt a surge of delight at her victory. Today was turning out to be all right after all. She wanted to run out of the school into the sunshine, she wanted to go tell her new friend Bridie about her victory.
But she had a shrewd suspicion that James would be lurking outside, waiting to take revenge on her because he hadn’t prepared his lesson.
And she was right. He was. As soon as he saw her, he scooped up a handful of horse manure from the road. He was just about to hurl it at her when he saw Mr. Davis emerge behind her.
Rose waited while Mr. Davis locked the schoolhouse door. There was nothing James could do. Rose walked on with Mr. Davis, leaving James standing there with horse manure in his hand.
On the Fourth of July, the firecrackers started going off just after midnight. Bridie fell asleep in the spaces between explosions until dawn.
By the time she got up to make breakfast, six-year-old Neil was already awake and looking for something to eat. He cut some bread from a loaf while Bridie stirred the fire to life in the stove.
Bridie saw him opening the door to the pie safe.
“Leave all that,” she said. “It’s for the picnic.”
Neil ran out the door before Bridie could tell him he was supposed to take Kit with him, or ask him to go get water. So she had to go out to the pump herself.
Four-year-old Kit came downstairs. He was hopping up and down with excitement—after all, the Glorious Fourth was the most important holiday of the year in this young country. He wanted to go out and watch the militia get ready to parade. Bridie knew that Mrs. Stanton didn’t like him crossing the Seneca River by himself. She hung on to him by main force while she stirred the hasty pudding.
Mrs. Stanton finally appeared with Gat, who was mostly over his fever-and-ague for now…though it would come back, Bridie supposed. It generally did.
They went out into the yard after breakfast. There was a good view of the river from there. They watched the parade as it made its way up the far side of the river toward the bridge. The militiamen marched, and there were men carrying flags, and men riding horses caparisoned in red, white, and blue, and men in the band, playing stirring marches.
“Is this your first Fourth of July, Phoebe?” asked Mrs. Stanton.
“Yes, ma’am. More or less. Last year we—I was at Grosse Isle in Quebec. In quarantine.”
“I want to be in the parade!” said Kit. He marched up and down the yard. Then the screen door banged as he went into the kitchen—to get a pot to use as a drum, Bridie supposed.
“Horseys,” said Gat, but not with much spirit; he was still tired from the fever-and-ague.
The parade had reached the bridge and was crossing the river, drums rat-a-tat-tatting.
“Look at them, the lords of creation,” said Mrs. Stanton, gesturing at the parade. “You would think the Fourth of July belonged to them, and only them. You’ll never see a woman in a parade.”
“Yes, ma’am. There are no colored people either,” said Bridie.
She’d been hoping that she and Rose could spend the holiday together. But Rose had told her that some of the white men, once they got drunk, took off after the colored people like it was 1776 and they were the British or something. It was not safe for Rose to be seen.
Not much of a holiday, then.
“Well, the parade’s gotten to the apple orchard,” said Mrs. Stanton. “Shall we go to the speechifying? Oh, you need something red, white, and blue, Phoebe. Just a moment.”
Mrs. Stanton went to her sewing basket and found red and blue ribbons, which she laced through Bridie’s white bonnet. “There. Pretty, but not gaudy, as the devil said when he painted his tail pea-green.”
The day was already hot, and Bridie was grateful she didn’t have to dress like Mrs. Stanton, who was wearing many layers of petticoats that made her enormous long skirt stand out stiffly. They headed down the hill.
Bridie carried the picnic basket and Mrs. Stanton held on to the boys as they started off down Bayard Street to Ansel Bascom’s orchard.
The whole town seemed to be there. Farm families had come in from the countryside in wagons. Children chased each other among the old gnarled apple trees. Firecrackers were going off everywhere, startling the horses and startling Bridie, too. The air smelled of gunpowder.
Mrs. Stanton winced at every loud bang. “I hate those things. And it is illegal to set them off in town.”
Everyone was breaking the law merrily.
People were greeting each other, gathering in clumps, exchanging news.
Kit went off to watch some bigger boys set off fireworks. Mrs. Stanton turned to greet some people she knew. Bridie set the picnic basket down under an apple tree and sat on the lowest branch and felt all alone in the world. Alone and a long way from Ireland. She wished Rose had been able to come.
But no colored folks were there, out of all that lived in Seneca Falls and the country round it.
The militia band was playing in the orchard, and more firecrackers were going off.
Mrs. Stanton was talking to a tiny, elderly-looking lady in a lace bonnet.
“How lovely to see thee again, Lizzie,” said the tiny woman. “And is dear Henry here as well?”
Bridie figured the lady must be a Quaker, since she said thee.
“No, he’s off organizing for the Free Soil Party,” said Mrs. Stanton flatly.
“Well, thee knows it is important work,” said the lady. “With all the new territories we’ve suddenly acquired from Mexico—I say nothing of how we acquired them—we must do all we can to prevent slavery from being allowed to spread.”
“If women could vote, slavery would have ended long ago,” said Mrs. Stanton.
“Thee will make us ridiculous, harping on that,” said the lady. “I agree women’s rights are in a sorry state, but to vote—”
“Frederick Douglass agrees with me,” said Mrs. Stanton, with a note of finality.
“But Mr. Stanton doesn’t, I’ll wager.”
Bridie had thought at first that there was no Mr. Stanton, but later she’d figured out that there was and that he was never home. His work had to do with abolishing slavery, and he had to travel all over for it.
“I am not beholden to Mr. Stanton for my opinions,” said Mrs. Stanton. “When the party coach comes down the road on Election Day, decked out with pine boughs and red, white, and blue ribbons, I’d like to be the one jumping in and riding to the polls to vote.”
“Sometimes, Lizzie,” said the tiny lady, “I think thee takes a stance just to be contrary.”
Bridie noticed four-year-old Kit climbing high in an apple tree, holding a firecracker. He probably shouldn’t do that, but then again, it didn’t appear to be lit.
Still, she’d better make sure. She got out of her tree and went over and made Kit drop the firecracker down to her. It wasn’t lit. She stuck it in her apron pocket. It snicked against the pebble she always kept there.
“I do envy you your cotton dress, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Stanton, as Bridie made her way back. “So much nicer on these hot days than linen or wool.”
“Now, Lizzie, thee knows we mustn’t wear cotton,” said the lady beside her.
“I know, Lucretia. It’s grown by slaves,” said Mrs. Stanton fretfully. “Don’t think I don’t hear about this all the time from Henry. Mrs. Mott, this is my new girl, Phoebe.”
“How do you do, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Mott.
Bridie curtsied. “How do you do.”
The band stopped playing. Through the apple boughs Bridie could see a podium draped in red, white, and blue bunting. A man climbed up to the podium and began to speak. A firecracker exploded. There was a wild neigh of frightened horses, and a scream—someone must have gotten burned.
Bridie climbed back into her tree. She was glad she’d taken the firecracker away from little Kit.
“And so America is seventy-two years old today,” said Mrs. Stanton. “Seventy-two years ago this land was all wilderness. I wonder what will come when seventy-two years have passed again?”
“It was not wilderness, Lizzie,” Mrs. Mott remonstrated. “The Cayuga Indians farmed it. They planted this very orchard.”
“Mrs. Mott has just come from visiting the Cayuga Indians, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Stanton, turning and looking up at Bridie.
“Helping them fight to keep what land they do have left,” said Mrs. Mott with a sniff.
The man at the podium finished speaking. There were cheers and applause. Bridie, who hadn’t really been listening, politely applauded too. Another man came up to the podium and started speaking.
The men speaking used lots of big words. Most people didn’t consider a speech any good if it didn’t have plenty of big words in it. The speakers talked about the American Revolution and defeating the British. As an Irishwoman, Bridie appreciated this.
“If I had your skill at speechifying, Lucretia, I’d tell these lords of creation such a story,” said Mrs. Stanton with a sigh.
“About the usual topic, I suppose?” said Mrs. Mott.
“It’s important, Lucretia! Do you know—”
“Oh yes, I know.”
The two women went on talking. Bridie listened. They’d both been to England, for an anti-slavery convention, and Mrs. Mott had been a delegate but they hadn’t let her take her seat because she was a woman. There were other women delegates too, and they were all made to sit behind a curtain and keep silent while the men talked and voted. It still rankled, apparently, although it had been years ago.
Years ago, when Bridie’s parents and brothers were still alive. Years ago, before the potatoes turned black and burst.
The two women talked about women’s rights and about something called “human rights,” which Bridie had never heard of before. Anyway, it had nothing to do with her.
A speech ended. Another man came to the podium.
“That’s Amelia Bloomer’s husband,” said Mrs. Stanton to her friend. “You don’t know her, but I’ve been trying to get her interested—”
“ ‘WHEN IN THE COURSE OF HUMAN EVENTS,’ ” boomed the man at the podium. He had a loud, carrying voice.
Bridie mouthed the words. The Declaration of Independence had been in her reader, back at the poorhouse. She’d had to memorize it, of course. When in the course of human events…
Mrs. Stanton murmured the words too. “ ‘When in the course of human events…’ ”
Bridie looked at the other girls in the crowd. You could tell which girls came from rich families because they were wearing ankle-length pantalets with white ruffles. Some had even threaded red and blue ribbons through the lace on their ruffles. The poorer girls, like Bridie, just had stockings.
And girls who worked in the mills had stockings, and girls from the farm families—really it was more stockings than ruffles. Take that girl there, for example—
With a start of horror, Bridie realized that she was looking at Lavinia Kigley.
The Kigleys were here.
Mrs. Stanton could say what she liked about the law, but it didn’t stop people from setting off firecrackers, and Bridie very much doubted that it would stop the Kigleys from dragging her back to their farm.
She climbed higher up in the apple tree, until she was hidden among the leaves and little green apples, and stayed there until it was time for lunch.
Mrs. Stanton opened the picnic basket, and Bridie—after looking all around for the Kigleys—helped her spread a red-and-white-checked tablecloth on the ground. The boys came running back, smelling strongly of firecrackers.
Bridie kept low to the ground so that she could hide behind the others—she didn’t know where the Kigleys were now, but she didn’t intend to let them see her.
Mrs. Mott helped Mrs. Stanton set out the food. There were egg and cheese sandwiches, and canned sardines from France, and two jars of pickles. But the crowning glory of the picnic was the pies. Gooseberry tart, and dried-apple pie, and pigeon pie, and blackberry pie, and coconut custard pie.
Bridie had never seen such a feast in her life. She clutched the stone in her pocket and wished her mother could have been there.
Everyone took a plate and started looking over the food, choosing what they wanted.
“Help yourself, Phoebe,” Mrs. Stanton urged.
“Yes, do eat, Phoebe,” said Mrs. Mott, handing her an empty plate. “Thee is much too thin.”
That’s right, Bridie thought. She was Phoebe. And if Bridie couldn’t join a feast while people were starving back home, Phoebe surely could. She started filling her plate. Maybe she would be able to eat a slice of each kind of pie, if she skipped the sandwiches.
She took a bite of the coconut pie, savoring the smooth custard and the strange taste of coconut. She wished Rose could have been there.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Stanton and Mrs. Mott were still talking about human rights, which had nothing to do with Bridie.
In the days following the Fourth of July, Bridie kept a weather eye out for Kigleys. She watched the Turnpike, from her vantage point on Locust Hill, while she pumped water. The days were getting hot, and she let the cold water overflow from the bucket onto her bare toes.
Sometimes the rain came crashing down, and afterward it would be cool for a few hours. Then the heat came back, and curls of steam drifted up from the ground.
She watched for Kigleys while she scrubbed clothes, the smell of laundry bluing and soap all around her.
There was never a time when she was outside and not watching for Kigleys. It became exhausting.
Mrs. Stanton’s cook, Nancy, came back to work, and that took a load off Bridie’s shoulders. Sometimes Rose came up after school and helped mind the children. Rose also read the books on Mrs. Stanton’s shelves, and she always seemed to be studying. Mostly arithmetic.
Bridie wondered if she should be studying, too. Would she be able to go to school this winter? Would Mrs. Stanton allow it? Did Bridie even want to go to school?
Rose asked Mrs. Stanton a question about something in her arithmetic book.
“Oh, goodness, it’s been so long since I studied it.” Mrs. Stanton picked up the book and looked at it. “The angles of the triangle have to add up to one hundred and eighty degrees. Why do you even want to know this, Rose?”
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