Mistress Suffragette

by Diana Forbes

  “Thanks for letting me stay,” Stone said, covering his damaged eye. With his other hand, he tapped out a small pill from a bottle and swallowed the medicine with water. “The doctor says that once this temporary blindness in my left eye heals, I should be almost new again. I’m scarred but not damaged.”

  Just like his brown boots. Most of the men I knew back home wore shoes that looked as if they’d never trodden on anything rougher than a Tabriz rug.

  “Until then,” Stone continued, “I thank you for your hospitali—”

  Mother smacked him in the knee to cut him off. “I came to discuss a business matter, dear,” she said, turning to me, “and I’m not budging until it’s aired.” She crossed her large calves as if she were planning to become a fixture, and had a great deal of practice at it.

  “I should go,” Stone said, reaching up his hands to try to scramble out of his wingchair.

  “Mother, whatever you have to say, you can air it now. Stone has been living here for days.” I nodded for her to continue, not that she needed much encouragement.

  She cleared her throat a few times, sounding like a trumpet. “Penelope, dear, as you know I thoroughly disapprove of the Suffragist Movement—”

  “Give it time,” I said. “Suffrage biscuit?” I asked, passing her a plate of steaming biscuits I’d made from a recipe in The Suffrage Cookbook.

  She poured herself a glass of brackish water from a brown ceramic pitcher that was missing its handle. “Whatever it’s called, I disapprove of it. But if you insist on becoming a public speaker, then at the very least I feel that you must send your earnings home.”

  “You would not feel like a hypocrite, accepting money from me but so despising its source?”

  “Money is money, dear. It comes from all sorts of places,” she said with a sniff. “Personally, I try not to ask too many questions about the ‘source’ of this and that. Not when we must do everything we can to hold onto the house.”

  “So, you and Father can continue to live like kings while I live in squalor on a working-class salary?” The temper that everyone said went with my red hair started to rise. I should not be the only family member to suffer. Not when Father was the one who’d reneged on his responsibilities. My eyes lit on the room’s dark, ugly wallpaper, which peeled a little further away from the wall each day.

  “Don’t be ungenerous, dear. Stinginess is a horrible quality, one best reserved for the underclass. We had money, and one day we will again.” She raised her hand in a show of solidarity for the moneyed class. “But in the meantime, we have debts. Stone Aldrich sends money home to his five sisters every week.” She swigged her water, glancing at him. He lifted his water glass at her—a silent toast.

  I valued his companionship, but if he thought that I should send money home to prop up my parents’ lavish lifestyle while mine plummeted to tenement levels, there had to be something horribly wrong with him. I might not be able to make him see me as a woman, and I might not be able to force Mother to leave Boston, but I’d be damned if I would let them both ally like this for the next ten or twenty years.

  I felt my face flush. That would mean he and I had gotten married.

  Chapter 16

  The Remington No. 2

  Monday, July 3, 1893

  To an outsider, the Movement may have seemed organized, as if it were steadily gaining momentum, its positive outcome virtually guaranteed. But behind the scenes, the Movement stalled. Verdana was a dreadful businesswoman, and Sam was ineffectual. I wondered if this was the root cause of their attraction to each other.

  The three of us convened around Verdana’s dark oval table in her dining area, her black Remington No. 2 typewriter the dark magnet that drew us together. I had been running over to her flat daily, and our meetings followed a certain pattern. During breakfast and lunch, the typewriter formed a de facto table centerpiece. Afterwards, the machine would be dragged to one side of the table while Verdana and I rolled up our lace sleeves and cobbled together speeches at a furious pace. Then, before the next meal, the Remington Number 2 would be pushed back to the table’s center, still housing whatever piece of paper she and I were working on. Sam was much like the typewriter: he moved from spot to spot, but his support was mainly mechanical.

  This morning, crumpled pieces of paper surrounded the typewriter, a sign that Verdana had stayed up all night writing and had gotten stuck. I perched at the head of the table—putting the greatest distance possible between me and the paper moat. Verdana and Sam were both seated on my right.

  The typewriter worked via a strangely impractical “upstrike” mechanism, whereby it was impossible to see what resided on the current page unless one physically yanked it from the machine. I respected Verdana too much to try it. But on the sheet lying face up on the table next to the machine were some interesting notes about the Rational Dress Movement—but not a word about bikes or quadracycles.

  I said, “You talk about tight waists and the impossibility of breathing in a corset, but how will this mesh with the dangers of bicycle riding?”

  I was supposed to give a speech, but had no idea what she expected me to say. Had no hint, even, of what she would say.

  Instead of answering me, Verdana wedged her manly girth between the back of my skinny chair and the wall of books behind me. She patted me on the top of my head. I fought her off, banging my head against her hand, which caused her to jump backwards. Books toppled behind us onto the floor.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, clearing away a used ashtray and some old plates with caked-on food.

  Slowly I sipped my coffee. Did she have to treat me like a petulant child? This would be my first speech to more than twenty people. I said, “We need to make the event a triumph rather than a disaster.”

  “Aw, you just have jitters,” she called out from her tiny kitchen. She returned to the dining area to clear the rest of the table. “Many people fear public speaking, but the more often one does it, the more easily it comes. I like to picture everyone in the audience dressed in their undergarments. That helps me relax.” (For some reason, this did not surprise me.)

  “Penelope’s right,” Sam declared. He stood up, walked over to my chair, leaned over my shoulder, and snatched the latest version of her speech out of the typewriter’s jaws. Turning the page around, he perused it, looking like a disgruntled schoolteacher.

  He paced around the oval table, shaking his bony head back and forth.

  “Good speeches require airtight structures,” he declared with the absolute authority of one who had never written a speech. “There must be indisputable logic woven into every sentence.”

  He read aloud. “Bustles. Bloomers. Hoop skirts. Hats? It sounds like a bloody shopping list, not a speech.” He rattled the paper at Verdana as she returned from the kitchen. He continued to pace. “And what, pray tell, does any of this have to do with bicycles? I know I’m just a man, but—”

  Verdana grazed his cheek with her lips—silencing him. “One who hopefully will leave the speechmaking about a women’s movement to the women, yes?”

  “Tut, tut,” Sam mumbled, as she distracted him with a second peck on the cheek. The piece of paper floated to the ground.

  I tapped my foot and stared at a large, framed poster of suffrage leader Lucretia Mott leaning against the fireplace. “If the speech fails, it could be embarrassing, not just for me, but for all of us, for the Movement as a whole,” I pressed, focusing on Lucretia’s cheeks. They wore a permanent blush, no doubt from having to watch Verdana and Sam canoodle. I felt like the woman in the poster—mired in place, forced to bear witness to their shocking behavior. I continued, “But if we succeed, this speech will be a true milestone. It will put us on the map.”

  My employer and my former fiancé, still snuggled up against each other, offered no reaction. Fuming, I pulled the typewriter toward me, inserted a piece of paper, and started typing.

  Our corsets are straightjackets. Our petticoats are shackles. And the men who buy us th
ese outfits are jailers. Why do women, who could walk free, insist on imprisonment?

  I looked over at the improbable twosome, oblivious to the typewriter rhythms, still locked in each other’s arms. Grimly, I sat back and considered my counterargument. What was there to say about a dress code that imprisoned us? Did I really wish to be groomed like a racehorse for a career in marriage? And if not for luring men, why dress up with so much finery—corsets, petticoats, all of it each day? And up to seven times a day. I glanced down at my blue pastel dress. It was very fine, making me feel more like a china figurine than a woman. The person who had designed the dress was undoubtedly a man. All designers were. Still, the man who created my dress understood beauty. Whoever designed Verdana’s bloomers did not. Beauty was a goal in and of itself, or at least avoiding ridicule. And, as impractical as it might seem, I liked my dresses.

  “Where will we give this magnificent speech?” I shouted, to get Verdana and Sam’s attention.

  “Harvard won’t hear of it,” Sam said, finally wiggling out of Verdana’s embrace. He sat down on my other side, leaned halfway across the table, reached for the overflowing fruit bowl, and helped himself to a banana. Slowly, he unpeeled its skin and its sickly sweet perfume filled the air. Had he started to develop jowls? Or had his face somehow blossomed, looking fuller and jollier now that he was with someone he cared for?

  He chomped the fruit. “I asked the deans about it,” he said in between bites. “They were livid.”

  “I’m sure you tried, darling,” Verdana said, squatting down in the chair next to him. Holding his right hand steady, she leaned in, lowered her plump lips over his banana, and bit off a piece. Then, still chewing, she leaned across him and undid the top two buttons of his shirt. The garment was a lavender color, and it looked familiar. If I wasn’t mistaken, my father had brought it back for Sam after a trip to China. Did Verdana really intend to eat, discuss the Movement, and toy with Sam at the same time?

  In the shirt my father had given him?

  And how did she manage it? How did Verdana, heavyset and manly, the very antithesis of what a woman was supposed to be, manage to attract my former fiancé, whilst I, skilled in the feminine arts, down to piano playing and speaking French, manage to leave men like Sam and Stone utterly cold?

  Power. She seemed to possess the very life force that attracted people to her. Somehow I would need to do the very thing the Movement was urging all women to do—find my power.

  Still, I wondered if she really loved him or if this was another one of her twisted games. Was she arousing him, provoking me, and exerting her power all at the same time? As Verdana continued to caress his chest, Sam’s face contorted into a sort of spasm as if he were willing her to take him.

  He’d never looked that passionate with me. Only one man had—Mr. Daggers.

  With my pinky finger, I wiped a dribble of coffee off my chin. Messy. I needed to distract them before their affection advanced one button further.

  “Let’s start a petition,” I cried, biting on each syllable like a radish.

  Sam’s long neck leaned back against his chair as his eyes closed into slits. “Whatever are you talking about?” he murmured.

  “Let’s petition Harvard to let the suffragists speak,” I said. “Every time someone asks Verdana for her signature, she should ask for theirs. We’ll get hundreds of people signed up in no time.”

  “Why, you’re a genius,” Verdana said, as she continued to rub his shoulders.

  “No, she’s not,” Sam yelled, eyes now open and enraged. “Stop saying that! My cousin’s a bloody idiot. And leave Harvard out of it. Neither of you went to college. You two have nothing to lose.” He made a slicing gesture. “I could lose everything. The alumni of the Divinity School already petitioned to admit women as students. That petition was denied.”

  “Well, what about the Harvard Medical School?” I asked. “Or the Law School? We could petition all the Schools.”

  “Brilliant idea,” said Verdana.

  Sam reached his hands up to his shoulders and forcefully grabbed Verdana’s wrists. “The President of the University is firmly opposed to having women in the classrooms. So, stop pestering me. They’ll never let suffragists in the courtyards.”

  “All right, all right,” she cooed.

  “And get your bloody hands off me,” he growled, dropping her wrists.

  She stepped to the side. “Yes, Siree,” she quipped, saluting him. “Isn’t the master sensitive this morning,” she mumbled.

  Abruptly, he shoved back his chair and stood up. Then he pushed her away from him so hard that she crashed into the wall of books. Hundreds of books fell to the the floor.

  “Stop accosting me when we’re with company!” he yelled. He buttoned his lavender shirt. “I’m not your plaything, Verdana. So, hear me now: cease and desist.” He stomped out the rickety wooden door, slamming it behind him.

  Verdana had backed Sam into a corner, and he had lashed out. As little as I condoned violence, I had to admire him for not letting Verdana roll over him with the force of her personality.

  Chapter 17

  The Doll

  Tuesday, July 4, 1893

  Tea at my flat, coffee at Verdana’s. Coffee at Verdana’s, tea at my flat. But just as I was beginning to measure out the days in cups, something happened to underscore that we were not just idly talking to ourselves over so much tea and coffee.

  I was leaving my flat to take the short walk to Verdana’s when I spotted a strange object dangling from the elm tree across from my front door stoop. At first, I assumed it was a department store doll that had been left behind.

  Nearing the tree, I stared up at the mysterious effigy. It was about two feet long, made of white cloth, and had arms. I spun it around. The doll had a face, primitively drawn, along with red hair that was etched on its head and dropped down below its waist.

  It looked like me. It had gray eyes and a button nose—the resemblance was disturbing.

  “A voodoo doll,” I breathed.

  A pin stuck out from the doll’s heart. Leave it to the witchcraft practitioner to prick me where I was weakest. I recalled the black amulet Bess wore for protection and longed to rub its shiny surface. I stared at the doll hanging from the tree branch like a tiny, helpless person. “Don’t be that person,” I whispered.

  The monstrosity had to be cut down. I ran back inside the flat. Opening the kitchen drawers, I spotted some bland cutlery: nothing sharp enough. I slammed the drawers shut. I peered inside the wooden cabinets. There was little there, save for cleaning supplies.

  I needed something sharp—like an ax. I dashed to the parlor to rifle through the breakfront. I found scraps of paper, some fountain pens, and an abacus. Why were there never any sharp instruments around when one needed them?

  Stone strolled out of my bedchamber, looking bleary-eyed and groggy. “I heard banging,” he said, stifling a yawn. He fixed me with his blue-black eyes. “What is it?”

  “I’m on the hunt for sharp objects,” I said, bruising my fingers as I shut a drawer. “Someone’s put up a hideous doll in my likeness.”

  “Ah, relax, it’s probably just a prank.”

  I clasped my hands behind my back to stop myself from wringing his neck.

  “It’s not a joke. This is voodoo magic.” The person who made this doll wished me grave harm.

  “Relax, will you? If voodoo worked, we’d all be using it instead of going off to war.”

  I wanted to throttle him. “You don’t understand. This is Louisiana voodoo.”

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s from Louisiana or South Carolina: the South lost, last time I checked.”

  “Louisiana voodoo is dangerous.” The practice worked. Jesse and Bess both believed in its dark powers, and they were from Louisiana.

  With his thumb he smudged away a tear that had fallen on my cheek. “Someone’s just trying to scare you, doll.”

  “He’s—he’s doing an excellent job.” I missed Bess and J
esse. And home, where everything was safe until it wasn’t.

  “Aw, please don’t cry,” he said gruffly. “When someone’s using scare tactics, it’s important to stay calm. Keep your wits.”

  The tears lapped down my face. “How would you know?”

  “I’m Jewish. We’ve been persecuted for centuries.”

  “I-I’ve never had anything like this happen to me before,” I sputtered. “I’ve never been p-per-persecuted.”

  “Well, now you have. Consider yourself ‘chosen,’ love.”

  He tapped his jacket pocket and fished out a handkerchief. Holding my chin in one of his hands, he used the other to dab away my tears with the linen square. My cheeks stung. It is really humiliating to cry in front of men.

  “Come, come,” he said. “Usually the person doing the persecuting is doing it out of ignorance. We’ve got time to strategize. Your mother went to fetch eggs.”

  He strolled into my bedchamber, whistling a tune, as if we had days, not minutes, before her return. I paced the small room, trying to slow down my breathing. At long length, he returned, carrying a metal artist’s scalpel with a very sharp blade.

  Together, we walked outside to observe the hanging effigy. It was crudely made and proof that man was capable of terrible evil. Working the scalpel this way and that, Stone sliced the doll down until it lay on the pavement, then handed me the instrument.

  I stared at its razor-sharp blade. “What?”

  “Do something symbolic. You can’t let a stupid doll hold this kind of power over you.”

  Maybe he had a point. I crouched down and carefully arranged my voluminous skirt on the filthy sidewalk. Picking up the small cloth toy with its long red hair, I held the figure in one hand, then used the scalpel to rend the doll apart. The first two stabs felt gruesome, almost as if I were murdering my likeness. But wielding the blade to make small slashes along the doll’s neckline and arms, I overcame the feeling. I kept cutting until I’d dissected the replica. Its detached head and stuffing lay strewn on the brick pavement.