Mistress Suffragette

by Diana Forbes

  Mother waved both hands in front of her face as if that particular subject was off the table.

  “I’m happy to donate every penny I earn,” I pressed, “so she can convalesce in the hot, dry climate the doctors recommend.”

  Mother placed a tiny corner of her linen napkin inside her water goblet. Extracting the damp linen corner, she mopped her brow with it.

  “We were hoping Lydia would take a turn for the better here,” she said with quiet intensity. “San Francisco is a ghastly place. So many miners who didn’t find their little pots of gold under the rainbow. Too many men. Not nearly enough women. Honestly, it’s a dark day for civilization.”

  “What about the city of angels then?” I asked, in between sips of water. “The climate is warmer in Los Angeles—and Lydia could use a few angels guarding her welfare.”

  Mother’s lips formed an upside-down bow.

  “Be reasonable,” I urged. “A warm, dry climate could be Lydia’s only chance.”

  “A good, strong fire will keep her warm and dry,” she said, looking down at her mutton. “There’s no substitute for the warmth and love of her parents.” She tinkled the bell for Bess and Jesse to come clear.

  “Lydia will pull through right here at home. I’m strong. I once caught the White Plague and survived, and she takes after me.”

  Chapter 24

  The Dog in the Stable

  Before I could persuade Father to do right by Lydia, I had to find him. He was not in the Pink Room. He was not in the Sewing Room. He was not in the Navy Blue Den.

  As I walked past the White Room, I heard a faint rustle from inside, followed by the popular Handel sonata trilling from the gramophone—“Love’s but the frailty of the mind.”

  Was Father inside, staring at the white walls? Maybe I could rescue him from his melancholia.

  I brushed past the ajar wood door and glanced at the clock on the white mantel. It was quarter to three. I spotted a long shadow splayed across the white rug. Turning, I saw a man seated in the white chair near the silver bowl where visitors’ calling cards were collected. But it wasn’t Father.

  It was Mr. Daggers. And this wasn’t a dream.

  He looked gaunter, but he was still tenaciously hanging on to his good looks. He was also tanned, his skin now only two shades lighter than his hair. His eyebrows knit together, dark and brooding.

  As he stood, his deep-set eyes canvassed my body. Warily, I extended my hand. He glanced at it, then clamped his hands around my waist like handcuffs. Urgently, he pulled me toward him, the response I had so yearned for from Stone.

  “Why did you run away from me?” he asked, his face inches from mine.

  “Mr. Daggers, I…” My eyes pointed to the open door.

  “Damn,” he muttered, and released me to shut it. I observed that, unlike the den at the Chateau-sur-Mer, there was no lock on the portal to the White Room. He strode over to the window and hastily closed the curtain, in the manner of one who had closed many draperies from prying eyes.

  He drew near me again. “I await your answer.”

  “I didn’t run anywhere. My sister fell ill, and—”

  “You ran away.” His dark eyes flamed. “I would have taken care of you, but you fled. Then you ignored my letter, and barely acknowledged me at that hotel, even though I only want to help you succeed. Is that so wrong?”

  “It’s not wrong, but I need to do it on my own.”

  “You’re very hard on a benefactor who has only your best interests at heart.”

  “How’s your sister?” I asked. “She looked distraught.”

  “She once saw my mother hit my father over the head with a frying pan. I think the poor girl never recuperated.”

  I pictured a burning hot frying pan. I felt little bumps form on the roof of my mouth as if seared. No one ever talked like this to anyone. “It sounds traumatic.” I hardly recognized my voice—so distant and impersonal. But then I met his eyes. “Were you with her?”

  He nodded, looking down at the floor. “Yes,” he said ruefully. “The louse deserved it.”

  I wanted to draw him out more about his father. Was he hot-tempered and irrational? I thought about my father, barely speaking to me now and never speaking to me of matters of the heart. Both extremes could wound. “I’m sorry.”

  “I wish she hadn’t married someone exactly like our father. He treats her abominably.”

  I recalled her ruined makeup, her disheveled hair. Then I considered what it must be like to always have to worry about someone like that. What pressure! I had the strangest desire to take him into my arms and comfort him.

  He must have sensed my feeling, for a moment later his arms enveloped me. “I’d risk everything to keep you by me,” he murmured, “but you shut me out.”

  “You were right about Stone Aldrich,” I said, closing my eyes. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Daggers’s lips parted as he kissed me. He seemed so heated, and I felt starved for attention. And I’d only done to him what my father had to me: barred him to a place where he couldn’t wound me.

  His kisses brought me back to the music and majesty of Chateau-sur-Mer and the night he’d stoked my passion. Fortunately sanity soon returned.

  I pushed him away. “My sister has consumption. You can’t be here. I might be infected. And this—” I pointed to him and to me, “could be dangerous to your health.”

  “Balderdash,” he said. “I’d rather die by your lips than never kiss you again.”

  As he reached for me, his tongue darted in my mouth again, and I tasted that ginger scent I’d only dreamed about since our last liaison. “Besides,” he whispered against my lips, “I’m here because of your sister. I’ve been in Newport for a few days. As soon as I heard she was ill, I had to be by your side.”

  The music reached its heady conclusion as he unfastened the first few buttons of my gown and started to caress the top of my bosom. How I longed for him to stay there. Yet as his kisses became more urgent, I knew I had to pull away or forever face the consequences. I’d be a social leper, a wanton woman thrust to the outskirts.

  I pushed his large, greedy hands down and away from me and started to fasten the top of my gown. I could feel my bosom become fuller as I struggled to close the top button, my heart literally betraying my head.

  “Damn,” I muttered, conquering the rebellious button at last.

  “Don’t deny me,” he whispered. “I know you want this as much as I do. I can feel it.” He paced the small room, his eyes scanning the walls as if seeking a spot to pin me against. He was right: I wanted him. But I’d douse the feeling. I might not be able to tame him, but I sure-as-the-devil could control myself.

  I ironed my lips together like the primmest of librarians. “It’s not a matter of wants and needs.” I lifted my head. “It’s morally wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong to succumb to pleasure.” He glanced at the spare walls. “You live in an ivory tower like a red-haired Rapunzel. Let down your hair.” He reached into his jacket pocket, extracted a silver flask, unscrewed its top, and took a swig. He smacked together his wet lips. “Delicious.”

  The cloying smell of whisky infiltrated the space like church incense. I felt heady from the fumes.

  He toasted me with the open flask. “We should all have more pleasure in our lives. Here’s to pleasure.” He pointed the flask to me. “Don’t you want some?” A wry smile played across his eyes. “Pleasure’s awfully enjoyable, especially when everyone’s in a Panic. Try it.” He pushed the silver bottle opening an inch from my lips. “Taste how quickly it makes all anxiety disappear.”

  I shook my head. “It’s wrong when it pains another.” I did not thirst for pleasure, although I could have used a shot of whisky to inoculate me from him. Backing away from him until I was up against the fireplace mantel, I raised my hand to hold him back.

  Placing his index finger over the flask, he tipped the bottle upside down until a drop of whisky wetted his fingertip. “If you won’t drink
in pleasure, let me at least dab some of it on you,” he said. He stepped forward, touched his finger to my neck once, and anointed me in his whisky-perfume.

  “How’s Mrs. Daggers faring?” A judgmental note crept into my voice. “She’s with child, isn’t she?” How dare he impregnate her and then come to me to satisfy his craving.

  “She really wants a child. I wanted to wait to see if the marriage would last.” He shook his head sadly, then tipped the flask to his lips. “As I’ve learned from my home for unwed mothers, there are so very many children brought into this world with only one parent. That can be difficult on the child. But Evelyn goddamn insisted.”

  I crossed my arms. “And does this happy state of affairs agree with her?”

  “She’s fine,” he said, as if reporting on a distant relative. He took another large gulp from the flask. “But there’s nothing there. The marriage is a sham.” He licked his lips. Then, when he saw that I was watching his lips moisten, he bared his teeth in a half-smile.

  He was a savage man who should not be here, and yet I wanted him.

  “Yes, I’m quite sure she is pointing a gun to your head. She looks excessively violent.”

  He crossed himself, though I could have sworn he wasn’t Catholic. “We have nothing in common,” he said. “I love to sail; she hates the open seas. I’m happiest on Manhattan Island. She prefers Staten Island.” He slipped the flask back into his jacket pocket. “Darling, you need someone to love you, and I do. I need someone to love me, too. She doesn’t need anyone to take care of her but herself. Look: if it’s that important to you, I’ll leave her.” He licked his index finger. “Immediately, I promise.” He ran his wet finger down my neck to the place where my gold childhood locket fell.

  My heart pounded: I put my hand across my chest to still it. He placed his hand over mine.

  My shoulders stiffened. “Good,” I said, “but you’d better leave here, first.”

  Wednesday, July 19, 1893

  One would have thought that would have been the end of it, but it wasn’t. On some level I knew that it wasn’t, because I started to dress for him. I wore corsets that cinched my waist even tighter. I stopped eating regularly and actually started to enjoy the torture of the metal stays digging into my waist, the Rational Dress Movement be damned. Part of the agony was never knowing when he’d appear. But I felt an emptiness. I knew he sensed it and would be back to try to fill it.

  It happened sooner than I imagined. Barred from seeing my sister by the doctors, nurses, and Mother (who were all in pathological agreement that Lydia was too sick for me to visit with her), I had little to do. Father, the few times I could find him, would hear nothing of my appeals to send my sister to California. This left me with few occupations to fill the long days, save for riding my horse and wondering how soon I could leave Newport.

  I was about to take Silver out for a ride when I spotted a long, vertical shadow splayed against the stable wall.

  “We meet again,” Mr. Daggers said, startling me from the recesses outside the guest stall that housed visitors’ horses. I felt his glance wander through my curls as he handed me a single, long-stemmed daisy, the flower of decision.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, plucking the daisy from its green stalk and placing the flower behind my ear.

  He gently rumpled my hair with his large hand. “I just got back from a necessary visit to New York and had to see you.”

  I looked around, terrified that the stableman would object to this clandestine meeting and report it to Father. Then, with a guilty shudder, I remembered that Scottie the stableman was no longer in my parents’ employ.

  Mr. Daggers scratched his square chin and fixed me with his eyes. “Why can’t you come work for me as my personal secretary?” He kicked away some hay with his sturdy boot. “I want you. You want me. And I’ll pay you. If you don’t care to be involved in my business affairs, you can help out with the home for unwed mothers. Philanthropy is a noble calling. What’s stopping you?”

  Tears stung my eyes. “Because we’re carrying on like this.”

  “But isn’t it the mark of an independent woman to try to further her own financial situation? Whatever you earn from suffrage, I’ll triple it.”

  It was a generous offer—too generous, by far. I thought about the Movement: I could not stain it so. Words collided on the inside of my cheeks, caught somehow.

  “I can’t,” I said, smudging away a tear with my dress sleeve.

  “You could at least allow me to get you speaking engagements,” he said. “You may want to get them on your own, but you’ll have more success if you let me help you.”

  It was the ugly truth—about as easy to deny as the existence of leprosy. Men had so much power that women needed them to help redress the power balance. I paused. “As long as there is no quid pro quo,” I said. “No expectation that I will pay you back in kind.” Father had warned me that mixing business with pleasure made for a lethal cocktail.

  Mr. Daggers removed the silver flask from his jacket pocket. “Understood,” he said, solemnly. “By the way,” he gestured at me with the shiny object, “you look rather fetching when you cry.”

  Slowly, he untwisted the top of the silver bottle, sniffing the liquid inside. His torso expanded, making him look even taller and more broad chested. He had the build of a college football player whose physique had been exquisitely carved over time into the trimmer, more refined body of a businessman. He swigged the bottle as if it contained orange juice. I’d never seen anyone tipple so early in the morning.

  Sweet whisky smells combined with the scent of hay and horses. It was an intoxicating mixture. He handed me the flask. “May I at least change your mind about pleasure, Madame?”

  Was it possible to drown out guilt? Maybe whisky was a guilty pleasure, enjoyed even more when one’s sister was ill or a married man unexpectedly popped back into one’s life. But, as it was only eleven in the morning, I waved away the gleaming flask.

  He removed a strand of hay from my collar and let it float to the ground. “The remarkable thing about pleasure is that it’s so much more enjoyable when it’s coupled with love. You’re not like other women. You have strength even in your distress. Not many men could take care of you. But I can. I understand you.”

  Tilting his head back, some of the whisky dribbled onto his lips, wetting them. They looked luscious. With great self-control, I directed my eyes away. From the stall next door, my horse stamped her hooves and neighed, perhaps upset that Mr. Daggers was commanding so much of my attention. I heard her long, black tail swish.

  I stalled for time. “How do you manage to get away from work so often? And in this Panic?”

  “I spent the last twenty-four hours soothing jittery clients, persuading them not to pull their money out of the stock market. Everyone should be investing in silver right now. I did, and now I can take some time off to celebrate. I’d like to celebrate my success with you.”

  Somewhere banks were collapsing, and railroad companies were dying. But he was an oasis of calm, and there was something steadying about that. I glanced around the stable and considered my father’s business problems. Someone like Mr. Daggers could make them disappear with a snap of his fingers, and there was something attractive about that. I studied his fingers, now wiping off his wet mouth. Money didn’t slip through those fingers. He was a powerful man who’d decided to focus his attention on me. Did power corrupt? Perhaps, but without it one’s life lay in tatters.

  He flicked some dandelion chaff off his jodhpurs. He must have strolled here from his summer residence. No extra horse lurked about.

  “I have my priorities in order, my dear, and right now you are my priority.”

  Standing there in the morning shadows, tall, dark, and hungry, he looked irresistible. I raised my chin expectantly. Gently, he moved toward me, then pushed me against one of the walls in the empty stall. I parted my mouth. He bruised my lips with kisses. I closed my eyes and leaned in to his t
ouch, feeling near delirious. I wondered if I could become intoxicated from the hint of whisky still on his lips. Or was it his power that inebriated? I was, after all, standing here, letting a married man have free rein over me.

  “Oh yoo-hoo, Penelope,” Mother called, from just outside the stable.

  “Damn,” I muttered, ducking out of his reach.

  Mr. Daggers slipped back into the stable’s dark recesses. I examined my dress to be sure there were no telltale creases on the fabric caused by his hands. Then I carefully poked my head outside the stable door.

  Mother, dressed head to foot in screaming crimson, barreled toward me.

  “What is it?” I asked, alarmed. Had my sister’s condition worsened? I should be standing vigil instead of carrying on with a married man.

  I stepped outside the building into the blazing sunshine.

  “Look, look, look,” she shouted, running at me. She held up a card, then flapped it back and forth in front of her face like a fan. “You see, Penelope, everything is going to turn out fine, after all. Do you have any idea what this is?”

  As she reached me, she turned around the card so that I couldn’t possibly read it, propping it against her broad chest. “You don’t, do you?” she teased.

  I shook my head. I had no idea what could make her eyes shine like that.

  Ever so slowly, she turned around the yellow card. I squinted down at it, shielding my eyes from the piercing sunshine.

  There looked to be a photograph of a giant basset hound sitting at a dining room table with a linen napkin tied around his neck. In front of the dog sat a china platter along with a table setting comprised of silver forks and knives.

  I stared at the card. It appeared to be a joke of some sort. “Mother, what is it?”

  “This,” she said, handing it to me, “is a bona fide invitation to the Dogs’ Dinner. It’s a dinner party for dogs, not people. Isn’t that just the most charming thing?” She leaned in and whispered. “You see? We really haven’t slipped since—er—your father’s unfortunate you-know-what. If we had, we’d have never secured an invitation to this. This, this, this right here is the most coveted invitation in all of Newport!”