Mistress Suffragette

by Diana Forbes

  I turned around and nodded that I would.

  I did not tell Verdana. I did not tell Sam. I did not tell Katharine. I did not tell Amy. I did not write to my mother or sister. I did not share that I had bumped into Mr. Daggers with anyone. And yet, God help me, I felt elated. From that moment on, it was as if I had a secret bond with New York; and the old thrill of clandestine meetings with Mr. Daggers in the White Room came surging back to me. My new passion for life touched everything I did, and I found answering the call for an enfranchisement speech came rather easily once the flames of my womanhood had been reignited.

  I could free other women—just not myself.

  Shortly after reaching Amy’s, I was ordered to turn around and go all the way back to 13th Street to the Jackson Square Branch of the New York Free Circulating Library. I needed to look up information about the Suffrage Movement in Chicago. Amy would only let us use a library “started by a Van Buren,” even though it was easier to conduct research at the Astor Library and the Lenox Library was closer to her house.

  Still, what did it mean to walk ten, twenty, or even thirty blocks out of one’s way? Even a great distance and a seemingly insurmountable hurt had not stopped Mr. Daggers and me from finding each other again.

  That afternoon, I crafted the speech of my life.

  Tuesday, August 22, 1893

  For a city that was architecturally arresting on the outside, much of city life happened inside small, dark quarters. Manhattan was a club town. For men, there were smoking clubs, hobbyist clubs, men’s clubs, athletic clubs, and university clubs. For women, there were women’s clubs, political activist clubs, and settlement houses, like the one Mary Brewster and Lillian Wald were starting. I worried that, with the men’s clubs denying us access and the women’s clubs so small and splintered into special interests, word about the Movement would never spread.

  My fear turned out to be well founded. My great “enfranchise women” speech was delivered to dribs and drabs of women seated on velvet, dusty furniture, sipping tea and eating stale cucumber sandwiches in airless rooms throughout the city. At the house on Henry Street, Verdana and I spoke to an audience of three.

  Fortunately, when it came to love, I had never felt more invigorated.

  The only aspect I despised was the secrecy. I felt guilty sneaking out of the apartment. An ocean of foreigners surrounded us three English speakers, binding us together more closely than before. Indeed, sometimes our apartment felt like a life raft. Yet here I was lying to my raft mates.

  Still, there are some things one does not share with the closest of kin. Confessing that I was about to see the married man who’d tried to accost me was one of them.

  Sam and Verdana stood by the tiny wood table in the parlor, hunched over the Remington No. 2. On the table lay a stack of white sheets that Sam appeared to be reviewing. He kept nodding and murmuring small purrs of approval. She had certainly tamed him.

  “Where are you off to so late?” Verdana asked me. It was 6:30 p.m.

  “I thought I’d take a walk,” I mumbled, realizing the excuse sounded feeble.

  “It’ll be dark soon. It’s terribly unlike you to walk by yourself at night with all the traipsing about you do during the day. You should be careful. Criminals prey on pretty women. Don’t they, Sam? I’ll come with you,” Verdana said, stomping over to the one kitchen shelf to collect her hat adorned with giant fabric sunflowers. “For protection,” she said with a smirk.

  “Oh, no. I mean. No. I need to go out alone.”

  “Let her go,” Sam said, pulling the ever plumper Verdana to him. He bent his wiry body over her and kissed her on the lips. “We’ll take advantage of the fact that you’re out, Penelope. Stay out for a long time, will you, Cousin?”

  I nodded. It was the first time their lovemaking didn’t ruffle me. Go on and distract each other, I wanted to shout. I’m seeing Mr. Daggers.

  I found a carriage for hire down on Orchard Street and directed it to The Lantern Club, located in a dilapidated house on William Street near the newspaper offices on Park Row. Inside, the club was outfitted to resemble a ship cabin with dark wooden pillars supporting a tin ceiling, and along one wall, mahogany booths. The Lantern was a gathering spot for writers where they read their works aloud on Saturday evenings over alcohol while fellow authors poked holes in their work. But during the rest of the week, the regular patrons were determined to give the writers something to write about. The dim lighting made it hard to see the booths, which were filled with amorous couples engaged in kissing and other overt displays of affection. As I walked down the aisle, I heard groans and moans and smelled traces of sweat.

  I reached the end of the long, dark room. He stood up, towering over me.

  “Thank God, you came,” Mr. Daggers breathed. “I was getting worried.”

  Before we were even seated, we were kissing. His tongue darted in my mouth, and I felt a familiar ecstasy course through me. I’d missed him more than I dared admit; and by coming to him here, in a public place, it was as if I were openly agreeing to become his mistress.

  He covered my face in kisses, and I basked in the attention. Where was my independent spirit? I’d left it behind for the night. Amy would denounce me if she saw me like this, and rightfully so. After a time, Mr. Daggers ordered spaghetti and red wine. As usual, I was starving. The waiter had barely placed the plate in front of me before I started stabbing at the spaghetti with my fork and reaching for the roll with my other hand. Mr. Daggers gently pried the utensil out of my hand. He twirled portions of the spaghetti on his fork and fed it to me.

  The long noodle strings were doughy and overcooked; the red sauce, syrupy. Yet no food ever tasted more toothsome. When the wine arrived, Mr. Daggers held his goblet in one hand, cupped my face in his other hand, and had me drink from his glass. Then he kissed me again. The red liquid was cheap, of questionable vintage, yet no wine ever tasted smoother. I felt heady, intoxicated, warm, and happy—but utterly confused.

  This had to be love.

  “Wouldn’t you know, it’s my birthday today,” I breathed between kisses.

  “Then let’s order cake. I already have my dessert.”

  I pulled away from him slightly and ogled him. “Why? When’s your birthday?”

  “It’s whatever day I’m near you.”

  “Come, come, no need to fib.”

  “And on August 15th, of course.”

  “Ah. Recently. So, how did you—and your—uh—wife—how did you celebrate it?” I bit my tongue. When engaging in something morally reprehensible, should one even bother with etiquette? I picked at my food now drowning in gloppy red sauce.

  “We fought at the theater.” A vertical wrinkle bisected his brows. “Evelyn accused me of taking out the boat too often. But she hates to sail and will never go with me. She’d prefer to spend the afternoon debating the merits of terrapin over duck for dinner, although clearly terrapin has no merits. Sailing is my only escape.” He scratched his head as I drank more wine. Maybe his wife wasn’t as flawless as I’d previously supposed. Or perhaps flawlessness was dull? I’d never know.

  “I’m celebrating my birthday now—belatedly,” he said, fondling me.

  My blouse chafed, and I imagined him removing it. When he kissed my neck, he sent little flurries down my spine. I missed him, and I wanted him. I had needs, the Movement be damned.

  By 10 p.m., I had to leave. With difficulty, I pulled myself away. Mr. Daggers plucked a lone daisy from a small vase on our table and handed me the flower. Then he quietly arranged for a carriage to take me back. He paid the driver, leaned his head in the window to kiss me.

  “Tomorrow, let’s meet at the Met,” he instructed.

  “But there’s no Opera in the summer,” I said, feeling terribly sophisticated about my insider knowledge of this strange city.

  “Darling,” he said with a chuckle, “I’m talking about the museum.” He gently caressed my cheek with his fingers. “Tomorrow at two, then.”


  All the way home, I plucked petals from the flower, then tossed the denuded shaft out the carriage window. I’d reached my decision.

  Chapter 33

  Dangerous Liaisons

  Wednesday, August 23, 1893

  He must have cast a spell on me. There was no other way to explain the dizziness.

  I took some Beecham Pills with water, but the elation did not subside. I was meeting Mr. Daggers at two o’clock. In broad daylight.

  I narrowly avoided crashing into two footmen, carrying vases of giant sunflowers into Amy’s salon. What if we bumped into Mrs. Daggers in the museum? Or her friends? This love affair of ours was scandalous, eyebrow-raising, and yet so thrilling that I could barely keep my crumpet in my hand. I kept dropping crumbs on the floor.

  My goodness, I was turning into Verdana.

  It was hard to concentrate on female empowerment as Amy and Verdana debated whether a suffragist should apply for a job at a newspaper. Katharine aired her theory that her magazine could hire someone only if the reporter was there presumably to write about something other than suffrage issues.

  “Like what, dear?” Amy asked, with her upper crust lilt.

  She patted Katharine on the arm. I’d noticed that the more Amy disdained someone, the more frequently she’d touch her—a disarming leadership technique that caught the person completely off guard until she agreed to Amy’s every whim.

  Katharine shrugged. “I’m stumped.” She looked at me for guidance, but I was at a loss too. She wanted the column to incorporate suffrage values without advertising itself as pro-suffrage.

  I rubbed my temples. I wanted to help her. I really did. But, unfortunately, it was easier to focus on suffrage when one did not have a man waiting to ravage her in a public museum.

  Sex addled the brain—this much was obvious.

  “What are suffrage values, dear?” Amy asked with more than a hint of frustration at my lack of concentration. She clapped her large hands. “Here’s an idea: let’s craft a list.”

  Several maroon-clad footmen were dispatched to bring the team fountain pens and sheets of paper, which were distributed to all.

  I raised my hand. Amy called on me.

  “Yes, Penelope.”

  “Financial independence,” I said.

  “Good.” She nodded.

  For a change, she wasn’t wearing a hat, and I noticed that her features were rather pretty. She had a broad face and a good, strong brow line. If she didn’t order people around all the time, she’d look even prettier. Issuing numerous commands had caused her mouth to settle into a grim half-smile that just made her look severe.

  “Let’s make Penelope the official keeper of the list,” she said. She grabbed the pieces of paper and fountain pens back from everyone who had just received them. The hand that gaveth easily took away.

  “Rational,” Verdana piped in, dusting a crumb off her bloomers. Her bloomers looked filthy today. I could only hope our petulant patroness wouldn’t notice.

  Instantly Amy snapped her long, tapered fingers. “I suppose being ‘rational’ is better than the opposite. Even if the word is dry as a bone.” She sucked in her cheeks as if remembering eating three-day old bread. “Rational. It hardly rolls off the tongue, dear. It sounds positively austere, doesn’t it?”

  Verdana stood up, dusting off her purple bloomers with her hands. “It’s called the Rational Dress Movement. By definition, that makes it ‘rational.’”

  Amy angled her head at me and sighed. “Write it down, Penelope. Rational.”

  “Independent?” Quincy asked, to a chorus of nods. I wondered if he was popular in this group for his ideas, or because he was the only man in a gaggle of suffragists. Amy joined in the chorus of female agreement, then looked over at me. I wrote down the word: “Independent.”

  Verdana paced the long room, her boots crunching against the polished wood floors.

  “What?” Amy asked her.

  Verdana scratched her head. “What’s the difference between financial independence and regular old independence?” she asked.

  “Oh, they’re very different,” I said, hoping to head off an Amy eruption. “An independent life means we’re not counting on men for any aspect of our well-being. We can live, work, vote, enjoy the same privileges—” I glanced at the stately grandfather clock and fantasized about my liaison with Mr. Daggers in less than two hours. Independence—hopefully one grew into it, like the emerald City Suit I’d decided to wear that day.

  “Penelope already wrote down the word,” Amy said with sigh. “Let’s keep going.”

  “Temperate,” Katharine said, shifting her small frame against the imposing couch. A slight disagreement ensued between Amy and Verdana on whether “temperance” was a bona fide quality or more of a nod to the Temperance Movement within our ranks.

  Katharine’s cerulean eyes looked merry. “That’s why I like the word. It’s suggestive without being limiting.”

  I wasn’t sure that I agreed. The leaders of the Temperance Movement believed women deserved the vote, but I felt women should vote even if they didn’t subscribe to temperance. I wasn’t the only woman in the parlor that afternoon who was wary of the Temperance Union. In truth, many of us occasionally tippled—it numbed the hunger.

  “Don’t look so puzzled, Penelope,” Amy drawled. “If the editor likes it, we love it.” She directed her dark gaze at me. “Write it down, dear.”

  “Moral,” Quincy said.

  I blushed, then caught my reflection in one of the room’s imposing mirrors. My face was as red as a pomegranate.

  Amy slowly pointed to my piece of paper. I wrote down the word. If it weren’t for this one word, my values and the overall Movement’s would be aligned. I really wished someone else would take over the list-writing duties. I looked up. Amy continued to stare at me.

  “The Movement gives women both a platform and a voice,” I blurted. “A voice in their finances, their properties, and their futures.”

  “Write that down, dear,” Amy said. “Write that down.”

  Amid the excitement over crafting the list of suffrage values, the hours peeled away. At a quarter of two, I sprang from the couch and stretched my arms over my head. On the pretense of needing some fresh air, I scrambled out of the salon and practically danced up Fifth Avenue.

  My silk shoes were so tight they felt like miniature corsets on my feet: the pain barely registered. Overhead, a light blue canopy stretched, beckoning clouds lighter than air. I was on the street of dreams—Millionaire’s Row. The mansions and brownstones along the east side of Fifth Avenue were awash in sunlight. I stayed on the west side of the Avenue and dashed the thirty blocks or so, feeling like I might burst into song.

  I was seeing Mr. Daggers!

  We met just inside the museum doors and instantly headed to the darkest recesses of the Greek and Roman department. There, amid imposing sarcophaguses housing dead bodies, we kissed. The air smelled stale and lifeless, but it hardly mattered. He gave me life, and all I cared to do was feel his breath. While in his arms, I secretly fretted that the museum might close for the night before I’d ever tire of his embrace. He was gentler than he’d ever been with me and far less insistent. I pulled back to right my bodice. Had he just been out of sorts that day on the cliffs? Or was he a violent man who’d do me bodily harm?

  When he looked at me, his dark eyes melted; and in that instant I forgave him completely. I felt he really loved me, and I was determined to open myself up to his love.

  Two hours later, after he had blanketed every inch of my face with kisses, I detached myself from him.

  “Goodness gracious, I have to get back,” I said, breathless.

  “So soon?” he asked with a smile. “Just tell Amy the sphinxes helped you write your next speech.”

  I laughed. “I don’t want her to think I traveled all the way to Egypt to consult with them.”

  He removed a small, gold pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. “Darling, I was hop
ing you’d accompany me to the theater later. My wife is having one of her blasted card parties at our apartment.”

  “You don’t enjoy them?”

  I traced my finger over the pocket watch. It was eighteen-karat gold with finely crafted gilded Roman numerals on the dial. The watch was attached to his vest by a chain as thin as a strand of hair. I glanced over at the sarcophaguses, picturing museum mummies snug in their coffins. My father had once told me that pharaohs would be buried with their beloved objects so the kings could continue to enjoy their possessions in the afterlife. It must change a person to be surrounded by splendor, almost as if he were not bound by the ordinary rules.

  Mr. Daggers slipped the pocket watch back into his vest. “My wife’s parties are a crashing bore.” He stroked my back. “The game of Patience tries mine sorely. I’d so much rather be with you, and theaters are dark, well suited to lovers.”

  My breath stopped. So, it was obvious then: that’s what we were. I wanted him to say it again, many times: lovers, lovers, lovers.

  I threw my arms around his neck. “I think we’d better wait till tomorrow.” I sighed. “There are only so many excuses I can conjure up to explain my absences. I don’t want Verdana to suspect. Or Sam.”

  Mr. Daggers winced, possibly remembering Sam’s threat to kill him if he ventured near me again. “Ah, yes, your dear cousin Sam. He’s still hanging near, is he?”

  “The three of us are living together. Yes.”

  Mr. Daggers touched my stomach tenderly. “I wish you and I were, and maybe one day, with a third. You must admit, we are wonderful together. I love you, darling.”

  “But you’re married.”

  “Yes,” he said, kissing my forehead. “To the wrong person.”

  If she were the wrong person and I was the right person, then why couldn’t he free himself from her? I didn’t necessarily need to marry him, but I wanted us both free to make a decision and walk with our heads held high. I remembered a saying my father had once told me as a little girl: Lift up your head, princess. If not, the crown falls.