Mistress Suffragette

by Diana Forbes

  “Don’t despair,” he whispered. “Marriage isn’t a life sentence anymore. Every day, divorce becomes more acceptable. Our day is coming, love.”

  “So, you think you can leave her?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Yes, in time. But I hope you realize that I don’t want to rush into marriage again. Because what we have is better than marriage. It’s all the love but without the hypocrisy. If we were married, you’d lose your economic rights. But with this arrangement, you’ll actually gain financially.”

  “For myself, I’d prefer a love match. I get by on the stipend public speaking pays. I don’t need much to keep me happy, save for love.”

  “If you won’t benefit from the extra money, perhaps your Mother or Father would,” said Mr. Daggers astutely. “I can get you in to speak at the men’s clubs.”

  He understood my circumstances better than I did myself. With difficulty, I pulled away, but not before promising that we’d meet next time at the Brooks-Phelps stable. He exited the museum first so it wouldn’t look like we were together. I followed after him, waving as he entered his private carriage.

  As I walked back to Amy’s house, I could not stop humming the song, “Daisy Bell.”

  “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do.

  I’m half crazy all for the love of you.”

  Chapter 34

  The Secret

  Thursday, August 24, 1893

  It was pouring, and the city looked bleak. Gray skies dripped down onto the sidewalks releasing a torrent of mud in the streets. But I wouldn’t have minded thunderstorms. I could not wait for Mr. Daggers to wrap his arms around me. The stable smelled of wet horsehair, a heavy, comforting scent that reminded me of home.

  He was a few minutes late, which was uncharacteristic. When he arrived, soaking, he started cursing.

  The sound of his swears brought me back to that day when he’d tried to accost me. I told myself not to anger him. Then I felt angry with myself for allowing his moods to control me.

  It was hard to be both independent and in love.

  I leaned in to kiss him good morning. It was a gorgeous day, in spite of the inclement weather.

  He brushed me aside like a termite on a porch.

  “Can’t you see I’m drenched? It’s raining like the devil. I need to dry off.”

  Tears stung my eyes. “Sorry.”

  “That’s something at least.” His face looked red and blotchy.

  He started to brush one of the horses, a chestnut mare named Sally, according to a small plaque on the wall. Then he grumpily tipped the groom, who vanished. I had a terrible thought: how many other grooms had Mr. Daggers paid to leave him alone with his paramours at nine in the morning?

  “I don’t know if I’ll be good for much today,” he grumbled.

  I started to pet the horse in long, rhythmic strokes, a small repetitive chore to take my mind off her master’s ill humor. The horse’s black tail swished from side to side. Sally wasn’t as spirited as Silver. Maybe being around Edgar Daggers for extended periods of time had that effect on creatures of the female persuasion.

  “Why?” I asked carefully. “Are you ill?” Beads of sweat trickled down my face. Our time together was so limited. He had no right to show up to our meetings angry.

  He chomped on his lip.

  “What’s wrong?” I pressed. “Tell me.”

  His face darkened. “Um—there was a story about me in one of the papers.”

  “About the building for unwed mothers? I read it. Congratulations. You must be so pleased.”

  “No. In the gossip pages,” he muttered. “My wife is irate.”

  My mind flashed back to the day when I’d thrashed the man in front of me with a tree branch. Whatever news was featured in the paper could certainly be true. Then I remembered the strange, spotty, biased coverage the Movement had received about the parade. It was equally likely the report was false.

  I clasped my hands together, struggling for calm. “What did the story say?”

  I resumed petting Sally as he brushed her black mane. Directing my attention on the horse helped me stay calm. She nuzzled against my neck.

  “That I was spotted kissing Mrs. Streuthers at the theater last night. But that’s absolute rubbish. You’re the only woman I love.”

  “Last night?” I shifted my focus from the horse to the beast beside her. “You took Mrs. Streuthers to the theater last night?”

  “You couldn’t go, blast it, and I had an extra ticket. So, what the blazes, yes I did.” He fiddled with his wedding ring, twisting it round and round on his finger. “But the rest of the story is patently false. I did not, for the life of me, kiss Mrs. Streuthers. I swear to it.”

  “I have to go.” I gave the horse a quick kiss on her neck, then turned and ran out of the stable.

  “Wait!”

  I ran as fast as I could past the hideous buildings, all dipped in the same chocolate-coated stone, and turned eastward into the hailstorm. I hated New York with its ugly, dark row houses. The city looked like it was in tears. Why was I even here? I should be back home. Or in Boston. Anywhere but here.

  Reaching Fifth Avenue, I tore up Millionaire’s Row, sporting its gaudy houses like oversized baubles. Ice particles pitted my face, the sidewalk now reduced to a slippery slope. Always with a different piece of fluff on his arm, Lucinda had warned. Once a philanderer, always a philanderer, I repeated with each sliding step. At 50th Street, I became aware of the clip clop of hooves beside me and could hear Edgar Daggers calling my name from atop his horse. Due to the torrential rain and ice, we were the only people crazy enough to be outside.

  “Penelope,” he shouted from somewhere high above me. “Stop. Don’t go. Let’s talk, dammit.”

  I squinted up at him through eyes splattered with tears and rain. “It’s over.”

  He hopped down from his horse and quickly tied it to a lamppost.

  “I love you,” he said. “And I won’t allow you to destroy us with this beastly jealousy.” He stroked my arm. “Yes, I took Mrs. Streuthers to the theater. What of it?” He blinked the hailstones from his eyelashes. They were long and curly. Men who cavorted with women always had girlish lashes—as if spending so much time in the company of women automatically doubled lash length. He had extramarital lashes.

  Edgar moved some wet hair away from my cheek. “She’s often been my companion during these many weeks when you’d have nothing to do with me.” He squeezed my hand. “But I don’t care a fig for her. And now that I know it’s important to you, I promise I won’t see her anymore.”

  My eyes weren’t large enough to hold the tears that cascaded down from them.

  “What about other women?”

  “What other women?”

  “Women other than me and Mrs. Streuthers,” I sobbed.

  He put his hands in his pockets. “I’ll stop seeing all women, but only on one condition.”

  “What?”

  “That you stop bawling like a five-year-old, and come out with me tonight.” He laid a hand on the small of my back. “If you want to be my only woman, then you need to be on my arm at all times, dammit.”

  He was like a pharaoh. And I was his beloved object.

  Hopefully that wouldn’t make me an object of derision with the leaders of the Movement.

  Olivia, Olga, Theresa, and twenty other women assembled in the suffrage salon on 52nd Street, poised for debate. Could a suffragist write a column that was not political, and if so, what subject matter should it cover? As usual, I squeezed onto a couch with Mary, Madeleine, Midge, and another mid-level woman. Near us sat Katharine and Quincy on their own couch. This time, he had a smaller easel set up, and when I sat down across from him, he started dabbing a paintbrush in various colors. I hoped I looked Muse-like. On a sprawling divan near the center of the room sat Verdana by herself and across from her, Amy, intrepid commander of the Suffrage Movement.

  I suggested an advice column, thinking that I could probably use the he
lp. I’d read a lot of advice columns, mostly preachy pieces about how to decorate small apartment spaces, and the like.

  Amy folded her arms over her chest. “Do you mean a column on decor, dear?” She yawned. “I don’t know if we need another one of those.” She glanced around her palatial salon. “The piece I read last week actually suggested that everyone in a small flat should throw out all the extra beds and replace them with chairs.” She threw back her head and chortled, picking up her giant purple hat as it tumbled off her head and onto the settee.

  I’d read the column and agreed it was idiotic. Most of the flats down where I lived didn’t have extra beds, but there might be as many as seven residents per tiny room. Tossing the beds would have reduced the numerous residents in each flat to sleeping on chairs.

  I nodded. “Yes. But maybe we could take it a step further. More like advice to the single woman, living alone for the first time in New York City.” I opened the palm of my hand to count off on my fingers. I held down my pinkie. “How often should she write to her parents?” I held down my ring finger. “How should she meet someone appropriate?” I glanced at the women lining the couches and held down my middle finger. “Perhaps some instruction on handling finances?” The column would highlight some of the suffrage values—financial independence, regular independence, morality, and temperance.”

  Katharine jumped up from her couch and danced a quick jig. “I think I can sell that.”

  “Just please honor one request,” I said, putting up my hand. “Please be sure I’m not the one to write it. I need advice and should not be the one to dispense it.”

  To my chagrin, Amy, Verdana, Katharine, and Quincy all nodded their heads in agreement.

  I felt a scarlet heat paint my face as I glanced from one suffragist to another down the line. A half smile glimmered across Amy’s lips. I waited for one of the four to speak, but no one did.

  Did they know about Mr. Daggers? How could they—when he and I had taken such pains to keep things discreet?

  Chapter 35

  The Monster

  Thursday, August 24, 1893

  Mr. Daggers and I were supposed to attend a soirée, but a hurricane interfered. The winds and rain had started to rage by the time he picked me up on Orchard Street in a hired carriage. We refused to be dissuaded by bad weather. Our love had overcome far worse.

  We were heading up Park Avenue when the worst of the storm hit. The sky turned a deadly green. The carriage teetered, then jerked to a halt. Branches broke off trees and crashed to the ground as lightning scissored the sky.

  “Sparrow. Five cents for a dead sparrow,” a young voice cried. A skinny boy pounded on the carriage window. “Five cents, Sir.”

  “Be gone with you,” Mr. Daggers shouted through the closed door.

  “We can’t just ignore him,” I said, jumping off the seat as thunder sounded like a giant drum and a loose cobblestone pelted the carriage. “It’s inhumane.”

  “Sometimes these boys run in gangs,” he said.

  I reached across him, opened the window, stuck my hand out in the pouring rain, and handed the urchin five cents.

  “Keep the sparrow,” I said, wincing at how still and small it looked in his hand.

  On the side of the road, two sailors in uniforms lay prone with their mouths open. A tree had fallen on top of the men. One of them still held an open bottle of lager, its contents sullying his white outfit. The other had his hands on the tree trunk as if trying to roll it off. From our carriage window, I could not tell whether his struggle would succeed.

  The wind howled. Rain assaulted the carriage. We weren’t anywhere near a body of water, which meant those sailors must have been seeking shelter before they were struck down. Behind them stood a tavern, boarded up due to the storm. Stained glass splinters from the church next door littered the street.

  Mr. Daggers closed the window. “We have to get you home, my love. We’ll go to a party another time.”

  “No.”

  “No?” He looked at me unblinkingly.

  “No. We have to get these men to a hospital.”

  I could not let these poor men die in the street, else how could I live with myself? Surely, as a philanthropist, he’d understand. There was a time for compassion, and that time was now.

  He stroked my back, looked out the window, and then back at me. “Goddammit, Penelope. You’re absolutely right.”

  Cursing under his breath, he pried open the carriage door, and we both ducked outside to help the men. Water cascaded down in sheets. The wind threatened to somersault the carriage. The horses careened and bucked, spooked by the storm.

  Hair dripped into my eyes. My dress stuck to me. I could feel the rain making my bodice transparent beneath my clothes, and I wished I’d thought to bring a shawl to cover myself. He stared through me in that hungry way of his, even amid the driving rain. I felt ashamed for noticing, guiltier still for the thoughts playing through my head. No one would ever question our whereabouts on a night like this. We might die, but at least we’d be safe from censure.

  He crouched down in the mud. The one sailor’s hands were poised rigid on the log. The driver joined us, and together the three of us rolled the fallen tree off the sailors’ torsos. The men looked still. Mr. Daggers felt their chests. He pressed down, gingerly feeling about with his hands. Kneeling down further, he placed his ear to their hearts. “I don’t hear anything,” he said.

  “Feel their hands,” I said, trembling. “Are they cold?”

  He touched their hands, then their heads. “It’s too late, darling. They’re gone,” he said, wiping a tear from his eye even as the rain streamed down his cheeks. “My great grandfather was a sailor, you know.”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t known. And that, right there, was the strangest aspect of our affair. Facts we might have gleaned about the other after just two public outings remained hidden, obscured by the need to nurse our love in dark, silent corners. I touched the childhood locket around my neck. Those men might have lived had we only reached them sooner.

  The rain continued its rampage. Every inch of me was soaked through as I kicked away some glass shards and joined him on the muddy ground. Water blanketed my face, forcing its way into my mouth. Squinting to keep the water out of my eyes, I rummaged through the sailors’ pockets to search for any identifying documents that would help me locate their families. But their pockets had already been picked clean.

  “Sparrow. Five cents for a dead sparrow,” another young boy shouted.

  I stared at the sailors. What were they thinking when they were struck down? Were they remembering their loved ones? Seeing the smile of a young wife as captured in a sepia photograph—the one memory never to be relived?

  “Let’s bring them to a cemetery,” I said, glancing from Mr. Daggers to the driver, “so they’ll have a decent burial. Otherwise the rats will get to them.”

  “If we don’t get you home, we’ll be joining them,” Mr. Daggers said. He snapped his fingers. “Get back in the carriage, and let’s drive you home.”

  “Yes, Mr. Daggers, sir,” the driver said, relaxing his shoulders as water cascaded through his hat brim and down his temples. He opened the carriage door.

  I sighed, knowing Mr. Daggers was right. We were risking our lives just being outside. Feeling sodden and frustrated on behalf of the poor soldiers and their families, I crawled inside the carriage and we trudged down to flooded Orchard Street.

  “Isn’t there anything we can do for them?” I asked, chilled. Tiny bumps prickled my arms and neck. It seemed so unfair. If the sailors had stayed on board their ships, those men would have died. But they had died anyway, in the streets.

  “I’ll contact the home for unwed mothers tomorrow,” he offered, mopping my brow with a seat pillow. “They’re associated with a hospital. The staff will know how to get these men buried properly. I love you, darling, and right now, I’m going to deliver you home, safe.”

  We passed two more dead sailors along
the way. I looked up at him, silently pleading with him with my eyes.

  “Yes, darling,” he said, brushing the sopping hair off my face, “I’ll take care of them, too. Don’t worry. We’ll find them a final resting place.”

  The carriage teetered and rocked, but I knew he would get me home. Though freezing, I felt warm and safe.

  Friday, August 25, 1893

  The morning after, I read in the newspaper that the hurricane, dubbed “the West Indian monster,” sank dozens of boats and killed scores of sailors. In Central Park, hundreds of trees were uprooted, and gangs of young boys roamed through the grounds collecting the dead sparrows to sell them to restaurants. But my Edgar had promised to go back and see that the sailors received a proper burial. Verdana, Sam, and I huddled in our flat and thanked God for watching over our little street. For while the storm ravaged Coney Island, Brighton Beach, parts of Brooklyn, and even the brand new Metropolitan Life Tower on East 23rd Street, our little tenement had held up magnificently.

  I had too, I thought. I had survived the monster.

  Friday, September 15, 1893

  I was leaving Amy’s home a few weeks after the hurricane when I spotted my paramour waiting outside in his personal carriage. The open window framed his sculpted face, reminding me of a museum portrait of a young but dark-haired King Henry VIII. He cupped his mouth with his large hands.

  “Psst,” he called out. “Your transportation has arrived, princess.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, the prerequisite behavior for taking up with a married man. One could spend a lifetime looking backward and another lifetime massaging out the strange kinks that would cripple the neck and shoulder as a result.

  Seeing no one behind me, I ducked inside his transport. The seat cushions, smelling vaguely of roses, were upholstered in soft purple velvet. Pillows in the same fabric, engraved with a gold D, lined the back of the cabin. Mr. Daggers started to gently massage my neck until the crimping sensation eased. I leaned my head back on one of his soft pillows, feeling indeed like a fairytale princess being whisked away in a magical carriage.