The Engineer's Wife

by Tracey Enerson Wood

  I was quite involved with adjusting the suspenders in hopes of keeping the pants from trailing the ground when I saw Wash’s amused face in the mirror.

  “Care to explain?” He gave me a peck on the cheek on his way to his washstand, where he used a badger brush to lather under his chin with shaving soap. I was happy he had decided to grow another but less expansive beard.

  “I’m dressing for work. I can’t lie about while you martyr yourself with too many responsibilities.” My fingertips were the only things exposed in the much-too-long sleeves.

  “I see. And what work is that?” He scraped his neck with a straight razor, then toweled off the remaining lather. “Hopefully nothing outside this bedroom. And that”—he pointed the razor toward my outfit—“fails to arouse this audience.”

  “Good news, you’re feeling better. Bad news, you’re quite the pig.”

  “Oink. What is this foolishness, Em?”

  “I can’t get around the work site in a big dress and delicate boots.” I rolled up the offending sleeves. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind my help when we were under bridges in Europe.”

  “That was different.”

  I pushed bunches of shirt into the ill-fitting trousers. “How so?”

  “It was risky, to be certain. But we were unknown, under cover of darkness. We could claim to be clueless foreigners.” He cut a neat part into his hair. “You’re my wife. You can’t be parading around in men’s clothing without comment or worse.”

  “I am dressing this way out of regard for safety and sanitation. Surely, no one would object. You are the chief engineer. Couldn’t you issue a rule about suitable work attire?”

  He stopped combing his hair and turned to me. “But, my darling, it is a rule. All men shall report to work in proper work clothes and boots. Hair not to exceed chin length, beards no longer than…”

  “Then what—is—the—problem?” I said, jabbing my curls into a work hat with each word.

  “Dear heart, I make the rules, not the law. You can be arrested for impersonating a man.”

  “Now that’s absurd. If women can’t wear prescribed work clothing, then they’re shut out.” I didn’t want to argue with him, but the unreasonableness of this vexed me, and I wanted it to vex him too.

  “Then I advise you to speak to your congressman post haste.”

  “You know darn well they won’t listen to a woman. Good Lord, we can’t even vote!”

  “Don’t point your daggers at me. I think women should be able to vote, dig wells, fight wars, run for office, do whatever they wish.”

  “Hah! Maybe I should do the unthinkable—wear men’s clothing and get myself arrested.” My curls sprang loose as I tossed the hat aside.

  “Please don’t. Your desire to help is admirable, and you should be able to wear trousers if you prefer. But it’s not up to me, and I have other battles to fight.”

  “What do you suggest I do? Look at these.” I opened my wardrobe and pulled out several fussy dresses, their hems soiled and shredded from my various misadventures. “It is complete insanity that women can’t lawfully wear trousers.”

  “Do whatever you choose. But promise me you won’t get arrested.” He buttoned his perfectly tailored shirt.

  “Getting arrested may be what it takes. If I can attract the attention of the newspapers—” My mind raced with possibilities.

  “Emily, please, no arrests. It would be bad publicity for the bridge. Not to mention both of our reputations. We could lose everything. You must promise me.”

  “I’m not sure I can promise that.”

  He set his jaw and eyed me in such a way that I knew better than to continue arguing.

  “Fine. But you have to help me find a way around this.”

  He rubbed his grizzled cheek, then poked around the dresses, fingering the frayed bottoms. Then his eyes lit up. “I’ve got it! Bloomers! You know, like the lady coal miners wear.” He rifled through some old magazines to a picture of a cheerless woman dressed in a makeshift uniform, holding a shovel. Her simple, straight dress ended abruptly and unattractively at midthigh over baggy pantaloons that gathered at her ankles. The effect was rather unbecoming and somewhat comical.

  “Dearest, no dressmaker would make this. It would ruin their reputation. And I’ve always been hopeless at sewing.” I bit my lip, however, already envisioning myself photographed by the newspapers wearing a bloomer costume much finer than this.

  He kissed my forehead. “And so, years later, I discover your limitations.”

  * * *

  My main limitation seemed to be a distinct lack of knowing my place. Or rather a lack of interest in my preordained place. I dutifully chatted with other young mothers but soon found my attention wandering from the conversations we struggled to sustain as our children played. I knew better than to visit PT without a strict schedule or accompaniment. And it was too long a ride to Cold Spring to visit my mother very frequently.

  So I began writing to leaders of the women’s movement, asking how I might become involved. But with Wash occupied night and day at the construction site, it became clear he needed to establish an office to coordinate the various suppliers, meet financial and political backers, and manage the finances. Suddenly, I was thrust into a new role.

  After a thorough search of Brooklyn, I located space on the ground floor of a three-story brownstone. Many large windows provided ample light and a view of the street activities, while a back room could be used for storage. After securing the lease, we advertised for someone to manage the office. After several disastrous interviews, it occurred to Wash that I was the most qualified for the position.

  Alas, what seemed logical to Wash and me did not seem so to the general public. I was expected to be at home and not out doing a man’s job. My own mother sent a terse letter saying as much, and the women I had chatted with in the neighborhood all now had somewhere more important to be. Millie had gone to Iowa to spend time with GK, and I craved a visit with PT. That wouldn’t lead to good things, so out of loneliness and boredom, I braced myself to withstand criticism and became an office worker.

  One late summer day, two-year-old Johnny was with me at the office. He busied himself with a toy train, hardly taking notice of the steady procession of men as they came to conduct their business. A new contract had been signed, and I cleared my desk in preparation for an onslaught of questions and demands.

  Late in the afternoon, the men started coming in faster than I could dispatch them. As they crushed into the small office on the muggy day, tempers flared. “Where is the chief engineer?” Followed by “He isn’t here, but some lady is!”

  This caused some pushing and shoving as men tried to make their way forward to see for themselves. Johnny was in a safe corner, so I ignored the jostling men. I dealt with a supplier who was incensed with the New York Bridge Company, the group of politicians and financiers who controlled the project.

  “Tammany Hall greed!” the supplier spat. His anger further fueled the growing discontent. The ruckus was getting out of hand and too close to Johnny, who by now had picked up on the general unpleasantness and started to wail.

  “What is this, a baby nursery?” The men began fighting with one another, hurling insults and accusations of profiteering.

  “Scandalous! Kingsley is lining his pockets at our expense!” the supplier yelled.

  Gathering my skirts, I climbed on top of my desk. “Gentlemen! I am here to keep this project moving ahead in a safe, legal, and timely manner.”

  “Why are we wasting time with a lady?” a man sneered.

  “If you have a disagreement with city hall, I suggest you take it up there. Here, I act on the authority of the chief engineer, and my decisions are final. If you find dealing with a woman not to your liking, I suggest you march right out that door without a thought of returning, for I will be here tomorrow an
d every day thereafter. Have I made myself clear?”

  There was much grumbling and jeering as some men reconciled themselves to the prospect of dealing with me while others put on their hats and headed for the door. Laughter erupted from a knot of men who passed around a note like schoolboys. One of them crumpled it up and launched it onto my desk. Rolling my eyes at their juvenile behavior, I picked up and smoothed out the wad. The crude drawing depicted a person in an elaborately bustled dress, the dress so cumbersome as to make the wearer lean over severely, using a cane. The bearded face of the figure was a striking likeness of Wash.

  It felt as if someone had punched me in the gut, unfairly poking fun at Wash and finding me ridiculous, an impostor. Perhaps I was.

  The bells on the outside door jingled, and a plainly dressed woman with light-brown skin entered. The men murmured and shook their heads but parted to clear the way for her. Johnny tugged on my skirt, and I climbed down to gather him into my arms.

  My voice was clipped, as I was still hot with anger. “Yes, miss—how can I help you?”

  “Miss Muriel Mann, referred by my former employer.” Her eyes fell on Johnny as she handed me an envelope monogrammed with an elaborate letter B. “I’m available next week.”

  “Oh, yes. Mr. Barnum’s nanny. Delighted to meet you, Miss Mann.” I offered her my hand, but she did not take it, modestly inclining her head instead.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve not been known to bite.” I cringed at her first impression of me. “This is my son, Johnny.”

  She bent down, holding her arms out to him. He looked back at me, and upon my nod, he ran to her, sending a twinge of sorrow through my heart.

  * * *

  At home in the library that evening, I slammed the crumpled drawing before Wash at his desk, expecting an irate response. He laughed.

  I folded my arms and seethed. “They consider you a frail woman, sending me to do your work. Why is that funny?”

  “No, it’s not that.” He carefully flattened the paper and tucked it into a book. “It’s the Grecian bends.”

  “The what?”

  “You know, the description of women in bustles. It’s also a nickname for caisson disease. You see the resemblance between the familiar walk of the fashionable and the walk of the afflicted, don’t you?” He took a few steps with an exaggerated, bent-over stance. He didn’t have to exaggerate much.

  “They’re finding entertainment in your infirmity. It’s disrespectful, and—”

  “You’re becoming far too serious, my sweet one. I must find where you have placed your sense of humor. And your bustle.”

  I playfully fought him off until we were half-undressed and he succeeded in making me laugh.

  * * *

  Some days later, I was enjoying a quiet morning in the office, Johnny happily occupied with several crates of hardware, when I was visited by the Metropolitan Police. “Now, I don’t want to arrest you, seeing you’ve got a little one to attend to.”

  “Arrest me for what, Officer?”

  The policeman, dressed in a sharp, dark-blue uniform, pulled a small book out of his pocket. “Impersonating a man.” He flipped a page. “Improper supervision of a child.” Another page turned. “Conduct unbecoming a woman. Woman working in excess of sixty hours per week.” He slipped his book back into his pocket, rocked back on his heels, and took a long look around the room. The bell on the door jangled as a client stepped in but then quickly backed out.

  The officer waved to Johnny. “Have you seen this?” He flipped his bobby stick end over end like a drum major’s baton. Then he turned back to me, slapping the stick into his palm.

  “Do you propose to club my child for these so-called offenses? Or only me?”

  He tucked the stick under his arm and chuckled. “I’m following up on a complaint is all. This can all go away. Pffft.” He flicked his fingers as if they were popping imaginary bubbles.

  “How do you propose we make it all go away?”

  “Some people find that a small donation to a certain charity makes the complainers stop complaining.”

  My blood rose, realizing his true goal, and I evaluated my choices, none of them good. I opened a desk drawer and pulled out a ledger.

  He leaned over to watch me write the check. “A tenner once a month should do it.”

  The officer came back each month, and I paid him, the expected amount rising each time. My gut twisted in fear of being arrested for bribery of a public official. I desperately wanted to tell Wash or write to GK about it but was afraid doing so would make them guilty as accomplices. To my great dismay, I had become a criminal. Unwittingly, yes, but I saw no alternative. At least the men entering our office had suddenly become more courteous now that we had paid for police protection. Some of them practically tiptoed in.

  I could afford these bribes. But what about those who couldn’t? Tammany Hall was entrenched in city and state government. We needed fresh leadership, and half of our population wasn’t even able to vote. Was I abandoning my true calling, women’s suffrage, by helping to build the bridge?

  Fifteen

  Cold Spring, New York

  Mother, her friends, and I sat at Henrietta VanDrie’s massive oak table. The hot, sticky summer was finally giving way to fresh breezes, and cool, crisp apples filled baskets in every corner. Piles of newspapers and pamphlets fought for space amid teacups and sewing notions. Miss Mann had arrived just in time to help with Johnny, as my life was about to take yet another turn.

  Henrietta refilled our cups. “Ladies, it’s time we took a more active role in suffrage.” She was something like a third cousin twice removed to a woman who had married into the Vanderbilts of railroad fame. This well-off cousin had taken up the cause, and Henrietta was astute to winds of change. “Providing bail for the brave women jailed for infractions against manhood is only masking the problem.”

  Mother folded pamphlets titled Women Are Citizens Too, Allow Women the Vote, and Freedom for Women. She adjusted her reading spectacles, read both sides of the page, and then waved it toward Carrie Beebe. “You did a brilliant job, writing this.”

  Carrie flushed. “It’s nothing. Any of you could have done it.”

  Eleanor drew her needle and thread through a square of white fabric stretched in a wooden ring. “But any of us didn’t. I may have a gift for bending metal, but you have a gift with words. And it is words, repeated emphatically, in the right places, to the right people, that will change things.”

  “Eventually.” Mother collected the pamphlets into a neat pile, which I added to my own. “We still have a long road ahead.”

  My hands were busy and my heart happy, listening to these ladies dream of future victories and swapping stories of their encounters with the Astors, Carnegies, and, of course, the Vanderbilts. Through the years, they had shared births of children and grandchildren and the loss of them. They discussed the politics of the country and the problems next door, sharing a bond that made each of them stronger. With a pang, I realized I had no group of women my own age to cherish as we grew older together.

  “I have some news,” Henrietta said in a hushed tone. “But you must swear to secrecy.”

  Eleanor and Carrie crossed their hearts. Mother rolled her eyes, and I sucked in my cheeks, amused at Henrietta’s way of keeping secrets.

  “You know the train station at Madison and Twenty-Sixth? It’s moving out, caboose and caboodle.” Even though we were fifty miles away in Cold Spring, we all understood she was speaking of Manhattan. She considered it the center of the universe.

  “Nooo,” came the chorus of replies, although we glanced at one another with shrugged shoulders.

  Henrietta shook her head at the collective ignorance. Her teaspoon pointed skyward. “Uptown. They’re moving everything uptown! That’s where we need to demonstrate—and buy real estate.”

  * * *

>   A few days later, I met the ladies in the streets of Manhattan. The chill in the air was softened by the aroma of chestnuts roasting on street carts, and the wind created funnels of dust as shopkeepers swept the cobblestones.

  I slipped one of Eleanor’s improved hairpins from the swirl of my bun and handed it to her. These were still our little secret, as she was in the midst of developing an identity as a man.

  “Female inventors won’t receive serious consideration,” she had assured me.

  “The softer material at the tips does prevent scratching,” I said, “but the metal has gotten a bit brittle with rust.”

  Excited chatter ensued as we joined twenty or so other suffragists and exchanged pamphlets. We marched in lines down the street, our numbers growing block by block as dozens more joined us, carrying signs, waving pamphlets, or chanting in support of suffrage. I was jostled on both sides as bystanders joined the demonstrators and the neat lines dissolved. Shopkeepers came out and waved with enthusiasm or hooted their protest. The sides were lopsided but equally demonstrative.

  A scuffle broke out, and a rock sailed over my head while more thumped as they met their mark. The street grew thick with pushing and shoving people. I gave my handkerchief to a woman with a nasty gash on her forehead.

  Police beat back the crowds with bobby sticks, which only caused us to protest with more vigor. Women were escorted to paddy wagons, possibly for their own protection. They didn’t seem to be arresting anyone. At least I didn’t see any handcuffs. Some of the women threw down their pamphlets and fled.

  Alarm bells sounded in my own head as the police closed in on our group. Wash would be furious if I pushed it too far. My dress grew damp with perspiration as I tallied up the charges they could level against me. I couldn’t do that to him, especially not now.

  The women who didn’t flee or get pushed into paddy wagons were shooed off the streets by the police. Many stepped back as soon as the police went by. But my situation was more serious, as I was known to the police, or at least one in particular. I glanced around to see if I recognized his face under one of the blue flat-topped hats. We had an agreement of sorts—illegal, of course, but I was not in a position of strength. This was a critical cause, and I badly wanted to take part. It seemed I was meant to be part of it, maybe even to lead it.