“We shall continue to fight,” Susan added. “Lawmaking is a veritable labyrinth, full of intricate twists and turns. There are still options open to us, and with the support of powerful men like Judge Bigelow and your own Mr. Yesler, the way is not closed entirely to us. Not yet.”
“We’ve worked so hard …” Dovey trailed off miserably.
“I know.” Susan wrapped her arm around Dovey’s shoulder, and for a moment held her close. “You should be proud of your labors, Dovey—you and all the members of your association. This is only a setback, not an all-out vanquishment. We have lost this single battle, but the war goes on.”
“And elsewhere, we are winning the battles,” Abigail said. “Support for the women’s vote continues to grow. Leagues are forming in surprising places. Even while we suffer setbacks like this one, still our strength increases.” Gently, Abigail lifted Dovey’s chin. “Don’t hang your head, dear. We have so much reason to be glad.”
“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Susan said, with a forced note of cheer. “The Yeslers were kind enough to invite us up for a celebration, and for goodness’ sake, we will celebrate! A single setback is nothing to mourn. We must view it as motivation to fight all the harder. And we will fight—harder every day, until at last our victory is won.”
So they wouldn’t get the vote—not any time soon, and certainly not quick enough for Dovey’s liking. Not quickly enough to protect her ambitions … or the money she had saved. Not quickly enough to stave off her greedy, grasping father.
Susan and Abigail excused themselves and went inside, out of the advancing twilight, away from the encroaching dark. The vast, wood-warm hall the Yeslers called home was lively with the chatter of guests and bright with optimism. But though Dovey tried to put on a convincing show of hope—sipping her punch with a smile, applauding with the rest when Mr. Yesler formally welcomed Susan and Abigail—the effort of forcing gaiety was more than she could bear. Long before the soup was served, Dovey felt wrung out and shaky with exhaustion. She could maintain her pretense of hope no longer.
Mr. Yesler called for attention. He ran a hand through the thick gray nest of his hair, an attempt to neaten it that only caused it to stand up at more alarming angles.
“A toast,” he called, “to Miss Anthony and Mrs. Duniway, true champions of a worthy cause!”
All eyes turned to Mr. Yesler, to his raised cup of punch. Now is my chance, Dovey thought frantically. I must slip away, now or never.
She didn’t even know where she would go or what she sought, other than privacy, a chance to be alone with her dreary thoughts. She only knew that to leave the party now would be a terrible breach of etiquette—an offense to her hosts and the guests of honor. She had to escape without anyone seeing. She edged to the rear of the toasting crowd and slipped down the length of the Yeslers’ hall while Susan addressed the crowd.
She found a mahogany door, hidden behind the great, feathery globe of a potted fern. A scent of spice and onions came to her faintly through the wall. The kitchen. There was sure to be some outer portal, some conveniently hidden egress, somewhere in that kitchen. She opened the door just enough to fit her small body through and slipped into the steamy room.
The staff looked up from their work, then raked her with dubious scowls. But she ignored their questions and walked on boldly through their midst as if she knew just where she was going and had every right to be there.
Sure enough, an outer door stood beside the range stove. Dovey marched directly to it and swept out of the kitchen, into the deep-gray dimness of night. The November air bit sharply, even through her thick, velvet sleeves. She looked around quickly, seeking some sheltered place to huddle with her thoughts.
She stood in a small courtyard of sorts at the rear of the Yesler house. Its flat, grassy plain was crossed by the ruts of carriages. Water, reflecting the house’s lamplit windows, shone in some of those long, thin tracks like threads of copper and gold. Across the darkened yard, she could see the low black line of a building and could hear the sleepy night rustlings of horses.
A stable.
All at once, Dovey knew exactly where she had to go—and exactly what she had to do. The plan formed in her mind with such force that she stood stunned for a moment by its brilliance, gazing unseeing into the night as its pieces fit together with elegant simplicity. If it worked, she would be free—or at least, as free as any woman could hope to be.
Dovey crossed the yard quickly, hoisting the hem of her velvet dress as she splashed through the muddy cart tracks. A cheer went up from the party behind her, muffled by the walls of the house. She found the door of the stable and walked the line of the stalls in the darkness. She could make out little of any horse’s merits in the darkness, but still she considered each in turn, holding their eager, curious faces in her hands, stroking their necks as if to sense their pluck and vigor through their warm hides.
Finally she settled on a small, stocky mount who seemed both gentle and alert. Dovey searched the side of the building until she found the tack shed, and found a head collar, lead rope, and saddle. She also found there, through sheer luck, a heavy wool cape, discarded on a hook by one of Yesler’s servants.
Dovey let herself into the horse’s stall, patting and soothing the little mare to quiet her whickers. The mare allowed Dovey to ease the saddle onto her back without any fuss, and did not throw up her head when Dovey slipped the collar over her nose. Quickly, Dovey led the mare out into the yard.
There was no mounting block in sight. Perhaps the Yeslers were rich enough that Henry employed a special groom to leg him up into the saddle. Dovey sighed with frustration; she would have to clamber aboard by any means she could. She jumped several times, one hand knotted in the horse’s mane and the other pulling hard at the pommel of the saddle, until she finally was able to sling herself like a sack of potatoes over the hard leather seat.
The mare thought Dovey properly mounted and began to walk at once, her hooves sliding and clopping through the puddles. Dovey tried to halt her with a commanding “Whoa,” but in this graceless position the stays of her corset were shoved into her ribs, and she could manage no more than a timid wheeze. Dovey clawed at the pommel for purchase, kicking her legs against the air; finally she managed to rotate slowly over the horse’s back and haul one leg over the saddle.
Her skirt and petticoat were in disarray, and probably torn into the bargain, but Dovey didn’t care. Somehow she had kept hold of the lead rope, that one ragged lifeline that served as a rein. That accomplishment could be counted a miracle. Now Dovey only needed to pray that the mare would respond without a bit in her mouth.
I’d best find out, she told herself, and hope for the best.
She kicked the mare into a trot. As she splashed away from Yesler’s home, the sounds of forced cheer and dutiful optimism faded into the darkness. Dovey would no longer impose false glee upon herself where it did not by nature exist. If she were to have no vote—no power over the law, no protection for her interests—then she would at least work with what little she had been given. It wasn’t too late to take control of her fate—not yet. That knowledge gave her real happiness—a very small measure, to be sure, but it was a satisfaction she had no need to falsify.
It took Dovey half an hour to reach Virgil’s place on the northern edge of town. Before she could make out the house itself, its white siding grayed by the dark, squatting beneath the pines, she could see the red-orange ember of a lit cigarette glowing against the pitch-black of night. She called out over the muddy clop of her horse’s hooves.
“Virgil!”
Dovey saw the ember rise suddenly as he leaped to his feet. Then it danced a little jig as Virgil came rushing down the porch steps and out into the lane. Now she could make him out, a faint shape against the dimness, comforting and solid, real—and waiting for her.
She pulled the mare to a halt. Virgil stared up at her in surprise, his face shadowed by night, but the gladness in his eyes sent a
wave of gratitude and relief through Dovey’s stomach, so strong and sudden that it raised tears to her eyes.
“I haven’t seen you for weeks,” he said wonderingly. “Or heard from you, either. Where did you run off to?”
“The home for fallen women. I’ve been staying there.”
He laughed shakily. “Why, Dove? Why would you go there?”
“Why not? It’s what I am now—a fallen woman.” The tears broke, and Dovey wiped them away quickly with the edge of her borrowed cloak, ashamed of her weakness. “Virgil, why did you never ask me to marry you?”
“Why … ?” The question seemed to utterly confound him. He took a long pull on his cigarette and glanced away, out into the night-dark forest, and would not meet Dovey’s eye.
“Don’t you love me any?” she asked. Her voice sounded so small, so fragile, that she wanted to scream—to roar like a lion and show him how strong she really was. To show herself. But she could manage nothing more than that sad little squeak. “Even a little? After all the work I did for you—”
“You’re worth more to me than the tax collecting,” Virgil said quietly, and there was an intensity in his voice that pulled at Dovey’s heart.
“And after everything we’ve done together … why, I went right into your bed without any fuss. Sophronia would call me a ‘fallen woman’ for that—a sinner. I sinned for you, Virgil, and it never meant a thing to you.”
“That’s not true,” he said. “It’s not true that it never meant a thing to me. It did—does. You do, Dovey. You mean the world to me.”
“But you never would think of marrying me. And I’m a fool to ask about it. Why would you buy the cow when you could get her milk for free?”
He laughed and shrugged, clearly as uncomfortable with her accusations as he was with her tears. “It’s not like that. Marriage just … never crossed my mind, I guess. A man in Seattle gets used to being a bachelor—there are so few women around. At least, few women who are worth taking to wife.”
“That’s why I’m here,” Dovey said, bracing herself, praying silently that God would show mercy on her heart and her fortune.
She slid from the saddle and landed heavily in the mud, staggering a little. Virgil reached out and caught her, held her firmly by the shoulders. She could feel his hands trembling through the thick wool of her cape.
“Marry me,” Dovey said.
“What?” He spoke so suddenly that the cigarette fell from his lips.
“You heard me. I’m here to convince you to marry me. Take me as your wife. It’s the only way.”
“What are you talking about, Dovey?”
“My rights. My money—that’s what I’m talking about. It’s why my father locked me up, and why he’s still trying to arrange a marriage. By the law of Washington Territory, when I marry, everything I own will become the property of my husband. My father is only trying to find a man willing to negotiate a favorable split of all the money I’ve saved.”
“But you’ve been saving that money up to start your own business.”
“That doesn’t matter to Father—and it doesn’t matter to the law, either.” The tears came again, but this time they were accompanied by a storm of helpless, hopeless sobs. Dovey’s face burned with humiliation as she wept, and she was glad for the concealment of night so that Virgil couldn’t see the twist of her mouth, the redness of her cheeks. But he pulled her close, held her tenderly against his chest, and smoothed her dark curls as she cried.
“If we’d only won the vote,” Dovey wailed. “It could all be different then. But I’ve just spoken to Susan Anthony, and it’s all been reversed—all our hopes ruined! I have no right to my own money, Virgil. There’s nothing I can do!”
“Nothing except marry.”
Dovey reined in her emotion with a strong hand. “And if I must marry—” She pulled away from his embrace, welcome as it was, and stared up into his night-darkened face. “If I must marry, there’s no one I want other than you.”
Virgil let go of her body; he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, paced a few feet away, and stood rocking on his heels, contemplating the silent, dark forest. Finally he turned back to Dovey and nodded. “All right. I’ll do it, if it means so much to you.”
Dovey knew she ought to be glad. An arrangement of marriage was supposed to be a time of joy—and she did love Virgil, loved him so wildly that sometimes she thought her heart would crack open from the force of it. But the law had compelled her to accept a fate she never wanted for herself—and a life Virgil didn’t want, either.
“You seem awful sad, for a woman about to be wedded,” he gently teased.
“I want to be able to stand on my own, Virgil. I want to be strong. You know I’m a strong woman.”
He cupped her cheek with one warm hand, brushing away her tears with his thumb. “You’re the very strongest woman I ever met.”
“But here I am, selling myself off in marriage. Beholden to a man—kept like a horse or a dog. That’s the last thing I ever wanted for myself.”
“It’s not as bad as that,” he assured her. “I’ll let you do what you please with your money. I won’t interfere with your plans.”
“But that’s just it,” she said, and fury rose within her, so strong that she stepped back, out of his embrace. “Let me do what I please … with my money! Virgil, it’s not right!”
He nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right about that. It doesn’t seem right, after all, a girl as smart and capable as you, and the law won’t trust you to mind your own business.” He held out his hand, an offer of support in the empty space between them. After a moment, Dovey took it. “I’ll help, Dovey—any way I can. With the fight for suffrage, I mean. I’m not much, but I’ve got your back—yours, and all the women of Seattle. And we’ll keep fighting—you and me, together. The fight for the vote can’t be over and done yet. We’ll win yet—you’ll see. We’ll keep on swinging our fists, for you and all the women of the territory.”
Dovey threw her arms around Virgil’s neck. Then she kissed him, long and hard, saying with her passion all the words of gratitude and hope that her voice could not manage.
When she finally broke away, Virgil said, “Well—when’s the happy date?”
“Now,” she replied. “Tonight. It has to be now—time’s running out, and Father might turn up with his hand-selected bridegroom in the morning, for all I know.”
Virgil toed the end of his cigarette in the mud. “Wasn’t expecting to get married tonight. It’s a bit sudden, is all.”
“But it has to be now, Virgil, or everything’s lost.”
He shrugged, and gave her one of his crooked smiles. “Well, all right. Let me get my hat and coat. Ought to look dandy for my wedding, after all.”
They rode back into the city together. The whole long, night-dark way, relief warred with anxiety in Dovey’s gut. Could she manage a wedding at so late an hour? Finding a minister would be tricky. But the urgency of her errand lashed at her, driving her on. It seemed she could sense her father looming in the darkness all around, and his sly, contented smile seemed to leer at her from the shadows between the trees. Dovey knew her time had all but run out. She must marry Virgil tonight, or lose everything.
But before they could find a minister, Dovey resolved to return Henry Yesler’s mare to his stable. Dovey might have a reputation for scandalous ways, but she had no desire to add horse thievery to her repertoire of daring acts. At the Yesler home, all the lights of the party were still burning bright against the darkness, but the sound of forced merriment had died away. As they approached the rear yard, Dovey could detect the tension of fear in the voices of the people who clustered near the kitchen door and ranged along the side of the house, peering into the night.
As Dovey rode into the muddy yard, she heard Jo’s voice calling, “There she is!”
Several people hurried forward, Henry Yesler among them. He laid hold of the mare’s head collar, and Dovey felt ready to melt with sh
ame. She dropped from the saddle rather sheepishly.
“I was obliged to borrow your horse,” she told Mr. Yesler. “I’m awful sorry.”
“It’s no matter, Miss Mason,” Yesler said, and smiled. “Your friends were terribly worried, though, when they realized you’d gone missing.”
Jo and Sophronia rushed up to embrace her—and the way Sophronia clung to Dovey with real relief took her aback.
Dovey hugged them tightly in return. “I’ve settled the matter of my father,” she told them. “It will all be put to rest tonight.”
“What do you mean?” Jo cast a wary glance up at Virgil, who still sat his horse in calm silence. He tipped his hat soberly.
“There’ll be a wedding tonight,” Dovey said. “But I’m to marry a man of my choosing, not my father’s.”
Susan and Abigail drew up to the little crowd.
“You’re well,” Abigail said with obvious relief. “You gave us a shock, dear.”
“I’m about to give you another. All I need is a minister. But I don’t know where we might find one at so late an hour.”
Sophronia smiled and took Dovey’s arm. “I know just the man. I’ll take you to him, if we can get a carriage.”
“Leave the carriage to me.” Susan winked rather impishly. “The Yeslers have been kind enough to put their entire household at my disposal—and Abigail’s, too. If we find we have a sudden craving for a late-night tour of the city, we’ll be most graciously accommodated. That is—if you’ll have us as guests at the blessed event.”
Dovey grinned. “There’s nothing I’d like better, Miss Anthony. Now let’s get a move on.”
In short order, the carriage came rolling smartly out from the Yeslers’ stable, with two cheerful lanterns swinging from the corners of its footboard. Sophronia gave the driver her instructions, and they all crowded in, cheeks flushed and eyes shining with the mischief of their adventure.
When they reached the small whitewashed chapel on the hill, the minister came stumbling and yawning from the modest manse nearby, still tugging at his hastily donned trousers and coat. Dovey expected the man to light up in a fluster of indignation when he realized why the party had come, and at so ungodly an hour, too. But when he saw Sophronia step down from the carriage, her pale-golden beauty shining against the night, he greeted her with a kiss so long and lingering that it made Dovey’s eyebrows climb.
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