He opened the door, and Sophronia swept inside, casting a dark glare over her shoulder at the guard. She led the way to the legislative chamber with the others trailing in her wake. She gestured for them to stay close, and found the door to the chamber guarded, as it was before.
“Good day,” she muttered to the man on the door.
He tipped his hat, but as he took in the mud-stained, tattered women and their contingent of rough-looking men, his eyes turned wary.
“I wonder if you might tell me—” Sophronia began, but she did not finish her question. She leapt toward the man with sudden burst of energy, reaching for the handle of the door.
The man squawked in alarm and managed to catch hold of the door handle; he and Sophronia scrabbled madly for its mastery, both with teeth gritted and flashing eyes. Then Sophronia aimed a hard bump of her hip to the man’s leg, sending him staggering to the side.
She shoved the chamber door open and, together with her companions, nearly tumbled inside. The Territory’s lawmaking men sent up a collective mutter at the intrusion, and when they noted the women’s obvious disarray—and Jo’s sorry state—the mutter swelled to a clamor. Sophronia feared after all that she had erred—that their bedraggled look would turn the legislature off from their cause and spoil all the Suffrage Association’s efforts.
But Susan Anthony and Abigail Duniway turned from their place at the chamber’s head, where they had been addressing the assembly moments before. Susan gave Sophronia a smile of encouragement—subtle but warm—and Sophronia, her courage bolstered, glided down the aisle to join them.
Susan gestured toward Sophronia and her friends. “Here are three women from Seattle now. I shall yield the floor to them, gentlemen.”
One of the men in the gallery scoffed. “Madam, it is an insult for your … associates to present themselves before the legislature in such a sorry state.”
Sophronia felt Jo wither beside her, and even Dovey seemed to shrink from the venom in the man’s voice. My time has come to be as strong and brave as my friends. Lord, don’t let me fail. Sophronia stepped forward and lifted her chin before the assembly.
“I know our appearance is shocking,” she said in a carrying, confident voice, “but we are better spokeswomen for the plight of females in Washington Territory as we are, stained and ragged, than we could ever be in the finest silks and velvets.
“Gentlemen, our hard-used state makes us fitting symbols of the trials women must endure when they haven’t the shield of suffrage. We work and are taxed but must yield all our representation to our husbands—if we have any husband at all—and hope our interests are respected. Our property is not our own; we are left to choose between loneliness or destitution.”
Sophronia reached for Jo’s hand and tugged her gently forward. The chamber filled with murmurs of sympathy over her injuries.
“Without the vote,” Sophronia said, “we suffer at the hands of those we cannot easily escape, because we lack autonomy under the law.
“And I assure you, gentlemen, that the men of the Territory also support suffrage—at least in Seattle, where they have joined us in our fight for the liberty of Woman.”
Harmon, his hat clutched in his hands, raised his voice in agreement, and Sophronia’s chest warmed with pride.
“Therefore, since men and women together work for a common goal, and believe in a common good, let there be no further delay. Bigelow’s bill must be reconsidered; let us give all citizens of our territory the representation they deserve.”
“You were marvelous,” Susan said warmly as they exited the chamber together. “You are a natural leader, Sophronia. You should be pleased with your presentation today, no matter the outcome.”
“And when will we know the outcome?”
They stepped outside the chamber; the guard Sophronia had so boorishly shoved aside gave her an injured stare, but she returned it with a smile as sweet as honey and breezed past him to the building’s outer hall.
“I pray we’ll have our answer by the end of the day,” Susan said, “but laws have a nasty habit of taking their time with their making. We must hope for the best. Just now, that’s all we can do.”
Abigail Duniway drew close to Sophronia. “Your speech was lovely. I couldn’t have done better myself. I watched the chamber as you spoke, and I saw many men nodding in agreement, and more who looked musing and thoughtful. You changed their hearts, I think.”
“I?”
“Oh yes. It was certainly your words that swayed them.”
Sophronia blushed. “Never. I am no great speaker—not like you and Susan.”
“Oh, I disagree. You have a future in politics, I think, if we can only secure suffrage, and carve you a pathway in.”
A future in politics. It was the least womanly occupation Sophronia could think of. She grinned at the thought. Certainly, speaking before the legislature was not a feminine pursuit—it was a thing entirely unsuited to a lady.
Yet it had felt good—right.
Sophronia gave Abigail a grateful smile. She pulled Jo and Dovey close, reveling in their nearness, in the sisterhood she could feel flowing between them, a strong, steady current, a warm rush of pride.
“Today I learned how to be a proper lady, in truth,” she said.
Dovey wrinkled her nose, that familiar expression of curiosity. “The stuffy atmosphere in that chamber has gone to your head. What are you talking about, Sophie?”
But Sophronia only laughed and hugged Dovey all the tighter. Strength, solidarity, and loyalty—those were the traits of a proper woman. Dovey and Jo had taught her as much. The Lord knew it had taken Sophronia a long and weary time to learn the lesson, but she had puzzled it out at last.
CHAPTER FORTY
IF IT SUITS
The chapel bell made a joyful clamor, ringing among the treetops. Startled by the sound, a flock of pigeons burst into the sky. The birds scattered against a low bank of clouds and turned, soaring in a great arc down from the hill, toward the streets and alleys of Seattle far below. Jo closed her eyes and breathed deeply, reveling in the fresh bite of cedar in the crisp springtime air, the secretive green scent of wet foliage, the familiar sourness of seaweed rising on a wind from the tideflats. It was a beautiful day for a wedding. Jo could hear the promise of happiness in every toll of the church bell, could taste the salt of joyous tears on the Puget Sound breeze.
Sophronia, richly dressed in a gown of purple silk that shimmered in the diffuse glare of the overcast day, stepped carefully down the chapel’s steps, one arm linked with Harmon’s, the other cradling a bouquet of white roses. As custom demanded, the bride and groom stared straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with their guests, who now whistled and hooted as if trying to drown out the ringing of the bell. But Jo could see the happy flush on Sophronia’s cheeks, the smile she tried in vain to hide. When Sophronia gave in and laughed with joy, Jo cheered as loudly as the rest of the wedding guests and tossed her handful of rice into the air.
She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed away a tear as Harmon helped Sophronia into their waiting carriage. Sophronia turned as the carriage pulled away from the church, waving gaily, and tossed her bouquet into the air. A few young women shrieked in delight and scampered into the lane, playfully tugging at one another, each hoping to tear off a white rose of her own, to gather in some of the bride’s good fortune.
“What, now you won’t run after the bouquet?”
Jo turned, tucking her kerchief away again. “Dovey! I didn’t see you at the wedding ceremony.”
She blinked in surprise at the sight of her friend, decked in a deep-red satin nearly as sumptuous as the bride’s gown. Her dark curls were piled high on her head and topped with a stylish felt hat, pinned at a saucy angle. Dovey’s black-gloved hand was laced lightly through her father’s arm.
Wonders never cease, Jo thought. Who ever would have suspected Dovey Mason to reconcile with her father?
“Mr. Mason,” Jo stammered hurriedly. “How g
ood of you to come to the wedding.”
He gave a short, huffing laugh. He seemed nearly as surprised to be here with his wild daughter as Jo was to see the two together. “It was a lovely ceremony,” Mr. Mason said. “Full of feeling. I confess, it took me back to my own wedding day, so many years ago.”
“You’ll be seeing your blushing bride again soon,” Dovey told him, giving his arm a little squeeze.
Jo raised her brows. “Will you?”
“Father and I are heading back to Boston in a few days. We’ll bring Mother home to Seattle. And wouldn’t you know, Jo, both my brothers have agreed to come to Seattle, too, with their wives and children! Oh, it will be lovely to have the family together again.”
“That’s grand, Dovey!” She leaned close to her friend and whispered, “And your … venture? Do you still plan to open your own establishment?”
Dovey winked. Her dimples flashed in a quick, mischievous grin. “You’ll just have to wait and see, Josephine Carey. Don’t be shocked if I take Seattle by storm one of these days. But first things first: Mother is waiting. And I’m so glad to see her again.”
She let go of her father’s arm and retrieved the little beaded purse that hung from her waistband. “Look here,” she said, reaching inside and withdrawing a handful of glittering things. She picked delicately at chains of gold and teardrop earrings, holding each one up for Jo to admire. “I’ve bought Mother some new jewels—ten times better than the ones I took from her all those years before. Do you think she’ll like them, Jo?”
Jo wrapped her arm around Dovey’s waist and squeezed, resting her head for a moment on the girl’s shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll love them, you dear, funny thing.”
“Darling,” Mr. Mason said to his daughter, “we really ought to pack for the journey. Let’s get home to that husband of yours and see that he has everything in order.”
“Virgil does know how to run a business, Father,” Dovey scolded. “The taxes will all be collected and your sawmill will run like clockwork while we’re in Boston. Don’t fret.” Dovey snapped her purse shut and grabbed Jo in a hug so sudden that Jo gave a little cry of surprise. “Dear Jo, I’m so happy. Remember the day we first met?”
“I certainly do,” Jo said. “You were a skinny, bedraggled runaway with a ripped-up dress and a pillowcase slung over your shoulder. Look how far you’ve come: you’re an admirable woman now, Dovey—confident and strong. And I’m so proud to call you my friend.”
Dovey planted an enthusiastic kiss on Jo’s cheek. She reached surreptitiously for her kerchief again, afraid that in a moment she’d well with fresh tears.
“Three Mercer girls, tossed out into the wild, cruel wilderness,” Dovey said. “Who would have thought our stories would turn out like this?”
“Like what?”
Dovey grinned. “Happily ever after.” She hooked her arm with her father’s once more. “We really must be off now. But, Jo, we’ll see you when we return from Boston. You’ll come meet my mother, won’t you?”
“Of course. Travel safely, Dovey—Mr. Mason.”
Jo watched them stroll down the hill toward Seattle, arm in arm. The glow of warmth she felt at seeing Dovey and her father reconciled slowly gave way to a pang of sadness. Happily ever after. Jo sighed. Not quite. She had received a telegram the night before from the suffrage association in Olympia. The bill had failed again, despite the efforts of all the suffrage groups in the territory—and in spite of the continued support of Susan Anthony and Abigail Duniway.
And yet, Jo could not feel entirely despondent over the setback. Each time they faced the lawmakers in Olympia—each voting man they reached with their message, every penny they collected to fund the effort—brought them closer to victory.
We will have it, Jo told herself stoutly. We’ll have victory—equality—freedom. It was only a matter of time before the tide turned, and until it did, Jo would continue the fight.
She walked slowly down the hill toward town, arms folded, eyes turned down, entirely lost in her thoughts. In her mind, Jo ordered fresh plans for the Suffrage Association, prepared for the next bout with the legislature, and braced herself for another long battle. She was so tangled in her musings that at first she did not notice the feet stepping along beside hers, covering the ground with a long, easy stride. But once she became aware of that familiar, easy gait, the swing of his long arms, Jo looked up at him and smiled.
“Bill Jakes. Where did you come from?”
“I tried to make it up for the wedding, but my boat was delayed. I only caught the tail end of the fight over the bride’s bouquet.” He gave a low whistle. “Ladies sure do fight mean when there’s something at stake.”
“We’re persistent, not mean,” Jo chided gently, still wrapped in concerns over suffrage.
“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure I witnessed some hair pulling back there on the chapel lawn, and maybe some scratching and kicking, too. That counts as mean by my reckoning.”
Jo laughed. “I’m glad you found me. I have good news.” She pulled a letter from her pocket and waved it under Bill’s nose. “Clifford’s trial is over, and he’ll be in jail for a very long time. I don’t think he’ll get out before he faces the final judgment.”
Bill’s eyes lit eagerly. “That is good news.”
“That’s not the best of it. He wrote me, Bill—and he’s agreed to the divorce. He’s willing to let me go.”
Bill’s whoop of glee rang across the hillside. He wrapped his long arms around Jo’s waist and twirled her around and around in the middle of the road, until the green tunnel of trees spun dizzily around her and she was breathless with laughter.
“Put me down, you brute!”
“Jo, I’ve never had such welcome news! You’re free now—free to live however your heart directs.”
She gazed into Bill’s eyes—his dear, familiar eyes, as full of love and hope as they had ever been.
Bill lifted her hands and kissed each one, his lips lingering against her skin until her heart beat hard and fast.
“My love,” he said, gazing up from where he bent over her hand, “if I ask you one more time to marry me, will you say yes?”
A current of joy rose within her heart, lifting her soul on madly, gladly beating wings. She gave Bill a little laugh, wordless in the warmth of her bliss.
“Will you?” Bill pressed, and kissed her hand again.
Jo shook her head until the tears spilled from the corners of her eyes. “No,” she finally managed, still chuckling. “No, darling!”
Bill straightened with an uncertain smile. “You won’t?”
“I won’t!” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close, pressing her cheek to his, content for a moment just to feel his heart beating against her breast. “I like my life just the way it is, Bill—our life. I don’t want to change a thing about it. Not one single thing. I don’t care who thinks less of me, or who judges me a fallen women. I’m happy with you—just the way we are.”
Bill shrugged, and pulled Jo closer still. His lips found her cheek, and he pressed a kiss to her, so long and reverent that it stole her breath away.
“Well, shucks,” he whispered in her ear. “That makes proper sense to me. And if it suits you best, it suits me, too.”
Jo eased out of his embrace. The cedar boughs arching overhead blurred with her joyful tears, but when she blinked them away, the sun broke through the blanket of clouds in a golden stream. Bright, warm light spilled down over Seattle, over the great, blue-gray expanse of the bay, the rich emerald green of the hills, and the high mountains beyond.
“Happily ever after,” Jo whispered, and slipped her hand into Bill’s.
HISTORICAL NOTE AND AUTHOR’S REMARKS
Seattle has a more entertaining and shocking history than most American cities can boast of. My interest in Seattle’s rowdy, Wild West origins began with the enthusiasm of my husband, Paul. Like me, Paul is a great fan of history, and his particular area of interest is the
founding and early decades of his hometown (and the city where we happily lived together for the first five years of our relationship).
When we lived in Seattle, Paul would organize regular outings, which he called Seattle Days. He would lead a group of friends on a walking tour of the city’s historic neighborhoods, pointing out locations where exciting and obscure bits of history had played out in the distant past. Seattle Days always included a visit to the top of the Smith Tower (once the tallest building west of the Mississippi; now dizzyingly dwarfed by modern skyscrapers), and Paul would gleefully inform all attendees of his tour that the plaque outside the entrance to the beautiful white Art Deco building was incorrect: the Smith Tower was not named for one of the founders of the Smith & Wesson firearm company, as the monument asserts, but for the founder of the Smith Premier Typewriter Company.
Paul’s trek through Seattle’s history always concluded with his favorite attraction: an official tour of the Underground, a collection of subterranean streets and sidewalks beneath the Pioneer Square neighborhood—an eerie, damp warren of bricked-up shop fronts, disused bank vaults, and abandoned bars, all cast in the smoky-violet light of weak sun filtering through the purple, magnesium-glass skylights that patchwork Seattle’s sidewalks. The Underground represents the last remains of the original city (version 1.0 was destroyed in a spectacular fire in 1889; Paul will fill you in on every last detail of the event if you’re curious).
On every Seattle Day, I would walk the increasingly familiar route of the Underground, listening to the tour guide speak about the city’s early days. I’d listen just as much to Paul as he whispered plenty of supplemental history into my ear, expounding on the guide’s speech, which was always rather truncated for time—or edited in the name of family friendliness.
One of my favorite parts of the Underground/Paul tour was the story of Asa Shinn Mercer’s initial expedition to the eastern states.
In 1864, Mercer noted that the newborn city of Seattle was home to ten men for every woman—and most of those women were prostitutes, who capitalized on the unbalanced demographics to earn their fortunes far faster than they could in more established localities. Mercer hoped that brides of “true character” would appease the overwhelmingly masculine population of young Seattle, tempt the men into domestic life, and bring some much-needed order and civility to this rowdy frontier town.
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