A March to Remember

by Anna Loan-Wilsey

  Knowing better than to voice any opinion in regard to politics, I ignored his question and said, “I’m most pleased to meet you in person, Mr. Coxey. Is Mr. Browne with you?” Marshal Carl Browne was second only to General Jacob Coxey in status in the Commonweal of Christ, the name they called themselves, and was the man who intrigued me the most.

  “No, he is at the camp. But if you’d like to meet him, come visit us tomorrow or Monday. You are more than welcome. You too, Sir Windom-Greene and Mr. Smith. Bring as many friends as you like.” I looked to Sir Arthur, silently praying he would accept the invitation.

  “I believe I’ll take you up on that,” Sir Arthur said, always wanting to be in the thick of any historical event. “And I will bring friends. Senator Smith, for one, will relish the opportunity.”

  “Good,” Coxey said, as he took his leave. “And I hope to see you again on the Capitol steps!”

  “Father’s not going to like this,” Chester Smith said, frowning as he watched Coxey disappear through the crowd.

  “Nonsense,” Sir Arthur said. “Such a curiosity as this shouldn’t be missed.”

  “I hope you’re right, Sir Arthur,” Chester said, shaking his head in doubt.

  I hope so too, I thought, too excited to worry about the repercussions Chester had implied.

  * * *

  “Hattie!”

  I turned at the sound of my name. Walter was ascending the steps with a tall blond woman on his arm who had Walter’s sparkling blue eyes and brilliant white teeth. She was laughing.

  “Excuse me a moment, sir?” I said. Sir Arthur, deep in conversation discussing the relative strength of the British pound with Chester Smith as we waited outside for the senator to rejoin us, nodded slightly.

  “I must say this city does agree with me, like a sunflower on a warm summer’s day. I didn’t know what to expect when we arrived, but it’s been marvelous, Walter, simply marvelous. I was saying to Mildred the other . . .” She stopped mid-sentence when I skipped down the flight of stairs to meet them and she saw me for the first time.

  “Oh, darling boy,” she said, without taking her eyes off me, “who is this charming creature?”

  Walter pulled away gently from the woman who could only be his sister and came to my side, taking my arm. “Who we came to meet,” he said, smiling at me.

  “Oh?”

  “Hattie, this is my sister, Mrs. Sarah Clayworth, and this, Sister dear, is Miss Hattie Davish, my intended.”

  Sarah had reached out to offer her hand but let it float in midair the minute she heard Walter’s last words. Only the caw of a crow and the plodding clomp, clomp of the horses in the street filled the silence between us. I braced myself for the coldness that would sweep over Walter’s sister now. As if I were the object of an employer’s displeasure, I kept my professional composure and maintained eye contact. If I were to marry Walter, I would have to stay strong as his wife, even if his family disapproved. Instead, I felt a rush of air as Walter’s sister threw her arms about me. She smelled of lilies of the valley and face powder. I stood there dumbfounded and wasn’t sure if I should embrace her in return. As she didn’t seem inclined to let go, I lightly set my hand on the woman’s back. Her peacock blue dress was made of the softest silk.

  “I’m so pleased!” she said, releasing me. She placed one hand on my shoulder and another on Walter’s. “Yes, very pleased indeed. You are most welcome to the family.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Clayworth,” I said, still stunned by my reception. How could the daughter be so different from the mother? Obviously his sister was more like Walter than I’d expected.

  “Do call me Sarah and I’ll call you Hattie. We are soon to be sisters, are we not?”

  “Yes, I suppose we are.” Walter smiled at my shyness but knew I had not been expecting such a warm reception.

  “So you aren’t cross with me for not telling you about the engagement, Sarah?” Walter said.

  “Cross? Why would I be cross? You told me you were coming to visit and you had a surprise. I wouldn’t have wanted you to spoil the surprise now, would I?”

  So Walter hadn’t told her about our engagement after all. Wasn’t that why he’d had luncheon with her instead of accompanying me? Was he, like me in speaking with Sir Arthur, unsure how to broach the subject? Or was it simply to surprise her, as she thought? But what else hadn’t he told her? Did she know I worked for a living? That I was an orphan? My hopes that Sarah was different from her mother were premature if she knew nothing about me.

  “Shall we join the others?” Walter said.

  “Yes, there’s Daniel.” Sarah picked up her skirts slightly and proceeded up the stairs.

  Walter and I followed. In the few minutes we’d been talking, Senator Smith had rejoined his son, Chester, and Sir Arthur, as had the reporter from the press gallery. Chester scowled as the reporter laughed at a joke I couldn’t hear.

  Who is that man? I wondered yet again.

  A tall, barrel-chested man I’d never seen before was also among the growing party. As soon as she reached the new arrival, Sarah wrapped both hands around his arm and pulled him in our direction. He rolled his wide-set brown eyes, but an indulgent smile spread across his clean-shaven face. Walter stretched out his arm toward the man who could only be Daniel Clayworth, and the two men heartily shook hands.

  “Good to see you again, Walter,” Daniel said. “Sarah says you were recently in St. Louis. I trust your mother is well?”

  “You know our mother. She’s as sharp as a thistle and as strong as a prairie wind,” Sarah answered before Walter had the chance.

  “And your journey?”

  “A bit long but routine,” Walter said.

  “Happen to catch a Browns’ ball game while you were in St. Louis? I haven’t seen them play since they moved to the New Sportsman’s Park.”

  “Enough small talk, boys,” Sarah said, turning herself and Daniel slightly to face me. “This, Daniel, is Miss Hattie Davish.” Daniel tipped his head slightly.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Davish,” he said. The smile on his face was refreshing among the somber Smiths.

  “And this, my dear Hattie, is Congressman Daniel Clayworth,” Walter added, “my esteemed brother-in-law.”

  “Nice to meet you, Congressman,” I said.

  “Nonsense, Hattie, you must call him Daniel,” Sarah insisted. Her husband glanced at her in surprise. Sarah recognized his questioning gaze. Walter and I locked eyes in the instant before Sarah leaned forward and said, “Darling, Miss Davish is—”

  “Daniel, have you met Sir Arthur Windom-Greene yet?” Walter said, cutting off his sister before she could reveal our secret. This was not how I would have Sir Arthur learn of our engagement. Sarah would have ample time on the ride home to Dupont Circle to inform her husband of her brother’s news.

  “I have,” Daniel said, as Walter led him toward the group of men.

  “Nice to see you again, Dr. Grice,” Sir Arthur said, extending his hand to Walter when the two men approached. “Gentlemen, may I introduce Dr. Walter Grice, a good man to have on your side if ever you’re in a tight spot.”

  Sir Arthur smiled broadly as he lightheartedly referred to the Christmas we all had spent in Illinois when Walter and I helped clear Sir Arthur’s name of murder.

  After the round of introductions, Sarah’s husband joined the men’s discussion. Walter made his excuses and returned to us.

  “Walter, you cut me off.” His sister pouted. “I was about to tell Daniel—”

  “I know what you were about to do,” Walter said under his breath. “This is not the time nor the place to reveal such things publicly.”

  “Oh,” Sarah said, looking about her guiltily. “Yes, of course, how indiscreet of me. Forgive me, Miss Davish.”

  “Of course. Thank you for understanding,” I said.

  “You may tell Daniel later, at home, but certain parties here need to be told formally, if you understand me,” Walter said.

 
“You haven’t told Sir Arthur yet?” Sarah said, more astute than I would’ve given her credit.

  “What haven’t you told me yet?” Sir Arthur said. I nearly jumped as Sir Arthur with the reporter joined our group. “Something concerning you, Hattie?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Something that has only recently come up.”

  “Well?” Sir Arthur stared at me in slight impatience.

  “It’s a personal matter, sir. May we speak of it in private?”

  “Of course, but first, some introductions are in order. Dr. Grice?” Sir Arthur said.

  “Sir Arthur Windom-Greene, please meet my sister, Mrs. Daniel Clayworth,” Walter said.

  “Delighted. And this,” Sir Arthur said, indicating the man I’d seen at the bawdy house, “is Simeon Harper, a—shall we say—colleague of mine. He’s a journalist who’s been marching with Coxey since that dime museum business in Allegheny City.”

  The episode had filled all the newspapers. The proprietor of a dime museum invited Coxey and his men to be one of the exhibits for a week. Coxey had declined, declaring, “We will have no dime museum freaks in this aggregation.” When three members of the Commonweal accepted the dime museum owner’s invitation, Coxey expelled all three men forever from the army.

  “Coxey’s Army!” Sarah declared. “I have followed the newspapers’ accounts since the man stepped foot out of his front door in Ohio. You must tell us some of your personal stories.”

  Yes, Mr. Harper, do. Tell us why you were interviewing a fallen woman on the doorstep of a bawdy house this morning.

  Of course, I never said such a thing and felt ashamed even after I thought it. And, in fact, I was as eager as Sarah to hear the stories of his adventures with the Coxeyites. But my curiosity had been piqued. Did Sir Arthur know his colleague was in Hooker’s Division this morning? What would he think if he did? And why was Mr. Harper, journalist or not, associating with a woman like that, especially since he was supposedly reporting on Coxey’s Army? Did Coxey’s Army have a connection with the bagnio? If only I could ask such a question.

  “Of course, Mrs. Clayworth,” Mr. Harper was saying as he unwrapped a piece of Wrigley’s chewing gum. “And who is this lovely lady?” Again I’d been left out of the introductions. This time I wasn’t offended; I was uneasy. Whether I was more uneasy being caught ruminating on such thoughts by the very man I was thinking about or as the object of that man’s regard, I wasn’t sure.

  “Miss Davish is my personal secretary,” Sir Arthur said.

  “Ah, I’ve heard about you,” Mr. Harper said, popping the chewing gum into his mouth.

  He had? First Mrs. Cleveland and now this journalist. Why was Sir Arthur mentioning me to his acquaintances?

  Before I could consider the reasons further, Sir Arthur said, “Now, Harper, after that heated discussion in the Senate, you must tell us something we don’t know about Coxey and his band of misfit men.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Is it true Carl Browne was once a journalist, like you?” Sir Arthur asked.

  “Indeed, among other things. Unlike Coxey, who is a respected businessman, Browne has had a questionable career as a journalist, a political agitator, a patent medicine salesman, a carnival barker, a sketch artist, and a painter.”

  “The man’s a charlatan,” Senator Smith grumbled.

  “What would you like to know?” the journalist said, leaning in toward me. I could smell the spearmint on his breath. If our engagement had been public knowledge, Walter would’ve put his arm around me or confronted Mr. Harper for the lingering look he was now giving me. Regardless, Walter took an almost imperceptible step closer.

  My mind raced through the dozens of questions I had about the marchers, but with the man so close, I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Since you were there, do you believe the rumors that the Secret Service has had agents among Coxey’s men at least since Allegheny City?”

  “My, my, Sir Arthur, you told me your secretary had done a little investigative work for you in the past, but I had no idea she would be competing with me for a byline.”

  “What?” Sir Arthur said.

  “Where did you hear said rumors, Miss Davish?” Mr. Harper’s lascivious smile had been replaced by professional curiosity. I had truly overheard something that wasn’t meant to be public knowledge.

  “Is it true?”

  “Yes, it is true. Now I only came across this information after a great deal of footwork and palm greasing. Tell me, Miss Davish, how did you come to know this?”

  “You should attend Mrs. Cleveland’s receptions, Mr. Harper,” I said. “You’d be surprised by what the women of this city know.”

  “Here, here!” Sarah said, laughing. “You’d make a fine member of the Washington Wives Club, Hattie. You’ll have to come to our next meeting. The women of this city will love you.”

  “But—?” Mr. Harper said, his brows knitted and his head tilted in puzzlement.

  “Dinner awaits, gentlemen,” Senator Smith pronounced, interrupting the journalist’s question.

  “About that conversation, sir?” I said, ignoring Mr. Harper’s quizzical expression and the satisfied smirk on Walter’s face. “The personal matter?”

  “It will have to wait, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said. Without another thought for me, he launched into a discussion on arranging a visit to Coxey’s camp with Senator Smith as he descended the stairs.

  CHAPTER 6

  The city was resplendent. After taking our leave from everyone after the Senate session, Walter and I had a light dinner at Vorlander’s near the Capitol, of soup with fried bread, riced potatoes, lettuce with mayonnaise dressing, and lemon pie. Afterward, as the sun set, we strolled slowly, very slowly, arm and arm back toward Senator Smith’s home in Lafayette Square. Beginning at the Capitol, lit up like a glorious, ghostly beacon on its hill for all night travelers to guide themselves by, we passed the Botanical Gardens, its conservatory dark and filled with leaf-shaped shadows. We walked down Pennsylvania Avenue, the thriving thoroughfare lined with buildings of limestone, brick, granite, and wood, of heights commonly three to four but as tall as nine stories high, even at this hour resonant with the clomp, clomp, clomp of horses and clickety-clack of carriage wheels. We passed the four-story, narrow Evening Star newspaper building; the popular, six-story Palais Royal Department store with its mansard roof; a two-story dime museum, the paint peeling from its sign, closed for the night; and, one block from the President’s House, the Willard. With its brick façade curving smoothly around the corner, the elegant hotel icon was known to have hosted every president since Franklin Pierce in 1853 and numerous other luminaries including Charles Dickens, Buffalo Bill, P. T. Barnum, Samuel Morse, Lord and Lady Napier, and the first Japanese delegation. Eventually we strolled past the imposing structures of the Treasury Building and the White House. I’d spent weeks in this city and never fully appreciated the magnificence of its architecture, the lushness of its parks, the simple majesty of its grand design. But then I hadn’t been on the arm of the man I loved.

  All too soon we had to say good night.

  “Don’t forget to talk to Sir Arthur,” Walter whispered as I took the first step toward the Smiths’ front door.

  “I won’t. Good night.”

  “Good night, my dearest Hattie.” And then he muttered under his breath, “Ah, what the hell.”

  I turned, surprised by his language, not by what he’d said—I’d heard far worse from Sir Arthur every day—but by the fact that he had said it at all. Before I could ask what was wrong, he leaped up the stairs, wrapped me in his embrace, and kissed me ardently. I couldn’t imagine anything ever being wrong again.

  * * *

  I could still feel the silky touch of Walter’s lips on mine when I found Sir Arthur drinking coffee in the drawing room and chatting with Senator and Mrs. Smith. Although I knew him to have been invited to dine with the Smiths, Simeon Harper wasn’t among them.

  �
�Sir, may I—?”

  “Here’s my boy!” Mrs. Smith said, interrupting me. A brown, wavy-haired puppy with eager, intelligent eyes loped into the room, wagging its long tail. It scrambled into Mrs. Smith’s arms and panted happily in her lap as it took in the room.

  “Isn’t he a good boy,” Mrs. Smith said, hugging the dog to her chest. “This is my Chessie, Spencer. The Chesapeake Bay retriever I was telling you about, Sir Arthur.” The dog, drool hanging from his jowls, jumped down to greet the men.

  “Fine dog, Mrs. Smith. Just fine,” Sir Arthur said, patting the dog firmly on its head. “Known to be more protective of their owners than other retrievers, you said?” Mrs. Smith nodded while Senator Smith stood to pour himself another drink, giving the dog a wide berth.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Smith said, smiling at her puppy. “You were saying?”

  “I wondered if I could speak to you privately, sir?” I said.

  “Of course,” Sir Arthur said, heartily rubbing the dog’s ears. “May we use your study, Smith?”

  “Of course, of course,” the senator said. “Second door on the left.”

  “By the way, how is your visit to Washington going, Miss Davish?” Mrs. Smith said without looking at me. She continued to smile at her dog. “Have you visited any of the sights yet?”

  “As you know, I have been to the President’s Executive Mansion, and the Capitol, of course. But that’s all.”

  “You have a notebook, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” I always carried my notebook.

  “Then write these down,” Mrs. Smith said, as she patted her knee. Spencer gleefully loped across the room, into her lap again. “These shouldn’t be missed.”

  I looked to Sir Arthur, who nodded indulgently. I got out my notebook and pencil from my bag and jotted down the list as she ticked them off her fingers.

  1. Smithsonian Institution

  2. Medical Museum

  3. Corcoran Gallery

  4. National Museum

  5. Washington Monument

  6. Ford’s Theatre and the house where Lincoln died