A Proper Pursuit (11 page)

I watched in surprise as a woman stepped up on a raised platform in front of the building to enthusiastic applause. The idea of a woman delivering a speech in a public place was outrageous. I glanced around, wondering if the police would rush forward to arrest her.

“Men want to deny women the right to speak in public,” Aunt Matt said, as if reading my mind. “But we won’t be denied.”

“As many of you know,” the speaker began, “this July marks the forty-fifth anniversary of the first Women’s Rights Convention in America. In July of 1848, our tireless colleagues Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott gathered with a group of like-minded women to discuss their rights and protest their condition. They drew up our Declaration of Sentiments and Resolutions, stating that the Creator has endowed
women
with certain unalienable rights too. Our declaration calls for an end to the absolute tyranny of men over women; for equality in higher education and in economic opportunity; for the right to equal child custody provisions; the right to speak in public and to testify in court. Most of all, the declaration calls for a woman’s right to vote. Ladies and gentlemen, that’s why we’re here today.”

She paused, waiting for the cheers and applause to die away. “Fifteen years ago, in 1878, our leader, Miss Susan B. Anthony, persuaded one courageous United States senator to propose a Constitutional Amendment guaranteeing women the right to vote. It was defeated. And it has been repeatedly defeated every year for the past fifteen years. But we will not let those defeats stop us!”

This time I got swept away too and found myself applauding with Aunt Matt and the other women.

“Thousands of women have signed our petition once again,” the speaker continued, “asking our United States senators to support a constitutional amendment granting women the right to vote. I urge you to join our demonstration as we march to our senator’s office today and present him with our request. We
will
be heard!”

Before I knew what was happening, someone handed signs to Aunt Matt and me and we were swept along as the crowd marched down the street. One group of women carried a banner that read
National American Women’s Suffrage Association
. I hadn’t felt such a thrill of excitement since the night Ruth Schultz and I crept into the school’s basement at the stroke of midnight, carrying a candle, in an attempt to divine who our future husbands would be.

Cross traffic came to a halt as Aunt Matt and I surged down the middle of the street with hundreds of other women. Heads turned and pedestrians stopped to watch as we marched past. Cab drivers and teamsters shook their fists at us in rage for blocking traffic. We were definitely attracting attention.

Then I spotted an expensive carriage similar to Aunt Agnes’, and I stopped in my tracks. Neither she nor her wealthy friends would be caught dead at this rally. What if one of them saw me? Would it ruin my chances for a wealthy husband?

The woman behind me bumped into me, forcing me forward again. But I had lost my enthusiasm for the cause, knowing that I had a great deal more to lose. What did it matter if I won the right to vote if I never found true love?

I instinctively lowered my sign. I was afraid to look at the crowds of people lining the sidewalks as we marched past. I heard angry catcalls and wished I were shorter, or that I could hide in the center of the procession. If only I had worn a larger hat—or one with a veil.

Yet the rebel in me realized that Aunt Matt had made some excellent points. In spite of Madame B.’s indoctrination, I did balk at the idea that I was somehow inferior. Besides, on the train ride into the city I had decided to leave my suffocating cocoon and fly freely, and this certainly felt like flying. I lifted my sign again, proud to be supporting a good cause. And maybe, if I held my sign just right, I could fight for women’s suffrage and shield my face from view at the same time.

I marched for several more blocks in this proud yet timorous state—until I spotted a squad of uniformed policemen armed with billy clubs moving into the middle of the street to stop us.

“Aunt Matt? Are … are the police going to arrest us?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. Honestly! The city officials should be ashamed of themselves for sending the police. This is a peaceful march. The constitution grants men the rights to freedom of speech and freedom of assembly; shouldn’t women be accorded the same rights?”

“I-I guess so.”

The parade halted. As I watched the policemen move in, I imagined what it would be like to be taken into custody by a handsome young Irish policeman with curly dark hair and Irish-green eyes. I made up my mind to struggle so that he would have to take me into his brawny arms to subdue me and carry me away, but of course he would fall hopelessly in love with me the moment he lifted me off my feet. He would try to find a way to spring me from jail, but I would refuse to accept his offer, preferring to suffer with my fellow suffragettes. What fun it would be—and so dramatic—to be arrested and locked inside a cell and forced to spend the night in jail! I might even have to share a cell with so-called “women of the night” and listen to their scandalous stories as we ate our meal of bread and water. I would have a prison record and—

I would have a prison record?

I saw all of my chances for a society husband going up in smoke. I tugged on my aunt’s arm to get her attention.

“Um … Aunt Matt?”

“Yes?”

“While I clearly see the merit in what you’re trying to accomplish, and I agree wholeheartedly with everything you’ve said … um … I don’t think Grandmother or my father would be very pleased if we got arrested.”

She frowned as she considered my words. “I suppose you’re right,” she said in disgust. “Maybe another day. This is only your first march, after all.” She grabbed my sign and gave it to one of the other women, along with her own. Then we stepped out of the street and onto the sidewalk to walk back the way we had just come. I could see that Aunt Matt was furious, but whether it was with me or with all the injustice she had endured in life, I didn’t know. I decided to remain quiet.

We returned to the streetcar stop and climbed aboard the first car that arrived. Aunt Matt released an enormous sigh as she sank onto the seat.

“How did you get involved in the suffrage movement?” I asked her—just to let her know I was still on her side.

“One of my earliest memories is of my father’s reaction when my sister Florence was born. ‘If only she had been a boy,’ he said over and over again. ‘Why couldn’t she have been a boy?’ It seemed as though a great tragedy had occurred in our home, like a death in the family. He had the same reaction when Agnes and Bertha were born—deep, deep disappointment.

“As I grew older, I tried very hard to make him proud of me, to show him that I was just as good as any son. I began reading his newspapers, following his court cases, and discussing current events with him. I even learned how to research law cases for him. I wanted to be everything to him that a son would have been.

“But even as he lay dying, he told me, ‘Too bad you weren’t a boy… . It’s my lifelong regret that I never had a son to carry on my work.’ He was disappointed in me and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it. It didn’t matter how sharp my mind was or how well I could converse with him. He never forgave me for being trapped in a woman’s body.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” I said.

“Nearly all men are the same. They want sons. And they blame their wives for failing if they produce only daughters. My mother had a very difficult time delivering Bertha and nearly died. She never should have had another child. But Father insisted that she produce a son for him. My mother died in childbirth along with her fifth child—her fifth daughter.”

By the time Aunt Matt finished her story we were home. I didn’t know what to say to her, but fortunately she went straight into her room and closed the door. Her story left me feeling very sad. I wondered if my father had decided to marry Maude so that he could have a son.

I went into the parlor and collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted and invigorated at the same time. Compared to sipping tea and discussing the merits of thunder, it had been an exhilarating day.

Could Aunt Matt and her friends be right? Were women just as smart and strong and deserving of a good education as men? And should women be allowed to vote? I had a lot to think about.

I hadn’t seen my grandmother’s hat on the hall tree, so I knew she was still out. I would have a few minutes alone with Aunt Birdie’s photographs. I crept over to the secretary, opened the drawer, and had just picked up the first photo when Aunt Birdie came in.

“That’s a picture of Matt,” she said, peering over my shoulder. I had to look very closely before I could see that she was right. Aunt Matt was smiling. And slender. And pretty. She wore a light-colored dress. And jewelry.

“She looks so different,” I said.

“It’s her engagement picture. She had it taken for her beau.”

“I didn’t know Aunt Matt was engaged.”

“We didn’t think she would ever get married. She was thirty-one when she met Robert. He was one of my father’s acquaintances, and he came to visit when Father was dying. The rest of us were all married and had left home by then. Matt lived here alone, taking care of him. His illness was very hard on her. But then Robert Tucker came to call, and Matt fell in love. Oh my, she was
so
in love!”

“What happened?”

“It turned out he was a thief,” Aunt Birdie whispered.

“What do you mean, a
thief
?”

“Well, a thief is someone who robs people of their money and all their valuables and—”

“Yes, yes, I know what a thief
does
, but what kinds of things did this man steal? And how did Aunt Matt find out about it?”

“Why, she found out when he stole her heart, of course.”

“But—”

“Oh, good. There’s the postman,” Aunt Birdie said as the daily mail suddenly fell through the slot in our front door with a plop. “I do hope I get a letter from Gilbert today. He hasn’t written in ever so long.”

I studied Aunt Matt’s picture, unable to get over the enormous change in her. Aunt Birdie was right: Robert Tucker was a thief. He’d stolen Aunt Matt’s smile and all of her joy … along with her heart.

Chapter

8

Saturday, June 10, 1893

M
adame Beauchamps had prepared us for a variety of occasions and circumstances, including how to eat snails and nibble caviar, but she had never warned us that being sociable could be so exhausting. I found out just how tiring it was on the evening of the fund-raiser for the Art Institute of Chicago. Aunt Agnes and Uncle Henry took me to the gala event, and from the moment we strode through the door, the evening felt like a test of physical endurance combined with one of Madame’s grueling final examinations.

I also discovered the extreme pain involved in the life of a socialite. I acquired rows of welts around my middle from lacing my corset too tightly and bubbly blisters on my feet from dancing in delicate silk slippers all evening. My head throbbed from staying constantly alert, remembering dozens of names, and keeping the conversational tennis ball in play. But the part of me that ached the most was my face. Holding a mysterious smile in place for four or five hours was very hard work.

My evening did not get off to a very good start either. Aunt Matt happened to be standing in the foyer when I descended the stairs in my finery, and I knew from the frown on her face that I had disappointed her.

“So. I see you’re still running around with Agnes.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Matt.” I felt the need to apologize, but I didn’t know why. “She and Uncle Henry are taking me to a fund-raiser for the Art Institute. Aunt Agnes says they’ve opened a new building on Michigan Avenue recently, and now they’re raising money to expand their art collection.”

Aunt Matt clucked her tongue in disapproval. “It’s just a veiled excuse for Agnes to find you a rich husband. Listen to me, Violet. Agnes married Henry Paine for his money. So before you blindly follow the path she took, I suggest that you ask her how happy her marriage has been.”

“That’s a rather personal question, isn’t it? I-I really wouldn’t feel right asking her such a thing.”

“Then I’ll tell you. Henry keeps a mistress.” If Aunt Matt intended to shock me, she had succeeded. She had also given me more information than I cared to know.

“Oh … I see.”

“Wealthy society men all have them, you know. They marry a suitable woman—whom they don’t love—for propriety’s sake and keep a mistress on the side. Nobody ever talks about this dirty little secret, though, do they?”

“No,” I said quietly. I could feel my cheeks burning.

“If you’re going to run with Agnes’ crowd, then you need to know the truth about them.”

I wanted desperately to change the subject. “But the Art Institute is a good cause, isn’t it? Art and culture aren’t frivolous.”

“No, they aren’t frivolous. But I would be willing to bet that very few of the funds they raise will be used to support female artists. It’s all right for a woman to be the
object
of art, but that’s all she’s allowed to be—an object. It’s too bad, because there are some very fine female artists, you know. The American painter Mary Cassatt helped design the interior of the Woman’s Pavilion at the Columbian Exposition.”