Band of Sisters (58 page)

Tucked inside was every bit of money Katie Rose had saved since she’d come to America, as well as money Maureen, Joshua, Curtis, and the women in the circle had added to help the family.

“Push it under the door,” Maureen urged.

“But I want to tell them . . . I want to tell them how good Emma was,” Katie Rose pleaded. “How much I loved her.”

Maureen placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “They know.”

On April 5, in a cold spring rain, thousands of outraged and grief-stricken New Yorkers thronged the streets of Manhattan in a massive silent funeral procession for Triangle Waist Factory workers burned beyond recognition—the unidentified victims no one could claim or no one came to claim.

Dorothy, Olivia, and Maureen flanked Katie Rose, marching arm in arm through the downpour. Behind them marched the Ladies’ Circle—women who’d picketed with the strikers in life and now mourned them in death.

For five hours the populace of New York marched through the Washington Square Arch behind white horses outfitted in black netting.

Blame for the fire was cast and recast. Workers’ rights and workplace safety reforms were demanded by the International Ladies’ Garment Workers’ Union, by politicians eager to step on a new bandwagon, and by an enraged public. But no amount of investigation, blame, accountability, or even reforms could bring the Triangle workers back to life.

As the tragedy of the fire filled the headlines, the outrage against Victor Belgadt and his cohorts—the owner and management of Darcy’s Department Store—and public cries to investigate the ring’s connections to Ellis Island were swept from the front pages of newspapers and soon fell out altogether.

“Of course, reforms are desperately needed—better wages, shorter working hours, safer conditions,” Agnes pointed out at the circle meeting at Morningside, the Saturday afternoon before Easter Sunday.

“But those reforms won’t automatically change the basic face of poverty or the way immigrant women are treated when they first enter this country,” Hope insisted. “They might help workingwomen in time, but it’s getting those jobs in the first place that concerns me.”

It concerned Olivia, too. No matter what they did or how hard they tried, they couldn’t change the way others treated women—immigrants or native born. They couldn’t make them train or hire women who were not qualified for positions.
We can’t even make them hire women who are qualified! And how many can we help?
She rubbed her temples.
Twenty? Fifty?
It was too little for a problem so great.

As though her sister could read her mind, Dorothy whispered in her ear, “Courage, dear. Do you remember Father’s literary trio?”

Olivia stared in return, thinking her sister had surely gone mad.
What has that got to do with anything?

“One for all and all for one?” Dorothy clasped Olivia’s fingers within her own and whispered again, “We’re not meant to do this alone. We need a greater band of women and men to be the hands and feet of Christ in this fight for abolition of white slavery. So you’d best get started.”

Olivia narrowed her eyes in concentration, taking in Dorothy’s words and their implications.
“One for all and all for one” . . . That is the point, isn’t it? Father knew that. . . . It’s the point of the Musketeers and of our growing, inclusive band of women. It’s what truly loving one another means.
A flicker of hope marched up her spine. “I understand, but what can I do—?”

Dorothy cut her off. “You can dust off those social justice writing skills you and Father used to revel in and use them to rouse the troops. With Curtis’s help, of course. People can’t help if they don’t know the need. Once they recognize the need and understand what they’re capable of doing to help stop this injustice, they’ll join the fight—just as we have.”

Olivia stared at her sister—the sister whose timid heart had, with Drake’s arrest and the revelation of his crimes, not been destroyed but been transformed into the heart of a lioness, despite her failing health.

Olivia’s own heart pounded as the idea took hold.
Could I truly write something useful? Something that would glorify God by inspiring a movement for abolition and healing?
She remembered how
In His Steps
had changed her life, her father’s life, and the lives of all this band of women. She swallowed, barely able to focus on the faces around her for the unexpected fire surging through her bones. Isaiah’s response to the Lord’s call rushed through her mind:
“Here am I; send me.”
Tears sprang, unbidden, and she knew the Spirit’s voice.
Thank You, Lord! Thank You!

“I still say women who can’t speak English are at a terrible disadvantage and a terrible risk,” Julia interrupted her thoughts, “whether they’re working in the garment industry or wherever they are. Employers can take all kinds of advantage of them.”

“So we’re back to where we started,” Carolynn concluded. “We still need to provide housing and classes, services to help women find better, safer jobs. And we need ways of intertwining our lives with theirs.”

“Not entirely back where we started,” Isabella insisted. “We’ve taken into our homes the rescued women who are still looking for families.”

“You’ll have some of them forever,” Agnes said quietly. “You know their families won’t all take them back.”

“Then I’ll have them forever.” Isabella bravely smiled. “It’s finally a good use of that great house.”

How far we’ve all come!

“I can help at last,” Dorothy said.

The women turned. Olivia held her breath, knowing what was coming, knowing what her sister’s offer had cost her.

Dorothy smiled tentatively. “I’m donating Meitland House as a home for young women who will train and work as sales clerks.”

Women shifted in astonishment.

“I’ve already talked with Reverend Peterson and one of the members of our church who owns a major department store in the city. He’s willing to take the girls in at entry level, with an eye to promotion—as long as they can read and speak English, as long as we prepare them to work with the public, and as long as we guarantee they’re living respectably.”

“But where will you live? What will your husband say?” Hope asked.

Dorothy drew a deep breath. “It turns out that Drake is not my husband. He was married to Curtis’s sister, and she was still living when he fraudulently signed our marriage certificate.”

Someone in the group gasped, but Dorothy lifted her shoulders and braved ahead. “Meitland House was Father’s wedding gift to me, given and received in good faith. But I don’t want to live there anymore. And I’ve prayed, asking what I should do, what Jesus would do in my situation.”

Katie Rose slipped her hand into Dorothy’s.

Dorothy clasped it and smiled. “Being on 34th Street will give the women perfect access to the stores on Fifth Avenue—the best stores in the city for employment. Katie Rose and I are going to move back to Morningside with Olivia and Maureen. We can all run it together.”

“We’re calling it Emma’s House.” Katie Rose smiled.

One for all and all for one.
Olivia shook her head softly and in wonder.

The meeting had not quite finished when Curtis and Joshua arrived, papers in hand, both looking as pleased as cats following a canary lunch.

Agnes whispered, “I’ve been dragging my feet ten minutes! I thought you’d never get here!”

“Curtis?” Olivia asked. “What is it?”

Curtis grinned and pulled Olivia to her feet. “Wait till you see!” He spread rolls of paper blueprints and official-looking deeds across the dining room table. “Wedding gifts,” he proudly announced. “Those tenements on Orchard Street that Drake sold me—the ones I bought to convince him of my interest in his scheme—I’ve deeded to the church. Close enough to the Battery and the factories to provide easy access for women working on the Lower East Side. One is destined for an employment and living skills training center for immigrant girls and women, and one for housing, to be overseen, of course, by you ladies. I’ve talked with Reverend Peterson and given notice to the bar owner on the first floor. They’ll be available for us to begin renovations by the first week in June.”

The room erupted in cheers.

“We’re in business!” Julia shouted.

Curtis turned to an astonished Olivia. “Do you like it?”

But Olivia did not seem to know how to respond.

Curtis looked surprised, confused, deflated, and concerned by turn. “Olivia? Say something.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.” She picked at her broach.

Agnes coughed a cough meant for the stage.

The couple turned toward her.

“Did you say ‘wedding gifts’?” Agnes asked pointedly. “Do you think you might have put the cart before the horse, Mr. Morrow?”

Joshua smirked and took a seat beside Maureen, lifting her ringed finger to his lips before one and all. Then he raised curious eyebrows toward Curtis, still standing with Olivia in the center of the room.

Curtis’s complexion rivaled the bright roses in Olivia’s centerpiece. He stammered, stopped, started to speak, and gave it up.

When his eyes found Olivia’s, he turned brighter still. It took a moment, but he bowed slightly and respectfully asked, “Miss Wakefield, may I speak with you in the garden?”