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Authors: Jane Kirkpatrick

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“American women listen to their husbands,” my father said in Norwegian. “Or they should.” He rose from the table, shoved the chair against it, and stomped out.

I wanted my father to forbid her to go so I wouldn't have to leave either. I didn't dare defy her; I never had. We always did what she wanted. I was stuck.

“He'll come around,” my mother said more to herself than to me. “He'll see the wisdom of this. It'll work. When we succeed, then, well, he'll be grateful I did this for him, for the whole family.”

“Maybe he will,” I said. “But don't expect me to ever be.”

T
WO
The Plan

T
wo days later, on April 26, we stood in city hall “to receive the blessing of the mayor of Spokane,” Mama said.

“Mayor Belt,” I said, curtsying to the rotund man standing before us in his walnut-paneled office.

“My daughter Clara,” my mother said after she'd introduced herself. She wore a small hat with a single feather that topped off a dress with wide sleeves, a high neck, and a velvet throat ribbon. She had sewed everything herself. She had made my dress as well, and we looked like fine ladies worthy of a meeting with the mayor of Spokane even though I didn't feel we were. “She'll be making the trek with me. I can't thank you enough for your support.”

“And how do you feel about this extraordinary if not dangerous journey, Miss Estby?”

I hesitated.

“Well, answer him, Clara.”

I wanted to say I felt awful. I wanted to say:
My life is coming to an
end with this ridiculous scheme. My father is upset. My brothers and sisters will be when they find out, especially Ida, who will be left to cook and clean and tend the youngsters we're abandoning. I think the whole thing is foolish, without any real certainty we can survive the trip let alone receive the elusive money at the end of it that my mother puts such hope in. I can think of dozens of things that could go wrong. I don't want to be separated from my family for so long or from my own budding life to satisfy my mother's plan to rescue the farm. There must be another way
.

That's what I wanted to say.

“We're very grateful for your support,” I said instead.

“Hmm. Not exactly an answer,” Mayor Belt said. “But then, young ladies aren't expected to be articulate.” My face burned and my mother frowned. “You should thank my wife for this,” he said then, holding an envelope marked
For Mrs. H. Estby
. “She's found the … romance in this entire thing. Two women, walking their way across the country to prove their stamina.”

“And promote the new reform dress,” my mother added.

“Yes, indeed.” He looked at our ankles, well covered with our long skirts, and I imagined him visualizing risqué hemlines raised above the tops of our shoes, the leggings we'd have to wear, waistlines without corsets. I scratched the back of my leg with my foot and he looked away.

“Until a woman is in charge of her ankles, she'll never be in charge of her brain,” my mother said in her cheeriest voice.

He smiled. “I suspect easterners don't understand the strength of the western woman,” the mayor said. “Why, my mother walked the trail carrying me, worked side by side with my father to clear fields, helped build a house and barn, planted fields, handled mules. She once outran a wheat fire started by dry lightning. Remarkable woman. She grabbed my hand and—”

“Did what was necessary for her family,” my mother interrupted.
Everyone knew of the mayor's tendency to go on and on telling stories. “Is that the letter of introduction?” He still held the envelope.

“Yes. Indeed.” He withheld it from her. “How did they happen to pick you, Mrs. Estby?”

I wondered that myself. It amazed me that I often found out important details affecting my life by listening to my mother talk to someone else. “On behalf of the sponsors who are in the fashion field, the newspaper asked for essays, statements of why I thought I could make the walk and why I must succeed to save our family's farm. I was chosen for this from many entries, I was told.”

She told them of the pending foreclosure
.

“It'll bring fine fame to Spokane if you do it,” he said. “And if you don't, well, what can one expect from a woman?” He grinned. “You really have nothing to lose and everything to gain. A perfect wager.” He handed her the envelope, and she thanked him again without looking at what he might have written.

We made our good-byes and began the walk to the portrait studio where our picture would be made and sent to the
New York World
, compliments of “the sponsors.”

“May I read what he wrote?” I asked.

She handed me the letter. I stumbled while opening it and she grabbed my elbow. I was forever tripping, the clumsy one in a family of light-footed souls. “Wait until we're at the studio, Clara. You don't want to be like me and fall and break your pelvis.”

“Mother!”

“There's no shame in the word, Clara. If the city had kept their streets repaired, I wouldn't have fallen and there wouldn't have been the lawsuit.”

“Which told everyone of your … female problems.”

“Yes, but I won, and the money allowed us to buy our farm. Besides,
I located a good doctor because of it and had the surgery and met a fellow suffragette in the process. It all worked out. Out of bad came good. Remember that.”

“Then maybe if we … couldn't pay the mortgage, if we lost the farm, something good could come of that too.”

My mother stopped as though struck by lightning. Her shoulders stiffened and she looked like she might slap me, something she'd never done. “Clara. How you talk. Nothing could be worse than a foreclosure. Nothing. Give me that letter.”

She read it then. “Please, sirs, give kindly considerations to Mrs. H. Estby, who has been a resident of this city and surrounding area for nine years and is a lady of good character and reputation.”

“Why does he call you Mrs. H. Estby? Shouldn't you use Papa's name?”

“A woman has a name of her own, Clara.” She looked at the letter and nodded. “It'll be enough. We have to get the signatures of dignitaries when we visit a state capital or large city, to verify that we've actually been there.”

I looked at her, aghast. “The sponsors won't sign a contract, but they expect us to show that we've done our part? Mama.”

“We have signed a contract.” To my surprised gaze she added, “Well, I do listen to you.” She nudged me with her hip. “We have seven months to make the trek. We start out with five dollars and must earn the rest as we go. We can accept no rides but must walk the entire way. And we can accept meals and lodging from friendly supporters but not beg for it or money.”

“Beg? We might be so destitute we'd need to beg?” I could hardly swallow, the bow at my throat as tight as a noose.

She waved her hand to dismiss my worry. “I expect we'll sleep most nights at the railroad stations, at least until our journey makes the newspapers
and people are curious to meet us. They'll discover we're ordinary women doing something extraordinary. We might like a bed in their haymow or their attics. There's even a provision in the contract to make time adjustments if one of us becomes ill. So you see, it's not such a big risk.”

“And the money?”

“They'll provide ten thousand dollars if we arrive on time and have met the conditions. Oh, Clara.” She grasped my gloved hand. “It will be the trip of a lifetime. You'll see.”

“If we die, it'll be the last trip of our lifetime.”

“Nonsense. Where's that Estby spirit of accomplishment?”

She said nothing to my scowl.

The spring breeze lifted the soft curls at my face. I hoped we could wear our hats in the photograph, as I hadn't brought my curling iron along to spruce up, and a hat turned my hair flat as a deer's bed lying in the meadow.

My mother hummed as we walked along. “Remember the story I told you, Clara, about when I was a young student in Oslo? In religion class they told of Jonah swallowed by the whale, and then I went to science class and learned the whale has a narrow throat? Too narrow for a man. So I—”

“Challenged the religious teacher the next day,” I said. I'd heard the story numerous times.

“Yes, and he said to me, ‘Don't you know, Helga, that with God all things are possible?' So you see. We will pass through the narrow throat of uncertainty. We'll succeed, get the money, and pay off the mortgage.”

“With the mayor's letter?”

“With all of us doing our part. That's what families do, Clara. They sacrifice and serve, and then all will be well.”

I wished I could share her enthusiasm, but it wasn't in my nature.

T
HREE
Letting Go

M
AY 1896

I
entered the servants' quarters at the Stapleton household. It would be my last day working for this fine family. Giving a two-week notice would have been the professional thing to do, increasing the likelihood of reclaiming my position once we returned, but my mother hadn't granted me the luxury of an organized departure.

I'd first worked for another family, the Rutters. When Bertha, my now fourteen-year-old sister, was ready to serve at age twelve, she took my place there and I joined the Stapleton family household. (My mother would correct me if I said “joined the Stapleton family.” She'd remind me that I merely worked in it.) Olaf tended the Rutters' yards and gardens weekly. During our trip, Bertha would continue working out; Olaf would return to the farm to help my father.

I donned my cap and white apron and entered the drawing room to ask Mrs. Stapleton if I might have a word with her.

“Of course, dear,” she said. The
Spokesman-Review
lay on the table. She looked at her lapel watch. “Come back in, say, thirty minutes? I'm sure the upstairs linens need tending. It's Monday after all.” She was a stately woman who dismissed me by adjusting her glasses and returning to the newspaper.

They'd had houseguests over the weekend, and that meant changing the linens on all the beds in the five upstairs bedrooms. I didn't mind the work, but it wasn't what I intended for my life. What I wanted was to be a wife and mother, to support a husband's efforts at managing money as he cared for his family. I was good with numbers and once even imagined becoming a banker myself, but it wasn't an occupation for a woman—or at least I knew no women who were. I'd be a fine mistress of a grand house and generous because my husband would be kind and generous to me. And we'd never worry over money or do ridiculous things like expose an unfortunate personal situation to the world because of money.

Mr. Stapleton was a banker and his son, Forest, would be one day. I sighed, thinking of Forest as I worked and nearly burned my hand on the hot iron while pressing the sheets left for me.

When I came downstairs, Mrs. Stapleton was standing in front of the fireplace, her arms crossed over her chest, and she tapped her foot though I wasn't late at all. Lilac scent wafted in from the open window but didn't sweeten Mrs. Stapleton's disposition.

“I know what you have to tell me,” she said. “Or does your mother have another daughter she intends to take across the continent on this ridiculous scheme?” She nodded toward the
Spokesman-Review
. “ ‘Walk to New York,' it says. ‘Hoping to meet a wager and save the family farm,' it says. ‘Wearing the new reformed dress.' ” She scoffed and picked up the newspaper, jabbed at it with her finger. “What on earth is your
mother thinking? Aside from the fact that it's terribly dangerous, it's … it's … an affront to womanhood. Traveling across town unescorted is uncivilized enough, but across the country? And to publicly announce your family's financial position? Well, I … And the dresses you're to wear! Absolutely provocative showing so much ankle. You'll be assaulted and understandably so.”

BOOK: The Daughter's Walk
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ads

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