Banished Love (16 page)

“Shouldn’t the immigrant have a right to vote, a voice, just as much as women, to help improve their lives?” I argued.

“One should think so, Clarissa, but there are many who would disagree.”

I settled back in my chair, lost in thought for a few moments, before deciding to change the topic. “What is your background, Sophie?”

“I married well, married young. To a handsome young doctor from a very wealthy family. He was distantly related to the Chickerings who make pianos, though the only contact I have ever had with that branch of the family was to be gifted a glorious instrument on my wedding day. We married, quickly had three children and then war broke out.” She glanced away for a moment, gathering her thoughts. “He wanted to help the wounded. Insisted on traveling with the Union Army.”

“I remained here, in Boston, caring for our children,” she whispered. “Letters couldn’t come soon enough to suit me. Then one came that I wish had never arrived. He caught a severe case of dysentery in ’63 and died. My loving Eustace. Gone from this world forever.”

“Oh, Sophie. I am so sorry.”

“Not nearly as sorry as I am, my girl,” she said with bright eyes. “I finally recovered from his loss, emerging from my grief at the time when increased suffrage activity occurred in Boston, and I wanted to be a part of it. I had done a small amount of antislavery work before the war and had a sense of what activism was like.

“Now,” she said, “tell me about your immigrant roots. I am most curious about them.”

“I am only half immigrant,” I said, “though I do not identify well with the nonimmigrant half. My father emigrated from Ireland when he was a child with his family. He is a blacksmith, owns his own blacksmithing shop that he inherited from his father.” I was unable to hide the pride in my voice. “My mama’s family, the Thompsons, are from an old New England family and have been here for generations. They live here on the Hill, in Louisburg Square.”

Sophie gave a bark of laughter. “So you’re the disappointing granddaughter?”

I gasped, unaware I had such a reputation.

“Your grandmother and I pay a social call on each other once or twice a year. We stave off having to see each other any more frequently by sending our cards around and having them do the visiting for us.” She smiled at that. “But, on the few times we do meet, she speaks of how worried she is about her jilted blacksmithing granddaughter.”

“I am not a blacksmith,” I protested.

“Of course not, but you are descended from one, and, to her, there isn’t much worse. Except maybe a chimney sweep. Such dirty professions.”

“And honorable. My father provides very well for our family, and he loved my mama. He is a good da, as she would know if she had ever bothered to spend time with us,” I snapped out, then blushed beet red at my outburst.

“Though you were jilted?” Sophronia inquired, raising her eyebrows again and giving me the full effect of her aquamarine eyes.

“A few years ago. Nothing exciting,” I murmured.

“Hmm…well, a story for another day then,” Sophie said, taking a sip of tea. “It seems to me that one such as you is wasted on the narrow-minded likes of your grandmother.” Sophronia patted my hand. “I wouldn’t mourn the loss of her in your life. You could spend years trying to please her, and she would never cease finding fault.”

I beamed at Sophronia, realizing she truly understood them and their type of people. Then Sophie clapped her hands together with malicious glee and said, “Oh, I hope I am there when she hears you have joined the suffragist movement! I can’t wait to see her face become ruddy and see her at a loss for words!”

My smile dimmed as I fervently hoped I was not present when my grandmother heard the news.

CHAPTER 17

“EXCUSE ME, MUM,” BRIDGET SAID. “Ye’ve a caller for tea.” She bobbed a quick curtsy, handing the silver salver containing the crisp calling card to Mrs. Smythe.

I had been lounging in my favorite chair, imagining the letter I wanted to receive from Gabriel as Mrs. Smythe prattled on about new carpets, drapes and furniture coverings. Thankfully this interruption had forestalled any further discussion about her grand plans for the redesign of the room, yet it now meant I would need to sit through a formal tea with a friend of hers. I bit back a groan, forced myself to sit upright and pasted a pleasant smile on my face.

Mrs. Smythe reached for the card, raising one eyebrow in surprise at the fancy paper. She frowned as she read the card. “I am not acquainted with a Mrs. Chickering,” she said quietly before pinning an intent gaze on me. “Clarissa?”

My eyes grew round before I could hide my reaction.

“You do know her,” Mrs. Smythe hissed accusingly. “Now is not the time for me to discover illicit associations with inappropriate persons of questionable backgrounds, Clarissa.” She fingered the expensive card as though determining her actions. She turned toward Bridget, replying in a cool voice, eloquently expressing her dislike at the task at hand. “Please invite her in. Prepare another pot of tea and fresh sandwiches.”

“Yes, mum,” Bridget said, bobbing another quick curtsy before making a hasty retreat.

A moment later, Sophie sailed into the room in a burgundy taffeta dress with decorative gold buttons down the front, head held high, as if her inclusion in our afternoon tea had never been doubted.

“Clarissa, my girl,” she called out in her scratchy voice, her aquamarine eyes sparkling with delight. “Wonderful to see you again.” She leaned toward me to grip my hands. I smiled fully, delight filling me and momentarily banishing the anxiety of having her meet Mrs. Smythe.

“Sophie, it is wonderful to see you. Please, make yourself comfortable.” I gestured toward a settee, though worried it would be as uncomfortable as the Searles’. “Please, sit here. This has always been my favorite chair.” I stood and ushered her into my seat, farther away from Mrs. Smythe.

She settled herself, holding herself regally, back straight, feet curled under the chair, surveying the room. Her gaze met Mrs. Smythe’s frown, and they sat studying each other for a few moments.

I eyed them warily, uncertain of the outcome of this impromptu meeting. Bridget entered carrying a tea tray that she placed on a small table. She was dismissed with an absentminded flick of the wrist from Mrs. Smythe. I began to prepare cups of tea, thankful for the activity as I watched them silently assess each other.

“Mrs. Chickering,” Mrs. Smythe simpered, primly folding her hands on her lap. “We are honored you desired to have tea with us this afternoon. I was unaware that you had any association with a member of my household.”

Sophronia leveled her piercing blue eyes on Mrs. Smythe, causing Mrs. Smythe’s cheeks to flush. “I called to ascertain how my favorite protégé progresses. I worried because I have not seen her at our recent meetings.” Her authoritative tone brooked no argument.

“Your protégé, you say?”

“Hmm… The most promising new suffragette I’ve met in a while.”

I choked on my bite of shortbread, causing paroxysms of coughing, although neither woman paid me any attention.

Mrs. Smythe glared at Mrs. Chickering, avoiding looking in my direction, raising her eyebrows inquiringly. “Suffragette?”

Mrs. Chickering met Mrs. Smythe’s glare with a look verging on a smirk, nodding a few times.

I briefly closed my eyes.

Mrs. Smythe paled for a moment before her cheeks became even rosier, belying her anger. “Well, I never! The insolence.” At this, she sent a fierce glare in my direction. “And when I think of all I have done to try to give her proper guidance. Instill a sense of propriety. And she does this? Decides to associate with a group of extremists who terrify men? How will she ever marry now? Who would
want
her?” she wailed.

I watched her, beginning to feel amusement and a kernel of pity for her as I realized I was overturning her perception of the world. I had finally calmed my coughing fit by this point, although my voice emerged as a weak gasp. “You’ve known my beliefs for some time,” I croaked out.

“A schoolgirl’s idealism,” she snapped. “Nothing to be acted on.”

Mrs. Chickering cleared her throat, as though to remind Mrs. Smythe she remained present. “I think it takes a tremendous strength of character to have beliefs and then actually act on them,” she said with her own fervor. “I would hate for women to lock away their desires for a better world once they leave school or marry. They, as women, have lives, have hopes and dreams for the future, independent of what a man might want.”

“How dare you come into my house and tell me that what I have is not sufficient?” Mrs. Smythe gasped.

“I am saying no such thing, Mrs. Sullivan,” Mrs. Chickering replied. “I believe you need to understand that your stepdaughter has beliefs and aspirations that are different from yours.”

“Aspirations that include the vote?” Mrs. Smythe scoffed. “Men have voted in the past, they will continue to vote, and I have no desire of it. I feel as my husband does on all things to do with politics, so it would only be giving the same politician two votes rather than one. There’s no purpose to women having the vote.” Her eyes flashed, true enmity in their depths as she glared at Mrs. Chickering. “And didn’t we women of Massachusetts show you suffragettes we didn’t want the vote in’95? No one voted for women to become enfranchised then, and they won’t now.” She sighed loudly, as though trying to calm herself.

“An aspiration for independence?” Mrs. Smythe continued, unable to stop speaking. “Are you telling me that someday it should be lauded, hoped for, that young women become independent and have no need for marriage? No need for children? How could that ever be a hoped-for future? You and your group want too much for women. Women should focus on their home, on creating a moral, upstanding environment in which to raise children. She will want for nothing if she has such a home,” Mrs. Smythe argued.

“So I suppose women should remain tied to the kitchen stove with children at their ankles, and a husband who might, or might not, come home with a paycheck as their only recourse?” Mrs. Chickering countered. “Relying on the benevolence of men to write laws and enforce them without women having any involvement in the legislative process? Sitting at home knitting, hoping that men will ensure that our rights are protected? That is all you envision for women? Nothing more?”

“It has been enough for generations. I do not know why it should need to change now,” Mrs. Smythe snapped, banging down her teacup with such force I thought she might crack it.

“Was that enough for you in your first marriage, Mrs. Sullivan?” Mrs. Chickering asked, pinning her with an intense gaze.

Mrs. Smythe flushed all the way down her neck to her dress, and her mouth turned down mutinously, but she refused to respond.

“I heard you never knew if your first husband would come home with a paycheck. That he, more often than not, drank away every cent of his pay each Saturday night after payday. And was none too pleasant when he came home from the saloon. That you lived on credit to survive, and you barely eked out a survival with that.”

“How dare you?” Mrs. Smythe whispered, tears threatening, though they appeared to be tears of rage.

“I dare because I envision a better future for your stepdaughter than you do,” Mrs. Chickering argued. “I dare because only through obtaining the vote for ourselves will we begin to be independent women who do not have to depend on drunken, at times brutish, men for survival. We will have more than the hopes of a good marriage. We will have educations. We will have vocations. We will be at liberty to choose the futures
we
want.” Her voice rang out with the sincerity of her beliefs.

“You simply fill her mind with empty promises, and, in the end, she will only be disappointed in life,” Mrs. Smythe countered. “When you learn not to expect too much, it is harder to be disappointed.” She pursed her lips after that whispered statement as though she had admitted too much.

I sat in rapt attention, fascinated by their exchange.

“I had hoped to invite you also to Mrs. Ward-Howe’s birthday celebration in a few weeks, but I think that might be more than your constitution could handle,” Sophie said. “I sincerely hope Miss Sullivan will be allowed to attend.” Another long clashing stare was exchanged between the two women.

Mrs. Smythe took a deep breath as though considering her answer. “I shall have to discuss this with her father.”

Sophie nodded a few times as though realizing she could hope for no more. “Then I will take my leave. I thank you for this delicious tea, and I hope to have Miss Sullivan’s company at the celebration.” She nodded toward Mrs. Smythe before smiling in my direction.

I returned to the chair recently vacated by Sophie. Mrs. Smythe settled into her chair, tapping its wooden arm in a nervous tattoo. Outside a mockingbird sang, its repetitive calls jarring rather than soothing today. I glanced around the room, noting small changes. The faded table coverings had been replaced with new purple satin cloths, and many of the small items I remembered from my mama’s time had been replaced with impersonal ready-made effects purchased during one of Mrs. Smythe’s recent shopping excursions. Discolored areas appeared on the rose-colored wallpaper, the paintings either rearranged or replaced. I studied a scene of a wave crashing onto the seashore, one of the few remaining paintings from my mama’s time.

“Clarissa,” Mrs. Smythe said, distracting me from the ocean scene. She leveled me with her most severe glare. “How dare you associate with the likes of her? Have you not better sense, girl, than to mingle with extremist women?”

“I believe in our cause. I believe in what she says. I have the hope of a more independent future and that I do not have to depend solely on a man.” As I spoke, a true passion rose in me.

She waved her hand as though my last comments were of no consequence. “And how are you to survive in this independent women’s utopia?” she snapped. “Do you honestly believe you earn enough money, on your own, to live comfortably as a teacher?”

“There is no reason I can’t believe in suffragism and have a full life. Many of the suffragettes are married. Look at Elizabeth Cady Stanton. There are men who admire independent women,” I argued, silently hoping it was true.