Betina Krahn (20 page)

Audrey’s brief smile faded. “I won’t be a ‘success’ until I get my children back.”

“Your children?” John Netherton asked. “Where are they?”

The seamstress regarded them with pained expectation.

“With my
ex
-husband.”

There was a moment’s silence as all realized they were looking at a divorced woman. John Netherton took an involuntary step back before he caught himself. Beatrice, seeing Audrey wince at his reaction, stepped forward and extended her hand.

“Beatrice Von Furstenberg, Audrey. Tell me about your children. Perhaps I can help.”

“Not unless you’re rich as Croesus.” Audrey looked at her elegant clothes and aristocratic bearing, and added: “
And
have a few judges in your pocket.”

“Close enough,” Connor said with an arch look at Beatrice. “If you wouldn’t mind … please tell us how you came to be here.”

“It’s a story, sir, and not a happy one. I was married to a well-to-do businessman in Poughkeepsie. After my father died and left me a goodly sum of money, my husband decided I was no longer
cooperative
enough to suit him. Everything I inherited became his legally, and all it took to get rid of me was the affidavit of a rummy old doctor saying I was mad and the complicity of a judge who was a friend of his.” She took on a faraway look, as if seeing a familiar horror once again.

“I was in the backyard with the day girl, beating rugs
when they came. I remember thinking: ‘he’s home early for dinner and he’ll be furious it’s not ready’ But he’d brought two policemen with him and they put me in irons, right there in front of my children. I begged him … pleaded …”

She wiped a tear, then closed the door on that disturbing memory. “He had me committed to the state mental asylum and was granted a divorce.” Her bitter smile was haunting. “I was so
insane
that they put me in charge of the hospital’s laundry. They would have released me sooner, but they needed someone competent to oversee the work.

“Six months later I made my way home to find that I no longer had a home or a marriage. I wrote everyone I could think of, but no one replied. If I had only had money for a lawyer …”

There was another moment of silence before Connor asked, “What could the government have done?”

She looked squarely up at him. “What gave my husband the right to say I was crazy and put me away? And why is there justice in the courts only for men who have money? Have I no rights at all?”

“Yes, you do,” Beatrice said quietly, stepping in to put an arm around her. “And someday we’ll make the government recognize it.”

It was a somber group that left the sewing room and exited a rear door into a yard filled with children. Youthful shouts and laughter were a welcome change from the grim story the group had just heard. The children spotted Ardis Gerhardt and came running. Engulfed by a boisterous tide of enthusiasm, Beatrice put her hands out to touch as many of the children as she could reach, and Connor quickly accepted their invitation to toss a baseball with the older boys. John Netherton, watching
the news writers scribbling descriptions of Connor’s participation, allowed himself to be pulled into helping some of the younger children build a tower of wooden blocks. Priscilla gravitated to a more sedate group of older girls who were cutting and stitching flour sacks into rag dolls for the younger children.

When Ardis Gerhardt called the group to go on to the next stop, they were reluctant to leave the sunny yard and the sounds of the children. But they were soon immersed in viewing the classrooms, the laundry and hanging yard, the dormitories for single women, the rooms for small family groups, and the chapel. It was there that they met the last of their storytellers.

Inge Zeiss was an immigrant from southern Germany, daughter of a goldsmith. In heavily accented English, she told of her decision to come to America and of meeting some charming but unscrupulous men outside the new Ellis Island Center. They promised to find her a place to open a business of her own, but absconded with the money she gave them for rent.

It was an old story: the confidence men at the docks, taking advantage of immigrants, promising them help and giving them only grief.

“I go to a bank to borrow. They say I am only woman … must have a man to sign for me. But I am not married and my vater is dead.” She looked down at her work-reddened hands. “I sell my tools to eat. I have nowhere to go …”

“Blasted bankers,” Beatrice said under her breath.

“We’re trying to help Inge arrange a business loan, but we’ve had no luck so far,” Ardis said. “If you know of any investors who might be interested …”

“I think I might,” Beatrice said, searching her purse for a printed card and tucking it into Inge’s hand. “If you
go to these offices and say that Mrs. Von Furstenberg sent you, I promise you’ll get a fair hearing and the chance for a loan
without
a man’s signature. Do you have samples of your work?”

“I do!” The woman threw her arms around Beatrice, all but toppling her. “I bring, I bring!” Then she hurried down the hall to share her good fortune.

“Thank you, Mrs. Von Furstenberg,” Ardis said, her face glowing with pleasure. “I don’t know what we’d do without the support of women such as yourself.” Then in her quietly forceful way, she turned to Connor and John Netherton. “We could certainly use the support of men such as yourselves, as well … men who are willing to listen and learn about the problems women face. After all, women’s problems are all of society’s problems.”

The news reporters who had been trailing laconically after them now closed in and began to watch and scribble on their notepads.

“I am sympathetic to the plight of the women here,” Connor said with a grave expression and a sidelong glance at the reporters. “A man would have to be made of lead not to feel pity after hearing such heartrending stories.” That telltale lilt of Irish crept into his voice. “But I must confess, I fail to see what their problems have to do with the woman vote.”

“It has everything to do with women voting,” Beatrice spoke up. “Every one of these women’s stories involves a matter of justice, of equitable treatment before the law … each involves a matter of political power.”

He folded his arms and leveled a penetrating look on her. “It seems to me they all involve matters of money. They don’t need a vote—they need a bank.”

“But can’t you see that if women had the vote, there would be changes in the laws that would allow all
women to control their own money and to deal with it properly … to inherit, to succeed their husbands in business, to enter into legal contracts, to acquire loans at …” Beatrice halted, staring at him, caught suddenly in the grip of insight.

A bank.
It was true. Her immediate and total absorption in the idea eclipsed her irritation that he had been the one to see it first. All she could think was that the pain these women had suffered could have been ameliorated by access to funds … borrowed funds. If Wynnie could have taken out a loan, she might have been able to keep her husband’s barbering business. If Audrey had had access to funds, she might have retained legal help to protect herself and fight for her children. If Inge had been granted the loan she applied for, she would be a happy and productive goldsmith, in her own shop.

Then it struck her—the “girls” at the Oriental with their desperate savings, her secretary Alice’s problems accessing her own account—it wasn’t just the women at Woodhull House who needed financial help. And it wasn’t just that women needed a way to obtain money; sometimes they needed a safe place to keep or to invest the money they already had.

Her heart began to pound. Less than a week ago, she had wondered what could be done in the short range to make women’s lives better while they worked toward the larger issue of full suffrage. Well, here it was. Why bother trying to change things at the Chase-Darlington when she could create a new bank … one that would be a friend to women … one that could set an example or even a whole new standard?

A hot new light appeared in her eyes.

“You know, Mr. Barrow, you are absolutely right.”

“I am?” He seemed truly caught off guard.

“A
bank.
What a wonderful idea! How creative of you. Women are much more adept at handling money than they are generally given credit for. They have been managing household money for centuries … and …”

She turned to Ardis. “Who does the budget planning and keeps the books and records for Woodhull House?”

“Why, I do, along with several volunteers.” Ardis sensed where her argument was going and smiled. “All women.”

“And who does the ordering and purchasing?”

Priscilla spoke up. “We—the women who live here do.” Her chin rose. “Sometimes women are more responsible with the money than men are.”

There were a few snickers and sardonic rumbles from the reporters, but Beatrice ignored them to smile at her young niece and turn back to Connor.

“There, you see! The evidence is everywhere, when you look for it. Women are quite capable of managing money when they’re given the chance. And at your suggestion and with your help, we can give women that chance. We could even employ women as tellers and loan officers.” She faced the reporters with an air of triumph. “How wonderful, gentlemen, that you’re here to witness the start of”—her mind raced—
“The Barrow State Bank.”

“The Barrow Sta—” Connor’s jaw loosened visibly and he began to scramble for grounds to protest. “But that’s absurd.”

“What is absurd about honoring the man who is responsible for the first bank in New York that welcomes and even seeks the accounts of women?”

“All I said was—”

“That you believed many of women’s problems had to
do with money … and that what women need is a
bank.
What finer way to show your support for the women of New York than to create a bank to serve them?”

She was beaming. “It is forward-thinking public officials,” she continued, “who will be the salvation of the women’s rights effort in our country. Thank heaven we have men like you, Mr. Barrow, who in your heart of hearts truly believe women are your equal.”

She looked up, straight into his fiercely focused gaze, and read his wildly conflicting urges to laugh and to throttle her within an inch of her conniving hide. She wasn’t sure if she should push ahead or run for her life.

“I certainly believe
you
are my equal, Mrs. Von Furstenberg.” There was a steely resonance beneath the velvet and shamrocks in his tone. “Especially when it comes to talking. Your gift of gab is so remarkable, I might even be tempted to conclude that you were part Irish.”

For a long minute they stood staring into each other’s eyes … immersed in tension … the air around them fairly crackling with electricity.

A murmur from the news writers and a snort of confusion from John Netherton brought her forcefully back to the present. When she looked around, she saw Netherton, Priscilla, Ardis Gerhardt, and the reporters staring at her with looks that ranged from mild surprise to deep shock. She reddened and scrambled to get back on track.

“There will be a great deal of legal work, and if we’re to get a state charter, there will be legislators to convince. I could think of no better person to shepherd our woman-friendly bank through the legislative process than Mr. Connor Barrow. He does, after all, come from a banking family.”

Veins became visible in his neck.

“I have no intention of—”

“Abandoning your campaign? No one would expect that. We certainly wouldn’t want to interfere with your chances for election.” She fairly glowed with pleasure. “Women’s suffrage needs all of the friends in Congress it can get.”

Netherton cleared his throat, clearly peeved by the praise and attention being lavished on his opponent. “Really, Mrs. Von Furstenberg, I think there should be some equity here …”

“As do I, Mr. Netherton,” she responded, with a smile. “We’ll be pleased to have you serve on the first board of directors.”

Netherton started to protest, but thought better of it when he glanced at the news reporters who were staring expectantly at him.

“I cannot speak for my party, I can only say
I
am sympathetic to the plight of women.”

Beatrice looked at the reporters with an unmistakable glow of triumph. She had backed Connor Barrow into a corner and come up with everything she wanted: a sponsor, however reluctant, for her bank, publicity for women’s rights, and even a bid of support from his opponent.

“Well, gentlemen, I believe we’ve accomplished quite a lot here today. Thank you so much for coming.”

As the news writers scrambled for the door, Netherton donned his hat with a grim nod and excused himself to a pressing appointment. Priscilla watched her aunt with a dubious look until Ardis suggested she might be needed in the kitchen.

Beatrice was only vaguely aware of their departure. All she could see for the moment was the impending explosion
visible in Connor’s face. It came as no surprise when he grabbed her by the arm, dragged her into the nearby office, and slammed the door behind them.

“What the hell did I ever do to you,” he demanded, seizing her by the shoulders, “to make you so determined to ruin me?”