Cold Spring, New York
Mother, her friends, and I sat at Henrietta VanDrie’s massive oak table. The hot, sticky summer was finally giving way to fresh breezes, and cool, crisp apples filled baskets in every corner. Piles of newspapers and pamphlets fought for space amid teacups and sewing notions. Miss Mann had arrived just in time to help with Johnny, as my life was about to take yet another turn.
Henrietta refilled our cups. “Ladies, it’s time we took a more active role in suffrage.” She was something like a third cousin twice removed to a woman who had married into the Vanderbilts of railroad fame. This well-off cousin had taken up the cause, and Henrietta was astute to winds of change. “Providing bail for the brave women jailed for infractions against manhood is only masking the problem.”
Mother folded pamphlets titled Women Are Citizens Too, Allow Women the Vote, and Freedom for Women. She adjusted her reading spectacles, read both sides of the page, and then waved it toward Carrie Beebe. “You did a brilliant job, writing this.”
Carrie flushed. “It’s nothing. Any of you could have done it.”
Eleanor drew her needle and thread through a square of white fabric stretched in a wooden ring. “But any of us didn’t. I may have a gift for bending metal, but you have a gift with words. And it is words, repeated emphatically, in the right places, to the right people, that will change things.”
“Eventually.” Mother collected the pamphlets into a neat pile, which I added to my own. “We still have a long road ahead.”
My hands were busy and my heart happy, listening to these ladies dream of future victories and swapping stories of their encounters with the Astors, Carnegies, and, of course, the Vanderbilts. Through the years, they had shared births of children and grandchildren and the loss of them. They discussed the politics of the country and the problems next door, sharing a bond that made each of them stronger. With a pang, I realized I had no group of women my own age to cherish as we grew older together.
“I have some news,” Henrietta said in a hushed tone. “But you must swear to secrecy.”
Eleanor and Carrie crossed their hearts. Mother rolled her eyes, and I sucked in my cheeks, amused at Henrietta’s way of keeping secrets.
“You know the train station at Madison and Twenty-Sixth? It’s moving out, caboose and caboodle.” Even though we were fifty miles away in Cold Spring, we all understood she was speaking of Manhattan. She considered it the center of the universe.
“Nooo,” came the chorus of replies, although we glanced at one another with shrugged shoulders.
Henrietta shook her head at the collective ignorance. Her teaspoon pointed skyward. “Uptown. They’re moving everything uptown! That’s where we need to demonstrate—and buy real estate.”
* * *
A few days later, I met the ladies in the streets of Manhattan. The chill in the air was softened by the aroma of chestnuts roasting on street carts, and the wind created funnels of dust as shopkeepers swept the cobblestones.
I slipped one of Eleanor’s improved hairpins from the swirl of my bun and handed it to her. These were still our little secret, as she was in the midst of developing an identity as a man.
“Female inventors won’t receive serious consideration,” she had assured me.
“The softer material at the tips does prevent scratching,” I said, “but the metal has gotten a bit brittle with rust.”
Excited chatter ensued as we joined twenty or so other suffragists and exchanged pamphlets. We marched in lines down the street, our numbers growing block by block as dozens more joined us, carrying signs, waving pamphlets, or chanting in support of suffrage. I was jostled on both sides as bystanders joined the demonstrators and the neat lines dissolved. Shopkeepers came out and waved with enthusiasm or hooted their protest. The sides were lopsided but equally demonstrative.
A scuffle broke out, and a rock sailed over my head while more thumped as they met their mark. The street grew thick with pushing and shoving people. I gave my handkerchief to a woman with a nasty gash on her forehead.
Police beat back the crowds with bobby sticks, which only caused us to protest with more vigor. Women were escorted to paddy wagons, possibly for their own protection. They didn’t seem to be arresting anyone. At least I didn’t see any handcuffs. Some of the women threw down their pamphlets and fled.
Alarm bells sounded in my own head as the police closed in on our group. Wash would be furious if I pushed it too far. My dress grew damp with perspiration as I tallied up the charges they could level against me. I couldn’t do that to him, especially not now.
The women who didn’t flee or get pushed into paddy wagons were shooed off the streets by the police. Many stepped back as soon as the police went by. But my situation was more serious, as I was known to the police, or at least one in particular. I glanced around to see if I recognized his face under one of the blue flat-topped hats. We had an agreement of sorts—illegal, of course, but I was not in a position of strength. This was a critical cause, and I badly wanted to take part. It seemed I was meant to be part of it, maybe even to lead it.
I set back my shoulders and straightened my stack of pamphlets. This was an opportunity to capture the interest of the papers. If being arrested shed light on my bribery, was that such a bad thing? I swallowed hard, ready to push forward, when Wash’s voice ghosted through my mind.
This is not the right time.
As much as I wanted to support this cause, as much as I believed it was the cause for which I was born to fight, there was simply too much at stake. It couldn’t be me, not at this moment. My efforts had to align with my husband’s work. Our livelihood, his dream, the city’s future, all depended on the bridge, and its political and financial support could all come tumbling down.
Deflated, I handed over my remaining literature. “Mother, I can’t—”
“I know. Go.”
I embraced each of my friends and headed home, my ears ringing with the shouts and jeers of the crowd, regret and chestnut smoke stifling my lungs.
* * *
When I arrived back in Brooklyn, there was an unfamiliar horse tied up outside our home. Glistening from a careful brushing, the bay mare only flicked her ears as I approached. A small emblem embroidered on the saddle blanket caught my eye: Metropolitan Police.
I halted in the middle of the street, the relief at having escaped the protest in Manhattan melted away, and the familiar twirl in my stomach became accompanied by a weakness of the knees.
There was a quiet café down the street where I might secrete myself. It seemed a logical choice, but then I imagined Wash inside the house being blindsided by whatever news or threats the officer might be offering. I had to go in.
As I made my way up the few steps of our stoop, I considered what my answers would be to Wash’s inevitable questions. I hadn’t precisely gone against his wishes, hadn’t gotten arrested, or captured the attention of the press. Taking a great breath, I steadied myself, for surely, he wouldn’t see it quite that way.
As I reached for the knob, the door flew away from me. Filling the space was the police officer I was quite familiar with. Apparently, my bribes were no longer enough.
“Good afternoon, Officer.” I managed what I hoped was a carefree smile. “Can I help—”
“Ma’am.” The officer avoided my eyes, tipped his hat, and hurried down the stoop.
It was tempting to try to gain a clue from him as to what had transpired inside, but I didn’t want yet another confrontation. I pushed through the front door.
Smoke curled into the hallway from the library, the scent of cigar smoke soon hitting me. From one smoker? Two? More? No conversation could be heard, and certainly the smoke seemed to be from Wash’s favorite tobacco.
Wash was alone, seated in his favorite leather chair. He lightly stubbed out a cigar, saving the rest for another day. I tried to read his countenance. He wasn’t the pacing bear I had feared, but Wash’s worst anger usually hid behind a veil of calm.
Without looking up, he said, “So, interesting day in the city?”
“One could say that.”
“One could say many things.” His voice was rising, giving the first hint of his emotional state.
“Why was that policeman here?” I set down my day bag.
“I’d rather hear your explanation first.”
Of course he would. But I wasn’t going to show my hand sooner than I had to. I wondered what, if anything, my bribed officer knew about the protest in Manhattan. Why conflate that with the more probable explanation of his visit, which was to increase his take? “A police officer just left the house without a word to me. I think I have a right to know why. Where is Johnny? Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. But I’ll respect your request. Sit down.”
I resisted the temptation to pace, sat down, and picked up my knitting.
“It seems you’ve missed a payment.”
“Oh?” The needles clicked. I counted stitches.
“Don’t pretend to be ignorant of this.”
“I’m not pretending any such thing. Perhaps you can advise me on the extent of your knowledge, and I’ll fill in details of how I’ve managed to keep the project going and both of us out of jail.”
“God damn it, Emily, I told you not to cross the line.”
“What would you have me do? Would you care to battle the whole corrupt system?”
“You could have come to me.”
“I thought it best to keep you out of it. They wouldn’t hesitate to shut the operation down, throw you in jail for some made-up offense. But me? I didn’t think they would risk the image of police brutality against a delicate, innocent woman. And it would have taken brutality to get me into custody.”
He surprised me by laughing.
“So what of it, then?” I put down my knitting. “Do we continue the…um…payments?”
“No, Emily. I have friends in city hall. Your police protector will be replaced.”
“That easily? Incredible. All this time…”
“Not so easily. There will be a cost.”
My heart, having soared for the briefest moment, started to sail back to the murky depths. “I’m afraid to hear it.”
“I’m not upset at you going to the protest, even if it was without my knowledge or consent.”
Oh God. He knew about that as well. I counted the stitches on my knitting needle. Counted again, the numbers not taking hold in my brain. I was startled when I looked up and saw Wash looming over me. I rubbed my face, tears starting to well up. Now, more than fearing his anger at me, I feared his disappointment. “You told me not to get arrested. And I didn’t. I left so that I wouldn’t.”
He held out a hand to me. “Come here, my love.”
Could it be that he wasn’t angry, or worse, disappointed? I stood and fell into his arms, tears now running down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Wash. I’m trying to do what is right, but I don’t even know what that is.”
“Listen. It will work itself out. No permanent damage was done. But there is one thing that will have to change, at least for now.”
“I’m quite willing to step away from the project. We can surely hire a man for the office work now, it’s running so smoothly.”
“No.” Wash lifted my chin as he had years ago at the ballroom dance. But this time, I didn’t see stars dancing in crystal-blue eyes, didn’t tingle everywhere he touched. Instead, I felt the strength in his arms, saw the earnest care in his face.
“What then?”
“The agreement is that the harassment and payments will stop. In return, you must refrain from participating in protests against the government.”
“I don’t see—do I have any say in this?”
“I suppose you do.”
So I had to make a choice. Did I follow my heart and protest against this ridiculous agreement that made a mockery of my rights as an American? Or did I follow my brain, which told me to consider the greater good of quietly working behind the scenes in the bridge project in an effort that might far outweigh what I could otherwise accomplish? Which path would lead to the ultimate goal—women’s right to vote?
* * *
Frustrated with my shortcomings as a suffragist, I threw myself into the bloomer costume project. One afternoon, Johnny played amid the pile of discarded lace and fabric in the parlor as I took scissors to an old cotton skirt. I had just slipped on pantaloons and the raggedy skirt when there was a thump at the front door as it opened.
“Emily?” Wash called in a weak voice. He waved his hat at the coat hook but missed, and it fell to the floor.
I rushed to him as he shuffled into the parlor, grabbing furniture for support. He swayed, and I wrapped his arm over my shoulders and guided him to the settee. Taking a breath to steel my nerves, I lifted his legs so he could recline. He’d be better once he rested, I reassured myself.
Johnny scrambled onto his lap, causing him to gasp in pain. I picked up our son, who kicked in protest, and enticed him with his toy elephant.
“Thank you.” Wash held out his hand for mine.
“That was an awfully long day.” With my fingertips, I assessed the amount of quiver in his hand. Was it worse than yesterday? Afraid he’d note my dampening palm, I pulled it away.
“Sartorial triumph.” His mouth twisted into a smile.
“Pardon?”
He gestured toward the odd handiwork I wore.
I smoothed the rumpled skirt, smiled to conceal my concern. “Mon Dieu, this is the latest in Brooklyn fashion.”
He patted the settee, and I sat next to him.
“Fascinating.” He raised his arms, twisted and turned. “The numbness and weakness is gone, just like that. Now there’s a sensation of pins and needles, like when you lie on your arm too long.”
I only hoped it was that simple.
“Hold on to your petticoat. Or whatever that is you’re wearing.” He took some shallow breaths. “I have some news.” He clapped his hand on mine with a weak squeeze. “The caisson has stopped dropping. We’ve hit bedrock.”
“Thank God!” I threw my arms around Wash as Johnny grabbed our legs. I scooped him up as well, my eyes brimming with tears. Everything was going to be fine. Wash wouldn’t have to be down in the caisson any longer. “Honestly, I don’t think you can spend another day down there.”
Johnny dabbed his finger on my wet cheek. “Mama crying?”
“Happy tears, darling.”
Wash patted Johnny’s curls. “Now we can start the Manhattan caisson while we build the rest of the Brooklyn tower.”
It felt as if the floor had dropped from underneath me. Of course, they had the Manhattan side yet to do.
“The tower will grow quickly and will be more exciting above water. And the crowds will come to watch. It will be a show bigger than Barnum’s old museum.” He coughed, his voice as rough as sandpaper.
Wash traced his finger down my crooked button placket. “You’ll need a more fashionable dress. We’ll be on the front page of the Brooklyn Eagle.”
“With this caisson finally at rest, will Johnny and I see more of you?”
“Haven’t you had enough of me already?” He gave me a lopsided grin.
“I’m serious. Let’s take Johnny to the menagerie in Central Park.” Afraid Johnny’s bouncing would could Wash discomfort, I set the boy down.
“I haven’t really the time, Em. You and Miss Mann should take him.”
“Again?” My face fell. “Wash, this can’t be all there is to family life. There’s a world out there to share with our son. He needs—”
“Whatever you say, dear.” Wash eyed a stack of documents a messenger had brought over earlier, covering the tea table.
“Here.” I slapped the stack of papers on his lap.
He picked them up and thumbed through them while I stood before him, hands on hips, waiting for him to acknowledge the existence of his wife and son. My first gray hair sprouted in the time it took him to notice.
“Oh yes, thank you.” He tapped the papers, then waved absently. “Of course, take him to the menagerie. He’ll enjoy that.”
My insides crumbled. He devoted every moment to his father’s dream, but what about mine? I wanted to share how this made me feel, but clearly, I had been dismissed. If there was one thing I had learned about marriage, it was to wait until a receptive moment to express feelings such as this if I wanted any action on his part.
I went to bed alone after Wash fell asleep with his paper wives.