about.
I made it back to the Bowery and squeezed into a car on the El back to Astor Place. As my straw hat was knocked to one side of my head I reminded myself that at this very moment I could be sitting on Mrs. Sullivan’s cool porch, sipping iced tea, and doing nothing more strenuous than stitching my petticoat. Daniel would probably be angry with me that I had returned to the city. I had taken on another case when I had virtually promised him that I wouldn’t and I was achieving nothing by it. In fact the thought actually crossed my mind that it might be more useful to have acquired some sewing skills—which shows you how despondent I felt.
I quickened my pace as I walked the shady length of Eighth Street. I turned into Patchin Place. Sid and Gus would have a pitcher of lemonade or some kind of exotic drink waiting, and I could sink into one of those chairs in their back garden. Ah, bliss.
I knocked on the front door. Nobody came. This was something I hadn’t expected. They had not mentioned that they might be going out this evening. And I’d left my key to my own house on the dresser in their spare room. I felt tears of frustration welling up as I stood in the deep shade of the alleyway. Now what did I do? They were usually so considerate. Surely they’d have left me a note. But perhaps they assumed that I carried my house key with me and that note they’d written lay on the hall table across the street. With little hope I rapped on their door a second time and waited. I’d just have to go to a coffeehouse and hope that they returned before too long.
I had just turned away when I heard my name being called. I spun around. Gus was standing there.
“Molly, I’m so sorry. We’re all out in the garden and we were debating so heatedly that we didn’t hear the door. You poor thing, you look worn out. Come in, do. Sid has made sangria. It’s divine. And everyone’s dying to meet you.”
“Everyone?” I asked. My mind went to the party they were giving for me at the weekend. They couldn’t have put it forward, could they?
“Our suffragist group. I mentioned to you that we were meeting tonight. Such wonderful women. So brave. You’ll adore them.” With that she dragged me inside and helped me off with my hat.
“Come along. Sid’s sangria will revive you in no time at all.” And she propelled me down the hallway, through the kitchen, and out to the small square of back garden. I had no idea what sangria was and I was too tired to speak or resist.
“Here she is at last,” Gus called. “And in serious need of revival.”
I saw faces looking up from deck chairs as we approached. A group of around eight women were sitting in the shade of the sycamore tree.
“Molly, what have you been doing to yourself? You look as if you’ve just walked across the Sahara Desert.” Sid jumped up and started pouring a red liquid into a glass, thrusting it into my hand. “Get this down you. You’ll feel better.”
I was placed into a wicker chair and sipped the drink I had been given. It was delicious—a sort of red wine punch with fruit in it, and it was icy cold.
“Let me make the introductions.” Sid perched herself on the arm of my chair. She was dressed in white linen trousers and an open-necked white shirt. The look was dramatic with her black bobbed hair. “I don’t believe you’ve met any of our suffragist sisters.”
“I did meet some of them when we marched on Easter Sunday,” I said, “but I don’t think any of these ladies were among them.”
“Easter Sunday?” one of the women asked.
“We were among a group of Vassar girls who joined the Easter Parade. We had banners: VASSAR WANTS VOTES FOR WOMEN. Not a very successful outing, I’m afraid,” Sid said drily. This was an understatement, as we’d been arrested and thrown in jail for the night.
“And not exactly wise,” an older woman said. She had a round, distinguished face and her gray hair was swept back into a severe bun. “The sort of people who attend parades want to be entertained, not informed. And they don’t want the firm foundation of their little universe shaken when they least expect it. I expect they pelted you.”
“They did. And we were arrested.”
“The arrest was not a bad thing,” the woman said, a smile spreading over her severe face. “It gets us a mention in the newspapers. It may even evoke the sympathy of other women—at least it may start them thinking. But you’re neglecting your duty, Elena. How about some introductions?”
“Elena?” I looked around the group and then of course I remembered that it was Sid’s real name. I had never heard anyone refer to her that way before.
“Of course,” Sid said. “Ladies, this is our dear friend and neighbor Molly Murphy. And Molly, let me begin with the most distinguished of our company: may I present Carrie Chapman Catt? She is the current head of the North American Woman Suffrage Association and she has deigned to grace our little gathering tonight.”
“Nonsense, you make me sound like visiting royalty,” Carrie Chapman Catt said in her rich, deep voice. “We’re all foot soldiers in this together, you know. These are my fellow infantrywomen: Sarah Lindley, Annabel Chapman, Hortense Maitland, Mildred Roberts, and Felicia Hamm. I’m delighted to meet you, Molly. I hope you’re a fellow champion of the cause.”
“She’s about to join the ranks of the enemy,” one of the younger women quipped.
“Meaning what?” Carrie asked sharply.
“She’s getting married in a couple of weeks.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll cease fighting for the cause,” Carrie Chapman Catt said fiercely. “I myself have been married twice and have never been under my husband’s thumb.”
“And I don’t intend to be under my husband’s thumb either,” I agreed. “I’ll most definitely still be a supporter of votes for women.”
“Well said, Molly.” The speaker was a beautiful young woman with porcelain white skin and hair that was deepest copper. “I’ve been enduring the same teasing from our more militant sisters. I’m Sarah and I’m also getting married in a few weeks. So we shall be twins—the two redheads who will defy the odds and remain true to the
