in the governing process. Unfortunately New York was not one of them.
“This certainly reveals how far we have come,” I said, handing it back to her.
“No,” she said. “It shows how far we have to go. For every state that acknowledges women as rational beings who can only enhance the political process, there are four or five who think us fit only to scrub floors, bear children, and give tea parties.”
I nodded.
“We are hosting one of our meetings tonight,” Gus said, “so you will meet our fearless warriors for yourself. If you are here, that is, and the important Mr. X has not invited you to dine with him at Delmonico’s.”
“Oh, I don’t think that is likely to happen,” I said. “But I have to confess I’m impatient to find out more now. And I’m also anxious to see what Daniel has done to my house. Have you had a chance to peek inside yet?”
“No, we were not invited to have a look and one can see almost nothing through the net curtains.”
“I know,” I said. “I tried to look through them myself. I didn’t like the idea of going inside, in case someone was working upstairs.”
“I believe they are finished,” Gus said. “We haven’t spotted anybody for the last few days, have we, Gus?”
“As quiet as the grave,” Gus said. “And we have to admit to being equally curious. We’re dying to see if we approve of Daniel’s taste in decoration.”
“Then let’s take a look, shall we?”
They needed no urging to follow me across the street. I opened my front door cautiously and listened for signs of activity. The smell of new paint made my nostrils twitch, but there was no sound. I stepped into the front hall, followed closely by Sid and Gus. As Gus had predicted, the place looked brand, spanking new. The hallway was light yellow, the parlor, which previously had contained one rather dilapidated armchair, now boasted a new sofa and attractive striped wallpaper.
Sid gave a grunt of surprise. “The man has remarkably civilized taste for a policeman,” she said.
“And look, Molly. You actually have a dining room,” Gus said, peering through the next door.
“So I do.” The dining room now contained a dining set, complete with an impressive sideboard carved with grapevines. I had no idea where it came from. It certainly hadn’t been in Daniel’s rooms.
“Holy Mother of God,” I exclaimed. “I’m going to be the mistress of an elegant house.”
We went upstairs and the first thing I caught sight of through an open door was a large new four-poster bed.
“My, but that’s a handsome object,” Sid commented. “It’s clear what’s uppermost on his mind, isn’t it? And yours too, I expect.” And she chuckled.
To my annoyance I felt myself blushing. The young ladies I had been playing croquet with would have swooned at such a remark and had to reach for the smelling salts. Sid and Gus seemed to think it was perfectly natural to discuss such matters, as I suppose it was in bohemian society.
“Well, I say that Daniel has done you proud, Molly,” Gus said, wanting to spare my feelings. “I think the redecoration and the furniture are splendid. But you’re not thinking of sleeping here before the wedding are you?”
“I don’t think I should,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair to Daniel when I’m sure he wants to surprise me. I was hoping I could stay with you until the party.”
“Of course you can. That way Daniel won’t even have to know that you’re in town,” Sid said. “Come on then. We should make our escape just in case the eager groom puts in an unexpected appearance.”
I glanced back at that bed as the other two made their way down the stairs. It certainly was impressive—so high and large that I couldn’t imagine how the moving men had carried it up the narrow staircase. For a moment I pictured Daniel and me.… I rapidly reined in where that thought was going. I had kept Daniel at arm’s length for too long, knowing how quickly the fire between us ignited. And now the waiting was almost over. I’m sure it wasn’t proper for a young lady to look forward to her husband’s lovemaking. Mrs. Sullivan had tried to give me gentle hints, warning me of men’s appetites and how we women must endure it for their sakes. To my credit I had managed not to smile.
Three
When we returned to Sid and Gus’s house, I was itching to seek out the mysterious Mr. Lee, but had to mask my impatience a little longer while Sid and Gus took me up to my room, fussed around making sure that the pillows were to my liking and I had sufficient drawer space, then swept me downstairs to prepare luncheon. In truth I enjoyed eating with them, especially because the meal consisted of crusty French bread and what Sid described as her four-P meal: pate, Port Salut cheese, pears, and peaches. After Mrs. Sullivan’s stodgy and filling meals it was delightfully informal, but that business card was burning a hole in my dress pocket. Fortunately as soon as the meal was over, Sid was anxious to finish her article, so I took the opportunity to escape, making my way southward to the office on the Bowery.
The street number indicated that it would be at the bottom part of the street, where it joined Chatham Square, not at the more respectable northern end after all. So my curiosity was aroused even further. What very important man would have offices in an unsavory neighborhood south of Canal Street?
The day had now become uncomfortably hot and humid, with the threat of a thunderstorm later in the afternoon. I had no wish to walk a step further than necessary and tried to evaluate whether I’d be better off taking the trolley down Broadway and then cutting across Canal Street, or walking from my house to the Third Avenue El and not having to walk at the end of the trip. I decided on the latter and walked in the sedate quiet of Eighth Street, past Astor Place and the Cooper Union building to the nearest El station. I regretted this decision instantly as the train arrived already crammed full, and I was forced to stand between a large Italian woman who reeked of garlic and an equally large laborer who smelled as if he hadn’t taken a bath for weeks. All I could think was thank heavens the line was now electrified or we would have had smoke blowing in through the open windows to add to the mixture of unpleasantness.
I can’t tell you how glad I was to fight my way to the carriage door at Chatham Square. I came down the iron stairs into that teeming mass of humanity that is the lower Bowery. Trolley cars inched their way up the middle of the street, bells clanging impatiently to force delivery wagons, hansom cabs, and the occasional carriage out of their way. A constable stood on the corner, swinging his billy club in what he hoped was a threatening manner, as crime was rife around here.
