A March to Remember (18 page)

“Why all the secrecy?” I whispered to Sarah. “What couldn't you talk about in front of your driver? What's surprising about placing flags on soldiers' graves on Decoration Day?”

“Nothing is surprising about it. But this is a special meeting. I couldn't possibly have Wallace hear what we're doing here.” Before I could ask for an explanation, she said, “You'll see what I mean.”

But I saw and heard nothing in the next hour that was special. The women discussed which committee should organize a clothing drive, who was going to deliver the baked goods the women had their cooks make to the local orphanage, among other things. Bored, I was concentrating on the lace curtains billowing in and out of the window in the breeze when the president of the club indicated that they were about to discuss the final item on the agenda.

“But you won't find it on the official agenda today or any day,” the president said. I immediately took note. “If any woman here feels that she cannot participate in, sanction, or has reservations about our proposal, she may leave now with no recrimination.”

Several women stood, apologizing that it was a risk they couldn't take, and left.

“What's so risky?” I asked.

Mrs. Horton, the buxom woman beside Mrs. Smith, put her finger to her lips. “
Shhhh!
”

“Borrowing from my husband's field, I've named this ‘Operation Saving Sisters.' All in favor say aye.” Every remaining woman besides me said aye.

“All opposing, say nay.”

Several women stared at me, daring me with their eyes to oppose them. I remained silent. I wasn't a member of this group. It wasn't right that I vote one way or another. Besides, I had no idea what they were talking about.

“Very well, the ayes have it. Operation Saving Sisters, it is. Now, I have made the initial contact and was met cordially by the . . . proprietor, who introduced me to several . . . workers wishing to avail themselves of our help. I was encouraged. There seemed to be sincere interest in meeting us halfway. Now I would like to open it up to the floor for suggestions as to how to proceed.”

The women discussed “Operation Saving Sisters” for a quarter of an hour and not once did I learn what they were proposing to do or who they were trying to help. With the terms
proprietor
and
workers
thrown about, I could only guess it was a labor issue. So many across the country were suffering from unemployment, hence Coxey's March. Perhaps these women were proposing to find jobs for these unfortunates as well. But why was doing so risky? Why the need for secrecy? Was my presence the reason that they felt they needed to speak in code? Regardless of the reasons, they did, to my complete bafflement. When they concluded their discussion and asked for volunteers to complete the next step of the “operation,” all eyes looked at me.

Did they expect me to volunteer? I didn't even know what they were talking about. But I'd misunderstood.

Mrs. Smith leaned toward me. “Would you mind waiting in the hall, Miss Davish?”

“But—” Sarah started to object.

“Please, Miss Davish?” Mrs. Smith asked again.

I looked around me. Every eye was still on me, expecting me to leave. Still confused, I could only guess that they didn't want me to learn who was volunteering for a task, though I had no idea what it was.

“Of course.” I gladly retired to the hall, busying myself while I waited by studying the portraits of former First Ladies on the wall.

I didn't have to wait long. Having started chronologically with Martha Washington, I was admiring the exquisite bonnet worn by Louisa Adams, John Quincy Adams's lovely wife, when the women came pouring out of the room, expressing their farewells as they went. Sarah and Mrs. Smith rejoined me.

“Now wasn't that more interesting than typing, Miss Davish?” Mrs. Smith smiled while she put on her gloves.

What was I to say? That I enjoyed typing, it being a soothing and satisfying task? That since I'd come to the meeting, instead of doing my work for Sir Arthur, I would have a great deal of typing yet to do today? Or, more to the truth, that I had no idea what she was talking about, that I was still in the dark about what the club was doing?

“It was . . . interesting,” I said, trying to be both truthful and diplomatic.

“I'm sorry you had to leave the room, Hattie,” Sarah said. “I thought they trusted me enough not to bring someone to the meeting who would run and tell their husbands on them, but obviously not.”

“May I ask what that was all about? Operation Saving Sisters?”

“
Shhhh!
” Mrs. Smith chided me. “You mustn't repeat a single thing you heard in there. Promise me, you won't tell a soul.”

“Not even Walter,” Sarah said, frowning. “I think he'd understand, but I'm not sure Daniel would.”

“I know Meriwether wouldn't approve,” Mrs. Smith said. “Besides, our husbands' careers could be affected if this got out.”

Still not knowing in the slightest to what they were referring, I asked, “Then why risk it in the first place? Is it that important?”

Both women nodded. “Yes, it is, Hattie,” Sarah said. “And not just for obvious reasons either.” Since I didn't know what she was talking about, no reasons were obvious to me. “This is Washington, and we women deserve to have our own secrets.”

Mrs. Smith's smile widened. “Yes, we do.”

“But what about all the good works you spoke about publicly? Aren't they enough?” I asked.

“Yes and no. Everything this club does is important, but there are some things no one else is going to do if we don't. Do you understand?” Of course I didn't understand. I had no clue what they were talking about. But I didn't want to disappoint my future sister-in-law, so I took a deep breath to curb my frustration, and then half smiled and lied.

“I think so.”

“Good,” Mrs. Smith said, smiling at me with approval. “I knew you'd get something out of coming today. You'll have to come again. If you're here long enough, you could join.”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” Sarah said, hooking her arm in mine as we descended to the street and the waiting carriages. “I'm so happy to finally have a sister, Hattie. Think of all that we can do.”

I smiled genuinely this time, happy too to have a sister. But if her idea of things we could do together was anything like this morning, I couldn't leave Washington soon enough.

C
HAPTER
23

A
fter having Sarah bring me back to the Treasury, I spent several hours diligently copying the property damage index Sir Arthur had requested. The straightforward work was a welcome respite from the morning's arguments, secrets, and veiled discussions. In fact, for several hours all the questions that haunted me were kept at bay. And then I came to an entry in the index, the burning of apple orchards in Arkansas, which reminded me of the proprietor of Apple House and her words of regret.

I might never learn the truth, having been barred from any form of investigation, but I could still ask myself the questions. Sitting in the windowless room, I put aside my work and made a list.

 

 

Unable to face the personal heartbreak of my last thought, I reread the others. There had to be a connection. But then that meant that someone in the senator's household was in some way connected to the madam.

You already knew that,
I reminded myself silently.

But I didn't want to believe it. Lottie Fox had mentioned Mrs. Smith, after all. But I couldn't believe Mrs. Smith had anything to do with Jasper Neely's death. She was with her husband when Jasper Neely was killed. Wasn't she? But then what was the connection? And how did any of this involve Sarah? Lottie Fox had mentioned her as well. But I remembered Sarah's reaction to finding Jasper Neely. She had been genuinely distressed by the man's death. Hadn't she? I envisioned Sarah at the Washington Wives Club meeting, adeptly transforming my visit to the police station from a scandal into something heroic. Could she be that crafty in the face of a dead man? Or did the connection have nothing to do with Jasper Neely? Could Lottie Fox know more about Annie Wilcox's death than she was admitting to? Could Sarah and Mrs. Smith have a connection to Annie?

These were the thoughts I couldn't fathom but couldn't shake. Having work to do was the only remedy. And a remedy it was, for when I completed my task, my only thoughts were of the satisfaction of a job well done and my upcoming rendezvous with Walter.

And then I saw Chester Smith. He had cornered a man, most likely a bank clerk or accountant based on the green celluloid eyeshade he wore on his brow, between the wrought-iron railing and the ornate Corinthian column at the bottom of one of the massive spiral stairwells. The two men stood close, whispering so that I couldn't hear what they were saying, but the clerk shook his head vigorously several times. Something in their manner suggested they didn't want to be interrupted or overheard, reminding me of the conversation I'd witnessed between Senator Abbott and Jasper Neely. I stopped and stepped behind another column. But as I stayed hidden, several people simply passed by, ignoring the two men as they went.

Was this the usual way of having a private conversation in this town? I wondered.

I was gathering my courage to walk past myself, hoping my casual manner would not draw Chester's attention, when he pulled a thick envelope out of his pocket. He thrust it toward the clerk. The clerk glanced around, to make sure no one was about. I ducked back behind the column for a moment and then peered around it again. The clerk opened the envelope, pulled out the edges of a stack of dollar bills, and nodded. There had to be over a hundred dollars in the envelope—more than a month's wages! The clerk slipped the envelope into the pocket of his vest.

Chester Smith, his shoulders now relaxed, nodded and said in a regular voice, “Remember, the National Bank of the Potomac.”

“
Shhhhh!
” The clerk looked about him furtively and then dashed away without another glance at Chester.

Chester, on the other hand, took his time. He straightened his tie, pulled at his vest, and allowed a smile to slowly spread across his face. Then casually he strolled down the hall in the opposite direction. I waited until he disappeared around a corner before stepping out of my hiding place. I was stunned. The National Bank of the Potomac. That was the same bank Simeon Harper was inquiring about. Could that be the contention between the two men? But what did Chester Smith have to do with the National Bank of the Potomac? Why would he bribe a clerk in the Treasury Department? But to do what? Could any of this be connected to Jasper Neely's death? Could Chester Smith have been the one Jasper Neely was visiting yesterday morning?

I blew away a loose curl that tickled my forehead.
What do I do now? Do I tell the police what I witnessed?
Lieutenant Whittmeyer had made it clear that he was not going to tolerate my intrusion into their investigation in any way. And perhaps bribing officials is commonplace in this city of politicians and bankers, and bringing it to the attention of the police would only be borrowing trouble. Who was I kidding? I was making excuses for not reporting the incident and I knew it.

It has nothing to do with me
.

I was eager to leave the building and its intrigues behind but knew full well it wasn't as simple as that.

* * *

Despite the sunshine, the blossoming trees, the fat squirrels scurrying about, and the anticipation of meeting Walter, my mood deteriorated as I meandered ever more slowly along the winding paths of the Mall. For the first time since I'd met him, I was dreading facing Walter. And why? Because I had vowed not to keep secrets from him and yet failed to tell him about Lottie Fox's message to his sister? Or was it having to describe Sir Arthur's reaction to our engagement that made my feet feel leaden and slow?

What's wrong with you?
I asked myself.
I've never shied away from the truth before. Why now? Besides, it's Walter. He'll forgive and understand anything I say. Won't he?

“What's wrong, Hattie?”

Walter was waiting for me outside the expansive three-story brick building that housed the Army Medical Museum, the Library of the Surgeon General's Office, and the Army Medical School. When he spotted me he smiled, and most of my worry vanished in an instant. He took my hand and led me down the path toward the famed National Museum, a fairytale building of geometric patterns of polychrome brick, pavilions three stories tall, rotundas encircled with skylights and windows, which dwarfed the Smithsonian Castle next to it with its 80,000 square feet of exhibit space.

Room after room, and mahogany case after mahogany case, it was a world of wonders: relics belonging to several presidents including George Washington and Andrew Jackson; animal specimens of fish, birds, and reptiles; geological specimens; precious stones; extraordinary examples of printing, painting, embroidery, engraving, and weaving; exhibits on agriculture, transportation, and history; and, as the
Altograph of Washington City, or stranger's guide
I'd picked up at a newsstand claimed, “thousands of curios from every part of the globe.” And yet no matter how hard I tried, I was too distracted by the events of the past few days to enjoy it. And Walter knew it.

“Didn't you enjoy Sarah's surprise? Where did she take you?”

“I enjoyed your surprise immensely,” I said, smiling as I pictured my new House of Worth dress. “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

Walter leaned in close and whispered, his breath tickling my ear, “You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.” I blushed, and couldn't help but smile in delight.

“Did Sarah help you with the measurements?”

“It fits perfectly,” I said.

“I'm glad you like it. But you didn't answer my question.”

“Sarah took me to a meeting of the Washington Wives Club.”

“Now I see why Sarah insisted the two of you go without me.” He laughed. “Didn't you enjoy it?”

“It was kind of Sarah to take me,” I said, trying to avoid having to explain the meeting and all its secrecy. Walter frowned.

“That's not what I asked you. What happened?”

“It's complicated. It's more than what happened at the meeting.” Walter led me to a bench beneath the enormous skeleton of a whale suspended from the ceiling.

“Tell me.”

I put my free hand in my lap and stared at it. Walter put his hand on top of mine.

“We are soon to be husband and wife. You can tell me anything.” I looked at him, into his eyes, and found nothing but love and concern reflected back at me.

“Walter, I finally spoke to Sir Arthur.”

He looked at me expectantly. When I wasn't forthcoming he said, “And?”

I remained calm, but sadness swelled up through my chest until it hurt.

“He won't give us his blessing.”

Walter looked away but continued to hold my hand. We sat in silence for several moments as a rotund woman with pinched lips, clutching a child with each hand, ineffectively attempted to herd a group of children between the collection cases by shouting, “Children. Now, children,” as the little ones ran hither and thither to their delight.

“Did he say why?”

“He doesn't believe I was meant to be a housewife, that I'll be unhappy and bored. He thinks I'll be giving up my purpose in life if I don't use my talents and work.”

“And what do you think?”

“I love you, and if I must give up my profession to be your wife, then I'm happy to do so.”

“You don't have to give up anything for me. We've discussed this before. You can work in my office if that is what you want, or you can find something else worthwhile to do. I never once expected you to spend your days simply managing our home.”

“Simeon Harper insists I'd make an excellent reporter.” I laughed at my jest.

“It's true. You would, if that's what you wanted.”

“So you wouldn't mind if your wife wanted to follow in Nellie Bly's footsteps?” I was teasing but eager for an honest answer.

“I'd be nothing but proud.”

“Perhaps if you spoke to Sir Arthur,” I said, more hopeful than I'd been since the argument this morning, “he might reconsider?”

“Consider it done,” Walter said, raising my hand to his lips. I smiled back until a pang of guilt made me look away. “Is something else bothering you?”

“I already told you about my visit to the police.”

“Yes?” Concern clouded his countenance.

“What I didn't tell you, or anyone else, was that I was approached by two separate people before I left the station.”

“Who?”

The first one was easy. “A man named Billy McBain. We've seen him on several other occasions. He's one of Coxey's marchers.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted me to tell Daniel that he said hello.”

“That's it?”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“I don't know except he's the one that we've seen argue with Daniel on two separate occasions.”

“Him?” Walter furrowed his brows. “He didn't threaten you, did he?”

“No, no. He simply wanted me to relay his greeting.”

“And did you?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, I wouldn't bother. Whatever is between Mr. McBain and Daniel is better left between them.”

“Good. That was my feeling as well.”

“Who was the other person?”

I hesitated and took a deep breath. I looked at Walter but had to look away before I said, “Miss Lottie Fox.”

“The madam of the girl who drowned in the carriage accident?”

“How did you know that?” I looked back at Walter in surprise.

“Harper told a group of us when he pointed her out at Coxey's camp. Said she was a follower of Carl Browne's ‘Theosophy.' Supposedly Browne told her she was born with a drop of the soul of Jesus. Of course, he claims to have far more than that,” Walter scoffed. “Browne probably said that to get her to donate money or . . .” Walter stopped, realizing what he had almost said in my company.

“Yes, her,” I said, trying in vain not to blush. “If you remember, she was arrested for trying to stop the police from arresting Carl Browne.”

“What did she say? Why did she speak to you at all?”

“She knew I was witness to the girl's death and simply wanted to know what I saw. She was genuinely upset about it all.”

Walter frowned.

“I don't like the idea of a woman like that imposing herself on you. I hope she was discreet.”

“She was, and I couldn't deny her what little I knew.”

“You are a kind soul, Hattie. Is that it? Is that what you hesitated to tell me?”

“No, though that would have been enough to give me pause. No, Walter, it's much worse.”

“What is it?”

“She also asked me to convey a message for her.”

“The presumption!” Walter's voice echoed off walls and the vaulted ceiling.

“Walter,” I said, purposefully almost at a whisper, as two ladies—in straw hats ironically decorated with songbirds similar to those in one of the museum's cases—stared over at us before moving to the next room. “She wanted me to relay the message that she was sorry. ‘Please tell them I regret it now. Oh, how I regret it.' ”