Betina Krahn (16 page)

Beatrice retreated with Ardis Gerhardt to the safety of the door, where she stayed just long enough to see
Priscilla and Dipper ordered to begin slicing bread and stuffing it with cheese, and Jeffrey and Shorty assigned to dishwashing detail.

Yes … she smiled as she carried away with her the picture of delicate Priscilla and coarse, blocky Dipper Muldoon being stuffed into aprons. This should prove to be quite an experience for her niece.

LATER THAT SAME
evening, Beatrice announced her acquisition of a prosuffrage candidate to some fellow members of the executive committee of the National American Woman Suffrage Association.

“It’s nothing short of amazing,” Lacey Waterman said as the small group of women sipped after-dinner coffee in Beatrice’s drawing room. “How on earth did you manage to find a candidate willing to stand for women’s suffrage?”

She and the others eyed Beatrice’s satisfaction, sensing that there was more to the story. No one simply distributed a tract or served a cup of tea and convinced a promising congressional candidate to support women’s rights, though, they had to admit, if anyone
could
perform such a feat, it would be Beatrice Von Furstenberg.

“To tell the truth, he sort of ‘found’ me,” Beatrice said with a smile that withheld as much as it revealed. “As I told the executive committee the other evening, one just has to learn what a politician wants and supply it.”

“And just what does this ‘Connor Barrow’ fellow want?” Frannie Excelsior asked, sitting forward, her spectacle-magnified eyes fixed on their hostess.

Beatrice laughed quietly. “Why, to be elected, of course. He will expect us to help, and he has promised, in return, to go on record as supporting votes for women. A simple, honorable exchange of interest. No filthy lucre involved.”

“And just how did you meet him, again?” Lacey’s polite inquiry cloaked a raging curiosity. She had always had an uncanny ability to detect even the slightest hint of personal interest in a situation.

“I don’t believe I said.” Beatrice leveled a matter-of-fact look at her, while searching frantically for some plausible explanation. Then it struck her: “Actually it was at the Unified Charity Organization offices. He was there doing a bit of politicking and I was there … to help the Magdalene Society director develop a fund-raising event or two.”

“The Magdalene Society?” Esther Rose asked. “Isn’t that the group that tries to ‘rescue’ prostitutes?”

“It is,” Beatrice said. It wasn’t a complete untruth. She actually had met recently with the Magdalene Society director, along with the heads of several other charities, to work on financial planning and fund-raising.

“I didn’t know you were interested in rescue work,” Lacey said, canting her head to view Beatrice from a skeptical angle.

“It’s not something I noise about,” Beatrice said, feeling her face heat. “I believe in helping women in all circumstances.”

“When do we get to meet him?” Frannie rubbed her hands together.

“The first in a series of debates is scheduled for three days from now … Thursday evening. I thought we’d invite Susan Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Carrie Catt, and a few other members of the committee to attend with us.”

Just then the sound of the front doors opening and slamming shut again drifted into them. “A bath. I need a bath!” was followed by sounds of things slamming onto the marble floor. Beatrice rose immediately and hurried
out into the hall, and the others followed to see what was causing the commotion.

Priscilla—hair unraveling and yellow linen badly stained—stood in the middle of the entry. Her picture-book hat lay some distance away on the floor, along with her heeled slippers. As they watched, she ripped off her ruined overdress, crumpled it up, and flung it furiously aside.

That violent action seemed to use up the last of her energy and she turned to Beatrice with her shoulders sagging and her chest heaving.

“They swarmed in like locusts”—she held out her much-abused skirt—“gobbling an’ slopping … thought I was going to be sick … then we finally got it cleaned up … here they came again … wolfing an’ swilling.” She made quaffing and chomping sounds to accompany her wild-eyed demonstration. “Stinky old onions an’ potatoes … an’ more onions and potatoes … an’
more
onions … mountains of them … always
onions!”
She jabbed a bandaged finger at them for emphasis, then halted and held it up, looking as if the sight of it jolted her anew.

“See-e-e?” She brandished it, as if the mere fact of it explained all.

Then, grabbing up her bedraggled organdy and what remained of her dignity, she staggered up the stairs in her stockinged feet, muttering to herself. When she disappeared from sight, the others turned to Beatrice with no little shock. Beatrice gave a deep sigh and turned her stunned guests back to the drawing room.

“Cooking lesson,” she explained. “Her first.”

THE INITIAL DEBATE
in the Fourth District congressional race was held that Thursday evening in the
Cutters’ Hall on the East Side of the city. The main auditorium seated one hundred and fifty strangers, as the management was wont to say, or two hundred people friendly enough or liquored up enough to get cozy.

Beatrice and her delegation, which included Susan Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Carrie Catt, and Belva Vanderbilt, as well as Lacey Frannie, and Esther Rose, arrived early to secure good seats. Nevertheless, they had to hang onto their hats as they were jostled by sleeveless stevedores, lift their skirts as they navigated a row of heavy boots belonging to construction workers, and hold their breaths as they excused themselves through representatives of tanneries, butcher shops, and taverns. Politics in the Fourth District was a most pungent undertaking.

They made their way to the front of the hall and seated themselves to one side of the bunting-draped stage. The seats around them were soon filled with shopkeepers, pipe fitters, omnibus drivers, union officials, carpenters, teamsters, and bank clerks. Nearby sat a clergyman accompanied by a committee of women wearing “Temperance” buttons. On their right were a number of “nativists” with pennants proclaiming: “Save America for the Americans” and “No More Immigration.” At the rear, stood the latecomers, coarsely clad men with beet-red faces, slurred speech, and heavy Irish accents, accompanied by flashily dressed women.

Beatrice was unprepared for the impact of Connor Barrow when he arrived, confidently greeting everyone he saw by name. Dressed in a black suit, pristine white shirt, and gray silk tie, he seemed to light up the hall as he entered. When the other members of the committee nudged her and inquired if he were their candidate, she could only respond with a nod.

The moderator, well-known newspaper publisher Charles Anderson Dana, of
The Sun,
called the meeting to order and introduced both of the candidates for the Fourth District congressional seat.

“We need election reform,” Netherton declared in professorial tones.

“He wouldn’t say that if he expected to
win,”
Connor countered with a grin, drawing laughter.

“The country needs professional politicians, not men with one hand in their own business and the other in the public till,” Netherton asserted.

“He’d like to sit around with one hand in the public till and the other
in his own pocket
?” Connor said with astonishment, then wagged his head in disbelief.

And so it went; Connor punched holes in every point Netherton made. Susan Anthony frowned at Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who passed it on to Frannie Excelsior, who gave Lacey Waterman a dubious look. Beatrice, seated beside Lacey, caught their bewilderment and grew increasingly uncomfortable.

Then the minister with the temperance committee, in the very front row, shot to his feet and called out: “Temperance should be the country’s
first
priority. The federal government must pass an act of prohibition to put an end to the evils of drunkenness and alcoholism!”

The outburst was greeted by catcalls and booing, countered only by a pitiful few “here, here’s” from the minister’s own delegation.

“Now, now … the good reverend has raised a most worthy topic,” Connor said, making quieting motions toward the rowdy element in the back. “Drunkenness is the cause of many ills. But no law passed in Washington can take a bottle or glass from a drunkard’s hand in Haggarty’s Tavern.” He looked down at the minister who
was still trying to sort out whether that meant Connor was for or against prohibition. “Isn’t that right, Reverend?”

The minister hesitated, then started to agree.

“Well, yes—”

“What words inscribed into dusty old law books in Washington are going to change what a fellow does down at Murphy’s or the Barrel & Shamrock?” He glanced at the group at the back with a cajoling wink. “The Good Lord wrote the Ten Commandments, and yet they get broken every day of the week. If the Almighty can’t make people quit doing things by passing a law, what chance do we have?”

Laughter erupted around the hall, all but drowning out Netherton’s attempt to mollify the good reverend, who turned—red-faced—to trade words with a detractor several seats away. Beatrice looked down the row of her fellow committee members and found them frowning at her. The more they heard, the less likely he seemed to be a candidate to support women’s suffrage. She shot to her feet.

“Tell us, Mr. Barrow … how do you feel about the vote for women?”

The noise level seemed to drop dramatically.

“Votes for women?” Connor stepped around the podium, leaned his elbow casually on it, and gazed down at her and her banner-wearing companions. “Now, that is a most interesting subject. Mrs. Von Furstenberg, I believe. I take it
you
want to vote.”

“Of course I do,” she said, hastily beckoning the others to their feet, too. Frannie, Lacey Susan, and Elizabeth … they rose and stood together, shoulder to shoulder, a united front, waiting for his declaration of support for women’s suffrage. “We all want to vote. We
are all citizens of this country and we deserve to have a say in how it is governed.”

He studied her and her friends, then broke into an infuriating smile.

“I would certainly approve of
you
having the vote, Mrs. Von Furstenberg. In fact, I’d probably vote to give you
two
votes … six votes … a dozen.” He glanced at the men around the hall and winked. “Wouldn’t you, gents? Wouldn’t you like to see Mrs. Von Furstenberg, here, put her ballots in your precinct box?”

Beatrice reddened as laughter and blatantly personal invitations to do some “ballot-box stuffing” rolled around the auditorium. How dare he use his tawdry personal innuendoes to expose her and her cause to such ridicule? How low could the man sink?

“I have asked a civil question, Mr. Barrow,” she declared hotly. “I expect a civil answer. Do you or do you not favor the vote for women?”

“Women in general, you mean?
All
women?”

“Of course,
all
women. Don’t parse words with me, sir.”

“So, you’re asking if I would support giving the vote to … oh, say … Pearly Quinn back there?” He pointed to the back of the crowd and an older woman with a heavily painted face, dressed in faded satins and feathers. Hearing her name, the old girl squealed with delight—showing several gaps from missing teeth—and began to flap her tatty boa in the laughing faces around her.

Anger seized Beatrice. He was reneging on their agreement in front of Susan and Elizabeth and the rest of the committee!

“Does that estimable specimen of American manhood beside her have the vote?” She pointing to a grizzled old fellow standing near the eager Miss Quinn.

“Shore do!” the old gaffer declared, sticking out his chest. “Fact is—I voted
nine times
in th’ last election!”

Another burst of laughter erupted, drawing an indignant response from her suffrage-supporting group.

“Then Pearly Quinn deserves to have it as well,” she called out when the noise subsided. “What do you say, Miss Quinn? Don’t you deserve to vote?”

“Shore do!” Pearly echoed her male counterpart’s response. “I’d vote fer Connor Barrow, there.” She turned to the old fellow beside her. “
Ten
times!”

This time when the laughter subsided, it was Connor who took the offensive.

“And what would women
do
with the vote, Mrs. Von Furstenberg? What could women possibly do with their votes that men do not already do for them?”

The colossal gall.

“First of all”—she propped her hands at her waist and glared—“they could elect honest officials and representatives who
keep their promises
!”

A murmur went through the crowd at that blatant challenge, and for a long moment, she stared at Connor with her eyes blazing, deciding whether to reveal his promise to support suffrage for women. Then there was a subtle change in his expression.

“I can’t imagine any man not keeping his promise to you, Mrs. Von Furstenberg. You seem to be a most determined woman.”

She felt a shiver run up her spine. Righteous indignation, no doubt.

“If nothing else, you are perceptive, Mr. Barrow,” she responded. “I
am
determined. Do you or do you not support women’s suffrage?”

“I might … if I could be persuaded that women could do something with the vote that men can’t do for
them.” He looked her over with a broadening grin. “What about it, Mrs. Von Furstenberg? Do you think you could
?persuade
me?”

Desultory male laughter wafted through the back and then expectant silence descended.

“Fine.” Her face was aflame. “If you want to know what women will gain by the vote, I challenge you to accompany me to the Woodhull Settlement House and learn firsthand about the women in your district.”

Booing came from the rear of the hall, along with calls of “Get yerself a man” and “Go home an’ fetch me some dinner, woman!”

Connor held up his hands for quiet, but the time of evening and the length of the meeting were taking their toll on the crowd. He nearly had to shout to be heard.

“I am always willing to learn about the people I intend to serve. I accept your challenge, Mrs. Von Furstenberg. I assume it is meant for my opponent Mr. Netherton as well.”