Chapter Five, part one

Before Violet came down to breakfast the next day, she pulled the Emma Willard application from her composition book and arrayed it on the vanity alongside a ball point pen. Sadie would see it when she pinned up her hair. Violet picked up the pen and set it, more purposefully, across the pages at an inviting angle.

If she doesn’t complete it by tonight, she told herself, I’ll do it for her. Not to worry. If going back to Emma is the next obvious step to take, Sadie will take it, even if she can’t be bothered with the application.

Violet had hoped to observe Helena Voldore that morning but, as it happened, the medium slept late and took breakfast in her room. Reggie Vanderbilt did grace them with his presence, topping off his coffee from a silver flask. Flora Whitney, Alva’s grandniece and their impromptu hostess, appeared beside the coffee urn, ready to organize the social calendar.

“My mother had wanted to be here to greet you all,” she said, passing porcelain cups with an experienced air, “but she has her first exhibit in New York and couldn’t step away for a minute. I promised to arrange us some fun for these two weeks.”

Dark-haired Flora had dramatic eyebrows. She wasn’t prone to smiling, but she had a forthrightness that Violet found alluring. Reggie, seated at the head of the table, puffed a cigar and read the paper. Violet surveyed them each in turn, considering Crystal Eastman’s fundraising challenge. It was hard to imagine ever asking Reggie for a contribution. Maybe Flora?

“We’ve got just shy of a fortnight,” Flora was saying. “That leaves us time for a beach picnic, a day aboard the Principessa, tennis, dancing—are you all keen to dance?”

“Billiards!” Reggie put in.

“Certainly, billiards. The staff here puts on a very fun treasure hunt. Charades can be a riot with the right people. Hide and go seek.”

“Cards!”

“Uncle Reggie, if you have it your way, there’ll be cards every night.” She laughed. “But very well, cards. Music. The weekly séances, of course. There’s to be one next week and another the week after. Those are quite entertaining. Does anyone know whether Mrs. Voldore reads palms? Tarot? Do we know? I shall ask her when she comes down.”

As a result of Flora’s efforts, the afternoons and evenings of the fortnight were quickly stuffed with activities. After breakfast, she invited the ladies into the morning room to look at the fashion magazines her mother had given her, many of them straight from Paris.

“Though,” she added as they trailed behind her across the great hall, “Mother says it’s impossible to get anything out of Paris these days. Such a bother.”

Sadie, who had come down at last, caught Violet’s elbow and held her back as the others moved on through the great hall. “Listen,” she said, “I know you’re about to run off and do something dull, like write letters all morning, but please join in and be fun!”

Violet smiled at her sister. It was true, she had been going to sink into work, but she could be social for Sadie’s sake. “Well, if you’d like me to. Then of course.”

“It would be such a relief.” Sadie motioned to the colorful backs of the ladies ahead of them. “The others are starting to think you’re an odd duck. I heard Floyd asking Monty why anyone would skip out on yachting for a day of meetings. I tried to explain, but they live in a bit of a different world. They don’t really have to do anything they don’t like. So, if you could just pal around, it would mean so much. I want them to like you.”

As a result, Violet spent the next hour listening to Flora share world-changing news from the fashion front. “Hear this, girls. ‘Taffeta is still in the lead for spring suits as well as gowns, but satin is a close rival.’ What a relief. With their war over there, I was afraid they’d tell us it was all canvas and rucksacks this spring!”

Violet brushed her fingers across her skirt, which was sheer voile over Copenhagen blue Panama cotton. It had been made before the war, but still. Even wearing it made her feel guilty. Just an ocean away women were fleeing through the night, clasping babies in their arms, while here in Newport they rejoiced in the staying power of taffeta.

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Helena Voldore appeared at luncheon. Unfortunately, Alva did too, so Violet didn’t have a chance to trail the medium around. Alva wanted a tête-a-tête with Violet in the library to build the agenda for the meeting the following week.

“I have an index typewriter machine,” Alva said. “Have you seen one? I lack the patience to get the damned thing to work, but I hoped you might give it a try. It would present such polish to have the agendas typewritten for the meeting on the twenty-ninth. I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out. You young people are so good with these gadgets.”

“I’m happy to try. But I honestly have no idea how one works.”

Alva patted her knee. “Rest assured that you can’t break it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

As a maid arrived with a tea tray and sugar-dusted madeleines, they fell into talk about logistics for the meeting the following week. Violet was a relative newcomer to the suffrage movement, but Alva had been involved since 1909 when she formed a league in support of suffrage-friendly New York politicians.

As Alva explained it, suffrage was a battle being waged on two fronts. An amendment to the constitution was what their own organization, the Congressional Union for Woman Suffrage, was working toward. Their sister group, the National American Woman Suffrage Association—while it had once, in the days of Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, been working toward a federal amendment—was now focused on a state-by-state campaign to grant women the vote on a local level.

The CU, for its part, had launched a multi-pronged attack. There was lobbying in Washington, working to change the minds of senators and representatives who’d already been elected. And there was a fight for the future. If the women of the western states could be galvanized to elect pro-suffrage candidates, the tide in Washington, D.C. could be turned. It was for that reason that Alice Paul and Alva had hatched plans to form a National Woman’s Party.

“What do you need me to do beyond figuring out the typewriter machine and typing the agendas?”

“Not a thing. I’ve many helpers and light work. I have wanted to speak with you, though, about your future.”

Her future again. A nervous trill struck up in Violet’s middle. “Do go on.”

Alva handed Violet a bone china cup and saucer painted with dogwood flowers. “You’ve observed a year of mourning as is fitting and right. But now what do you have in mind? The heart of the suffrage work is in Washington and New York. If you want to become more to the movement than a volunteer speech writer, you should consider a move. Or there are the states’ initiatives if you wanted to travel. Michigan, Ohio, the Dakotas. Minnesota. And there’s our own New York State effort, of course. Working in Albany would keep you closer to your grandparents.”

Violet groped through her mind for her response. “I enjoy being useful,” she said after a pause. “It means everything to me to be working toward a cause I believe in. But the women in leadership are nearly all public speakers. Mrs. Boissevain said there’s always a need for organizers and behind-the scenes workers. Do you agree that that’s true?”

Alva leaned forward. “Without question. For every Inez Milholland Boissevain there must be four or five quick-witted women who are willing to keep the train on the rails. Each event needs both planning and follow up. Every speech, every decision has to be communicated to the full membership. Keeping the larger group abreast of what’s happening at the top is a project that truly has no end.” She sipped her tea thoughtfully. “Consider it. The opportunities are endless. If you needed pay, that would be a different story—a volunteer can really write her own job description.” She laughed. “Goodness, if you were married, it would be a different story.”

“But I thought — Aren’t a number of the women in the CU married?”

“Sure, many are. But that doesn’t mean their husbands want to follow them to Washington or Wisconsin or wherever the work takes them. A married woman has more to weigh than her own happiness. So long as you’re single, you can chart your own course.”

Violet pictured herself walking down a city street, entering an office filled with purposeful, dedicated women and all the tools of work: filing cabinets and paper fasteners, ink stands and sealing wax. It was an appealing image. Maybe learning to use this index typewriting machine would prove useful later.

Alva stirred her tea and let the tiny spoon clink onto her saucer. “Think about what you want to do next, but don’t let it ruin your fun. I do hope all of the guests are having a good time, and the same goes for you, kiddo.” She gave Violet a stern look. “You and your sister have been cooped up in that little town long enough. It’s time to rejoin the land of the living.”

Violet fought the urge to squirm. “About that. I heard that you have more séances planned with Mrs. Voldore.”

Alva’s face turned rapt. She set down her cup and saucer. “Yes! Isn’t she remarkable? Such a gift. Do you know, she communes with Fanny, her spirit world contact, every day to keep their relationship strong and fresh? Reads the girl Dickens in serial, like it’s coming hot off the presses. I believe they’re doing The Pickwick Papers.”

“That’s very good of her.” Violet paused. “Flora said you have others wanting to join in on the next session, and I thought—I wondered—is it important that Sadie and I be there?”

“Oh, yes! Goodness me, yes! You, that is. Sadie needn’t attend. I don’t think she veers toward the spiritual. This session is even more important because we’ll have Reggie, and me. And Greta Abernathy. She lost both parents as well, same as you. I’m not going to include the other young people this time, those who were only communicating with grandparents. Only Charles Tremblay—Helena says he brings strong energy to the table.”

Violet surrendered to the sick feeling boiling in her stomach. “It’s unsettling is all. To have contact with them. Upsetting.”

Alva thumped the throw pillow beside her and stood. “I know. Believe me, I know. But it’ll do you a world of good. I promise. When have I ever led you astray?”

There was no escape. Even worse, Violet would have to meet this Greta Abernathy who had also lost her parents. Would Greta cry during the séance? Surely, a good daughter, a better daughter than Violet, would cry. Greta would probably be eager to commune with her dead parents. Violet would be the only one who wanted to flee the room, flee the building, flee the state. Go anywhere, so long as she didn’t have to hear from her dead mother.