Chapter Four, part one

The next morning, Violet stood at the carport, waving the others off. They were going yachting, and she was looking forward to a day of work with Alva at Mable House. After playing the piano the evening before, her headache had resurged and she’d had to dine in her room, but this morning she’d woken refreshed and merry. Alva had sent her a note that she would be “gathering those CU guests who could arrive early at my Chinese Tea House for luncheon and talk—no official agenda” and that Violet was welcome to join in.

She raced for her notebook and pencil. Who were these CU—Congressional Union—guests? Presumably not Lucy Burns or Alice Paul since they weren’t coming down until the fifth. But it could be Mabel Vernon, or Crystal Eastman, or Inez Milholland Boissevain. Maybe even Anne Henrietta Martin, who’d run the campaign to give Nevada women the vote. Violet couldn’t hook her boots fast enough.

She put on her straw brimmed hat, the one with the black ribbon, and pulled on the belted jacket that matched her crimson skirt. Alva’s note directed Violet to head to Marble House first, and that from there it would be easy to spot the Tea House. She took to the cliff walk, holding her hat against the breeze, and walked through the clear morning above Belcourt’s strip of beach. Even before she’d passed the white grandeur of Rosecliff, so like a slab of wedding cake, the curving green peaks of the Chinese Tea House came into view. It sat on the Marble House lawn, a green and red dragonfly with its wings upturned, perched on the shore, contemplating the waves.

The Cliff Walk took Violet right to the entrance. She hesitated and re-gripped her notebook. All of her work, until now, had been on the periphery of the CU, helping Alva with quiet tasks that she could accomplish from Cold Lake. Beyond those doors might be women she idolized, women who were front-and-center in the movement. Women who gave speeches to thousands.

Violet lifted her skirts to mount the regal stairs feeling like a princess—a princess who wanted the right to vote.

As she pushed open the doors, a wave of conversation bubbled out. Violet let the door fall closed behind her, noting the crowd of hats, the well-cut suits in burgundy and myrtle green, the skirts in navy blue and mahogany. There wasn’t a square inch of taffeta in the room.

Alva, in the front of the room near an enormous silver tea urn, waved her over, and Violet plunged in. “Here,” she said to the women around her, “is my young friend, Miss Van Waters, who’s been volunteering for our cause. Miss Van Waters is one of the Smithies.” She introduced those standing near her, and Violet struggled to pin names to faces, until Alva reached the last of them. “Mrs. Boissevain you probably know by reputation.”

Violet extended her hand. “Goodness, yes, it’s a genuine pleasure—” Her voice sounded high and giddy even to her own ears. Inez Boissevain—or Inez Milholland as Violet always thought of her since she was better known by her maiden name—had led nearly every major suffrage parade in recent memory. The moment that had made the biggest splash was just before President Wilson’s inauguration, when she headed up the parade wearing a long white cape and gown, riding a smoky cream horse named Gray Dawn. Violet had seen many photos of Inez but was startled by how attractive she was in person. She had striking features, sparkling eyes, and a halo of dark hair that was stylishly set. She couldn’t be more than thirty.

“Nice to meet you,” Inez said. “Did you give suffrage speeches at Smith?”

“Oh, no.” Violet stammered over her words. “No, I wasn’t very political while I was at school. And I’m more of a worker bee then a speaker.”

“Not to worry,” Inez replied. “There’s no question that we need good organizers behind the scenes. Keeping the rest of us on track. Just last year, I was on the Peace Ship—you heard of it, Henry Ford’s project? No? We were headed to Europe to argue for a peace settlement, but the whole thing was such a mess that I left the trip in Stockholm. I’m happy to say that suffrage events are always better managed than that thing was. So where are you based? Think you’ll head out to work in the states? Alice is always trying to get me out to Minnesota or Wisconsin, but I want to keep doing pacifist work, and that means D.C., doesn’t it?”

Violet was still trying to think how to respond when Inez turned to greet a wide-shouldered woman with deep-set, dark eyes. “There you are! Alva was starting to worry.” As they embraced, the other woman murmured, “Love from Max, of course.”

Inez introduced her friend as Miss Crystal Eastman, another name Violet knew well from the papers. Crystal and her brother, Max Eastman, were known to host all manner of radicals—socialists, pacifists, suffragists—at their Greenwich Village apartment.

This time Violet was a bit more composed as she shook hands with one of her heroes. “How do you do? I’ve always been impressed, Miss Eastman, that you pursued and obtained your law degree.”

The dark eyes swung to meet Violet’s. “Our speeches and parades are all well and good, but our work means nothing if we don’t change the laws.”

Inez leaned closer. “That’s Crystal’s way of encouraging you to go to law school as well. If you have an inclination for that sort of thing. Otherwise, remember what I said about organizers!” She punctuated this with a finger in the air, as if to mark the idea in space, then she and Miss Eastman ducked away for a quick tête-à-tête.

At luncheon, over a salad of spiced beets, celery, olives, and fresh figs, Alva rose to welcome the group. “My friends. My colleagues.” She gazed at the women seated around her banquet table. “In nine short days the voting members of our group will join us here to decide whether and how to establish a National Woman’s Party. This party, if created, would provide a platform for candidates who support our cause. Candidates who support it first and foremost, not as their tenth election promise, not as an afterthought. These candidates will be suffrage candidates. Woman’s Party candidates. It is a great step forward in our cause. A momentous step.”

Applause swelled around the table, and Alva smiled her thanks. Across from Violet, Crystal Eastman pushed back her chair and stood.

“Miss Eastman,” Alva said, lowering into her seat, “please share your thoughts.”

“I’d like to begin by thanking our superb patroness, Alva Belmont, for hosting not only this luncheon, but our upcoming meeting on June fifth.” More applause followed. “Nine days is not much time, but I’d like to issue a challenge to you all. One thing that our nascent Woman’s Party—assuming we vote to form one—is certainly going to need is funding. As we know, nothing happens without money. Our party will need money, the candidates will need money, and money will be required to create the structure of the party.”

She leaned forward, pressing her fingertips against the table. “You may think you’re not one to raise funds. You might feel afraid to ask anyone for money. But let me share this thought with you. The primary reason people don’t support causes is that no one asks them to.” She paused, and Violet felt the punch of her statement. “No one asks them to. You are the right person! I challenge each of you, before our nine days have passed, to ask three people—” she held up three fingers “—for funds to support our cause. Three. Each one of you.”

Oh, mercy, not me! Violet gripped her fingers together. She could never—
“Do you believe in our cause?” Crystal Eastman went on.

Violet nodded along with everyone else.

“Then undertake this. Share what you’ve given to the cause, your time and talent, and ask others to join you. Your passion will carry the day. And the women of the future will thank you.”

As Crystal Eastman retook her seat, Violet sat back in her chair. She happened to catch eyes with the woman sitting next to her, a mother of three from Annapolis in a purple felt hat. Violet shook her head. “I could never ask someone for money,” she murmured.

“It makes me shake in my boots, too,” said the purple hatted lady. “But I also can’t imagine disobeying Miss Eastman.”

“I heartily agree with that,” Violet answered. “It looks like I have nine days in which to become brave.”

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Late that afternoon, she walked back toward the Breakers, her head swimming with the people she’d met and the conversations she’d had. To think that she’d shaken hands with Inez Milholland Boissevain and Crystal Eastman! She was beyond flattered that they’d asked her about her future in the movement—it was a question she hadn’t stopped to consider.

She swung her arms into the wind. The CU stood on the verge of something great with the formation of the women’s party. The air at the luncheon had glittered with possibility and with hope. Eleven of the western states had already granted woman suffrage. With Jeanette Rankin on the ballot in Montana and plans to boycott President Wilson’s re-election, their toes were curled over the brink of change.

“Oh, we’re lucky to live in this age of progress!” she told the gulls as their wings flashed in the sun.

As Violet neared the Breakers, notes of clarinet music floated across the lawn. She recognized it—it was Beethoven’s Marmotte, almost a country dance, but a minor one, the notes full of questions, raising open hands to the shore, the grass, the cottages. Who was playing? It was coming from the second-floor loggia. She slipped inside and trotted up the carpeted stairs, curious.

At the open door of the loggia, Violet came to a quick halt. It was him, Rude and Handsome. No, she corrected herself. Charles Tremblay. He’d removed his jacket, since the day was warm, and sat in his shirtsleeves in a rattan chair, his shoe keeping time on the mosaic floor. She wanted to slip away, but her cheeks burned again at the memory of their first meeting and her cruel blunder. She made herself stay until he’d finished playing.