Violet Fire Page 3

  It still made Grace furious whenever she thought about her own last arrest. It wasn’t fair. Yes, she had hit the man, but he had grabbed her in a most intimate place—and damned if she wouldn’t hit him again if she had the chance! She had succeeded in sending most of his customers fleeing from the store, outside of which two women were handing out pamphlets inviting the men to attend a women’s suffrage meeting especially for their edification and enlightenment. Fortunately, she had only been fined and had managed to borrow the money to pay. But it was too late; the damage was done. She had been dismissed by the city’s Superintendent of Public Schools. Her career as a New York City schoolteacher was over.

  To make matters worse, during the past two years Grace had watched her mother grow paler, thinner, and more fanatical. She worried that her mother was pushing herself too hard. Six months ago the fatal blow had fallen—her mother had been diagnosed as having tuberculosis.

  Grace had been desperate for a job. Her mother needed special care that only the city’s finest hospitals could provide. And in New York she was now notorious as a crazy women’s rights agitator, thanks to the headlines she had made during her last arrest. Not only had she lost her public school position, but as she soon discovered, no private schools would hire her. She had not even been able to find a position as a tutor. No one would hire her—not even for a clerical position.

  “Are you married, dear?” Martha asked, interrupting her thoughts.

  Grace thought of her dear friend, Allen Kennedy. “No.” She could read Martha’s thoughts as if they were spoken aloud, feel her pity. The poor thing, Martha was thinking, she’s a spinster.

  Grace’s lips tightened into a narrow line. She hated that word, spinster. It was the most unfair, chauvinistic word, and a perfect example of the tyranny of the male sex over women. And she could be married if she wanted to be. Allen had asked her twice.

  Allen.

  Dear Allen had come to her rescue, and Grace clutched her reticule with his letter in it closer to her bosom. Allen was also a schoolteacher. They had met three years ago during a city-wide meeting of the National. The guest lecturer had been Victoria Woodhull, and Grace had been the first to raise her hand during the question-and-answer session afterward. She had been angry, although she hadn’t let it show. The Woodhulls, Grace fervently believed, had irreparably damaged the women’s movement by advocating free love. It had alienated too many potential followers. Instead of asking Victoria a question, Grace had used the opportunity to call her to account for sidetracking the movement. Later, Allen had sought Grace out. He not only agreed with the inexpedience of advocating free love, but like herself, he was against it morally as well. They had had a long and exhilarating talk and had become fast friends.

  Allen had left New York last year, before the fiasco of her last arrest, having taken a position in one of Mississippi’s new public schools, teaching the children of newly freed slaves. He had asked her to marry him for the second time just before he left, but Grace had refused. Although she loved Allen and had the utmost respect for him, she had no desire to marry him, even though he was the most enlightened man a woman could hope to find. Allen did not understand, and Grace really didn’t either. She tried to tell him, and herself, that she just had no interest in marrying.

  She sighed, then caught sight of Martha Grimes again. Why linger over the past, she told herself, when a willing subject presented herself?

  “May I join you, Martha?” she said, pointing toward the place Charles Grimes had just vacated.

  Martha agreed happily and Grace slipped into the seat beside her, digging into her reticule and pulling out a pamphlet. “Do you like to read?” she asked, her face flushed now, her eyes sparkling.

  “Of course,” Martha said, but Grace had already handed her the papers. “This includes the text of a wonderful speech by Elizabeth Cady Stanton,” Grace cried enthusiastically. “On marriage. On divorce.”

  Martha stared and Grace held her gaze. “You know,” Grace said in a hushed, tense voice, “when men enter into a partnership, if it’s not mutually beneficial, it’s an accepted, indeed, expected practice for them to dissolve that partnership and go their separate ways.”

  Martha bit her lip, clutching the papers to her plump breast.

  Grace drove on. “Why is it that only we women suffer to endure? When a child attains a certain age, his subjection to his parents’ authority is dissolved. Why is it a wife’s subjection is eternal? Did you know that in some countries widows are burned on the funeral pyre with their dead husbands?”

  Martha’s eyes widened.

  “Why is it,” Grace said, her voice rising, causing heads to turn, “that women are doomed to servitude for their entire lives?”

  “I don’t know,” Martha whispered weakly.

  Grace gripped her arm. “Martha, I will be forming a local women’s organization in Natchez, if one isn’t in existence already. Please, come and hear us. Just hear us. I want to help you.” She removed her spectacles, which were slipping off of her nose from her excitement, to stare intently into Martha’s eyes.

  “I couldn’t,” Martha managed. “Charles…”

  “He doesn’t have to know,” Grace said vehemently.

  Martha blinked, weakened. “I don’t know…”

  “I’ll let you know when our first meeting will be,” Grace said, squeezing her hand. “We’re all in this together, Martha. All of us.”

  Chapter 2

  Allen was waiting for her at the railroad depot in Natchez.

  At the sight of his familiar form, Grace felt a surge of affection. She turned to the Grimeses, clasping Martha’s palms. “Do take care, and I’m looking forward so much to seeing you again.”

  Martha glanced guiltily at Charles, then squeezed Grace’s hands back.

  Grace turned to wave to Allen. He was a solid, nearly portly man in his late thirties, with graying sideburns and warm brown eyes. “Grace! Grace!” His excitement was etched all over his face.

  She beamed and descended to meet him.

  “It’s so wonderful to see you,” Allen declared, holding her hands tightly.

  “How are you?” Grace asked.

  “Just fine,” Allen said, but not before she saw shadows flitting across his eyes. “At least, now I am.”

  Grace frowned, wondering what he meant.

  Allen paid a Negro porter to take her bags to a waiting cheviotte. He climbed in after Grace, raising the reins. Grace twisted to take in the sprawling city. White clapboard houses with picket fences and carefully tended gardens graced this section of town, although the smokestacks of a factory could be seen on a distant ridge, billowing gray clouds into the horizon. “Where’s the Mississippi River?”

  Allen pointed. “On the other side of town.” He touched the tip of her nose. “What are those?”

  Grace smiled. “Spectacles, Allen. Surely you can see that.”

  He chuckled. “Dare I inquire as to why you’re wearing glasses? Has your vision taken a turn for the worse?”

  She laughed, a rich, vibrant sound. “No, Allen, my eyesight is fine. Actually, this is part of my proper governess disguise.”

  He smiled wryly, then took one of her gloved hands. “I missed you, Miss O’Rourke.”

  She didn’t hesitate—Allen was her dearest friend. “I missed you too, Allen Kennedy.”

  “How was your trip?”

  “Dusty. Allen, how is everything? You’ve told me so much about the school in your letters that I can’t wait to see it.”

  Allen hesitated. “Just fine.”

  Grace stared at him speculatively.

  She knew, mostly from reading the newspapers, that teaching public school in the South was no easy profession. The new educational system had been instituted by the Republican Congress just after the War. There was tremendous local opposition to the schools, as well as to much of the “radical” Republican Congress’s legislation.

  The lines in the South were, for the most part, conc
isely drawn. Most Southerners were conservative Democrats, who had fought for secession and who now saw their entire way of life disintegrating before their eyes. Just after the War, under the Andrew Johnson administration, they had enacted the harsh Black Codes, which, in effect, kept the newly emancipated Negroes in economic and political slavery.

  Then the Republican Congress had taken it upon itself to reorganize the South, beginning with the three Reconstruction Acts in 1867.

  These acts put the South under military supervision. All the rebels were immediately disenfranchised, and the new state governments were required to ratify the Fourteenth Amendment, which gave the freed Negro basic civil rights, including the right to vote. With Negro suffrage, the Republicans assumed control of the Southern state governments, although in many localities the Democrats were strong enough to control local and county governments, or at least exert various degrees of influence upon them. According to Allen, this was the case in Natchez, where the Democrats held several municipal positions, such as the sheriff’s office, although not all.

  He had written her at least weekly but most of his letters had lauded the progress of his pupils, all freed Negro children, or described the beauty of the Mississippi countryside. Grace sensed an omission, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was.

  “Let me tell you about Melrose,” Allen said. “The Barclays were one of the great Natchez planter families. Melrose was a huge plantation at the time of the War. Of course, its foundation was cotton. But like the other great Natchez planters, the Barclays eventually diversified, buying into Northern industrial interests. The plantation is actually across the Mississippi in Louisiana, though Louisa Barclay prefers her home in Natchez and resides here most of the time. Louisa was only sixteen when she married Philip Barclay—he was already middle-aged. She was widowed shortly after the War when Philip died in his sleep at a ripe old age.”

  “So they didn’t lose Melrose because of the War?”

  “No. Philip was too well off. Rumor has it they had no trouble with the taxes. Melrose is thriving, from what I gather.” And he grimaced.

  “Allen, what is it?”

  “Nothing,” he said, attempting a smile. “I just hope this is the right thing for you, Grace.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said firmly.

  After a hot, dusty drive, they finally arrived at Melrose. The house was a red brick Greek Revival mansion with massive white columns and a white pediment. Grace’s stomach began to twist into knots as they approached along the paved, curving drive, the scent of magnolia hanging thick and heady all around them. “Allen, you don’t think they’ll find out about what happened in New York, do you?”

  “Not if you can stick strictly to teaching,” Allen said gently, with a touch of reprimand. Grace resolved not to agitate for her sisters or any other oppressed classes—at least, not publicly. And then she knew instantly that she was fooling herself; she could never give up the causes she believed in. Somehow, she would have to be very discreet.

  At the impressive front door Allen left her with a young Negro girl who was about fifteen. Her name was Clarissa and she was one of his students. He then promised to pick Grace up for church on Sunday and dinner afterward.

  Minutes later, Grace found herself standing in a large high-ceilinged hall, rich with wood paneling. “You just wait heah a bit, ma’am,” Clarissa instructed her, smiling brightly. Grace instantly liked the young woman. But wait she did—a good half an hour. By the time Louisa Barclay appeared, Grace was simmering with annoyance, and trying not to show it.

  Louisa was very close to her own age, raven-haired, blue-eyed, and beautiful—a perfect Southern belle. Once they were ensconced in an elegant parlor, she looked Grace up and down carefully. Louisa was all elegance and vitality, her day gown cut scandalously low, exposing a good deal of bosom, as white as the magnolia blossoms outside. Her hair was arranged in a mass of artfully casual curls, held in place by gold combs. She fluttered a hand-painted Chinese fan.

  Grace stood still, her every joint aching from the days of bone-jarring travel, her glasses fogging from the humidity and her own body’s warmth. She wanted to remove the spectacles, so she could see better but she did not dare. Perspiration gathered under the crown of her hat and between her full, although carefully concealed, breasts. She immediately sensed that Louisa was vain, arrogant, and demanding. She was afraid to breathe, afraid she wouldn’t pass muster, and at the same time furious for having to take this position. Louisa pointed the fan at Grace’s head. “Perhaps you’d care to take off your hat?”

  Grace did, controlling her red-hot Irish temper with difficulty, keeping her eyes down so Louisa wouldn’t see her anger.

  “You have red hair.” Louisa sounded shocked.

  Grace said nothing.

  “You never said so in your letter. It’s been my experience that red-headed women are loose. My daughters must have only the best influences. At least you’re not young.”

  Grace bit her lip. Usually her age was not a sore spot, and she did want to look older for this job. But somehow, just now she felt tired of people making allusions to it. She remembered Martha Grimes asking if she was married, and how that had bothered her. But maybe she should face it. She was a spinster—she was twenty-seven.

  Louisa shrugged. “Oh well, at present I am desperate to see the girls taken care of. They are to be instructed in sewing, embroidering, and etiquette every morning from ten to one. Dinner is precisely at one-fifteen. In the afternoons, they may nap. From three to five you may give them their reading and geography lessons. Supper for the children is at six. You are to eat with them, unless you wish a tray in your room. Breakfast for the children is at nine. You may take your own breakfast anytime you like. I expect you to spend Saturdays keeping them amused—picnics and so forth. Sundays are your own. Hannah will show you to your room and introduce you to the girls.”

  Grace could not bring herself to say yes ma’am to this woman, and was fortunately relieved from having to do so when Louisa left and a tall, statuesque black woman of about forty appeared, with Clarissa trailing behind her.

  Hannah flashed Grace a warm smile. “Don’t you worry about her,” she said. “Just stay out of her way and things will be just fine. Miz Barclay likes to think she’s royalty, and expects everyone else to think so, too.”

  Grace smiled, pleased she had found at least one ally. “I’m Grace O’Rourke,” she said, extending her hand.

  The woman blinked, then laughed. “Women shakin’ hands?” She waved at her. “Come on, you must be exhausted. You met my girl, Clarissa?”

  “Yes, I have.” Grace dropped her hand. “Why shouldn’t women shake hands when they meet each other? Men do.” Stop it, Grace, she said to herself instantly. Don’t go starting up.

  Hannah flashed her an amazed look. “’Cause we ain’t men. Clarissa, go and fetch some fixin’s for Miz O’Rourke, mebbe some nice, cool lemonade an’ a piece of that cake Cook made.”

  Grace bit her tongue, hard.

  “Yes’m,” Clarissa said, her eyes wide and curious on Grace. She flashed her another smile before running off to do as her mother bid.

  Grace’s room was on the second floor, tucked away in the back. It was probably the smallest room in the house, but Grace didn’t mind.

  She stared at the walls, then touched one. Fabric. Blue and white fabric. She caressed one of the intricately carved posters of the linen-draped bed. The wood was smooth and cool. Hannah followed her gaze. “Ain’t you ever seen mosquito netting before?”

  Grace shook her head. The coverlet was white, and lace-trimmed. There was a big, plush dark blue chair with a footstool, perfect for reading at night, and a beautiful pine bureau, with a lace doily, wash basin, pitcher, and mirror. On the other side of the room was a small escritoire. She couldn’t wait to sit down at it and write. There was even an immense rosewood wardrobe. She strode to the window.

  Below, a green lawn fell away to the stables, the smokehouse,
and the ice house. Beyond that, another mansion was visible. The sky was incredibly blue, with not a cloud to mar it. She turned to look at Hannah, and she was smiling.

  “Lord, you’re pretty when you smile like that,” Hannah said. “Bet you’re a looker without those glasses.”

  Grace blushed. She knew she was more than pretty. It was the bane of her existence. She had always been considered a good-looking child, but by the time she was eighteen, she was considered beautiful. It was frustrating. As long as she was pretty, men would not take her seriously. She didn’t want them looking at her, chasing her, trying to feel up beneath her skirts—not when she was trying to accomplish something with her life. For some unknown reason God had given her all that hair and beautiful features and a slim body with full breasts, though she’d bound them tightly in. It seemed a joke, because every day she went to great trouble to hide her looks so she could attend to life with the seriousness it deserved.

  “Is this the new governess?”

  Grace looked at the child who had to be Mary Louise, the ten-year-old. She was the image of her mother. “Hello,” she said, with a friendly smile.

  Mary Louise folded her arms. “That’s an ugly dress.”

  Grace stared.

  “Hush up,” Hannah said.

  Mary Louise smiled. “But it is. I’m making a pillowcase. The stitches are all wrong. Come and fix it.”

  Grace was still stunned. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s your job,” Mary Louise said haughtily, “to help me.”

  “Miss O’Rourke starts tomorrow, Mary Louise,” Hannah began.