Chapter 6
Olive hesitated on the damp stone steps of Longfellow House. She turned and squinted into the soft rain. For the third day in a row, she’d had an unnerving sensation that someone was watching her, a persistent, not wholly unthreatening presence that lingered on the edge of her awareness. She scanned the muted hedgerow lining the corner of Minor Avenue, but there was nothing there. Just the occasional rustle of sparse leaves stirred by the January wind.
Too many bedtime stories featuring monsters, apparently.
Turning, she hurried under the portico and knocked on the pointed arch oak door of the English-Tudor style mansion. It was flung open almost at once, and a cheerful, familiar face filled the doorway.
“Olive! Come in, come in. We weren’t certain you’d make it.”
“Hello, Imogen.” Olive smiled at the whirlwind blonde who had joined the Society just before Thanksgiving. “My last piano lesson just finished, so I dashed over. But what are you doing opening the door?”
“I thought you might be the afternoon mail.” She closed the door and helped Olive out of her mother’s old wool coat. “Tommy knows I’m staying with Aunt Judith this week.”
While Olive had spent a quiet Christmas with her mother and brother, Imogen had run away to her family’s cabin in the Cascade Mountains after she’d been jilted by her fiancé. As fate would have it, her childhood best friend, Tomas Solberg, had stumbled across her cabin during a snowstorm and, as the best romances go, that was that. He was currently on a mission to prove himself, but he wrote to Imogen every day they were separated.
“I trust he’s well?”
“Oh yes. Yesterday, I received a postcard from San Francisco! Said he ate the best duck he’d ever had at a little Chinese restaurant.”
“That’s wonderful,” she said fervently. Nothing made her happier than when those she cared about found love. The tale of Imogen and Tommy’s second chance still made Olive blubber with emotion. Since she was far too shy to find it herself, she was content to experience romance through her friends.
“Aunt Judith and the rest of the ladies are in our new headquarters.”
“Don’t tell me I missed the inauguration?”
“You arrived just in time. You wouldn’t want to miss being in the photograph.”
“All right,” Olive said weakly.
She hadn’t had her photograph taken since her father had bought a little Kodak Brownie and taken the family to Alki Point for a summer picnic. She could still recall mailing the Brownie back to the company and waiting with jittery anticipation for the developed film and reloaded camera to be returned. The photographs were now tucked lovingly into an album on the mantle, but the camera had been given away shortly after her father’s death. Food had taken priority over film.
“Time’s a-wasting,” Imogen sang as she bounded down the hallway and through the open doorway leading to the basement.
Olive hurried after her, though she descended the staircase with much more caution. She couldn’t risk tripping; an injury could be disastrous to her livelihood. A moment later, she popped out into what had been Mr. Longfellow’s domain before his demise. It amused Olive to no end that the ample smoking and billiards room used to entertain male guests had been commandeered by the Suffrage Society when their membership grew too large for the upstairs reception room.
As Clem had said, it was time for women to reclaim space.
The den was filled with two dozen members. The club had been founded on the principle that all women were welcome, regardless of their marital status, race, religion, or class. While the open policy had driven away a few potential members, it had brought in remarkable women that Olive would never have met otherwise. She herself had benefitted from the policy, as far too many clubs only admitted women of financial means or excluded working women altogether.
“Olive, how lovely you made it.” Mrs. Della Longfellow, the owner of the house and Clem’s aunt, squeezed her arm in welcome. Beside her stood her cheerful, long-time companion, Mrs. Judith Kerby. The two graying women were at least a decade older than her mother, but they sparkled with a vitality Anna lacked. Like Clem, they were always in motion—whether it be rallying support for causes, hosting elaborate costume parties, or simply taking a drive through Seattle’s parks. Most importantly, they always made Olive feel welcome.
“What do you think of our efforts?” Judith asked.
She let her gaze wander around the spacious basement. The ochre-colored bottle glass windows and brass filigree lanterns hanging overhead cast a warm, inviting light. The heavy billiards table and bear rug were gone, replaced by several round tables and comfortable chairs. A new bookshelf was stuffed with pamphlets, rolled banners, and an overflowing box of suffrage ribbons ready to be handed out.
In the middle of the room, a polished oak lectern stood next to a chalkboard bearing Clem’s meeting agenda. Beside the chalkboard hung a large tackboard covered in dark green felt and edged with gold ribbon. Items from the movement—buttons and pins, cabinet cards and photographs of leaders around the nation, letters from allies, and newspaper clippings—were pinned into place, with plenty of room to spare.
“It’s the Inspiration Station,” she breathed. “It’s better than I imagined.”
“The only thing missing is an upright piano,” Della said. “But we’ll have it in place by the next meeting. We need to hear your rousing numbers.”
Heat rose to Olive’s cheeks, but she was saved from answering the compliment when Clem’s voice rose above the excited chatter.
“A little higher, ladies!”
Olive watched as two of the newest members, Miss Yuki Tanaka, a schoolteacher, and Miss Liesel Wagner, a telephone operator, raised a large Votes for Women banner above the brick fireplace at the far end of the room.
“There! Perfect.” Clem swiveled in her chair. “Now, where’s Imogen?”
