Byron doesn’t seem especially pleased with my words. Nonetheless, he says, “I agree.”
“One more thing,” I begin. “Is there any chance someone might recognize you today? Owners and plantation managers sometimes attend these rallies.”
“I imagine there might be, but I thought that was part of my job, to be noticed.”
“Yeah, but I just wanted to be sure you knew that your name could end up on a list, and your participation could get back to your father.”
“If that were a problem for me, I wouldn’t be here.” Byron reaches across the table and grabs a piece of bammy I haven’t touched yet.
“Okay, then.” I eat another forkful of food, chew, and swallow. “We have some pamphlets to distribute and a stage to set up. We’re working in teams, and you’ll be with me today.”
CHAPTER 10
VIVIAN JEAN
Robert S. Abbott’s Mansion, Grand Boulevard, Chicago
Aman in the crowd takes command. “What happened here? Are you women injured?” He addresses his questions to me, as if I were the one who was assaulted.
“This is the young girl who was attacked,” I clarify. “The man fled in that direction.” I gesture toward an exit.
“What did he look like? Have you seen him before?”
“Can you give us a moment to catch our breath?” I reply sharply. The girl is trembling like a leaf in a storm, and I’m not far behind. But I need to be of help. “He was big, broad, and tall.” It’s a feeble description, but the best I can offer. “He looked like a bull in a tuxedo.”
I turn to the girl and ask, “What’s your name, dear?”
“Othella. Othella Montgomery.”
“Were you named after Shakespeare’s tragedy?” Katherine asks.
“Yes,” the girl replies shakily.
“Of course you were. I imagine you’ve been asked that same question a thousand times. I’m sorry,” Katherine says nervously. She might be almost as traumatized as I am.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” I check Othella’s arms for bruises but don’t find any. “I’m sorry I took so long to speak up.” I squeeze her hand. “I shouldn’t have waited.”
“N-not your fault, ma’am,” the girl stammers, her head down, her lips trembling.
It’s no surprise she seems self-conscious and shaky. Too many curious onlookers surround us. We need room to breathe. I turn to the man in charge and say, “Othella mentioned he was a pickpocket, a thief, and he tried to steal—”
“My brooch,” the girl cuts in. “He attempted to steal my aunt’s brooch.”
The room buzzes with tension. Those nearby check their purses, wallets, and money clips. Questions arise from different voices, and the crowd’s anxiety washes over me like a wave.
I want to be somewhere else, anywhere but here.
“Let’s get out of this chaos. We need some fresh air.” Katherine’s words are my lifeline.
“Let’s go outside,” she insists, leading the way. I still hold Othella’s hand as I follow her toward the Abbotts’ garden.
Tall gas lamps atop wrought-iron balusters illuminate a stone path near a surprising patch of night-blooming jasmine. We stroll by hollyhocks, foxgloves, delphiniums, carnations, and columbines until we arrive at a three-tiered bronze fountain with a swan base spraying a cool mist.
Katherine directs us to a nearby iron bench. “Is there anyone we should call for you, Othella? Your parents?”
“I’m an orphan, ma’am,” Othella responds sweetly.
“I’m sorry,” Katherine and I say in unison.
