Circled Heart (6 page)

That incident occurred Thursday and through the next week I met individually with all the residents of the Anchorage to introduce myself. I met Elena, a young, pregnant Greek immigrant whose husband had died their first week in Chicago, and Betsy, fresh from the Illinois farmlands and pregnant, too, unable to go home because her family wouldn’t take her back. Yvesta, middle-aged with two blackened eyes from a brute of a husband, had her two children with her, both clinging to their mother’s skirts and quick to jump at any loud noise. Kipsy, an orphaned girl who had taken to the streets for a living, was new at the Anchorage, twelve years old at the most and smart enough to see there was no future in a life of prostitution. Henrietta, who came with her newborn because her husband decided he didn’t like married life and fatherhood after all; Ruthie, whose husband-to-be died in a fire leaving her pregnant and afraid to go home; and Mrs. McElhanie, sixty-five and nowhere else to turn, all lived there for the time being, too. And of course, there was young and pretty Flora, who hated the idea of being pregnant, hated the thought of a baby, and wanted her old dreams back. She longed to be an actress or a dancer on the stage with pretty clothes and face paint, surrounded by music and laughter and applause. Conception had come as a surprise to her.

“I didn’t know that’s how it happened,” she told me defiantly. “No one ever explained it. If they had, I wouldn’t be here now. I never wanted a family, and I don’t need a man if this is what comes from having one around.”

I looked at her gravely and suggested, “Let’s look at your options. Are you certain you don’t want to keep the child?”

“I don’t want to have the child,” she retorted, watching my face for any expression of outrage or disgust.

“I realize that—and I can appreciate it—but believe me, anything you attempt will endanger your own life more than the child’s. Better to go through with the pregnancy and let us find a good home for the baby.”

That was not the advice Flora wanted to hear, but recalling her misery after ingesting an entire bottle of Peckham’s Syrup, she didn’t argue, only glared at me with an expression of fury mixed with helplessness and fear before she flounced heavily out of the room.

At the end of my first full week, Hilda Cartwright stopped by my little office, hardly bigger than a closet, and asked if I recognized the name Grace Wilbur Trout.

“She’s the head of the Chicago Political Equality League and is leading the charge for women’s suffrage in the state of Illinois. Why?”

“I’ve known Grace for several years. The Tribune has invited her to speak at their offices tomorrow evening and she’s going to do it. I warned her the invitation was no doubt made because it was a slow news week and the reporters will be hoping for something sensational, and I fear she may be facing an unsympathetic crowd. Would you like to attend or have you no interest in women’s suffrage?” I remembered the London march I’d participated in, the outraged reaction from observers lining the streets, the feeling of unity with the women around me, the rhetoric, and the threats.

“I do have an interest and I’d very much like to come.”

Saturday morning Aunt Kitty and Jennie stopped at Hill Street for a quick visit on their way to find a new dress for Jennie. She would turn nineteen in June and it would no doubt be the occasion for a major party with a band and catered refreshments and all the other accoutrements that my Aunt Kitty loved. Jennie, wearing a suit that somehow managed to accent her beautiful figure instead of hide it, asked me about my first week of work. I answered in generalities, careful not to betray the privacy of anyone at the Anchorage, the first rule of social services and one that had been vehemently repeated through my college years. Jennie was interested, listening intently and asking intelligent questions, but that did not sit well with her mother.

“Come along, Jennie. That’s more information than you really need at your age. You have nothing in common with those women. They have one kind of life and future and you have quite another.” Jennie made a face at me but stood obediently.

“Johanna’s going to a suffrage rally tonight,” she said artlessly. “I don’t know why she gets to have all the fun.” Aunt Kitty gave a disapproving little tsk in reply and Jennie flashed me a quick, mischievous grin.

She’ll blossom some day, I thought, and have a mind and a will of her own once she gets out of her mother’s shadow. I couldn’t have been fonder of Jennie if she’d been my sister and thought that her quick mind, her spirit, and her classical beauty set her apart from other girls her age. Then I remembered Flora and Kipsy and Ruthie, all Jennie’s age or younger but far removed from my cousin’s life of privilege, and wondered how different their lives would have been had they experienced Jennie’s advantages. I had realized years ago as I left the graves of my family behind and traveled to San Francisco that life was not fair or equal, but knowing did not keep me from wishing it were so.

That evening I asked Levi to take me downtown to the Tribune office and to return in an hour when I expected the presentation to be done; I am not always shy about using the privileges available to me. Hilda Cartwright waited for me at the doorway of the meeting room where Mrs. Trout was to speak and together the two of us made our way to the front row of chairs where two seats had been reserved for us. The room filled up quickly—mostly with men, I noticed—and I wondered whether Hilda had been right to believe this would be an unsympathetic and hostile crowd. If that were so, the knowledge did not appear to make a difference to the speaker.

Grace Wilbur Trout was an imposing woman, a stately and elegant brunette nearing fifty but with the animation and energy of a woman half her age. She took the podium comfortably after the brief introduction and spoke with intelligence and passion about the necessity for women to have the vote for the improvement of society and the good of the nation.

“That youths can vote on issues that affect their mothers while their mothers cannot vote at all is preposterous. How can we say that is good for society? If a nation implies that grown women are not informed or intelligent enough to make decisions at the ballot box, will that not cause young men to feel a natural scorn and disrespect for their mothers? Does not the inability of mothers and sisters to have their voices heard in elections create family disunity, and is that not the very effect suffrage opponents fear?”

“Wasn’t any complaints heard before women like you stirred things up,” one man grumbled audibly from the back of the room.

Mrs. Trout continued until another negative comment was made: “Seems to me the family was doing just fine before all this hubbub started. Women shouldn’t be interfering in men’s business.”

And still Mrs. Trout continued with her speech undeterred, calm and competent, intelligent and unflappable. I admired her perseverance and was outraged on her behalf at the rude comments that filtered through the crowd, nothing boisterous or overt so that I could tell the person to sit down and be quiet but always words spoken in a low voice that generated subdued laughter from those in the speaker’s vicinity. I considered it a planned conspiracy to discredit Mrs. Trout and her message and would have preferred something more confrontational so I could respond in kind. As it was, all Hilda and I could do was sit quietly and considerately, give the speaker our full attention, and ignore the laughter that rippled softly but subversively through the room.

Mrs. Trout was a vigorous but disciplined speaker who ended with a flourish, “The struggle for social change has often been met with ridicule and scorn by small minds who live in the past and cannot think beyond the present. My challenge for all of you in this room is to step out of your constricted and complacent lives and look frankly into the future. Honestly ask yourselves if our present situation, where women are second-class citizens at best, is what you want for your daughters and granddaughters. We cannot stay bound to old ways from an old century. Now is the time to free the intelligence and the energy of your daughters and granddaughters so they may blossom into mature, responsible women, capable of making sound decisions for the family and just as capable of making responsible decisions to influence the progress of our state and federal governments!”

Her last ringing words fell into a deep silence. No one spoke or laughed or even coughed. She might as well have been speaking in a foreign language for all the response her stirring conclusion generated. Stubborn and arrogant men, I fumed, with your minds already made up before you even got here this evening.

As I raised both hands to applaud, a male voice from somewhere to my left called, “Well done, Mrs. Trout.”

I turned to see a man several seats down in my row rise and face the podium. With his right hand he gave Grace Trout a small, charming salute and then methodically and purposefully began to applaud, a smile playing around his mouth as he did so. He’s enjoying the attention, I thought, so why shouldn’t I do the same? I took another quick look at his handsome profile, stood quickly, and applauded with him. From the corner of my eye, I saw the man turn to give me a brief, curious glance. For what seemed like an interminably long time, it was just the two of us standing and showing our public approval. Then Hilda stood with us, and a few other men and women in the room joined in. At least half the room remained seated and silent, but those of us standing made up for their bad humor with our prolonged enthusiasm.

Mrs. Trout smiled very specifically at the attractive, fair-haired man who had initiated the ovation, gave Hilda a nod and a smile, and made an elegant but silent bow to the room before exiting down a side aisle.

When the applause subsided, I asked Hilda, “Has Mrs. Trout met with such an ill-mannered reception before? I admit I was surprised by the open resentment that greeted her ideas. I thought she made good, practical sense and didn’t play to the emotions as other suffragists are often accused of doing.”

“I’d heard this group might be more antagonistic than usual, but I didn’t expect the level of hostility that was displayed this evening,” Hilda admitted. She turned to look past me and I followed her gaze to the tall, blonde man in the perfectly cut dark suit who had so nonchalantly—and so gracefully—voiced his approval of Grace Trout’s speech.

Apparently oblivious to the disapproving glances around him, he slowly made his way from the room, one hand on the arm of a woman whom he maneuvered protectively through the crowd. When they reached the door, he leaned forward to say something close to her ear. The woman turned to look back at him and despite her extravagant, broad-brimmed hat, I caught a glimpse of rich brown hair and an impossibly red mouth. For some reason, that quick look gave me the impression she was not particularly pleased about something. Perhaps the press of the crowd made her uncomfortable.

“And who would have imagined that?” continued Hilda, her gaze still following the man.

“Imagined what?”

“That he would be the one to lead the defense. There’s no doubt he made a public stand tonight, but I never imagined he had the slightest interest in universal suffrage. In fact, with his rather unsavory reputation for enjoying the company of women, I thought he would surely prefer the status quo. Well, life is full of surprises and I give him complete credit for the unpopular stand he took tonight. Perhaps all the stories about him are just so much rumor and innuendo.”

“I didn’t recognize the man, Hilda. Should I have? Who is he?”

“There’s no reason you would know him, Johanna. I doubt you move in the same social circles, and he’s always lived in the shadow of his successful older brother,” adding thoughtfully, “until recently, of course, poor man. Considering your recent distressing experience, you can appreciate his situation more than the rest of us.” With unsuspecting impact, Hilda concluded, “The man’s name is Andrew Gallagher.”

Our little lives are kept in equipoise

By opposite attractions and desires;

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,

And the more noble instinct that aspires.

Chapter Four

Sunday afternoon I placed the stickpin and the onyx ring in a small envelope. Then I went downstairs to tell Grandmother I was taking the train and would be away for a few hours. She raised both regal eyebrows.

“Surely you aren’t working on a Sunday afternoon.”

“Many people work Sundays,“ I retorted. “It’s only sacred to those who can afford it.” At her continuing silent, steady look, I admitted, “No, I’m not working. I have an errand to run.”

“The stores are closed.”

“I know. It’s not that kind of errand. I’m visiting someone on Prairie Avenue, which you must admit is as safe and distinguished as Chicago gets. Don’t worry, I’ll be home well before dark.”

She eyed the envelope in my hand, perhaps guessing its contents. “Levi could take you.”

“Thank you, but I prefer the train this afternoon.”

I think she wanted to say more, to inquire or insist, but she didn’t. Instead she instructed, “Be home by supper then or I’ll worry” and returned to her reading.

The previous night I had responded to Hilda Cartwright’s amazing identification of Andrew Gallagher with a quiet comment. “I met Mr. Gallagher’s brother Douglas on the trip home on the Titanic.”

“I wondered whether you had, Johanna,” was her only response.

Finally I asked, “Do you know where Andrew Gallagher lives?”

“No, but I can find out and call you tomorrow with that information.” If Hilda were curious about my query, she was too polite to voice her interest. “Is your grandmother on the telephone line?”

“Yes. She’s a great fan of all the inventions of progress.”

True to her promise, when I returned from church, Hilda called with the information that Drew Gallagher had very recently moved into his brother’s house on Prairie Avenue. She gave me the house number and the closest cross street. “The person who gave me this information has dealt with Gallagher Enterprises for several years and is very reliable, Johanna.”

I thanked Hilda for the information, joined Grandmother for Sunday dinner without commenting on the telephone call, and then went upstairs to gather the jewelry that I had already held onto far too long. Without being able to explain the sudden compulsion after so many weeks of inertia, I knew I had to go to Prairie Avenue immediately and couldn’t have slept with that jewelry in my case one more night. Perhaps the urgency showed on my face and that was why Grandmother, after a studied look at my expression, gave no further argument.

Among the grand, tall houses of Prairie Avenue, the Gallagher house was distinct and immediately noticeable. Constructed of blush rose brick, the single-story house sprawled on the corner, and even in the dark afternoon now clouded over with ponderous clouds and imminent rain, the entire structure seemed made of light. The large windows that dotted the face of the house seemed to gather and hold the fading light, glowing in a way that had nothing to do with any illumination from within. Combined with the white trim around the windows and the large white door with gold knob and knocker, the house appeared to gleam.

I stopped too long to admire the building’s clean, contemporary lines and was suddenly drenched by a looming cloudburst. As I stood on the front porch trying to shake water from my hat and coat, I grumbled to myself that dripping from a downpour was not quite the way I planned to commemorate the occasion. During the train trip and then on the walk from the station, I desperately—but unsuccessfully—sought the right words to use. Nothing I considered sounded appropriate, and now my unkempt appearance would add even more indignity to a meeting that deserved better. Despite my complete lack of any true knowledge of Douglas Gallagher, I felt he merited more from me, but it was too late. I stood on the front step, wet and growing cold from the unexpected afternoon May shower, the envelope of small treasures folded carefully in my cloth purse, suddenly inarticulate and reluctant to continue.

I took a deep breath and raised my hand to lift the knocker but at my touch and without any effort on my part, the apparently unlatched door swung open. At first I stepped back, embarrassed as if I had committed some huge social blunder. When I realized no one stood on the other side of the threshold, I leaned forward enough to call, “Hello,” down the hallway. At the continuing silence, I stepped just inside the door and called once more. Although hall lights were lit against the gloom of the rainy afternoon, the house seemed vacant and still. Outside, the downpour continued, a rumble of rain on the roof and against the windows, and I thought that with the competing noise of the storm my greeting may not have been heard. I knew how improper it was to stroll uninvited and unushered through a stranger’s house but couldn’t stop myself, compelled by the need to deliver my precious cargo. As much as I had resisted the errand, I now yearned to be done with it. Certainly I would find at least a servant at home! I cautiously continued down the hallway, periodically calling hello. All the rooms I passed were dark and empty, but toward the end of the hall I saw an open door to a room clearly lit. I headed in that direction and stopped in the doorway to say hello once more, this time addressing the figure that stood on the other side of the room. The man didn’t hear my greeting. His back was to me but I recognized the fair hair and tall figure of the man I had seen the previous night at the Tribune office. He stood immobile, staring out the windows of the graceful French doors that must have looked out on a terrace or a back lawn, although just then the view was obliterated by pouring rain. His motionless posture, hands in his pants pockets and not a muscle moving, indicated he was deep in thought. I hoped I was not interrupting a personal, emotional moment that would embarrass us both.

“Mr. Gallagher?” I queried with emphasis, and he turned quickly to face me.

Andrew Gallagher was handsome and surprisingly athletic in his stance for a city man, with thick, fair hair and light hazel eyes in a lean face. He could have been as old as thirty, although if the stories hinted to Hilda Cartwright were true, the rough edges of his face might have been caused by late nights and profligate habits. For a long moment he just stared at me, I think absolutely flabbergasted to see someone in the doorway.

“Mr. Gallagher?” I repeated. He gave his head a tiny shake, trying to clear it and bring himself back to reality, I thought with some sympathy. I knew I didn’t belong there.

“Who are you and what on earth are you doing here?” His tone held such incredulity that I couldn’t help but laugh.

“The look on your face tells me you think I am some kind of vision, but please don’t elaborate. I got caught in the storm and am unfortunately and unbecomingly soaked. I can only imagine the kind of vision I must appear to be.”

“Arthur’s Lady of the Lake?” he responded promptly. “A mermaid perhaps?” He gave me a quick look from toe to head and added, “No, I don’t think there’s a flipper or a tail under that skirt. One of the Naiads then? That would make sense, anyway, this close to the lake.” He had recovered nicely from the surprise of seeing me in the doorway and was being determinedly charming. His manner was as stylish as his fawn flannel trousers and the crisp white shirt he wore, sleeves folded back from his wrists and collar casually open at the neck. I thought him a man who knew how to use his innate attraction and good looks to advantage, a man who had learned it at such an early age that by now being charming came as naturally to him as breathing.

“None of those, I’m afraid. My name is Johanna Swan and I am woefully mortal. May I come in?”

He raised an eyebrow as answer, reminding me with a wry glance that I was already in with neither invitation nor announcement.

“Could I stop you even if I wanted to? I fear the deed is done, Miss Swan, but I appreciate your courtesy even if it is after the fact. Do you always wander aimlessly through the homes of strangers?”

“I tried to knock but the front door was open, and I called several times from the front of the house.”

“Was it and did you? I didn’t hear a sound.”

“No, you were somewhere else. I’m sorry if I startled or interrupted you.”

“You did neither of those things. I had a momentary lapse and was dwelling on the past in an unhealthy way. I blame the gray weather.” His tone struck me as somewhat wistful, but he went on briskly. “You told me who you were, but you haven’t answered my second question.” I paused to remember what that question was and without warning gave a quick sneeze, which made him frown. “Are you going to catch pneumonia and die in my library?”

“Not purposefully,” I retorted, “but if I do, you have my permission to drag my lifeless body out to the street corner and pretend you’ve never seen me before.” Then I sneezed again and he came forward.

“Take off your hat and coat and sit down. I’ll be right back.” I did as directed and sat on a comfortable love seat, wondering how my noble errand had degenerated into this unusual exchange. Andrew Gallagher returned with a woolen shawl and placed it carefully over my shoulders, then shook out my coat and draped it just as carefully over the back of a chair. He picked up my hat, gave it a shake, too, and looked at it critically.

“You won’t be able to salvage much of this, I’m afraid.”

“Good. I never liked it. I wear hats because I must, but they’re more of a bother than anything else. That one was always too much hat for me, anyway, so I won’t miss it.” He held the flattened object up and out in front of him, mentally measuring it against my head and face, and then nodded.

“Yes, I can see that. You should wear something with a smaller brim that doesn’t obscure your face or overpower your figure.” Mr. Gallagher put the hat down but continued to look at me intently. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? How do I know you?” He sat down directly across from me, still examining my face carefully but dispassionately.

“I followed your lead last night after Mrs. Trout finished speaking.” At first I could tell he was completely at a loss and then recognition made him nod.

“I remember. You were the woman who stood and joined me in applause.”

“Yes.”

“It was just the two of us for a while, wasn’t it?”

“It was just you for a while,” I admitted, “but I was so annoyed with the crowd I didn’t trust myself to do anything until I was sure I was composed.”

“They were a trying group.”

“Rude and arrogant, I’d say, but I suppose different people react differently to change and new ideas.”

Silence stretched out between us until Gallagher said, “I’d be flattered to think you tracked me down to tell me how much you admired my ability to applaud, but even I am not that self-absorbed. So really, Miss Swan, why are you here?”

Under his watchful eyes, I opened my bag and brought out the small envelope. “Hold out your hand, please.”

He did so obediently and without question, and I emptied the envelope’s contents into his outstretched palm. We both stared at the two items that lay there, the solid ring and the stickpin that twinkled even in the rain-dimmed room. I raised my eyes and watched him look at the items, his face expressionless except for a muscle that pulled along his jaw. He closed his fingers tightly over both pieces. In a peculiar way he did not pull his hand back but continued to hold it out between us as an upturned, clenched fist.

“Forgive me,” I said finally. “I should have prepared you, but I didn’t have the words. I thought and thought about what to say and how to say it, but nothing seemed right. He wanted you to have these. He asked me to find you and give them to you, and I promised I would.” Andrew Gallagher still did not speak, but he lifted his head and met my look, listening carefully, his own face smooth and free from any awareness except of my words. “I can’t pretend I knew your brother at all. I saw him on board, but, of course, he didn’t notice me and we never spoke before that night. He was very brave and calm, I thought, almost detached. He gave the impression nothing could hurt or bother him and seemed almost to scorn the whole situation. I asked him whether he had a message for you, but he just shook his head. Everything was confused and people had begun to panic, and I think he just felt the situation wasn’t right for words.”

“No.” Drew Gallagher finally spoke. “It wasn’t that. He knew we’d said all there was to say before he left. There was simply nothing to add.” His tone made me think their last words had not been kind or amicable.

“I’m sorry.” Whether for his brother’s death or their unhappy parting, I didn’t know, but I meant the words sincerely.

Drew Gallagher gave me a lop-sided and boyish smile, the kind of smile calculated to make a woman’s heart give a lurch, reached out his other hand, and with an unexpectedly tender gesture, completely innocent and somehow affectionate, lightly flicked my cheek with two fingers.

“I can see that on your face. Thank you.” Then he went on inconsequentially, “I own this house now, but it will never be mine, not really. My brother built it.”

“It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen. It’s almost magical. Even on a rainy day, it draws in light.”

“Douglas built it for a woman. I wouldn’t call her magical, but like the house she, too, drew in light.”

“The tall woman with honey-colored hair.” I spoke with certainty because intuitively I knew it to be true.

“You’re the one who’s magical, Miss Swan. How can you possibly know that?”

“I saw them together once, two years ago at the annual Sweethearts Ball that the city holds downtown every Valentine’s Day. I was leaving for London in a few weeks and for whatever reason, the memory never left me. I remember how perfect they looked together. He was so dark and handsome and she was beautiful, dressed in dark green satin with a ruffle of cream lace at her throat and her hair fastened down the back of her neck. I recognized him right away when I saw him on board the ship and I looked for her, but apparently he was traveling alone.”