Make good choices STOP Scratch that STOP Make terrible choices that lead you to something wonderful STOP Know I adore you and will cheer you from afar STOP Also what is this direction QUERY I have never heard of Brooklyn STOP Is it near the Metropolitan Club QUERY
FROM: Lord Timothy, Marquess of Trembly, Ashburn Hall, Oxfordshire
Chapter 6
Energycrackledintheair as Rose joined the throng of people in the small square where Old Fulton Street ran into the East River. The patch of green partially shaded by the Brooklyn Bridge was nothing like Hyde Park or the parkland surrounding her family estate, and Rose spotted every difference. The patches of grass, more brown than green. The bits of rubbish dancing across the lawn in the lazy breeze, the small gathering of unwashed men on a bench watching the goings on, the worn hems and out-of-date fashion of the women.
Rose’s shoulder already ached from carrying her sign—one of the four she had merrily painted all by herself—from Abby’s building to the park, but she fought to keep the discomfort from her face. Ben had made multiple trips and carried at least half a dozen each time, the muscles of his back shifting beneath the thin linen of his shirt as he hefted them onto the curb and began distributing them.
The taciturn man hadn’t said a word to Rose when he arrived at Abby’s apartment to gather the signs. But in the park, he seemed to have no issue making conversation with the other protesters. A slow smile spread across his face as he distributed signs and directed the women to various positions surrounding a makeshift raised platform.
“What do you think?” Abby asked, coming up beside her and looping her arm through her cousin’s.
Rose tore her gaze away from Ben’s smile to focus on her cousin. “It’s all rather…”
“Wild? Anarchic? Chaotic?” Abby gave each suggestion with a maniacal gleam in her eye.
“Unpredictable,” she said as she shifted on her feet. Rose had read about large suffrage parades in London and had even seen some gatherings of a dozen or so people in Oxford, but nothing like this. A lump in her gut told her to run, to find her way to a ship that would carry her back to England.
She opened her mouth to find an excuse to leave when Abby squeezed her hand. “I’m so thrilled you’re here, Rose.”
The lump in her gut lightened as she squeezed back. “As am I, but you’ll have to show me what to do.”
“You only need to stand and cheer when appropriate.” Abby fixed a small rosette on Rose’s lapel, the green and purple ribbons stark against her white blouse and skirt. There was something comforting about the uniformity of her dress. Women passing her by nodded with approval, welcoming her into their fold with unspoken praise, and a thrill ran through her. After years of dressing for the validation of others, her appearance had a purpose beyond making the gossip pages. Her dress aligned her with a movement, a public declaration of her thoughts and beliefs.
“How will I know when it’s appropriate?”
Abby smirked. “You’ll know.” She tugged Rose closer to the platform where three women gathered around a music stand, shuffling papers. Dozens of other people had entered the park during their brief conversation, the few men amongst them standing out in their dark clothing like blotches of black ink on the page.
She watched Ben make his way to the stage and greet a smartly dressed woman in an enormous white-feathered hat. Despite her short stature, she commanded attention in her elegant simplicity, her rosette like a beacon against the crisp cut of her linen jacket.
“Alva Vanderbilt Belmont,” Abby said, pointing. “She’s brilliant, a fantastic advocate for the cause.”
“Vanderbilt?” Rose hissed. “As in—”
“Yes,thoseVanderbilts. She divorced her husband, William, several years ago and remarried. It’s good to know the Vanderbilt money is going to a good cause.”
Rose gaped; a socialite leading a social movement, and a divorced one at that—the notion thrilled her. “America truly is a land of opportunity, especially for women!”
Abby looked at her with wide eyes, then directed her attention back to the stage. “Ben’s going to speak first, then introduce her.” Abby bounced on her toes as she spoke, unable to keep her focus in one place.
A man Rose had seen earlier assisting Ben stepped up behind Abby and pecked her cheek with a kiss. “Is he ready?”
“I think so,” Abby replied, then turned towards Rose. “Have you met Garrett MacInnes? He’s a friend of Ben’s from school, also helped found the Suffrage Society.”
Garrett’s hazel eyes widened beneath his floppy ginger hair as he extended his hand. “I haven’t had the honor,” he said, dropping a kiss to her knuckles in a gesture far more suitable for a London ballroom than a rally.
“She’s my cousin,” Abby cut in, narrowing her eyes at him, “from London.”
His lips tilted in a wry smile. “Then perhaps we could take a cup of tea? My grandda is from Edinburgh, and he always—”
“No, Garrett.” His brow creased at Abby’s reprimand. “She’s not interested in you.”
He cut his eyes back to Rose. “Is she right?”
Rose winced. “I’m sorry, but she is.”
Garrett shrugged. “I’ve gotten used to Abby being right.”
