often called charming.
For a few moments they rocked in silence, looking at the side gardenwhere a smattering of jonquils were still in bloom among bloodred and white tulips. This house was twice the size of hers in Seneca Falls—two full stories and a smaller third story, with six pillars in front. It was not one of the fashionable carpenter Gothic houses going up all around her but simple and grand in an older style. Susan was frowning. “We should never have agreed to amalgamate the Woman’s Rights Society with the Anti-Slavery Society. We thought we were all for universal suffrage, but they have other priorities. Once again they’re pushing women to the end of the line—telling us to be patient, forever and ever, amen.”
For two decades Elizabeth and Susan had given their energy, their passion to abolition. “I supported Wendell for president of the society. I intend to remind him at the convention.” Elizabeth folded her arms and sniffed the lilacs. Somehow that scent was the same color as the flowers, lilac indeed. Wendell Phillips had been a friend and ally since 1840, at the anti-slavery convention in London, when he had supported the women’s desire to be seated as delegates. That defeat had been Elizabeth’s first awakening to her situation as a woman. Wendell was a handsome man who liked women and she got on with him. She was convinced she could get him to support woman suffrage.
“You’re far more impressed by Wendell Phillips than I am, Mrs. Stanton.”
“He’s of old Brahmin stock, but he’s given his all to anti-slavery. Let’s see if he pays his debt to us. I swear on the heads of my children, Susan, I won’t let our sex be put off this time.”
“This meeting is crucial…” Susan turned to beam at her. Her face could soften remarkably. At such moments, she was almost handsome. “Well, are you going to address my typographers? Have you made up your mind yet?”
Susan was organizing the women typographers into a union. “If you really want me to.”
“Why do you let Henry come out here?” Susan returned to the earlier point of disagreement between them, in her dogged way.
Susan would never understand the bond between them that, frayed as it was, made her forgiving. “I’ve had seven children with him. I’m financially independent finally. We live separately. What good would it do to create a fuss?”
“You should never have married him to begin with.”
“I hadn’t met you or Lucretia then. I was living with my father, who wouldn’t let me do anything political.” After she’d addressed the New Yorklegislature on married women’s rights, he never forgave her for speaking in public, calling her a harridan. He had only reinstated her in his will shortly before he died. “Henry was the breadwinner then—not that he ever earned a lot of bread.” She laughed. Even the house in Seneca Falls on the outskirts of town overlooking the tanneries and mills—a plain house she had come to loathe for its isolation—was only theirs because her father had paid for it. “I can’t imagine life without my children. Sometimes I’ve wanted to run away from them and the constant problems and chores. But I never did and I never will. They give me great pleasure. They tether me to the wheel of life.”
“You could do with a little less tethering.”
Susan was capable of passionate friendship but had never really been in love. It was not that Susan lacked domestic virtues. She could cook and clean and sew and manage a household, if not as well as Elizabeth—who was not convinced anybody could do it as well—then sufficiently to fill in. How often Susan had come and taken over so she would be free to write a speech or a paper making their position on some issue clear. If it had not been for Susan, how would she have endured her marriage, really? Henry was never around when she needed him. He had not been present during the birth of any of their seven children. He loved to travel, so
For a few moments they rocked in silence, looking at the side gardenwhere a smattering of jonquils were still in bloom among bloodred and white tulips. This house was twice the size of hers in Seneca Falls—two full stories and a smaller third story, with six pillars in front. It was not one of the fashionable carpenter Gothic houses going up all around her but simple and grand in an older style. Susan was frowning. “We should never have agreed to amalgamate the Woman’s Rights Society with the Anti-Slavery Society. We thought we were all for universal suffrage, but they have other priorities. Once again they’re pushing women to the end of the line—telling us to be patient, forever and ever, amen.”
For two decades Elizabeth and Susan had given their energy, their passion to abolition. “I supported Wendell for president of the society. I intend to remind him at the convention.” Elizabeth folded her arms and sniffed the lilacs. Somehow that scent was the same color as the flowers, lilac indeed. Wendell Phillips had been a friend and ally since 1840, at the anti-slavery convention in London, when he had supported the women’s desire to be seated as delegates. That defeat had been Elizabeth’s first awakening to her situation as a woman. Wendell was a handsome man who liked women and she got on with him. She was convinced she could get him to support woman suffrage.
“You’re far more impressed by Wendell Phillips than I am, Mrs. Stanton.”
“He’s of old Brahmin stock, but he’s given his all to anti-slavery. Let’s see if he pays his debt to us. I swear on the heads of my children, Susan, I won’t let our sex be put off this time.”
“This meeting is crucial…” Susan turned to beam at her. Her face could soften remarkably. At such moments, she was almost handsome. “Well, are you going to address my typographers? Have you made up your mind yet?”
Susan was organizing the women typographers into a union. “If you really want me to.”
“Why do you let Henry come out here?” Susan returned to the earlier point of disagreement between them, in her dogged way.
Susan would never understand the bond between them that, frayed as it was, made her forgiving. “I’ve had seven children with him. I’m financially independent finally. We live separately. What good would it do to create a fuss?”
“You should never have married him to begin with.”
“I hadn’t met you or Lucretia then. I was living with my father, who wouldn’t let me do anything political.” After she’d addressed the New Yorklegislature on married women’s rights, he never forgave her for speaking in public, calling her a harridan. He had only reinstated her in his will shortly before he died. “Henry was the breadwinner then—not that he ever earned a lot of bread.” She laughed. Even the house in Seneca Falls on the outskirts of town overlooking the tanneries and mills—a plain house she had come to loathe for its isolation—was only theirs because her father had paid for it. “I can’t imagine life without my children. Sometimes I’ve wanted to run away from them and the constant problems and chores. But I never did and I never will. They give me great pleasure. They tether me to the wheel of life.”
“You could do with a little less tethering.”
Susan was capable of passionate friendship but had never really been in love. It was not that Susan lacked domestic virtues. She could cook and clean and sew and manage a household, if not as well as Elizabeth—who was not convinced anybody could do it as well—then sufficiently to fill in. How often Susan had come and taken over so she would be free to write a speech or a paper making their position on some issue clear. If it had not been for Susan, how would she have endured her marriage, really? Henry was never around when she needed him. He had not been present during the birth of any of their seven children. He loved to travel, so
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