The Hope Chest by Karen Schwabach Page B

Violet. “Is she here? I need to talk to her.”
    The woman frowned at Myrtle. “And this is?”
    “I'm Myrtle Davies.”
    “May we come in, please?” said Violet. She knew this was rude, but the woman's expression suggested she was still going to close the door in their faces, and Violet had been through too much for that. She wanted to see Chloe, now.
    “I suppose,” said the woman, frowning at Myrtle.
    They stood in the entrance hall while the young woman hurried away calling, “Miss Paul!”
    Miss Paul meant Alice Paul, Violet realized with a jolt as the famous woman came out to greet them. Violet had heard of Alice Paul. Flossie had read about her in the newspapers, about how she had organized the nationwide fight for the Susan B. Anthony Amendment, about the women picketing in front of the White House and being attacked by bystanders and soldiers and finally being hauled off to jail. Flossie had made Violet read in the paper Miss Alice Paul's description of how she'd been force-fed by the jailers when she went on a hunger strike. Violet's throat had ached in sympathy for hours after she read it, even though she knew that Mother and Father did not approve of suffragists like Miss Paul. And Chloe. Violet had been annoyed at Flossie for making her read it. She would rather not have known about something that made her feel so uncomfortable.
    Miss Paul was a mild-looking brown-haired woman of about thirty-five. She smiled questioningly at Violet and Myrtle. “Miss Mayhew's sister?” she asked Violet.
    Violet nodded, not sure how you spoke to famous people.
    “Her name's Violet,” said Myrtle helpfully. “And I'm Myrtle Davies.”
    “Goodness. You'd better come in and have some tea,” said Miss Paul.
    Violet and Myrtle followed Miss Paul and the lady who'd come to the door, Miss Dexter, into the kitchen. Violet was conscious that her and Myrtle's shoes were tracking black train soot on the carpet.
    “Your sister's been off campaigning for months,” Miss Paul explained as she poured tea for them. “Ever since the amendment passed Congress with the required two-thirds vote. She took off in that flivver of hers—”
    “The Hope Chest,” Violet said, and then realized that she'd interrupted. “I beg your pardon, Miss Paul.” But now that she'd interrupted, she might as well get to the important part. “Do you mean that Chloe isn't here?”
    “No, she's in Tennessee,” said Miss Paul.
    Violet felt herself sag with disappointment. “Tennessee? Really?”
    “Yes, that's where it's all come down to, and so that's where Miss Mayhew is.” Miss Paul smiled. “She's a real fighter, your sister. She picketed the White House with us, and she went to jail.”
    “Jail?” said Violet, so surprised she forgot her disappointment for a moment. “Chloe?”
    “Don't look so shocked, Violet!” said Miss Paul. “I've been to jail myself.”
    “I know,” said Violet. “I read about it in the papers.” She was getting the hang of talking to famous people now. Miss Paul was very normal-seeming and friendly.
    “Not the
New York Times
, I hope!” said Miss Paul, smiling.
    “Well, yes,” Violet admitted. “My father made me read the one that said …” Violet saw from Myrtle's expression that she didn't know what they were talking about, so she explained. “The
New York Times
said that the women picketing the White House just proved that women were unsuited to voting, because no man would ever dream of picketing the White House.” She turned back to Miss Paul. “My father liked that a lot, when they said that.”
    “Hello!” A woman with bright red hair came into the kitchen. “Did I hear you talking about jail? I've been to jail six times. We might as well have some of those biscuits if we're having tea.”
    “Girls, this is Miss Lucy Burns.” Miss Paul told Miss Burns the girls' names as she opened a packet of Uneeda biscuits. “So your father liked the
Times
article? A lot of people did. I didn't