Chapter 35
EVERY DAY AT THE DISTILLERY OFFICE, Josephine watched for the postal carrier—and with him, the latest edition of The Chattanooga Times. Today was no different, except for the steady rain that had fallen for four nights running—and the sense of dread she couldn’t shake.
No mail had arrived yesterday, which meant two newspapers should come today. She needed to get to them before Mr. Daniel returned from his meeting with Tom Motlow at the bank.
So far, none of the papers had mentioned her or what had happened. Headlines favored prohibition and temperance news from New York or Chicago, legislative updates, railroad expansions, President Roosevelt’s inauguration, and Japan’s stunning victory over Russia.
Still, she felt like she was living on borrowed time.
She checked the mantel clock. Half past one.
To her knowledge, Dodge still hadn’t heard back from Washington about the cattle. She’d seen him a handful of times since the tour, always with others present. Their exchanges had been polite, distant. And with as little eye contact as possible.
But that distance did nothing to stop her pulse from quickening when she saw him.
Or her memory of being in his arms. The desire unsettled her, but equal was her resolve to move past it.
She knew better than to let emotion steer her.
She should’ve guarded her feelings more closely.
Should’ve kept the mantras of her other single suffragist sisters closer to heart.
Votes, not vows.
Liberty wears no ring.
Even Miss Anthony, while addressing the suffragists privately before the rally had said, I never felt I could give up my life of freedom to become a man’s housekeeper.
And neither would she.
She’d watched too many childhood friends marry and, one by one, their lives had become consumed with husbands and households, while she had pursued education and teaching without regret.
So why was she experiencing these feelings now?
And why Dodge Coburn? He was kind, intelligent, respected, yes. But not part of her plan.
Still, her heart had ached for him when he’d spoken of Kathleen. And Bethie. Through that lens, she understood his caution about suffrage. What he didn’t see—couldn’t yet—was that he already had a suffragist in the making.
She checked the clock again. Quarter till two.
Rain had no doubt turned the road from Tullahoma into a soggy mess.
So far, she’d beaten Mr. Daniel to the newspaper every day but once.
The day he’d intercepted Bart in the street before she could.
She’d taken the mail from him under the pretense of sorting it.
But she wouldn’t make that mistake again.
She’d remembered how Lannie, their family cook, used to hand-press The Atlanta Journal before her father came to breakfast. So she had adopted the same habit.
The first time she’d presented the paper to Mr. Daniel—pages perfectly aligned, edges smoothed—he’d looked up and said, “Mrs. Dunham, you can never leave.”
But that was just it. She would leave. At her first chance.
She wanted her life back. Sarah, her students, her classroom. Yet the question lingered like a bruise: Would Mayor Darden ever allow that?
Rivulets of rain traced the window as she kept watch.
She’d written to Sarah but hadn’t mailed the letter.
It was too risky. The postal clerk she handed it to would then know she had ties to Atlanta.
She also couldn’t be certain the address to be used in such situations was still safe.
It changed often, for good reason. And she couldn’t risk causing Sarah more trouble.
At last, Bart appeared, slogging through the street.
She met him on the porch. “Good afternoon, Bart.”
“Fine day, ain’t it?” he said cheerfully, soaked through.
“If you favor rain, I guess it is.” She smiled, grateful he treated her with such courtesy. Either he hadn’t heard the rumors yet, or paid them no heed.
He pulled a large bundle of mail from his pouch. “It’s a soaker, for sure. But won’t the flowers and trees all look so purty once the rain is past?”
Wishing she shared his optimism, she thanked him and hurried back inside. Sure enough, two editions of The Chattanooga Times. Wednesday, March 15, and Thursday, March 16. Not quite a week ago.
Nerves taut, she sat at the desk and read through the first, looking up occasionally to watch for Mr. Daniel, then finally turned the last page with a measure of relief.
She opened the second and her heart lurched.
Women in Revolt: Suffragist Lawlessness
Scarcely able to breathe, she struggled to focus much less read past the headline. She scanned the article looking for any mention of Atlanta, her name, Darden’s. But nothing.
She drew in a slow breath and read back through more carefully.
The article, reprinted from the New York Times, dripped with bias, and her chest ached as the journalist reported that suffragists marching after a rally on Fifth Avenue received due punishment for their actions of reckless disorder.
Twelve women had been arrested and imprisoned, no doubt on fraudulent charges.
Other women had been assaulted by police and male bystanders in the crowd, some having been beaten about the head and their hair torn out.
One woman had even been stripped to the waist. Dozens had been injured, two women dying from their injuries.
Hot tears slipped down her cheeks. “God, where are you in all of this?”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed, not with the mixture of vitriol and anger inside her. Was God even listening? If he was, surely he would do something.
Promise me you won’t judge God by your circumstances . . . He works on a far larger landscape than the one we can see. Nannie’s words rose unbidden, and Josephine wiped her cheeks, reminded, too, of what she’d said about God collecting tears in a bottle.
Josephine knew the Bible well enough, yet couldn’t place the verse.
And while God caring enough to collect tears sounded nice, she doubted the Creator of the universe truly did such a thing.
Because if he cared enough to collect tears, why not simply prevent them in the first place?
Along with inequality, injustice, hatred, prejudice, and cruelty.
She checked the remainder of the newspaper, grateful to find no mention of her name, then set to hand pressing and aligning all the pages, then left both papers stacked on the edge of the desk for Mr. Daniel.
The chirrup of a bird outside the window lifted her gaze. The rain had stopped, but the cloudy skies still held promise of more.
She sorted the mail. More requests for distillery visits. Mr. Daniel’s advertisements were working. Too well. She set them aside to deal with later.
Without a knock, the office door opened. Expecting Mr. Daniel, she looked up.
A young woman, head bowed, quickly closed the door behind her and glanced toward the window.
Josephine stood. “Good afternoon, ma’am. How may I—”
“Mrs. Carver said you might could help me.” The woman lifted her face. Bruising darkened her cheek and jaw, just beginning to bloom. “If you can’t, tell me now and I’ll go.”