James Carpenter was leaning up against the wall near the window, speaking with Julia, but Maud had the uncomfortable sensation that his eyes were upon her as she passed.
Maud entered the kitchen, where Mary O’Meara, the Irish cook, was standing in front of the stove. Maud passed out of the kitchen and into the hallway that connected to the back storeroom. The iron key was tricky to insert into the lock; Maud was fiddling with it when she felt a presence.
“Can I give you a hand, Miss Gage?”
Startled, she dropped the key, which clattered on the brick floor. She turned to see James Carpenter standing directly behind her.
He bent down and scooped up the iron key, bending uncomfortably close as he inserted it into the lock. With a click, the door swung open, releasing a puff of colder air scented with potatoes, carrots, and straw.
“I heard your mother say that you needed to retrieve something for her, and I thought I could help you carry it.” His tone was ingratiating, but his fleshy pink lips hung slack, and she could not bring herself to meet his eyes. Just inside the hallway, she was only steps away from the cozy kitchen filled with the warm scents of vanilla, sugar, and scalding milk, but she had closed the door behind herself to keep the chill from the kitchen, and she saw that in following her, he had done the same. Hadn’t anyone noticed? Certainly someone would have thought that it was odd and overly familiar for a guest to follow her into the narrow hallway. But as Maud had passed through the kitchen, Mary had been concentrating on her stirring.
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Carpenter, but I’m not in the least in need of assistance,” Maud said, her voice firm. “I suggest that you return to the party. Everyone will be wondering where you have gotten to.”
Keeping her eyes averted, she turned and walked through the open door into the cold storage room, passing quickly across the small dark space to the shelf where the fresh jugs of cider were kept. Behind her, the storeroom door clicked shut. The room plunged into total blackness. Inside the confined space, Maud heard breathing, and she realized he had entered behind her. She turned to face toward him, backing up slowly as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.
“I am not in need of your assistance.” Maud couldn’t hide a slight quaver in her voice.
“I’m just here to help a pretty girl.” He took a step forward.
“Please leave!”
He barked a laugh. “I would think you are used to being alone with men, as a coed…”
Maud’s eyes had adjusted to the dim light leaking in around the hallway door. She picked up the heavy earthenware jug and assessed the distance she had to cross to reach the exit. The room was narrow, and she wasn’t sure she could dart to either side of him. She took a small step forward, hoping that he would move aside, but instead he stepped toward her.
“Pray, Mr. Carpenter, leave me alone and return to the house,” Maud said. “I do not need your assistance.”
His laugh had an edge of rum punch in it. “Ah, Miss Maud Gage, daughter of the famous suffragette. Perhaps I’d prefer to stay and enjoy your company!” He lurched toward her.
Without thinking, Maud pitched the heavy jug as hard as she could. It caught him on the chin, sending him reeling a step back before it shattered on the bricks. Maud seized the opportunity, rushed past him, and pushed open the heavy door. She plunged with relief into the cool back hallway, and in moments she was standing in the kitchen, where she found Matilda gazing at her reproachfully.
“It’s taken you so long, and you’ve come back empty-handed?” Matilda said.
Maud was flustered, grasping for words to describe what had just happened.
“Your dress is all wet!” Matilda said.
“I’m sorry, Mother—I dropped the jug, and the cider splattered.”
At that exact moment, James Carpenter stepped into the kitchen with a heavy jug of cider in each hand.
“Here you go, Mrs. Gage,” he said. “I was just giving Miss Gage a hand.”
Matilda looked mystified.
“Why, Mr. Carpenter, I believe you’ve hurt yourself,” she said.
He set the jugs on the counter, rubbed his chin with one hand, and looked startled to see the blood on his fingers.
“I must have cut myself leaning over to pick up the jugs.” He caught Maud’s eye as he said this, as if daring her to call his bluff.
Maud was gathering her wits to respond when Matilda said, “Maudie darling, why don’t you run along upstairs so you can change?”
Maud narrowed her eyes and glared at James, hoping to communicate that her choice to say nothing would in no way let him off the hook. But James slunk out of the kitchen, avoiding her gaze. Blinking back tears, Maud cut through the crowded parlor and hurried up the stairs. In her bedroom, she took off her cider-stained dress, unlaced her corset, and threw herself on her bed. She had decided not to return to the party.
After some time, she heard the tinkle of crockery and the tread of footsteps in the hallway, and Julia came in, carrying a tray of warm custard and chamomile tea. Afraid that her sister would subject her to an interrogation, Maud picked up her novel and began to read. She hoped that Julia would recognize that she was hiding something. She had yet to figure out a way to broach this painful subject with her sister.
Julia sat on the edge of her bed, and when Maud looked up, a soft smile lit up her sister’s face. From beneath the fold of her skirt, she pulled out her left hand, revealing that a thin band of gold now crossed her fourth finger.
Maud stared at the ring in horror.
“Julia? What have you done?”
“What have I done?” Julia blanched.
“Have you thought this through? I’m not sure this is wise.”
Her sister’s eyes glinted, now with an edge of defiance.
“Your best wishes are welcome. I’m not interested in your opinions.”
* * *
—
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, MAUD TRIED once again to speak to Julia, when she found her alone in the front parlor.
“Sister, are you absolutely certain? Do you know enough about this young man’s character?”
Julia sighed and clasped her hands in her lap, silently spinning the gold band around and around on her finger.
“How can we know the future?” Julia said. “All I know is what my life is like now. I desire to escape it.” She looked Maud straight in the eye. “I’ve made up my mind, sister. I don’t wish to speak of this matter ever again.”
Matilda sat in her study, facing away from Maud, her watercolors arrayed in a brilliant palette in front of her. A half-finished painting of a vase full of forget-me-nots stood before her.
“Might I have a word with you, Mother?” Maud asked.
Matilda turned around, greeting her with a distracted air.
“What is it, Maud?”
“In the matter of Mr. James Carpenter…do you not have any reservations?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“He is closer to my age than Julia’s,” Maud began, trying to decide how best to articulate her reservations. “He seems—”
Matilda sighed, and Maud noticed the violet blotches that encircled her mother’s eyes. Matilda was tireless, indefatigable, the author of books and speeches, the ruler of the household, the person on whom all responsibilities lay, from watching over the cooking to educating her children to saving the fate of all womankind. Maud always thought of her mother as entirely invincible, but here, in this quiet moment, Maud got a glimpse of the fact that Mother needed a rest sometimes, too.
“He has ambition, and he appears to be in good health. Would you really let the matter of age interfere in your sister’s happiness? Most women marry men old enough to be their own fathers and then end up caring for the cranky and querulous men in their old age, only to find themselves widowed and obliged to move in with their children for relief.”
Maud had certainly observed that this was true, even in her own family. Papa’s bouts of fever confined him to bed more and more often, leaving Mother to shoulder the family’s burdens alone, and though she wrote her fingers to the bone, and talked often of royalties, money never seemed to follow. Her mother’s closest allies in the suffrage movement faced no such difficulties. Matilda, Auntie Susan, and Mrs. Stanton were writing a series of books together, a multivolume history of the women’s suffrage movement. They’d been working on it for years, and, frankly, Mother did most of the work. Auntie Susan said that she could think but she couldn’t write, and Mrs. Stanton was often too busy to help. Maud could not avoid noticing the differences in their circumstances. Auntie Susan, a single woman with no children, made large sums of money giving speeches, and Mrs. Stanton was a wealthy woman who traveled to and from the Continent without a care. But Mother had to manage the family and its finances, her own work, and all her work for the movement without much help.
“I’m getting older,” Matilda said. “It would be a help if Julia were situated….I’m sure you realize that she has not had the prospects that you have had.”