Chapter 14

She seems ignorant of the fact that although woman can be as great as man, the equality

is not in kind but in degree – the equality of noblest intuition with noblest intellection.

Philadelphia Inquirer

December 1862

Gorham, New Hampshire is buried in snow. Snow so deep it comes up to the window

sills. Wrapped in a battered quilt, I move to the one small window, which for a few hours during

the day, lets faint illumination, but never the sun, into the narrow room. If I rest my heated

forehead on the frigid glass and look out the corner of one eye, I can glimpse tier after tier of

snow-covered mountains, the tops hidden in clouds. Somewhere, in that haze lies Mt.

Washington, its peak surpassing them all.

I let my head droop. Like a madwoman, I have ignored all reason and pushed north, my

lips numb and my father’s lying dollar cold in my pocket, Fanny’s silver dollars eaten up in fare

and food. Bundled for warmth in all the clothing I’d packed, I rode the Grand Trunk Railway

ever deeper into New Hampshire, ever higher into the mountains through whiteouts and subzero

temperatures, my huffing dragon delayed only by frozen water spouts and interminable stops to

clear engine-high snowdrifts off the track.

I wrap the thin quilt more tightly around me. This ice-box of a room with its sideways

view is the cheapest in Gorham, and the comforts are nil. I clasp the window ledge and take

another look. I have left civilization behind, and it is beautiful beyond words.

Hinges squeal, the latch slips, and the wizened head of the hunchback landlady peeks

around the door. “Train pulled out. Chose to stay another day, I see.” She shuffles into the room.

Her lips, wet with saliva, flap open and closed. She holds out a hand, bent and swollen with

rheumatism. “Today’s rent. Five cents.”

I search my pocket, find a token and four pennies, and drop them into the creased palm.

“Don’t take those worthless things.” The crone tosses the patriotic to the floor where it

rolls and slips between the rough floor boards. “Real coin now or out ye go, and ‘tain’t no place

cheaper in town.”

Beneath the quilt, I work the last of Fanny’s coins free, draw it out slowly, trying to think

what to do. I scan the bare room as if a miracle hides in the dusty shadows under the lone chair

or the battered washstand. Fanny’s dollar or my false father’s coin? I hold out Fanny’s. “All I

have—”

With the acumen of a professional magician, the old woman’s hand snakes out, and the

coin disappears into her ragged garment. “That’ll do. I’ll add in hot water and board for five

cents a day more. Gives you ten days to get yourself established in the business.” The toothless

mouth twists into a leer. “Hope you have better dresses than that. Look like a nun. The

lumbermen round here are a rough bunch. Don’t care much what their fancy ladies look like, but

they like a little flash of skin and all.”

My mouth drops. “I’m not—I didn’t come here to—”

“Don’t get all hoity-toity. Ye ain’t quality. Only reason a girl like you comes here in

December is to ply the trade. ‘Tain’t much doing in dead winter with nights being long and cold,

and the loggers pay well for a warm cuddle. Ask the other girls boarding here.”

I eye the lockless door and slump down on the bed. A brothel. I should leave, but my

head throbs, and I am too weak to move.

When I wake, I am burning with fever, my hair sweat-plastered to my skull. My body

twisted in the sodden sheets. Phlegm clogs my throat, but I lack strength to cough it out. My

lungs wheeze, and death creeps in at first hot, and then, cold.

I drift in and out of awareness. When I sleep, I dream of climbing the mountain, dragging

my naked self through snow drifts. Somewhere ahead awaits Whittier’s mighty Agiocochook,

the home of the Great Spirit. When I reach the top, I will toss my father’s coin from the height,

and all the pain will be gone. I will be gone.

I stir awake in protest. I can’t die here in this coffin of a room. Who would bury me?

Who would mourn? Who would care about a fatherless child who scaled the heights only to

smother in the snowy wilds? A wet laugh rattles my chest. What a joke. The Quaker Maid will

die penniless in a brothel. Floyd Burns and his ilk will make hay on that obituary. My

abolitionist supporters will scrawl my epitaph in mud. My sister will think it fitting.

I flail out an arm and touch something soft and warm and alive. I squint through sticky

eyelids. A red-haired angel leans over me, her oval face a blur against the white heat of my mind.

Cold metal touches my lips, and I twist my head away. “No laudanum.”

If I am going to die, I want to see the great mountain at least one time clearly. That would

be the saddest irony. To die at the foot of Mt. Washington without ever beholding its peak.

A soft hand slips under my neck and lifts my head. “Swallow the medicine, ma mie.” The

angel sounds French and desperate.

Poor lost angel. What does it matter what a fool-headed girl has seen or done? There is no

father to mourn. I open my mouth like a nestling and let the burning liquid trickle down my

throat.

“Bury me. Bury me on the mountain top,” I whisper.

“Oh, cheri.” You do not die. Zeke brings the snow.”

****

Fingers move in concentric circles across my back sending spirals of pure pleasure

through my fever-stripped body. I half-open my eyes.

“Ah, you wake. I have cupped you. This le mal—bad thing—we draw it out from you.”

The red-haired angel soothes the blistered skin over my shoulder joint. “The marks will fade.”

“Who…?”

“I am Violette.”

I stare at the woman. Violette’s red-painted fingers match the brilliant scarlet of her hair.

Her face, framed by the unnatural red curls, is strained and shallow, creased with world-weary

wrinkles that belie the sparkle in her gray eyes. A respectable looking mazarine blue morning

gown drapes her plump figure, but the front gapes open, revealing a low- cut, mauve corset.

“Are you—?”

The sharp crack of a well-placed kick flings open the door, and a bull of a man in a fur-

lined Macintosh as black as his beard backs into the room carrying a bucket of snow.

Violettte glances over her shoulder. “The fever’s broken.”

“Bon.” He drops the bucket, spilling snow across the floor. “Thought you crazy at first.

Covering her with snow to bring the fever down. Sure got the floor wet. Lucky, Yates’s sleeping

off a drunk, no?”

The woman laughs. “Her room’s right below. I hope it’s dripping on her maggoty head.”

Zeke slips his arms around my angel and cups her breasts in his massive hands. “Now to

bed, ma petit.”

Violette yawns. “Zeke, I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night and still I must wash the

girl.”

Zeke pinches her nipples. “We could wash her together.”

“Imbecile.” She peels his hands off of her. “Tonight.”

“Ah, Violette. You make it hard on a man, no?” He drops a coin down her corset. “Just

give the little miss a hand, and then you can sleep the day away, mon chou. Want you full awake

tonight”—he rubs against her—“and all mine.” He scoops up the pail, smacks the door open, and

thumps down the stairs.

“Oh, l’Zeke,” Violette says, taking a cloth from the washbowl and squeezing it out. “Do

not mind him. He is just a man.” She wipes the sweat from my face, trails the cloth down my

neck, leaving behind the warm scent of lavender. “Here, let me do all.” She lowers the quilt and

gently scrubs my back and then moves to the front. She unpeels my fingers and reveals my

father’s dollar, Lady Liberty impressed on my palm. “This. It means a lot?”

“It is a reminder.” I look away from Violette’s hypnotizing fingers and stare at the floor.

Snow from the spilled bucket clumps on the worn planks like stranded icebergs. Melt water

gathers around the edges like silvered collars, slowly rising.

I hold my breath. When the moment comes, it is almost too late, a weak spot giving way,

the rest of the puddle following, running in a thin line across the plank until it reaches a crack,

hesitates, and then takes the plunge. My breath releases with a whoosh. “I am not who I am.”

“Ah...” Light as snowflakes, Violette’s nimble fingers lift the coin and set it aside. “You

will heal better without the weight of it, I think.”

I straighten my neck. The damp cloth sweeps under my armpits, across my collarbone,

and over the tops of my breasts. My nipples peak. “My mother she…” A pillow of flowery flesh

comes around me and holds me close. A finger trails down my spine, sending heat swirling

through my body. I force myself to pull back.

Violette’s hand stops. Red-tipped fingers splay atop my shoulders “You not like?”

Blood rushes from my head, and I sway. My vision fogs. Gentle arms surround me,

reform me, and prevent me from becoming boneless and melting between the floor boards like

the forgotten snow. “No, I like it fine. Your hands—what you are doing feels like heaven—pure

pleasure.”

Violette kisses my brow and resumes the gentle caress. “Be not a feared. This is what I

offer, you know.”

Chapter 15

You can call Satan a Saint; call sunshine a shadow; call a horse a mule or a cow; call

Parson Brownlow a Christian; call Brigham Young a virtuous old bachelor; call Anna Dickinson

an accomplished woman; call the moon a fat cheese; and call the stars candle dips…The people

won’t stand for that.

Lancaster Intelligencer

December 1862

I fold my arms beneath my head and study the cobwebs suspended from the rough plank

ceiling like clouds in a stage set. I blow a puff of air towards them. Several long seconds later,

the flimsy threads sway in response. I am breathing better, feeling stronger, and filled with so

much despair, I want to sweep away every cobweb and smash every spidery moral teaching I

have ever been taught.

I am weary of sleeping day and night, tired of the stale air in the tiny room, and sick of

the pervasive smell of my chamber pot. Enough.

Wrinkling my nose, I throw off the covers and search around for my stockings and shoes.

Unable to find them, I give up and lower my bare feet to the cold floor. My toes curl in shock.

On the window sill, the thick amber bottle of Madame De Bois’ Indian Tonic glimmers in

the morning light. The spoon Violette set out for the next dose points toward it like an arrow.

Ignoring the spoon, I wrap my fingers around the cool glass and take a long swallow. The

bittersweet liquid burns its way down my throat, creeps through my veins, and wipes away the

guilt.

My body leaden, my steps unsure, I leave the room I entered a lifetime before and totter

down the hallway. I stop halfway and rest my head against the wall, soaking in the silence. It is

midday. The harlots of Gorham sleep. All but one.

Knees shaking like a new recruit’s, I slip into Violette’s room and hold my breath.

The narrow box room, no different from my own, has been recreated into a sacred

woman’s space remembered of some lost Roma tribe, perfumed with almond oil, jasmine, and

sex.

Every bit of furniture, including the bed, sports wildly colored silks and shawls. A jumble

of discarded dresses, underthings, and shoes quilt the floor. On the nightstand, glimmering in the

flecks of sunlight coming through the tiny window, stands a large brass bowl filled with jewelry

and coins.

Violette, in the act of brushing her hair, lies across a bed heaped with silk pillows, clad,

despite the cold, in a red-striped corset and purple stockings. Nothing else.

In the frozen black and white world of the mountains, it is unexpected, an exotic paradise

of tropical fruit. No wonder stone-hearted men stream in and out of a middle-aged prostitute’s

door.

“I need to know,” I whisper.

Violette lays down the hairbrush and tilts her head to stare at me. Then she licks her lips

and smiles.

My words tip and tumble. “Please. Show me what to do—how to—pleasure.” My hands

are shaking. I place my father’s dollar in the brass dish aware Violette is unhooking her corset,

one soft snap after the next. The coin slides down between the strands of pearls and lands with a

clink at the bottom. The corset falls silently to the floor.

“Hush, mon chéri,” Violette says, rising from her silken nest. “I’ll do nothing you don’t

wish me too.” She leans forward and kisses each cheek, her heavy breasts brushing against mine.

“Now let’s see you.”

I watch the red fingertips slowly unbutton my bodice. I want to slap them away and flee.

Instead, I plant my feet more firmly. I am no longer the naïve girl who put her mother on a

pedestal and thought her father her own. I am reborn new, strong, clear-eyed, and ready to take

on the world. But first, I will learn about pleasure.

Violette slips her hands inside my Quaker-dull dress and pushes it off my shoulders,

stopping to tug loose the ties of the stained petticoats and worn stays. The garments drop away

with a swoosh and bunch around my bare feet. I stand still as Violette skims her hands over my

exposed flesh, wiping away the goose bumps and leaving eddies of warmth.

“Beautiful child.” Violette tips her head and smiles. “Come, ma petite fille. Come.” She

offers her hand palm up, the skin smooth, the lifeline deep. I lay my own smaller hand atop and

step free of the trappings of society. Chill air swirls over my bare skin; my nipples tightened. A

shiver builds inside.

“Quick. Under the covers.” Violette steers me to the bed. “You’ll soon be warm.”

I lieay down and let the silks and satins swallow me. Violette slides alongside and pulls

the pillows and fabrics around us and over us until we lie buried side by side, skin to skin, in a

rainbow-colored nest of translucent silk. She reaches over my head and takes down a glass jar,

dips her fingers inside. The scent of roses settles into the space between us.

Fingers dancing, she feathers the cream into my skin starting at my neck, working down

over my breasts, swiping across my belly, and settling between my thighs.

I let my head fall back. “That feels—so different—from when I touch myself.”

“Is always better to share, ma chère.” She picks up my hand and places it on her breast.

“Touch me the same.”

I uncover lust. I discover love.

Chapter 16

By one offense Anna Dickinson removed herself from all hope of again treading in the

paths of purity and happiness.

Erie Observer

December 1862

It has snowed again. I hurry down the street cursing the slush that trickles into my half-

boots and the hidden ice that threatens to tip me into a drift. I am late. Violette will be peering

out the window, waiting. It has been a week since the fever fled, but still she worries.

I round the corner and startle a flock of black birds pecking at stale bread thrown out by

some fastidious housewife. I dive forward and grab for the biggest bit. The birds rise up,

screeching in protest, and circle overhead, black omens against the white sky. I shove my stolen

crust into my pocket.

One bird, still hopeful, swoops down. I wave my arms to chase it off. “Watch out, stupid

bird. I’m hungry enough to eat you.”

The mill whistle blows three times, and the bird soars off, cawing its protest. I press my

hand against the flaky leaves of papers I carry inside the breast of my coat. My feet want to stop,

my arms want to throw the letters into the wind. Instead, my sense of duty carries them to

Violette unopened, praying ignorance can keep the crows from landing.

When I enter my room, Violette is leaning against the windowsill. “You have earned

enough?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.

I hide my red, chapped hands. “Enough?”

“You’re a stubborn thing, no?” She moves forward and catches me by the chin. “Don’t

look at me like that, mon cochon—it’s no secret you’ve been swabbing floors at the mill to earn

your train fare. I service half the mill, and men gossip more than women.”

I shrug and pull out my lump of stale bread. “We must talk.”

“Non, petite amie. Get back in bed. You’ll catch a chill again.” Violette’s voice is

pinched.

I suck on the crust. “Letters have arrived.”

Violette, her eyes silvered in the winter light, stares at me for a long minute. Then

breaking the spell, she strides across the narrow space and flops down on the bed, her legs spread

wide, her striped-stockinged feet sticking out from under her skirt. With the riot of red curls

hanging around her white face and her cheeks pink from the cold, she looks like a doll

abandoned on a child’s bookshelf—a china doll—easily broken. But I don’t want a doll; it is the

living, breathing Violette that stirs my blood.

I take out the letters and lay the bundle in her lap. “They have found me.”

With her fingernail, Violette pokes at them. “You could let them think you died.” She

tilts her head, assessing. “You look half-dead.”

“If I don’t go, someone will come. Probably nosy Burns, or whoever discovered I bought

a ticket to Gorham. I imagine it was not too hard. Not many young Quaker ladies travel to the

White Mountains in dead winter.”

I untie the string binding the letters together. “The editor of the local paper handed them

to me at the mill. He said it offended his sensibilities to come here.”

“His sensibilities?” Violette’s head flies back. She laughs. “Hypocrite. Like the pillars of

town society don’t sneak up the back stairs and come between my legs or maybe Martha’s.”

“Fuck the man.” I throw myself down on the bed. “Oh—I don’t believe I just said that.”

Violette moves over and curls her body against mine. “I have been a bad influence. Oui?”

“No. You have opened my eyes.” I roll onto my back and stare up at the cobwebs. “Men

talk about—fucking—all the time. Why can’t we? It offends my sensibilities that women like you

are forced to sell yourselves to avoid starvation.”

I glance over at her. “If we can’t talk about it, how will we ever eliminate prostitution?

Women are condemned by society because they are betrayed by men they love or sold by their

own fathers or violated and discarded. Ruined. Like a book left out in the rain,”—I give Violette

a hard look—“or like you, they need the money to support themselves and their families.”

I smack the pillow with my fist. “I’ve been asking for equality with men. That’s not

enough. Women must have justice. I’d like to stick a knife through every man who ever

degraded a woman.”

“That’s easy to say. You can’t change my past”—Violette hesitates—“or whose child

you are.”

“I can hate.”

Violette turns and lays a finger across my lips. “Don’t. Hatred is a double-edge knife that

cuts both ways. It will cut out your heart and make you bitter.”

I kiss her finger. “My pearl of wisdom.” I nest my head on Violette’s shoulder, my chin

notched in the indentation of her collar bone. The scent of jasmine and rose rise between us. “So

my mentor advises against hate. Therefore, I should love instead?” I sit up. “But I reject any love

between man and woman. There’s no such thing. Men love a woman like they love their dog or

their horse or their gun. They want them, need them, use them, and protect them, but that is not

love. Women love with their whole being. They know what it is to live in a woman’s body, in a

woman’s world. The bonds women forge with other women are our greatest source of strength.”

I whisper into Victoria’s ear. “I love you, my red-haired angel.”

“I know, dear heart. I know.” The red-tipped finger glides across the blisters and calluses

on my hand. She lowers her lips and kisses my palm. “Now open your letters and learn your

fate.”

I fan the envelopes out in front of me, holding them like cards in the poker games the

lumbermen play in the tavern down by the mill. There are three. Two crinkled with edges worn

from handling, and one pristine. “One from my sister and one from Fanny. Come by way of the

Whittier’s.” I stack those to the side. “And one from Elizabeth Whittier, herself.”

I tear the end off and slip the neatly creased stationary out. I scan the brief note. “She

writes she was pleased to meet me and informs me there is to be a gathering in Boston on

January first in expectation of Lincoln signing the Emancipation Proclamation. Her brother will

be attending. She wonders if I would consider not going.” I crumple it up. “Uppity busybody.

She’s probably the one who gave these to the nosy newsman who’s tracked me down.”

“Were you planning to go?”

“I am now.”

“Oh.” Violette looks away. “Are you sure you’re well enough?”

“I’ve saved enough for tickets to Boston, but that’s all. Nothing for food on the trip. I’ll

find speaking engagements along the way. Some church groups scraping lint for the soldiers or

the like.”

“But you have a job here, earning some coin.”

“Mouse droppings. And if I stay here—” I close my eyes. “I’ll end up whoring out of

hunger.” I swallow the last of my bread. “And guilt, my angel.”

Violette’s lips turn in. “Then I must lose you to save you.”

“I will be back. I have a mountain to climb.” I give her a kiss and pick up the envelope

from Fanny. I rub my finger over the blue etching of the Liberty Bell, and then tear it open and

pour over the long missive.

“What does your friend say?”

I cuddle closer to Violette. What would Fanny say if she could see me now? I picture

Fanny’s sweet round face wide-mouthed in disgust and shake the image away. “Mostly news and

gossip. Fanny’s a chatterbox. Let’s see. She mentions the Emancipation celebration too.”

“Oh, now this is interesting. There’s going to be two events. A concert at the Music Hall

and a vigil at Tremont Temple for people of color led by Frederick Douglass. He’s a family

friend. Might have a chance to speak at that.”

I turn the letter over. “The war, of course, goes on. Lee continues to run circles around

the idiot generals. Oh, there’s been a great battle at Fredericksburg under Burnside. A slaughter,

she says—over twelve thousand Union causalities. They’ll need more recruits and me to stir up

support for the war. Another reason to head back to civilization.” I toss it aside, pick up the last

letter, and skim the pages. I groan

Violette lifts her head. “What’s the matter?”

“I don’t believe it. My sister. She’s done it. Quit her job. Spent all the money I sent her to

pay the bills and still is in debt for eleven dollars.” I fall silent. “Marmee bought a black silk

dress to last the rest of her life.”

I stare at Lisbeth’s letter so long the shadow cast by the slat-back chair inches from one

crack in the plaster to the next. The room chills. My toes grow numb. But I do not move, even

though Violette’s fingernails press into my skin, sharp as flint.

I draw my feet under me. “I’m too proud for my own good, Violette. I can’t stop loving

her just because I want to.”

Violette pulls my head down into her lap and runs her fingers through my hair. “Love is

like that.”

PART 3

America’s Joan of Arc

1863

“She was all ablaze with inspiration that in ten minutes she made you forget whether it

was a man, a woman, or one of Mary Wollenscraft’s ‘third sex,’ who was pulling on your heart.”

New York Evangelist April 1863

Chapter 17

Curiosity to hear a woman in the rostrum has, in the case of Anna E. Dickinson, given

place to an earnest desire to profit by her patriotism and eloquence.

The Philadelphia Press

January 1863

Despite a well-fed coal stove, the brick and granite Concord Odd Fellows Hall is a tomb

of a building only slightly warmer than the frigid New Hampshire winter outside. I grip the

lectern to keep my hands from shaking with the cold.

I’ve survived the parting from Violette and the January snub of the Boston Brahmins and

am on the road again. I will not go home and face my traitorous sister. Lost Quaker that I am, I’d

probably punch her in the face if I did.

Instead, I will keep on course fighting for justice and doing all I can to make a name for

myself. But only until I have enough money to live the life I want with Violette by my side. Not

that there is much hope of that.

I look out at the sparse crowd and admonish myself to finish up. At a dime a head, the

twenty people or so who braved the snowy night to hear me speak will barely raise enough

money to cover my squalid hotel room, train fare to the next town, and perhaps one hot meal.

Besides, I’m freezing.

With Gorham only two weeks past, I dare not risk the cold settling into my lungs again. I

squint at the audience and doubt any of the self-satisfied, small-minded people looking up at me

would nurse me the way a common prostitute had.

I flounce my skirts, swing my arms more for the warming effect than any dramatic

purpose, and with a voice gravelly with disuse, conger up the dying soldier boy and end with a

bow. The audience applauds politely and rises, as anxious as I to escape the cold.

Escape from this icy tomb will not be as easy for me. Across the hall, Floyd Burns waits.

I do not need to check to know he is here. He has trailed after me ever since I put the White

Mountains behind me. Sometimes I think he spends more time focused on me than on his

reporting, though his articles in the local rags record my words verbatim.

I tuck my hands deeper under my armpits. In a few minutes, he will appear at my side,

loop his arm in mine and demand an interview. I have given up trying to avoid him. He is the

only newsman reporting on my every appearance, large or small, and recently, the venues have

been small—nickel or dime events in churches and town halls or patriotic women’s sewing

circles that pay even less.

A hand brushes against my arm, and I flinch. He is early.

“Miss Dickinson?” The accent is New England thick. “Benjamin Prescott at your

service.”

I look up. A gentleman, squat and portly, tips his hat and smiles. His bushy mustache

curls over his upper lip reminding me of the sea lion my brothers had taken me to see at

Barnum’s Temple of Wonders when I was a child.

“I’m secretary of the Republican State Committee in New Hampshire,” he says. Prescott

glances at the departing crowd. “You seem to have caught everyone’s attention, even the local

rowdies. In my entire life, I’ve never heard anyone speak like you.” His nose twitches, and his

face takes on the look of a lawyer preparing to negotiate. “The young newsman over there

suggested I approach you. The party would like to hire you to campaign for our candidates. He

thought you might be interested.”

Speaking for the Republicans? My mind windmills at the possibilities, but I maintain my

self-possession and despite the pounding in my heart, answer with measured calm. “I might.”

****

Twenty minutes later, Mr. Prescott scurries off, leaving me with my blood fizzing like a

heady ale. Mr. Fine-and-Fancy waits for me at the doorway. For once I am happy to see him. I

have news. Grand news. I bounce up and down on my toes. “Mr. Burns. You are the first to hear.

My fortune is made. The Republican party is hiring me to go on the stump for them. They will

pay me a hundred dollars a lecture for thirty lectures. Three thousand dollars. I don’t believe it. I

cannot thank you enough for setting up the meeting with Prescott. I hope you will be sending a

report to New York about this.”

Floyd tips his head in acknowledgment. “Done. Did it while Prescott was jawing with

you.”

I jump from one foot to the other. “I can’t believe it. I will never face obscurity again. So

much for my sister’s last letter and her stupid idea that I do dramatic readings to women’s

groups. I am going to be giving political stump speeches to men, exhorting them to vote. It’s

unheard of. A first for women.”

I spin around, drunk with success. He catches me by the arm. “Come, let me walk you to

the hotel.”

A blast of wind hits us as we step out of the building. Burns draw me close and uses his

body to shelter me from the gusts. Heady with my turn in fortune, I let him.

He raises his voice to be heard over the wind. “My best wishes for your success.” He

leans closer. “After all, your success is my success. So I hope you will be pleased with my

proposal.”

“Proposal?” Now that sounds ominous. Despite the raw weather, I put some space

between us.

“About the deal Prescott’s offered you.”

“Oh.” I relax and shake my head. “I’d be a fool to refuse it.”

“Certainly, you must take it. But have you considered the danger?”

“Danger?”

“Have you examined the contract he’s offered? Those towns he wants you to speak at—

that’s Copperhead territory. Full of anti-war Democrats. Republican candidates have refused to

campaign in those places. Afraid they’ll be shot. The politicians are using you. Prescott told me

he doubts you will be able to speak in more than two or three.”

“Only two or three? We’ll see about that, Mr. Burns. I can be very convincing. After all, I

am the embodiment of Jeanne d’Arc—as you are so fond of telling me. They’ll have to burn me

at the stake to stop me.” I turn on my heel and stride away from him.

I am half-way down the street by the time Burns catches up. He snares me by the arm.

“You can’t just ignore the danger.”

I shake him off and keep moving. “Of course I can.”

“The Copperheads will destroy you.”

I whirl to face him. “Never. The war must be won if the slaves are to be free. Frederick

Douglass said it at Tremont Temple in January. The proslavery doughfaces are using the

Emancipation Proclamation to stir up racial hatred. My job is to stir up love of freedom in equal

doses, and that means helping the Republicans win this election.”

Floyd seizes my hand. “You misunderstand me. I expect no less of Joan of Arc. But my

brave girl, you can’t go into these places alone. You need a man by your side.”

“A man?” A chill whips through me. I stare at him. “Is this a marriage proposal, Mr.

Burns?”

He drops my hand like it is a flaming torch. “A business proposal, my dear. Someone to

organize your schedule, arrange your accommodations, handle contracts and finances. Protect

you from attack. A man of affairs—so to speak.” He takes a step closer. “Though I would not be

averse to marriage, if your heart were so engaged.” He lowers his lips. “I am owed a kiss.”

I flick my head aside and make a curtsey worthy of Fanny Brown. “So you are. But not

tonight. It is much too cold. I am sure we’ll meet again at my next assembly where we can

further explore the workings of my heart and my finances.” I glance behind me. “Oh my, I seem

to have reached my hotel. Goodnight, Mr. Burns.” I turn and slip inside the door.

I take the steps to my third-floor room two at a time and burst into my room. I leap across

to bed, land belly down, and kick up my heels. “I’m rich. Three thousand dollars. I don’t believe

it.” I flip onto my back and pull the hundred dollar advance out of my pocket.

I toss the greenbacks into the air, push up, and sit crossed-legged in the middle of the

mattress. Mr. Greedy Guts Burns thinks he should deal with my finances, does he? Balderdash.

Mathematics was my strongest subject at Westtown School.

I gather the money into a pile and add in the coins collected at the Odd Fellows—one

hundred and eight dollars in all. “Now let’s see. Fifty for Lisbeth. She can hire a woman to care

for mother. Get Marmee some nice things besides a black dress. Pay off the ridiculous debts

she’s acquired lolling around on my sweat.” I lick my finger and peel off more bills. “Plus five to

order some cartes de vista for me. But she is not getting it all. Not this time.”

I put her stack to the side and return to my sums. “Now. Six to repay Fanny. That’s a

must. Twenty-five for travel costs and pocket money. I refuse to be hungry and stranded ever

again.”

I pat my neat little pile of earnings. “From now on, I travel in style.” I survey the dingy

hotel room with its worn-down carpet, battered furniture, and permanent stink of old sweat.

“And stay only at the best.”

I thumb through the remaining bills. “Mr. Prescott thinks I will fail, does he? Well, I’ve

got a secret weapon those male candidates don’t. Sex.” I count out twenty. “Let’s see. A better

corset to replace this one. New shocking stockings to peeak out when I swing my legs. Velvet

trim and brass buttons to sew on my gray dress. Give it some military style. And a new gown,

stylish with ruffles, but not too outrageous. Something to draw an audience of men and hold their

attention, but not give their wives something to clack about. A fine silk, I think, in black. Yes,

very appropriate. I will be in mourning for the soldiers who have given their all.”

One more debt. I weigh the remaining coins in my hand. Two dollars. Violette deserves

more. I owe my life to her. I take ten dollars from the travel fund. Twelve dollars. It will have to

do. For now. Tomorrow I will send it off to Gorham.

I turn down the gas flame and crawl under the covers. The bed is lumpy with a deep sag

in the center, the linens foul with the odor of the last occupant. I flip over. Soon I will lie in big

fluffy featherbeds in a grand hotel.

A slow thumping starts at my temple. The sheets are cold and damp, and Violette is not

here to drive the chill away. I roll back and pray she is safe. As soon as I have more funds, I will

beg her to leave those frozen wastes and lust-filled men and come be my companion. For now, I

must imagine her here. With practiced ease, I glide my hand down my body. I am a new woman.

I need no man.

I squelch a laugh. If only Fine-and-Fancy could have seen himself extending the tip of his

tongue in anticipation of a kiss—a fat pink worm wiggling on the end of a line as if I were a fish

to catch. Marriage, indeed. Violette would call him a poor fisherman to bait the hook so wrongly.