A March to Remember (6 page)

“You haven't told Sir Arthur yet?” Sarah said, more astute than I would've given her credit.

“What haven't you told me yet?” Sir Arthur said. I nearly jumped as Sir Arthur with the reporter joined our group. “Something concerning you, Hattie?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Something that has only recently come up.”

“Well?” Sir Arthur stared at me in slight impatience.

“It's a personal matter, sir. May we speak of it in private?”

“Of course, but first, some introductions are in order. Dr. Grice?” Sir Arthur said.

“Sir Arthur Windom-Greene, please meet my sister, Mrs. Daniel Clayworth,” Walter said.

“Delighted. And this,” Sir Arthur said, indicating the man I'd seen at the bawdy house, “is Simeon Harper, a—shall we say—colleague of mine. He's a journalist who's been marching with Coxey since that dime museum business in Allegheny City.”

The episode had filled all the newspapers. The proprietor of a dime museum invited Coxey and his men to be one of the exhibits for a week. Coxey had declined, declaring, “We will have no dime museum freaks in this aggregation.” When three members of the Commonweal accepted the dime museum owner's invitation, Coxey expelled all three men forever from the army.

“Coxey's Army!” Sarah declared. “I have followed the newspapers' accounts since the man stepped foot out of his front door in Ohio. You must tell us some of your personal stories.”

Of course, I never said such a thing and felt ashamed even after I thought it. And, in fact, I was as eager as Sarah to hear the stories of his adventures with the Coxeyites. But my curiosity had been piqued. Did Sir Arthur know his colleague was in Hooker's Division this morning? What would he think if he did? And why was Mr. Harper, journalist or not, associating with a woman like that, especially since he was supposedly reporting on Coxey's Army? Did Coxey's Army have a connection with the bagnio? If only I could ask such a question.

“Of course, Mrs. Clayworth,” Mr. Harper was saying as he unwrapped a piece of Wrigley's chewing gum. “And who is this lovely lady?” Again I'd been left out of the introductions. This time I wasn't offended; I was uneasy. Whether I was more uneasy being caught ruminating on such thoughts by the very man I was thinking about or as the object of that man's regard, I wasn't sure.

“Miss Davish is my personal secretary,” Sir Arthur said.

“Ah, I've heard about you,” Mr. Harper said, popping the chewing gum into his mouth.

He had? First Mrs. Cleveland and now this journalist. Why was Sir Arthur mentioning me to his acquaintances?

Before I could consider the reasons further, Sir Arthur said, “Now, Harper, after that heated discussion in the Senate, you must tell us something we don't know about Coxey and his band of misfit men.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Is it true Carl Browne was once a journalist, like you?” Sir Arthur asked.

“Indeed, among other things. Unlike Coxey, who is a respected businessman, Browne has had a questionable career as a journalist, a political agitator, a patent medicine salesman, a carnival barker, a sketch artist, and a painter.”

“The man's a charlatan,” Senator Smith grumbled.

“What would
you
like to know?” the journalist said, leaning in toward me. I could smell the spearmint on his breath. If our engagement had been public knowledge, Walter would've put his arm around me or confronted Mr. Harper for the lingering look he was now giving me. Regardless, Walter took an almost imperceptible step closer.

My mind raced through the dozens of questions I had about the marchers, but with the man so close, I said the first thing that popped into my head. “Since you were there, do you believe the rumors that the Secret Service has had agents among Coxey's men at least since Allegheny City?”

“My, my, Sir Arthur, you told me your secretary had done a little investigative work for you in the past, but I had no idea she would be competing with me for a byline.”

“What?” Sir Arthur said.

“Where did you hear said rumors, Miss Davish?” Mr. Harper's lascivious smile had been replaced by professional curiosity. I had truly overheard something that wasn't meant to be public knowledge.

“Is it true?”

“Yes, it is true. Now I only came across this information after a great deal of footwork and palm greasing. Tell me, Miss Davish, how did you come to know this?”

“You should attend Mrs. Cleveland's receptions, Mr. Harper,” I said. “You'd be surprised by what the women of this city know.”

“Here, here!” Sarah said, laughing. “You'd make a fine member of the Washington Wives Club, Hattie. You'll have to come to our next meeting. The women of this city will love you.”

“But—?” Mr. Harper said, his brows knitted and his head tilted in puzzlement.

“Dinner awaits, gentlemen,” Senator Smith pronounced, interrupting the journalist's question.

“About that conversation, sir?” I said, ignoring Mr. Harper's quizzical expression and the satisfied smirk on Walter's face. “The personal matter?”

“It will have to wait, Hattie,” Sir Arthur said. Without another thought for me, he launched into a discussion on arranging a visit to Coxey's camp with Senator Smith as he descended the stairs.

C
HAPTER
6

T
he city was resplendent. After taking our leave from everyone after the Senate session, Walter and I had a light dinner at Vorlander's near the Capitol, of soup with fried bread, riced potatoes, lettuce with mayonnaise dressing, and lemon pie. Afterward, as the sun set, we strolled slowly, very slowly, arm and arm back toward Senator Smith's home in Lafayette Square. Beginning at the Capitol, lit up like a glorious, ghostly beacon on its hill for all night travelers to guide themselves by, we passed the Botanical Gardens, its conservatory dark and filled with leaf-shaped shadows. We walked down Pennsylvania Avenue, the thriving thoroughfare lined with buildings of limestone, brick, granite, and wood, of heights commonly three to four but as tall as nine stories high, even at this hour resonant with the
clomp, clomp, clomp
of horses and
clickety-clack
of carriage wheels. We passed the four-story, narrow
Evening Star
newspaper building; the popular, six-story Palais Royal Department store with its mansard roof; a two-story dime museum, the paint peeling from its sign, closed for the night; and, one block from the President's House, the Willard. With its brick façade curving smoothly around the corner, the elegant hotel icon was known to have hosted every president since Franklin Pierce in 1853 and numerous other luminaries including Charles Dickens, Buffalo Bill, P. T. Barnum, Samuel Morse, Lord and Lady Napier, and the first Japanese delegation. Eventually we strolled past the imposing structures of the Treasury Building and the White House. I'd spent weeks in this city and never fully appreciated the magnificence of its architecture, the lushness of its parks, the simple majesty of its grand design. But then I hadn't been on the arm of the man I loved.

All too soon we had to say good night.

“Don't forget to talk to Sir Arthur,” Walter whispered as I took the first step toward the Smiths' front door.

“I won't. Good night.”

“Good night, my dearest Hattie.” And then he muttered under his breath, “Ah, what the hell.”

I turned, surprised by his language, not by what he'd said—I'd heard far worse from Sir Arthur every day—but by the fact that he had said it at all. Before I could ask what was wrong, he leaped up the stairs, wrapped me in his embrace, and kissed me ardently. I couldn't imagine anything ever being wrong again.

* * *

I could still feel the silky touch of Walter's lips on mine when I found Sir Arthur drinking coffee in the drawing room and chatting with Senator and Mrs. Smith. Although I knew him to have been invited to dine with the Smiths, Simeon Harper wasn't among them.

“Sir, may I—?”

“Here's my boy!” Mrs. Smith said, interrupting me. A brown, wavy-haired puppy with eager, intelligent eyes loped into the room, wagging its long tail. It scrambled into Mrs. Smith's arms and panted happily in her lap as it took in the room.

“Isn't he a good boy,” Mrs. Smith said, hugging the dog to her chest. “This is my Chessie, Spencer. The Chesapeake Bay retriever I was telling you about, Sir Arthur.” The dog, drool hanging from his jowls, jumped down to greet the men.

“Fine dog, Mrs. Smith. Just fine,” Sir Arthur said, patting the dog firmly on its head. “Known to be more protective of their owners than other retrievers, you said?” Mrs. Smith nodded while Senator Smith stood to pour himself another drink, giving the dog a wide berth.

“I'm sorry, Miss Davish,” Mrs. Smith said, smiling at her puppy. “You were saying?”

“I wondered if I could speak to you privately, sir?” I said.

“Of course,” Sir Arthur said, heartily rubbing the dog's ears. “May we use your study, Smith?”

“Of course, of course,” the senator said. “Second door on the left.”

“By the way, how is your visit to Washington going, Miss Davish?” Mrs. Smith said without looking at me. She continued to smile at her dog. “Have you visited any of the sights yet?”

“As you know, I have been to the President's Executive Mansion, and the Capitol, of course. But that's all.”

“You have a notebook, don't you?”

“Yes, of course.” I always carried my notebook.

“Then write these down,” Mrs. Smith said, as she patted her knee. Spencer gleefully loped across the room, into her lap again. “These shouldn't be missed.”

I looked to Sir Arthur, who nodded indulgently. I got out my notebook and pencil from my bag and jotted down the list as she ticked them off her fingers.

 

 

“Anything to add, Mr. Smith?” his wife said.

“No, no,” the senator grumbled. He pulled his spectacles from his face, breathed on them until they fogged over, and wiped them with his handkerchief. “You've been quite thorough.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Smith. I'll certainly try to visit as many as my time allows. Sir?” I said, reminding Sir Arthur of my request.

“Yes, if you'll excuse us,” Sir Arthur said.

I followed him out of the room and down the hall in silence. Staring at his rigid back, I suddenly wondered how I was going to tell him I planned to marry Walter, and leave his service.
What if he doesn't approve? What if he doesn't give us his blessing? What if he dismisses me on the spot?

“Like hell you will!” Sir Arthur had his hand on the study room door when a voice from within shouted. “Damn you, Harper! Why can't you leave it alone?”

“Hey, I'm a reporter. And you, my friend, are news. So answer the question, Chester. Did you or did you not—?”

“You disgust me, Harper.”

“I'm just doing my job, Chester.”

“Why the hell did Father let you in his house in the first place?”

“Because he's a friend of mine,” Sir Arthur said, swinging the door open.

“Then
you
answer his question,” Chester Smith sneered as he pushed past Sir Arthur. “Get out of my way,” he barked as he passed me.

I watched as he stomped down the hall and then flung himself, two steps at a time, up the stairs. I turned back toward Sir Arthur and Simeon Harper when I heard Mr. Harper say, “But, Arthur, you don't expect me to let an opportunity like this go by, do you?”

“I'm asking you not to offend my host,” Sir Arthur replied. Sir Arthur turned toward me when Mr. Harper indicated me with a nod of his head.

“Need something, Miss Davish?” Mr. Harper said, pulling a stick of chewing gum from his vest pocket.

“We'll talk later, Hattie. And I'd like those new pages first thing Monday morning,” Sir Arthur said, closing the door.

“Of course,” I said to the closed door. But I didn't leave. What had Chester Smith and Simeon Harper been arguing about? Why did Mr. Harper think Chester Smith was newsworthy? It wasn't simply because he was a senator's son. I leaned a bit toward the door to listen. Sir Arthur said something, but it wasn't clear. I pressed my ear to the door.

“He's been in self-imposed exile for months. This is the first chance I've had to question him,” Simeon Harper was saying.

“It doesn't bloody matter,” Sir Arthur said. “I'm his father's guest and you are mine. Don't embarrass me.”

“Of course, it was never my intention to bring any of this upon you. Truly, I came tonight with a pure heart and good intentions. Nothing like this will happen again.”

“See that it doesn't,” Sir Arthur said.

“Aren't you even a bit curious, Arthur?”

“No. What Chester Smith does or did is none of my concern.”

“Well, I'm going to tell you anyway. Maybe then you won't judge me so harshly.”

I was curious what Chester Smith had done even if Sir Arthur wasn't and waited in anticipation. But it wasn't to be. Footsteps sounded in the hall as Claude Morris approached. I immediately backed away and heard no more.

“Can I be of some service, Miss Davish?” Mr. Morris called to me as I scurried away in the opposite direction.

Not unless you can tell me why Chester Smith is of such interest to a newspaper man,
I thought, knowing the senator's secretary would never do any such thing.

* * *

I awoke with a jerk. I was sitting at my desk and had fallen asleep at my typewriter.
What time is it?
I wondered. I pushed my chair back and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was one o'clock in the morning.

Despite the excitement of the previous day, Sunday morning had found me refreshed, relaxed, and almost giddy whenever thoughts of my engagement drifted into my mind. When Sir Arthur, despite being Anglican, had readily accepted the Smiths' invitation to join them for services at St. John's, a small, classical Episcopal church on Lafayette Square well known because every president since James Madison had worshiped there on some occasion, I had happily strolled the two blocks to St. Matthew's. Walter had been waiting. As always, the light streaming through the stained glass windows, the incense, and the rhythmic cadence of the Mass soothed me, enveloping me with peace. And to have Walter with me, celebrating Mass with me for the first time, I couldn't imagine feeling happier. And then we spent a most pleasant afternoon and evening together, strolling the Mall hand in hand, stealing kisses behind elm trees and basking in each other's company. When I'd finally bidden him good night, after several lingering embraces, my heart had been light and I'd felt more at peace than I had for a long time. What did I care if I'd have to spend the night on my unfinished typing?

But why is Spencer barking?
I thought.

I'd never been one for animals, never having had one as a pet. I had grown to tolerate Mrs. Mayhew's cat, Bonaparte, while working for that lady in Newport last summer. The cat had a habit of stopping by my rooms whenever it was mealtime, and I never disappointed him, never having finished all the food that was prepared for me. I'd been more than happy to share. But Spencer was different. I liked Spencer. I had grown accustomed to the puppy, as Mrs. Smith was never without him, except at the dining table and social events. Even then I was assured he was getting spoiled eating gizzards and ham bones in the kitchen. But then the feeling grew to true fondness. Despite seldom being able to interact with him, as the dog was almost always on Mrs. Smith's lap, we nevertheless regarded one another with kindness and genuine friendship. When given the chance, Spencer always took the opportunity to prick up his ears and pant in excitement whenever I entered the room. And likewise, I always had a kind word, and if the opportunity arose, a good scratch behind his ears. Mrs. Smith commented every time how Spencer was never overtly friendly with strangers but had taken an instant liking to me.

But I'd never once heard Spencer bark like this. Still a puppy, his most valiant efforts resulted in more of a high-pitched whine than a deep growl or bark. But this, if I hadn't known better, sounded like it came from a much larger, more ferocious dog.

“Shut that dog up,” someone shouted.

Spencer, hampered by something or someone, yelped in distress and then gave a stifled growl before falling silent. Suddenly the front door slammed, and the puppy began another round of barking. Mrs. Smith had mentioned that the breed was protective. Could she be in danger?

I pushed back from the desk, ignoring the ache in my neck, and went to the window, my second-floor room having a good view of the street. I was in time to see a man in a black fedora, his back to me, twirling a black umbrella, stroll away from the house and through the park toward Pennsylvania Avenue. I grabbed my shawl from the back of the chair and poked my head out of my door. Claude Morris stood in his dressing gown near the end of the hall. I pulled my shawl closed about my neck.

Before I could ask, Mr. Morris said, “Nothing to worry your pretty head about, Miss Davish. All's well. Just the silly dog barking.”

“Mrs. Smith? Is she all right?”

“Of course.” I bristled at his tone. He didn't say “silly woman,” but it was implied. “You can go back to bed now, Miss Davish.”

“I'm still working. But I will say good night to you, Mr. Morris.”

“Yes, well, then, good night.”

It took all I had not to slam my door. The nerve of that man to speak to me in that tone. Not even Sir Arthur spoke to me with such condescension. Grateful to have work to distill my anger (having falling asleep, I still hadn't finished typing the pages Sir Arthur expected in the morning), I sat back down in front of my typewriter. Before beginning again, I hesitated, fingers hovering over the keys, not dwelling on the audacity of Claude Morris, but wondering in earnest where on earth Chester Smith was going at this time of the night.