“Yes, sir.”
They practically tripped over each other in their rush to escape. When the door slammed behind them, Thornton crushed the newspaper into a ball and threw it across the room. Not as satisfying as throwing it into the fire would have been, but the fireplace had been converted into a gas grate. He looked around the luxuriously furnished room for something to smash, and snatched an oriental vase off the mantel.
Testing its weight, he considered the satisfactory way it would shatter against the marble hearth, and then he thought of poor dead Marjorie and how horrified she would be at its destruction. His wife had been gone for almost six months, but he could still savor the pleasure he’d taken in terrifying her when she was alive.
And now he was looking forward to seeing that same fear in the eyes of that little chippie Betty Perkins. This time he savored the rage boiling up inside him. No female was going to get the best of him, no matter how pretty she might be. Not Marjorie and all her stuck-up friends, and not Betty Perkins with her idiot brother. Once he got finished with her, she’d be thinking about him for the rest of her short, miserable life. In one fluid motion he lifted the vase over his head and smashed it against the hearth.
? ? ?
By the time the train reached Virginia, the women had lapsed into weary silence. Anna had actually fallen asleep leaning on Elizabeth’s shoulder, and she woke with a start when the train rumbled to a stop. Elizabeth’s stomach growled, making her think how unappealing hunger strikes were. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and she didn’t expect dinner at the Occoquan Workhouse would be very satisfying.
“Where are we?” Anna asked.
“End of the line,” Elizabeth said. The women started gathering their things.
Someone said it was half past seven when they started herding the women off the train and into the winter darkness. A line of wagons waited to transport them to the workhouse, and Elizabeth obediently climbed aboard one of them like the rest of the women. Once away from the station, Elizabeth could see little except the bit of road ahead illuminated by the lanterns on the wagons.
Ordinarily, Elizabeth didn’t like having somebody hanging on her, but tonight she tolerated Anna’s clinging for the warmth of her body. Winter-stripped trees loomed over them in the empty country darkness, reminding her of how alone she was. After a while, she caught sight of an American flag, of all things, visible in the light coming from the workhouse windows. The massive structure took shape as they neared it, sprawling away in every direction, its massive wings disappearing into the night.
The wagons stopped, and Elizabeth climbed out with the rest of the women and allowed herself to be herded with them into a large room that looked like some kind of office. A couple of battered desks sat at one end, the only furniture. A hatchet-faced woman in a gray dress introduced herself as Mrs. Herndon, the matron. Elizabeth knew the type. She would enjoy making their lives miserable.
“Line up and give me your names.”
“We demand to see Superintendent Whittaker,” one of the women said.
“You can see him tomorrow. Now line up and—”
“We are political prisoners, and we demand to see Mr. Whittaker.”
“You’ll wait here all night, then,” Mrs. Herndon said with a smirk and turned her back on them. About a half dozen bruisers in guard uniforms stood around the room, ready to do her bidding, but she just sat down behind one of the desks and proceeded to ignore them.
Nobody was going to give an inch, so Elizabeth staked out a spot near the wall and sat down.
“That floor is filthy,” Anna said.
“The cells will be worse. Better get some rest while you can.”
“She’s right,” Mrs. Bates said, taking a seat on the floor beside her. “Very practical. You’re a sensible girl, Miss Miles.”
Anna lowered herself carefully on Elizabeth’s other side. “Why don’t they lock us up?”
“Mrs. Lewis asked to see the warden,” Mrs. Bates said. “I suppose we’re waiting for him to arrive. Where are you from, Miss Miles?”
“South Dakota,” Elizabeth said, choosing a location least likely to be familiar to anyone here.
“You’ve come a long way,” Anna said. “Do your parents approve of your work for women’s suffrage?”
“My parents are dead. I live with my aunt, but I’m afraid I lied to her about where I was going. She wouldn’t have approved.”
Mrs. Bates shook her head. “So many of the older ladies just can’t imagine a world different from the one in which they’ve always lived. They actually consider themselves fortunate not to have to think about politics and government.”
Elizabeth would consider herself fortunate never to have to think about it. That was all Thornton talked about, politics and government contracts and how he was going to make a fortune selling rifles to the army. Near as she could figure, government was just the biggest of the big cons, with everybody trying to get the best of it for themselves and sting the other guys. Thornton seemed to think he was the smartest of the bunch, too. “I’ve noticed that most older people don’t like things to change.”
Mrs. Bates smiled, probably because she was pretty old herself. “Change is coming whether anyone likes it or not.”
“Where are you from, Mrs. Bates?”
“New York City. I’m afraid I convinced Anna to join me on this trip. I’m sorry to have gotten her into this.”
“Nonsense. I’m glad I came,” Anna said, although she looked completely terrified.
“Do your parents approve of your work for the cause?” Elizabeth asked the girl.
“My father is dead, but my mother knew I was going to march with Mrs. Bates outside the White House. I think she was rather proud of me for that. It’s my brother, David, who doesn’t approve. He thinks he needs to protect me now that Father is gone. Do you have a brother, Miss Miles?”
“No.” Was that a lie? She couldn’t be sure, and she couldn’t allow herself to think about it now.
“Then you have no idea how overbearing they can be. David would keep me in a glass case if he could.”
“He only wants you to be safe,” Mrs. Bates said. “He loves you very much.”
“Being loved can be a form of bondage in itself, don’t you think, Miss Miles?”
Elizabeth had no idea. “If it is, I’ll bet it’s more pleasant than this kind of bondage. Do you live with a disapproving relative, too, Mrs. Bates?” she asked to change the subject.
“No, just my son.”
“What does your son think about you marching?”
“Gideon believes in our cause.”
Which didn’t exactly answer the question, but Elizabeth didn’t really care. She was only making conversation to pass the time.
“Will they really keep us here for three months?” Anna asked.
“I don’t think President Wilson has the stomach for that,” Mrs. Bates said. “He’ll probably pardon us after a day or two, as he’s done before.”
A day or two wouldn’t help her at all. “Can you refuse a pardon?”