The Sister's Tale, Beth Powning [important books to read TXT] 📗

since she did not know what kind of expression to put on her face, whether to smile or show fear; she knew only to be as invisible as Ellen, Mary and Margaret had instructed her, a costume hung on a line.

She set down the tray so carefully that the porcelain barely shivered. She straightened, wanting to hurry back to the warmth of Ellen’s kitchen, where she could resume rolling dough thin enough to be pressed with a star-shaped cutter.

Josephine’s guest was leaning forward, hands shaping a story.

“…she had written and passed the matriculation exam. In fact, she placed second. It is a requirement for a student wanting to enter the University of New Brunswick. The law states that any person passing that exam, paying the dues, and agreeing to abide by the rules of the university will be accepted. Well, she—”

“Excuse me, Carrie.” Josephine held up her hand, apologetic. “I would like you to meet Flora Salford. Flora, this is my cousin, Mrs. Emmerson.”

“Good day, Mrs. Emmerson.”

The woman looked up with acute, curious eyes.

“I’m happy you’ve come to this house, Flora.”

Flora dropped a knee, awkward.

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

Leaving, she wondered if Josephine would have introduced Mary or Margaret to Mrs. Emmerson, girls whose last names Flora did not know.

—

Wrapped in shawls, Josephine and Carrie watched Flora leave the room. Sunlight shimmered in the frosted windows, stretched across the Persian carpet. New Brunswick was in the midst of a spell of intense cold.

“She was not admitted,” Carrie said.

Josephine was momentarily puzzled.

“Oh, the student.” She laughed. “Yes. I’m sorry. Would you like milk in your tea?”

Carrie accepted cup and saucer and sat back. “Mary Tibbits. She was not admitted into the university. Do you know why? Because even after interceding with a lawyer, even after going directly to President Harrison, she was denied entrance. They said, in effect, that a woman was not a person.”

Carrie herself had been sent to a boarding school in Boston and then attended the Wellesley Female Seminary. She was married to a lawyer, lived in St. John, gave private lessons in French, German and Italian.

“A woman has graduated from the University of Mount Allison College, you know,” Josephine said. Proud, because she herself had attended the female branch of Mount Allison Wesleyan Academy. “The first woman to receive a bachelor of arts degree in the British Empire.”

“Yes. I’m sure Mary Tibbits called that to the attention of her member of the legislative assembly. He took up her cause, you know. He threatened to withdraw provincial funding unless she were admitted. The university reconsidered its position. She is there now. The non-person became a person.” Carrie drew a long breath and Josephine thought, inconsequentially, of a battered doll she had once glimpsed lying on the pillow of Carrie and her husband’s bed. They had no children.

“It makes me angry.” Carrie stirred the milk into her tea. “Very angry.”

Carrie’s visits always left Josephine feeling half-formed, tattered, and infused with a determination to join the Women’s Christian Temperance Union, as had Carrie, or visit the poor, as Carrie did, or start an organization of her own, as Carrie had done, several times—resolutions that faded as she discussed the week’s menus with Ellen, or sorted through calling cards in the silver dish, or wrote to Simeon telling him of lectures at White’s Hall, skating parties, the cornet band concert. Only this morning, she had been asked to join the town beautification committee, and had accepted, and did not tell Carrie.

“The position of women is not that different from that of the paupers,” Carrie said, after a silence broken by the icy spit of snow against windowpanes. “Despite some progressive laws giving women like ourselves, married women, more rights to our own property, judges continue to adhere to narrow and patriarchal interpretations. By the way, did you see today’s paper?”

“No.”

“You know that American who writes for The Weekly Record? Mr. Train?”

“Yes, I saw him at the auction.”

“He has written a diatribe comparing the pauper auction to the infamous slave sales in the southern states before the war. He’s renowned in the United States, you know. Pleasant Valley will come to international attention.”

“It was terrible, Carrie. There were three little children, a brother and two sisters, separated. My friend begged me to rescue Flora. Men were bidding for her.”

Carrie set down her tea. She had not touched her cake.

“There is so much wrong with the way things are now.”

Her face hardened. Her voice acquired an elevated, strident tone.

“Perhaps you don’t see it, Josephine, living here in this quiet little town. In the city, you can hardly hear yourself think, you can hardly breathe the air, there are so many manufacturers. There are women working in those mills. Children working ten hours a day. In dreadful conditions. And we women, who understand their needs better than any man, have no say in either drafting legislation or voting. Because, like your Flora, we are non-persons. We have been pauperized.”

She is not my Flora, Josephine thought, resenting the implication, intimidated by the word legislation.

Carrie sat forward on the edge of her chair. Josephine fancied that the years at sea had formed the freckles mapping her cheeks, and the remote, musing expression with a hint of remembered hardship that reminded her of sea captains—Simeon, Uncle Nathaniel.

Carrie frowned, tapped her knuckles on the arm of her chair.

“I am starting an organization to fight for women’s suffrage.”

Suffrage. The word was appearing in the newspaper with increasing frequency, and Josephine sensed its peculiar complexity—suffering, muffins, rage—and could not help understanding why its adherents were mocked. The organization would be based in St. John, too far away for her to feel the obligation of joining. A relief.

Carrie glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece.

“I must go, Josephine. I told Mr. Dougan I would be ready by four.”

In the hallway, Carrie fastened the clasp of her cloak, worked her fingers into wool-lined gloves.

“I will be back to attend Mr. Train’s next lecture. Did you know he intends to dress a