The Memory of Adelaide

by Laura Rockfeller

illustration by Amy Yang

“I think it’s disgraceful that they are willing to make such a display of themselves.”

The constant motion of her fingers as they twist back and forth around the delicate stem of her champagne glass is incongruous with Adelaide’s relaxed posture on the chaise. This posture is, in truth, as carefully crafted on her part as she hopes it looks effortless to her companions. “For ladies to go among the raucous, possibly drunken, men who I am told make a nuisance of t hemselves at polling places is worse than ridiculous. It is compromising,” she continues.

“Hear! Hear!” Her husband applauds. She tilts her head to admire him as he leans against the mantelpiece. A cigar dangles with easy grace from between two fingers of his right hand.

“Thank you, Edward.” Despite the presence of their dinner guests, she rewards him for his support with her most beguiling smile.

“But dearest Adelaide, can you really not be the least little bit curious to vote yourself?” Winnifred asks, peer-

-ing over the top of her champagne glass as though its presence in front of her face might shield her from Adelaide’s indignation. “I’ve heard that 70,000 women have registered to vote in Boston alone. It will be an historic occasion.”

“Not at all. I find curiosity very unbecoming in a lady,” Adelaide replies, draining her champagne in a manner that Winnifred might say was also unbecoming in a lady. Fortunately for Adelaide, Winnifred does not often speak her mind in public.

Edward toasts Adelaide with his snifter of scotch. “I am indeed a lucky man to have a wife with enough sense of her own that I have no need to restrain her.”

Adelaide’s fingers tighten around the stem of her glass, but she recovers in time to return his toast before anyone notices her unbecoming surprise.

Why would he say something like that? Adelaide wonders as she prepares for bed later that evening. The idea that Edward could or would speak of “restraining her” has never crossed her mind in eight years of marriage. Of course, she has never given him any reason to restrain her, she thinks with a toss of her head as she unfastens her necklace and hands it to Susan, her maid. Adelaide believes she can congratulate herself on having more than enough sense of her own. She is quite capable of restraining herself.

As a child, Adelaide was trained to be a perfect wife and hostess, and as an adult, she prides herself on how deftly she fulfills both of those roles. She is contentedly aware that many women of her acquaintance envy her graceful capability in running her house and her exquisite taste in clothes, and that many men of her acquaintance envy her husband for having her tall, slender form behind

him. She feels fortunate to know what her duty is and to know that she executes it exquisitely.

This, she thinks to herself as Susan unpins her long auburn hair, is why she cannot understand these so-called “suffragists”!

What is it that these women want from the vote? These women who unsex themselves by lecturing from public platforms to promiscuous audiences of both men and women—by picketing on street corners for all the world to gawk at?

They say they want a Voice?

They have a Voice through their husbands, fathers, and brothers, who care for them in the public sphere as women care for men in the private sphere.

They claim the need for a Sense of Purpose?

Adelaide is glad that she has her own Sense of Purpose through her charity work and her vital role as the caregiver for her family. She has no need to meddle in the affairs of the nation. A small voice at the back of her mind prods her: What family? You’ve given your husband no children yet. But Adelaide silences that voice by standing up and dismissing Susan. She saw the light under the communicating door to Edward’s room go out a few moments ago, so she knows that she will not be disturbed for the rest of the night. Before turning out her own lamp and getting into bed, she pours herself a glass of brandy from the small Waterford decanter on the table and adds a few drops of laudanum.

The next morning, she has a headache and does not go down to breakfast but rings for a tray to be brought up to her room. Moments later, Susan appears with a tray and that morning’s mail.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m afraid it’s a bleak, rainy morning,” Susan says as she scurries across the room to open the curtains. She puts her hands on her hips as she surveys the vista of dripping autumn leaves and umbrellas outside the window.

But Adelaide isn’t listening. Her focus is on the front page of The Boston Daily Globe.

The headline loudly proclaims, “10 TO 1 BETTING ODDS ON HARDING,” and then continues in a quieter font, “Both Party Chairmen Claim Victory— Women Ensure a Record Vote.”

“Susan…” Adelaide is surprised by how tentative her voice sounds. "Yes, ma’am?” Susan turns back from her surveillance of the damp pedestrians on Arlington Street. "May I ask you a personal question?” Adelaide does not look up as she says this.

“I suppose so, ma’am, so long as I’m at liberty not to answer.”

“Of course. I only wondered…” Adelaide looks back at the subheading. Women Ensure a Record Vote. “Do you intend to vote in the presidential election today?”

Susan emits a noise that Adelaide can only describe as a snort. “Well, now, ma’am, I would,” she says. “Only I don’t know near enough about either of these two men from Ohio to feel qualified to give an opinion. Besides,” Susan continues, looking down at the flowers in the carpet, “I can’t vote now, can I? I have to work.”

Adelaide is suddenly very conscious that she is lying in bed in a dressing gown. “I see,” she mutters, staring at the newspaper. “If that is the only obstacle—” Her suggestion is cut off by a knock at the door. “Come in,” she calls.

The door opens to admit Edward. Susan continues to hover by the bed to hear the end of Adelaide’s sentence, but her chance is lost.

“I’ve come to see how you are before I leave for the office,” Edward says, walking over and planting a kiss on Adelaide’s forehead. “You can go, Susan,” he adds, sitting down on the bed and picking up a piece of toast from the breakfast tray. Susan bobs a curtsy and slips out of the room with a drooping head. “Just a word of advice today, love,” Edward continues. “I wouldn’t go out if you don’t absolutely have to. We have no idea what kind of chaos may reign in the streets today with all of these Amazons heading to the polls—not to mention the way that some of the lower sort of men may react to them. I would hate for you to be caught up in any unpleasantness.” “Of course, dear,” Adelaide replies, brushing a crumb of toast off his collar. “It’s a wretched day outside anyway. Perhaps the rain will keep some of the old crones at bay.” Before taking a demure sip of her tea, Adelaide murmurs, “The newspapers seem to have high hopes for voter turnout.” “The newspapers!” Edward scoffs. “What do they know—hyperbole and hysteria.” “You are right, of course,” Adelaide agrees. “Be sure to wear your overshoes if you intend to walk from the office to the polls.” “I will. Have a pleasant day, sweetheart.” He turns back at the door. “You do look a bit peaky—shall I send for the doctor on my way out?” Adelaide smiles. “No need. A quiet morning will do me

a world of good.”

She lays her tray aside once Edward has left the room. She has lost her appetite.

Standing in front of the hall mirror an hour or so later, Adelaide pins a hat on her carefully coiffed hair. She buttons her kid gloves. She laces her high-heeled walking shoes. Despite Edward’s advice, she is preparing to go out.

Yes, she is preparing to go out, but she does not intend to go go there. And yet, that is where her feet lead her as soon as the butler lets her out of the front door.

As she walks, Adelaide can hear Edward’s words from last night echoing in the headache that she can’t subdue…

“I am indeed a lucky man to have a wife with enough sense of her own that I have no need to restrain her.”

Adelaide silences that voice by walking faster and pounding the pavement beneath her delicate heels with a vigor that will certainly return to haunt her in the form of sore legs in the evening. She continues her walk along Beacon Street, dodging other sodden pedestrians and their umbrellas as the click-click of her heels on the pavement continues to pick up pace.

Somehow, it still feels both strange and joyful to see so many people out on the streets. It was about this time last year that the influenza epidemic made its insidious reappearance after lulling them all into a false sense of freedom and complacency over the summer. Those who were able to fled back behind their masks and closed doors. Those who were not able to flee…

Adelaide shivers and readjusts her umbrella.

The disease’s unexpected return left Adelaide with a

feeling of unease every time she stepped out of her house. She wanted to overcome it, but the dread of some unseen contamination lurking in the air between her and the people around her did continue to wash over her when she least expected it. Every night she prayed that the infection was no longer lurking in some damp corner of the city, and every morning she woke up wondering.

Adelaide is rescued from these dark thoughts by the approach of the overpowering cloud of scent and starch that is Mrs. Timothy Frances. “I do hope you are not walking farther up the hill, my dear Mrs. Westwood,”dear Mrs. Westwood,” Mrs. Frances says, coming to a stop with a full-body shake that reminds Adelaide of a large purple bird settling its plumes.

“No, indeed!” Adelaide responds quickly. “I’m just going over to Tremont Street—to see Miss Knowlton about a new gown I ordered…for Mrs. Elmsworth’s dinner next week.”

“I am relieved to hear it,” Mrs. Frances responds, folding her hands over the handle of her umbrella and leaning toward Adelaide as though she is Guy Fawkes giving Catesby news of King James’s approach to Parliament. “The street is crawling with roving bands of suffragists.”

“Fear not, Mrs. Frances.” Adelaide takes a few steps back from the asphyxiating lilac scent of her interlocutor. “I will certainly do everything in my power to avoid that rabble.”

She bobs her head and starts to move on. Then she stops and turns her head to recall Mrs. Frances. “Are they very repellent?” She is instantly mortified by the unmistakable note of hope in her voice.

“Appalling, my dear!” Mrs. Frances responds with a

Cheshire cat smile that widens her already broad face. “Marching along the pavements as bold as brass—singing their frightful suffrage songs at the tops of their voices.”

“At least they have the decency to warn unsuspecting pedestrians that they are approaching,” Adelaide replies with a laugh that makes her chest feel hollow. She has the unpleasant sensation that her voice is ringing out for all to hear from end to end of Boston Common.

As she resumes her walk, she pulls her veil down over her face. She is disinclined to encounter any other acquaintances.

The inescapable pounding of her shoes on the pavement is making her head throb, but she can’t seem to slow down. The rhythmic click-click of wooden heels on flagstones starts to merge in her head with the click-click of piano keys at a party many years ago…

Freddy Boncassen, ever au fait with any popular mischief on the rise, arrived at her parents’ home with the sheet music for the latest comic song by Mr. Gray, which poked fun at these silly suffragists. Encouraged by the praise of her friends, Adelaide had always been a bit conceited about her singing voice—though she generally tried to conceal this self-confidence behind blushes and batting eyelashes—and she sang Freddy’s new song with gusto. Edward laughed at her posturing as she sang out:

“…Your dear old ma just took a fighter’s place. She likes the smell of powder ’cause it’s always on her face!”

In her youthful exuberance, she ended the song with

her best imitation of one of those shameless poses favored by the music hall hussies her brother Robert hid pictures of in the back of his closet. Edward, also caught up in the high spirits of the moment, put his arm around her waist and kissed her.

They were engaged a few days later.

After barely two years of marriage, Edward answered his country’s call and enlisted to fight in the Great War. Adelaide was desperate to follow him to France as a nurse, but his mother explained to her that a lady’s place was not on the front lines.

“You have a duty to stay in Boston and run Edward’s house for him,” her mother-in-law said in a tone of voice that brooked no contradiction. “Do you want to add to Edward’s troubles during this perilous time by making him worry for your safety as well as his own?”

“Of course not, Mama. But surely I am just as capable —as young and able-bodied as Edward,” she pleaded. “Is it not also my duty to follow my husband’s example and use my talents to serve my country in her time of need?”

“You have a duty to ensure Edward knows that he still has a warm and loving home here that is worth fighting for,” his mother replied.

This argument struck the young bride forcibly, and she threw all her energy and strength into supervising Edward’s affairs at home, only feeling a twinge of envy every once in a while when she saw a friend or acquaintance don her smart Red Cross uniform and embark on new adventures in France.

She kept her mind occupied by writing Edward long, newsy letters full of details about their cozy house, local gossip, charitable committees she had joined to support the war effort, and any tidbit she could think of that

might shed a little light and warmth to pierce through the dark and cold of his days in the trenches.

She felt that her heart might burst when he returned home last year and she discovered that he had kept every one of the letters she had written him over those four bitter years of separation. She had never felt so proud as she did in that moment. An action of hers had been important to someone. She was of value. There was a reason for her existence beyond planning menus and drinking tea at committee meetings.

The cheerful red and yellow blaze of the autumn leaves on Boston Common seems to have been made brighter by the falling rain, so it is with some regret that she turns into narrower streets lined with venerable brick buildings. Their large windows looming over her look like the unblinking eyes of disapproving matrons. Perhaps, she thinks, these suffragists are acting out because they have no one to love or to care for but themselves. It must be exhausting to always be thinking about themselves. “My rights.” “People like me deserve the vote.” “I’m being overlooked.”

For a moment, Adelaide feels sorry for these desolate women. They are clearly so desperate to find a way to give their solitary lives meaning.

She has seen drawings in the newspapers of what these suffragists look like: wizened hags dressed in boxy, oversized coats and shapeless hats. Some of them have even started wearing dresses that have no waists! Adelaide (who has always been very proud of her tiny waist—in her teenage years, she could lace down to twenty inches) cannot fathom why anyone would choose to wear one of these newfangled “drop waist” dresses. What went wrong

in their youths to cause these women to have so little self-respect?

She is suddenly aware of the sound of high-pitched, excited chatter. Then a burst of girlish laughter, like a trumpet fanfare, announces the appearance of a band of young women that is rounding the street corner just ahead of her. Their shoulders are adorned with sashes of purple and gold, and the hems of white dresses flutter out from under their coats. They look like a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Adelaide feels short of breath and ducks into the recessed doorway behind her. She doesn’t want to be seen by this bevy of bright young things. All at once, her tastefully tailored jacket feels ill-fitting, and her decorous skirt feels dowdy. She shuts her umbrella with a snap, showering herself with droplets of cold water.

Can these elegant, proud young women truly be suffragists? Where are the miserable spinsters of the cartoons? “Now, girls!” one of them is saying in a clear voice that bounces off the sides of the buildings like the call of a bell. She is a petite young woman with a head of shining blonde curls and a slight figure like a fairy’s. “We mustn’t astonish the men too much when we arrive at the polling place!” “Oh, honey, I’ve been astonishing men all my life!” one girl pipes up from the front of the crowd as she adjusts the angle of the hat on her stylishly bobbed hair. “I can’t stop now.”

This statement is met with another chorus of exhilarated laughter and a few cheers from the butterflies.

“No one would ever ask you to rein in the effervescence of your charms, Kat,” the fairy responds. “I just

mean that perhaps we could decrescendo the pitch and volume of our excitement? I know we are all positively brimming over with joy, but this is a solemn occasion, too.”

The notes of laughter and chatter fade as the fairy continues to speak.

“Let us not forget what the Silent Sentinels—and all the other women of the movement who came before us— endured to win us the right to vote. Let us not forget how these virtuous and brave women were brutalized—tortured—during the Night of Terror at Occoquan Workhouse. We are here today because of the grit and bravery of Alice Paul…”

Murmurs of agreement from the company.

“…of Camilla Gertrude Whitcomb, Inez Milholland…” “Hear! Hear!” from the group.

“…and of the mothers of our movement: Lucy Stone, Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton. We cast our votes today in their memory and to honor their long and bitter struggle!”

An ebullient cheer rises from the assembly—from these charismatic young women, so different from the grim picture of suffragists that Adelaide has created in her head. These are not the disgruntled “old crones” and “Amazons” Edward spoke of this morning. These are vibrant young women, inspired to be heard and to make something of their lives.

Their own lives…

What have you made of your own life? That irksome voice prods Adelaide again. Do you have a life of your own?

I live for someone else. That’s better—more noble, Adelaide insists, squinting at the young women before

her as though she is arguing with them, not with her own unwelcome thoughts.

As the party of women moves on toward their destination, Adelaide emerges from her hiding place.

I have made a home. I have made a family, Adelaide assures herself. I have been important to my husband. I have made my parents proud. That has given my life meaning. I have done my duty.

She is alarmed to realize that she is blinking back tears.

For a moment, her body does not move. She doesn’t even seem to breathe.

She wants to go home, to be reassured by the sight of the rooms she has decorated so superbly. To give instructions for the week to the staff she has so skillfully assembled. To see how her husband’s weary face relaxes into a smile when she greets him with a glass of sherry.

Instead, she finds herself continuing in the same direction—following that band of suffragists. So bewitching, all in white.

She stops across the street when she reaches the polling place, reaching out one hand to grasp the lamppost next to her. The gesture is a weak effort to feel some reassurance of a tangible reality in this nightmarish day, this insubstantial scene.

True, one man leaning against the wall by the entrance to the building is taking swigs from a bottle and making off-color comments to ladies as they take that first step into the hall, but, for the most part, the ladies ignore him, and as Adelaide watches, a policeman walks over to him and leads him away by the elbow.

To a degree that Adelaide finds astounding, men and women are approaching the hall together in an orderly,

purposeful fashion. Without animosity.

Orderly, that is, until young Kat of the bobbed hair and effervescent charms emerges from the door, followed by a few of her friends. Thrusting her umbrella into the air as if it is the magical sword Excalibur, she cries, “We did it!” The young ladies behind her respond with a magnificent shout. Several of them toss their hats in the air. The new arrivals at the hall greet this gesture with a mixture of consternation and amusement, some looking down in embarrassment, others smiling at this eruption of unadulterated glee.

Adelaide struggles to think if she has ever felt a pure joy of the type now exhibited by young Kat. She tries to remember when she last radiated happiness instead of control.

The dance of light and laughter in a Beacon Hill ballroom from a few months ago playfully swirls its way into her mind.

Her husband was in conversation with a colleague, Mr. Greene, the editor of one of the local journals, as she stood by and listened. Edward was very kindly, praising her letter-writing and the skill she had shown in a few short tales that she had written to amuse their young nephews and nieces. “Have you ever thought of sharing your talents, Mrs. Westwood?” Greene asked over the rim of his cognac. “I am always happy to be obliging,” she replied, snapping her fan out in punctuation, “but what, precisely, do you have in mind?” “We are always looking for new stories—new writers—to include in my paper, particularly writers of such taste and standing as yourself,” Greene replied. “I

would be pleased to look over anything that you might wish to send my way.”

For a moment, she was so astounded that even the habitual motion of her fan was suspended. It was as though effervescent rapture had suddenly filled her veins, and, in an instant, she might float up off of the ground and dance away to join the stars in the sky.

Before she could collect her sparkling thoughts enough to answer, Edward spoke for her.

“My wife has no wish to court notoriety,” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder. “She is well aware that her sphere is in our home, not in the public eye.”

The weight of his hand crushed all of the bubbling excitement from her being. What a foolish fancy she had allowed herself to have, to imagine dancing with stars in the sky. To think that people beyond her family circle might care to read any thoughts that came from her pen.

A footman passed by with a bottle of champagne, and Adelaide thrust her glass toward him to be refilled.

“But it is quite common these days for ladies to publish their scribblings!” Greene persisted. “Consider the success of Miss Bly’s reports—”

“Forgive me,” Edward cut him off. “But my wife has no wish to have her name associated with the likes of those new women. It is not right for a woman to contend with the pressures of living a life in the public eye.”

The hastily imbibed champagne helped Adelaide recover from her moment of introspection, and her fan resumed its flutter. “I certainly have no interest in their nonsensical ‘dress reform movement,’” she said with a burst of laughter so harsh that she was almost surprised it didn’t crack the glass in her hand.

“No, indeed,” Edward agreed. “No one could ever wish

you to look any different from the way you do this evening.” He slipped his hand from her bare shoulder to her corseted waist. “Would you care for a waltz?”

She felt the customary weight of ingrained pride in her appearance and in her husband’s approbation descend on her like a yoke. She finished her champagne, put the loop of her heavy train over her arm and nodded her acquiescence with a dead and dazzling smile.

That was the night that she started taking a few drops of laudanum before retiring to bed.

Adelaide drops her umbrella at the sound of a voice close to her ear.

“I do beg your pardon,” she says, but before her disoriented limbs can move to reach for the fallen umbrella, it is handed to her by a trim woman whose well-cut suit is almost the same gray as her hair. Her unusually large brown eyes blink at Adelaide from behind a pair of thick spectacles. “Forgive me if I startled you,” the woman says with a smile that softens the severity of her angular features. “I saw you standing here, and I wanted to inquire whether you might like someone to walk with you to the polls?” Seeing Adelaide’s eyes widen, the woman adds, “I would not object to some company myself. It is a remarkable day—one almost feels the wish for a companion to help shoulder the burden, to assure one that it is really happening…at last…” The woman’s large eyes seem ready to brim over.

“I…” Adelaide takes a deep breath and starts to smile, but then she catches sight of a tall figure with shiny galoshes approaching the hall. Edward.

How had the possibility of crossing his path here

never crossed her mind? If she could, she would slap herself for her own stupidity. She moves her umbrella to hide her face and continues in a breathless voice, “I believe you have mistaken me, ma’am. I have no intention of mixing with the masses at the polls. I was out on an errand and mistook my way.”

“I see,” the woman responds, peering at Adelaide from behind her thick glasses as though she is an owl. “That’s a pity. Now that you are here, are you sure I cannot persuade you to join your sisters in the making of history?”

“Quite sure.” Adelaide glances around the umbrella to be sure that Edward has not seen her. In one petrifying moment, his eyes meet hers.

His brows knit together in confusion, then lift in surprise that quickly turns to anger. He crosses the street toward her without heeding the puddles that his polished boots smash into on the way. Adelaide! I thought I told you to stay at home today.” He grabs her by the elbow with a forcefulness that makes the woman in the gray suit back away.

“You did.” Adelaide looks around her and realizes with mortification that his sharp movements have drawn the attention of more than one person on the street, including Kat and her suffragist butterflies, who have stopped on the corner to wait for a few straggling friends.

“Then how have you come to be in the exact spot that I warned you would be unsafe?” He twists her arm as he pulls her closer.

She has never seen this look on his face before. They’ve had tiffs in the past—what married couple hasn’t?— but those had been over whether to paint the drawing room robin’s egg blue or sea green, or whether they really needed to attend a dinner when the hosts were insuffer-

ably boring. None of their differences of opinion in the past have ever made his eyes look as though they are about to emit sparks. Never before has he gripped her arm with such force that she can feel the bones in her elbow grinding against each other.

“It was a mistake, Edward—please, you’re hurting me.” The weakness implicit in the tears that rise to her eyes infuriates her. She tries to shake them off, but her throat continues to tighten. Out of the corner of her eye, Adelaide sees Kat lean over to say something to the fairylike girl with the blonde curls.

How could Edward humiliate her like this? She is a fully grown woman being treated like a child in front of strangers in a public street. Being restrained.

Edward takes a breath as if he is about to say more, but she does not give him the chance. With a strength that she does not expect to have, Adelaide pulls her arm free from his grasp and turns so abruptly that she whips Edward’s legs with the wet hem of her skirt.

She walks quickly, then starts to run, hardly heeding where she is going. The buildings fall behind her, and she finds herself leaving the smooth pavement and sloshing through wet grass to the bank of the river. She can go no further. She drops her umbrella and wraps her arms around herself, gasping to catch her breath. It seems that the seagulls are laughing at her as they whirl through the sky overhead. She presses her hands over her ears.

As her breath slows, she lets her arms fall and steps slowly forward to the rhythm of a favorite speech from Shakespeare. The words seem to ripple up from the river as she inches closer and closer to the soothing waves.

“…with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief…” She reaches the river’s edge and admires the grace of her slate blue walking shoe as it begins to nudge its way out from under her mud-crusted skirts and reach over the edge of the riverbank.

“‘What’s her history?’” she murmurs as a raindrop slides off of her shoe and hits the water, sending ripples out across the way. “That is for her to decide,” a female voice behind her says. Adelaide teeters there for a moment, knowing that she cannot sustain her current position for long, but uncertain of which way to fall when she releases this tantalizing tension. This suspended moment of indecision is so seductive, so full of possibilities.

The voice behind her continues. “It doesn’t matter how much pressure you feel to please other people. In the end, you must own responsibility for the choices you make.”

The luxurious darkness of the water looks so restful and serene to Adelaide, whereas the brightness of the afternoon sun breaking through the clouds overhead seems to demand such an effort to face its brilliance.

“There is a part of me that was terrified to come out and vote today,” the voice continues, as though it is making conversation over a cup of tea. “I know that my late husband, God rest his soul, would have hated the idea of women voting—bless her, my mother would have hated it, too. I can’t think of one person I respect who would encourage this decision, but at the end of the day, my own conscience is the only entity to which I really owe an answer.”

Adelaide does not move and makes no reply.

The voice continues. “Could I ever forgive myself if, after having been granted a voice in the affairs of our nation while so many are still stifled, I choose to stay silent?”

Replacing her suspended foot firmly under her, Adelaide turns to face the large brown eyes of the spectacled woman in the grey suit.

“Besides,” the woman adds with a smile, “I’m sixty-eight years old and should be allowed to do as I please.”

Adelaide folds her veil off of her face and feels the emerging sun of the autumn afternoon fall on her skin.

“I was concerned when you left the polls in…in such haste,” the woman continues, choosing her words with care, “so I took the liberty of following to make sure you were all right.”

Adelaide looks around her, hoping that no one else saw her moment of dalliance with the beguiling oblivion of the river.

“Don’t worry,” the woman adds. “Your husband didn’t follow you. He saw some men he knew, pulled himself together, and went on to vote with them.”

Adelaide takes a deep breath, savoring the familiar smells of autumn leaves and woodsmoke. She stoops to pick up her discarded umbrella, then stands and straightens her shoulders. “Would you still like a companion to go in and vote?”

The woman nods and extends her hand. Together, they begin their walk back up the hill. They intend to go there.