Page 24 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Olive perched on the ivory settee in Longfellow House, clutching her Votes for Women sash and willing the gnawing pit in her stomach to subside.

Fat chance, as the knot had only grown in the days since she’d humiliated herself by kissing Emil while in handcuffs and then fleeing his house as if chased by a band of wild dogs.

The whole thing had dredged up her worst anxieties and set them squarely in her path.

That had to be why, even now, while facing an entirely different danger, she was tempted to bolt.

Around her, Society members bustled between the tearoom and front hallway, adjusting hats and pinning sashes over their coats with a steady hum of chatter.

Their excitement was palpable. After months of careful planning, the local suffragist clubs’ grand automobile procession was finally at hand.

The event had been timed to coincide with two pivotal moments: the House vote in Olympia and the arrival of a renowned anti-suffragist, Reverend Roy Lipscomb.

It was bold and newsworthy. And utterly terrifying.

“I could hardly sleep last night,” said Yuki, standing before the bay window. “I kept imagining the Reverend’s sour face when he heard the House passed the bill.”

“Seventy to eighteen,” Imogen crowed from her side. “Take that, you stodgy old turnip!”

“Turnip, indeed,” Yuki laughed. “I’m sure he was looking forward to applauding the House for upholding traditional society.”

“No doubt he’ll fall right back into his sermons on the natural order and the sacred duties of women,” Clem added with a snort. “At least now he’ll have to do it knowing we’re one step closer to winning.”

“And with close to a hundred suffragists glaring while he sermonizes on his train platform,” said Yuki, and they all laughed.

Winnie wandered into the tearoom, waving the morning edition of The Puget Sound Post in the air. “Apparently, the majority treated our measure as a joke, but the joke’s on them—the bill is now in the hands of the Senate.”

“The fight is going to be harder there,” Clem warned. “We mustn’t let up.”

Imogen groaned. “I still don’t understand why it’s such a fight. The bill isn’t even passing suffrage—it’s merely handing the responsibility over to the public—sorry, the men—and letting them decide if women should be able to vote.”

“It does seem backward,” Clem said. “But it lifts the burden from the legislators’ shoulders to decide themselves. The direct democracy carries heft for Progressives.”

“Meaning?” Yuki asked dryly.

“Meaning maybe it’ll work.”

“I hope so.” Imogen sighed. “But I’m not looking forward to an additional year and a half of badgering men.”

“You think one more year is bad?” Judith poked her head in the room. “Talk to me when you’ve been at it for decades.”

“Sorry, Aunt Judith. You’re a pillar of patience.”

“It’s running thinner with each passing moment. Now, where is Rhoda and the automobile she promised us? She’s half an hour late!”

“She’ll be here,” Clem said.

The discussion carried on, but Olive barely heard it over the pounding of her heart.

Why wasn’t anyone else as worried as she was?

How could they stay so optimistic when the risks loomed so large?

She felt like an outsider, stranded in her own unease while they moved forward without hesitation.

But then, maybe that was the difference—she had more to lose than most. Her thoughts ricocheted between Emil Anderson, Mrs. Drake, and the man with the silver-tipped cane. Was she making a terrible mistake?

Just then, Winnie sank onto the settee beside her. “You’re awfully quiet today.”

Olive tried to smile. “I’m just thinking.”

“About what?”

“About whether or not I should go on the procession,” she whispered. “It’s just…I’m not sure if it’s a good idea…” She trailed off when Winnie’s brows knitted together. She looked down at her hands and waited for Winnie to scold her cowardice.

“I don’t understand. What could go wrong?”

With her? Everything.

“I’m having some trouble with my landlord,” she said in a low rush. “She’s an anti. If she finds out…”

“I see.” Winnie tapped her fingers on her knees. “What if you borrow Della’s motoring hat? It’s enormous—the brim alone will cover half of you. The veil will manage the rest, especially if we tie it over the top of the hat.”

“That could work,” she admitted. It wasn’t so different than her widow’s veil disguise, which had protected her well enough. “Thank you, Winnie.”

“Of course. This, at least, has a solution. Unlike Rhoda’s situation.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

Winnie darted a glance around the room before replying in a much more subdued tone. “Clem has been worried about her ever since their trip to Olympia.”

“But I thought the trip was a success.”

“Clem said Rhoda was out of sorts the whole time. Barely sleeping, impatient with everyone. And then she harangued a Senator on the streets so forcefully that the man called her father to complain. And you know how strained Rhoda’s relationship with her father is.

He went to Olympia and dragged her home. Apparently, it was quite the row.”

“That’s terrible.” Olive’s heart hurt for her friend. It was becoming clearer by the day that all was not well in the Carlisle household. “Do you think she’ll show up?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, it might be better if she doesn’t.”

Before Olive could press further, the front door burst open with a bang. Rhoda stood in the entryway, her arms thrown wide in triumph.

"Your chariot awaits!" she declared.

Her voice was loud and bright, but it didn’t distract Olive from noticing the shadowy crescents beneath her eyes, nor the tightness in her smile, as if it took effort to keep it in place.

A prickle of unease ran down her spine, and she exchanged a quick glance with Winnie, who only lifted one shoulder in a slight shrug before rising to her feet.

Olive did the same, hurrying to Della’s side to make her request.

By the time she had secured the motoring hat, the others crowded the entryway. Imogen, closest to the door, reached for the handle and swung it open. She stepped outside, then let out a gasp.

“Oh, Rhoda, it’s wonderful!”

“What is it? What did she do?” Della called, but Imogen was already dashing down the steps with her characteristic lack of restraint.

“Hurry,” Yuki encouraged. “I want to see!”

The ladies surged forward, breathless laughter escorting them out the door. Olive followed with Clem at a more cautious pace, crossing the portico to the stone steps. When they reached the front yard, Olive came to an abrupt halt.

Two grand automobiles idled at the curb.

It wasn’t the glossy shine or the luxurious craftsmanship that halted her, but the bold cloth banners decorating them.

Rhoda’s hand-painted slogans were unmistakable.

Votes for Women stretched proudly across the hood in purple and gold, while The Seattle Suffrage Society ran the length of the body in striking green.

“Rhoda, my auto has never looked better,” Judith declared, striding toward the first automobile. “Della, Imogen, and Yuki, with me!”

The women piled inside the decorated auto, Judith in the driver’s seat, Della beside her, and the young ladies in the back seat. Rhoda was already following suit, pulling open the driver’s seat of the second auto and giving them an impatient look over one shoulder.

“Let’s go, already,” she said with a huff. “We can’t be left behind.”

This was the moment to commit or run away.

If she climbed into the second auto, she would be seen—albeit in shadowy form—by anyone watching from the sidewalks, the street corners, or the railroad terminal.

Of course, she could go further. She could be a true suffragist. She could remove the motoring hat and lift her chin in defiance for all the world to see.

She could be the kind of woman who didn’t hesitate, who wasn’t held back by what ifs.

Oh, who was she kidding?

She couldn’t. She absolutely, positively could not.

Anonymous participation was all she was meant to have.

Hidden behind veils, tucked among the stronger women like a weak lamb needing protection.

She hated it, but it was her lot in life.

Her consolation prize. She tucked her chin and climbed into the rear seat.

Winnie gave her a wide grin from the front seat, but Clem remained on the sidewalk, studying Rhoda suspiciously.

“What’s the problem?” Rhoda asked, her voice colored with an annoyance that shocked Olive into stillness.

“Does your father know you took his automobile?”

“Yes.” Two bright spots appeared on Rhoda’s pale cheeks. “Stop worrying so much.”

“I’m worried about you,” Clem retorted. “Did you tell him what you’re using it for? Or will this come as much of a surprise to him as to why you were in the Capitol?”

“My father is my problem.” Rhoda’s hand moved to the handbrake. “Are you in or out? Because I’m leaving.”

“There’s no need to be testy,” Winnie said, staying Rhoda’s movements with a hand. “Clem has every right to ask. Our actions today will reflect directly on her leadership. A confrontation with your father would greatly disturb our goals.”

Rhoda was silent, her jaw ticking. Olive exchanged a worried glance with Clem, but dared not speak. She had no idea how to help.

“He won’t be a problem,” Rhoda finally said, her tone noticeably less defensive. “I’m sorry to be such a pain.”

Clem pulled herself into the back seat, then leaned forward and wrapped her arm around Rhoda’s shoulders. “It’s already forgotten. Let’s redirect our energy toward the deplorable Reverend, what do you say?”

“Agreed,” Winnie said.

“Yes,” Olive chimed in.

“Already done,” Rhoda said, then shot them a sly glance. “Though we need to stop at Pike Place Market.”

“Why?”

“To pick up my order of tomatoes, of course.”

Clem smacked Rhoda playfully on the shoulder. “Nice try.”