Mr. Blair asked Olaf to read his theme as an example of what the essay should contain.

Olaf Jorgensen lumbered to his feet and ambled up to the podium where he shifted uneasily behind the stand. His theme praised the United States and equality for all. Laura had to admit it was organized well, and Olaf had used specific examples to emphasize his major thesis.

The day crawled by, and her heart was as heavy as the books she carried. If she could only make Mr. Blair see that she also had some good examples in her paper and that she could write, too. The awful part of it was that she couldn’t even go in and talk to him about it, because he had such a closed mind. She vowed to show her paper to Miss Emerson and get her opinion. If it really was a bad paper, she could then accept Mr. Blair’s grade more gracefully.

After school she hurried to see Miss Emerson, who was grading papers. Laura always liked coming into her colorful classroom with its posters and portraits of Shakespeare, John Milton, Charles Dickens, and the Bronte sisters.

Unlike Mr. Blair’s barren desk, Miss Emerson’s was cluttered with papers, a framed class picture, and a coffee cup near her books.

Her English teacher looked up and smiled. "What can I do for you, Laura?"

Suddenly tears sprang to her eyes. "It’s Mr. Blair. He gave me a D on my theme." She gulped. "Do you have time to read it and give me your opinion?"

"I’m certain I’ll like it better than Mr. Blair, but that will be small consolation," she said ruefully.

"It would console me," Laura said. "If it’s a rotten essay, then I can accept his D." She wiped away a tear, composed herself, and offered her the theme. "Would you read it?"

"Of course, I’ll read it," Miss Emerson said sympathetically, taking the paper that Laura held out to her.

After ten minutes Miss Emerson looked up from the theme, tapped the paper with her pencil, and said, "This is good. Oh, there are a few minor flaws in syntax and verb agreement, but that’s minor compared to your powerful subject. The suffragists are a movement that can’t and won’t be ignored, despite Mr. Blair’s attitude. I myself go to the suffragist meetings, but that’s beside the point." She leaned back in her armless desk chair, swiveling back and forth. "You realize I can’t interfere with another teacher’s grade."

Laura breathed deeply with relief. "I value your opinion, Miss Emerson. It’s so unfair being stuck in his class. Not only does he make history boring, but he hates me." She fingered a button on her blouse. "You don’t know how I dread going into his class."

"Stick it out, my dear. You have only a semester left of Mr. Blair, and you must realize that all through life you’re going to encounter men like him. Most are not quite as open in their dislike of any form of emancipation of women as Mr. Blair, but you’ll encounter his attitude in many ways and from many individuals. Some women are just as bad." Her gray eyes flashed. "Set yourself a goal. Do you have a goal in life, Laura?"

Laura shrugged, hating to admit that her career goal of being an architect had gone up in smoke. "I — I don’t really have anything in mind," she stammered, and managed a smile. "If I set my sights too high, my sister and mother bring me down to earth in a hurry."

"Nonsense," Miss Emerson snapped. "You can be anything you want to be, and no one can hold you back. I’ve been watching you, Laura Mitchell, and you’ve got style, ambition, and fire. Go to college and don’t let anything hold you back. It’s different now than it was in 1898 when I attended college. Then there was a set curriculum for young ladies. Now there are many fields open: science, law, medicine, the arts," she said, ticking them off. "Oh! It’s four o’clock and I have a meeting." Abruptly she stood. "Come in and talk anytime, Laura, but I can’t run interference between you and Mr. Blair. That’s something you’ll need to solve yourself."

"Thanks for listening," Laura said. "I can deal with a low grade on my paper, knowing what you think of it." She smiled as she tucked her essay in her notebook. "I should have guessed that you’d be a suffragist."

Miss Emerson grinned. "You’d be an asset to the cause yourself!" She closed her classroom door behind them.

"Thanks, Miss Emerson, I’ll see you tomorrow." She waved. "Cassie’s waiting for me, and she probably thinks I’ve deserted her." She raced down the hall to her locker, hoping Cassie hadn’t grown tired of waiting. She was relieved when she rounded the corner and saw her.

"What kept you?" Cassie asked, but she wasn’t angry.

"I saw Miss Emerson. She read my paper and gave me her opinion." Laura opened her locker and put in her math book, taking out her history book.

"Ah, Mr. Blair’s grade. No wonder you’re so glum." Cassie shook her head. "He’s so awful."

"Did you get a bad grade, too?" Laura said.

Cassie laughed. "No, my topic was safer than yours. I wrote about the wave of German immigrants in 1848. I managed a B."

Laura closed her locker, and they walked down the corridor. "It’s one thing to write a bad paper and get a D, but to write a good one, that’s what hurts." She opened the front door. "Even Miss Emerson agrees it was good. I know what made Mr. Blair angry. It was the part about women and voting that set his teeth on edge."

Cassie’s carefully plucked eyebrows shot skyward. "I didn’t know you wrote about women’s rights."

"Well, sort of," Laura admitted. "The other night, when I was coming home from my motorcade training, I saw a group of women being arrested. I couldn’t believe my eyes." She glanced at Cassie and was surprised at how absorbed she looked. "What’s wrong, Cassie? Is it a crime to sympathize with the suffragists?"

"Not at all," Cassie responded quietly.

As they walked past the linden and elm trees, Cassie looked elegant in her beaver hat, matching muff, and leather boots. She cleared her throat and took a deep breath, facing her friend. "Laura, I think you’re ready to hear my secret."

Surprised, Laura stopped walking. "I won’t tell a soul," she promised, waiting patiently for Cassie’s next words.

"I’m a suffragist," Cassie said clearly, the words ringing in the cold afternoon air.

Amazed, Laura sank back against the trunk of a tall elm. "You?" She gasped, staring at her sophisticated classmate. "A suffragist?" Not Cassandra Whiting, she thought. All at once she reached out and grasped Cassie’s gloved hand. "Oh, Cassie, that’s so exciting. So daring!" Her thoughts returned to that day in class. "No wonder you wouldn’t tell Mr. Blair why your homework wasn’t completed."

"Yes," Cassie said dryly. "I didn’t feel like being yelled at that day."

Laura laughed. "Cassie, you astonish me! I can’t believe someone as rich and glamorous as you is involved in the women’s movement."

Cassie smiled. "You’d be surprised how many prominent women are at our meetings."

"Miss Emerson is a suffragist, too," Laura said in wonder.

"I know," Cassie said. She paused, then asked, "Would you like to go with me to a meeting?"

"I don’t know," Laura said slowly. "My mother doesn’t exactly approve of the suffragists, and I’m involved in a lot of things now."

"Few people do approve of our activities," Cassie countered. "Anyway, on Sunday night there’s a meeting at the Women’s National Headquarters. Miss Paul, the leader, is speaking." Cassie’s eyes were bright. "I wish you’d come."

"Maybe…" Laura still wasn’t convinced. She didn’t know why. Perhaps she knew that if she became involved with this organization it could become an all-consuming passion.

"Don’t you see, Laura?" Cassie persisted. "We can make a difference. You and I. President Wilson has just issued a statement in support of our cause. Now is the time to push for our rights. If we don’t, time will pass us by."

Suddenly Laura wanted to know more about what made these women such fervent believers. What made them stand up in the face of arrest and vilification? What made Cassie’s eyes shine? She made a decision. "I’ll go, Cassie!" She squeezed her friend’s hand, knowing it was the right decision.

 

Chapter Eight

Saturday night the dance at the armory was every bit as exciting as her wonderful hopes had been all week. The glittering lights and the garlands of flowers made the large hall an enchantment. Here she was swirling around in Shawn’s arms wishing the evening would never end.

Shawn drew her closer as they danced the fox trot. "You know you’re a natural-born dancer, Laura." He held her at arm’s length, gazing into her eyes. "You’re agile and light as a butterfly. Ah, Laura, I love to hold you in my arms." The music soared. Laughing, he swept her around in a giant arc and they glided over the shiny floor swiftly and gracefully. She felt like a fairy princess in her prince’s arms.

"That lavender dress does something for you, sweetness. In these twinkling lights your hair looks beautiful." He touched her hair and she felt a wave of delight. He did make her feel so feminine, as if she were the only girl on the floor. She did feel pretty in her soft chiffon dress, which reached to mid-calf. The bodice had a rounded neckline and cap sleeves, and the dress was encircled with a taffeta sash with tiny rosebuds around her small waist. She nestled in Shawn’s arms, enjoying the texture of his rough wool uniform beneath her hand.

After the latest jazz steps, the band played her favorite music to the "Castle Gavotte," which was initiated by Vernon and Irene Castle, the best dance team in America, and the dance she loved above all others. With arms outstretched and hands touching, they rocked forward two beats, back two beats, then facing one another, she took Shawn’s hand, and, to the heavy drum beat, danced completely around him to his sheer delight.