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Authors: Stephanie Grace Whitson
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quick peck on her cheek, Matthew made his escape around to the back door of the dining hall. Smelling Martha Haywood’s roast beef dinner almost overcame his unease about being around a bunch of ladies. Almost. But not quite.
Caroline paused just inside the Immigrant House’s double doors to collect herself. Laughter emanated from the other side of the doors on the right labeled Women’s Dormitory . On the left, a door stood open. Jackson Dow had apparently been waiting on a cot just inside the men’s dormitory, for when he saw Caroline, he jumped up and came to the door with a small white bag in hand.
“Your peppermints,” he said, then blushed bright red as he relayed the message that his mother was “indisposed.” “She wanted me to ask you to meet her in the kitchen.” He frowned. “Something about meeting before a meeting?” He motioned toward the far end of the building. “It’s back there. Through the dining room.”
Caroline gave a little curtsey. “Why, thank you, Master George Washington Jackson Dow the Second.”
He rolled his eyes. “I hate it when Mother does that . . . thing . . . like she did at lunch yesterday. It’s like she’s reading a proclamation . . . like she expects everyone to be so impressed.”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” Caroline said, “I am impressed. Your father was a great man.”
“You knew my father?”
“Not personally. But I read about him during the war. He was beloved by his men. I didn’t know he’d passed on until your mother told us at lunch yesterday. I am truly sorry about your father.”
“I don’t remember much about him.” He sounded wistful. “I wish I did. Mother talks about him all the time, but it’s not the same.”
The poor child. Caroline had been so wrapped up in herself for all this way she hadn’t given much thought to how it must feel to be the only boy in this bunch of women. The way he’d jumped up to bring her the peppermints took on a new poignancy as she thought about Jackson sitting in that huge dormitory all by himself listening to the women’s voices echo through the building. She nodded toward the kitchen. “When my brothers were about your age, we used to sneak peppermints out of the candy jar and melt them in hot water. We called it Sweet-mint Tea. Want to try it before your mother gets back from the necessary?”
“There’s something you all need to know before we go to supper,” Ruth said to the fifteen women crowded into the Immigrant House kitchen. “I was in the train station getting a drink of water when I heard Mr. Drake—” She repeated what Drake had said as he dispersed the group of men who’d gathered to meet their train.
Caroline stood up to add her part. “So when we realized Mr. Drake was sendin’ a telegram, we . . . well, I . . . managed to . . . borrow . . . a copy.”She read aloud. “ ‘Sixteen brides arrive eight p.m. Southern belle. General’s wife. Farm women. All lovely. Sixteen dance cards confirmed. First dance guaranteed. Cash due by noon Friday.’ ”
At first the women sat motionless staring at one another, their expressions ranging from disbelief to shock to anger. Sally Grant was the first to speak. “He didn’t say nothin’ about a dance or any of that other at the meetin’ I went to.”
“Nor at mine,” Ruth said.
Ella Barton spoke up. “It was all about the land. That’s what I’ve come for.”
“And I,” Ruth agreed. She glanced around the room. “We can speak freely, by the way. I’ve sent my son on an errand and told him to meet us at the dining hall.”
One of the sisters spoke up. She didn’t mind the idea so much, she said. “But I most certainly do mind it all being prearranged without our knowing about it.” She glanced at her sisters, who nodded agreement. “And the idea of his collecting money for dances?” She shook her head. “That’s not right.”
“Well, what are we gonna do about it?” Sally asked.
“Tar and feathers
Caroline paused just inside the Immigrant House’s double doors to collect herself. Laughter emanated from the other side of the doors on the right labeled Women’s Dormitory . On the left, a door stood open. Jackson Dow had apparently been waiting on a cot just inside the men’s dormitory, for when he saw Caroline, he jumped up and came to the door with a small white bag in hand.
“Your peppermints,” he said, then blushed bright red as he relayed the message that his mother was “indisposed.” “She wanted me to ask you to meet her in the kitchen.” He frowned. “Something about meeting before a meeting?” He motioned toward the far end of the building. “It’s back there. Through the dining room.”
Caroline gave a little curtsey. “Why, thank you, Master George Washington Jackson Dow the Second.”
He rolled his eyes. “I hate it when Mother does that . . . thing . . . like she did at lunch yesterday. It’s like she’s reading a proclamation . . . like she expects everyone to be so impressed.”
“Well, as a matter of fact,” Caroline said, “I am impressed. Your father was a great man.”
“You knew my father?”
“Not personally. But I read about him during the war. He was beloved by his men. I didn’t know he’d passed on until your mother told us at lunch yesterday. I am truly sorry about your father.”
“I don’t remember much about him.” He sounded wistful. “I wish I did. Mother talks about him all the time, but it’s not the same.”
The poor child. Caroline had been so wrapped up in herself for all this way she hadn’t given much thought to how it must feel to be the only boy in this bunch of women. The way he’d jumped up to bring her the peppermints took on a new poignancy as she thought about Jackson sitting in that huge dormitory all by himself listening to the women’s voices echo through the building. She nodded toward the kitchen. “When my brothers were about your age, we used to sneak peppermints out of the candy jar and melt them in hot water. We called it Sweet-mint Tea. Want to try it before your mother gets back from the necessary?”
“There’s something you all need to know before we go to supper,” Ruth said to the fifteen women crowded into the Immigrant House kitchen. “I was in the train station getting a drink of water when I heard Mr. Drake—” She repeated what Drake had said as he dispersed the group of men who’d gathered to meet their train.
Caroline stood up to add her part. “So when we realized Mr. Drake was sendin’ a telegram, we . . . well, I . . . managed to . . . borrow . . . a copy.”She read aloud. “ ‘Sixteen brides arrive eight p.m. Southern belle. General’s wife. Farm women. All lovely. Sixteen dance cards confirmed. First dance guaranteed. Cash due by noon Friday.’ ”
At first the women sat motionless staring at one another, their expressions ranging from disbelief to shock to anger. Sally Grant was the first to speak. “He didn’t say nothin’ about a dance or any of that other at the meetin’ I went to.”
“Nor at mine,” Ruth said.
Ella Barton spoke up. “It was all about the land. That’s what I’ve come for.”
“And I,” Ruth agreed. She glanced around the room. “We can speak freely, by the way. I’ve sent my son on an errand and told him to meet us at the dining hall.”
One of the sisters spoke up. She didn’t mind the idea so much, she said. “But I most certainly do mind it all being prearranged without our knowing about it.” She glanced at her sisters, who nodded agreement. “And the idea of his collecting money for dances?” She shook her head. “That’s not right.”
“Well, what are we gonna do about it?” Sally asked.
“Tar and feathers
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