off from the truth.
For days after the devastating news had been delivered, Lucy and her mother, burdened with a demanding little stranger, had sat frozen in a state of dull shock while the estate liquidators had carted off the antiques, the furniture, the art treasures. Lucy and her mother had been forced to sell the house, their jewels, their good clothing—everything down to the last salt cellar had to go. By the time the estate managers and creditors had finished, they had nothing but the clothes on their backs and a box of tin utensils. Viola had taken ill; to this day Lucy was convinced that humiliation was more of a pestilence to her than the typhoid.
There was nothing quite so devastating as feeling helpless, she discovered. Like three bobbing corks in an endless sea, she and her mother and the baby had drifted from day to day.
Lucy had found temporary relief quarters in a shantytown by the river. She would have prevailed upon friends, but Viola claimed the shame was more than she could bear, so they huddled alone around a rusty stove and tried to bring their lives into some sort of order. Not an easy task when all Viola knew in the world was the pampering and sheltering of her strong, controlling husband; all Lucy knew was political rhetoric.
It was providence, Lucy always thought, that she'd been poking through rubbish for paper to start a fire, and had come across a copy of Woodhull & Clafiin 's Weekly, published by Tennessee Clafiin and her sister, Victoria Woodhull, known in those days as The Firebrand of Wall Street. Since she'd appeared before Congress and run for president the year of the Great Fire, the flamboyant crusader had captivated Lucy's imagination and inflamed her sense of righteousness. But that cold winter day, while huddled over a miserable fire, Lucy had read the words that had changed the course of her life. A woman's ability to earn money is better protection against the tyranny and brutality of men than her ability to vote.
Suddenly Lucy knew what she must do—something she believed in with all her heart, something she'd loved since she was a tiny child.
Everything had fallen into place after that epiphany. In the fast-recovering city, Lucy had taken a bank loan, leased a shop in Gantry Street, occupied the small apartment above it and hung out her tradesman's shingle: The Firebrand—L. Hathaway, Bookseller.
Running a bookshop hadn't made her a wealthy woman, not in the financial sense, anyway. But the independence it afforded, and the knowledge that she purveyed books that made a difference in people's lives, brought her more fulfillment than a railroad fortune.
The trouble was, one could not dine upon spiritual satisfaction. One could not clothe one's fast-growing daughter with moral righteousness. Not during a Chicago winter, anyway.
Silky, the calico cat they had adopted a few years back, slunk into the room, sniffing the air in queenly fashion. Maggie jumped down from Lucy's lap and stroked the cat, which showed great tolerance for the little girl's zealous attentions.
"Run along, then," she said, kissing the top of Maggie's head. "Tell Grammy Vi that I've gone down to the shop."
"And bicycles later," Maggie reminded her. "Bicycles later," said Lucy.
Tucking the paper under her arm, she took the back stairs down to the tiny courtyard behind the shop. A low concrete wall surrounded an anemic patch of grass. A single crab-apple tree grew from the center, and just this year it had grown stout enough to support a rope swing for Maggie. The tiny garden bore no resemblance to the lush expanses of lawn that had surrounded the mansion where Lucy had grown up, but the shop was just across the way from Lloyd Park, where white-capped nannies and black-gowned governesses brought their charges to play each day. When the weather was fine, Maggie spent hours there, racing around, heedless of the censorious glares of the governesses who were clearly scandalized by hoydenish behavior.
Lucy
For days after the devastating news had been delivered, Lucy and her mother, burdened with a demanding little stranger, had sat frozen in a state of dull shock while the estate liquidators had carted off the antiques, the furniture, the art treasures. Lucy and her mother had been forced to sell the house, their jewels, their good clothing—everything down to the last salt cellar had to go. By the time the estate managers and creditors had finished, they had nothing but the clothes on their backs and a box of tin utensils. Viola had taken ill; to this day Lucy was convinced that humiliation was more of a pestilence to her than the typhoid.
There was nothing quite so devastating as feeling helpless, she discovered. Like three bobbing corks in an endless sea, she and her mother and the baby had drifted from day to day.
Lucy had found temporary relief quarters in a shantytown by the river. She would have prevailed upon friends, but Viola claimed the shame was more than she could bear, so they huddled alone around a rusty stove and tried to bring their lives into some sort of order. Not an easy task when all Viola knew in the world was the pampering and sheltering of her strong, controlling husband; all Lucy knew was political rhetoric.
It was providence, Lucy always thought, that she'd been poking through rubbish for paper to start a fire, and had come across a copy of Woodhull & Clafiin 's Weekly, published by Tennessee Clafiin and her sister, Victoria Woodhull, known in those days as The Firebrand of Wall Street. Since she'd appeared before Congress and run for president the year of the Great Fire, the flamboyant crusader had captivated Lucy's imagination and inflamed her sense of righteousness. But that cold winter day, while huddled over a miserable fire, Lucy had read the words that had changed the course of her life. A woman's ability to earn money is better protection against the tyranny and brutality of men than her ability to vote.
Suddenly Lucy knew what she must do—something she believed in with all her heart, something she'd loved since she was a tiny child.
Everything had fallen into place after that epiphany. In the fast-recovering city, Lucy had taken a bank loan, leased a shop in Gantry Street, occupied the small apartment above it and hung out her tradesman's shingle: The Firebrand—L. Hathaway, Bookseller.
Running a bookshop hadn't made her a wealthy woman, not in the financial sense, anyway. But the independence it afforded, and the knowledge that she purveyed books that made a difference in people's lives, brought her more fulfillment than a railroad fortune.
The trouble was, one could not dine upon spiritual satisfaction. One could not clothe one's fast-growing daughter with moral righteousness. Not during a Chicago winter, anyway.
Silky, the calico cat they had adopted a few years back, slunk into the room, sniffing the air in queenly fashion. Maggie jumped down from Lucy's lap and stroked the cat, which showed great tolerance for the little girl's zealous attentions.
"Run along, then," she said, kissing the top of Maggie's head. "Tell Grammy Vi that I've gone down to the shop."
"And bicycles later," Maggie reminded her. "Bicycles later," said Lucy.
Tucking the paper under her arm, she took the back stairs down to the tiny courtyard behind the shop. A low concrete wall surrounded an anemic patch of grass. A single crab-apple tree grew from the center, and just this year it had grown stout enough to support a rope swing for Maggie. The tiny garden bore no resemblance to the lush expanses of lawn that had surrounded the mansion where Lucy had grown up, but the shop was just across the way from Lloyd Park, where white-capped nannies and black-gowned governesses brought their charges to play each day. When the weather was fine, Maggie spent hours there, racing around, heedless of the censorious glares of the governesses who were clearly scandalized by hoydenish behavior.
Lucy
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