Love on the Line - Deeanne Gist [84]
Weaving around Turk’s cap and coneflower, images of the night before replayed themselves in her mind. The man at the fireplace rumbling orders. The skinny man crashing into the boxes and scattering them to all corners. Mr. Comer tearing lids from boxes and tossing hat after hat into the blaze.
She clenched her teeth and stopped at the back of the wagon, glancing toward Mrs. Patrick.
The woman nodded her encouragement. “Go ahead.”
Georgie reached for a round white box with thin golden stripes, her hand trembling. A ropey handle lay across its gold-colored lid. Tucking the handle to the side, she removed the top.
A high, curved hat decorated with lush mauve silk and velvet roses sat amidst tissues. She looked at Mrs. Patrick. “They missed some?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Those boxes were empty when I carted them out here. Look in another one.”
Sliding the gold-striped box aside, she reached for an octagonal one the color of robins’ eggs. A sapphire blue hat with a dipping brim, net veil, and frothy bows filled its interior. Picking up speed, she threw open box after box like a child on Christmas morning. Each contained a hat, some extravagant, some wonderfully simple.
After the seventh or eighth box, she stopped. “I don’t understand. Where did these come from?”
Mrs. Patrick joined her and began to replace the lids. “Some are from members of the Plumage League. But the majority are from the women of Washington County.”
Georgie restacked each box, trying to assimilate what Mrs. Patrick was saying.
“But how?” she asked. “When would they have had time to make these, much less deliver them?”
“I made a general call.”
“A general call?” She looked toward the window where her switchboard sat. “To everyone?”
“To everyone.”
“When?”
“As soon as you fell asleep.”
“I didn’t fall asleep until almost three in the morning.”
Mrs. Patrick said nothing.
Georgie surveyed the turrets of boxes. “But I still don’t . . .”
“They signed our pledge, too. Counting the signatures we had before, we now have a hundred six women who have vowed not to wear or purchase hats with bird parts.”
“One hundred six,” Georgie breathed, unable to fathom such a number.
Mrs. Patrick gestured toward the boxes. “Many of these are hats the ladies already had. They just removed the bird parts and rearranged the trim.”
Her lips parted. “They donated hats from their personal collections?”
“They did.” Pausing, Mrs. Patrick smoothed a hand across the top of a box. “For some, I’d say it was the only hat they owned.”
She touched the brooch at her collar. “Why? Why would they do that?”
Capturing Georgie’s gaze, Mrs. Patrick tilted her head. “Because there isn’t a woman in this county who doesn’t admire and respect you for supporting yourself and having your own place.” A soft breeze picked up a dark red curl, fanning it along her neck. “We may not be able to vote. We may not be able to hold office. We may not be able to wear trousers. But make no mistake, we’re not powerless.”
Emotion clogged Georgie’s throat. “I don’t know what to say.”
She sighed. “Well, it won’t all be smooth going. There’ll be some who’ll whisper behind their fans. But don’t you give them a thought. You just hold your head high and meet every gaze square on. Remember: you’re only a victim if you choose to be a victim.”
Such simple words, yet it had never occurred to her she had a choice. The more she thought about it, the more emboldened she felt.
Those men might have overpowered her and burned up all the hats, but it didn’t mean she had to cower or be ashamed or cry defeat. Quite the contrary.
A huge weight lifted. She surveyed her garden. The starch box housing precious new chicks. Bumblebees sipping nectar from pink columbine. Chickadees rejoicing over the buds on her Virginia creeper.
It was May first. A day set aside to celebrate a new season. New life. New beginnings.
Stretching onto tiptoes, she wrapped her arms about Mrs. Patrick’s neck and hugged her. “Thank you. Thank you for everything.