LJ Idol Topic #29: Sobriquet
The sound of a shattering windowpane punctured the stream of conversation; the Deans of the College turned toward the now-amplified sound of shouting in the streets.
A rock lay on the floor, surrounded by tiny, shining splinters, and wrapped with a piece of parchment and a fine pink satin ribbon.
The Chair of Fine Arts stooped over to pick it up. “For a group called the Dainty Dissidents, they’re hardly living up to their name,” he said irritably.
“Don’t touch it!” exclaimed the Chair of Forensic Science. “It could be poisoned!”
“Poisoned?” The Chair of Philosophy scoffed. “Some of us can’t get our heads out of our courses of study.”
“It’s a list of demands,” said the Chair of Fine Arts, as he untied the ribbon and flattened out the sheet of parchment to read it. “One: that women will be permitted to-“
“Well, they already know that we’re not going to accept their demands,” said the Dean of Students. “Women. At an establishment of higher education. It’s nonsense.”
*****
Outside the high spires of the College, a small detachment of police officers stood, staring at the legions of well-dressed women, young and old, their skirts starched and their hair pinned back beneath comely little bonnets, all carrying signs and chanting.
“GIVE US ACCESS! LET US ENROLL!”
“MEN USE TEN PERCENT OF THEIR BRAINS! WOMEN USE FIFTEEN!”
The Chairs of the various departments had drawn straws to send one of their own out into the fray, The Chair of Mathematics had drawn the short straw.
“What are you doing?!” he demanded of the Police Captain. “Arrest them!”
“Sir, I’m afraid we can’t,” said the Captain. “There isn’t enough room in the Women’s Prison. And these are Ladies of Quality,” he said. “I can’t put them in with the beggars and the prostitutes!”
“Well, you can at least disperse them!” the Chair of Mathematics replied huffily.
“We’ve been trying to,” the Captain said, gesturing to where the police were trying, very timidly, to ask the women to leave.
“That’s not working!” said the Chair of Mathematics. “You’ve been authorized by the Chief Minister to use force!”
The Captain was sweaty, red-faced and frustrated. “But they’re ladies.”
“No lady would have the audacity to demand entrance to a University!” snapped the Chair of Mathematics.
“You’re not even accredited as a University!” said a slight, redheaded young woman who was carrying a sign that said “IF WOMEN ARE NATURAL CARETAKERS, LET US PRACTICE MEDICINE!” “You’re only a four-year college!”
“Well, do something about her!” the Chair of Mathematics demanded, pointing at the young woman. “Make an example of her, or something?”
The Captain sighed and directed two officers toward the red-haired woman.
“We’re very sorry, Miss, er, Ma’am,” one officer said, uncertain about how to handcuff a lady. “We, ah, we’re going to have to arrest you. Would you be so kind as to hold your hands out like so?”
The young woman looked properly scandalized. “Arrest me?” she asked. “Is heckling a crime now? If it is, I suggest you will find a good number of felons in Parliament.”
“Sorry, Miss,” said the officer, and he held out the handcuffs.
“What is taking you imbeciles so long?!” demanded the Chair of Mathematics. He shoved between the officers and the young lady, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “You look here, you!”
“Ey!” shrieked another woman, who was holding a sign that said “A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE LECTURE HALL.” “You get your hands off her!”
The red-haired woman swatted at the Chair of Mathematics with her sign, smacking him squarely in the chest. He fell back, winded. “That’s assault!” He shouted.
“I’ll assault you, you pervert!” cried a third woman, who was carrying a sign that said “LET MUMMY STUDY MATHS BEFORE I COUNT TO TEN.”
“I’m afraid it is,” the officer told the red-haired woman, apologetically. “We’ll have to take you in, Miss, for real now.”
She scowled at the Chair of Mathematics before holding out her hands to be cuffed. “It was worth it,” she said.
*****
“Wot ‘ave we ‘ere?” asked Syphilis Rose when they very gently led the red-haired woman into the cell. “Ow, et’s a pretty lay-dee! Wot did ye do t’get trown in de brig?”
The red-haired woman allowed the police to take off her handcuffs, and she rubbed at her wrists, making certain to keep them covered by the lace cuffs of her dress. “I assaulted a college professor in the valiant struggle for women’s rights,” she said.
The cell was hot and damp, and the walls and floor were thick with mold and lichen. There was a bucket in one corner that emitted a very strong stench, and a single window, too high up to see anything but the sky.
“Ye’re one o’dose suffrawhatgits, den?” asked Syphilis Rose.
“One of the Dainty Dissidents, and yes, in a manner of speaking,” said the red-haired woman. “Although this particular battle was for enrollment in institutions of higher education and not women’s suffrage.”
“It’s awl too much fer me,” said Syphilis Rose. “Ye come back t’me when ye want t’help yer sisters make whorin’ legal. Ye get yerself a name, luvvie?”
“Louisa,” she said, as she, very reluctantly, sat on the floor.
The prison was sweltering in the summer heat, and Louisa could not have slept even in a bed. As things were, she was on the floor, and Syphilis Rose was snoring loudly and contentedly, and she was certain she had seen a rat.
Her hair had come out of its bun, and her dress had gotten badly stained. She had been trying not to cry, but she could feel her eyes stinging and beginning to tear.
So, she wasn’t certain at first if the flickering was tears in her eyes or a light outside her window. But the flickering became steady, and grew, until a golden glow swam in, casting shadows across the floor.
And then the singing began. Soft and low at first, it swelled to full strength: dozens of women’s voices singing the words of a familiar hymn together in unison. The comforting voices wrapped around her like a cloak in the night.
Then there was a loud creaking sound, and a man’s voice. “What’s this?” he asked. “Shouldn’t all ye hens be back in bed?”
“You know why we’re here!” came a woman’s voice in return. “We’re here for her!”
“For who?” asked the man’s voice.
“WHOM!” corrected the crowd.
And then a single voice spoke up again. “We’re here for her! Our dissenting angel!”
And then they started to chant. “Free her now! Free the Dissenting Angel!”
Louisa fell asleep, finally, to the sound of voices shouting for her freedom.
*****
In the morning, the prison guards awoke to a frantic knocking at the door. It took them a moment to answer, since they’d been kept awake half the night by women chanting something about angels and dissidents and they had no idea what, all on account of that one well-to-do lady back in the cell with Syphilis Rose.
When they greeted the well-dressed gentleman at the door-- with a very fashionable walking stick-- they exchanged a look.
One of them squinted. “Excuse me, Guv’nor, but ain’t ye the spittin’ image of--”
The well-dressed man grinned. “I get that all the time,” he assured the guard. “No, no, no, Bertram Buxton the Third, over on Doppelganger Street, you should come by our shop...”
The guard tipped his cap. “Probably out o’ our price range, guv. I reckon ye’re ‘ere about the Missus?”
Bertram Buxton the Third nodded. “I hear she got herself into a bit of a pickle.”
When they brought Louisa out of the cell, she ran to her husband and embraced him fervently, slumping in his arms.
“Oh dear,” he said. “It looks like you’ve had quite a night.”
She nodded, gripping the front of his coat. “I hate the entire male sex,” she said.
“Including me?” he asked.
She scowled at him, her eyes red and bloodshot. “That depends on whether you bring me breakfast in bed.”
As the couple left the Women’s Prison, the two guards exchanged another look. “I could’ve sworn that was--” said one.
“Nah,” said the other. “What’d his wife be doin’ in ‘ere?”
*****
Safely in their carriage, Louisa’s husband handed her that morning’s paper. There, emblazoned on the front page was an engraving that looked much more attractive than Louisa herself did in person, with wild curls flying in the wind and a much bustier silhouette.
The headline said,
DISSENTING ANGEL BREATHES FIRE INTO FIGHT FOR LADY SCHOLARS.
“Darling, I had no idea what had become of you until I saw this,” he said. “I was frantic half the night. I thought you’d been killed.”
“Oh, no,” said Louisa. “But I did meet a prostitute.”
“Love, you must be more careful,” he said. “Someone might have--”
Louisa let out a little cry. “Look here!” she said, and showed him the second page of the article. “There’s going to be another demonstration! They’ve given us a permit! For a proper rally!”
He sighed. “I don’t suppose I can convince you not to go, can I?” he asked.
“I promise not to hit anyone with a sign,” she said, and lifted her head up a bit. “I’ll even promise not to carry a sign, if it makes you feel better.”
****
Louisa was sitting at her writing desk three days later when her husband walked in, looking a bit white.
“Louisa?” he asked. “They want you to give a speech.”
She looked up at him. “What?” she asked.
“It’s all over the city,” he said, and showed her another newspaper. The illustrations of her were getting more and more idealized every day, and this one she could not even compare herself to. She supposed that was a blessing in disguise.
DAINTY DISSIDENTS DEMAND DIVULGEMENT OF DISSENTING ANGEL
The article said that the organizers of the rally were looking for the woman who had become a figurehead for the movement (and here the article made a rather lewd comment that made Louisa blush) . It explained that they were hoping that she would speak at the rally organized for the next Tuesday in front of Parliament.
“Oh, my,” said Louisa. She looked eagerly at her husband.
“I’m not sure if you should go,” he said.
She scowled. “Why not?” she asked. “Of course I should.”
“The wife of the Chief Minister?” he asked. “Scolding Parliament? I’d never be elected again.”
“Maybe you deserve a little scolding,” retorted Louisa.
He took a deep breath. “I’d never stop you,” he said. “But think of it this way. You know I support you. Which of us has a better chance to change the law?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Which of us gets elected by men who don’t want their wives getting funny ideas?” Her expression softened, and she smiled adoringly at him. “Darling,” she said. “I have one. An idea.”
“Doesn’t one of your pamphlets say that women with ideas are a threat to mankind?” he asked.
She gave him a humoring look. “Trust me,” she said.
*****
On Tuesday, the Eleventh of August, the doors to Parliament were blocked by hundreds of women waving signs. The turnout for the rally was so impressive that the Ministers who were supposed to be attending that day’s legislative session simply could not get into the building.
The Chief Minister, who was coming to the session from a pleasant brunch with several of the ministers from the southern part of the country who were very concerned about legislation regarding cheese and fish oil, turned to his companions and shook his head in resignation. “I suppose we might as well listen to what they have to say, mightn’t we, gentlemen?” he said to the others. “We’re all used to being nagged by wives by now; we can take a little more of it.”
The others chuckled, and agreed to watch the rally.
*****
The rally organizers were distressed. They had received a letter that promised their Dissenting Angel would prepare a speech, but they had five minutes to start, and she hadn’t appeared. And now, here were half the ministers of Parliament gathering to watch.
“We can’t look disorganized!” said the rally’s hostess, Emma Gray. “These men will all say it’s because our sex can’t manage this sort of thing, and it will set us back-- oh, I hope that letter wasn’t a fake.”
“Well, we can always sing the national anthem first,” said Penelope Anderson. “That will give us a good three minutes. Five if we do the verses no one sings.”
Then a little boy appeared, carrying a letter that was tied up with string, and he looked around very timidly, holding the envelope out to whoever would take it.
*****
Emma Gray approached the audience with her megaphone and the papers in her hand. The women let up a cheer.
“Ladies,” she said, considering for a moment whether she should add, “and gentlemen,” as this was the first time any gentlemen had bothered to listen to what they were saying. “Ladies, I have received word that our Dissenting Angel will not be joining us today.”
Murmurs of dismay spread through the audience.
“Because,” said Emma Gray, “her husband has forbidden her to come.”
Gasps of shock and shouts of anger rose through the crowd.
Emma Grey waved the papers in the air. “But she sent her speech along.”
Emma Grey read the first paragraph of Louisa’s address. And then she passed it on to Penelope Anderson, who read the second. Penelope passed the speech on to Grace Barker, a schoolteacher. Grace Barker passed the speech to Daniela Edmonds, a dancer who had dreamed of being an ornithologist. And Daniela passed it on to another woman, and then another, and another, and together they read Louisa’s speech as the crowd listened on.
A woman named Susanna Corwin read the second-to-last paragraph. And as she finished it, she squinted at a small note scrawled in the margins.
She raised the speech in the direction of the Chief Minister. “Sir?” she offered.
He blinked. “What?” he asked.
The other ministers chuckled and pushed him forward. “It’s obvious,” said one.
“Yes,” said the other. “They want you to read, and we’re plenty used to being nagged by you, too.”
So the Chief Minister read the closing paragraph of that speech, imploring his own parliament to open the colleges and universities to women, to a crowd of hundreds of women, and several dozen ministers who found themselves incapable of reaching the doors. And when he saw the note in the margin, just above his cue, he couldn’t help but smile, and pick Louisa out of the audience, where she stood, trying to look as nondescript as possible, and smiled back at him.
Note: The concept for this entry was inspired by the story of my great-great-great grandmother, Lydia Jane Pierson, editor of the Lancaster Gazette, and her 1850 Letter to the Ohio Women's Convention in Salem, Ohio. (That's a very large PDF for people who are interested in reading about the early history of the battle for women's rights in the US.)
A rock lay on the floor, surrounded by tiny, shining splinters, and wrapped with a piece of parchment and a fine pink satin ribbon.
The Chair of Fine Arts stooped over to pick it up. “For a group called the Dainty Dissidents, they’re hardly living up to their name,” he said irritably.
“Don’t touch it!” exclaimed the Chair of Forensic Science. “It could be poisoned!”
“Poisoned?” The Chair of Philosophy scoffed. “Some of us can’t get our heads out of our courses of study.”
“It’s a list of demands,” said the Chair of Fine Arts, as he untied the ribbon and flattened out the sheet of parchment to read it. “One: that women will be permitted to-“
“Well, they already know that we’re not going to accept their demands,” said the Dean of Students. “Women. At an establishment of higher education. It’s nonsense.”
*****
Outside the high spires of the College, a small detachment of police officers stood, staring at the legions of well-dressed women, young and old, their skirts starched and their hair pinned back beneath comely little bonnets, all carrying signs and chanting.
“GIVE US ACCESS! LET US ENROLL!”
“MEN USE TEN PERCENT OF THEIR BRAINS! WOMEN USE FIFTEEN!”
The Chairs of the various departments had drawn straws to send one of their own out into the fray, The Chair of Mathematics had drawn the short straw.
“What are you doing?!” he demanded of the Police Captain. “Arrest them!”
“Sir, I’m afraid we can’t,” said the Captain. “There isn’t enough room in the Women’s Prison. And these are Ladies of Quality,” he said. “I can’t put them in with the beggars and the prostitutes!”
“Well, you can at least disperse them!” the Chair of Mathematics replied huffily.
“We’ve been trying to,” the Captain said, gesturing to where the police were trying, very timidly, to ask the women to leave.
“That’s not working!” said the Chair of Mathematics. “You’ve been authorized by the Chief Minister to use force!”
The Captain was sweaty, red-faced and frustrated. “But they’re ladies.”
“No lady would have the audacity to demand entrance to a University!” snapped the Chair of Mathematics.
“You’re not even accredited as a University!” said a slight, redheaded young woman who was carrying a sign that said “IF WOMEN ARE NATURAL CARETAKERS, LET US PRACTICE MEDICINE!” “You’re only a four-year college!”
“Well, do something about her!” the Chair of Mathematics demanded, pointing at the young woman. “Make an example of her, or something?”
The Captain sighed and directed two officers toward the red-haired woman.
“We’re very sorry, Miss, er, Ma’am,” one officer said, uncertain about how to handcuff a lady. “We, ah, we’re going to have to arrest you. Would you be so kind as to hold your hands out like so?”
The young woman looked properly scandalized. “Arrest me?” she asked. “Is heckling a crime now? If it is, I suggest you will find a good number of felons in Parliament.”
“Sorry, Miss,” said the officer, and he held out the handcuffs.
“What is taking you imbeciles so long?!” demanded the Chair of Mathematics. He shoved between the officers and the young lady, and grabbed her by the shoulders. “You look here, you!”
“Ey!” shrieked another woman, who was holding a sign that said “A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE LECTURE HALL.” “You get your hands off her!”
The red-haired woman swatted at the Chair of Mathematics with her sign, smacking him squarely in the chest. He fell back, winded. “That’s assault!” He shouted.
“I’ll assault you, you pervert!” cried a third woman, who was carrying a sign that said “LET MUMMY STUDY MATHS BEFORE I COUNT TO TEN.”
“I’m afraid it is,” the officer told the red-haired woman, apologetically. “We’ll have to take you in, Miss, for real now.”
She scowled at the Chair of Mathematics before holding out her hands to be cuffed. “It was worth it,” she said.
*****
“Wot ‘ave we ‘ere?” asked Syphilis Rose when they very gently led the red-haired woman into the cell. “Ow, et’s a pretty lay-dee! Wot did ye do t’get trown in de brig?”
The red-haired woman allowed the police to take off her handcuffs, and she rubbed at her wrists, making certain to keep them covered by the lace cuffs of her dress. “I assaulted a college professor in the valiant struggle for women’s rights,” she said.
The cell was hot and damp, and the walls and floor were thick with mold and lichen. There was a bucket in one corner that emitted a very strong stench, and a single window, too high up to see anything but the sky.
“Ye’re one o’dose suffrawhatgits, den?” asked Syphilis Rose.
“One of the Dainty Dissidents, and yes, in a manner of speaking,” said the red-haired woman. “Although this particular battle was for enrollment in institutions of higher education and not women’s suffrage.”
“It’s awl too much fer me,” said Syphilis Rose. “Ye come back t’me when ye want t’help yer sisters make whorin’ legal. Ye get yerself a name, luvvie?”
“Louisa,” she said, as she, very reluctantly, sat on the floor.
The prison was sweltering in the summer heat, and Louisa could not have slept even in a bed. As things were, she was on the floor, and Syphilis Rose was snoring loudly and contentedly, and she was certain she had seen a rat.
Her hair had come out of its bun, and her dress had gotten badly stained. She had been trying not to cry, but she could feel her eyes stinging and beginning to tear.
So, she wasn’t certain at first if the flickering was tears in her eyes or a light outside her window. But the flickering became steady, and grew, until a golden glow swam in, casting shadows across the floor.
And then the singing began. Soft and low at first, it swelled to full strength: dozens of women’s voices singing the words of a familiar hymn together in unison. The comforting voices wrapped around her like a cloak in the night.
Then there was a loud creaking sound, and a man’s voice. “What’s this?” he asked. “Shouldn’t all ye hens be back in bed?”
“You know why we’re here!” came a woman’s voice in return. “We’re here for her!”
“For who?” asked the man’s voice.
“WHOM!” corrected the crowd.
And then a single voice spoke up again. “We’re here for her! Our dissenting angel!”
And then they started to chant. “Free her now! Free the Dissenting Angel!”
Louisa fell asleep, finally, to the sound of voices shouting for her freedom.
*****
In the morning, the prison guards awoke to a frantic knocking at the door. It took them a moment to answer, since they’d been kept awake half the night by women chanting something about angels and dissidents and they had no idea what, all on account of that one well-to-do lady back in the cell with Syphilis Rose.
When they greeted the well-dressed gentleman at the door-- with a very fashionable walking stick-- they exchanged a look.
One of them squinted. “Excuse me, Guv’nor, but ain’t ye the spittin’ image of--”
The well-dressed man grinned. “I get that all the time,” he assured the guard. “No, no, no, Bertram Buxton the Third, over on Doppelganger Street, you should come by our shop...”
The guard tipped his cap. “Probably out o’ our price range, guv. I reckon ye’re ‘ere about the Missus?”
Bertram Buxton the Third nodded. “I hear she got herself into a bit of a pickle.”
When they brought Louisa out of the cell, she ran to her husband and embraced him fervently, slumping in his arms.
“Oh dear,” he said. “It looks like you’ve had quite a night.”
She nodded, gripping the front of his coat. “I hate the entire male sex,” she said.
“Including me?” he asked.
She scowled at him, her eyes red and bloodshot. “That depends on whether you bring me breakfast in bed.”
As the couple left the Women’s Prison, the two guards exchanged another look. “I could’ve sworn that was--” said one.
“Nah,” said the other. “What’d his wife be doin’ in ‘ere?”
*****
Safely in their carriage, Louisa’s husband handed her that morning’s paper. There, emblazoned on the front page was an engraving that looked much more attractive than Louisa herself did in person, with wild curls flying in the wind and a much bustier silhouette.
The headline said,
DISSENTING ANGEL BREATHES FIRE INTO FIGHT FOR LADY SCHOLARS.
“Darling, I had no idea what had become of you until I saw this,” he said. “I was frantic half the night. I thought you’d been killed.”
“Oh, no,” said Louisa. “But I did meet a prostitute.”
“Love, you must be more careful,” he said. “Someone might have--”
Louisa let out a little cry. “Look here!” she said, and showed him the second page of the article. “There’s going to be another demonstration! They’ve given us a permit! For a proper rally!”
He sighed. “I don’t suppose I can convince you not to go, can I?” he asked.
“I promise not to hit anyone with a sign,” she said, and lifted her head up a bit. “I’ll even promise not to carry a sign, if it makes you feel better.”
****
Louisa was sitting at her writing desk three days later when her husband walked in, looking a bit white.
“Louisa?” he asked. “They want you to give a speech.”
She looked up at him. “What?” she asked.
“It’s all over the city,” he said, and showed her another newspaper. The illustrations of her were getting more and more idealized every day, and this one she could not even compare herself to. She supposed that was a blessing in disguise.
DAINTY DISSIDENTS DEMAND DIVULGEMENT OF DISSENTING ANGEL
The article said that the organizers of the rally were looking for the woman who had become a figurehead for the movement (and here the article made a rather lewd comment that made Louisa blush) . It explained that they were hoping that she would speak at the rally organized for the next Tuesday in front of Parliament.
“Oh, my,” said Louisa. She looked eagerly at her husband.
“I’m not sure if you should go,” he said.
She scowled. “Why not?” she asked. “Of course I should.”
“The wife of the Chief Minister?” he asked. “Scolding Parliament? I’d never be elected again.”
“Maybe you deserve a little scolding,” retorted Louisa.
He took a deep breath. “I’d never stop you,” he said. “But think of it this way. You know I support you. Which of us has a better chance to change the law?”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Which of us gets elected by men who don’t want their wives getting funny ideas?” Her expression softened, and she smiled adoringly at him. “Darling,” she said. “I have one. An idea.”
“Doesn’t one of your pamphlets say that women with ideas are a threat to mankind?” he asked.
She gave him a humoring look. “Trust me,” she said.
*****
On Tuesday, the Eleventh of August, the doors to Parliament were blocked by hundreds of women waving signs. The turnout for the rally was so impressive that the Ministers who were supposed to be attending that day’s legislative session simply could not get into the building.
The Chief Minister, who was coming to the session from a pleasant brunch with several of the ministers from the southern part of the country who were very concerned about legislation regarding cheese and fish oil, turned to his companions and shook his head in resignation. “I suppose we might as well listen to what they have to say, mightn’t we, gentlemen?” he said to the others. “We’re all used to being nagged by wives by now; we can take a little more of it.”
The others chuckled, and agreed to watch the rally.
*****
The rally organizers were distressed. They had received a letter that promised their Dissenting Angel would prepare a speech, but they had five minutes to start, and she hadn’t appeared. And now, here were half the ministers of Parliament gathering to watch.
“We can’t look disorganized!” said the rally’s hostess, Emma Gray. “These men will all say it’s because our sex can’t manage this sort of thing, and it will set us back-- oh, I hope that letter wasn’t a fake.”
“Well, we can always sing the national anthem first,” said Penelope Anderson. “That will give us a good three minutes. Five if we do the verses no one sings.”
Then a little boy appeared, carrying a letter that was tied up with string, and he looked around very timidly, holding the envelope out to whoever would take it.
*****
Emma Gray approached the audience with her megaphone and the papers in her hand. The women let up a cheer.
“Ladies,” she said, considering for a moment whether she should add, “and gentlemen,” as this was the first time any gentlemen had bothered to listen to what they were saying. “Ladies, I have received word that our Dissenting Angel will not be joining us today.”
Murmurs of dismay spread through the audience.
“Because,” said Emma Gray, “her husband has forbidden her to come.”
Gasps of shock and shouts of anger rose through the crowd.
Emma Grey waved the papers in the air. “But she sent her speech along.”
Emma Grey read the first paragraph of Louisa’s address. And then she passed it on to Penelope Anderson, who read the second. Penelope passed the speech on to Grace Barker, a schoolteacher. Grace Barker passed the speech to Daniela Edmonds, a dancer who had dreamed of being an ornithologist. And Daniela passed it on to another woman, and then another, and another, and together they read Louisa’s speech as the crowd listened on.
A woman named Susanna Corwin read the second-to-last paragraph. And as she finished it, she squinted at a small note scrawled in the margins.
She raised the speech in the direction of the Chief Minister. “Sir?” she offered.
He blinked. “What?” he asked.
The other ministers chuckled and pushed him forward. “It’s obvious,” said one.
“Yes,” said the other. “They want you to read, and we’re plenty used to being nagged by you, too.”
So the Chief Minister read the closing paragraph of that speech, imploring his own parliament to open the colleges and universities to women, to a crowd of hundreds of women, and several dozen ministers who found themselves incapable of reaching the doors. And when he saw the note in the margin, just above his cue, he couldn’t help but smile, and pick Louisa out of the audience, where she stood, trying to look as nondescript as possible, and smiled back at him.
Note: The concept for this entry was inspired by the story of my great-great-great grandmother, Lydia Jane Pierson, editor of the Lancaster Gazette, and her 1850 Letter to the Ohio Women's Convention in Salem, Ohio. (That's a very large PDF for people who are interested in reading about the early history of the battle for women's rights in the US.)