After reciting his lengthy list of diseases to which women were prone due to the fact that the Almighty, in creating the female sex, had taken the uterus and built up a woman around it, Thompson concluded that the inequality of the sexes would only increase with the progress of civilization. He urged women to avoid too much reading or mental stimulation or they would risk permanent damage to their reproductive organs and in consequence the grand purpose of their lives: motherhood.
When he finished, he was roundly cheered by his proponents in the audience.
Coming to the podium to a chorus of boos, Maud Warren calmly waited for the catcalls to subside before speaking. She began by suggesting that it might be possible to view doctors’ determination to elaborate the nature of woman, the sources of her frailty, and the biological limits of her social role with a touch of cynicism since this newly discovered ill-health among women was scarcely imagined a hundred years ago. The increased attention to women and their ovaries (or at least those of more affluent women) could instead be the result of doctors functioning as businessman. The vague and all-inclusive symptoms supposedly originating in the ovaries had created a very lucrative new field of medicine.
In practice, Maud pointed out, the same doctors who zealously espoused the ills of wealthy, delicate women had no time to spare for the poor. Someone had to be well enough to do the work, and working-class women, according to these doctors, were not invalids of their ovaries. A very convenient logic, she noted.
The theory of innate female illness predicated on diseased ovaries was skewed to account for class differences with reference to ability to pay, she suggested. Since poor women couldn’t pay for medical care, they were miraculously immune from the popular medical and evolutionary opinions.
Maud thoroughly rejected the sickly model of femininity and offered statistics showing how many women were beginning to carve out activist roles for themselves in society. These new women of robust health and independence were entering the universities in great numbers despite various popular manifestos warning that higher education caused women’s uteruses to atrophy, induced women to insanity, and precipitously lowered the birth rate among college-trained women. She contrasted the thundering warnings of dire consequences to society by offering evidence of women’s significant achievements in colleges and universities, and by so doing, managed to make Thompson apoplectic.
He thundered at her, accusing her of undermining the family and the God-given role of women. He fulminated against the women’s movement that was sapping culture of its strength and destroying all those tender qualities of mind and disposition that make women so noble and admired.
When Thompson and his cohorts ceased their shouting, Maud quietly explained that the Woman Question was not in the end up to men to answer. It was a question of what women want and need and how best they can achieve their goals.
Ultimately, it was about equality between the sexes.
As the hall erupted in opposition cheers and jeers, with a wave to Violet and Christina who were enjoying the confrontation, Rosalind and Sofia slipped out into the summer night.
“I prefer not waiting until the police start arresting people,” Rosalind explained as they exited the hall. “Although Maud is always so composed. I don’t know how she does it. Thompson, in contrast, looks like a lunatic.”
“I agree. I wish I could behave with as much maturity. My temper’s fierce.”
“I’m not sure I’m inclined to admit a failing after Maud’s invigorating lecture, but if I were, my temper could be better controlled, too.” Rosalind smiled. “Not that I’m in the mood for anything but assertive opinions at the moment. Maud’s inspiring.”
“For all her achievements-don’t forget she has a good marriage, a fine family, and a profession,” Sofia observed, concerned Rosalind might be in an overly militant frame of mind to face a possible visitor at home.
“Maud’s lucky.”
“She works hard to balance her priorities.”
“I know, I know-it’s not all luck. She’s an amazing person.”
The night was balmy, the streets still bustling with pedestrians and traffic now that the sultry heat of the day had dissipated.
When they reached the bookshop, Rosalind asked, “Would you like to come up for tea? We can continue singing Maud’s praises over a cuppa.” She grinned. “That lovely purple tinge on Thompson’s face is etched in my memory.”
“And mine. The old goat is unbalanced. But it’s getting late,” Sofia noted. “So thanks for the invitation, but I think I’ll go home.” She had her instructions. “I might bring over my new hollyhock painting tomorrow and hang it in the gallery, though.”
“I’ll make room for it in the morning. Speaking of flowers”-Rosalind sniffed the air-“do you smell roses? ”
“No,” Sofia lied. “You’re probably smelling my perfume.”
“Ah, no doubt,” Rosalind murmured.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Sofia hastily remarked, not wishing to be caught in the middle of Fitz’s enterprise. “It won’t be too early; Lyla’s coming over with my new canvas.” After a quick wave, she hurried away.
But the moment Rosalind entered her apartment, the intense scent of roses overwhelmed her. Turning on the light, she took off her straw bonnet and scanned the small parlor. Nothing was amiss. Discarding her hat, she moved through the room, walked into her bedroom, and followed her nose to the open windows, where the sweet fragrance was pungent in the air.
The moon was partially obscured by clouds or the haze that hung over the city in the summer. But even through the dimness and shadow, the contours and shapes in her small yard and garden looked different. As was the heady scent of roses and the faint outlines of a fountain that hadn’t been there when she left! Along with the sound of running water!
Her heart racing, she dashed back through her apartment, took the stairs at a run, and throwing the back door open, stood transfixed on the threshold as her backyard was suddenly flooded with light. Hundreds of fairy lights illuminated the garden, the twinkling bulbs twined through her small hawthorn tree, strung in graceful loops on the buildings rimming the garden, corded through low boxwood borders, offering up a dazzling spectacle of winding paths, symmetrical parterres, and roses by the score.
“Do you like it? ”
The deep voice came out of the shadows and a moment later, Fitz emerged from the gloom, his twill trousers and linen shirt stained and smudged with dirt, the splendor of his face and form undiminished by the grime, his smile breathtaking.
“It’s very beautiful.” Like you, she thought, when she shouldn’t think anything of the kind. When she should be embracing independent womanhood. “You shouldn’t have done it, though.” Nor should she allow herself to be captivated by him or his grand gesture.
“I wanted to make amends. And I knew you didn’t like jewelry.” He approached her slowly, uncertain of his reception. Her reply had been decidedly neutral as was her expression-not a scintilla of a smile graced her face.
“Was Sofia in on your plan?” Snippets of conversation from the evening suddenly made sense.
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said to her terse query. “I wanted to surprise you.”