Mrs. Young sighed in defeat. “If only I could leave these clothes for Tilly.”
“You can give them to her yourself on Monday,” Gideon said.
• • •
Hunger strike.
Elizabeth rolled the idea around in her mind. A few days ago, it would have been unthinkable, but that was before she’d eaten the food here.
“I think we should do it,” Anna said, rejoining Elizabeth on the floor beside Mrs. Bates’s chair.
“What would a hunger strike accomplish?” Elizabeth asked.
“It’s an ancient tactic used by the powerless against the powerful,” Mrs. Bates said.
Anna nodded. “In Ireland, if you had a grievance against someone, you’d sit on their doorstep and fast until you’d shamed them into giving you justice.” Her eyes practically glowed with the enthusiasm of the fanatic.
Elizabeth knew better than to trust that enthusiasm. “How could starving to death shame somebody else?”
“The rules of hospitality were very strict in olden times,” Mrs. Bates said. “Allowing someone to die on your doorstep was a great dishonor.”
“Somehow I doubt Whittaker cares about his honor,” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Bates smiled. “You’re probably right, but President Wilson can’t allow forty respectable women to die in prison just because they marched in front of his house.”
“He can’t allow even one of us to die,” Anna said. “Think of the scandal.”
“We may not even have to go through with it,” Mrs. Bates said. “If Mr. O’Brien was here today, we know he’s working for our release. They might let us go tomorrow.”
Elizabeth didn’t want to get out tomorrow. She didn’t want to get out at all, not with Thornton waiting for her. “Would we all have to do it?”
“None of us have to do it,” Mrs. Bates said. “It would be completely voluntary.”
Voluntary, my foot. Elizabeth saw the fanatic’s gleam in Mrs. Bates’s eye, too. She also saw the disapproval. A true suffragist would gladly starve for the cause. She glanced at Anna and saw only disappointment in her frown.
“Don’t you want to do it, Elizabeth?” Anna looked as if somebody had just told her there was no Santa Claus.
For a few seconds, Elizabeth couldn’t breathe. What was wrong with her? She didn’t care what these women thought of her, so why did their disappointment sting so badly? “It’s not that . . .”
Elizabeth looked back at Mrs. Bates, oddly desperate to get back in her good graces, but Mrs. Bates was already smiling at her. “Oh, I see. Anna, Elizabeth isn’t thinking of herself. She’s thinking of you.”
“Me?” Anna smiled at Elizabeth, too, inordinately pleased about something.
“Yes, and so am I. You’re already painfully thin, my dear. Even just a few days without food could make you quite ill.”
Elizabeth was almost too surprised to take advantage of Mrs. Bates’s mistake.
Almost.
“She’s right,” Elizabeth said. “You shouldn’t do this. It’s too dangerous.”
Anna took Elizabeth’s hand in both of hers. “You are a true friend to be so concerned, but I couldn’t possibly sit by while the rest of you made such a sacrifice.”
“Why not? If we shame them into letting us go, it doesn’t matter if one of us starved or all of us.”
“It matters to me.”
And Elizabeth could see that it did. She turned back to Mrs. Bates. Surely, she could talk sense to Anna. The girl wouldn’t last more than a few days without food.
“You must swear to me that if you become ill, you will start to eat again,” she said instead. Elizabeth wanted to smack her.
Anna smiled sweetly. “Of course.”
She was a much better liar than Warden Whittaker.
• • •
Oscar Thornton had dressed carefully this Sunday morning, but not because he was going to church. Going to church was a waste of valuable time. Oh no. He had something much more important to do. He was going to see Miss Betty Perkins this morning. It would be the last time he saw Miss Perkins, and it would be the last time she saw anyone at all, so he’d dressed for the occasion.
Fletcher and Lester would have taken charge of her at the train station down in Virginia, and they would escort her here, to his hotel. Lester’s telegram had estimated what time they would arrive, and when Thornton checked his gold pocket watch, he saw it wouldn’t be long now. His hand trembled a bit with the thrill of anticipation. No one cheated Oscar Thornton and lived to tell the tale.
A woman’s shrill voice raised in protest broke the silence. What the . . . ? He’d told them to keep her quiet. He hurried over and threw open the door. As he’d expected, Lester and Fletcher stood there with a woman between them, but the woman was not Betty Perkins.
“Is this him?” she asked, glaring up at him balefully.
The door across the hall opened and a curious face peered out.
“Get her inside,” Thornton said, standing back so they could enter.
Fletcher gave the woman a shove and she staggered across the threshold. “Hey, watch what you’re doing!” she said.
“Shut up,” Fletcher said.
Thornton closed the door behind them. “Who the hell is this?”
Lester gave him a disgusted look. “Betty Perkins.”
“That’s not—”
“I know, but that’s who they released from the workhouse after we paid the fine.”
The girl was looking around the suite, obviously impressed. “This is all right. I wouldn’t mind staying here myself.”
Thornton turned on Lester, furious. “If you knew it wasn’t her, why did you bring her here?”
“I thought you’d like to hear her story.”
“It’s a good one,” Fletcher added.
Thornton ignored him. He studied the girl with distaste, taking in her garishly red hair, her cheap dress and worn shoes. “All right, young woman, what’s your story?”
“My name is Betty Perkins, and I’m real grateful you got me out of that workhouse.” She tipped her head and batted her eyes in a disgusting attempt at flirtation. “Want me to show you how grateful I am?”
“No.”
This time she blinked her eyes in surprise. “These other two fellows wasn’t so particular.”