The Suffragette's Vow

  The Suffragette’s Vow

  Book 8 in Keepers of the Light

  By

  Linda Carroll-Bradd

  This novella is a work of fiction. Names, place, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright ©Linda Carroll-Bradd All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means without express permission from author or publisher.

  Published by Inked Figments

  Cover artist: Virgina McKevitt of Black Widow Books

  Edited by: Shenoa of Lustre Editing http://lustreediting.com

  Manufactured in the United States

  ISBN: 978-1-940546-30-8

  First printing March, 2020

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. Purchasing this e-book gives you the right to one copy for your reading enjoyment. The purchase does not grant resale rights, sharing rights (either individual file sharing or sharing through peer-to-peer programs) auction or contest prize rights, or rights of any kind to sell or give away a copy of this book.

  Doing so is considered piracy and criminal copyright infringement—an illegal act in violation of U.S. Copyright Law and can be investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation and is punishable by a maximum of five years in federal prison in addition to a $250,000 fine.

  Please respect Linda Carroll-Bradd’s right to earn a living from her creative endeavors. If you have knowledge of misuse of this e-book, do not hesitate to contact Inked Figments at inkedfigments@gmail.com.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Other Historical Titles

  BY LINDA CARROLL-BRADD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  April, 1871, The Dalles, Oregon

  “Follow me, Miss Cutler.” The wiry woman with blonde braids crisscrossed over the crown of her head led the way. With her skirts hiked up and tucked into a belt, Missus Torkelsdotter tromped in calf-high boots toward the red barn. “Can’t stand around talking. I got milkin’ to do.”

  A spring breeze ruffled her skirt. Nadina glanced around at the muddy brown path and then down at her thin-soled leather boots. She hesitated, not wanting to ruin her shoes and the hem of the linsey-woolsey skirt. Traipsing across a dairy farm in northern Oregon was a novel experience. Up to now, she had only experienced milk as an item the servants offered from a pitcher or Delores, the household’s cook, poured from jugs as an ingredient in recipes. Although she knew milk and cream came from cows, she never gave much consideration to the acquisition process.

  What would her employer, Abigail Scott Duniway of The New Northwest, do? Lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders. To obtain this interview, her mentor would do everything needed, write a stirring article, and submit it for inclusion in one of the first issues of the feminist newspaper about to start publication. So much counted on the acceptance of Nadina’s article—not only to prove she could be a reporter, but a sale also was a way to gain the freedom to control her future.

  Although she didn’t know what to expect before arriving, this dairy farm seemed so organized and tidy…if that word applied to a space that was mostly outdoors. Corrals and fences stood bright with whitewash against the rich green of spring grasslands. Red-and-white shorthorn cows grazed here and there. Trees ran along the edges of the meadows.

  To leave her hands free, she hooked the strap of the leather satchel securing her notepad and pencils around her neck. Holding up her skirts—knowing she could do nothing about the short train that dragged in the dirt—she stepped off the crushed rock pathway and followed the subject of this essential interview. Widow Annali Torkelsdotter managed a dairy farm of eighty cows. Nadina figured an article highlighting this woman-run business would interest the newspaper’s mostly female subscribers.

  Mud squelched over the toes of her boots, but she refused to lament ruined shoes. Warm afternoon sunlight beat down on her shoulders just before she entered the immense red barn. Shadows engulfed her, and she paused, blinking fast, to let her vision adjust. On the perimeter of the structure, cows stood facing the exterior walls, their heads lowered in troughs. The scent of cow manure stung her nose, but she kept her feeling of abhorrence from her expression. “Missus Torkelsdotter?”

  “Back here.” An arm rose above the back of a red-and-white cow and waved.

  Somehow, when she envisioned the life of a reporter, she thought of being in a chair with the subject behind a desk in a business office. Perhaps a cup of tea sat within reach. Or standing on the courthouse steps after an important trial. Maybe even following a manager around a factory floor. Her first interview in her Portland hometown was with her mother’s modiste who owned a dress shop in the downtown area. True, she followed that woman while she worked, but they were indoors and surrounded by bolts of silks, batistes, chintzes, and satins. Racks of brightly colored thread decorated the counters, and mannequins displayed finished dresses ready for immediate sale.

  Those scenarios were so different from where she was now. She minced her way down the middle aisle, careful to avoid a steaming pile of recently deposited manure.

  A cloud of flies circled in the air then descended again.

  At the far end of the aisle, a tall, blond man wearing a plaid shirt carried two metal pails to a counter with several large metal jugs.

  Missus Torkelsdotter perched on a short, wooden stool with her right shoulder pressed against the side of a reddish-colored cow.

  Nadina gazed around for a place to sit but saw nothing horizontal that could accommodate her voluminous petticoats. She had to drop her hold on her skirts to retrieve her notebook and pencil. Sighing at the gunk that she’d have to clean, she poised the pencil above the paper. “Again, I want to say thank you for responding to my letter and agreeing to an interview.” A gratitude she felt doubly compelled to express since Nadina would need to stay overnight. The portage train’s scheduled departure at the most inconvenient hour of five o’clock each morning, so she’d requested this favor. On the wagon ride from town, she’d contemplated how she’d have to be driven to town in the evening and secure a hotel room in order to be on time for the train.

  “I wasn’t sure about agreeing, but my eldest daughter, Vega, encouraged me.” She squeezed her hands in rhythm, and jets of white milk streamed into the metal pail. “I thought she was being too modern about advertising our farm.”

  Three meowing cats appeared and rubbed against the woman’s skirts.

  Children’s books showed cats acting in this way, but Nadina always thought that depiction was fictional. She smiled at their plaintive cries that went ignored by the other woman. “Maybe don’t think of it as advertising but of showing your capabilities. You must admit not too many dairy farms are run by women.”

  Prior to her trip here, Nadina located a report of the American Dairymen’s Association—a title that said it all—in the Library Association of Portland’s office and hadn’t read a single woman’s name included. The report of the annual, three-day meeting conveyed more information than she needed about debates over grass fed versus grain fed, fat ratios of cream to milk, and the differing quantities of butter made based on season. But a good investigative reporter never knew when a fact about one of the various aspects of the interviewee’s profession might reveal an interesting facet of that person’s life. r />
  “Maybe not here in America.” She glanced over her shoulder, her brows wrinkling.

  Eyeing the cow’s hind end and concerned about a possible kick, Nadina edged to the side so she could see Missus Torkelsdotter’s face and the woman wouldn’t have to twist around. The implication of a society where the practice was more commonplace intrigued her.

  “I knew plenty who did back in the old country.” The woman shrugged but kept milking. “Widows do what they must to provide for their families.”

  Of course, being a widow make a difference, but the woman hadn’t relied on remarriage to save her farm. Should she already know the answer to the location of the old country? Although she detected a lilt in the woman’s speech, she couldn’t identify the specific accent. Why didn’t she studied geography with more intent in school? “And the “old country” is where, exactly?”

  “Värmland, Sweden. But I left there in 1846.”

  Somewhere in the barn, a cow mooed and stomped a hoof.

  A quarter of a century was longer than Nadina had been alive. “You immigrated here?”

  “No, first to Illinois. We traveled with Eric Jansson to the Bishop Hill Colony he created. My late husband, Peder, and I believed what Eric preached in opposition to the Lutheran Church. We pietists built a community of several hundred, hard-working people who shared what they created with all who contributed. The colony worked for a few years, too. Our first two children, Mikael and Vega, were born at Bishop Hill.” She looked up and grimaced then gazed into the far distance. “Then after Eric was killed and the community turned to in-fighting, Peder and I moved here.”

  Nadina tightened her grip on the pencil. Maybe this story was taking a darker turn than Missus Duniway preferred. “I’d like to focus on your time here in The Dalles.”

  “This spot is where the Oregon Trail stopped. Because of the steep cliffs. Peder liked it well enough to buy land. But it wasn’t my first choice of place to settle.” Missus Torkelsdotter stood and moved first the stool then two buckets to the next cow in line. She reached into the smaller bucket for a rag to wash the cow’s udder.

  Nadina worked hard to keep her disgust at washing that protrusion from displaying on her face. She would never again look at a glass of milk in the same way. “Oh, where did you want to live?”

  “During the long overland journey in wagons, I heard folks talking about a town south of here. Corvallis, which translates to heart of the valley.” She glanced up and smiled. “Doesn’t that name sound like a nice place?”

  “I suppose.” Of course, she’d heard of the town and thought her father possibly possessed real-estate interests in that city in the center of the Willamette Valley. She’d never given much thought to the meaning of city names. Her home town obviously earned its name as the location of a river port.

  From ten feet away, two blonde-haired women on the other side transferred their stools and buckets to a new animal. A minute later, a third woman stepped deeper into the barn on this side. Almost like workers on a factory line.

  Her basic research indicated the mother, three daughters, and a teenage son lived on the Pedersson farm. She jotted a note in the margin to ask about the variety of names. The family number of five didn’t account for the man she saw earlier. Could he be the son the widow mentioned?

  “Eskil.” Missus Torkelsdotter stood and craned her neck toward the back of the barn. She muttered in her native tongue. “Where are you, son?” Sitting again, she cupped her hands around the outside of the metal pail.

  Arching an eyebrow, Nadina tapped the pencil on her chin, wondering about the woman’s action.

  “Milking takes lots of energy and makes the hands hot.”

  A lanky boy galloped close, his blond hair flopping on his forehead. “Ja, Mamma?”

  Gesturing as she spoke, the older woman indicated the cart standing at the end of the aisle holding two tall metal containers.

  Writing notes over the next two hours, Nadina watched the milk go from pails to metal cans then be poured through cheesecloth into even bigger cans. She squeezed into the small area next to the work counter so she could see the steps of the process. Those cans were set onto wooden shelves extending from a creek bank so that the bottom three or four inches sat under the running water.

  The elder sisters, Vega and Gala, skimmed the cream from the cans and then loaded the thick liquid into a wooden butter churn. Using handles on each side of the top metal ring, they carried the churn toward the two-story farmhouse shaded by red alder trees.

  Nadina followed, her swishing skirts frightening chickens with each step. Birds filled the evening air with song. In the tree line, two deer grazed. Animals wandered everywhere on this farm. Did all farms have such a variety?

  On the back porch, a black-and-white, shaggy dog lumbered to its feet, tail wagging.

  Vega and Gala patted the dog’s head and entered the house.

  Dread crept along Nadina’s skin. As a child, she received a bite on her ankle when she ran from a big dog. Ever since, she’d kept her distance from the animals. “Nice doggy. Stay away.” At the last minute she remembered she wasn’t supposed to make eye contact.

  The dog jumped and pushed its front paws against her middle.

  Letting out a squeal, she stumbled against the porch railing and hung on tight. Her heart pounded a staccato rhythm.

  “Down, Bjorn.” Running footsteps slapped the dirt. “Bjorn, ner.” Eskil grabbed the dog’s paws and escorted the animal backward before dropping them to the porch with a thud. Then he ruffled the animal’s ears. “Be nice to the guest.”

  She breathed out a shaky whoosh. “Thank you.” On wobbly legs, she entered the house and found the closest kitchen chair to sink into.

  The youngest daughter, Pia, carried in a single pail of milk and set it on the counter.

  Missus Torkelsdotter crossed the kitchen floor to the sink and pumped the handle. “Sorry, Miss Cutler, for Bjorn’s excitement. We don’t get many visitors here and, as you can see, he really likes people.”

  That assault meant he liked her? Nadina took a deep breath and offered a wavery smile. “I’ll be fine. He just startled me.” Over the next half hour or so, she listened as the family chatted amongst themselves while preparing the evening meal. Only as a young girl had Nadina ever been in the kitchen of her family’s house in Portland’s Irvington neighborhood. She wasn’t sure if her ineptitude at cooking was why she didn’t recognize the food being cooked or if the family prepared dishes commonly found in their culture. The scents of frying meat and baking bread teased her nose.

  The family gathered around the table, joined hands, and bowed their heads.

  Nadina followed their example and listened to the lilting cadence of the prayer in Swedish.

  Missus Torkelsdotter gave a blessing on the food, adding the “amen” in English.

  A bowl held large, flat pieces of what looked like crackers.

  Gala smiled and waved a hand. “This is knäckebröd, a flat bread for eating with hushållsost, which translates to house cheese. Most households always have a small wheel of this cheese in the icebox.”

  Nodding, Nadina glanced at the round-faced woman with bright blue eyes and a braided crown of blonde hair. “I appreciate the explanation.” Fried pork she’d eaten on occasion, but the sour cream with chopped chives was new. She’d never tasted potato pancakes, and the red lingonberry sauce was a real treat.

  As soon as the coffee cups were refilled, Nadina drew out her notebook. “I have more questions about a few of the business details. Where does the milk go? Do you sell it directly to the mercantile in town?” Here, she hoped to learn about the process Missus Torkelsdotter went through to negotiate the prices of her milk, butter, and cheese. Missus Duniway would like to feature an article where a woman took that much control.

  “When my husband was alive, we did.” She raised her cup for a sip. “Our elder son drove the wagon to town six days a week. Now, we sell to Eriksson’s Creamery a couple mile
s away. In turn, they deliver to the mercantile and several restaurants.”

  For her next question, Nadina debated over the phrasing to avoid sounding like the business interview strayed into personal matters. She stirred a spoon in the light-colored coffee. “You’ve mentioned a son…” She glanced at the teen boy who gazed back with wide eyes. “An older son, twice. In America, usually sons inherit property or businesses. Is the tradition different in your culture?”

  Every family member’s gaze circled the table and connected with every other person.

  Prickles ran up Nadina’s neck. Did I uncover a family secret?

  “I loved my husband. Lordy, I met him when I was only ten years old and was married to him for twenty-seven years.” She shook her head. “But Peder could be a hard man.”

  “That’s true.” Gala nodded then her mouth tightened. “But not with his girls. Poor Mikael took the brunt.”

  “Peder thought Mikael should be a leader, and he groomed the lad to follow in his footsteps to manage the farm and hopefully expand it. My oldest child wasn’t of that same temperament. He was a dreamer with a great inventor’s mind. He always had an idea working in his mind about items to build to help make chores easier. But Peder expected a hard-working dairyman.” Missus Torkelsdotter looked down and ran a finger along a wrinkle in the brown tablecloth.

  “Mikael always tried so hard, at the start of a task, but he’d get distracted. Pappa didn’t believe he could manage the dairy.” Pia rested her chin in her fisted hands and sighed. “I miss him. He always told me stories.”

  “He made his choice.” Her brows drawn low, Vega crossed both arms over her chest. “After Pappa’s death, Mikael learned the farm went to Mamma. He didn’t want to follow her methods and routines, so he abandoned his family.”

  Eskil shot to his feet. “Mikael didn’t abandon us. He moved to where he always wanted to live.”

  Gasping, Missus Torkelsdotter reached out a hand to her youngest child. “How do you know this fact?”