Must the Maiden Die Read Free Page A

York's 33rd had begun clambering aboard the
passenger cars, and there was as yet no sign of Bronwen. But
perhaps she was still on the train, struggling with her luggage.
Except that Bronwen rarely struggled; most men as a rule were more
than eager to shoulder her freight. A circumstance of which she
managed to appear blithely unaware. Appear, Glynis thought,
being the operative phrase here.
    In the meantime, Susan, looking for a
baggage handler and apparently finding none, went to pluck her
valise from a baggage cart. After hailing an open carriage, she
told Glynis, "I'm on my way to Mrs. Stanton's for a long-overdue
visit, and I am delighted that it coincided with Emma's wedding
date."
    "Mrs. Stanton" was always called so by
Susan, despite the fact that she and Elizabeth Stanton had been,
for nearly ten years, fast friends and mutual supporters.
    Glynis watched the woman's carriage leave,
and then turned back to the train with sinking hope. It seemed
certain that Bronwen had not been aboard. The militia men had
finished boarding the passenger cars and were leaning out of the
windows, while the women had lined up alongside the tracks, waving
their flowers and flags. A young boy, standing apart from the
others, wore an expression of utter dejection, as if he were being
forced to stay behind while his friends went off to the fair.
    Someone with a reed flute had begun to pipe
"Yankee Doodle," which was quickly joined by boisterous singing.
When the conductors went up the steps, indicating that both trains
would depart shortly, Glynis began to wonder if she should consider
taking up residence in the station's baggage room together with
Jenny Terhune. Jenny, who at the moment was skittering toward the
station house, clutching several crusts of bread.
    A clip-clop of hooves behind Glynis
made her turn to see the Seneca Falls constable, Cullen Stuart,
astride his Morgan horse. An amused expression creased his face
along the lines worked by time and weather, his sand-colored hair
shaggy around his neck and ears, and his thick brush mustache
scarcely trimmed. Not that it mattered. Cullen, like Bronwen,
seemed unaware of his effect on those of the opposite gender; but
in his case, Glynis had long since decided, the lack of awareness
was more than likely authentic.
    He leaned down to speak to her over the
noise of the nearest locomotive gathering steam. "I take it
Bronwen hasn't shown up."
    "No, Cullen, as you see."
    "You sound exasperated."
    She knew she did, and tried to smile. "A
common enough reaction to Bronwen—"
    She broke off when she found herself
shouting over the deafening noise of the locomotive, the men on
board bellowing the last chorus of "Yankee Doodle," the young women
screaming their good-byes, and over it all the reed flute shrilling
like a frenzied bird.
    She and Cullen waited while one train, then
the other, pulled slowly out of the station. When the roar of the
engines had begun to diminish, the older women allowed themselves
to weep openly. And a number of the younger ones, as if they had
just now realized the party was over, had also begun to cry. Among
them was Faith Alden, the wilting bouquet of violets crushed
against her face.
    Cullen's earlier smile had long since faded.
He had watched the departing trains with an odd expression, and
Glynis suddenly wondered if he might be thinking that he, too,
should be heading south. "Cullen," she began, hearing the catch in
her voice, "you aren't considering—"
    "So where is Bronwen?" he broke in, as if
he'd anticipated her question and didn't want her to ask it.
    Trying to push aside the specter of Cullen
leaving for war, Glynis answered, "You know Bronwen. She changes
her plans as often as she changes her opinions, wouldn't you
say?"
    "No, I wouldn't say. She's usually reliable
enough— when she chooses to be."
    Not exactly unqualified praise, thought
Glynis, who had begun to worry in earnest.
    "Bronwen's coming from Washington?" Cullen
asked.
    Glynis nodded. "But