"They vowed neither of them would marry until slavery was abolished. Honestly, it will hardly be in their lifetimes!"

That night I was awakened by a knock on my door long after the moon set. Nina stood there with her face like a seawall, grim and braced. "I can't bear it," she said and fell against my shoulder.

That summer of 1837, New Englanders came by the thousands to hear us speak, and for the first time men began to appear in the audiences. At first a handful, then fifty, then hundreds. That we spoke publicly to women was bad enough-that we spoke publicly to men turned the Puritan world on its head.

"They'll be lighting the pyres," I said to Nina when the men first showed, trying to slough it off. We laughed, but it became not funny at all.

I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. Was there ever a more galling verse in the Bible? It was preached that summer from every pulpit in New England with the Grimke sisters in mind. The Congregational churches pa.s.sed a resolution of censure against us, urging a boycott of our lectures, and in its wake, a number of churches and public halls were closed to us. In Pepperell we were forced to deliver our message in a barn with the horses and cows. "As you see, there's no room at the inn," Nina told them. "But, still, the wise men have come."

We tried to be brave and stalwart and dogged, as Theodore had described us in his letter, and we began using portions of our lectures to defend our right to speak. "What we claim for ourselves we claim for every woman!" That was our rally cry in Lowell and Worcester and Duxbury, indeed everywhere we went. You should have seen the women, how they flocked to our side, and some, like the brave ladies of Andover, wrote public letters in our defense. My old friend Lucretia got a message to us all the way from Philadelphia. It contained four words: Press on, my sisters.

Without intending to, we set the country in an uproar. The matter of women having certain rights was new and strange and pilloried, but it was suddenly debated all the way to Ohio. They renamed my sister Devilina. They christened us "female incendiaries." Somehow we'd lit the fuse.

The last week of August we returned to Mrs. Whittier's cottage as if from battle. I felt tired and beleaguered, uncertain if I could continue with the fall lectures. The last teaspoon of fight had been sc.r.a.ped out of me. Our final meeting of the summer had ended with dozens of angered men standing on wagons outside the hall, shouting "Devilina!" and hurling rocks as we left. One had hit my mouth, transforming my lower lip into a fat, red sausage. I looked a sight. I wasn't sure what Mrs. Whittier would say to all this, if she would even give us shelter-we were pariahs now-but when we arrived, she pulled us into her arms and kissed our foreheads.

On the third day of refuge, I returned from a stroll along the banks of the Merrimack to find Nina canting sharply against the window as if she'd fallen asleep, her head pressed to the gla.s.s, her eyes closed, her arms dropped by her sides. She looked like a spinning top that had come to rest.

Hearing my footsteps, she turned and pointed to the tea table where the Boston Morning Post lay open. Mrs. Whittier took care to hide the editorials, but Nina had found the paper in the bread box.

August 25 The Misses Grimke have made speeches, written pamphlets, and exhibited themselves in public in unwomanly ways for a while now, but they have not found husbands. Why are all the old hens abolitionists? Because not being able to obtain husbands, they think they may stand some chance for a Negro, if they can only make amalgamation fashionable . . .

I couldn't finish it.

"If that's not enough, Theodore will be arriving this afternoon along with Elizur Wright and Mrs. Whittier's son, John. Their letter came while you were out. Mrs. Whittier is in there making mince pies."

She hadn't spoken of Theodore all summer, but she was sick with longing for him, it was plain on her face.

The men arrived at three o'clock. My lip was almost back to its normal size, and I could speak now without sounding as if my mouth was stuffed with food, but it was still sore and I remained quiet, waiting for them to come to their purpose, remembering the way Theodore defended us before-It is supremely ridiculous they should be bullied from this great moment.

Today he was wearing two shades of green that made one wince. He walked to the mantel and picked up a piece of scrimshaw and inspected it. His eyes went to Nina. He said, "There has not been a contribution to the anti-slavery movement more impressive or tireless than that of the Grimke sisters."

"Hear, hear," said dear Mrs. Whittier, but I saw her son lower his eyes, and I knew then why they had come.

"We commend you for it," Theodore went on. "And yet by encouraging men to join your audiences, you've mired us in a controversy that has taken the attention away from abolition. We've come, hoping to convince you-"

Nina interrupted him. "Hoping to convince us to behave like good lapdogs and wait content beneath the table for whatever crumbs you toss to us? Is that what you hope?" Her rebuke was so swift and scathing I wondered if it was in reaction to his marriage pledge as much as anything.

"Angelina, please, just hear us out," he said. "We're on your side, at heart we are. I of all people support your right to speak. It's downright senseless to keep men away from your meetings."

". . . Then why do you quibble?" I asked.

"Because we sent you out there on behalf of abolition, not women."

He glanced at John, whose heavy brows and lean face made me feel the two could've been actual brothers, not just figurative ones.

"He only means to say the slave is of greater urgency," John added. "I support the cause of women, too, but surely you can't lose sight of the slave because of a selfish crusade against some paltry grievance of your own?"

"Paltry?" Nina cried. "Is our right to speak paltry?"

"In comparison to the cause of abolition? Yes, I say it is."

Mrs. Whittier drew up in her chair. "Really, John! As a woman, I didn't think I had a grievance until you began speaking!"

"Why must it be one or the other?" Nina asked. "Sarah and I haven't ceased to work for abolition. We're speaking for slaves and women both. Don't you see, we could do a hundred times more for the slave, if we weren't so fettered?" She turned to Theodore, casting on him the most beautiful, imploring look. "Can't you stand side by side with me? With us?"

He drew a long breath and his face gave him away-it was twisted with love and distress-but he'd come on a mission, and as Mrs. Whittier had said, he was a man of principle, right or wrong. "Angelina, I think of you as my friend, the dearest of friends, and it tortures me to go against you, but now is the time to stand with the slave. The time will come for us to take up the woman question, but not yet."

"The time to a.s.sert one's right is when it's denied!"

"I'm sorry," he told her.

Outside, the wind swirled up, churning the leaves in the birch. The sound and smell of it loomed through the open window, and I had a sudden fleeting memory of playing beneath the oak in the work yard back home, forming words with my brother's marbles, Sarah Go, and then the slave woman is dragged from the cow house and whipped. I don't scream or make a sound. I say nothing at all.

The older Mr. Wright had begun his piece, coming to the crux of it. "It saddens me, but your agitation for women harms our cause. It threatens to split the abolition movement in two. I can't believe you want that. We're only asking you to confine your audiences to women and refrain from further talk about women's reform."

Hushing up the Grimke sisters-would it never stop? I looked at Mr. Wright, sitting there rubbing his arthritic fingers, and then at John and Theodore-these good men who wished to quash us, gently, of course, benignly, for the good of abolition, for our own good, for their good, for the greater good. It was all so familiar. Theirs was only a different kind of muzzle.

I'd spoken but once since they'd gotten here, and it seemed to me now I'd spent my entire life trying to coax back the voice that left me that long-ago day under the tree. Nina, clearly furious, had stopped arguing. She looked at me, beseeching me to say something. I lifted my fingers to my mouth and touched the last bit of swollenness on my lip, feeling the uprush of indignation that had sustained me through the summer, and, I suppose, my whole life, but this time, it formed into hard round words. "How can you ask us to go back to our parlors?" I said, rising to my feet. "To turn our backs on ourselves and on our own s.e.x? We don't wish the movement to split, of course we don't-it saddens me to think of it-but we can do little for the slave as long as we're under the feet of men. Do what you have to do, censure us, withdraw your support, we'll press on anyway. Now, sirs, kindly take your feet off our necks."

That night I began writing my second pamphlet, Letters on the Equality of the s.e.xes, working into the hours before dawn. The first line had arranged itself in my head while I'd sat listening to the men try and dissuade us: Whatsoever it is morally right for a man to do, it is morally right for a woman to do. She is clothed by her Maker with the same rights, the same duties.

Handful.

It was springtime when all the heavy cleaning and airing-out was going on in the house and every night me and Sky would come back to the cellar room after being with the bristle-brush all day, and fall on the bed, and the first thing I'd see was the quilt frame, the one true roof over my head. I'd think about everything hidden up there-mauma's story quilt, the money, Sarah's booklet, her letter telling me about the promise she'd made to get me free-and I'd fall asleep glad they were safe over my head.

Then one Sunday morning, I rolled the frame down. Sky watched me without a word while I ran my hand over the red quilt with the black triangles, feeling the money sewed inside. I peeled the muslin cloth from round Sarah's booklet and gazed on it, then wrapped it back. Next, I spread the story quilt cross the frame and we stood there, looking down at the history of mauma. I laid my palm on the second square-the woman in the field and the slaves flying in the air over her head. All that hope in the wind.

We didn't hear little missus outside the door. The lock mauma used to have on the door was long gone, and little missus, she didn't knock. She flounced on in. "I'm going to St. Philip's, and I need my claret cape. You were supposed to mend it for me." Her eyes wandered past me to the quilt frame. "What's all this?"

I stepped to block her view. "That's right, I forgot about your cape." I was trying to fan the moth from the flame, but she brushed past me to see the pinks, reds, oranges, purples, and blacks on the quilt. Mauma and her colors.

"I'll be straight over to mend the cape," I said and took the rope off the hook to hike the frame up before she figured out what she was looking at.

She put up her hand. "Hold on. You're in an awful big hurry to hide this from me."

I fastened the rope back, the high-flutter coming in my chest. Sky started humming a thin nervous tune. I started to put my finger to my lip, but ever since she had that muzzle in her mouth, I couldn't bear to hush her. We looked back and forth to each other while little missus squinted from one square to the next like she was reading a book. Everything done to mauma-there it was. The one-legged punishment, the whippings, the branding, the hammering. Mauma's body laid on the quilt frame in pieces.

The muslin cloth with Sarah's booklet inside was in plain sight, and beside it, the quilt with the money inside. You could see the shape of the bundles laying in the batting. I wanted to tuck everything from view, but I didn't move.

When she turned to me, the morning glare fell over her face and the black in her eyes pulled into knots. She said, "Who made this?"

"Mauma did. Charlotte."

"Well, it's gruesome!"

I never had wanted to scream as bad as I did right then. I said, "Those gruesome things happened to her."

A dark pink color poured into her cheeks. "For heaven's sakes then, you would think her whole life was nothing but violence and cruelty. I mean, it doesn't show what she did to warrant her punishments."

She looked at the quilt again, her eyes darting over the appliques. "We treated her well here, no one can dispute that. I can't speak for what happened to her when she ran away, she was out of our care then." Little missus was rubbing her hands now like she was cleaning them at the wash bowl.

The quilt had shamed her. She walked to the door and took one look back at it, and I knew she'd never let it stay in the world. She'd send Hector to get it the minute we were out of the room. He'd burn mauma's story to ash.

Standing there, waiting for little missus' steps to fade, I looked down at the quilt, at the slaves flying in the sky, and I hated being a slave worse than being dead. The hate I felt for it glittered so full of beauty I sank down on the floor before it.

Sky's hair was a bushel basket without her scarf and when she bent over to see about me, the ends of it poked my face and smelled like the bristle-brush. She said, "You all right?"

I looked up at her. "We're leaving here."

She heard me, but she couldn't be sure. She said, "What you say?"

"We gonna leave here or die trying."

Sky pulled me to my feet like plucking a flower, and I saw Denmark's face settle into hers, that day he rode to his death sitting on a coffin. I'd always wanted freedom, but there never had been a place to go and no way to get there. That didn't matter anymore. I wanted freedom more than the next breath. We'd leave, riding on our coffins if we had to. That was the way mauma had lived her whole life. She used to say, you got to figure out which end of the needle you're gon be, the one that's fastened to the thread or the end that pierces the cloth.

I lifted the quilt from the frame and folded it up, thinking of the feathers inside it, and inside the feathers, the memory of the sky.

"Here," I said, laying the quilt in Sky's arms. "I got to go mend that woman's cape. Put the quilt in the gunny sack and take it to Goodis and tell him to hide it with the horse blankets and don't let anybody near it."

Mending her cape was not all I did. I took little missus' seal-stamp right off her desk while she was standing in the room and I dropped it in my pocket.

I waited till dark to write my letter.

23 April 1838.

Dear Sarah.

I hope this makes it to you. Me and Sky will be leaving here or die trying. That's how we put it. I don't know how we're doing it, but we've got mauma's money. All we need is a place to come to. I have the address on this letter. I hope I see you again one day.

Your friend.

Handful.

Sarah.

The wedding took place in a house on Spruce Street in Philadelphia on May 14 at two o'clock in the afternoon-a day full of glinting sunlight and pale blue clouds. It was the sort of day that seemed sharply real and not real at all. I remember standing in the dining room watching it unfold as if from a distance, as if I was climbing up from the bottom of sleep, coming up from the cool sheets to a new day, one life ending and another beginning.

Mother had sent a note of congratulation, which we hadn't expected, begging us to send a letter describing the wedding in detail. What will Nina wear? she'd asked. Oh, that I could see her! Naturally, she'd conveyed how relieved she was that Nina had a husband now and she hoped we would both retire from the unnatural life we'd been living, but despite that, her letter was plaintive with the love of an aging mother. She called us her dear daughters and lamented the distance between us. Will I see you again? she wrote. The question haunted me for days.

I gazed at Nina and Theodore standing now before the window about to say their vows, or as Nina had phrased it, whatever words their hearts gave them at the moment, and I thought it just as well Mother was not here. She would've expected Nina to be in ivory lace, perhaps blue linen, carrying roses or lilies, but Nina had dismissed all of that as unoriginal and embarked on a wedding designed to shock the ma.s.ses.

She was wearing a brown dress made from free-labor cotton with a broad white sash and white gloves, and she'd matched up Theodore in a brown coat, a white vest, and beige pantaloons. She clutched a handful of white rhododendrons cut fresh from the backyard, and I noticed she'd tucked a sprig in the b.u.t.ton hole of Theodore's coat. Mother wouldn't have made it past the brown dress, much less the opening prayer, which had been delivered by a Negro minister.

When the Philadelphia newspaper announced the wedding, alluding to the mixed-race guests expected to attend, we'd worried there might be demonstrators-slurs and shouts and rocks whizzing by-but mercifully, no one had showed up but those invited. Sarah Mapps and Grace were here, along with several freed slaves with whom we were acquainted, and we'd timed the wedding to coincide with the Anti-Slavery Convention in the city so that some of the most prominent abolitionists in the country were in the room: Mr. Garrison, Mr. and Mrs. Gerrit Smith, Henry Stanton, the Motts, the Tappans, the Westons, the Chapmans.

It would become known as the abolition wedding.

Nina was speaking now, her face turned up to Theodore's, and I thought suddenly, involuntarily of Israel and a tiny grief came over me. Every time it happened, it was like coming upon an empty room I didn't know was there, and stepping in, I would be pierced by it, by the ghost of the one who'd once filled it up. I didn't stumble into this place much anymore, but when I did, it hollowed out little pieces of my chest.

Gazing at Nina, radiant Nina, I pictured myself in her place, Israel beside me, the two of us saying vows, and the idea of such a thing cured me. It was the truth I always came back to, that I didn't want Israel anymore, I didn't want to be married now, and yet the phantom of what might've been, the terrible allure of it could still s.n.a.t.c.h me.

Closing my eyes, I gave my head a shake to clear the remnants of longing away, and when I looked back at the bride and groom, there were dragonflies darting beyond the window, a green tempest, and then it was gone.

Nina promised aloud to love and honor him, carefully omitting the word obey, and Theodore launched into an awkward monologue, deploring the laws that gave control of a wife's property to the husband and renouncing all claim to Nina's, and then he coughed self-consciously, as if catching himself, and professed his love.

We'd put the confrontation in Mrs. Whittier's cottage behind us, not that Theodore ever fully conceded his position, but he'd softened his rhetoric after that day, as any man in love would. The abolition movement had split into two camps just as the men predicted, and Nina and I became even worse pariahs, but it had set the cause of women in motion.

I'd been present when Nina opened the letter containing Theodore's proposal. It had come late last winter during a long reprieve in Philadelphia with Sarah Mapps and Grace, as we'd prepared for a series of lectures at the Boston Odeon. Reading it, she'd dropped the pages onto her lap and broken into tears. When she read it to me, I cried too, but my tears were a mix of joy and wretchedness and fear. I wanted this marriage for her, I wanted her happiness as much as my own, but where would I go? For days I couldn't concentrate on the lecture I was trying to write or hide the bereft feeling I carried inside. I couldn't bear to think of life without her, life alone, but neither did I want to be the burdensome relative living in the back room, getting in the way, and I couldn't imagine Theodore would want me there.

Then one day Nina came to me, plopping on the footstool beside my chair in Sarah Mapps' front room. Without a word she opened her Bible and read aloud the pa.s.sage in which Ruth speaks to Naomi: Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people will be my people, and thy G.o.d my G.o.d. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried. The Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.

Closing the Bible, she said, "We can't be separated, it isn't possible. You must come and live with me after I'm married. Theodore asked me to tell you that my wish is also his wish."

Theodore had bought a small farm in Fort Lee, New Jersey. We would make an odd trinity there, the three of us, but I would still have Nina. We could go on writing and working for abolition and for women, and I would help with the house, and when there were children, I would be auntie. One life ending, another beginning.

In the dining room, the minister was offering a prayer, and for some reason I didn't close my eyes as I always did, but watched Nina reach for Theodore's hand. We'd made a plan that I would give the married pair two weeks of privacy and then join them in Fort Lee, but I thought now of Mother and the question in her letter, Will I see you again? It seemed more than the elegiac pondering in an old woman's heart, and I wondered if I shouldn't seize the break in our work and go to her.

"What do you know, we are husband and wife," Nina said when the prayer ended, p.r.o.nouncing it herself.

The dining table sat out in the garden laid with a white linen cloth strewn with platters of sweets and fresh-picked flowers-foxglove, pink azalea, and feathery fleabane petals. The confectioner had iced the wedding cake with frothed egg whites and darkened the layers with mola.s.ses in keeping with Nina's brown and white theme, and there was a large bowl of sugared raspberry-currant juice where all of the teetotaler abolitionists were lined up, pretending it hadn't fermented. I'd consumed a sloshing cup of it too quickly and my head was floating about.

I walked among the guests, some forty or fifty of them, searching for Lucretia, for Sarah Mapps and Grace, thinking, a little tipsily, Here are our friends, our people, and thank G.o.d no one is speaking today about the cruelties in the world. I came upon Mrs. Whittier's son John, whom I'd not seen since our head-to-head last August. He was amusing everyone with a poem he'd written that skewered Theodore for breaking his vow not to marry. He compared him to the likes of Benedict Arnold. When he saw me, he greeted me like a sister.

Lucretia found me before I could find her. It had been years. Beaming, she pulled me to the edge of the garden beside the blooming rhododendron where we could be alone. "My dear Sarah, I can scarcely believe what you've managed to accomplish!"

A blush crept to my face.

"It's true," she said. "You and Angelina are the most famous women in America."

". . . The most notorious, you mean."

She smiled. "That, too."

I pictured Lucretia and me in her little studio, talking and talking all those evenings. That fretful young woman I'd been, so stalled, so worried she would never find her purpose. I wished I could go back and tell her it would turn out all right.

Glancing up, I caught sight of Sarah Mapps and Grace across the garden, striding toward us. Nina and I had traveled almost constantly for the past year and a half, and except for our visit last winter, we'd seen little of them. I wrapped my arms around them, along with Lucretia, who'd known them back at Arch Street.