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Gilded Dreams: The Journey to Suffrage (Newport's Gilded Age)
by Russo Morin Donna
Paperback : 328 pages
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The battle for the vote is on fire in America. The powerful and rich women of Newport, Rhode Island, are not only some of the most involved ...
Introduction
From the bestselling author of GILDED SUMMERS comes a powerful novel of the last eight years of the American Women’s fight for suffrage.
The battle for the vote is on fire in America. The powerful and rich women of Newport, Rhode Island, are not only some of the most involved suffragettes, their wealth - especially that of the indomitable Alva Vanderbilt Belmont - nearly single-handedly funded the major suffrage parties. Yet they have been left out of history, tossed aside as mere socialites. In GILDED DREAMS, they reclaim their rightful place in history.
Pearl and Ginevra (GILDED SUMMERS) are two of its most ardent warriors. College graduates, professional women, wives, and mothers, these progressive women have fought their way through some of life’s harshest challenges, yet they survived, yet they thrive. Now they set their sights on the vote, the epitome of all they have struggled for, the embodiment of their dreams.
From the sinking of the Titanic, through World War 1, Pearl and Ginevra are once more put to the test as they fight against politics, outdated beliefs, and the most cutting opponent of all... other women. Yet they will not rest until their voices are heard until they - and all the women of America - are allowed to cast their vote. But to gain it, they must overcome yet more obstacles, some that put their very lives in danger.
An emotional and empowering journey, GILDED DREAMS is a historical, action-packed love letter to the women who fought so hard for all women who stand on the shoulders of their triumph.
Editorial Review
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We stood under a brilliant blue sky at the very end of Bellevue Avenue where the carriages used to make their turn around for afternoon parades; it was the most appropriate place to begin this parade. While the wide circle was in front of Rough Point—the ‘cottage’ built and owned by Frederick Vanderbilt, Alva’s brother-in-law from her first marriage—Alva’s own cottage, Marble House, was the next we would pass as we made our way down the length of Bellevue. With her “Votes for Women” flag held high, with the American flag equally as high in my hands, we would lead this procession we had arranged. “We’ve done it.” I heard Pearl whisper. “We’ve really done it.” I do not think she spoke to me but had no care if I heard. She spoke to herself, to the women who had fought this fight before us, who inspired us to do this, and to Alva and the other leaders of the suffrage movement gathering in New York as we did here in Newport. “Yes, dearest Pearl, we did.” I could not stop myself from jumping in the pool of her joy. I looked to the Heavens, I looked to my mother and prayed she saw me that day, almost more than any other that had come before. I looked into a cloudless sky, as we had hoped, not a rain cloud—or any cloud for that matter—could be seen. Whether antis awaited us along our route…that remained to be seen. “There are so many of us,” I sounded like a child at the first sight of all the stars in the sky. From behind us, the line of women and men ran down the southernmost tip of our island, around the bend, and along the edge of Bailey’s Beach. It was a garland of people bound together by strings of purpose and justice. I felt the flutter of a kiss upon the back of my neck and giggled. “I have never been more proud to stand beside you,” my darling Osborn’s sparkling blue eyes were so full of me, “to stand with you, to call myself yours.” I would not let the threatening tears of joy he brought me to fall upon my face, but allowed my lips their freedom to spread wide upon my face, if only for a moment, a moment in which I put my forehead to his. We had been instructed, and more than once, that we should wear no smiles for what we did was not frivolous or jovial. What we did, we did to change our world. The bell atop Trinity Church began to clang. As it gonged for the twelfth time, I looked at Pearl, she at me, and once more we took steps unknown together. My legs shook, knees feeling weak. If one is lucky, there are moments in life that you know, not when looking back but when looking from within them, that what you do is a great thing, a powerful thing. I was so very lucky that day. We did not walk long until we saw the lines of people formed on both sides of the avenue. There, on Bellevue Avenue, where the elite of Newport society had built their cottages, we were bathed in words of encouragement. Servants cheered their fellows as they passed. The wealthy who were still in residence long after the season had past encouraged us in the most polite manner, the soft thuds of applause by gloved hands. From Bellevue, we would turn east on Bath Street then north again onto Spring Street, which would take us all the way to the Great Common and the band of musicians we had arranged to carry us into the square. Would our reception be the same all along that route? “We begin with glory and we shall end with it.” Pearl pondered as I did. But where I worried, she stomped forward in battle. Ours would be a nearly three-mile walk, far shorter than the one in New York, and still it would take us close to two hours to complete, at the least. More importantly, we would pass Newporters of every rank, station, and purse. The route took us from the enormous cottages, through a commercial district, then through neighborhoods of ‘regular’ people. We would pass before eyes that saw life through many different lenses. Quiet reverence brought us to the end of Bellevue, just a few feet from the Casino, the center of Newport’s socialites’ social life. We made the turn onto Bath Street, a street crowded with businesses and selling stalls owned and operated by men. Words showered us once more, words that cut to the quick, thrown like sharp stones at the men in our ranks. “Where are your skirts?” a fat-bellied man with a rough-looking beard covering his round face bellowed. Pearl turned. I knew she looked at Peter. It would be hard for him, to hear these words, to suffer the slings and arrows of men aimed at men; he was far too righteous. Holding his tongue would be a struggle. But then, were he not such a man, he would not have been a match for Pearl. “Nothing to say, henpeck?” Another man joined the slinging of epithets. “He has much to say,” I heard Pearl whisper though her lips did not move, “but not to the likes of you.” Our turn onto Spring Street found both our steps faltering…the thick crowd lined both sides of the street; we could not see the fences and their decoration of fall chrysanthemums behind the so many of them. I looked over my shoulder and saw a river of snow; we had not lost any of our marchers in their blazing white clothes. But the harder test was upon us. At first, we heard quiet applause. “Thank you!” Pearl and I both turned. A woman in threadbare clothes stood with a child in her arm and three others at her feet. We saw no man with her. From the look of her and her children, so thin and pallid, there might be no man in her life, or worse, a bad one. Pearl and I both walked taller, for her and all those like her. I saw the sign first, felt my teeth grind, then Pearl saw it. “Zounderkites,” she denounced them under her breath. They were idiots, at least the few antis that were there, the few that made themselves known. Go Home Socilests! That first placard bobbed up and down in the hands of a woman, well-dressed yet unable to think—or spell—for herself. Further down another, Learn How to Behave like a Lady. The flabby woman who held this sign spat at us as we passed her. “Now there’s a real lady,” Pearl softly joked. Her face showed not a speck of amusement. “Fire! Fire!” A scream burst out behind us. Not one of hate or of solidarity, but true fear. We stopped, turned. Two women stamped out the burning hem of another woman’s gown. Just a few feet away from them stood a policeman, one of the many the city had offered us for our safety. This man smiled as he blew the last puff of cigarette smoke from his mouth, though I could not see the roll-up in either of his hands To hurt another is an ugly urge, a craving that poisoned both the one who would hurt and the one that would be hurt. I had known this ugliness before; I had used its power upon a man, the man Pearl had killed to save me. Never since then, not until that moment, had I felt such ugliness within me, as I glared at the smug face of that policeman. We continued our march. We entered the uneven triangle of the Great Common. A loud, encouraging greeting rose up and lifted us off our tired feet, drowned out any that would slam us to the ground. In my hope to inspire, I became inspired, an outcome of this day I would never have predicted, or how deeply it would warm my heart. The large brass band took up their instruments, I felt the blasting notes of the horns deep in my warmed soul. My hands chose to lift, to raise the flag it held as high in the air as my arms would reach. I looked to Pearl; her head had fallen back upon her neck as tears fell from her eyes, spilling into her mouth spread wide and joyously. I reached for her and she for me. We would not know what difference our actions had made that day any time soon. It didn’t matter, not a whit. We had done it, blazed through a trail of both beauty and ugliness, of gratitude and venom. If we had changed one mind, if we had made others think, in my mind, we had done our job. Together we raised our hands high. Together we sang the words so perfect for the moment…words of our country, our liberty, our freedom…Let Freedom Ring! view abbreviated excerpt only...Discussion Questions
1. Why was the mention of Pearl’s mother the “mark” that broke Pearl’s stony shock? Would this be considered a typical response to grief? If so, why? Or if not, why not?2. While informative and engaging, what is the purpose of Pearl’s loss of her entire family in the sinking of the Titanic? Is it merely a historically monumental event to mark the time setting of the story and to engage the reader quickly to the tale or does it have a deeper intention within the context of the story?
3. For readers both female and male, were you aware that one hundred years ago, married women had no entity in the eyes of law? If not, do you believe it is a part of women’s history that should be taught in schools? Why or why not?
4. Pearl tells us that... It was all right there, on every canvas I had covered with my paints… the question of who I am, what I am. Why did she question her identity? Which two worlds did she live in? And why did this cause an internal struggle for her?
5. As Pearl and Ginevra are reading more about women’s legal rights, or the lack thereof, it was stated of Ginevra that: “As an immigrant, her position was even more precarious than mine. We had learned that, were her husband to die, the government would send her back to Italy, a home she hadn’t been to in almost twenty years, and without her children.” Discuss the similarity to the laws of the land (at the time of this book’s release). Does it represent a forward or backward movement in the handling of immigrants to the United States?
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