One of the interesting things about New York society was that people saw the world through their high but limited expectations. In my beautiful dresses, satin shoes, and fine jewels, with my auburn hair coiffed and my nose powdered, people only saw Vera Garland, the daughter of one of the wealthiest merchants in the city. But when I was dressed as Vee, no one ever noticed any resemblance to Miss Garland. Early on, I’d had photos taken of myself in both identities, then examined them to make certain they looked completely different. Even my body language changed depending on the role I was playing. Miss Garland exhibited careful posture and a slightly distant expression that suggested boredom, whereas Miss Swann’s demeanor was assertive and challenging. She stood tall and held her head high while speaking.
To my coworkers, I was a fearless reporter determined to succeed.
To my mother’s set, I was her spinster daughter who’d had a hushed-up love affair and never quite recovered. The same gossipmongers who whispered about me were all surprised by how quickly Maximilian married after our breakup. I knew the reason, even if they didn’t. Having a bride by his January birthday had ensured that he received his grandfather’s estate.
I gave Vee a background that was easy enough to keep straight, having her grow up in the town next to Newport—Middleton, Rhode Island—and coming from a family of doctors. I had her graduate from Brown University, since it, too, was close enough to an area I knew well.
I knew I wasn’t the only reporter who worked incognito. For many women, it was often the only way we could get behind the scenes to carry out our research and investigations. But I’ve never known who or how many of them lived a truly double life like me. It all took an enormous amount of energy, which I only had a small store of after Father’s death.
When I’d lived in my modest apartment in Chelsea, it had been easy to be Vee and transform into Vera for certain outings. A visiting spinster, even a well-dressed one, didn’t interest my neighbors. But how to explain to my friends that Vee Swann was suddenly living in a penthouse above Garland’s Emporium? I needed a story that would make sense. So I told them that my uncle was Mr. Garland’s doctor and longtime friend and that Mr. Garland was looking for someone to organize his library. Since the businessman rarely stayed in the apartment but went home to Riverdale most nights, he’d offered me free lodging in exchange for cataloging his thousands of books.
It was only half a lie. My father did have an extensive library in the apartment, organized by a system only he understood. Whereas I could search for a title for hours and never find it, ask him where it was, and he’d go directly to the right shelf and pull it out.
After Granville Garland’s obituary appeared in the papers, Fanny and Martha were naturally worried about my living arrangements and offered to let me move in with them. But the apartment they shared in the Second Ward on Maiden Lane down near the Fulton Fish Market was tiny and barely contained them. I told them that Mr. Garland’s widow had asked me to stay on while she decided what to do about the apartment. I was to continue cataloging the books, and she liked having someone taking care of the plants. Mr. Garland, I explained, collected orchids and had a greenhouse on the roof.
Thus, I responded to Fanny and Martha’s note from my elaborate lodgings high above Fifth Avenue, and two days later, I met them at Healy’s Tavern on the corner of Eighteenth Street and Irving Place, where the adorably witty and kind O. Henry had treated us many times over the years. Before his death just a few months ago, he’d been writing a story a week for the World, which was where we all met and became friends. Mr. Henry had taken an instant liking to us, calling us the Three Musketeerettes, and gave us so much good advice, often peppered with personal anecdotes. One of his favorite tips had been to loiter in hotel lobbies. People, he said, tended to reveal their truest selves when not reclining in front of their own hearths.
Since those days, Fanny had left the World and now worked at the New York Times. Martha, too, had moved on and was at Scientific American, where she’d become an acclaimed investigative reporter writing on psychic phenomena. From articles on ghosts, mind reading, and Ouija boards to reincarnation and casting spells, she had done more to expose charlatans and scams than the police. Despite that, and being one of the senior staff, she still got paid far less than men who were her juniors.
The easygoing tavern that O. Henry had written about in his short story “The Lost Blend” was crowded that night, but the owner greeted us effusively and seated us before three other parties who were waiting.
After dinner, Martha said she had a stop to make and asked if we would mind walking with her. I wasn’t paying much attention until we turned onto Twenty-third Street and walked east. When we stopped in front of number 126, the home of the Woman’s Press Club of New York City, I asked my friends what was going on.
Martha took my arm. “We need you, Vee. It’s time for you to come back.”
“The club has more than one hundred and sixty members,” I argued. “You all can’t need me.”
“No, but the action committee does. We need your ideas and your leadership. Please, just come in and listen to what’s going on, and then decide.”
I had created the action committee five years before to make noise and draw attention to the unfairness women reporters all too often faced. We wanted to change the culture and be treated the way we deserved. We were doing the same job as our male counterparts, and yet even though we did excellent work and were often asked to go on staff—which was indeed a high honor—we were supposed to simply accept that we would always be paid less than half what our male counterparts received. Raises, we were told, were out of the question. The attitude of our all-male editors and bosses was that we should be grateful to be employed at all.
The famous newspaperwoman and suffragette Rheta Childe Dorr, who was one of our club members, had once said that her managing editor believed women were accidents in the industry, only to be tolerated.
Yes some women were capable of rising to the top and becoming editors, but only of the pages that dealt with society and fashion, romance, and female health. Not one newsroom was led by a woman. Not one crime beat or political section. Not one financial section.
I thought everything about our situation was unfair and absurd. But even though we’d been trying so hard, we hadn’t effected any change. Hell, Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton had begun fighting the battle for equal rights more than forty years before, and we still didn’t even have the vote.
My father had always taught me to speak up and encouraged my efforts at the press club. So in honor of him, I followed my friends up the steps.
“I’m not making any promises to get involved in whatever this is,” I said at the door.
“And we’re not asking you to,” Fanny said. “Just come in and listen.”
She opened the door, and we walked inside the club that had been started in 1889 by journalist Jenny June. Also known as Jane Cunningham Croly, she had started the organization out of her home in order to help female members of the press who were not invited to join male press clubs. Her vision was that together we would encourage unity, fellowship, and cooperation within our ranks for those who were engaged in similar pursuits. The club organized social projects, raised money for journalism scholarships, offered lectures, and planned social activities.