Bluebonnet Belle. Lori Copeland
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E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, then she had to support it.
Period.
She was committed.
Feeling surprisingly confident about the decision, she hurried toward Ogden’s Mortuary, sitting on the corner of Main and Fallow Streets. The funeral parlor had become her home when Delane Truitt, her mother, died seven years ago. Riley Ogden had taken his granddaughter in and raised her with stern, but loving, care.
At times he was prone to throw up his hands in despair, stating, “You, young lady, have too much of your father in you!”
But April didn’t take offense. She knew he thought the world of his son-in-law, Jack Truitt, and had grieved as hard as his daughter when Jack died in a train derailment at the age of thirty.
Someday April would marry Henry Long. Grandpa was finicky when it came to April’s suitors, however, which made telling him a difficult, and as yet unresolved problem.
Maybe Henry didn’t make her feel heady and breathless—not like that arrogant Gray Fuller did—but he was considered a good catch and they shared the same spiritual convictions—and the same philosophies about the Pinkham compound.
Right now, April planned to do what she could to improve women’s lot in modern society.
And the first step was to tell every woman she could about Mrs. Pinkham’s elixir.
Now. If only Mrs. Pinkham would accept her invitation and come to Texas and sell her marvelous product. April breathed a heartfelt prayer, then turned to go home.
Chapter One
Dignity, Texas
August 1876
“Ladies, ladies! Please! May I have your attention! There’s no need to shove! There’s plenty to go around for all!”
As Lydia Pinkham shouted to gain order, April stood behind a long table piled high with bottles of Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, eager to sell to those brave enough to try the revolutionary new cure-all for female complaints.
“Sickness is as unnecessary as crime,” Lydia declared as the women pressed closer, trying to get a better look at the small brown bottles. “And if I may be so bold, no woman should be condemned to suffer when there is a curative readily available!”
Eyes widening, the women drew back as if a snake had bitten them.
“Ladies, ladies! Don’t be alarmed. The Pinkham Compound is a special formula of nature’s own elements,” Lydia explained.
Having accepted April’s offer, Mrs. Pinkham and her entourage had arrived late yesterday afternoon. The women of Dignity were about to be catapulted into the modern age. Lydia was clearly skilled in marketing. Offering her product directly to women seemed to be a shrewd sales tactic.
Ladies were hesitant to talk about such things, but the group who’d come today to hear Mrs. Pinkham’s theories on women’s health issues seemed eager to learn what the product would do. April was excited by the response and delighted to be part of the Pinkham team.
Lydia brewed her compound on a stove in the cellar of her home. The rows of brown bottles lined up on the table in front of April had labels detailing all the ailments the tonic could cure.
Lydia was usually too busy making the compound and writing advertising copy to conduct a rally herself, but she’d decided to take the campaign on the road to the Houston area.
April considered today a plus. Since Grandpa was unaware of her involvement, she was relieved when the small Pinkham entourage—Lydia; two of her sons, Dan and Will; Henry Trampas Long and April herself—had left Dignity to conduct sales in a small town closer to Houston.
So far, Dignity residents chose to overlook her involvement with Mrs. Pinkham in order to keep word of her activities from an aging Riley. The town mortician and cofounder was narrow-minded on the subject of Pinkham’s Compound.
“The perfect woman,” Lydia continued, “should experience no pain, but that individual would be rare indeed.”
Lydia Pinkham’s sad but compelling eyes met the gaze of every woman in attendance as she walked the length of the table, holding aloft a bottle of her vegetable compound high for all to see. Tall placards held by Dan and Will displayed copies of advertisements that had run in newspapers in Houston. The headlines decried the major complaints of women of the day. I Am Not Well Enough to Work, one stated, followed by the photo of a contrite woman standing before an angry husband who had no dinner waiting on the table and no clean shirts in the wardrobe. In the descriptive, Lydia E. Pinkham offered her “sympathy and aid,” but reminded readers that there was a ready remedy. Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound would, the ad stated, “restore to vigorous health the lives of those previously sorely distressed.”
Another claim boldly stated Operations Avoided; another, I’m Simply All Worn-out, followed by the picture of a woman who had collapsed from fatigue.
Yet another touted Social Tragedy—Women Who Brave Death for Social Honors, detailing how one very socially prominent woman suddenly leaped from her chair with a scream of agony, then fell insensible to the floor. The doctor told the victim’s husband that she was suffering from an acute case of nervous prostration, and hinted that an operation would be necessary.
Fortunately, a friend suggested Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound.
Surgery was avoided.
The din was growing louder, and Lydia raised her voice to be heard above it. April shifted from one foot to the other, wishing she’d worn more comfortable shoes.
The pandemonium only verified how badly women needed the Pinkham cure.
More than once during the brief time she’d been working for Lydia, April had wanted to sink right into the ground when pandemonium broke out. Sometimes containers were knocked over and broken as women clamored for a little brown bottle that would change their lives. Selling to customers who pushed, shoved and made it impossible to conduct business in an orderly fashion unnerved April.
But she believed in what Mrs. Pinkham was doing, so she wouldn’t think of giving up her job. She not only took pride in her work, but was earning her own money for the first time in her life. It gave her a sense of purpose and fulfillment.
As Lydia continued to lecture, Will Pinkham passed out the “Guide for Women” leaflets to ladies who were not as convinced as Mrs. Pinkham that their ailments should be openly discussed in a public forum, even among other females.
The babble was getting louder, and a couple of the attendees were red-faced.
Lydia continued, “I wish every woman who feels dissatisfied with her lot would realize that she is sick, and take steps to cure herself. Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound will make you cheerful, happy, eager to meet your husband’s wishes. Ladies! Once more you will realize the joys of your home! You will have found your true vocation—to be a devoted wife and loving mother!”
“It’s hard to believe that a compound could do all that!” a tall, raw-boned woman called from the back of the crowd.
Lydia, thin lips pursed, her face pale except for the two coins of high color on her cheekbones, leveled a look at the individual who would dare to question her claims. “Have you tried the product, dear lady?”
The woman shrank back. “Not yet.”
April readied copies of the four-page “Helps for Women” pamphlet that Lydia and her sons had printed to encourage sales.
Glancing up, April took an involuntary step backward when three women in the crowd voiced their skepticism about the claims, declaring them nonsense.
“It just doesn’t seem proper to talk about female complaints so boldly in the newspaper for everyone to read,” a deep voice interjected.
April mentally groaned when she saw Gray Fuller join the crowd. Having stationed