Free Woman

by Marion Meade

  "Victoria," her mother would announce sharply in the morning, "it's bread-bakin' day. You hear me!" That meant Vicky would stay home and bake bread. Another day, she would make soap and candles.

  By this time, her oldest sister, Margaret Ann, was married and already had several small children. She, too, needed help. Roxanna generously offered Vicky's services. Vicky, of course, was not consulted. She had no choice but to trudge over to Margaret Ann's house where there was always something to do; Vicky made fires, washed and ironed, cut wood, spaded the vegetable garden, and took care of her sister's babies.

  She resented it. She didn't even like her sister that much, and she certainly didn't appreciate being Margaret Ann's maid. Oh, why couldn't she go to school where she could imagine worlds of beauty and adventure far removed from her own bleak life in Homer?

  For three years, Vicky went to school whenever she could. Then, one day, her education ended abruptly. So did living in Homer. Buck Claflin, always on the lookout for ways to make a fast dollar, had discovered a new idea called "fire insurance." By paying the insurance company a few cents a year, he would get back the full value of his gristmill should a fire occur.

  Practically nobody in Homer had any property they thought worth insuring and when Buck insured his mill, the news soon traveled all over town. It became the chief topic of gossip. People gossiped even harder when Buck's mill happened to burn to the ground one Sunday night. In fact, they acted downright suspicious.

  When Buck tried to collect his insurance, he learned it wouldn't be quite so easy as he'd imagined. There were questions, lots of them. People in Homer hadn't the slightest doubt that Buck had set the fire himself. They said he'd always been a crook. "He should be tarred and feathered!" they cried.

  Faced with a major scandal, Buck quietly dropped his insurance claim and slipped out of town. Homer was delighted to see him go. Unfortunately, there was one small problem. He'd left his family behind. Did that mean he would be returning? Not if the citizens of Homer had anything to say about it.

  Some of the more practical folks hit upon a perfect solution. They decided to hold a benefit bazaar and raise money to send this poor abandoned family to join its scalawag husband and father. What could be more charitable? And what easier way to get rid of undesirables?

  Afterward, the people of Homer had no regrets. They discovered that Buck, who had run the post office in his spare time, thoroughly deserved his bad reputation. The man who took his place as postmaster found a trunk full of letters, each one stating that money was being enclosed. All the envelopes were empty.

  At the age of eleven, it isn't pleasant to be uprooted from your home and practically escorted out of town in disgrace. Nor is it easy to know you're not wanted. For several years the Claflin tribe roamed around Ohio, stopping at one town and then another. How long would they stay? Vicky never knew. It depended on whether Buck thought there was an opportunity to make money. Sometimes he'd go into partnership with other men, but the businesses never lasted long. And, once again, the Claflins would move on.

  Finally, traveling almost full circle, they came to a halt in Mount Gilead, a small town not far from Homer. It wasn't because Mount Gilead offered such lush pickings for Buck's business schemes. Rather, it was because Margaret Ann and her husband had recently settled there.

  On the surface, the humiliations of such a chaotic existence appeared to wash over Vicky. She remained as she'd always been—solemn and soft-spoken. All the hurts became unimportant because she had a secret. Once, when she'd been younger, she had seen a vision. A beautiful young man in a dazzling white Grecian tunic had appeared to her. He looked like an angel.

  "You will know wealth and fame one day," he promised gently. "You will live in a mansion, in a city surrounded by ships, and you will become ruler of your people."

  That, Vicky later insisted, was how she first got the idea she might be an important person someday. Far from disbelieving the incredible prophecy, the enthralled little girl thought it sounded quite reasonable. Hadn't she always felt special, like she didn't belong to the Claflins? This proved it.

  When she told her parents of the vision, they saw nothing extraordinary about it and soon forgot. Not Vicky. She felt sure that a special destiny awaited her. Somewhere. Someday.

  Actually, the Claflins paid no attention to her miraculous vision because Vicky was always seeing things. From the age of three, she showed signs of being clairvoyant. She had the rare ability of being aware of distant objects or events which could not be known through ordinary sight, hearing, taste, or touch. Sometimes she would scare other children by reading their minds or telling them where lost objects could be found. She could also describe events before they happened.

  Most of us have a small amount of this intuitive talent—we call it having a "premonition" or a "hunch." A few people, like psychic Jeanne Dixon who warned of President Kennedy's assassination before it occurred, seem to have highly developed powers of intuition. Both Vicky and her sister Tennie had this extra sense of perception.

  The late 1840s was a period in American history that abounded with new ideas. People eagerly sought ways to perfect their own lives or to improve the world. Some thought vegetarianism or eating health foods was the answer. Others crusaded against alcohol. The Abolitionists insisted that America would be Utopia if the slaves were freed.

  And in Seneca Falls, New York, a small group of women had embarked upon a passionate struggle for equal rights. In 1848, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott had organized the first Women's Rights Convention. They were determined to change the conditions that had made women into second-class citizens, indeed had denied them the right to behave as full human beings. For their trouble, the feminists who congregated at Seneca Falls were bombarded with ridicule.

  The Reign of Petticoats, scoffed one newspaper headline.

  Blasphemy! squealed another.

  But twelve-year-old Vicky, in the backwoods of Ohio, knew nothing of these events. Nor were her parents the kind of people who might be attracted to new intellectual ideas; their interests revolved solely around making money. That's why it is not surprising that one new idea did catch their attention.

  At that time, there was enormous interest in the occult. Serious, educated people discussed reincarnation; tried to communicate with the dead through mediums; and patronized psychics who could tune in to their past, present, and future. Two of the most famous psychics were Kate and Margaret Fox, a pair of New York sisters who were collecting bushels of publicity and money from their seances. So widespread were reports of the Fox sisters' feats that their success even reached Mount Gilead and the notice of Buck Claflin.

  Two sisters who told fortunes? Two sisters who were said to be making a fortune? Buck suddenly realized that he was sitting on a gold mine. Didn't he have two daughters who were clairvoyant?

  Before Vicky and Tennie knew what was happening, he'd installed them in the parlor of a Mount Gilead boardinghouse where they soon were busily reading people's futures. Although the Claflin sisters received a good deal of attention, Vicky did not feel entirely comfortable. She took her gifts of prophecy quite seriously. Also, she couldn't turn on her power of insight whenever she pleased. It doesn't work that way, she protested.

  In that case, Buck advised his daughters, they should fake it.

  And so Vicky and Tennie shrugged and did their best to give the customers their money's worth.

  After a while, it wasn't much fun at all. When they weren't telling fortunes, there were the endless chores and the petty quarreling at home. Vicky longed to wear pretty clothes, to dance and have a good time. Secretly, she dreamed of getting away from the rowdy Claflins, of escaping from a tackv little town like Mount Gilead. Where was her Prince Charming, a beautiful young man who would swoop down and carry her off to his castle in the clouds? But she kept such thoughts to herself.

  Now she was fourteen and had developed into a young woman. Not surprisingly, the boys in town began to notice he
r. It wasn't her blue eyes and delicate features, but her royal manner which made her stand out from the rest of the girls. She acted like a "lady." But Vicky wasn't interested in any oafish farm boy. None of them fitted her fantasies, nor the prophecy of wealth and fame.

  One June morning, she was walking down the main street of Mount Gilead humming a little tune. There had been rain the night before, and the fragrant air smelled faintly of lilacs. Outside the post office, a man smiled at her She had never seen him before, but he was so handsome she couldn't help smiling back.

  "Halloo," he said.

  Vicky noticed that a lock of ebony silk hung down over his milky-white forehead. He had thick, sooty lashes and beautiful square teeth. His only defect, she thought, was a nervous twitch of the jaw.

  "How do you do?" she murmured shyly.

  Soon they were chatting like old friends. His name, he told her, was Canning Woodhull, and he had just arrived in town.

  Obviously this fellow was no ordinary country boy. Tall and sophisticated, with charming manners and impeccable speech, he knew how to talk to a girl. Vicky could tell that he was older than she, as it turned out fourteen years her senior. As they spoke, she found out that he came from Rochester, New York. He'd studied medicine in the East and now had come to Mount Gilead to set up a medical practice. A doctor! A gentleman! She couldn't help feeling awed.

  "My little chick," he said gaily, "I want you to go with me to the Fourth of July picnic."

  No one had ever called her "a little chick"' before. She was filled with ecstasy.

  Wide-eyed, she hurried home to ask her mother. Roxanna had no objections, but she quickly pointed out that Vicky had nothing to wear for so grand a date. It was true. Perhaps a dress could be borrowed, but the biggest problem was shoes. Hers were falling apart. They would never do, and there was no money to buy a new pair.

  "I'll earn the money," exclaimed Vicky. "I'll pick apples and sell them and buy myself new shoes." And she did exactly that.

  Apparently Vicky and Canning hit it off immediately. What happened during the Fourth of July celebration she never revealed. But on their way home that evening, Canning wasted no time in proposing.

  "My little puss," he whispered tenderly, "tell your mother and father I want you for my wife."

  It was like a fairy tale; in fact, it sounded too good to be true. The levelheaded Vicky must have told herself that, in real life, things don't happen so quickly. They hardly knew each other. How could Canning be sure that he really wanted to marry her?

  These doubts didn't trouble her parents.

  "A grand match!" bellowed Buck when he heard that his daughter had attracted a young man from a well-to-do Rochester family. Roxanna agreed.

  Still, Vicky hesitated. After all, she was only fourteen and had never had a beau before. But her parents refused to listen.

  "Marry him and the sooner the better," insisted Buck. "He might change his mind."

  This made her very angry. Down deep, she felt hurt that her parents were so anxious to marry her off to the first man who came along. It didn't matter whether he was an eligible bachelor. They acted as if she were a piece of property, ready to be sold at the first decent offer. As far as her father was concerned, she murmured to herself, this was just another business deal, one too good to pass up.

  At the same time, she knew that Canning Woodhull might be the answer to her prayers. He offered a perfect escape hatch from her humiliating life as one of the crazy Claflins. Marrying him would mean a new life—no more household drudgery, no more explosive scenes with her parents, no more fortune-telling, no more being poor and wearing tattered clothes. The prospect was very tempting.

  Why shouldn't she marry this nice man who obviously adored her? As the wife of a doctor, wouldn't she have a house of her own and servants to do the work? Wouldn't she be a wealthy lady then?

  Of course she would.

  Two months later, a few weeks before her fifteenth birthday, she married Canning Woodhull.

  2

  From Frying Pan to Fire

  During the early weeks of her marriage, Vicky discovered several startling facts about her new husband. To her dismay, the gentlemanly Canning much preferred drinking to practicing medicine. For that matter, he preferred drinking to any other activity.

  It was scarcely a secret that Canning drank because she often smelled alcohol on his breath. But then, she reminded herself, what man didn't drink? In the nineteenth century, gathering in saloons and drinking was the most popular male pastime. It almost amounted to a national recreation. After work, or in the evenings, men would retire to the town saloon for a night of hearty boozing. Sometimes they left behind a considerable portion of their weekly wages.

  Canning, however, showed no sign whatsoever of wanting to work. It was not unusual for him to start the day by taking a nip immediately upon arising from bed. By nightfall, pleasantly pickled, he seemed to forget that he now had a wife. For Canning, alcohol was certainly not a sport. It was a deep need, a habit, an addiction. In her naïveté, Vicky had married a genuine alcoholic.

  Shortly after their wedding, she received another shock. One night Canning failed to come home. Sitting up until nearly dawn in their rented rooms, Vicky waited fearfully. What could be keeping him away? She imagined the worst. Surely he'd had an accident, perhaps he was lying dead somewhere. Finally, exhausted, she dozed off.

  The next morning her husband reappeared, his eyes bloodshot but otherwise in fine spirits.

  The anger rising in her voice, she demanded to know where he had been.

  Apparently Canning did not have either the physical strength or the presence of mind to concoct an excuse. Looking sheepish, he blurted out the truth: he had spent the night with another woman.

  The stunned girl could think of nothing to reply. Her tongue felt paralyzed, her mind numb. But she got the message. For an instant, she wished she were back home again, in the midst of the brawling Claflins where life may not have been ideal but at least there were no staggering miseries like those she felt right now.

  "In a single day, I grew ten years older," she would recall many years later. "The shock awoke all my womanhood."

  It also awoke her missionary zeal. "Sinners, repent," she had once sternly lectured the children in Homer. She had been play acting then; now she faced a real and terrible situation. She would reform Canning, she would save him.

  The problem was, Canning did not want to be saved. When sober, he was a gentle, scholarly person, a man who adored children. At those times, Vicky loved him; but when he drank, she couldn't help despising him. Still, she was determined to be a good wife.

  Although the new bride didn't admit it to anyone, she soon discovered that housekeeping bored her. More than that, she loathed washing and dusting, much preferring to sit at the window and dream about her destiny, which now seemed like a bizarre joke. Bur if the floors were unscrubbed and the bread unbaked, Canning never noticed.

  She began to feel that marriage was horribly depressing. One day she suddenly had an inspiration. She suggested to Canning that they visit his family in Rochester. Surely they would want to meet his wife.

  That being one of Canning's sober moments, he immediately agreed. In fact, he wondered why he hadn't thought of the idea himself.

  Vicky wisely refrained from mentioning her real motive. Once back with his very proper family, she hoped that Canning would stop drinking and begin to think about medicine. So far, they had lived on a small allowance from his father, but most of the money went for whiskey. Obviously they couldn't continue that way indefinitely.

  As the time for their departure neared, Vicky began to feel nervous. What if the fancy Woodhulls didn't like her? What if they snubbed her because she wasn't a lady?

  Unfortunately, her fears turned out to be justified. Canning's father, Judge Woodhull, treated her cordially enough. But her elegant mother-in-law and the other women in the family were outraged by her ignorance and what they considered her lower-class vu
lgarity. They didn't bother to hide their scorn. Cruelly, they laughed at her manners, her poor grammar, her small-town clothes, her lack of education.

  Once, Vicky's stomach turned over when she overheard Mrs. Woodhull say bitterly to a visitor, "How could my son have married a trashy little baggage like her!" Feverish with humiliation, Vicky ran to her room.

  "The old cat!” she cried. From behind her locked door came the sound of terrible smothered sobbing.

  Eventually she managed to bury this painful experience. But the grudge she felt against so-called respectable people, her social superiors, would explode into violent rebellion twenty years later when she fought against the hypocrisy of the upper classes.

  In all respects, the trip could be counted a fiasco. Back in Mount Gilead, Canning resumed his drinking and womanizing. Once again, the desperate Vicky thought a change of environment might solve his problem. Moving was a solution she unconsciously had picked up from her childhood: if anything goes wrong, get out of town. She and her husband, following the old pattern of the Claflins, began moving from one place to another.

  First they went to Chicago where Canning rented a one-story frame house. Now almost sixteen, Vicky felt happy because she was expecting a baby. Maybe fatherhood would make Canning realize he must work. At least she hoped so.

  That winter was one of the coldest in Chicago's history. The thermometer seemed stuck below zero, and because Canning rarely remembered to buy firewood, there was often no heat in the house. On some mornings, Vicky awoke to find icicles on the bedpost.

  As the time for the birth drew near, she began to panic. Where would they find the money for a doctor when her labor began? But Canning was all sweet talk and promises. Telling her not to worry, he reminded her that he was a doctor.

  Vicky felt uneasy, but she had to trust him. There was no one else.