“Your daughter is just fine,” she assured me, holding my baby girl out so I could hold her and see for myself.
“And my husband?” I asked, looking around for some sign of Canning.
Mrs. Collins shook her head. “He’s asleep in our parlor. Or should I say passed out. My husband was home when Canning entered our house thinking it was his own. It took him an hour to convince your husband he had the wrong address, but by then, it was clear Canning wasn’t going to make the short trip over here. He’s letting him sleep it off.”
I hid my face beneath the covers, mortified. As if it wasn’t bad enough the bastard had left us for dead, now he had humiliated us in front of the few people we trusted. I breathed deeply, willing myself to face them and pulled down the sheet. “I am so sorry for all the trouble we have put you and your family through, Mrs. Collins.” I smiled at Celeste. “And so grateful for the care you have given. I’m afraid I cannot pay you for your kindness.”
Mrs. Collins waved off my words. “Nonsense. We were doing what needs be done.” She took my hand. “Tell me—and speak plainly now. Do you really wish to be married to that man?”
Her blunt question shocked me. Did I wish to be married to a man couldn’t be bothered to deliver his own child safely? One who would rather be supported than support his family as his honor and wedding vows compelled him? One who was so lost to alcohol and drugs that he didn’t even recognize his own home? No. I’d tolerated his antics for the better part of a decade, and for what? What did I have to show for it? No money, no viable connection to my family, and a temporary home that was only paid up for a few more days. So what if the law said we were bound? It also said we could be unbound. I could prove adultery twenty times over and more. That was what I would do.
I gazed at the sleeping baby in my arms and stroked Byron’s temple. I had been raised by a good-for-nothing father, and all I had gotten was a good-for-nothing husband. For once, I was grateful Byron likely had no memory of Canning’s abuse. As for Zula, I would rather raise her by myself than have her know pain from her father’s hand.
It wouldn’t be easy, but I could open my own shop. I’d had enough experience working for my father to know I could use my gifts of clairvoyance and healing to attract clientele on my own. Why should I not keep the money I earned?
“No,” I answered after a lengthy pause. “I do not wish to be married to him any longer. And why should I?”
She nodded. “I thought so. We’ll take care of you until you’re well. Then tell us where you want to go, and we’ll see you get there safely. No woman should have to live as you do.”
APRIL 1864
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI
I never told Canning I was leaving. I gathered up the children, said farewell to our neighbors, and took off for the small towns of the Midwest, moving often so he was unlikely to find us. Even though I stayed well north of the Missouri Compromise Line that divided slave-holding states from free, the war years were tough on my children and me. Despite our humble conditions and the need to travel from town to town, following regiments and supply trains to fill our purses and our bellies, Zula prospered and was growing into a bright young girl whom all of my customers loved. Year after year, Byron remained the same, a perpetual child in the body of a growing young man. But I was able to keep him near me and manage his fits, so we never had another episode like the one in Ohio.
I crossed paths with my family on occasion, coming the closest to them in Chicago, where I worked only blocks from the latest incarnation of Pa’s business, a clinic he ran while styling himself with the audacious title King of Cancer. His advert in the paper claimed boldly that between his magical salve and Tennie’s laying on of hands, they could cure all manner of cancers—and fast.
A few my clients were also patients at the clinic, not making the connection between us because I chose to continue using Canning’s last name even though we were separated. A few claimed to be helped by Ma and Pa’s concoction, but most wrote them off for the charlatans they were, having only burn scars to show for their faith in his mixture of what one woman deduced was nothing more than lye and mustard seed.
“Be glad you’ve never taken up with the likes of them,” she said to me one day. “I hear now they’s on the run from the law.” She nodded sagely. “The papers say one woman died from that rot, and Miss Tennie’s been charged with manslaughter. Poor girl. Everyone knows it’s that Pa of hers who should have charges laid at his feet.”
I prayed for Tennie nightly, asking the spirits to tell me if anything happened to her as I planned to rescue her as soon as my situation allowed. Beyond that, I put my parents and my past behind me as no good came from dwelling on such things when I had a new life ahead of me.
After years of wandering around the Midwest, the spirits directed me to St. Louis, where they promised good things awaited. I set up a small office downtown at Sixth and Washington under the name Madame Holland. Not knowing the climate of this city, I put it about that I specialized in healing women’s ailments as the majority of the clients I had seen over the years were women. I’d come to realize that no matter the city, religious affiliation, political leanings, or economic status, their stories were the same—tales of physical or emotional abuse, of sexual exploitation, abandonment, and pain. Granted there had to be some women who were happy in their marriages or with their families, but they weren’t the sort to seek out a healer; they had nothing to be healed. My heart went out to my clients, and I prayed again, as I had in San Francisco, that Demosthenes was right and someday I would be able to help them. For now, I healed as my gifts allowed and comforted them as I could.
But it wasn’t long before word of my clairvoyance spread and I had war widows and soldiers at my door seeking to speak to lost husbands, sons, brothers, fathers, and brothers-in-arms. So when a tall stranger in uniform strode into my chamber, I expected he would be like all the others. What I did not expect was a rush of information from the spirit world. Before I had a chance to greet the man or even focus on his face, I fell into a trance.
“This is him. This is the one,” the spirits whispered. “It’s all been leading to him.”
I had no idea what they were talking about. I shook my head, trying to clear it, but the spirits buzzed around my mind like excited cherubs in a Renaissance painting.
The dark man sat across from me, silently appraising my battle with the spirit world.
Still half in trance, I took his hands. “I see our futures linked. Our destinies are bound together.” In my mind’s eye, I saw our souls wedded as it were, blessed by the Principalities, Powers, Thrones, Dominions, and other angels. “We are betrothed by the powers of the air.”
His chuckle brought me back to myself. “My, that is quite impressive. It is certainly one way to make an impression. Tell me, do you greet all your clients thus?”
I was grateful for the low lighting so he could not see me blush. Now that I was back in my right mind, I saw how ludicrous I must have sounded. I had practically declared my undying love on first sight. I wouldn’t blame him if he left, much less made a few sarcastic comments.
“Forgive me, sir. The spirits are not usually that… passionate in their responses. There must be something about you that they like.”
He shot me a sly grin. “They? Or you?” He cocked an eyebrow.
Me? I hadn’t even had a chance to get a good look at him yet. He was tall, that I remembered from my first glance, but now I really looked at him, at his dark brown hair, matching beard and mustache, luxurious side whiskers, his finely tailored suit and gold pocket watch. He was certainly not a poor man, and his eyes captivated me. They were rich and dark, the color of Dutch cocoa, with seemingly endless depths. I could see the spirits in them.
I sat back in wonder. “You are a believer, a Spiritualist.”
He nodded. “I am. What else can you tell me?”
I gave a small laugh. With the spirits hovering around me, I could have told him his date of birth,
the names of his family for five generations, and where he’d served in the war. But that would have likely only scared him off, and I wanted to keep this man around. He was attractive, yes, but there was more to him than that. He had a depth of soul and intelligence I’d rarely encountered. This was a man who had much to teach me.
Wanting to get it over with, I mentioned the one thing I did not like that the spirits were telling me. “You are here on behalf of your wife, who suffers from female troubles. You heard about me and wanted to see if I was genuine before bringing her here.”
He frowned, clearly disappointed I’d chosen not to continue our repartee. “Indeed. But given you have only recited to me what it is you claim to do, how can I know you to be genuine?”
I shrugged. “I could use my healing ability to relieve you of the pain you still suffer from removing bullets from your own body during the war. Would you like me to start with your right shoulder, your right arm, or your left hand? I do not think your wife would like me working on so intimate an area as your left thigh, though that is what pains you most.” It was my turn to arch an eyebrow at him.
A smile lit his features. “You are not only genuine but clever as well. I like you, Madame Holland.”
“And I you, Mr.…?”
“Surely you need no introduction, but I shall supply one anyway.” He stood and held out his hand. “Col. James Harvey Blood, commander of the Sixth Missouri Regiment and City Auditor of St. Louis. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Rising, I accepted his hand. “Please call me by my given name, Victoria Woodhull. Madame Holland is only a name I use in business.”
Colonel Blood nodded. “How kind of you, Victoria.” He dug in his pocket and produced a card. “I am president of the St. Louis Society of Spiritualists. We would love to have you attended a meeting and share your experiences. We meet on the first Thursday of every month. Our next gathering is this week, in fact.”
I gave him a dazzling smile. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Colonel Blood became my most regular client, dropping by every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon and staying well into the evening. After so many years of keeping my thoughts to myself, it was refreshing to have a man to speak with who believed in the spirits as I did, who had served in the war and understood privation, who could sympathize with my plight.
From this shared experience grew a bond that was not meant to remain platonic. He had a wife, and technically I had a husband, never having gotten around to filing for divorce. But James explained that in Spiritualism, the legal bonds of a piece of paper, the blessings of a church—they were both meaningless. For those of us who lived our lives in communication with the spirits, the bond of the soul was what mattered.
But unlike Canning, he didn’t pressure me to become his lover; rather, he let our attraction build slowly over nights of conversation and healing. As I found out the night I renewed my offer to treat his old war wounds, with James, the laying on of hands was not just an outlay of magnetism. It was an intoxicating exchange of energy unlike anything I’d ever felt.
Still, we had physical urges as well. James showed up at my office one balmy spring night, intentions writ in his eyes. He paused in the doorway, his eyes drinking me in. Then he was in motion, removing his hat even as the door swung shut behind him. He flung his coat carelessly into a corner and stepped out of his boots before reaching me. I fumbled with the buttons on his vest as he tugged at his tie before giving up on his clothes and hastily removing layer after layer of mine. He squeezed my derriere as his mouth found mine, and I moaned, tugging at his clothes, desperate to get him out of them.
He stepped away long enough to remove his shirt, leaving only his breeches in place. I let him guide me to the couch, where his weight came down on me, a delicious heat igniting where our skin touched. He licked and sucked my nipples while his hand explored the forbidden place between my legs. I moved against him and moaned, nipping at his skin as I kissed him from his collarbone to his temple and back again. Then I wrapped one leg around him as the heat within me grew, finally exploding in a shower of stars behind my clenched eyelids.
Temporarily sated, I rolled him over so I was on top of him, then I teased him by running my hands slowly down his naked torso, grinding my hips against him as I went. Torturously slowly, I unbuttoned his breeches and peeled them down his legs, taking my time as I ran my hands up the hard muscle of his calves to his thighs, where my lips took over. I licked the delicate skin of his inner thigh before finally taking him into my mouth.
I brought him to the brink several times before positioning my hips over his and guiding him inside me. I bent forward, and our lips met again as I moved up and down, drawing him in deep only to rise once again and prolong the pleasure. Not willing to let me have all the fun, he rolled us onto our sides so he could thrust as I rotated my hips, our bodies never losing connection. As his rhythm increased in speed and roughness, I held on to him with my legs, letting him ride me over the edge and digging my nails into his back as I shuddered in ecstasy.
“James,” I cried out.
Not long after, he groaned my name, and our motions slowly ceased. We stayed intertwined as our heartbeats slowly returned to normal, and we separated only when I rolled onto my back, guiding his head to my breast.
“I didn’t know such a thing was possible,” I said, pushing sweaty strands of hair off my forehead.
“It is—but only between two healers, two Spiritualists of pure faith.” He leaned up and gently kissed my nose. “Only between two bonded souls.”
“And so we are.”
When James came to visit me the following week, he wasn’t alone. For one horrifying moment, I thought he’d finally brought his wife with him. My stomach kissed my toes—after what had taken place between us, the last thing I wanted was to now meet his wife—but then she drew closer, and I realized this woman was far too old to be his wife. I breathed an audible sigh of relief.
James said nothing but gave me a curious look before introducing his friend. “Victoria, I hope you do not mind my taking the liberty of bringing a guest, but I believe the two of you will have much in common.” He addressed the older woman. “Mrs. Virginia Minor, this is Mrs. Victoria Woodhull. Mrs. Minor leads a group of local suffragists. Mrs. Woodhull has expressed an interest in helping women gain more rights but does not know where to start.”
She approached me with an almost regal bearing, regarding me as though she knew in the very fiber of her being that she had been ordained to impart her wisdom to me. The woman’s high eyebrows gave her an air of perpetual surprise but also lent her a disarming quality of openness and curiosity, which I found appealing.
I rose and took both of Mrs. Minor’s hands in mine. “I am so pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise, my dear. It’s always such a joy to meet young women interested in our cause.”
We sat, and I poured the tea I had prepared for my visit with James, adding an extra cup for Mrs. Minor.
“I am sorry to say that it is still a benefit for a woman to have a male backer even in this female fight. I have my husband’s support, and I must say, you’ve done well in choosing James to be your guide as you enter our cause.” She looked at him with great admiration. “He has a history in the movement already, so associating with him can only elevate your own name. Tell me, how would you like to help?”
“I-I really do not know. All I know is I can’t stand the thought of my daughter being raised to fear her father or her husband’s wrath or going through life beholden to laws she cannot have a say in creating or voting for or against.”
Virginia nodded, a tiny smile playing about her lips. “Motherhood is one of the strongest motivators of our cause. The desire to protect our offspring, to provide for them a better life than the one we have experienced, is innate. You will do well with that as your motivation.” She took a sip of her tea before continuing. “I will not lie to you and say we have an easy road ahead of us. We were close, so close, to gett
ing the vote before this cursed war derailed everything. You and I would be casting our votes this year if the South hadn’t foolishly seceded. Mark my words, peace will come soon, but we’ll have a whole new fight on our hands with the emancipated slaves seeking their own suffrage.”
“Perhaps that is to our advantage,” I said, thinking of what it was like when both of my children ganged up on me to get their way. “Wouldn’t we be much like many children clamoring for the attention of our mother? Maybe if we speak as one, the government will be so tired of listening to us cry, they will give in.”
Virginia smiled ruefully. “If only it were so easy. I do not believe the emancipation leaders will want to work with us anymore after the war. Suffrage is a complex subject that touches on more than the right to vote. At its core, it’s about the value of a life, the affirmation of dignity and personhood. Many men, even Negro men who are just beginning to taste freedom, will argue they have more of a right to vote than do we, the inferior sex.”
“So what can we do?”
“The best thing we as women can do is band together. As soon as this war is over, I plan to organize our local women’s suffrage advocates into a formal group. We must show our government we know our rights and are willing to demonstrate them with or without their permission. Only by demanding our rights of suffrage at polling places and using courtrooms to challenge state laws that bar us from voting will we see change.”
“But that could be years off,” James noted. “Surely there is action to be taken now.”
Virginia nodded. “For now, I advise you to do what you can in your life. Come to our meetings, tend to the women in your life, and tell everyone you know about our cause. It doesn’t seem like much, but once this war is over, we’ll be able to organize again. And then the country will see what we women can really do.”
Madame Presidentess Page 7