Madame Presidentess

by Nicole Evelina

  Once the door shut, I let the smile fall from my face. “You two-bit scoundrel! How dare you try to sell your swill right under my nose? Do you have any idea how hard Tennie and I worked to get here? One whiff of impropriety and we’ll all be ruined.”

  “Now, Vickie, I—” Pa stood, hands in front of his chest in a defensive position. His voice was calm, but his expression was black.

  “No, save your excuses. I never should have let Tennie convince me to let you work here.”

  “Is that any way to treat your ol’ pa? I should take you over my knee right here. Don’t think yourself too grown or too important.”

  Tennie and James came out of their respective offices, drawn by the commotion.

  “What’s going on here?” James asked. “Did I hear you threaten my wife with violence? Because if so, you will have to contend with me.” He slid between Pa and me.

  Pa sat back down. “I only meant she should show some respect.”

  “For what?” I cried. “For you taking advantage of our generosity?”

  “Now, Vickie,” Tennie said, coming up behind me and placing calming hands on my shoulders, “Pa was just trying to earn some extra cash.”

  “We pay him plenty and not so he can humbug our customers. I want no more of this.”

  “What else do you want me to do? You won’t let me do any lawyering or talk about money. Should I count the grains in the wood of my desk?”

  “He has a point,” Tennie said. “We need to find him something meaningful to do.”

  I threw up my hands. I was trying to get my father out of the firm altogether, but Tennie kept getting in the way. I looked around for something that would take up his time but not give him the opportunity to cause mischief.

  The door opened, and a man laden with two large canvas bags entered. “Postal delivery. Where would you like these?” The letter carrier gestured with his head to the bags. Each one likely carried more mail than he saw in a typical day, but everyone wanted to contact the Lady Brokers.

  “Right here,” Tennie said, pointing at Buck’s desk. “You can sort mail, right, Pa?”

  Buck stood so he could see over the mail bags. “I used to be postmaster. I most certainly can.” He threw me a triumphant look.

  I pointed at my father. “No more snake oil. If I catch you selling even the smallest jar of cream or giving any medical advice, you are out. Do you hear me?”

  Buck nodded.

  James grabbed him by the collar. “And if you ever threaten my wife again, you’ll be looking at the inside of a coffin.”

  Every evening after the firm closed, Tennie and I dined out with James. So when he was called out of town to help his brother, I thought nothing of suggesting Tennie and I take our evening meal at Delmonico’s, a favorite haunt of local brokers.

  We were seated with the utmost decorum, as befitted a place of its renown and class. A waiter filled our water glasses, took our drink orders, and retreated, giving us time to choose our meals.

  “Tomato soup to begin?” Tennie suggested. “Cornelius raves about it. Says it is the best in town, and he rarely compliments anything.”

  “Yes, that sounds lovely. With pheasant and then custard pie for dessert.”

  Feeling a presence at my side, I looked up, expecting to see the waiter ready to take our order. But to my surprise, Lorenzo Delmonico himself stood next to me.

  “My dear Mrs. Woodhull and Miss Claflin, so wonderful to see you again,” he greeted us with a warm smile. “My sincere congratulations on the success of your business.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Delmonico.” Tennie smiled sweetly.

  His face turned grave. “I’m afraid an error has been made in seating you. We assumed a gentleman was joining you.”

  I shook my head. Why should that have mattered? “No, it is only us.”

  Mr. Delmonico gestured for us to rise. “No matter. Pretend to be talking to me, and I’ll walk out the door with you. Then people will think you only came to speak to me. That will make the situation appear proper.”

  “Make what look proper?” I asked.

  “I can’t let you eat here without a man. It would start an awful precedent.”

  “Don’t let us embarrass you,” Tennie said with a small snort of disbelief before throwing down her napkin and marching outside.

  “You do understand, don’t you, Mrs. Woodhull?” Mr. Delmonico clasped his hands together in a pleading gesture, as if willing me to agree with him.

  “No, not at all. I understand that you are a traditional establishment, but to deny two paying customers who have done nothing to earn your ire except dare to be female is in the height of bad taste.”

  Tennie returned, dragging behind her our reluctant coachman, out of place amid the dark suits in his scarlet coat and leather boots. She shoved him into the seat next to her. “We are buying you dinner tonight.” She stared at Mr. Delmonico with a defiant sparkle in her eye, daring him to escort us out now.

  He stepped back, clearly fuming but not willing to make a scene.

  I motioned to the waiter. “We shall have tomato soup for three.”

  The flustered coachman remained silent throughout the meal even when I smoothed out a copy of the sporting paper Days Doings and pointed at a cartoon of Tennie and myself, asking him, “Which one of us do you think they’ve captured best today?”

  Tennie nudged him in the side. “Come on, Joe. You must have an opinion.” She cocked her head and studied the drawing. “They have shortened the length of my skirt yet again. Look at all that exposed ankle.”

  “I look like a shrew.” I laughed. In truth, the cartoons were humiliating, but laughing at them was the easiest way I had found to cope. I’d rather have done that than cry as the illustrators had intended. “But this one is better than most lately.”

  We put away the papers when the waiter arrived with our dessert. The coachman begged off, expressing his gratitude, and quickly slipped outside.

  “I suppose I embarrassed the poor fellow. It never occurred to me that it would be difficult for him to eat in public with us.” Tennie shrugged. “Ah, well, we were allowed to stay, weren’t we?”

  I glanced around, relieved no one had yet noticed our table was once again females only. “They may never allow us in again, but yes, you made your point.”

  Before I had a chance to crack the surface of my custard, a portly, balding man with gold spectacles perched on his nose approached our table.

  “Mrs. Woodhull, Miss Claflin, good evening.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Greeley,” I greeted the newspaper editor, eyeing an older man standing several steps behind him. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

  “Ah.” He gestured to the stranger. “I was having dinner with a former colleague of mine, and he asked for an introduction. This is Mr. Stephen Pearl Andrews, author, reformer, and utopian leader. Mr. Andrews, Mrs. Victoria Woodhull and Miss Tennessee Claflin, distinguished lady brokers.”

  I presented my hand to the imposing older man, studying him closely as he took it. He may have been handsome once. Behind his bushy hermit’s beard, his skin was clear though wrinkled with age, and his eyes—oh, they were captivating—were a deep, serious brown that hinted at the secrets of the universe. When he smiled, they lit with an inner fire that may have been the force of creation itself.

  “You forgot to add that Mrs. Woodhull is an up-and-comer in the women’s movement. I read all about you in the Revolution. Tell me”—he released my hand—“how did Miss Anthony treat you during your interview? She can be such a shrew, but her article gave the impression she liked you well enough.”

  “Would you like to join us?” Tennie asked, gesturing to the two empty chairs at our table. “We’d love your company.”

  I bit back a smile as the men seated themselves. Tennie was an incorrigible flirt. “To answer your question, Mr. Andrews—”

  “Please, call me Stephen. We are among friends here, are we not?”

  “Stephen,” I amende
d. “I found her to be pleasant enough, though a little cold and severe in appearance. I am ever grateful for the kind words she wrote about us. They will do much to secure our place in the movement.”

  “Indeed.” Stephen signaled the waiter to bring him a brandy. “What was it she said?” He glanced upward, feigning thought. “Ah yes. ‘These two ladies, for they are ladies, are determined to use their brains, energy, and their knowledge of business to earn them a livelihood. This woman firm in Wall Street marks a new era.’”

  Tennie gave a little giggle. “My, you have a remarkable memory, Stephen.”

  “I make it a point to commit to memory that which is important. So tell me, Mrs. Woodhull, what are your plans to advance the women’s movement?”

  “Well, Miss Anthony did ask us to officially join the movement. I told her we needed to get our firm established first, but once we do, she will see what we will do for the rights of our sex.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Mr. Greeley asked. His eyes were narrowed, lip slightly upturned, and his nose wrinkled as though he smelled something offensive.

  Was he put off by the idea or merely curious? Either way, I’d best choose my words carefully. “Well, we need the vote of course. It’s our constitutional right. But it doesn’t end there. I’ve worked with women on many levels of society and have clearly seen that we need rights within marriage as well. Otherwise a wife is no better off than a common prostitute, for both trade their bodies for some assurance of material comfort.”

  Mr. Greeley’s mouth dropped open, and he struggled to form a response but was interrupted by Stephen, who clapped and hooted loudly.

  “Yes. This is exactly the kind of thinking we need. I’ve been saying for years that individual rights are key to our country’s future. Taking the idea deeper to the level of the individual woman is pure genius. Victoria—may I call you Victoria?”

  I nodded.

  “I am so glad old Horace here introduced us. I think we shall be great friends. May I call upon you sometime? I have many things of immense importance which I want to communicate, and I believe you are exactly the person to help me do so.”

  Stephen made good on his word by calling upon us the very next night and nearly every day for the following month until he was a regular fixture in our rooms at Great Jones Street. When I wasn’t working in the brokerage, I spent my free hours with him and James, discussing matters of women’s rights, social theory, and reform. Those conversations were among my happiest moments, for I was finally among people to whom I could speak freely without fear of reprisal and who, in turn, could expose me to a wider world that would enrich my mind and strengthen my resolve to run for the presidency. I scarcely dared to admit it even to myself, but I had begun to believe that Demosthenes was right; I might yet live up to my queenly name.

  Stephen’s presence meant I also had the opportunity to get to know his wife, Ester. The tall, olive-skinned woman had the wild curly locks of a gypsy and expressive black eyes. She was also a Spiritualist and magnetic healer with impressive skills in trance communication. I took an immediate liking to Ester when we clasped hands upon meeting and the woman’s light and buoyant energy filled me.

  Given our shared ability to speak to the spirits, it was only natural to invite Ester to our weekly séances, which were conducted in Katherine’s darkened parlor, where the windows let in wide silver swaths from the moon.

  I took a seat at a small rectangular table, James on my right. Next to him was Tennie, then Stephen. Ester, who insisted on serving as medium, was seated across from me, the chair to her left vacant, reserved for any spirit who might make contact. The table was bare save for a single sheet of paper upon which the twenty-six letters of the alphabet were written.

  “My methods for communing with the spirits are different from those used by our fair hostess,” Ester said. “I follow the traditions laid out by the Fox sisters, the first Spiritualists. Do not be alarmed. Everything I do is perfectly harmless.” Ester looked at each person in turn. “If we are all ready, please join hands.”

  I took Ester and James’s hands, laying them palm up on the tabletop.

  “Spirits, we call upon you in humility. If anyone here this night would like to speak with us, please make your presence known,” Ester said, her voice carrying throughout the room.

  It was more difficult than I expected to be an observer when I was used to being in control. Even though I wasn’t the channel, I could not turn off my otherworldly senses. Spirits were all around us; I felt maybe a dozen or more. Most were simply curious, but there was one strong tug directed toward Ester. This spirit wished to speak. No sooner had I thought it than I felt a shift in the air pressure at my side like the charging of the atmosphere before a thunderstorm; the chair across from me was no longer empty.

  A single loud knock split the quiet.

  James and Tennie jumped.

  “Ah, yes. Someone is indeed willing.” Ester smiled. “Spirit, we welcome you. Is there someone here for whom you have a message?”

  Another knock.

  “Is it for one of the men?”

  Two knocks.

  “No. For Tennie?”

  Two more knocks.

  “For Victoria?”

  A single knock.

  I looked at James, puzzled. What spirit would choose to speak to me through another medium? Why not come to me directly? As if understanding my thoughts, he shrugged and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.

  “What is your name?”

  Ester barely finished asking the question before the paper skittered across the table toward the empty chair. The medium reached forward, her fingers touching letters at an astonishing speed.

  Stephen called out the letters in turn. “R-A-C-H-E-L.”

  “Welcome, Rachel. Victoria, does that name have meaning for you?” Ester asked.

  I blinked a moment, still in shock. “Yes. She, Rachel Scribner, was my childhood neighbor. She took care of me when my parents did not. I”—I choked back the memory of a narrow bed in a hot, suffocating room—“I was there when she died.” But why approach me now, after all these years? And why could I not see her?

  Another rap. An affirmation?

  “What is your message for Victoria, Rachel?”

  Ester’s hand flew across the page, spelling out words, pausing, then spelling out more.

  “She’s going too fast,” Stephen cried. “I can’t keep up.”

  “Neither can I,” the medium said.

  Suddenly, Ester’s hand fell to her side, limp. Her eyelids fluttered then closed. Her head tipped forward.

  “She’s going into a trance,” Stephen put out a hand to stop Tennie, who had started to rise. “I’ve seen it before. It will be all right. Rachel must have more to convey than she can do in letters.”

  Ester raised her head and opened her eyes.

  I gasped. Gone were the laugh lines around Ester’s mouth. Gone too were the furrows in her brow. This was the face of a much younger woman. And her eyes, oh, how they sparkled with joy I had not seen since I was five years old. Ester’s body may have been in front of me, but Rachel was looking out of her eyes.

  “Victoria, how you have grown.” Even Ester’s voice was different—higher, softer, suffused with pride. “I have been watching you, have missed nothing.”

  Tears streamed down my face. How much I wanted to go to her, to kneel at Ester’s knee as I had with Rachel when I was young, to feel her loving caress again. I fought back the urge. To break the circle would mean releasing Rachel’s spirit before we heard the reason for her visitation.

  “I come here tonight with a warning,” Rachel/Ester stated. “Beware the Judas kiss. One of your own blood will betray you.”

  Others may have been frightened at such a pronouncement, but I nearly laughed. I didn’t need the spirit world to tell me the Claflins were trouble. That was a lesson hard learned long ago. Still, Rachel had her reasons for crossing to this side, so I should learn all I could.
/>   “What will this person do? For what should I be watchful?” I asked.

  “Guard your secrets well lest they return to haunt you.”

  The others fidgeted in their seats, but I could not look away.

  Rachel watched me with maternal compassion. “I am proud of you, daughter. Be strong on your journey, resolute as the pioneers who settled this land. Your name will not be forgotten.”

  I closed my eyes and smiled. When I opened them again, Rachel was gone and Ester was beginning to stir.

  All night, I relived my time with Rachel, turning the prophecy over and over in my mind and repeating every word the spirit had said to me. By morning, the dire prediction was still in the corner of my mind, but it was my caretaker’s charge to be resolute that I felt most keenly.

  Emboldened by the support from the spirit world, I made a decision I’d been toying with for months. Today I would change a woman’s life. It may have only been one, but I had to start somewhere. I paid Madame de Ford a visit.

  “My dear, I wasn’t expecting to see you here. What may I do for you?” she asked as we sat in her office, sipping tea.

  I shifted in my seat. What I had to propose was not easy, and I was unsure of Madame de Ford’s reaction. “How much does Minnie still owe you on her contract?” I tried to sound casual, as though this was only of passing interest.

  Madame de Ford’s bushy gray eyebrows rose. She set down her teacup in its saucer and pushed it away. She placed both arms on the surface of her desk, dark eyes boring into me. “That is between her and me. What business is it of yours?”

  I bristled at Madame de Ford’s coldness. So be it. If she was going to be frank, I would too. “I would like to buy her out of her contract. With my financial business, I am able to spend less and less time at home, and my son needs someone to care for him while my daughter is in school. Our landlady watches him now as a favor to me, but that cannot continue indefinitely.”