Madame Presidentess

by Nicole Evelina

  James swept me into his arms. “I may not have been able to carry you over the main threshold, but the least I can do is escort you properly to our marriage bed.”

  I clasped my arms around his neck. “What do you plan to do once you get me there?” I asked, my voice already husky with desire.

  “I’m sure I can think of something.” He kissed me softly before kicking the door closed.

  A crisp knock, followed by Mr. Cross’s announcement, “Mrs. Woodhull, you have a visitor,” drew me from my rooms later that day.

  As I hurried down the stairs, I prepared myself to face the Claflin brood come home to roost. Instead, a pale, gaunt Canning Woodhull, shaking from the tips of his oily brown locks to the soles of his well-worn boots, stood just inside the main doorway. He spoke my name with the trembling of someone fresh in from subzero cold, not a warm spring day.

  I rushed toward him and helped Mr. Cross remove his coat. “Canning, what on earth are you doing here? You are clearly unwell.”

  “I knew I’d find you,” he said as his body involuntarily jerked. “I needed you. I’m sick. No one knows how to care for me like you do.” He snickered, leaning against me heavily.

  “You’re also drunk.” I recoiled from the whiskey on his breath.

  “Among other things,” he muttered, giggling at some private joke.

  That explained the tremors. He was going through morphine withdrawal. The last time I had seen him like was just before Zula was born, when our poverty had kept him from affording his illicit pleasures. He had been sick for weeks, ultimately turning back to the drug when I left him.

  James and Tennie entered the room, probably drawn by Canning’s slurred speech.

  “Will you two please help me get him upstairs?” I asked.

  “You will do no such thing,” James said in an uncharacteristically stern tone.

  “James, he needs our help.”

  “I’ll be damned before I let that lout stay in our rooms. It’s bad enough he made it inside the house at all.”

  Canning was starting to collapse, his knees slowly giving out. He babbled quietly to himself, seemingly oblivious to the argument going on around him.

  “It’s not like I asked him here,” I said with a grunt as I struggled to rebalance his weight and keep him upright.

  “He is not welcome under my roof.”

  “It’s our roof,” I reminded him. “He can’t be left alone now. He could die.”

  “Let him.”

  Tennie, who was examining Canning’s greening countenance, moved to help me. “We’ll never get him upstairs anyway. Let’s take him to the empty servants’ room off the kitchen. Mr. Cross, fetch a bucket. He’s going to vomit soon.”

  “How would you know?” James asked in a biting tone, reluctantly following up and dragging the case Canning had brought in with him.

  “When my family gets here, he won’t be the only alcoholic or morphine addict in this house. My mother and at least one of my sisters share his vices. I have plenty of experience.” She gave him a sour smile.

  James’s expression turned contrite. “Oh. I apologize, Tennie.”

  “No need.” Tennie hoisted Canning’s legs onto the narrow bed while I wrestled with his upper half.

  He had passed out, which made him more pliable but also more unwieldy. With a grunt, I rolled him onto his side so that he wouldn’t choke on his vomit when it came.

  “There isn’t room in here for all of us,” I said, taking the bucket from Mr. Cross and wetting a cloth from the basin one of the maids brought in. “James, my family will be here soon. See that they are arranged and that no one breathes a word that Canning is here. I’m going to stay here with him until I’m sure the worst has passed. Then we can talk about this.”

  James scowled. “I suppose we can’t just toss him into the gutter.”

  Tennie took James by the arm and led him out before closing the door to the small room. Canning flailed in his sleep. I continued stroking his brow. How many times had I done the very same thing as his wife? Too many to count. No, he didn’t deserve my compassion, but my heart ached for him all the same. He was the first man I’d ever loved. He’d rescued me from my father’s abuses and a life of humbuggery. Granted, our marriage wasn’t much better—what was the old proverb? Out of the frying pan and into the fire—but he was still the father of my children, so for that reason alone, I could not abandon him to life on the streets.

  Canning moaned, and his eyes flew open. Knowing what was coming, I braced him with one arm around his shoulders while placing the bucket under his head with the other. Once his retching ceased, Canning lay back on the pillow, pale and sweating. As I cleaned his beard with the wet cloth, he seized my wrist.

  “Victoria.” My name was both a question and a statement on his cracked lips. “Thank you. You are all I have.” His eyelids fluttered shut, and he passed out again.

  I made sure he was securely on his side and took the bucket to the kitchen to have it cleaned. On my way back to check on Canning, my mother’s grating voice carried to me.

  “She was better off with him than a thief like you. At least with him, we saw her whenever we wanted.”

  So my family was here and they knew about Canning already. And my mother was wasting no time lighting into James for abuses that had occurred only in her gin-soaked mind.

  James was likely fighting the urge to throttle her, something he had threatened to do once before but refrained because she was his mother-in-law. “Annie, I am no thief. No matter what you may believe. As for seeing your daughter, you are living in the same house with her now, so you may see her as much as you like.”

  His words were delivered through gritted teeth, a sure sign his patience was wearing thin. I had planned to sit with Canning again, but it sounded as though my husband had more need of me. After placing a fresh bucket within easy reach and making sure Canning was still breathing, I entered the parlor only to find James sitting alone, a glass of rum in his hand. He wasn’t drinking it so much as staring through it at the flickering candles as though divining the future.

  “Strange how one day can turn your life upside down, is it not?” he asked without looking up.

  I sat next him and laid my head on his shoulder, kicking off my slippers and pulling my feet beneath me. “Life certainly is full of surprises.”

  We were both silent for a while, lost in our thoughts.

  “It is very quiet. Where is my family?” Looking up at him, I added wryly, “You didn’t make good on your threats to kill them, did you?”

  “Tennie’s out back burying the bodies,” he answered without missing a beat. “She took them out to dinner. We decided that would be best for all concerned.”

  I sighed. “Good.”

  “You want him to stay, don’t you?”

  I stared at him. James had always been good at reading my thoughts, but this was eerie. “Has some of my clairvoyance worn off on you?” I joked, trying to change the subject.

  “Victoria.” James’s tone was chiding, as though reprimanding a child.

  “Yes, I do. What life is there for him out there if he came all this way to seek help? I cannot in good conscience hand him his hat as soon as he is well enough to stand and send him off, hoping for the best.”

  James shook his head. “Someday one of your strays is going to turn on you, and you’ll find yourself without a hand. First, you allow your horrid father to work in the firm despite all he’s done to you and Tennie. Then you invite the whole family to live with you, and now you’ve taken in your drunkard ex-husband. Mercy is a noble virtue, but it can also be the sign of a fool.”

  “James Blood, how dare you call me a fool?” I shoved him so hard he nearly fell off the settee. “You are the one who left a promising career and a stable family to live the life of a gypsy with me. If anything, we are equal in our foolishness.”

  “I regret nothing.” He set down his glass on a nearby table.

  “Nor do I. I know this
must be strange for you, having Canning here. But I swear to you he no longer means anything to me. You have nothing to fear. He is here simply because he needs help and I am the best person to provide it because I know his patterns.”

  “I’m not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

  “Have you ever?” I smiled. “I’ll talk to Canning tomorrow. If he’s agreeable, and I think he will be—out of desperation if nothing else—we’ll tell the rest of the family of our arrangement. Let’s see how he does. If he commits even a small transgression, you have my permission to terminate his residency.”

  James slumped, defeated. “So we have another flâneur in the household, eh?”

  “No. He won’t be useless. I was planning to ask him to help Minnie take care of Byron and Zula. Byron has always had a deep affection for his father, so perhaps having him here will help ease the transition into his unfamiliar surroundings. Besides,” I added petulantly, “my father works at the firm, so it’s not like none of them are employed.”

  “If by ‘works’ you mean gives me endless unsolicited advice and makes a general nuisance of himself.” James shifted his weight so that he was facing me more fully. “Victoria, this is an awful lot of trust to place in your family. Do you truly believe they will not try to use your generosity against you? You are in the public eye now, like it or not, and that makes you vulnerable. Have you forgotten Ester’s prophecy? Why aid its fruition?”

  It was a valid question. Blackmail was one of my mother’s favorite pastimes, one my brothers and sisters occasionally indulged in as well. I was giving them the fodder they needed to ruin me if they ever decided to turn against me, but if we were all to live under one roof, I could see no way around it.

  “I will make them swear an oath of silence.” I said it as though it was the solution to all my concerns, but little pinpricks of fear deep in my gut told me one of them would someday break the oath. But for now, it was a chance I had to take.

  MAY 1870

  “Stephen, I don’t know about this.” I paced as I read the paper in my hand. “This goes far beyond what we discussed. All I want to do with these columns is explain to people where I stand on the matters they care about, not give them a lesson on utopia and universal government.” I gestured to the papers. “No one will be able to understand all this, let alone believe I wrote it.”

  I stopped pacing only when Stephen placed his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to sit in the chair opposite him. “First of all, you did write it—the basis anyway.”

  “But that was simply a follow-up to my ideas on government and about women’s rights being equal to men’s. That is what I know. Not this.” I sighed. “Anna Dickinson might have written this but not me. I’ve got tactics in my mind—plans for how to make the world better. This is philosophy—your specialty, not mine.”

  Stephen placed a comforting hand on mine. “Victoria, you are a much more intelligent woman than you give yourself credit for being. None of these people have heard you speak. You may not be an eloquent writer, but when you speak with passion, it’s as though music flows from your lips.” He shook the pages at me. “Are these not the very things we’ve burned up the late-night hours discussing? Do you not see yourself, your husband, and me reflected here? We are a team of thinkers, stronger for our unity of purpose. As for what people will and will not understand, how can we know unless we test their mettle? This is our job—to show them what can be. The rest will follow.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I conceded. The wall clock chimed six, and I hurried to the door. “I cannot spend any more time arguing about this today. Tennie arranged for our first ‘at home’ to take place tonight. She’s invited an interesting mix of politicians, Spiritualists, and suffragists.” I turned back after opening the door. “Stephen, are you even listening to me?”

  He raised his gaze from the sheaf of papers he was already editing, striking through a phrase with a thick line of ink. “Hmmm? Oh yes. Your ‘at homes.’ They are an evolution of the parties you held at the hotel while you were living on Great Jones Street, yes?”

  “Yes, but on a more intimate basis. They are meant to allow people to get to know the woman behind the public façade. After all, there is no more personal place than one’s home. Will you be joining us?”

  He waved his pen at me without looking up. “Perhaps. I have some work to do on this first.”

  “By all means, don’t let me be an impediment to your genius,” I muttered as I stomped off down the hall.

  The kitchen staff was ready, so now all I had to do was decide what to wear. Would it be better to appear professional in a navy or black dress? Or shed my dour broker image in favor of a yellow or lime dress that better matched my zest for life?

  I was still weighing my options when the sound of laughter reached me from the dining hall. Loafing again. If I catch those maids one more time… I swung open the doors.

  My mother and Utica stared at me from their seats at the head of the dining table, porcelain tea cups frozen halfway to their lips.

  “Join us for tea, won’t you, dear?” My mother grinned, revealing missing teeth.

  “Ma, what are you doing in here? Don’t you know I have a gathering starting in a few hours?” I approached them, clearing pieces of the tea service as I went.

  Utica held out her cup to me. “Have a sip, why don’t you? It will do wonders for your nerves.”

  Humoring her, I took the cup with my free hand and brought it to my lips. The liquid was spicy and sharp, burning my throat. I spit it out, spraying the tablecloth. “This is not tea,” I croaked between coughs.

  My mother and sister cackled.

  “It’s bum’s tea,” Utica sang. “Would be gin, but you didn’t have any.”

  I cleared my throat, eyes watering from the cheap rum, and fought to keep my already fragile temper in check. I needed this room ready to receive guests, and here they were drinking and playing dress-up. Come to think of it, they didn’t have such fine clothes. I examined them closer, plucking at Utica’s peach gown. “Is that my dress?”

  “Maybe,” my sister replied.

  In a flash, Utica and my mother were on their feet, scampering out of the room like little girls well aware of their transgressions.

  I called for Helena to clean up the mess and set the room to rights before I chased after my family. “As God as my witness, if I catch the two of you…” I yelled as I bounded up the stairs.

  “Did I hear Ma?” Tennie met me on the landing to the second floor.

  I nodded, pausing to catch my breath as Tennie ran toward the row of doors, pounding on one.

  “Ma! Where is my pearl necklace? I know you took it from my case.” Tennie jiggled the door handle. “It’s locked.”

  “She was wearing it a few minutes ago,” I volunteered, removing the room key from a set I wore at my waist for such situations—which were not as uncommon as I would have preferred.

  “And what about my sapphire comb?” Tennie shouted through the door as she fumbled with the lock. “I was going to wear that tonight. Utica, if I find out you’ve been pawning my jewelry again, I will toss you both out on your ungrateful ears.”

  “The same goes if you interrupt us tonight,” I put in for good measure.

  Less than two hours later, the drawing room was filled with glittering women and smartly dressed men, the floor-to-ceiling gilt mirrors reflecting their images and creating the illusion of a crowd twice its size. Above the soft strains of a string quartet, their voices rose in merry chatter on topics both serious and trivial.

  As I told my guests at the start of the evening, these soirées were more than parties; they were the beginning of a revolution that would end only when women were fully acknowledged as equal to men, both at the ballot box and in the bedroom. Therefore, they should feel free to give voice to radical ideas and speak of reform.

  Whereas I had previously been contented to be in the company of journalists and wealthy businessmen, these folk were most as
suredly a step up on the society ladder from my first attempts to ingratiate myself into New York’s inner sanctum. In one corner, President Grant’s father was surrounded by a knot of men seeking his son’s ear, including James and several politicians I knew from various suffrage meetings. Not far away, Stephen debated Elizabeth Stuart Phillips, the famous Spiritualist author, likely on some point of utopia, which he was still trying to achieve despite multiple past failures.

  At my side, Laura de Force Gordon, a lawyer who had also come into the women’s rights movement through Spiritualism, was chattering about the need for reform out West. “I tell you, ever since the Wyoming territory gave women the vote in December, the rest of us have been chomping at the bit. Then Utah goes and does the same in February, and we’re all fit to be tied. If it’s good enough for women in two territories, why not all of us? Just because California is an incorporated state doesn’t make us inferior to them. If anything, you’d think it would be the other way around.”

  I opened my mouth to commiserate.

  “Listen to me,” Laura barreled on like a steam engine on a downhill grade. “I can’t even practice law in my own state. And do you know why? Because I’m a woman obviously. But do you know what the state bar told me? They were afraid the rustling of our skirts would distract men in the courtroom. Can you believe that?”

  Again, I made to respond but was interrupted, this time by Horace Greeley. He kissed my proffered hand in warm greeting and introduced the short man at his side as Representative Benjamin Butler. As soon as Mr. Greeley said his name, I recognized him from the convention in January.

  He took Laura’s hand first. “I know exactly who this is. The Suffragist of the West, that’s what they call you, isn’t it?”

  “They say it as though I am the only one,” she said with a self-effacing eye roll.

  “But you are the leading one; that is what’s important.” He turned to me. “And here we have the Coming Woman. I remember you from the convention.”