Besides, I was vindicated by the unlikeliest of sources—the Tribune, Horace Greeley’s traditionally conservative paper. The Tribune was not quick to dole out praise, but they lauded me for standing up to defend my beliefs, writing, “For ourselves, we toss our hats into the air for Woodhull. She has the courage of her opinions. She means business. She intends to head a new rebellion, form a new Constitution, and begin a revolution beside which the late war will seem but a bagatelle, if within exactly one year from this day and hour of grace, her demands be not granted out of hand. This is a spirit to respect, perhaps to fear, certainly not to be laughed at. Would that the rest of those who burden themselves with the enfranchisement of one-half our whole population, now lying in chains and slavery, had but her sagacious courage.”
I cut the clipping as soon as I read it and sent copies to my loudest detractors. I smiled, imagining their scowls as they read such high praise for my courage. Let them call me a misguided fool now.
“James, Tennie, where is the paper?” I called.
I’d spent the better part of an hour searching for the Times, eager to see if there had been any additional coverage of my speech or the nasty letter-writing battle that followed. I couldn’t find it in any of the usual places; it wasn’t on the table in our bedroom, the sideboard in the dining room, not even in James’s favorite chair in the parlor. Stranger still was that even the servants had claimed not to have seen it.
Giving up, I donned my cloak and walked to the nearest newsstand. I paid my ten cents and scanned the headlines as I returned home. I was about to climb the front stairs when a notice in the legal section—which had increasingly been carrying threats against my firm by companies exposed in the Weekly—gave me pause. This couldn’t be right. It couldn’t. Leaning against the stone wall for support, I read the article again, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Roxanna ‘Annie’ Claflin, mother of the self-appointed presidential candidate Victoria Woodhull, appeared before one Justice Ledwith a week ago Monday and swore out a warrant for the arrest of James H. Blood, alias Dr. J. Harvey, on charges that he ‘has succeeded in corrupting her daughters Victoria and Tennessee’ and had ‘entirely weaned them from their affectionate and never to be consoled mother.’ In addition, she had ‘often heard Blood insist that Tennessee should make efforts to secure the attentions of different married gentlemen of wealth in order that they might make money out of them.’ Such men as were secured, she charged, were blackmailed by Blood. A trial date has been set for May 15.”
I covered my mouth with my hand and sank onto the cold stone steps, letting the paper fall at my side. There had to be some mistake. My mother might have been a vengeful old bat, but even she wouldn’t take her family to court, would she? I laughed, a bitter, mirthless sound. Of course she would. This was the same woman who had blackmailed every person she could. She likely had my thieving father’s full support, not to mention that of the equally indignant Polly and her husband, Dr. Sparr.
I took a deep breath, momentarily calmed until I recalled the date mentioned at the end of the article. May 15. That was tomorrow. Why had no one told me? What was I to do? Did James know? He had to. Realization dawned like a punch to the gut. This was why I could not find the paper this morning. James didn’t want me to know and had been trying to hide it. Frantic in mind but overcome in body and spirit, I drew my knees to my chest and laid my head on them, trying to think, all the while torn between anger at my mother, betrayal that James had kept this from me, and utter despair.
I was still in this position when a pair of brightly polished black boots crunched into my field of vision. James’s coat and hat came into view as he bent to retrieve the paper.
“You know.” It was a statement, not a question.
I said nothing, remaining still as a statue.
James placed his walking stick and hat on the banister before sitting next to me. “I was hoping this whole situation would be over before you even heard of it.” When I didn’t reply, he continued with a deep sigh. “I suppose this is my fault. I was there when the affidavits were read. The judge said he would dismiss the complaint unless I insisted on a trial.”
I raised my head. Had I heard him correctly? He’d had the chance to stop this and chosen not to?
James passed a hand across his face. “Damn my pride. I couldn’t let that woman ruin my good name. I told the judge I wished for a trial so I could disprove the charges against me.”
I struggled to speak, opening and closing my mouth several times before finding my voice. “Why would you do such a thing?” I took hold of James’s shoulders and shook him. “Have you any idea what this could do to us? To the firm? I can see the headlines now—‘Future Presidentess Attacked by Own Mother.’ Oh, you are a fool.” I rose, ignoring the protestations of my stiff joints, and stomped up the stairs.
James was after me like a shot. “Victoria, please, I’m sorry.”
Ignoring him, I flung open the door and made for our bedroom. On the landing outside our room, I whirled on him, one hand already on the doorknob. “Apologies will do us no good now. We have to find a way to undo this. I will speak with the firm’s lawyer and see if it can be hushed up.”
“I have already secured a lawyer. There is nothing to be done but see it through.”
I regarded my husband coldly. That his contrition was sincere was plain enough in the pleading of his eyes and his wrinkled brow, but that did not change the facts. This man, whom I loved more than anything, had chosen to indulge his pride rather than save all of us the embarrassment of a public trial. What was worse, he had given Ma a bit of vindication simply in acknowledging her suit, a concession she would twist as far and as long as she could. I shuddered, dreading the following day. Annie Claflin may have been evicted from her daughter’s home, but she was not about to go down without a fight.
The large, open room of the Essex Market Police Court was a hive of anticipation the following morning while its patrons waited for Judge Ledwith to appear. I sat next to my husband, still refusing to speak to him, straining to pick out snippets of the conversations buzzing around me. I hadn’t been the only one to note the legal notice, which had been inflated from a fine-print article yesterday to full-page speculation today, calling Ma’s suit “The Great Scandal” and painting her claims as slanderous “revelations,” giving them a ring of truth that the more honest term “allegations” lacked. I’d feared walking into a hornet’s nest when we entered the courtroom today, but thus far, no one was paying us any mind.
James stood and shook the hand of a tall, barrel-chested man with hair so white it had to have been originally blond. He introduced the man as John DeNoon Reymert, our lawyer.
His name was so similar to that of my lover in Washington’s, Judah DeWitt Reymart, my heart skipped a beat and my blood turned to ice. This couldn’t be a coincidence. But what did it mean? Did James know? Was this man his way of getting revenge on me? No, I was being foolish. None of this meant anything. Many people had similar names. I had to stop this nonsense and focus on today’s trial.
Soon the judge entered and proceedings began. As the one bringing the suit, Ma was called to the stand first. My jaw tightened as Polly helped Ma, hobbling for effect, into the testimonial seat as though she were an invalid; the whole family knew she could walk fine. It was her mind that was defective, not her body.
Ma’s lawyer, a man called Mr. Townsend, asked her to tell the court why she had brought this claim against Colonel Blood.
Ma gave the judge her most piteous look. “Judge, my daughters were good daughters and affectionate children afore they got in with this man, Blood. He’s threatened my life several times, and one night last November, he came into tha house on East Thirty-Eighth Street and said he would not go ta bed ’til he’d washed his hands in my blood.” Her chin trembled, and her voice shook as though she would burst into tears.
“I’ll tell you what that man Blood is. He is one of those who have no bottom to their pockets;
you can keep stuffin’ in all the money in New York, but they never get full up. If my daughters would just send this man away, as I always told them to do, they might be millionairesses and go riding around in their own carriages. I came here because I want to get my daughters out of this man’s clutches. He has taken away Vickie’s affection and Tennie’s affection from their poor old mother.” Sniffling loudly, she took hold of the Bible used to swear her in and grasped it to her chest. “S’help me God, Judge, I say here and I call Heaven to witness that there was tha worst gang of Free Lovers in that house on East Thirty-Eighth Street that ever lived—Stephen Pearl Andrews and Dr. Woodhull and lots more of such trash.”
Eyebrows raised at how wildly his client had veered off course, Mr. Townsend snapped, “Keep quiet, old lady.”
Ma wagged an arthritic finger at him. “Yes, yes, I’ll keep quiet. But I want to tell the judge what these people are. I was afeared for my life all tha time I was in the house. It was nothin’ but talkin’ ’bout lunatic asylums. If not for my son-in-law, Dr. Sparr, they would have put me on Blackwell’s Island.” She harrumphed and nodded for emphasis.
Shaking his head, Mr. Townsend ended his questioning there. Mr. Reymert wisely chose not to question Annie lest he give her a venue to vent her spleen in additional detail that might harm his client.
Polly was called next, and as expected, she affirmed her mother’s testimony. Though she tried to appear prim and the picture of a good daughter, it didn’t take long for her real feelings to show.
When asked about Ma’s relationship with Tennie and me, she answered, “Of course she’s upset over the colonel taking them away. She always did like them two best. My whole life, all I heard was how wonderful Vickie and Tennie were. Never once did she praise me.” She crossed her arms defiantly. “But now look who’s here to take care of her in her old age. Me. Not them two. They turned us out into the street.”
“Did you ever witness Mr. Blood acting in a violent manner toward your mother?” Mr. Reymert wanted to know.
Polly thought before answering. “No. But she was right about Blackwell’s Island. Once I seen Tennie and Vickie invoke the spirit of Demosthenes, Vickie’s spirit guide, who, speaking through Vickie, threatened my mother that she would be taken to an insane asylum.”
My grip on the banister in front of me tightened, forcing the blood from my knuckles as I fought the urge to rise and pummel my sister or, at the very least, raise my voice in self-defense. How dare the little traitor use my religion against me? Polly had never witnessed any of my séances, especially not the private ones where I consulted Demosthenes. Those were for James and me alone. What Polly said made no sense. Why would a spirit threaten our family? But then again, Polly had never been concerned with the finer points of Spiritualism, preferring, like Ma, the flash and showmanship that could easily part unwitting people from their coins.
The lawyers looked at one another, seeming not to know how to follow that bit of information. When neither made a move to question her further, the judge dismissed Polly and called James to the stand.
Mr. Townsend wasted no time getting straight to the point. “Did you never make any threat to Mrs. Claflin?”
James shook his head. “Nothing except one night last fall when she was very troublesome. I said if she was not my mother-in-law, I would turn her over my knee and spank her.”
Mr. Townsend did a poor job of covering a snicker with a cough. When he recovered his composure, he asked, “Would you do that?”
James chose not to reply, letting logic speak for itself.
Changing tack, Mr. Townsend asked, “When were you married to Mrs. Woodhull?”
“In 1866 in Chicago.”
“Were you married to anyone before that?”
I cringed, not liking where this was headed. We had never actively concealed our previous marriages, but neither of us wanted the uncomfortable subject resurrected, especially when there were bound to be reporters present. Still, James was under oath, so he had to answer.
“Yes. I was married in Framingham, Massachusetts.”
I waited for our lawyer to object. I didn’t know the finer points of law, but my past work with Mr. Butler and Judah had taught me they had to stick to the topic at hand, which this clearly was not. But Mr. Reymert didn’t make a move. He rather sat passively, as though observing a pleasant conversation.
“Were you divorced from your first wife?” Mr. Townsend asked.
“Yes.”
“Was Mrs. Woodhull divorced when you married her?”
James thought hard on this question, his brow furrowing, silence stretching into an uncomfortable tension before he finally admitted, “I don’t know.”
My mouth dropped open, and the courtroom erupted in scandalized murmurs. How could he have said that? He knew that Canning and I were divorced in 1863. Was he daft or had nerves simply wiped his mind of all memory?
Seeking to restore peace, the lawyer quickly moved on. “Were you afterward divorced from Mrs. Woodhull?”
I stiffened. We never spoke about the brief period we were separated, and now it was going to come out in open court. I rubbed my temples, which were pounding with the rush of my blood. His memory better not fail him now, or we would both appear to be illegitimately calling ourselves husband and wife. Could this day get any worse?
On the witness stand, James cleared his throat. “Yes. In Chicago in 1868, for a short time. My wife’s sister Polly”—he indicated the woman who had just testified—“and her first husband said they had evidence my first marriage was still legal. They threatened to have me arrested for bigamy, with the plan that they would get ten or fifteen thousand dollars out of me for not pressing charges. I had already gone through the legal process in St. Louis, but I was worried something hadn’t gone through correctly. Since Victoria and I were traveling during that time, it would have been hard for a lawyer to reach me, so I thought it wisest to divorce her before I went to St. Louis to ensure the first divorce was finalized. When I confirmed I was no longer tied to my first wife, Victoria and I were remarried.”
I closed my eyes, unable to face the people around me, but I couldn’t shut out their gasps of shock. I wasn’t sure which was more scandalous to the good people of New York: that my sister had tried blackmailing us once before—it had actually been more than once, but I prayed her routine attempts would not come to light—or that James and I had briefly been divorced. Judging from the excited conversations, both were an equal delight to those who lapped up scandal like milk.
When the crowd finally quieted, the proceedings continued.
“I’d like to turn now to the Dr. Woodhull who was mentioned earlier. When have you seen Dr. Woodhull?” Mr. Townsend asked.
My heart sank into my stomach. Canning? Why was Mr. Townsend interested in Canning? This couldn’t possibly lead to anything good. Cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck, and I searched the room for a source of egress as panic threatened to overtake me.
“I see him every day. We are living in the same house.”
I rested my head on the rail in front of me as silver spots of light danced in my vision and breath was sucked from my lungs. I should have smacked my husband for answering so stupidly. I could almost hear the thoughts of those in the courtroom. The candidate for president who had held herself up as a representative woman was living with two men to whom she had been married. Our situation was innocent, but the public did not know that, nor would they listen even if I shouted it from the spires of St. Patrick’s cathedral. I swayed in my chair, praying the darkness would take me soon.
A cool breeze brought me back from the brink of unconsciousness as the judge called for order. The sharp raps of his gavel echoed through my nerves, calling me back into my body. I raised my head to find Tennie furiously fanning me. Mr. Reymert thrust a glass of water into my hand.
Seemingly unfazed by the commotion, Mr. Townsend continued. “Do you and Mrs. Woodhull and Dr. Woodhull occupy the same bedroom?”
James didn’t answer. He was staring at me with a stricken expression, giving no indication he had even heard the question.
Mr. Townsend raised his voice and tried again to attract James’s attention. “Now, Mr. Blood, please tell the court why Dr. Woodhull lives in the same house and who supports him.”
James’s face went from shock to quiet rage in an instant. “The firm of Woodhull, Claflin, and Company has supported the whole of them. Mrs. Woodhull’s first child is idiotic, and Dr. Woodhull takes care of him.” He bit out his words through clenched teeth.
I left the courtroom then, unable to hear any more. My humiliation was complete. Now, not only did everyone know my family’s squabbles and my troubled past, but they also were aware I had a simpleton for a son. I had arrived today to stand by my husband as he cleared his name—misguided though his intentions might have been—but left with more than a scarlet letter on my breast. I’d borne the full ignominy of the day’s testimony all thanks to a vengeful mother who had achieved more with this suit than she could have ever dreamed. Plus, I had to pray my marriage could withstand the mess James had created. And the whole ordeal was far from over. I still had to testify tomorrow.
Tuesday was everything I’d feared the first day of the trial would be. As newspapers gleefully reported the previous day’s shocking revelations, people crowded into the courthouse, hoping to witness something shameful or at least catch a glimpse of the famous sisters who were set to testify. They had ample opportunity as Tennie, James, a police officer, and I slowly snaked through the clogged passageways lined with gawkers.
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