The courtroom itself was little better as reporters, brokerage clients, and all manner of public figures jockeyed for position. Once at the defense table, I could at least breathe, having the open expanse of the courtroom proper before me. I glanced at the empty chair beside me. Where was Mr. Reymert? He should have been there by now. Worried, I searched the room. Instead of the elderly gentleman, James was happily greeting Judah DeWitt Reymart, my auburn-haired former lover.
For a moment, the world tilted, and I feared I would faint before I was even called to the stand. But I pulled myself together, without, from what I could tell through surreptitious glances, my husband or sister being any the wiser.
“I hope you will forgive the last-minute change of counsel,” the younger Mr. Reymart said in his honeyed voice. “Mr. Reymert fell ill during the night and asked me to take his place. I’m one of the partners in his firm and a distant relative, as you may have guessed by the similarity in name.” He flashed us both a charming smile but gave no outward sign of recognizing me.
For that, at least, I was grateful. I sat back down, suddenly overcome with nerves. Now I not only had to undo the damage done by yesterday’s testimony, I had to do it in front of my secret former lover, and chances were good I would have to speak about the same extremely personal matters that had been broached yesterday. Casting a quick glance heavenward, I silently asked, What did I do to deserve this?
Mr. Reymart took his seat next to me while James placed a reassuring hand on me from behind. At least, I thought that was what it was meant to mean. His palm pressed into my shoulder like a vise in which I was imprisoned by guilt—a feeling that was not supposed to accompany Free Love.
“Are you all right?” Mr. Reymart asked.
“What?” Had he somehow divined my thoughts? No, he was simply inquiring about my readiness to testify. “Oh, yes. I’m quite fine. Thank you.”
“We are in the lead today, so I will walk you slowly through your testimony. Answer only what I ask of you and avoid superfluous details.”
“I understand.”
Once I was sworn in, Mr. Reymart began. “Please state your name and explain to the court your relationship with those involved in this case.”
“My name is Victoria C. Woodhull. Colonel Blood is my husband. Dr. Woodhull was my husband. I was near fifteen years of age when I married Dr. Woodhull. I have lived seven years with Colonel Blood. My mother has lived with me at East Thirty-Eighth Street. My father lived there also, along with this man Sparr and his family of four children; Mrs. Miles and her four children; Mr. Woodhull; myself and my husband, Colonel Blood; and my sister Tennie.”
Mr. Reymart smiled at me encouragingly. “How would you characterize the relationship between your husband and your mother?”
“Colonel Blood has never treated my mother otherwise than kind. Sometimes when she would become violent, he would utterly ignore her presence. I thought at times that she was insane and not responsible for what she said. I never thought my mother in danger of any violence from Colonel Blood. The most I ever heard him say was when she would come up to the door and abuse him frightfully, as if she were possessed by some fiend, he said, ‘If you do not leave that door, I will go out and push you from it.’ I never knew him to put his hands on her.”
“You speak of your mother living with you in the past tense. What is your relationship now?”
“She left my house in April and went to the Washington Hotel to board.” I glanced at Tennie, still sore she was paying our parents’ room and board. “All bills for her maintenance there are paid by the firm of Woodhull, Claflin, and Company. I have always pitied my mother,” I added as an afterthought, though why, I could not say. I was beginning to understand why my relatives babbled in this chair with so many curious and accusatory eyes on them.
Mr. Reymart shot me a warning glance, and I looked away, chastised. He asked his next question. “What evidence of insanity have you noticed in your mother’s conduct?”
I thought for a moment, trying to decide which of the many incidents would best support our case. “Sometimes she would come down to the table and sit on Mr. Blood’s lap and say he was the best son-in-law she had. Then again, she would abuse him like a thief, calling him all the names she could lay her tongue to and otherwise venting her spleen—all without any cause whatsoever. The whole trouble was that Mother wanted to get Tennie going back around the country, telling fortunes. That is the cause of this action.”
Mr. Reymart thanked me and gestured that Mr. Townsend was free to question me.
“Did you ever hear your mother complain that Blood claimed the money that came in through your sister Tennie?” Mr. Townsend asked.
Mr. Reymart stood. “Objection.”
Thank God. Where was the younger lawyer yesterday when we’d needed someone to object?
“Overruled.”
“I will answer him. She was determined to ruin my husband. She said she would have him in the penitentiary before she died and he would end his life there.”
Mr. Townsend frowned. “What was the violent language or abuse that your mother used toward Colonel Blood?”
I smiled wryly. “It was the same that most mothers-in-law give their sons-in-law.”
“Did you ever say that you would put your mother in a lunatic asylum?”
“No. Her other daughter, Mrs. Utica Booker”––I indicated my curly-haired, half-inebriated sister in the crowd, who waved back like a child––“told her that if she did not keep quiet, it would be her duty to put Mother in some such place.”
As Tennie and I exchanged places, Mr. Reymart stopped me with a small pat on the hand. “You did well. If Tennie can keep this up, we have a strong hope of overshadowing what took place yesterday.”
My sigh of relief upon being seated was short-lived. My sister was in rare form. Upon arranging herself artfully in the witness stand, she smiled at the reporters in the front row, nodded to her attorney, and after she was sworn in, she kissed the Bible with an audible smack that made me groan.
Mr. Reymart asked the same opening question to Tennie as he had to me.
Tennie leaned forward as she spoke, ostensibly to be sure everyone could hear her but also to display her cleavage to the crowd. “I am Tennie C. Claflin. I am one of the firm. Mr. Blood is my sister’s husband. I have lived with them since the firm was first started. Before that, my mother and father lived with me. I am the martyred one.” Tennie pursed her lips in a small pout.
I rolled my eyes, feeling the tide begin to turn against us.
Tennie turned to the opposing counsel with a smile and said, “Now go on. You may cross-examine me as much as you like. I never knew the colonel to use any violence toward Mother. He treated her too kind. In fact, I don’t know how he stood all of her abuse. My mother and I always got along together until Mr. Sparr came into my house. Benjamin Sparr has been trying to blackmail people through my mother.”
It was Judge Ledwith’s turn to look exasperated. “This is altogether irrelevant. If it is objected to, I will rule it out.”
Mr. Townsend nodded. “I object, but I can’t stop her from talking.”
Tennie reached into her reticule and produced the letter from the man in Ohio. “I demand that it be publicly acknowledged that I am not a blackmailer as the papers have said.” She shoved the letter at the judge. “Here, this is proof of my innocence and that my mother and sister are guilty of the crime of blackmail.”
“Miss Claflin”—the judge’s tone was soft as though talking a child—“those letters are not relevant to the case at hand. I cannot admit them into evidence.”
Mr. Reymart dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and attempted to steer his witness back on track. “What was the reason your mother quarreled with Colonel Blood?”
Tennie wrinkled her brow, confused. “Hadn’t I better begin and tell the whole trouble from the commencement? My mother is insane on Spiritualism. But she is my mother, and I love her. She has not slept away from me five minutes until
lately.”
Emotion crept into Tennie’s voice on her last statement, but I couldn’t tell if she was acting for effect, simply overcome by nerves, or if her resolve against our mother was beginning to crack. I peered closely at her. Her cheeks were flushed, pupils enlarged. She resembled Canning when he’d indulged in morphine. Something wasn’t right.
“You and your mother have been on most intimate terms?”
“Yes, since I was eleven years old, I used to tell fortunes with her…” Tennie paused as though caught in memory. When I thought she would not go on, she added unhelpfully, “She wants me to go back with her to that business. But Vickie and Colonel Blood got me away from that life, and they are the best friends I ever had.” Again, her eyes were far away as she rambled. “Since I was fourteen, I have kept thirty or thirty-five deadheads—members of my family. I was their bread and butter. I am a clairvoyant. I am a Spiritualist. I have power, and I know my power. Many of the best men in Wall Street know my power. Commodore Vanderbilt knows my power.”
Tennie had lost her grip on her testimony. I moved to stop her from speaking.
James restrained me. “Only the lawyers or judge can reprimand her. You have to let her speak what she wills.”
“Madam,” Mr. Reymart said, his voice growing strained with irritation, “just try to answer the questions.”
But Tennie was lost on her own train of thought, running her fingers through her short hair with growing agitation. “I have humbugged people, I know. But if I did, it was to make money to keep these deadheads. I believe in Spiritualism myself. It has set my mother crazy because she commenced to believe when she was too old.” She turned to the judge. “But, Judge, I want my mother. I am willing to take my mother home with me now or pay two hundred a month for her in any safe place. I am afraid she will die under this excitement. I am single myself, and I don’t want anybody with me but my mother.”
The red-faced judge scowled at Mr. Reymart. “Can’t you keep her from irrelevant testimony? Approach the bench, both of you.”
The two lawyers exchanged sharp words with the judge that I could not hear, but their hand gestures and expressions indicated none of them knew how to get the trial back on track.
While this was happening, Tennie started to cry. To my horror and the crowd’s delight, she suddenly left her seat, ran to her mother’s side, and embraced her. Ma returned her embrace, and they hugged and kissed as though they were the perfect family.
Seeking to stop the spectacle from getting worse, James went to Tennie, patted her on the cheek, and whispered, “Retire, Tennie. Do retire, my dear. You are only making yourself conspicuous.”
She nodded and left the courtroom without another word.
I chased Tennie. I couldn’t let her get away with that display of treachery.
I darted in front of Tennie, forcing her to halt. “How could you turn on me like that? I thought we were in this together.”
Tennie’s eyes were wide, uncomprehending. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean, how could you defend Ma when she said such horrible lies about my husband, about all of us?”
“She is our mother. I couldn’t let her be slandered before God and everyone. I only told what I know to be true.”
I searched her eyes. “Are you in the altitudes? That is the only way to explain the mess you’ve just made. You are talking like someone else entirely.”
Tennie blushed. “Utica may have given me something to calm my nerves before I testified, but I swear to you I don’t feel a thing.”
I grasped Tennie by the shoulders. “But don’t you see? You’ve ruined everything! Your testimony has thrown the whole case into question. Ma may well taste victory yet. We may see my husband punished before this is through.”
Tennie’s lower lip quivered, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want to hurt anyone…”
We burst through the courthouse doors, greeted by the cries of paperboys hawking the afternoon edition. “Read the latest in the Woodhull War. It’s mother against daughter. Who will win in this tawdry tale?”
I did my best to block their singsong mockery from my ears as we hurried into the waiting carriage. James arrived home not long after us, bringing with him a report that the judge had elected to not issue a verdict.
Not that it mattered. The whole family was already the subject of sport in the papers. Virginia Minor sent me clippings from the St. Louis Times, which dug into our past with cruel enthusiasm, revealing many of my father’s sins, including accusations of insurance fraud and theft. It called me a madam, accusing me of running a house of prostitution in Chicago, another sin best laid at the feet of my father. But it soon became part of popular lore, with the Cleveland Leader calling me “a brazen snaky adventuress” and accusing me of tawdry doings in Cincinnati years before. For those not inclined or unable to read, cartoons in so-called sporting papers gave visual representation to the “disorderly family” and its most famous daughters in particular, who were portrayed as seductive, wild, and dangerous.
Following Stephen’s advice, I stayed silent for as long as I could, remaining in self-imposed exile until I could take it no longer. I had to shift the public attention from my family to something else. If I didn’t neutralize the effect of the trial, my candidacy, my position in the suffrage movement, and likely the brokerage firm would suffer irreparable damage. I couldn’t let that happen.
Horace Greeley’s New York Tribune, which had previously praised me for standing up for my beliefs, was now using the issue of Free Love—so much more sensationalized by the revelation that I lived with my former and current husband at the same time—to distract from my constitutional arguments, which it opposed. Two could play at that game. I could just as easily use my views on Free Love—my real belief that marriage should not be bound by a legal document, rather than an espousal of wanton behavior as the press claimed—to distract from my family’s foibles. I could even tie it back into my campaign by showing how, for me, marriage and democracy were both issues of individual rights, the core of what I believed in as a presidential candidate. It was a risky move, but I could defend my views more easily than my crazy family.
I began my offensive with a letter to the editor in the New York Times, which I had no doubt they would print, if only to pick it apart line by line. In the darkness of my confinement, I penned my thoughts, discarding draft after draft, rebuffing Stephen and James’s attempts to help. This was deeply personal, and so my response would be as well, free of all outside influence.
Only when I was ready to submit the final draft did I gather everyone together in the drawing room and read it to them.
“Think what you will of me, but I am sharing this with you as courtesy so you may have time to prepare for what may come next. I do not seek your input or your edits.” I made certain both men understood before reading what would appear in the next day’s paper.
“Because I am a woman and because I consciously hold opinions somewhat different from the self-elected orthodoxy, the press endeavors to cover my life with ridicule and dishonor. This has been particularly the case in reference to certain law proceedings into which I was recently drawn by the weakness of one very near relative.
“One of the charges made against me is that I live in the same house with my former husband, Dr. Woodhull, and my present husband, Colonel Blood. The fact is a fact. Dr. Woodhull is sick, ailing, and incapable of self-support, and I felt it my duty to myself and to human nature that he should be cared for although this incapacity was in no way attributable to me. My present husband, Colonel Blood, not only approves of this charity but cooperates in it. I esteem it one of the most virtuous acts of my life.
“I advocate Free Love in the highest and purest sense as the only cure for immorality, the deep damnation by which men corrupt and disfigure God’s most holy institution of sexual relations. My judges preach against Free Love openly but practice it secretly. I know of one man, a public teacher of
eminence, who lives in concubinage with the wife of another public teacher of almost equal eminence. All three concur in denouncing offenses against morality. ‘Hypocrisy is the tribute paid by vice to virtue.’ So be it. But I decline to stand up as ‘the frightful example.’ I shall make it my business to analyze some of these lives and will take my chances in the matter of libel suits. I have small faith in critics, but I believe in public justice.”
Silence greeted me as I set down the letter. Three pairs of eyes stared at me along with two open mouths—only Tennie remained composed.
As usual, Stephen was the first to recover. “Do you know what will happen if you run the last part? Everyone will know of whom you speak. Henry Ward Beecher’s reputation is well known, and his sisters have made no secret of how much they loathe you.”
“If Harriet is allowed to portray me wrongly in her plays and call it art, am I not allowed to portray her brother truly and call it justice? And before you ask about my exposure of hypocritical lives, know that I mean what I say—I will bring them to light. Let us begin with Mr. Greeley, who has been so vehement in his attacks. Dedicate space in the next several issues of the Weekly to investigate him and his employees. The press got one thing right—this is war.”
My letter was printed on the morning of May 22. Within hours, the suffragists were rallying around me. I received telegrams from Elizabeth and Susan well before noon, pledging their support and promising to defend me every chance they had.
Visitors came and went, along with our regular clients, so I was only mildly surprised when a tall, handsome man in the soft collared shirt and loose jacket of a poet or scholar strode in brandishing a copy of the morning’s paper. He threw it on my desk, where it smacked against the scarred wood, and pointed at five words circled in heavy ink—“a public teacher of eminence.”
“Whom do you mean by this?” he demanded.
I smiled sweetly, waiting out the infuriated man. His dark eyes were wide with emotion, cheeks red, his breath coming in short, quick puffs that made his tie bobble like a toy boat caught in a ripple at the shore. He clearly expected that I knew him, and indeed, I recognized Mr. Theodore Tilton from the suffrage convention earlier in the month.
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