“Why? Do you fear I am writing about you?” My voice dripped with feigned innocence.
He glowered at me, fairly shaking in his efforts to control his emotions. “Madame, you well know what I fear.”
“Ah, yes, the same as so many men.” I leaned back in my chair, enjoying toying with him. “Public exposure of private indiscretions is most troubling, especially when they demean you though they are not your own fault.” Deciding I had tortured the man enough, I answered his question. “I mean you and Mr. Beecher. I consider it my mission to make sure his hypocrisy is brought to the knowledge of the world.”
Mr. Tilton sank into one of the plush chairs situated before the desk. “But in doing so, you will expose me as cuckold. I beg you to have mercy.” He leaned toward me, arms flat on the desk, hands clasped together in supplication. “Mrs. Woodhull, you are the first person I have ever met who has dared to say such things to me openly. But do not take any steps now. I have carried my heart as a stone in my breast for months for the sake of Elizabeth, my wife, who is as brokenhearted as I am. I have had courage to endure rather than to add more to her weight of sorrow. For her sake, I have allowed this rascal to go unscathed. I have curbed my feelings when every impulse urged me to throttle and strangle him. Let me take you to my wife, and you will find her in no condition to be dragged before the public; I know you will have compassion on her.”
The last thing I wanted was to become embroiled in their infidelity scandal, but the man before me was so piteous that I could not refuse him. “Fine. I will meet this gentle she-devil of yours, but I have no desire to form a lasting attachment. If she moves me as you say, I will forestall further action. But be warned, sir, I will not stay my hand forever.”
Much to my surprise, we were invited to dinner that very evening. As soon as James and Mr. Tilton repaired to the study to smoke cigars and continue their discussion of Mr. Tilton’s history in the reform movement, Lib—as Mr. Tilton’s wife insisted on being addressed—attached herself to me like a june bug. The delicate, beautiful woman kept her dark eyes downcast, hiding as much as she could behind her long brown tresses, but though she was physically meek, she was surprisingly open with her confidences.
“Please forgive me for being so forward.” She ran her fingers back and forth over the cloth of her skirt. “I am so often alone here and lack female companionship. My husband tells me you are used to hearing the complaints of others from your previous profession, so I hope you will indulge mine.” Her eyes flicked briefly to mine before returning to her lap. “It is only that if you seek to shame me, you should first know the full story.”
Over the next hour, as I sat next to her in stunned silence, Lib confided that her husband was routinely cold to her and they were rarely intimate. The picture she painted—one of a man who spent extravagantly yet berated her falsely for her largess with their children, made her feel a failure because she was not trained in how to run a grand household, and shunned her company in public—was completely at odds with the chivalrous man Mr. Tilton appeared to be. If Lib’s words were true, Theodore had treated her very badly. But that was between them and none of my affair.
“To be honest, he makes me feel so worthless I scarcely wish to live.” She looked up suddenly, scooting forward in her chair and taking my hands in her tiny ones. “You can see why I strayed, can you not? Reverend Beecher gives me such confidence and makes me feel at ease, whereas with my husband, I am constantly conscious of our inequality. I knew of the rumors about Henry—Reverend Beecher—and I resisted for as long as I could, determined to demonstrate the honor and dignity of womanhood, but in the end, his warmth and kindness won out. You cannot blame a woman for seeking comfort where she may, can you?”
I longed to tell to Lib that her relationship with the preacher need not be a source of shame if they both openly embraced Free Love, but she was too entrenched in the Plymouth Church’s mindset of “thou shall not commit adultery” to listen to my explanations.
Angry as I was at the Beechers and their sanctimonious duplicity, I also was moved to pity the small woman before me. Were it in my power, I would have rescued Lib as I had Minnie, but I had no agency in this woman’s life. The most I could do was honor Mr. Tilton’s wishes and delay my promised exposure of Reverend Beecher, which would also spare Lib public humiliation.
“How can I thank you?” Mr. Tilton asked when I told him of my decision as we readied to depart.
“I have done nothing for you,” I clarified, thinking of how he treated his wife. “I have simply shown mercy to a pitiable woman who is much more deserving of your attention than you credit. Besides, as I told you, I am not of a mind to forget the matter, simply delay it.”
Mr. Tilton bowed his head to me. “More than I deserve, as you say. But surely there is something you wish for, some way I may aid in your cause?”
I studied the tall, trim man. He was a poet, a former journalist, and a much sought-after lecturer; that much I had divined from my connections. Yes, surely there was some way to make use of Mr. Tilton’s talents.
“I’m sure you have heard Miss Anna Dickinson, the famous lecturer?” I asked.
“I have. She is the most sought-after female speaker in the country.”
“I aim to use the rise in controversy surrounding my name to supplant her in that role. I would see her crushed under the heel of my boot. What say you to that?”
Mr. Tilton went down on one knee, arms raised in supplication, his fountain pen lying horizontally across his cupped palms. “Were I a knight, I would offer you my sword, dear Queen Victoria. But as I am but a humble poet, I offer my pen to your service.”
I smiled at the romantic flourish of his gesture so at odds with how Lib painted him. “Then I accept.”
JUNE 1871
I paced the length of the drawing room, gathering my thoughts while Theodore—Mr. Tilton would not allow me to call him anything more formal—sat waiting with pen and paper, poised to record my every word. We were there to begin writing my biography, a task that was vital if the American public was to trust me enough to vote for me.
“I don’t want a repeat of the court case. There must be no more secrets left to spill. Plus, I want people to understand my family and how they could have turned on me the way they did.” After a pause, I began my tale. “I was raised in a small white cottage with a flower garden in front.”
“But Tennie has made it sound more like a shack.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Whose biography is this? If I want a nice childhood home, I shall have one. Tennie can write about the shack she remembers in her memoirs. As I was saying… that idyllic setting hid a dark secret.”
Over the course of several weeks, I continued my tale of childhood drudgery and poverty, including cruelty at the hands of abusive and insane parents and my escape through marriage to Canning, who had turned out to be just as bad. I tried to gloss over the day I realized my son had been born an imbecile and how I’d nearly lost Zula to blood loss, but Theodore pressed me for details, forcing me to relive those days in painful detail.
It took a full day for me to recover from the emotional strain before I could continue. Wishing to move on to happier subjects, I talked about my visions, which I’d had since childhood. Reliving those happy memories boosted my spirits, so I continued with how I met James, my advent to New York, the opening of our business on Wall Street, and the events that had led me to proclaiming myself a candidate for president.
When I wasn’t living in the past for Theodore, I was working on the next issue of the Weekly, which more often than not included a point-by-point rebuke of the latest attack on me or my views, and an expansion of some point of my party platform. Through it all, Theodore sat by my side. He proved to be a helpful workmate, making occasional suggestions for broadening the appeal of what I was writing or pressing for more details on some aspect of my life.
All of this went on while I made daily visits to the brokerage, though to be fair, Tennie manage
d the lion’s share of the work there. I also answered the bell rung by an increasingly ailing Canning. In addition to once again shaking and sweating from withdrawal, the deep, wet cough that had him in its grip showed no inclination of abating.
The nights were my refuge, literally and figuratively, from the chaos of the day. With James heavily occupied with the firm, I took to inviting Theodore to take my husband’s place with me on the roof to watch darkness fall and commune with the higher powers. Sitting stories above the other houses was like being on top of a mountain. In one direction, the East River faded into inky darkness as the flickering glow of countless gas lights brought the city to life. If I turned my head, the imposing void of the park allowed the trees to retreat into the shadow of night, and beyond, Mr. Vanderbilt’s train tracks crisscrossed interspersed patches of houses and open land.
I took a deep breath. Here, I was free. I was more than human. As the stars bloomed in the ether and the chirp of crickets lulled me along with the rhythmic clop, clop, clop from the teams transporting people below, I closed my eyes and slowly became one with the spirit world.
For a long time, I simply sat quietly, listening to those who found me, only offering words of my own when questioned. That was one aspect most people didn’t understand about Spiritualism. For the true believer, Spiritualism was about so much more than being a medium through which higher powers could communicate. That was a gift but one rarely used without a direct request from a client. In daily life, Spiritualism was about listening to the guiding forces of the spirit world and learning to heed their wisdom to fulfill one’s purpose. It wasn’t dramatic, but it was reassuring in an ever-changing world.
One night, I was so deep in trance I forgot Theodore was with me. When I opened my eyes, he was watching me, a slight smile playing upon his lips. I yawned and stretched, and he brushed a stray curl, loosened by the soft breeze, out of my eyes.
“She never goes to any church—save to the solemn temple whose starry arch spans her housetop at night, where she sits, a worshipper in the sky,” he intoned quietly, reverently, like one reciting a sacred prayer.
“That is beautiful. Is it Emerson? I know it’s not Whitman.”
“It’s Tilton. Watching you commune with the spirits inspires the poet in me.” He ducked his head, reminding me of a little boy embarrassed by his own affection.
But not all nights were so ethereal. The roof was often the only escape when the brick house jealously guarded its heat like an oven. Plenty of nights saw Theodore fanning me while I pretended to chant an Indian invocation for cooling breezes and rain.
One such humid night near the end of June, Theodore presented me with the first draft of my biography. I took it, my eyes eagerly consuming the words as he paced. Pride swelled my heart in places where he’d elegantly described my abilities, and tears pricked my eyes when he vividly painted my most painful memories. But in the end, disappointment outweighed all other emotions.
“You dislike it?”
“No, it is a beautiful piece, but you’ve left out the most important part—the spirits.”
Theodore fumbled with his shirt sleeves, unrolling and re-rolling them. “I know it is an important part of your life, but I thought the book would have a broader appeal if we minimized that aspect. Not everyone is as knowledgeable or approving of such things. You wouldn’t want someone in the South thinking you a witch, would you?”
“No. But you must include them. To do otherwise would be as if you were writing Hamlet and decided to leave out his father’s ghost. The spirits guide me in all I do. That must be made clear.” I held out the papers.
He took them and bent them lengthwise to fit in the pocket of his discarded jacket. “I will have another draft to you in a few days.”
I nodded and pulled my legs beneath me, leaning against one of the many stone chimneys. The roof was faintly cooler in its shadow. Theodore sat next to me, his shoulder inches from mine.
I couldn’t get the manuscript off my mind. “I must say, you make me sound like a saint.” I gave a small tinkling laugh. “You do realize I am running for president, not pope?”
His laugh was much heartier, shaking him from shoulders to hips. “Perhaps I overdramatize, but I want the whole country to see you as I do.”
I angled my body toward him. “How is that exactly?”
He unconsciously shifted so that his posture mirrored mine. “A woman made strong by her faith, who finds courage in doing what is right, and who will not rest until injustices are vindicated. Are there any finer qualities we can ask of our presidentess?”
I laughed. He couldn’t be serious. “Now you make me out to be a hero of myth, a female Hercules.”
“And so you are, but you are very much real. Think on it. You rose from nothing to become an extremely wealthy woman in your own right. You and Tennie were the first women to sell stocks on Wall Street. You were the first female to speak before Congress on woman’s suffrage. Soon, you will be our nation’s first female ruler. If that’s not heroic, I don’t know what is.”
I turned away, not wanting him to see me blush. My stomach twisted, my gut telling me what my mind refused to admit—there was more behind his words than professional admiration. “You regard me too highly.”
Suddenly, my hand was in his, and he was kneeling before me.
“No,” he said firmly. “It is others who do not regard you highly enough. My dear Victoria, you are queen of my heart.”
His lips brushed the top of my hand, and I inhaled sharply. I should have pulled away, discouraged him, but his touch was so gentle that I found I could not. What was worse, I suddenly realized that the reason I had been so aloof with him—from our very first meeting until now—was that I was attracted to him. Try as I might to deny it, it was true.
Theodore raised his head, the slight upturn of his lips telling me he read the emotion in my eyes. His thumb caressed my palm in lazy circles, asking questions his lips dared not form. I didn’t move but gave myself over to the sensation of his touch, eyes riveted on his as though by some preternatural force. His hand slipped from mine and gently traced the veins up my arm, over the soft curve of my shoulder. I shivered as he ran the flat of his fingernails along my collarbone and up my neck. With an artist’s grace, he slipped a finger under my chin, tilting it up toward him.
A connection was forming between us unlike any other I’d ever experienced, even with James. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have sworn an oath that Theodore was a mesmerist who now held me under his spell. Anticipating his kiss, I felt like a girl again, pure in the innocence I’d never had the chance to experience due to my foolish youthful betrothal.
Slowly, he leaned in, and I did the same, closing my eyes only when I trusted he would not pull away. Our lips collided with a soft sigh, the meeting of two souls in bodies pledged to others but unable to deny their connection any more than iron could resist a lodestone.
That kiss was the physical expression of all of my Free Love ideals. The guilt that had marred my encounter with Judah was absent, as was the sense of betrayal. I was not cheating on my husband but expressing the bond of love that had formed with Theodore. As long as that was present, I was free to do what I chose.
As I reached up to run my fingers through his thick, wavy brown hair, Theodore pulled away.
“I wish you to know,” he said, holding my head, “that I have separated from my wife. You need have no fear where she is concerned.”
“And neither should you. You have heard me speak of Free Love, yes?”
He inclined his head.
“A popular objection against Free Love is that it breaks up families. My answer is that a family which falls to pieces when Free Love strikes is already broken up and waiting for a loophole through which to escape.”
Theodore’s smile matched mine. “And so we are free.”
I pressed my forehead to his, placing a palm along each side of his jaw. “And so we are.”
Our lips met again, thi
s time with cautious curiosity that soon turned to wild abandon as we followed the instincts of body and soul, which for the first time in my life, were in perfect unison.
That night before bed, I removed my petticoats, wincing as something stiff and sharp scraped my thigh. I felt around for a loose pin or perhaps a thorn, but I found only that I had failed to empty the pocket of the innermost layer. I couldn’t remember storing anything away there, but the day had been so busy that I could have simply forgotten.
I removed a small square of paper and held it to the light, surprised to see it covered in an elegant hand. It read simply, “My dear Victoria, put this under your pillow, dream of the writer, gather the spirits about you, and so good night. Theodore Tilton.”
The summer passed in a halcyon haze of happiness. When Tennie and James complained that the brokerage was faltering, I closed my ears, trusting they would handle things. There was no place in my life for negativity or bad news. My priorities were the Weekly and my campaign, which was stronger than ever thanks in no small measure to Theodore. Having him by my side not only made me happy, it gave me credibility as a politician by association with his past reform successes with abolition and his key role in getting President Johnson impeached.
Because of this, I was not shy about appearing with Theodore in public. He was, after all, now on staff at the paper, a campaign advisor, and a legitimate part of my inner circle. One day he took me rowing in Central Park, and the next we found ourselves on the beach at Coney Island.
“It was very thoughtful of you to bring me here today,” I said, running my fingers through the sand as the waves crashed against the shore. “Can you believe I’ve only seen the sea once since we moved to New York? When we first came here, we took Byron and Zula to see it, but James is not fond of the ocean. I, on the other hand, find its majesty inspiring.”
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