They gave Canning a shove toward me. He stumbled then leaned on me limply as if we were engaged in some macabre dance.
“He’s your problem now. Do us a favor and keep tighter control over him, or we’ll have to press charges, you hear?”
They spoke as though I had any control over him. “Yes, sirs. Thank you for returning him to me safely.”
Canning muttered and giggled to himself while I undressed him. He stank of alcohol, sweat, vomit, and the strong perfume of the whorehouse, so I bathed him like a babe, hoping the cold water would sober him into some condition resembling sense, while he faded in and out of consciousness.
Placing the chamber pot next to the bed in case his stomach roiled, I tucked him into bed. His eyes opened briefly, lighting on the letter that still lay discarded on the floor.
“You know, then?” he slurred. Without waiting for me to respond, he went on. “Talked to some o’ the boys at tha press club. They know too. It’s going to come out. We have to leave town.”
Though I didn’t disagree with him, now was not the time to try to reason with him. I stroked his forehead. “Sleep now, Canning. We can discuss this in the morning.”
Inwardly, I raged. Damn him, damn the bottle, and damn the laws that kept me tied to this man. I could have proved adultery easily enough, but even a divorce would have done me no good. There had to be a way around the rules of society that bound innocent women to good-for-nothing men—me, all the women I had known in Mt. Gilead, and the thousands in the city around me. Somehow, someday, I would find a way. But that was another day’s quest. Now I had to make sure my husband didn’t drink himself to death and that we escaped before the press could prove Canning was worthless.
NOVEMBER 1854
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Canning’s mistress was so thorough in her revenge that we lasted in Chicago only eight months—long enough for our son, Byron, to be born—before reporters came nosing around again. So we hopped a ship from New York to San Francisco, a burgeoning town still bustling from the Gold Rush, where patients were plentiful and news traveled slowly—or so we hoped.
We settled in on one of the many long, narrow streets where brick houses stood shoulder to shoulder on both sides of the lane like spectators at a parade, watching impassively as men and women, horses, carriages, and even wagon trains turned the dusty road to mush and mire. While it was more advanced than I had anticipated—some parts of the city had gas lights—San Francisco lacked the positive energy of Chicago, the bustle of activity leading to commerce and growth. Its endless activity was focused on survival and greed, for he who found fortune best keep it to himself lest it be stolen or surpassed by another.
It was certainly not the kind of town in which I wished to raise my child, but it was better to be here and anonymous than dogged by reporters in Chicago. I was fortunate that Byron was a placid child. He rarely cried, but then again, he rarely showed interest in anything. During the day while Canning was out, I held Byron, sang to him, played with him, did anything I could to elicit those sweet baby coos every mother longs to hear. But no matter what I did, he regarded me with disinterest. It was as though he were in the grip of a relentless lethargy that kept him from fully connecting with the world around him.
Finally, I could take no more and asked Canning to check for him signs of blindness and deafness.
“I don’t know why you’re so worried,” he said, waving a finger in front of Byron’s face and watching his eyes track its movement.
“He’s your son. Don’t you worry that he doesn’t smile, doesn’t cry, doesn’t reach out to grasp your hand—all the things most babies do? I’m scared for him, Canning. I know there’s something wrong with him. I can tell.”
Canning stood behind Byron’s cradle and clapped sharply. Byron startled then settled back into his malaise as though nothing had occurred.
“Hmmm… he’s not deaf or blind, but that should have frightened him enough to make him cry or at least seek out the source of the sound. We will have to watch him.”
“That’s it? That’s all you can say?” I asked as he resumed drinking his whiskey.
“My dear, it’s all I would say to any parent. Babies develop as they will. Give him a few months, and he’ll be fine, you’ll see.” He put his feet up on a stool by the fire and savored his drink, leaving me to tend to the family ledger.
That was the third bottle of whiskey Canning had opened this week. He didn’t drink the cheap swill they served at the local saloon either. It was some special brand imported from back east that cost nearly as much as he made in a week.
After tallying the numbers three times, I was forced to tell him, “We don’t have enough money to pay the butcher.”
Canning didn’t even open his eyes. “He’ll extend us credit.”
“This is the credit.”
“So ask him for more.”
“And if he doesn’t offer any? What then? I think I may have to look for work.”
That got Canning’s attention. He snickered. “Doing what? Selling fortunes? I’m not your father. I won’t collect clients for you.” He laughed harder. “I know! You could always be a cigar girl.”
I couldn’t believe my husband would speak of me becoming a prostitute—even in jest. I swiped his bottle of whiskey. “And you could be drinking rotgut down at the tavern rather than paying your whole weekly wage for a case of this.”
He jerked the bottle out of my hand and brought the back of his other hand down across my cheek. “At least I contribute to this family. What a man does in his private time is his business. Or would you rather I go back to staying at the brothel?” His eyes glinted with malevolent challenge, daring me to say yes.
I would not win this battle of words with him, that much was clear. But I could still win the war. Tomorrow, I would prevail upon one of our neighbors to watch Byron while Canning was at his clinic, and I would find work.
Five days of trudging up and down the steep lanes of San Francisco and answering ads for domestic help had netted me nothing. One thing I hadn’t accounted for in my fevered quest to do right by my family was that so many others were trying to do the same for theirs. Time and time again, doors closed to me. I was too old, too educated, not skilled enough, or the clients wanted live-in help. But worst of all, I had a family. Nearly twenty times I had lost promising domestic work to Chinese immigrants who could accept lower wages or, in some cases, work for room and board alone—compromises I could not make because I wasn’t supporting only myself.
I paused before a fine townhouse in a fashionable area of town. It was made of gray stone and had its own gaslight illuminating the doorway in the waning evening light. From the stoop, I could see down into the harbor, where hundreds of ships rocked. I had a sudden memory of my spirit guide telling me I would find great success in a town with many ships. Maybe this was it. Maybe it was a sign. It had to be. This was my last stop before I had to hurry back home so Canning wouldn’t know I was gone.
Buoyed by that hope, I pulled the tassel that rang the bell. A scurry of footsteps, the yapping of at least two small dogs, and a woman’s shushing voice followed. The door opened, and I beheld not the butler I expected but the lady of the house, a small dog with dandelion fur tucked under each arm.
“May I help you?” she inquired with a placid smile.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, ma’am. I am here to inquire about your need for domestic help. You are Miss Cogswell, I presume?”
Her lovely face fell. “I am. But I’m afraid you are too late. I just hired a girl for that position.” She gestured behind her, where a Chinese girl no older than ten stood at attention, waiting for her mistress’s command.
My heart sank. Perhaps I would have to become a cigar girl after all. I blinked back tears and fought to keep my voice steady. No sense in losing my dignity in front of such a fine lady. “Oh. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
I started to turn away when Miss Cogswell stopped me. “Wait. The
re is one thing I believe you may be able to help me with. Can you sew?”
“Yes. I have many years of experience working with my mother. I can tailor, darn, and embroider.”
Miss Cogswell clapped. “Wonderful. Li, bring that pile of clothing I showed you earlier.” While Li scurried off, Miss Cogswell leaned toward me confidentially. “She’s bright and strong but has never held a needle in her life. Poor dear. I’m an actress, you see, and I am responsible for taking care of my own costumes. But I don’t have much time for that, what with learning my lines, performing, and entertaining patrons after the shows. You may just be the angel I’ve been praying for.”
Li returned bearing a basket of assorted garments, everything from ripped hose and sagging underthings to crinoline skirts with dropped hems and dresses with torn seams.
Miss Cogswell explained what needed to be done to each piece. “Bring this back on Sunday, and I’ll inspect your work. If I like what I see, you’ll have a job. Plus, I’ll tell everyone else in the neighborhood and in the theatre what great work you do. You’ll have no shortage of clients. That’s a promise.”
Anna was good to her word. A week later, I had more offers of work mending garments than I had hours to complete them. She advised me as to which would be the most profitable and who was trying to sneak in some labor on the cheap, and we became fast friends.
Within three months, I was spending my days at the theatre, mending garments almost exclusively for the company. On weekends, I tended to the needs of the rest of my clients while Canning drank away most of our profits.
Byron was the hit of backstage. Chorus girls fussed and cooed over him while the stagehands shook their heads in awe that he never cried or fussed amid the noise and confusion. One day, while I was letting out one of Anna’s dresses so that she could fit into it despite her recent weight gain, one of the newer actresses, a beautiful brunette named Josie Mansfield, took a seat next to me.
After watching Byron for a long while, she shook her head. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Mrs. Woodhull, so I’m going to say it straight. I hope you won’t be offended.” Her eyes were pleading. “I believe your son may be an idiot.”
I dropped my needle and bowed my head. Someone had finally voiced my greatest fear. That my child was born deformed in the mind was something I’d fretted over from his first days of life. A mother—even a first-time mother—knows when something is wrong with her child, and I knew. He wasn’t lusty enough; it was as though he didn’t realize he’d been born and was still blissfully ignorant in the dark world of the womb. Tears leaked from beneath my pressed lashes despite my efforts to hide them, and I let out a small involuntary sob.
“Oh, Mrs. Woodhull, I didn’t mean to make you cry,” Josie said, remorse in her voice. She placed a gentle hand on mine.
“No, it’s quite all right,” I said, clearing my constricted throat. “I’m glad someone finally acknowledged he is different.”
She gave me a wan half smile. “My little cousin is the same, you see. I remember what he was like growing up, what it was like for my aunt. I’m happy to help in any way I can. I might be able to help you calm him. He’ll get more fretful as he grows.”
I reached into the basket of material scraps at my feet and found one to use to wipe my eyes. “Thank you. Having someone to speak to about this lifts a great burden from my heart.” I picked up my needle again. “My husband is a doctor, but even he won’t admit that Byron isn’t developing normally.”
“Oh, of course not,” Josie said as though it was the most obvious fact. “If he did, he’d have to admit he sired a malformed child. No man with any amount of pride would do so.”
I put the sewing aside, picked up my son, and looked into his deep brown eyes so like his father’s. “Why do you think this happened? Did I not love him enough while I was pregnant?” Could it be because he was conceived in violence in the back of that carriage? “I certainly love him now. I could never give him to one of those institutions for children of his ilk. He is my son.” I gave Josie a pleading look. “What did I do wrong?”
She shook her head, toying with one of Byron’s tiny hands. “I wish I knew. My aunt blamed her husband’s propensity to drink for her son’s condition. He beat her all through her confinement.”
I nodded, my eyes growing glassy as I remembered my own similar experiences with Canning. What a fool I’d been to think being with child would be a shield of protection. If anything, it had made him worse. He’d been fine until my growing belly interfered with our martial relations. Then he went to the brothel instead. When they finally kicked him out, he’d come home and take out his frustrations on me. It was one of his blows that had started my labor.
I set Byron back into his little box as the rage inside me grew lest I accidently squeeze him too hard. “Damn Canning, and damn his drinking. Damn his wicked fists and my weakness as a woman. If I were a man, I’d beat him back. I’d hit him so hard he’d never wake up.”
Josie hugged me close. “I know, sweetie. I know. And when you do fight back, it only angers them more. Every time I tried to fight against my stepfather, to stop his depravity, it only enraged him more. Nearly killed me one time.”
I nodded, still holding her tight. Here was a woman who truly understood what it meant to be helpless and abused. “Me too. Early in my pregnancy, I decided to give Canning back every bit of pain he inflicted on me, so I closed my eyes and pretended I was one of those muscled dairywomen who carry heavy pails. I kicked, punched, bit him, pulled his hair, poked at his eyes, anything I could to show him I wasn’t going to settle for the same treatment I’d gotten from my Pa.”
I was shaking now. I could feel it, could see my upset reflected in the trembling of her lace collar. “But the harder I hit him, the more aggressive he became. I think he would have killed me had I not finally shoved him in such a way he tripped over his discarded shoes and hit his head on the wardrobe. A neighbor found us the next morning. Doctor said we were both an inch from dying. How I didn’t lose my babe, I will never know. The angels must have been watching over him.”
Josie pulled away, searching my face. Her own eyes were pink and puffy, rimmed in black by makeup that had yielded to her tears. “The angels were watching over you both. This is the plight of women. The law allows it, the preachers allow it, but I don’t think God does. All we can do is endure and pray that one day they will see justice before God’s throne.”
“Does that have to be the only answer? Surely we can change the laws, talk sense into our preachers?”
“There are those who are trying. Women who call themselves suffragists are right now fighting the very laws we rail against. But they are women of breeding and education with the bank accounts to make people at least pretend to listen to what they have to say. You and me? We’re lucky people hear the words we say onstage, and those are written for us. Can you imagine the reaction if we spoke our own minds?”
I gave a small, derisive puff of laughter because it was the response Josie expected. But she had triggered an idea in my mind. We couldn’t speak our minds, yet people listened when the spirits spoke through me. If only they would tell Canning to cease his abuse or, I laughed inwardly at the thought, give a message for our lawmakers. Perhaps then they would listen. Perhaps someday…
My train of thought was interrupted as the dressing room door shot open and Anna bustled in, script in hand. “Josie, the director wants to see you. Victoria, will you be a dear and run lines with me one more time? I can’t seem to get this scene right.”
Yes, there was something there, the seed of an idea that needed to germinate before it would come to fruition. But when it did, it would change everything.
JUNE 1856
“Christ in Heaven! This is the last week of the show. Where are we going to find someone willing to learn this bit part for a pittance?” The director’s near-hysteria carried through the dressing room door and over the laughter of actors, clanging of gears, and whining of pulleys as th
e set men prepared for the evening show.
Anna looked over her shoulder as I sewed her into her costume. “You and I have been running lines from this show for months now. Surely you know the part of the country cousin?”
“I think I know all the parts,” I said around a mouthful of pins. I spit them out and set them on the table in front of Anna. “But that doesn’t mean they will give it to me.”
The idea was tempting. The more I’d watched the actors over the last two years, the more I’d come to realize that what they did wasn’t all that different from what Tennie and I had done in Pa’s shop. In fact, acting was easier. They only had to say the lines prepared for them; they didn’t have to worry about real spirits changing the script. And the money… as the director said, it wasn’t much, but it would be a nice supplement.
“Yes, they will.” Anna shrugged away from me. “Just you watch.”
That was how I found myself onstage for the first time that night, wearing a costume rather than mending one and saying a few simple lines in front of the gaslights. I wasn’t onstage for long, but when I was, the feeling was like nothing I’d ever experienced, not even when I was in touch with the spirit world. I felt as though the power of all those eyes on me transformed me into the best version of myself. Or maybe because I got to be someone else, I felt free enough to be who I really was and more. After all, for those brief minutes, I wasn’t Victoria Woodhull, seamstress and wife to an alcoholic bastard of a husband. I was the country cousin of the great actress Anna Cogswell.
By the time New York by Gaslight closed that Sunday, San Francisco had begun to take note of the newest actress on its stage. There was even a small blurb in the paper that mentioned me by name in the closing night review.
Madame Presidentess Page 5
