On April 15, the nation woke to the news that President Lincoln had been assassinated the previous night. I could scarcely believe it. Shocked, I sought the company of others, wishing to join with them and grieve together as citizens of a broken nation. After feeding Byron and Zula and leaving them in the care of a matronly neighbor who preferred to process the horrible news in private, I followed a steady stream of pedestrians headed to a local memorial for the president at the riverfront.
Walking through the streets was a strange experience more akin to traveling in the spirit realm than in the real world. Black bunting hung from every available surface, from balconies and porch finials to lampposts and telegraph wires. The usual hum of voices was nonexistent as people walked in silence, heads bowed and shoulders stooped. Horse-drawn carriages still clacked and clopped across the cobblestones, but their bells had been removed. Even the church bells were silent. Public clocks had been stopped at the time the president expired, allowing the hours to pass unmarked.
Many people I knew—clients, friends, and neighbors—were among the mourners heading toward the river. Even so, I was relieved when I crossed paths with James where Broadway turned toward the landing docks. He didn’t speak, only took my hand and squeezed it as we followed the funeral procession for our dead president.
Once at the designated spot, the mock funeral continued with soldiers guarding an empty coffin surrounded by American flags and larger-than-life images of the president, which were shrouded in black crepe. Around us, women dressed in widow’s weeds cried and wailed, mourning openly in a style reminiscent of the Old Testament tradition of rending garments. From two makeshift stages, men gave eulogies through megaphones, messages the crowd hastened to relay to those in the back, bending the meaning to suit their wills as information passed from ear to ear.
Occasionally, snippets from the speakers reached us, phrases of praise and grief, calling the slain president a second Jesus who was martyred on Good Friday in accordance with God’s will, another quoting the president’s recent injunction against malice and urging peace in this time of grief.
“The world doesn’t make sense anymore, does it?” James said, tears in his eyes.
“No. Nothing does. If a man so pure and good can be gunned down during a night at the theatre, what chance do any of us have?”
I cast a wary eye across the street, where a very different group of people were gathered. Rather than mourning, they were celebrating. We had been a city divided, dancing on a knife’s edge, ever since the war had pitted brother against brother in this town that couldn’t decide whether it was for the North or the South. Now we were stepping ever closer to the point when blood would be spilled.
I do not wish to stay here anymore. Even as I thought the words, James voiced them.
I looked at him in surprise. “I was just thinking the same thing.”
“I don’t mean here at this memorial. There is nothing left for me in this city. My wife and children will be fine, maybe even better off without me. You are all that matters. We can go on the road together, make some money. Once we have enough, I’ll send some back here to pay my debts and secure the family that no longer feels like mine. But I can’t stay here.”
“Surely you can’t abandon them to take up with me. You will only be exchanging one family for another, and I fear that with Byron you will be taking on additional responsibility.”
James took my hand in his. “Don’t you see, Victoria? The day we met, everything changed. The vows, the bonds that formerly held me were cut off. As you said, we were ‘betrothed by the powers of the air.’ But my soul was not only joined to yours; I also accepted your family, formed a bond with them.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You did not even know my real name, let alone that I was a mother.”
“Ah, my mind did not, but my soul vowed then and there to accept all that was yours.”
Could it really be as simple as he made it out to be? Men left their wives all the time to seek their fortunes in the wilds of the west. But that was different. There was an implicit promise they would either return or send for their families. No matter how James chose to see it, this was abandonment, plain and simple. How could I, a woman who had experienced much the same in my own first marriage— though Canning left me for the brothel rather than another family— be party to such a situation?
I shook my head. “James, as much as I want to share your enthusiasm, I cannot condone this.”
James shook his head. “It is not as though I am leaving my family penniless. My wife lived comfortably before she married me, and she will go on as such. She and my children will want for nothing. Do not fear I am wronging one of your sex, for in fact I am doing her a favor. Our marriage has not been the same since I returned from the war. She learned to live without me then; she can do so again now. I am not abandoning her. I am setting her free to find true happiness with someone who will be good for her spirit, just as I have found you. That is, after all, what Free Love is, is it not?”
He made a convincing argument. In the face of it, it was pointless for me to continue to protest. He had his mind made up, and there was no swaying him. Finally, I said. “You are right. I must learn to shake off the teachings of my youth and embrace this new philosophy. “I will leave with you, but there is one thing we must do first. I wish to get Tennie back.”
Two days later, our brightly colored wagon with a ball-fringed top pulled up in front of Buck’s latest makeshift office, a plain two-story building near the train station in Cincinnati. The only thing differentiating it from the rest of the buildings on the block was the sign outside proclaiming it to be the home of “Tennessee Claflin, healer and wonder worker.” We certainly had the right place.
My stomach flipped with each step up the cracked stairs leading to the front door. The last time I had seen my family, Pa made it clear I was not welcome in their presence, and now I was here to take my sister, their golden goose, away from them. One thing was certain—this would not end well.
“I’ll get Tennie. You distract my family,” I whispered to James.
He nodded and pushed open the door without bothering to knock, as though he was any other customer. From the porch, I heard Pa greet him and James inquire about their services. They conversed for a few moments, Pa giving James a spiel that hadn’t changed in the last fifteen years, extolling the virtues of Tennie’s miraculous gifts. Eventually their voices faded; Buck had probably ushered James into a back room to do business.
When it seemed the front room was silent, I cracked open the front door, peering in. No one was within the reception area, so I slipped inside. Trying to avoid any creaking floor boards, I scurried to the stairs, certain Tennie was holed up somewhere in the upper rooms as had been the case in so many similar buildings over the years. I prayed I would get to her before Buck brought James to her.
Pausing to listen outside each closed door in the narrow hall of the second floor, I eventually heard soft weeping. Years of hearing my sisters cry after beatings or beratings had attuned my ears to each of their particular moans and sniffles. This was definitely Tennie.
I turned the doorknob slowly and gently pushed into the room. She was sitting on the bed, back toward me, head in her hands.
“Dear God,” she prayed, voice muted by her palms, “tell me, have I got to live like this always?”
I stepped up behind her. “No, you don’t. You don’t have to live like this another minute.”
Tennie jumped up, barely suppressing a scream by clamping a fist to her mouth. “Vickie! What are you doing here?”
“Taking you away from this place.” I seized her wrist. “Hurry. We haven’t got much time. Pack your things and come with me.”
Tennie bent and pulled a carpet bag from beneath her narrow bed. “I am ready.” She held it up with a watery smile.
“How did you know…?”
“The spirits told me you were coming. I just didn’t know when. Wanted to be prepared.” She inter
laced her fingers with mine. “Let’s go.”
We bounded down the stairs, less concerned with making noise now that escape was in sight. But we drew up short at the bottom of the stairs. Pa, Ma, Polly, and James were gathered in a tight circle around the wooden desk set just inside the front door. They all looked up when Tennie and I entered.
“I should have known,” Buck snarled. “There was something not right about him from the start.” He hooked a thumb at my lover. “Who are you really?”
I was at James’s side in three long strides. “He is my husband.” Pa didn’t need to know we weren’t legally wed yet.
Pa noticed Tennie standing a few feet behind me, and his eyes bore into her bag. “And where do you think you’re going?”
“With Vickie and James. I have to be rid of your dead weight, or I shall die.” She held her head high, but her voice quavered, betraying her ongoing fear of Pa’s wrath.
He took a menacing step toward her. “You will do no such thing. Remember what happened last time you threatened to leave me?”
Tennie rubbed her neck, calling attention to fading bruises I hadn’t noticed until now. She regarded me hesitantly, as though her resolve was wavering.
James stepped between us and Buck, keeping one eye on him while watching us as well. “Tennie, you never have to work for them again. I swear to you I will do all in power to protect and keep you. Go to the carriage. If he makes a move to follow either of you, I will lay him out.”
Tennie and I slipped behind James and out the front door. He followed, never taking his eyes from my parents.
“Tennie, baby girl, how can you do this to poor old Ma?” our mother wailed. “I cannot live without you. You’ll see—you’ll be the death of me.”
Tennie burst into tears at Ma’s dramatics. “Let’s go, please, or I shall be rent asunder with grief,” she said to James.
“Vickie, you cussed devil,” Pa called, shaking a fist at us as James helped us into the surrey. “This is all your fault. You will regret this, you ungrateful lot. Don’t forget, Tennie, the law is still looking for you. We will show you up. We will put you in the papers. We will ruin you.”
AUGUST 1868
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
I had been mad to come to New York City. That’s what people would say if they knew I’d left my life, husband, and children behind to follow the instructions of a spirit guide who’d been dead for two thousand years. Traveling across a couple of states wasn’t even a question; Demosthenes had told me to go to 17 Great Jones Street, where I would find lodging prepared for me, so that was what I did.
It had been that simple back in the Ozarks. But now, standing in the flickering glow of a gaslight on the doorstep of the brownstone Demosthenes had indicated, the first twinges of doubt nipped at my gut.
“Did Demosthenes give you any indication what we’re supposed to do now?” Tennie asked.
“No.”
With that single word, my old fears were released from their cage. What if we ended up in the slums or on the streets? I couldn’t live like that again. Besides, Demosthenes had prophesied greatness. From that place, you will fulfill the destiny written in the stars from the moment of your birth. One day you shall speak before the highest men in the nation. Your namesake is a queen, and one day you shall rule this land.
It sounded outlandish—even to me. I, a mere woman with no political connections or even the right to vote, as president? Preposterous. Yet something inside me yearned to make his words come true even though I had no idea how. If I had power, who knew what positive changes I could bring about for the country and its women? Still, the Executive Office was a huge leap from Great Jones Street. I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. There was no room in my plans for doubt. I had to have faith. Demosthenes hadn’t let me down yet.
“I suppose we’ll set up shop like we always do,” Tennie suggested. “We can put a card in the papers advertising our healing and clairvoyant services and make the rounds in the neighborhood. It won’t take long to figure out who is amenable to our line of work and who is not.”
Besides, my husband would be joining us in a few weeks. We only had to get along until then.
Tennie grimaced and took my hand. “Ready? Remember, we’re in this together.”
I nodded, letting out a deep breath, and struck the iron knocker on its plate three times before stepping back. The sound echoed then all was still, save the evensong of the crickets somewhere in the darkness around us. A moment later, the door was flung open, and a smiling woman with a pile of red hair pinned atop her head greeted us as though she was expecting us though we had made no reservations or inquiries.
“You’ve come about the rooms, I suspect,” the woman said in a thick Irish accent. “Come in, come in.” She ushered us into the hall. “I’m Katherine, owner of this building. You wait here while I see about the beds. The maid was supposed to dress them this morning, but one can never be too careful.” With that, she bounded up the stairs without even asking our names.
My breath hitched as I crossed the threshold, cloth bags swaying in my trembling grasp. Tomorrow, bruises would mar the skin where they’d knocked into my thighs. A small “oh” of wonder escaped my lips, and I placed a steadying hand over my pounding heart. Had I only a few moments before imagined cracked plaster walls and roach-infested corridors? Nothing could have been further from the pristine foyer I faced, with its fine green-and-gold wallpaper that was smooth as silk under my curious fingertips and its polished black-and-white tiled floor. No, this brownstone was nothing like the cramped apartments I had known.
“Victoria, come here. You must see this.” Tennie’s voice was a ripple in the calm quiet.
“What’s got you so bothered?” I crossed the room with small, cautious steps. Please, Lord, do not let my dirty old shoes mar this lovely floor.
Tennie pointed at a black leather book resting on a marble table beneath a large vase of fragrant gladiolas. I let out a small gasp. Written on the cover in gold lettering was the title The Orations of Demosthenes. The book was a collection of speeches given by my spirit guide when he lived, a sure sign that our journey was not in vain.
I shivered. No matter how many times my visions proved true, I would never get used to the eerie feeling that accompanied their confirmation. Looking up to heaven, I mouthed, “Thank you.”
Now I had to figure out what would propel me from this brownstone to the glory Demosthenes had promised. But such plans would have to wait until morning. After Katherine showed us to our rooms, I dropped my bags and collapsed on the bed, lost in the bliss of dreamless sleep until the rumble of carriage wheels and the cries of people on the street below woke me well past dawn.
Over coffee and toast, Katherine helped us get our bearings. Great Jones Street was the dividing line between two very different neighborhoods. Northwest, toward Broadway, were the upscale bordellos, saloons, and dance halls frequented by the rich. In the opposite direction was the working class neighborhood of Bowery, with its shady street gamblers, pickpockets, pimps, and prostitutes.
Demosthenes certainly picked an appropriate location. The house sits in limbo, as do I. On one side, the poverty and lawlessness of my past; on the other, the wealth and prestige of my dreams.
After breakfast, Tennie headed up to Broadway while I left the upper-middle-class brownstone behind for the Bowery neighborhood. I stopped in a few shops, explaining my business and leaving my card when I was met with interest. Only once was I chased out by a broom-wielding elderly woman who called me a witch.
As I traveled farther south, the sidewalks slowly emptied, and the condition of the brownstones became markedly less well-maintained. Crumbling staircase finials and cracked steps became the norm along with peeling shutters, some hanging haphazardly from rusted hinges. Here and there, ill-kept women stood on stoops, gossiping and casting appraising looks at any potential clients who might pass. This was the area I’d been searching for. Tennie and I had plied our trade in ne
ighborhoods such as these throughout the Midwest for years.
Three houses down, a jaunty piano tune, along with the sweet scents of perfume and floral potpourri, drifted out an open front door. A disheveled man stumbled out.
“I don’t care how much coin you have,” an angry female voice shouted after him. “If I see the likes of you around here again, you’ll be in for worse than a black eye.”
I climbed the stairs and knocked on the doorframe. A young woman with blond hair beckoned me in.
“You lookin’ for work?” The woman eyed me up and down, taking in my light blue gown with its high neck buttoned to my chin, cinched waist, and bell sleeves hanging below my wrists. “Cuz you sure ain’t gonna get any dressed like that. You may as well be a nun.” She cackled at her own joke.
I shook my head. “I’m afraid you misunderstand my purpose. I am a healer inquiring about the needs of your establishment. Is the lady of the house available?”
The girl snorted. “She’s here, but she ain’t no lady. Madame, a woman to see you,” she yelled before disappearing into an interior room.
The music trailed off. The piano player stuck his head into the foyer, tousled brown hair flopping over his forehead and into his eyes. “You’ll have to excuse Clarissa. She’s not at her finest first thing in the morning. Please, come in and have a seat.”
I smiled at the young man with the kindly, open face and gold-wire spectacles. “Thanks, Professor.”
He was momentarily taken aback. “Not your first time in a bordello, I see. I’m impressed. Not many people know that title goes along with the job.”
“And I doubt most know or care that you have employment other than playing for their entertainment.” I studied him, taking the measure of his tan suit pants, striped suspenders, and white shirtwaist. “I’m guessing you’re an accountant.”
“Journalist, actually.”
I raised my eyebrows, interest piqued. Befriending the press never hurt—that had been one of Pa’s how-to-bamboozle-the-world life lessons. I turned on the charm, eyeing him through my lashes. “How impressive. For whom do you write?”
Madame Presidentess Page 8
