As I stared in mute astonishment at his audacity, he raked first Tennie, then me, with beady eyes.
“You cannot succeed,” he declared. “It is against the laws of God and nature.”
At this, Mr. Van Schalck leapt to his feet, outraged. “Hugh Hastings, you lout! You of all people should know that women make the best lobbyists in the home, so I see no reason why they should not be successful bankers as well.”
The two men argued for a few moments before Mr. Van Schalck finally convinced the group to leave.
Not long after, the tinkle of a soft bell signaled the arrival of our first female customer through the back entrance. I slipped behind the partition, curious as to whom it would be. Madame de Ford and Josie awaited me, dressed in their best promenading gowns and feathered hats.
Madame de Ford embraced me warmly. “My dear, my dear, what a showing you have made for yourself. Your name is on everyone’s lips from Madison Avenue to Five Points.”
“I’m so happy you came. Please sit. Enjoy some strawberries.” I struggled with a champagne cork that refused to give before it finally came out with a loud pop.
“What finery,” Madame de Ford observed, looking around as I brought out two crystal glasses and filled them. “I knew there was something special about you from the moment we met, but I could never have imagined all this.”
“We’ve worked hard, but we could never have gotten here alone. We’ve had so much support along the way.” I winked at Josie. “Not the least of which came from the two of you.”
“Oh yes, and we don’t intend to stop now.” Madame de Ford sipped her drink and coughed on the bubbles before continuing. “We would like to invest as well.”
“There is great interest in your firm at Miss Wood’s, especially since we now have a private meeting place,” Josie added. “We’ll stop in whenever we can.” She gave me a meaningful look, one that hinted the pipeline of stock tips and business leads was just heating up.
My gold pen hovered over my notebook, waiting. “How would you like to begin your venture into the stock market?”
The two women turned to each other with uncertain expressions.
“We only relay what we hear,” Josie said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “We need you to work your magic. What do you advise?”
I gave them a primer on how the stock market worked along with a few suggestions for safe starter investments. When I sat back down at my desk, the small clock on a side table was chiming half past noon.
“Oh my, was I back there so long? I’m sorry to have left you all alone. What did I miss?”
Tennie shrugged. “Not much. A few of our competitors dropped by out of curiosity, but they were polite at least. More well wishes and stock orders from businessmen. Mr. Charlick had some fascinating advice on Long Island Stock. Remind me to tell you about it later. Oh, and our favorite men were back—twice.”
I groaned. “What did they want now? And how are they getting through the crowd so easily?”
“I have no idea.” Tennie sighed and shook her head. “Perhaps they know one of the police officers? I can’t fathom what they are playing at. The first time they simply listened to the conversation in the room then left. The second time they wanted to know how Central was doing, so I consulted the tape and told them. That was it. The funny thing is each time they come in, they’ve changed something about their clothes or appearance. It’s like they believe we won’t recognize them.”
“I can’t decide if they are smitten with one or both of us or are simply crazy.”
“Neither can I. I thought about having them barred from entry, but how would that look if, on our first day, we denied legitimate customers access to our office? The press would eat that up.”
I rubbed my temples and closed my eyes, relishing the brief moment of calm. I opened them again when the doorman cleared his throat, trailed by a man of six feet with voluminous gray hair and a full beard.
“Mr. Walt Whitman to see you,” the doorman said with a bow.
When the poet’s gray eyes met mine, the blood drained from my face, and I grasped the desk as a wave of dizzy unreality overtook me. Here, standing before me, was a great man of letters, one of my personal favorites. I stood on shaky fawn’s legs, maintaining my hold on the desk so I could remain upright and he wouldn’t see my hands shaking.
“Mrs. Woodhull, Miss Claflin.” Mr. Whitman greeted each of us with a slight bow. He removed his hat, tracing the brim with his fingers as he spoke. “It is a pleasure to meet the women who are shaking up Wall Street.”
Tennie recovered her composure first, quickly rounding her desk and guiding him to a chair. “Please have a seat, Mr. Whitman.”
I winced as Tennie poked me in the ribs before sitting on the couch opposite.
“My sister and I are both great fans of your writing, especially Leaves of Grass. Isn’t that right, Victoria?”
“Oh yes. We used to read it to one another every night when we were growing up. It was one of the few books our mother owned.”
Mr. Whitman smiled at me kindly. “What was your favorite poem?”
“There are so many to choose from—” Tennie began.
“‘I Hear America Singing,’ without a doubt,” I cut her off. “I love how you show us the dignity of the working man through your words.” I dropped my gaze to my sweaty palms in my lap, too embarrassed to make eye contact with my idol while talking about my past. “We were raised poor, you see. So your words made us feel valued.” When I raised my eyes, I found his were twinkling with joy, encouraging me to continue. “Your sense of individual worth always resonated so strongly with me. I too believe each person is a beautiful combination of body and soul, both of which are worthy of praise and respect. But listen to me rambling. You came here to visit us, not to listen to me wax philosophical about your poetry.” My cheeks grew warm with embarrassment.
“No trouble at all. It gives me great joy to hear how others have been affected by my work. To be praised is an honor, sure, but to know one’s words have changed lives is the true reward of art.” After a moment of silence, Mr. Whitman continued. “I read with great interest your impetus for becoming stockbrokers. With that act, you succeeded where so many preachers have failed. You embody what you teach to others. You”—he made a gesture that encompassed Tennie as well—“are representative women. Whether you realize it or not, you are showing women everywhere what they are capable of.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. “I wrote a short poem for you to commemorate this occasion. Would you like to hear it?”
“Of course,” I breathed, unable to believe my ears and still blushing furiously under his praise.
Mr. Whitman cleared his throat. “‘I came here to see two great children of nature / in this swarming vortex of life. / You have given an object lesson to the whole world. / You are a prophecy of the future.’”
My eyes filled with tears, and I wiped at them. I wouldn’t cry in front of such an elegant man, but I could not help myself. He truly understood me and all that I was aiming for.
“Thank you, thank you so much,” was all I could say through my tears. Though it was not proper, I rose and embraced him. It was the only way I could express what his kindness meant to me.
He clasped my hands. “You are an example to us all. I look forward to watching your star rise.” Then he held up the page covered in his elegant scrawl. “Would you like to keep this as a memento of the day you turned the financial world on its ear?” His bushy eyebrows lifted with mirth.
I laughed, tears drying to streaks. “Yes, please. Will you do me a favor and autograph it?” I plucked the gold pen from behind my ear and reached for a vial of ink.
Mr. Whitman and Tennie chatted as he signed the page, and I slowly regained my composure. Far too soon, the bell at the back door chimed, and Tennie excused herself to see to the new client. Mr. Whitman and I exchanged a few more words as I escorted him to the front door.
“I w
as serious about wishing you well,” Mr. Whitman said. “I will scan the headlines with great eagerness to find your name, as I’m sure I will.”
When we reached the front door, we paused.
“I would like to call on you whenever I visit New York.” He nodded to James, who was standing in the doorway of his office. “That is, of course, if your husband has no objections.”
James shook the older man’s hand heartily. “It would be an honor to have you in our home. Thank you so much for your visit today.”
Once the farewells had been said, I floated back to my desk, where I safely tucked away the poem. I would put it in my clippings book alongside copies of the newspaper articles mentioning Tennie and me.
But first, I had work to attend to. The day had generated a mountain of paperwork, more than the three of us could hope to finish before dinner, but we made a go of it between the trickle of remaining visitors. When the shade was pulled on the front door at four o’clock, we were still filling out forms and creating files for new clients. My head popped up as the doorman’s voice reached us from the porch.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but it is after business hours. If you have any orders to give to Mrs. Woodhull or Miss Claflin, they will gladly be received after nine o’clock on Monday morning. Good eve to you.”
Tennie snickered. “Our two admirers must have come back.”
I nodded. “That reminds me, we should tip our doorman extra for his fine work today. If those two don’t soon weary of our office, I’m hiring him as security.”
“Colonel Blood! Colonel Blood! Come quickly!”
I woke in the dead of night the following week to Katherine’s harried shouts amid an insistent banging on our door.
While I rubbed my heavy eyes, James slipped into his robe and let in the woman. “Katherine?”
She gulped in air. “There are men downstairs. Say your firm’s been burglared.”
By the time James, Tennie, and I dressed and arrived on Wall Street, the constable was there, along with a handful of policemen, which was surprising given the police normally didn’t rouse themselves from bed for such a minor offense. Our association with Mr. Vanderbilt must have increased the urgency. All were examining the damage to the shattered front window and splintered doorframe, shaking their heads and muttering.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Looks like vandalism,” the constable said. “One of the night watch noticed smoke coming from inside and broke the door in to try to put it out.”
“Smoke?” Tennie cried. “Is everything ruined?”
“No, no, it was a small fire, not well set. Our man doused it. But there was other damage inside.” He gestured into the dark office with a lantern. “Have a look.”
I took the light and nudged past the men at the door to survey what remained of my once-pristine office. A brick lay on the floor inside the front window, shards of glass glinting around it like stars. Our precious busts were no more than piles of marble and dust in the corners, while the sofas and chairs bled stuffing from deep gashes in the upholstery. The ticker machine was smashed to bits, gears, metal, and screws trailing out of the broken glass dome like entrails from a gutted pig.
When I reached our desks, I froze. Tennie’s was charred and dripping, a craggy patch of black on the surface indicating where the fire had been set and later extinguished. A glint of light drew my eye to my desk, and my breath caught. Bathed in a circle of moonlight in the center was a butcher’s knife, forcefully impaled in the wood. Breathing in the lingering traces of burned paper, I moved slowly toward the weapon as if it might spring to life and stab me of its own accord. I hovered over it, taking in the six words written in bold black strokes on a note pinioned to the wood: The hearth is a woman’s place.
I removed the note with trembling fingers, ripping the paper rather than touch the knife. Heavy footfalls echoed behind me.
“I suppose you’ve seen this?” I asked the constable.
“We have.”
I retraced my steps, joining James and Tennie in the front office. “Someone certainly took umbrage to our opening day.” I held up the note so Tennie and James could read it.
“It was that unnerving Mr. Edward Van Schalck. I just know it. He and his friends were in and out of here all day, acting like loons,” Tennie told the officer. “What other explanation is there?”
“It could have been anyone,” James said gently. “There were plenty of protesters outside too.”
“We’ll look into Mr. Van Schalck,” the officer assured Tennie.
“May I keep this?” I asked, holding up the note. My fingers itched to crumple it up or rip it to pieces, but that was what the perpetrators expected of me. I had another use in mind.
“Yes.” The officer’s voice was wary.
“This is a reminder of what we face and what we will overcome,” I said, answering his unspoken question of why I would want to keep such a thing. “Tennie, send this to Johnny and see that the papers cover it well. Our clients need to know we’ve had a jolt but we will not let this defeat us. Frighten us momentarily, yes, but we will not let one tantrum by a jealous man—or group of men—change our business.” I signaled to one of the night watchmen. “Go to Mr. Vanderbilt’s home at dawn and tell him what took place here. Tell him also that we plan to be open for business as usual.”
Back on Great Jones Street, sleep was fickle, teasing me into heavy-lidded exhaustion, but my memories of the damage and imagined fears never allowed the full release of slumber. Before I knew it, we were at the brokerage once more.
The damage was much less threatening by the light of day. By noon, Mr. Vanderbilt already had our furniture replaced and had arranged for one of his men to sleep in the office at night in case there was any more trouble. The only signs of last night’s break-in were the boarded-up front window, which was being repaired at that very moment, and the gash in the desk I refused to trade in for a new one. I wanted to see it every day, to remember we had persevered.
Business was brisk, especially with word having spread about the break-in. While Katherine watched Zula and Byron, Tennie and I answered questions about what had happened and assured clients of our well-being and intent to continue on as though nothing had taken place. In some ways, the vandals had done us a favor, bringing in more traffic than we would have attracted on our own.
We remained after closing time, finally having the time to review the coverage of our momentous debut.
“Look at these headlines,” Tennie crowed. “They are calling us the ‘Queens of Finance’ and the ‘Sensation of New York.’”
“Did you see this one?” James called out from the front office. “‘The extraordinary coolness and self-possession and evident knowledge of the intricacies of the difficult role they have undertaken is far more remarkable than their personal beauty and graces of manner, and these are considerable.’”
“I can’t believe how many reporters are shocked that we have wits in our heads.” I searched for a particular paper and, after finding it, snapped it open. “This one, for example, seems surprised that we can speak of financial matters intelligently and spends more space describing our clothes and figures than our business.” I reached for another. “The highest compliment this one could muster was that we are ‘straightforward, well-bred American women who were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves in the dangerous byways of Wall Street.’ They make it sound as though we enter a war every time we open the front door.”
James was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He frowned. “In a way, you do. You are still the enemy. Your very presence threatens all men and the territory they’ve carved out for themselves. Look at what happened last night. Doesn’t that scare you?”
I gave a small, bitter laugh. “Of course it does. But if I gave in to everything that scared me, I would have died the first time my father hit me or when I had my children or when we moved here or any of a thousand times in between. I have faith in the sp
irits and barrel through adversity. It’s the only way I know how to survive.”
“We will defeat the naysayers with our mighty golden pens,” Tennie declared, wielding her pen like a sword.
I mirrored her gesture with my own. “Or die trying.”
MARCH 1870
Slowly, life on Wall Street developed its own rhythm. Every morning, Tennie and I rode to the brokerage in a carriage with white horses and red velvet seats just like the male brokers. We opened the office doors at nine, completed what work we could, and began seeing clients when trading began at ten.
“Thank you, Mr. Alley,” I said as I walked one of our most prominent clients to the front door. “We appreciate your business as always. I will make your purchase as soon as I am back at my desk.”
“It is always a pleasure seeing you, Mrs. Woodhull,” the older man said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a chat with your husband while I wait for my friend to finish his business.” He gestured over my shoulder.
I turned. Mr. Abram Baylis was deep in conversation with my father. Pa was not allowed to give the clients financial advice, so what could the two have been talking about so earnestly? I edged closer.
“Blasted knee pains me in chilly weather,” Mr. Baylis was saying. “It’s an old war wound. Makes a right mess of my hunting plans when I cannot mount a horse.”
“Never you worry, sir. I know just the thing to help you.” Buck slid open the bottom drawer of his desk.
I inched forward, craning my neck to see over Mr. Baylis’s shoulder. Half a dozen dark glass bottles gleamed in the light. I scowled. They were the same as the ones I’d seen in my father’s shop a year and a half before. I would not have him peddling that slop from my office.
“All you need to do is take a swing of this before eating, and you’ll find you’re back to your old self,” Buck said, lifting out a bottle.
I intercepted it before Mr. Baylis could take it and turned to him with a tight smile. “Forgive me, but my father sometimes fancies himself a doctor. A nip of whiskey or brandy will likely have the same effect—they are the main ingredients.” I steered my flabbergasted client to the door, taking Mr. Alley’s arm as I passed him. “Thank you both for your patronage. I or my sister will be in touch when we have news of your stock.”
Madame Presidentess Page 15
