Madame Presidentess

by Nicole Evelina

  “And I you.” I gestured, and a waiter appeared with a silver tray covered by a matching dome. “I heard you might be in attendance tonight, so I took the liberty of having some of your favorite foods set aside especially for you.” I lifted the dome to reveal a pyramid of doughnuts surrounding a cut-crystal glass of whiskey.

  Congressman Butler let out a roaring laugh that carried above the din of conversation. “Ah, my reputation precedes me, I see.” He plucked the top doughnut from the pile and offered the tray to Laura.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” She snatched the glass from the center and took a long swig. “Oh, that tastes like home. You New Yorkers and your fancy drinks—you’ve forgotten the simple joys of a good whiskey.”

  I pinched my eyes shut in horror. I whispered to the waiter, “Please see that a new drink is brought to Representative Butler as quickly as possible.”

  The congressman slapped his leg, laughing so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “Oh Horace, I owe you for tonight. You have placed me in the company of the two most fascinating women in the country,” he said to the man next to him.

  “Thank you, sir. You are too kind.”

  “Come now, you know I am right. Don’t be modest.”

  The waiter reappeared with the congressman’s drink and whispered to me that dinner was ready to be served. Gliding over to the orchestra, I motioned for them to end after their current song. When the music stopped, the dining room doors were flung open and the commencement of the meal announced.

  As hostess, I was to escort President Grant’s father, the highest-ranking man, in to dinner, so we would enter the room last.

  When Congressman Butler neared with Laura on his arm—a pairing I suspected would suit them both well personally and professionally—he lingered at my elbow. “Would it confuse your dinner arrangements if I begged to be seated at your left so that I might enjoy the company of you both this evening?”

  I smiled, suddenly grateful I had asked James and Stephen to consult on the place settings, a duty normally reserved for the hostess. “As the Fates would have it, that is already your place this evening. See for yourself.” I gestured through the open doors toward the table.

  Representative Butler beamed. “What a thoughtful hostess you are. I should much like to speak to you both about Mrs. Virginia Minor’s ideas and how we may use them to force Congress to act on the issue of women’s suffrage. Oh, this will be a lively supper indeed.”

  After the last guest departed, I slipped quietly up to the roof, wishing to be alone after the hubbub of the day. Breathing in the chilly night air, I sat on the cold slate roof, my skirts bundled beneath me. I closed my eyes, but instead of the peaceful oblivion I sought, my mind gave me flashes of the day’s events: a forged check at the brokerage I had missed but Tennie spotted, my argument with Stephen, my mother and Utica in their purloined dresses, Laura’s shocking breach of manners with Congressman Butler’s drink, the president’s father spilling his soup at dinner—all events out of my control. But wasn’t everything lately?

  I pulled up my knees in front of me and rested my chin against them, watching the tall ships bob in the harbor to the north. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I was simply out of sorts after a long day; it would pass. But what if it didn’t? In announcing my intent to run for president, I had set myself up as a representative woman. If I was to be a model for all others, I had to get my life in order.

  Prayer had always helped me, and I turned to it now, ashamed at how I had allowed the spiritual part of my life to lapse since coming to New York. Now that I no longer gave daily sessions to clients—only occasional séances for Mr. Vanderbilt—I found I had little time for my own conversations with the other side. That would stop now. Maybe they had some advice which could help me plot the overwhelming journey I was attempting to take.

  I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the city beyond. The trees rustled, and in their breeze, the spirits danced. I was aware of them only marginally at first, as if they were hesitant to approach me. Then as they drew near, I recognized four of my most beloved spirits—my sisters Delia and Odessa, who had died as young children; Rachel Scribner, a frequent visitor since Ester’s séance; and of course Demosthenes.

  “I’m sorry for abandoning all of you. Thank you for not doing the same to me,” I said.

  I poured out my heart to them, voicing all the fears I had been afraid to admit even to myself—that tomorrow my first editorial as a presidential candidate would appear in the paper, and I wasn’t happy with it, no matter how many times Stephen said it would be fine; that the nation would consider me a laughingstock for trying to affect change; that Mr. Vanderbilt would one day learn the true source of my stock tips; that for all my current success, I would end up viewed as a fraud like my father.

  The answers that came echoed what my heart was telling me if I stripped away all my fears and the lies I told myself. No one was above reproach, least of all my father and Mr. Vanderbilt. The commodore had employed his fair share of devious tactics to get to his station in life, so he had no right to judge me for anything. If I didn’t like what was being written in my name, I should take control and write it myself, once again employing Mr. Vanderbilt to aid me.

  When I opened my eyes, the world was blurry and I was cold. I fondled the coarse threads of a blanket wrapped around my shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Confused, I looked around only to find James sitting at my side.

  “Welcome back.” He smiled, used to my spirit communications from our early days of marriage.

  I blinked several times in rapid succession. “How long have you been here?”

  “Long enough to hear you argue with the spirits. At least you don’t reserve that only for me.”

  I shoved him playfully. “You should know better by now. What part did you hear?”

  “That you want to start a newspaper.” James looked confused.

  I grinned. “I do. Follow my lead when the papers come out tomorrow.”

  I was up at dawn, eager to see our first column in print. When I passed the parlor, I found James, Stephen, and Tennie already there. Tennie handed me the paper.

  I quickly read the familiar lines and the commentary below. “They hate it,” I declared, collapsing onto the settee and crumpling the Herald in my lap.

  “Oh, stop being so dramatic,” Tennie chided.

  “How can you say that? See here”—Stephen pointed at a column of type—“the editor writes that he is ‘dazzled by the profundity’ of your writing.”

  “Your writing, you mean. It also means they had no idea what it said.”

  “It’s only the first column. We have them under contract for several more. They’ll come to understand. You’ll see.” Stephen flashed his most charming smile.

  Which I ignored. “How am I to get the American voters to take me seriously as a candidate when they don’t know what I stand for? I’m treated as a novelty by the press, who may spare me a word here or there—usually pejoratively unless I’m paying them to write words of praise. I’m treated as a pet by those in power, who pat my head and tell me what a good girl I am for standing up for my beliefs when all they want me to do is roll over and play dead.”

  “Victoria, please, calm down.”

  “No, Stephen. I’ve had enough of your silver tongue. I don’t need pretty words and lies. What I need is a way to break free, to take action.” The words of the spirits returned to me, humming through my head like the current through telegraph wires. You must help yourself. I stood, once again examining the paper. “What makes this so special? It’s simply ink printed on paper. What makes people listen to what they say is the authority which the readers place in the name, right?”

  “And trust,” James added.

  “True. But that comes over time, and it doesn’t always matter. Look at the Sun. Everyone knows it’s full of tall tales and gossip, but people read it anyway.”

  “Where are you go
ing with this?” Stephen asked.

  I tossed the paper at him. “What is to stop us from starting our own paper? That way I could express my opinions more strongly and frequently than all the begging, charming, and bribery in world could allow at the established rags. Why should I”—I waved my arms wildly as if to include them all—“why should we, wait upon the whims of others to make known our thoughts when we have it within our power to do so ourselves? It’s not as if it’s unheard of—even in our own circles. After all, Mrs. Stanton has her Revolution, and the Bostonians have the Women’s Journal. As a dear friend once said, ‘I have many things of immense importance which I want to communicate.’” I winked at Stephen.

  “I’ve always wanted my own newspaper,” he replied, mulling over the idea.

  “Well, we have names that everyone knows now,” Tennie offered. “And it’s not like we couldn’t afford it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” James said. “Running a newspaper is quite costly.”

  “Who says we have to pay for it?” I grinned at Tennie. “Your dear Mr. Vanderbilt loves new and daring enterprises. Perhaps you could find a way to convince him to back yet another scheme from his famous Lady Brokers. Especially if we promise to put in a good word for him and his businesses from time to time.”

  “He’ll do it. I just know it.”

  James’s expression was still pensive. “I’m not against the idea—I rather like it, in fact—but I want to make sure we’ve thought this through. Even if you get the funding, what do any of us know about journalism?”

  Stephen raised a finger. “That’s where I come in, my friend. In the old days, I worked for the Tribune. I know all the ins and outs of the business. I could easily teach you. It’s not as difficult as one might think.”

  “I’m sure Johnny would be willing to help out, too,” Tennie added.

  I squeezed Tennie tight. “Call Johnny and everyone else we know in the press for an impromptu luncheon. Tell them we have something that will interest and astound the political world. Tease them that I’m willing to spend a fortune to get my message out about equality and governmental policy. Better yet, tell them that we’re promoting a revolution.”

  A month later, I was holding the inaugural issue of Woodhull & Claflin’s Weekly. Launching it on a Saturday morning when the warring Boston and New York suffragists were fighting with one another across town had been a collective decision. This way they couldn’t fail to notice my name and note I was a serious new player on the women’s suffrage scene, one they would do well to watch.

  The strategy paid off—with many of my now-rival papers praising my efforts.

  At the Herald, Johnny wrote, “While the two hostile divisions of women’s righters are passing their time in refusing to coalesce with each other and in flooding the country with resolutions and chatter, there are at least two advocates of the woman movement that endeavor to show by example and precept that their sex, with ordinary fair play and industry, can take care of itself. The example of Woodhull and Claflin is a highly commendable one, as they do more and talk less than any two divisions of the female agitators put together.”

  NOVEMBER 1870

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Throughout the summer and autumn, Representative Butler and I became close friends, uniting under our shared passion for women’s rights. He praised my work with the Weekly and offered to help me refine my argument, borrowed from Virginia Minor, that women already had the right to vote thanks to the Constitution so I could get my message to as many people as possible through my paper.

  At the same time, we were coming to realize that in Washington, D.C., the Sixteenth Amendment—which would have given women the right to vote—would go no farther than the Judiciary Committee.

  “It’s the classic way to kill a bill no one wants to deal with,” Congressman Butler explained. “But it’s a moot point because our argument overrides the need for it. That’s what Washington needs to hear.”

  The answer, according to Mr. Butler, was for Tennie and me to spend some time in the nation’s capital. He would do his part to persuade Congress to grant permission for me to speak about women’s suffrage if Tennie and I agreed to bear the risk of being the first women to make such a brazen request.

  When we arrived at the Willard Hotel, a massive five-story structure within walking distance of the Executive Mansion, I immediately spotted Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton sitting in the lobby with a group of suffragists. Though I nodded to them and said hello, neither woman acknowledged me. But why would they? I might have earned praise for my financial efforts in New York, but Washington was a different story. Here, I wasn’t yet one of them, only a usurper who was lucky to get my name in the press after the last convention.

  “Why do you think they are here?” Tennie asked, an edge of concern to her voice.

  “Probably to try to push the Sixteenth Amendment through. Little do they know their labors are in vain or what we have in store.” I smiled wickedly, imagining their reactions if Representative Butler was able get permission for me to speak. That would shock them to the roots of their carefully coiffed hair.

  As we waited for our luggage to be unloaded, I peered through the haze of cigar smoke at the spacious hotel interior, with its soaring columns and hanging lamps dangling over the heads of its patrons, who were clustered in highly polished wood-and-leather chairs. Most of the patrons were men—politicians and wealthy business owners or heirs, judging from the fine cloth and tailoring of their suits—but besides the suffragists, there were few women. According to what Mr. Butler had told me, the wives, daughters, and mistresses of these men were cloistered on the hotel’s second floor, where they wouldn’t interfere with business. I smiled again. I did so enjoy interfering.

  After settling in, we met Representative Butler in one of the public rooms.

  “I trust your journey was uneventful?” the congressman asked.

  “And I trust you have the committee in suspense waiting to hear what I have to say?” I joked.

  “Patience, my dear. You’ve just arrived. Plus, we still have to finalize your petition.” He gestured for us to sit.

  I declined, preferring to stand after so many hours on the train.

  “That’s actually why I’m here. I have good news and bad news,” he offered.

  “Tell us the good news first,” Tennie insisted.

  He removed a long, cylindrical tube from his coat pocket and unrolled a large piece of paper. “This is the most recent draft of the petition. I think it’s nearly complete. But there are still a few points of convention I’m unsure about.” He looked up at us. “That leads me to the bad news. I’m needed back home in Massachusetts for a few weeks.”

  “But that means you’ll be gone into December,” I said. “I thought we wanted to get this before Congress before they adjourn for their holiday recess.”

  Representative Butler held up his hands in a defensive posture. “I do, and that hasn’t changed. The other part of the good news is I found a lawyer willing to convert your petition into the legal language these types of documents need. His name is J.D. Reymart. He’s from New York but is spending the rest of the congressional session at this very hotel. He comes highly recommended.”

  “I don’t care if he’s a saint. He won’t compare to you.” I may have been laying on the flattery a little thick, but I wanted him here with me, not halfway across the country. I needed him to finish my mission. “When will I meet this prodigy of all things legal?”

  “Right now, if you like.”

  My breath caught. I spun, cursing inwardly that he had heard my mocking. My heart skipped a beat when I took in the man who now stood face to face with me. He was not at all old and balding like the congressman as I’d expected. This man was young, perhaps even a year or two younger than my thirty-two, and taller than me by a few inches. Dressed in a light brown coat with long tails, a matching vest, and high-necked shirtwaist, he was what many men, including James, would
have called a dandy. But the only word that came to my mind was stunning. Clean-shaven, with high cheekbones and amber eyes, he was temptation incarnate. Suddenly, I was very grateful my husband was back in New York.

  “Mrs. Woodhull is our esteemed memorialist, and this is her sister, Miss Tennessee Claflin,” Mr. Butler said in introduction.

  Mr. Reymart bowed to us. “Charmed,” he said in a husky voice, taking my outstretched hand.

  The frisson of excitement that passed between us was so strong that I nearly yanked away my hand in surprise. That was a sign our souls were linked—or so my Spiritualist beliefs said. Just as I could manipulate the magnetic energy within someone to heal them, so too would my own body recognize someone with a kindred energy, just as it had with James. This man was likely a healer too whether he knew it or not.

  “Forgive me, but we’ve had a long day of travel,” I said by way of explanation for my bizarre behavior. “I’m afraid I’m a little out of sorts this evening.”

  “Have you eaten? I know Mr. Butler has to be on his way, but I would be happy to accompany you to dinner,” Mr. Reymart offered. “I find food helps settle me.”

  I hesitated.

  “I’ll join you even if she won’t.” Tennie looped an arm in his.

  Mr. Reymart ignored her, waiting for my answer.

  “Yes, of course. Thank you,” I finally managed.

  “Well then, Victoria, I leave you in Mr. Reymart’s capable hands. Tennie, I forgot to tell you, I’ve told several of my colleagues about your firm. You’ll find a list with appointment times at the main desk. I thought you may wish to call on them while your sister works on her petition. We wouldn’t want those pretty little hands of yours to be idle, would we?”

  As I suspected, Mr. Judah DeWitt Reymart had little need of my help in drafting my petition, or memorial, as it was properly called by those in the legislature. Still, he sent word to my room after breakfast, and I attended on him in a small study on the first floor reserved under Congressman Butler’s name.