While he hunched over a cherry wood desk, I reclined in a stuffed velvet chair near the fire where I had a direct line of sight to him. He had removed his coat, revealing a brocade vest of burgundy and goldenrod, and rolled up his white shirt sleeves, exposing tanned, muscular forearms. I could better appreciate his trim physique without the bulky outer layer.
Lost in imagining the muscles rippling beneath his clothing, I was startled when he called my name and crooked a finger to call me to his side. My face burned. Hopefully he would think my blush was from being too near the heat—if he noticed at all.
I leaned over him from behind, inhaling his clean scent punctuated by the grassy, vanilla hints of the coumarin in his aftershave. The slightly sweet aroma of tobacco clung to him, but he did not stink of cigar smoke as most men, including the congressman and James, often did.
“I need a point of clarification here, if you please.” He pointed a long, thin finger at a line in the document he was working on. “I’m beginning with your paper on Constitutional Equality and then will draft your memorial. In speaking of the sovereignty of the citizens of the United States, you refer to the governing power as a monarch. Do you not think some might misconstrue that you refer to a king rather than a president or that you intend to set yourself up as a queen?”
He had a valid point.
“I meant not that our country was a monarchy but that it is the system through which most of the world receives its power. Here”—my hand brushed his as I indicated another line of text above, and I quickly withdrew it. Had he felt the same blossoming heat where our skin touched?—“perhaps we need clarity in this line that citizens of a republic confer sovereignty rather than receive it from their ruler. That is what makes them free, male and female alike.”
Mr. Reymart considered for a moment then nodded. “That would be helpful.” He turned his head to look up at me and smiled. “Thank you.”
I nodded, unable to speak.
He rummaged through the pile of documents on his desk and finally held out to me two large sheets of paper. “I had my assistant make a copy of each document for you. It would be helpful if you would read through them again and mark any points where you purposefully used certain language so I can be sure to carry your original intent over to the final documents. Also, if there is anything you wish to change, you may note that too.”
I took the documents and turned back to my place by the fire, but Mr. Reymart stopped me with a light touch on the sleeve.
“Please, sit with me.” He slid over his chair and positioned another next to him at the desk. “This way, we might observe one another’s work and ask questions with minimal interruption.”
We passed the better part of three days this way, side by side, so near but not touching except in occasional brushes of fingers or bumps of shoulders and elbows, all too fleeting contact. I was near to bursting when I returned to my room each night to face Tennie’s scrutiny.
“Tennie, he is brilliant,” I found myself saying one night. “His arguments have added so much to both documents. Not only that, he truly supports and understands our cause. He told me today he admires my dedication and courage. Can you believe that? A man outside of our inner circle who actually supports us? I can’t wait for you to see the final products. I don’t know how Mr. Butler and I would have got on without him.”
Tennie wagged a finger at me. “Don’t try to couch this in your working relationship with Mr. Butler. This is about you and Mr. Reymart. You sound like a young girl in the first throes of love. You are a married woman, or have you forgotten that?”
“And you are having an affair with a married man,” I reminded her.
Tennie waved her hand, dismissing my comment. “That’s different. His wife doesn’t love him. James loves you.”
“Yes, but we have a different sort of a marriage.”
When he’d left his wife, James and I agreed that marriage should not be bound by a legal agreement issued by the state but by the bonds of love that united two people, which were fluid and could change. “Love those who you will when you will,” had been our motto since meeting. Free Love had been his excuse for bedding me before he was divorced from his first wife, and I was relatively certain he’d been with a few women since then. Surely he would understand any indiscretion that might arise.
“Does love stop him from late-night games of chess with other women? You can’t tell me all those suffragists have only board games on their mind when they linger after meetings. Surely you’ve noticed when he fails to return from one of his outings with Stephen, showing up just in time for breakfast. It is my turn now. ”
Our fourth morning in Washington was spent attending to separate duties. Tennie was off to her prearranged appointments, Mr. Reymart to a series of meetings, and I to drafting articles for the Weekly. It was in James and Stephen’s hands while I was away, but that didn’t stop me from telegraphing stories and tips to them from the hotel. I was the editor, after all. Plus, I couldn’t give Stephen free rein over my paper. Not after he had openly attacked one of the country’s most beloved preachers, Henry Ward Beecher, and accused him of a litany of charges ranging from falsehoods to lewd conduct unbecoming of a Christian minister. Stephen had no proof; the whole sordid mess had stemmed from an unnamed personal grudge.
After demanding space to apologize on behalf of the paper, I let them know my memorial would be coming the next day, for Mr. Reymart assured me we would finish our work tonight.
“Please hold the entire editorial section of the November 19th issue for it,” I wrote. “The memorial is to run in its entirety along with a shortened, simplified version of my Constitutional Equality paper coming tomorrow as well, which will serve as a layman’s explanation, under the headline ‘Startling Annunciation… 16th Amendment a Dead Letter.’” As an afterthought, I added, “You may as well lay out the text of the Constitution on nearby pages so that readers can use it to judge the merits of my argument.”
Stephen would have said I was being too proscriptive, but it was my paper and this was the most important issue I’d ever printed, perhaps even more so than the debut issue. It had to be perfect even if I was several states away.
I said as much to Mr. Reymart over dinner, and he agreed.
“Your name is on the masthead. That means you get to dictate the content, not him. The others, no matter your relationship to them outside the paper, are your employees and must do as you say. Remember that. Besides,” he added, toying with his fork, “any man who dares stand against you is a fool.”
I was still smiling from the compliment when he opened the door to our study, guiding me inside with a light touch on small of my back that sent a shiver of pleasure up my spine. It was probably an unconscious gesture, but it was also incredibly intimate, a small sign of ownership and comfort, a confirmation that he returned my feelings.
Full dark had turned the windows into mirrors in the candlelight. For a moment, we were reflected as a couple, I in my cranberry-and-cream dress, my short hair pinned in tight curls atop my head, he in his blue cutaway coat, white silk cravat, and tan breeches. Then he turned to shut the door, and the illusion was shattered.
Once again, we took up our places behind the desk, his coat thrown over the back of his chair, my seat closely at his side.
He slid a sheet of paper toward me. “This is the final translation of your memorial. Please read through it and let me know if it expresses your intentions accurately.”
I examined the page, my heart fluttering when I saw the words I’d so long dreamed in my mind finally on paper in the parlance of government. It was quite difficult to understand with so much archaic language and large words, but I comprehended enough to know it said what I intended it to.
“I’ve never seen the word ‘whereas’ used so many times in one place.”
He smiled apologetically. “It seems to be a favored word in the legal community. But otherwise, it looks correct?”
“Yes. You did a wonderf
ul job. Thank you.”
“Splendid. I’ll have my assistant send a copy to Representative Butler first thing in the morning and have a copy delivered to your rooms as well. Now, I took the liberty of making some final suggestions to your paper. For example”—he pointed with his nobleman’s fingers—“might I suggest that here you strengthen your argument with the idea of ita lex scripta est?”
“You may if you explain what that means,” I teased.
Mr. Reymart gave a small, embarrassed smile. “I apologize. It’s Latin, a legal term that translates to ‘so the law is written.’ It means the law must be obeyed notwithstanding the apparent rigor of its application. So we must obey the law without inquiring into its reasons. That means if the Constitution says all citizens are entitled to the right to vote, we must take it at face value without arguing over who is and is not a citizen.”
“I like the way you think.”
“Good. I think that concludes my work on the memorial. Now you have to get the committee to agree to hear your petition. Mr. Butler will be of more value with that than I.” He bent forward to cross off a list of changes, and a curl of light brown hair fell over his forehead, auburn highlights sparking in the flickering candlelight.
I reached up to brush it out of his eyes but barely stopped myself before he turned his head. I was caught with my hand in midair, reaching toward him.
We locked eyes, and for several heartbeats, the only sounds in the room were the crackling of the fire and our soft breathing. Mr. Reymart took my hand, intertwining our fingers in his lap. With his other hand, he ran his fingernails along my left cheek then dragged his fingertips across my right jaw before cupping my chin. The expression in his eyes was questioning, seeking permission I gave him with a slight smile.
Our lips met softly, tentatively at first, as we explored our new nearness and became acquainted with one another. My hands delved into his thick hair as our kisses grew more intense, lips parting and tongues exploring. His arms came around my waist, and after a brief moment of weightlessness, I found myself sitting on his lap, his hands roaming across my back. I pressed against him as his soft lips slid over mine. I gently sucked his tongue, tightening my grip as he pulled back slightly in surprise.
“Victoria,” he moaned.
Our foreheads were still touching, our lips only a hairsbreadth apart as we panted.
“We shouldn’t… you’re…”
“Yes, we should.” I tangled my fingers in his hair and yanked back his head before covering his mouth with mine. I slowly slid my body up and down over his, inwardly cursing the skirts that prevented me from straddling his legs.
He turned his head to the side. “Then we should at least find a better location.”
I let my lips caress his jaw and nibbled his ear as he seemed to consider a plan.
“It would never do for us to be seen entering my room together or me to be entering yours. Your husband could sue me.”
I purred a laugh into his ear. “Always a lawyer.” Lips still on his earlobe, I reached behind him, blindly searching in his coat pockets until my fingers grasped cold metal. I held up his room key, its numbered tassel dancing a jig. “Meet me upstairs in ten minutes. Send whatever you need to your assistant. Pretend it’s an ordinary night, and everyone else will believe so too.”
We said our good nights with the door open. While Mr. Reymart finished up with the papers, I went to my room as I would have any other night, relieved to find it still dark. Tennie must have been out with one of the politicians on Mr. Butler’s list. Good. I didn’t want to face my sister in light of what I was about to do.
After washing my face and making sure enough time had passed, I sneaked up one floor to Mr. Reymart’s room and let myself in, lighting candles as I went. Hastily, I removed my hair pins and clothes, piled them out of the way on the floor, then slipped under the bed sheets. When the door handle turned a few minutes later, I slid out, standing next to the bed in all my natural glory.
“You are beautiful,” he said, taking my measure from head to toe while the door swung shut.
His mouth was on mine before I could move, capturing me, possessing me. I willingly submitted to his touch, reveling in the feelings he provoked, intense and thrilling. I wanted to drink in every moment then make him feel as alive as he made me feel. Fingers caressed, tongues tasted, and soon we were joined in frenzied passion.
Once we were spent, I laid my head on his chest, unable to believe I’d given in so easily.
“What will you tell your husband?” Judah mumbled, already half asleep.
“He needs to know nothing.”
A few moments passed in silence, then he chuckled. “I bet you’d have no trouble getting an audience with the Judiciary Committee if they could all see you like I did tonight.”
I grabbed a small pillow and whacked him in the face with it. “That would be a sight, wouldn’t it? The Lady Godiva of the women’s movement. Exactly how I wish to be remembered.”
He kissed my chest. “I guarantee you’ll be remembered for much more than your sexual prowess.”
JANUARY 1871
Though I wished him to linger, I was relieved that Mr. Reymart had to return to New York. That way, no awkwardness or stolen glances could feed the Washington rumor mill. Not that it needed more fodder. Other rumors were quickly surfacing in the gossip-laden streets, as I found out at lunch the day I was set to testify before Congress. The people at a nearby table began talking loudly about me.
“I can tell you one thing for certain,” said a woman with an affected high-class accent. “Some of the women in the movement, particularly Mrs. Isabella Beecher Hooker, look down on this Mrs. Woodhull for her impolite opinions and lack of breeding. She said to me once, ‘Who is this woman but the daughter of a crook? What have I to fear from the spawn of sin?’”
“That sounds more like Catharine Beecher than Isabella. Are you certain of the source?” asked a man at the same table. “Either way, it would ill become these women, especially a Beecher, to talk of antecedents or cast any smirch upon Mrs. Woodhull, for I am reliably assured that Henry Ward Beecher preaches to at least twenty of his mistresses every Sunday.”
A tittering followed at their table and ours.
“Victoria, what have you done to earn the ire of Mrs. Isabella Beecher?” asked the wife of a New York congressman.
“Nothing personally,” I answered, buttering a roll. “But one of my colleagues at the paper published a story accusing her brother of many the same things that gentleman’s words confirmed. Catharine is so conservative; she probably thinks my running for president is a sign of the Second Coming.”
The table burst into laughter.
“Well, you have nothing to worry about from that old biddy,” said Eustace, the wife of a senator. “Remember, everything about tomorrow has been carefully chosen to throw more fuel on the fire between our warring suffragists. While they quarrel with each other, you’ll quietly sneak in and get the victory and the credit.”
“Speaking of victory,” said Caroline Willard, the wife of the hotel’s owner, “how did you finally get Benjamin Butler to give you access to the committee? It seems like they kept saying no, then all of a sudden it was yes.” She leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Is there any truth to the rumors?”
“What rumors?”
Mrs. Willard glanced over her shoulder then lowered her voice. “They say he offered to help you in exchange, and I quote, ‘for the opportunity to feast his eyes on your naked person.’”
I coughed, choking on my bread. One of the other women patted my back while another thrust a glass of water toward me.
Mrs. Willard kept on talking, oblivious to my misery. “I heard that when he was asked about this gossip, all Mr. Butler would say was ‘Half-truths kill.’ Now, I don’t know about you, but I think he fanned the flames with that statement and made it sound like much more happened.”
I stopped coughing and wiped my tearing eyes with a napkin. “Mrs. W
illard, did you ever consider he could have meant the true half was that he helped me?”
Mrs. Willard had the grace to look chagrined as she inspected the tablecloth. “No, I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
I crossed my arms. “Well, you need to start because there’s no truth to it.”
Although the rumors were alarmingly close to the truth, I’d never admit that to anyone. All they had gotten wrong was the name. While Mr. Reymart hadn’t had anything to do with the committee’s change of heart, Congressman Butler may have. What exactly had Mr. Reymart shared with him? For a lonely old man whose wife was dying of cancer in Switzerland, details of a torrid night may have been enough to get him to exert extra effort.
But what did it matter? Both houses of Congress had reviewed my women’s voting plan, and in a few hours, I was speaking before the Judiciary Committee, the very body that held a woman’s right to vote within their grasp. How I got there was irrelevant.
The short carriage ride from the Willard Hotel to the US Capitol that afternoon was a bitterly cold one, with an icy wind tossing gusts of prickling sleet against the glass carriage windows. I huddled against Tennie, trying to shield myself from the draft, while Representative Butler sat stonily. The only sign of his annoyance was the incessant rolling of his unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
Upon arriving, we found the room in which the hearing was supposed to take place closed due to a malfunctioning heating stove which was spewing smoke throughout the House building. The acrid stench was noticeable even in the temporary chamber, which was quite cold because the windows had to be left open to air out the smoke.
As Tennie and I filed in behind Representative Butler, dozens of reporters, suffragists, and curious onlookers turned toward us. I tensed, shoulder blades drawing together as their scrutiny bore into me from the tip of my alpine hat to the soles of my leather boots. I wished I was wearing a shawl like Tennie so I could pull it more closely around me. But as it was, I had to face them without more than my black dress and navy jacket as armor.
Madame Presidentess Page 20
