Simply anticipating their reaction turned my mood black. I felt like the figures on the swords suit of tarot cards some of my British Spiritualist friends used to contact the dead—bound by my position, blinded by betrayal of those who were supposed to support me, and pierced through by poisonous tongues.
The perfidy was most keen when, as with Catharine and the women in the restaurant, the disdain came from others of my sex. Why couldn’t they see that I was fighting for them too? If women would lay aside their differences and unite, the government would have no choice but to listen to us. But even Jesus knew there would always be those who would oppose him, so who was I to expect otherwise?
I wasn’t sure if I was leaving the backbiting behind by going on the road or riding the train into worse territory. I quickly learned life on the lecture circuit was not the glamorous affair it appeared. By the third day, I was peering through bleary eyes and dragging leaden limbs, and that was with James and Tennie handling most of the transportation, publicity, and logistical arrangements.
To the outside world, it appeared all I had to do was show up and speak, but I had to keep my campaign in mind, which made each stop doubly important. Meetings, teas, and dinners with local suffrage leaders filled my time between speeches. After all, as Election Day neared, I would need supporters willing to work for me, printing tickets, distributing them, and stumping on my behalf—best to secure them early.
Sold-out crowds greeted me on every stop on the tour, with more and more people wanting to see this “Notorious Victoria” for themselves. The female support was overwhelming; they greeted me like a queen. Women pledged to join my cause at every event, which endeared me to the local suffrage leaders all the more, as did the complimentary tickets to my events.
By the time I made it to Philadelphia, the final stop on my tour, I was grateful to be dining with a dear friend, the elderly Lucretia Mott, whom I’d met at my first suffrage convention and who had become like a grandmother to Tennie and me. Standing on the doorstep of Roadside, the Mott mansion in the town bearing Lucretia’s surname, I rolled my neck, feeling my muscles slowly ease. Even if only for a night, I was home.
“My dear Victoria, you look like a hen that’s barely escaped plucking.” Lucretia placed a gnarled, translucent hand on my hair, drawing my head down to her shoulder in a maternal embrace.
“I feel like one,” I admitted. “I have more than a few feathers out of place, I’m afraid. This tour was only three stops. I don’t know how the others do it for months on end.”
“You will grow accustomed to it,” Lucretia assured me. “As with everything else in life, it simply takes time and practice. Why don’t you follow Martha upstairs and take some time to wash and rest before dinner? My daughter, Maria, and her husband, Edward Davis, will be joining us at seven.”
Later that night, over a delightful meal of soup and fish, Mr. Davis dispensed with polite conversation and asked me straight out, “What is this I hear about you planning to start your own political party?”
“You hear correctly, though I was hoping to keep my plans under my hat for a while longer.” I eyed him across the table, trying to judge how much to reveal. He was a stranger to me but kin to dear Lucretia, so confiding in him was likely safe. “It is my feeling that if neither established party is willing to support a candidate, she has no choice but to form her own. It’s not as though this is unknown. It seems there is yet another party at every election.”
“True enough,” Mr. Davis said. “What will your party stand for? Have you given any thought to your platform?”
I laughed. “I have thought of little else since I decided to run. I will save the particulars for a later speech—which you must all attend. I’ll make sure you have tickets before I leave. But I will say this—lately my thoughts have turned toward matters of equality beyond simply those which affect women.”
“That much is clear to anyone who reads your paper,” Martha, Lucretia’s sister, put in.
“Yes, that’s what started my train of thought. These railroad monopolies, land-grabbing schemes, and material favoritism we write about are all signs of unequal distribution of material wealth in our country. My past has made me sympathetic to the plight of the working class, and now exposing such corruption has given me pause to think that my party should be based in humanitarian reform that bridges both suffrage and labor issues.”
“Do you not fear alienating wealthy voters or those who might be instrumental in supporting your cause?” Mr. Davis asked.
I gave him an appraising look before addressing his wife. “I daresay you made a fine choice in your husband. He has quite an astute mind.” I turned back to the man who had addressed me. “You speak of Mr. Vanderbilt, I presume? Yes, I suppose there is some risk, but I am a rich woman in my own right with my own source of income, so I am not beholden to anyone’s favor. Let them think what they may.”
“Few women would have the boldness to say such a thing,” Marie remarked. “Though I know my mother would be one of the exceptions.”
Lucretia nodded. “Indeed. When I see what these businessmen get away with in the name of profit, it makes my heart sick. I would gladly support a party that includes both labor and suffrage reform, as I supported the abolitionists before you.”
I smiled. “Thank you. Your approval means so much to me. The Bible says the poor will always be among us, and I have no doubt that is true, as it has been for centuries, but who are we to say that as wealthy individuals, we have a right to widen the gap between rich and poor at the expense of those with nothing? Are we not called as Christians to help those in need? I tell you, the first principles of life have been utterly lost sight of, and we are floundering about in the great ocean of material infidelity. A party which would become successful and remain in power must be firm in the advocacy of all growth and reform. All sectionalism, all favoritism, all specialism must be swallowed in the greater interests of the whole.”
“Now you sound like the radicals in France,” Mr. Davis said with a scoff.
I shrugged. “I know nothing of them, but perhaps I do say the same things. I would imagine revolutionaries worldwide all sing the same basic song.”
Lucretia’s eyes jerked to me, suddenly dark and distant. Caught in their deep stare, I could not look away.
“They do,” my hostess said softly, “but they often meet the same dark ends. Watch yourself that you do not share their fate.”
I shivered. Was it my tired imagination reading too much into the concerns of a friend, or was that a genuine warning from the spirits?
APRIL 1871
“I am going to stop reading the news if it continues to be this grim,” Tennie declared, shaking her head over the journal in her hand.
“What is going on now?” I asked, buttering a piece of toast.
“The French Communards are fighting against their government,” Stephen said like a child tattling on a rival, allowing a maid to pour him another cup of tea.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Tennie shot him a dark look. “Have you seen this?” She held up the most recent edition of the American Woman Suffrage Association’s Women’s Journal. “They said that the National Woman Suffrage Association’s alliance with Victoria is ‘worse than if they’d allied with a bigot.’”
“They already have. You’ve heard Susan and Elizabeth speak about Negros and immigrants, right?” Stephen quipped.
“No one asked you,” Tennie responded testily.
I took the paper from Tennie and clucked my tongue as I read. “That cow Mary Livermore has the nerve to bring up our family’s dealings in Chicago. I never did trust her. And she dares to say of me ‘her hands are unclean’ when I wasn’t even in Chicago during that whole scandal.” I looked up, seeking support from my husband, but I found his expression grave. “James, what is it?”
“That’s not the worst of what’s being said. I’ve shielded you from it as long as I can, but you may as well know the whole truth. There ar
e rumors that you’re both running a blackmail scheme through the paper, and many of the companies you’ve exposed as frauds have threatened to shut us down. I doubt any real action will come of it, but you need to know, especially since people are dragging up your past too.”
My gut twisted like twine. “Is there anything we can do to stop this?”
“You can prove them wrong or give them something else to talk about. Other than that, it’s nearly impossible to fetter people’s tongues when they latch onto something juicy,” Stephen observed.
“Keep Ma and Pa—the whole family—away from the press,” I ordered everyone in the room. “God knows what they would say. That whole blackmailing scheme makes me wonder if Ma is up to her old tricks with Polly again. Though if she needed money, all she’d have to do is ask—she knows that.”
“I’ll have a word with her,” Tennie said.
“Thank you. Now can we please talk of something else? What were you saying about France, Stephen?”
“Oh yes, la révolution. It’s all very thrilling. After years of oppression, during which rumor has it they ate cat and rat meat, the working people are fighting back. It’s glorious—the kind of revolt we need here.” Stephen’s eyes shimmered with an unsettling light.
“Surely you aren’t saying you support slaughter in the streets.” I pointed at a headline on the back of the page Tennie held, which memorialized those who had been captured or died supporting the cause.
“No, no.” James stepped in for his zealous friend. “He’s merely saying the government they have installed is an example of true freedom at work. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of this yet. Rumor has it that Wall Street fears a similar workers’ uprising here based on meetings the International Workingman’s Association is having, demanding an eight-hour work day.”
“Perhaps no one feels it to be a subject to be discussed in front of two lady brokers.” At my sour look, Stephen added, “I meant that they may not want to give you any ideas. The women of France are demanding many of the same things you advocate.”
I sat up straighter. Maybe this was an example I could use in the formation of my own party. “Tell me more.”
Stephen plucked the paper from Tennie’s fingers. “Ah, well.” He cleared his throat as he scanned the columns of closely set type. “It says here that the Communards guarantee the economic, social, and political equality of women with men. Women are forming groups that demand gender and wage equality and the right of divorce.” He ran a finger down the page then ticked off points on his fingers. “They also demand the abolition of the distinction between married women and concubines, an end to labeling children legitimate or illegitimate, the closing of legal brothels, and an end to prostitution.”
My heart soared. Halfway across the world, women were living my dream of reform. “Oh, that I were there to march with them.” I saw myself wearing a red sash and carrying a pennant, demanding freedom in a language I didn’t even know.
“No need to buy a ticket on a steamer ship for that.” James chuckled. “There are plenty of groups you can ally yourself with right here at home. I have friends in the American Labor Reform League, some of whom you’ve met at your ‘at homes’ without knowing their affiliation.”
“And I am a member of the International Workingmen’s Association,” Stephen said. “Our local chapter is one of the most liberal. They would think nothing of admitting a woman, especially not one who could bring their cause as much attention as you. I’ll take you to the next meeting. You may even get some ideas for your platform from these hard-working men.”
I looked around the table at my family and dear friends. Thank you, Lord, for such good fortune. What had begun as an ordinary Sunday morning was soured with rumor then redeemed by fresh new ideas that could mark a turning point in my candidacy and personal mission. God did indeed work in mysterious ways.
MAY 1871
“You’re certain this is a good idea?” I asked Isabella while we waited upstairs at Murray Hill for Isabella’s older sister, Catharine, to arrive.
“Oh, yes. I’ve finally made her see sense. I’m sure once the two of you meet, all your differences will be resolved. She merely needs to see for herself how wonderful you are.”
I doubted one meeting would be enough to sway the most conservative, vicious, and outspoken Beecher sister to my radical ways, but I was willing to try. If I could at least broker a tentative peace with Catharine, it would mean I’d have a chance to ingratiate myself with the Boston arm of the suffrage movement. Making strides there—something no one, not even Susan or Elizabeth, had been able to do—would assure a vocal majority to help carry my presidential campaign. I had more reason than anyone to try to broker peace.
The bell outside the front door tolled. Catharine had arrived. I stirred from my thoughts and smoothed my dress.
Isabella squeezed my arm tightly as she made for the stairs, adding, “Remember, I didn’t hold you in high esteem before I met you. You have a powerful presence. All will be well.”
By the time I descended the stairs, Mr. Cross had let Catharine in. She was standing beneath the large crystal chandelier in the foyer, gaping at the frescos. I fought back a laugh, seeing the pagan gods through Catharine’s more traditional eyes. Staying in was out of the question lest Catharine find further fault with the sumptuous nature of my décor or, God forbid, encounter a member of my family.
“Mrs. Beecher,” I greeted my guest with a tight smile that was as fake as George Washington’s wooden teeth. I held out my hands so Catharine could feel my magnetism. “How do you do?”
Still grousing over her surroundings, Catharine reluctantly took my outstretched hands as Isabella formally introduced us. Catharine nodded then looked longingly after her sister as she disappeared into the parlor so as not to disturb us.
“Would you object to a carriage ride in Central Park?” I asked. “It will give us a chance to enjoy the mild air while we talk.”
Catharine regarded me coolly, dark eyes raking over me as though weighing the idea of being seen in public with me or the odds that my offer was some sort of trick. “Fine.”
Half an hour later, we settled back into the crimson velvet of my brougham, or rather I did, letting the sun warm my face and the soft breeze caress my skin. Catharine sat with perfect posture, as though nothing could induce her to relax.
“I have no doubt your feelings about women’s oppression are sincere,” Catharine began the moment the wheels started spinning, her tone stern like that of a schoolmaster lecturing a student and allowing me no opening to get a word in edgewise. “But even you must see your methods are destroying any hope of progress. Here you are, standing up in front of not only your husband and neighbors but the entire United States Congress, daring to tell them they are wrong. You, a woman with two children you obviously neglect, preferring to place your attention on your business and political matters rather than on hearth and home where it belongs.”
I opened my mouth to interject that I saw my children every morning and evening and explain how I personally ensured their welfare when they were not with Minnie.
“No woman of breeding should challenge a man,” Catharine continued, oblivious to my desire to speak. “The very notion is satanic. Much less a woman like you from a family of seven-by-nine hucksters, but that’s where breeding wins out. A woman with proper antecedents would use the only power that is proper for a woman—that of gentle persuasion. She would not seek out undue attention in lecture halls or on street corners as though she was his equal.”
Again, I moved to interject, but a woman from a passing carriage called to us. I smiled and waved, losing my opportunity to speak.
“As for this notion of marriage reform that you so proudly tout, it is ridiculous,” Catharine barreled on. “The Bible tells us that man and woman, once united under God, are not to be rent asunder. God in his infinite wisdom deigned this to be so. Who are you to purport to know better? Advocating divorce and Free Love”—she shu
ddered at the phrase—“is the same as asking civilized human beings to return to the lustful instinctiveness of animals. You are asking us to take all that raises us to the height of God’s creation and trample it underfoot like so much refuse.”
I took a deep breath, the soft perfume of the park’s blooming flowers calming my temper a bit. “Catharine, I believe you misunderstand—”
“No,” Catharine cut me off, surprising me with a pat on my forearm. “It is not I who misunderstand but you.” She shook her head, making the decorative flowers in her cap do a merry dance that was at odds with her grave tone. “I have struggled these long months to understand what my sister sees in you and how you can hold such views. The only conclusion I can reach is that your position must come from a misunderstanding of women’s role in the world—which is understandable given how you were raised—or else you are in the possession of some powerful malignant spirits.” Her tone dripped pity as though she was speaking to the most unfortunate person she’d ever encountered.
“You are misguided,” I said, willing myself to remain calm at yet another insinuation of my unworthiness because of my antecedents. “Many great people have already accepted and are living my theories of social freedom, though they are not ready to become its avowed advocates as I am.”
I watched Catharine closely to see if she suspected whom my veiled reference was actually about. No recognition. I should have remained silent and pretended the conversation had never occurred, but the temptation to put this condescending witch in her place once and for all was too great.
“You speak of Free Love with derision while your own brother, Henry Ward Beecher, the most powerful preacher in America, openly practices it. I do not condemn him; I applaud him. Would that he had the courage to join me in preaching what he practices.”
Catharine’s eyes bulged, and her mouth gaped, making her resemble an unnatural cross between a toad and a beached fish. She clutched at the broach at her throat with one hand while pointing a bony finger at me with the other. “Evil”—she cringed into the corner of the carriage—“that is what you are. I know my brother is unhappy, but he is a true husband. I will vouch for my brother’s faithfulness to his marriage vows as though he were myself.” She pulled herself even farther upright and sniffed derisively.
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