Madame Presidentess

by Nicole Evelina

  “It seemed a suitable place to take a woman of means who enjoys watching others,” Theodore said distractedly as he unpacked the wicker hamper containing our meal.

  I leaned forward, peering inside the container, but I could only make out small round crockery bowls with matching lids and two sets of silverware. I tried to take one, but Theodore playfully slapped away my hand.

  “I eat at your table often enough; it is my turn to serve you.” He pulled at one of the lids, which was not inclined to budge.

  I shifted my attention to the visitors around us. Families gathered in clumps near the water, children the only ones brave enough to remove their shoes and toddle into the surf, giggling and shrieking as the cold foam enveloped their feet. Nearby, a group of young women clustered under parasols, tittering to one another and making eyes at Theodore, who was oblivious to their attentions. I took the jar Theodore offered, gave the girls a smug smile and a finger wave, then turned my back on them.

  “I appreciate your glowing words about me in the Weekly,” I said before digging a fork into the spread and lifting it to my lips. The creamy mayonnaise mixed with the wild tang of rare beef to set my taste buds alight. I groaned in appreciation as I chewed. “Cook has truly outdone herself.” After swallowing, I picked up my original train of thought. “I was hoping you’d be willing to be a little more open about your stance on Free Love.”

  He chewed, considering. “Am I the best person to endorse you there? I would think you would do better with a preacher or someone whose opinion would lend validity to your argument.”

  I glared at him, champagne flute frozen halfway to my mouth. “Why do I have a feeling you have someone particular in mind?”

  He chuckled, swallowing a mouthful of his own wine. “Because you know me far too well.”

  “No. Not him. I will not do it. I distrusted Reverend Beecher from the moment I first heard those rumors about him in Washington, and save Isabella, his family has done nothing to endear themselves to me since.”

  “Is that how you found out about his affair with Lib?”

  What an odd question. Why did he care? “No. In Washington I was acquainted with the rumors of his lasciviousness. I heard about the affair from Paulina some time later. Lib had confided in her, and Paulina couldn’t keep her confidence with something that monumental, so she told me. Knowing she is a gossip, I didn’t put much store in it until Elizabeth confirmed it was true.”

  Theodore hung his head. “So the entire women’s movement knew before I did. What a fool I am.”

  I continued eating forkfuls of the spread. “When did you find out?” If he could ask, so could I.

  Theodore steeled himself, clearly not wanting to answer. He took several gulps of wine, finishing his glass and refilling it before he answered. “I heard rumors upon returning from a lecture tour in the West. I didn’t want to confront Lib until I knew for certain what was true and what wasn’t. Luckily, one of my daughters is incapable of lying to me, so when I pressed her, she told me the whole sordid tale.” He shifted onto his side, wrinkling his nose in distaste as though the conversation had spoiled his appetite. “It didn’t take me long to realize the child Lib then carried wasn’t mine but Beecher’s. I confronted her, but she neither confirmed nor denied it.”

  Shame dulled his expression, and he flicked his gaze toward the ocean before returning it to me. “Then she miscarried. I’m not proud of what I did next, and I swear I will never treat you thus. I was simply blind with rage. I tore the wedding ring from her finger and held it up before her, shouting about her infidelity. Honestly, I wanted to shove it down her throat and make her choke on it. But I will not raise my hand to a woman. Instead I tore the photo of Beecher from the wall, shredded it, and condemned it to the fire. Finally, I dragged Lib outside and stamped the ring into the ground at the child’s grave as though I could bury her sins with it.”

  Theodore’s expression darkened when I chuckled.

  “Such dramatics. Need I remind you that you are no vestal virgin? Rumors abound about your prowess outside the marriage bed.”

  He scowled at me. “So I’ve heard. But it gets worse. When Beecher found out what I knew, he tried to get Lib to sign a statement saying that nothing untoward ever took place between them.”

  “What is it with that family? They think they can do whatever they wish with no recrimination. Harriet gets a pass when she says I’m a ‘snake who should be given a good clop with a shovel,’ but if I say anything in response, I am vilified. Henry demands one of his mistresses perjure herself and yet is held in higher esteem by his congregation than the president.” I shook my head, adjusting the strings of my bonnet to better shade my face.

  Theodore sighed. “I tell you this not to upset you but to show you that Henry lives the life you speak of even if he cannot yet admit to it. He might be more open to endorsing Free Love than you think if you try to get to know him.”

  “But why would he do that if he tried to get Lib to deny their affair?”

  “Because he is a man who struggles to reconcile what he lives with what he preaches. He’s deathly afraid that people will find out.” He held up a hand to silence my comment. “Please, let me finish. He knows of the rumors, but no one can prove them. He’s scared someone will. You see, this isn’t his first public brush with Free Love. Two years ago, he was involved in a scandal in which he officiated a wedding between a divorced woman and her dying lover, who was shot by the woman’s abusive ex-husband. The legitimacy of the divorce was called into question as it took place in Indiana where the laws were less strict than here in New York. Her ex-husband claimed he was merely defending the sanctity of his marriage. The aftermath nearly cost Beecher his church. So you can see why he is hesitant to attach himself to the phrase ‘Free Love’ or even it’s more respectable euphemism, ‘social responsibility.’”

  “Yet he continues to practice it,” I whispered, lost in my own thoughts. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced Reverend Beecher was a man who would care a great deal for the truth. “I wonder if having lived the life that he has and entertaining the private convictions he does, I could perhaps persuade him to come out and openly avow his principles and be a thorough, consistent radical and thus justify his life in some measure, if not wholly, to the public.”

  Theodore smiled as I came around to his way of thinking. “You should at least try.”

  My lips twitched as I formulated a plan. I already had the perfect leverage. Stephen had set the stage last October when he threw down the gauntlet against Reverend Beecher in the Weekly. Now I could add a little additional weight to the threat of exposure, and I was certain he would do as I wished. It was blackmail, but after all, I was my mother’s daughter.

  Reverend Beecher was quick to accept Theodore’s proposed meeting with me, so on a hot Sunday morning, Theodore and I attended services at Plymouth Church. The plan was to speak privately with the reverend after the congregation returned to their homes.

  I was never one for organized religion. The revival meetings of my youth still gave me nightmares—all those people trembling uncontrollably and babbling gibberish they swore was a divine language. Then, as now, the only part that truly captured my interest was the fire with which the preachers delivered their sermons.

  Reverend Beecher was certainly an impassioned man, intoning his words with a force most actors would have envied. His deep voice resonated throughout the church, likely clear even to those who stood outside on the street.

  “God values men according to what they have had to walk through. Some men are so made that they are obliged to hold perpetual warfare with themselves. They must have a hand always on the engine, or something will blow up in them every minute.”

  Interesting. He could well be speaking of himself—or perhaps his words were aimed at me. He did know I would be in his congregation today, so it was possible.

  “There are doubts and troubles that never can be settled. The only thing to be done with
them is to lay them down and leave them. This”—he slammed his hand onto the pulpit to punctuate the word, making me and half the congregation jump—“the Christian must do if he wants peace; and if the impenitent won’t do it, they will torment him to death.”

  So he was saying there were troubles that we would never settle. We should leave them to God. I agreed with that, but there were others who were greatly alleviated when their public and private lives were one. I was willing to wager I could convince him of the same.

  That goal was at the top of my mind when the three of us stepped into the preacher’s small office tucked away behind the altar of his massive church. Theodore remained only long enough to make the introductions, preferring to withdraw to the sanctuary to give us the space to speak in confidence. At Reverend Beecher’s invitation, I took a seat in front of his heavy wooden desk.

  He cleared away a pile of papers—likely drafts of more sermons—and rested his arms on the empty space, fingers entwined. “Now, Mrs. Woodhull, my friend Mr. Tilton said you wished to speak with me. How may I be of service to you?”

  Candor was likely the best approach. “I was hoping you would be willing to stand up with me on the subjects of social responsibility and marriage reform. The endorsement of a man of your standing in the community would do much to convince others that I truly have their best interests, rather than the degradation of society, at heart.”

  “You speak of Free Love.”

  “Among other things, yes. Surely you have heard my views.” Your sisters certainly have.

  He leaned forward on his desk. “Mrs. Woodhull, I know that our whole social system is corrupt. I know that marriage, as it exists today, is the curse of society. Marriage is the grave of love.” His tone hinted that he knew its sting from personal experience. “I never married a couple that I did not feel were already condemned.”

  As had been the case with the president, I could not hold my tongue. “If you hold such strong feelings in your heart, why do you not preach them every Sunday?”

  He laughed ruefully. “Because I should preach to empty seats. It would be the ruin of my church. Most people cannot handle such thoughts, lost as they are in tradition. I am twenty years ahead of my church. I preach the truth only as my people can bear it. Milk for babies, meat for strong men, as they say.”

  “Considerate as that may be, do you not feel it is time to introduce soft food?”

  He smiled. “Perhaps. How do you propose I do such a thing?”

  I sat forward, removing a sheaf of papers from the Bible I carried. “I will be speaking at Steinway Hall in August on the subject of social responsibility. I was hoping you would be willing to introduce me there.” I held out the papers. “This is an early draft of my speech. I would be honored if you would read it and offer your learned opinion.”

  I nearly choked on the last phrase. I also failed to mention that the papers were a toned-down version of the speech, heavily edited by Theodore to make the preacher more amenable.

  As I waited, he read it, pursing his lips. He grunted in agreement with a few points and twice picked up his pen, making notations in the margin.

  When he finished, he handed back the papers. “I agree with much of what you say, but would not introducing you be tantamount to endorsing your views?”

  “In some ways, yes. But you need not say anything so explicit. Your presence would speak for itself.” I struggled to maintain the humility I’d practiced with Theodore. “I simply thought your reputation would be safer if you owned up publicly to living a Free Love lifestyle rather than being found out later.”

  “And you would be the one to reveal my secrets?” There was menace in his voice.

  “Perhaps. You know I have it in my power, but I am by far not the only one.”

  The reverend was quiet for a moment, drumming his fingertips on his desk as he turned my proposal over in his mind. Finally, he sighed, shaking his head. “I am not fit to stand by you, who goes there to speak what you know to be the truth. I should stand there a living lie. I promise to think on it, but I am in doubt I would be able to endure the public disgrace.”

  He stood then, extending his hand. Our meeting had come to an end.

  As I took his hand, he added, “Until such time as I give you my answer, I trust you will keep what you know to yourself.”

  JULY 1871

  Music filled the halls of 15 East Thirty-Eighth Street as twilight fell, competing with the laughter and chatter bandied about by Tennie and a few close friends gathered with us for an evening of socializing and revelry.

  “To our hostess, Mrs. Victoria Woodhull, and her indomitable sister, Tennessee. Our sincere felicitations on your appointment as leaders of Section Twelve of the International Workingmen’s Association and best wishes for your continued success. May your concern for laborers and women take you to the highest office of this great nation,” Stephen said, kicking off the evening’s celebrations.

  James raised his glass, seconding the sentiment. “Hear, hear.”

  “And there are many more victories to come,” concurred Jesse Grant, the current president’s father. “I’m so happy you started hosting parties again. I so missed speaking with you and your intelligent group of radicals.” He gave me a warm smile.

  “Mr. Grant, you flatter me,” I said coyly, batting my eyelashes. “Should you not be out stumping for your son’s reelection rather than consorting with his rival?”

  “I love my son and wish him all the best.” Mr. Grant took a sip of his gin. “But he has had his time in office and, in my opinion, has squandered it trying to curry favor from all sides rather than taking action. It’s time for someone else, someone who is not afraid to fight, to take up the mantle of power.”

  I dipped my head in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Thank you. Your support, even if only in private, means more than you can know.”

  Slowly, the party moved to the drawing room, where bankers, lawyers, editors, clergymen, politicians, and their wives dropped the formalities of high society and relaxed, knowing they were among friends. The atmosphere became like that of a private club as gin, brandy, whiskey, and port were consumed, softening the edges of personalities and turning thoughts to brotherhood and camaraderie.

  I raised my voice so all could hear. “I wish to thank you for being here tonight not in your social roles but as friends. This year has been one of both tumult and joy, and I wish to express my gratitude that you have stood by me. As they say, it is only in your darkest hours that you learn who your true friends are.”

  “To friendship,” someone in the crowed toasted.

  After we had all sipped from our drinks, I continued. “Looking around at your joyful faces, it strikes me that there is great power in this room. We are, in a way, a Congress of the People, representing all walks of life from the common laborer”—I nodded at tinsmith and reformer William West, who was highly active in the IWA—“to the very wealthy.” I singled out a few well-known couples with a brief nod. “We are the future of this country, the reformers who will set it on its due course to true equality. That power does not lie in the hands of politicians—no offense to those present—but in the hands of the people who will use their voices and their votes to shape the path ahead.”

  “As we are a group of like-minded individuals,” Tennie mused, fiddling with the enormous jet buttons on her black jacket, “wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were a political party and could endorse you publicly?” She sat up straighter. “I mean, I know I am your sister, but the whole country needs to hear what you have just said.”

  “You may be on to something,” Benjamin Butler said, puffing away on his cigar. “Victoria is, in essence, relaunching her campaign to prepare for the final year of stumping for votes. This would be the perfect time to resurrect her Cosmopolitical party.” He turned to me. “You will need to be nominated by a national party to get your name officially on the ballot.”

  I pursed my lips, considering. “You’re right. But I
want it to better represent the union of women’s and laborers’ rights. It must hold in no doubt my position on equality, for no matter what subject we consider—be it suffrage, marriage, or work—that is the basis.”

  Stephen disappeared and quickly returned with pen and paper. “We have an issue of the Weekly set to go to press in the morning, but I will discard my column in favor of a letter marking this monumental development. I ask all of you, do we dare call our party the Equal Rights Party?”

  That got everyone’s attention. The muffled din of conversation rose as individuals consulted with their neighbors.

  I turned the idea over in my mind. The Equal Rights Party was a name steeped in history and controversy, having first been used by a Democratic splinter group before the Civil War to protest anti-labor practices. In that way, it would immediately envelope half of my platform. Coupled with my obvious association with the suffrage movement, it might well be the perfect name.

  We spent the next several hours debating the finer points of our new party and what it stood for and composing the letter that would appear on behalf of our group—a new movement in politics we hoped the letter would encourage others to join—in the Weekly to mark the upcoming Independence Day holiday.

  On July 4, 1871, Woodhull and Claflin’s Weekly ran the following letter.

  “A number of your fellow citizens, both men and women, have formed themselves into a working committee, borrowing its title from your name and calling itself the Victoria League. Our object is to form a new national political organization, composed of the progressive elements in the existent Republican and Democratic parties together with the Women of the Republic, to be called the Equal Rights Party.

  “We ask you to become the standard bearer of this idea before the people, and for this purpose nominate you as our candidate for President of the United States, to be voted for in 1872 by the combined suffrages of both sexes. Offering the assurance of our great esteem, and harboring in our minds the cheerful prescience of victory which your name inspires, we remain, cordially yours, the Victoria League.”