CHAPTER FIFTEEN
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
