CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
JUNE 1871
I paced the length of the drawing room, gathering my thoughts while Theodore—Mr. Tilton would not allow me to call him anything more formal—sat waiting with pen and paper, poised to record my every word. We were there to begin writing my biography, a task that was vital if the American public was to trust me enough to vote for me.
“I don’t want a repeat of the court case. There must be no more secrets left to spill. Plus, I want people to understand my family and how they could have turned on me the way they did.” After a pause, I began my tale. “I was raised in a small white cottage with a flower garden in front.”
“But Tennie has made it sound more like a shack.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Whose biography is this? If I want a nice childhood home, I shall
