The First Lady and the Rebel, page 28
“I understand that, sir, but I cannot. My husband gave his life for the South, as did two of my brothers. I have a brother fighting there still. My dearest friends are still in the South.”
“All right, madam. Stop before you’ve convinced me that I’d be a fool to let you pass across into Union lines, even with the oath. There’s but one man who can decide what to do with you, and that’s President Lincoln. I’ll telegraph him. You do know he’s been ill, madam?”
“I’m sorry,” Emily said meekly. “I really do not mean to be such a bother.”
General Butler merely quirked an eyebrow. “Depending on how long it takes him to rise from his sickbed, it may take a while to receive a reply,” he pronounced, and left the room.
“Darling,” Mrs. Todd said, “I know this is difficult. But you really—”
“I cannot, Mother.” She thought of the letter she had written to Mac just before leaving Selma. Never will I break faith with the South or with my dear friends there…
Mrs. Todd pursed her lips and sighed.
But sooner than anyone could have hoped, General Butler returned, flourishing a telegram, which he handed to Emily. Send her to me. A. Lincoln. “Looks as if you’ll be paying a visit to Washington, Mrs. Helm.”
Emily gulped. “It does.”
“Well, you’ve still time to get on the steamer to Baltimore, so no harm done.” General Butler ushered them to the door. Then his eye lit on Delilah, and he frowned. “You’re not a slave, are you, Aunty?”
“Servant,” said Kate.
“I am a freedwoman,” Delilah said almost tetchily. “I have papers.”
“All right, all right. Go, all of you, in peace. And welcome to the United States!”
* * *
At the Washington depot, Emily stood uncertainly on the platform as Kate craned her head, looking for important people. After her party had reached Baltimore, Emily had telegraphed Mr. Lincoln to inform him of her plans, but no one had told her what to do when she arrived in Washington. Did one simply ask to be driven to the Executive Mansion? Would she need to show her pass? As she hesitated, trying to remember what Hardin had told her about his visit there, a man in his midfifties, soberly dressed, stopped before her and bowed. “Cousin Emily?”
“Why, Cousin John!” There was no sweeter sight she could have seen in the strange depot than a fellow Todd, and John Todd Stuart, who had left his native Lexington for Springfield, Illinois, years before, was every inch a Todd. “How glad I am to see you here.”
“I am in Congress now, and the President thought you would like an escort, not being familiar with Washington.” Cousin John turned his attention to Kate. “Now, who is this? When I last saw your mother, she was barely out of short skirts, and now look what a fine young lady she’s brought with her.”
“I am Miss Helm,” Kate said loftily.
“Why, of course! Then let me see you to your carriage.” He took Emily’s arm. “I am sorry that your mother did not accompany you.”
“She decided to stay in Baltimore with Martha and my younger children. Under the circumstances—”
“Ah, yes.” Cousin John nodded gravely, and to Emily’s relief made no further allusion to the losses that had befallen the Todds in the last year. “We’ll take our time going there, so you can see the sights on the avenue. See the Capitol? The statue of ‘Freedom’ was added just a short while ago. One day that dome just might be finished.”
Emily dutifully admired the Capitol, and then the houses, bedecked with Christmas greenery, lining Pennsylvania Avenue—the city’s main thoroughfare and one of the few with proper sidewalks. As in the South, those walkways were thronged with soldiers, except that these were dressed in blue. The civilians were out in full force on the brisk Saturday afternoon as well, and Emily felt a pang to her heart as she observed the ladies’ fine clothing—no homespun here—and compared it to that of the ladies of the South. Young men were in abundance, and while a few women in widow’s weeds could be spotted on the avenue, they were far outnumbered by ladies in bright colors.
“It really is white,” Kate said approvingly as the Executive Mansion came into view. “And big. Though maybe not as nice as President Davis’s house.” “I wouldn’t point that out,” Cousin John said dryly.
“Oh, I won’t,” Kate assured him. “That would be rude.”
The doorman waved them in, bowing to the ladies, and Cousin John led them upstairs. “The President and Mrs. Lincoln should be in the library,” he said, and called, “We’re here!”
Immediately, the door opened and the couple Emily had not seen in nine years stood before her. As General Butler had told Emily, Mr. Lincoln had been ill, but Emily was still shocked to see him looking so gaunt. He resembled his Confederate counterpart in one respect: every day of the war had left its mark on his countenance, and his private sorrow had added to that as well. Mary also looked careworn beyond her years, but her beautiful dress, a fashionable half-mourning gown of silk with black-and-white stripes, topped with a black lace shawl that was too fine and sheer to be useful for anything besides decoration, caught Emily’s eye, as it would that of any sentient female, before anything else.
“My dear Emily,” Mary said as Emily pushed back her mourning veil. “You poor, dear child.”
“Allow me,” Mr. Lincoln said, and clumsily untied Emily’s bonnet strings. “Welcome to Washington, Little Sister.”
23
Mary and Emily
December 1863
Although Mary had seen her share of mourning women since the war began, and had of course been in that sad state herself, it was still a shock to see Emily—so fresh, so pretty in her flowered frock and blooming bonnet when Mary had last seen her when she left the Lincolns’ home in Springfield to return to her mother’s house in Kentucky—clad in the deepest, dullest black. Her lips were downturned, partly from sorrow, and partly from something else that Mary found herself not wanting to analyze deeply. Defiance? Determination? Anger? But after Mr. Lincoln had helped her out of her cloak and bonnet, she came into Mary’s arms with only a moment of hesitation.
“It is so good to see you, dear,” Mary said. “Even under these dreadful circumstances.”
“And you, too.” Emily brushed at her eyes. Regaining her composure, she touched the arm of the little girl beside her, an auburn-haired sprite who in looks clearly took after her father’s side of the family. “Brother Lincoln and Sister Mary, this is my older daughter, Kate. Kate, this is Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln.”
“Your uncle and aunt,” Mary said with a smile.
But Kate, as was the case with most children, was staring at Mr. Lincoln. “You’re tall,” she announced.
“Kate! That is so rude of you. We do not comment on people’s appearances.”
“But true enough,” Mr. Lincoln said, smiling down at his niece. “Why don’t you and I find your cousin Tad? And he can show you around this big old house, including the fortifications on the roof your papa helped build a long time ago.”
Kate agreed, and she and Mr. Lincoln departed, leaving Mary and Emily standing alone together for the first time in seven years. Mary touched her sister’s cheek. “Sit down and let us have some tea together, dear. We have much to talk of.”
Emily obeyed, her crepe dress rustling as she settled into her chair.
Mary cleared her throat. “I was very grieved to hear about Mr.—General, that is—Helm. He was very dear to us.” If only he had accepted the President’s offer, she almost said.
“And you to him.” Emily fell silent as a servant came in, bearing the tea things.
“Do you like the china?”
“It’s lovely.”
“It ought to be; I picked it out myself. Oh, there was a fuss about that! I do admit that I overspent. But really, there was scarcely a matched table setting to be had when we arrived here.”
Emily nodded. Too late, Mary reflected that in Emily’s penury—for that Mr. Bruce had spoken of her being in straitened circumstances—she might find this talk of fine china offensive. But her sister said, “I’m quite sure it was necessary.”
“It certainly was.”
Another silence fell. Had her sister been so quiet in the past? No; the Emily in Springfield, though deferential as became her position at that time as an unmarried and much younger sister, had been quite lively. But then the pall of grief that hung around her now had not been present.
Finally, Emily cleared her throat. “I wanted to comfort you so badly when I heard of poor Willie’s death,” she said. “He was such a darling boy.”
“There could have been very little comfort you could have offered. He was the light of our lives.” Mary sighed. “Our sister Elizabeth came to stay with me afterward, and goodness knows she did her best. I have come to terms with his death as much as I ever will, but I still find myself looking for him in a room from time to time.”
“I still wake some mornings thinking that Hardin is merely on campaign and will be returning on leave.”
“You have suffered the loss I dread most of anything. Of course, being younger, I am likely to outlive Mr. Lincoln in the natural course of things, but were he to die before his time—it does not bear thinking about.” She shuddered. “Tell me of our sisters in Selma. Did Elodie ever marry the man with all the wives?”
“You make him sound like Henry VIII.” For the first time, Emily managed a smile. “They did marry, but she is only his third wife—and, I hope, his last. They seem quite happy together. They lost their first child, but she is expecting another, and I hope all will go well.”
“Ah, poor mite. And Martha?”
“Martha is in Baltimore with Mama, and is, well…Martha. Kitty managed to get back to Kentucky and is there now.”
“Has she a suitor?”
“One of Hardin’s staff officers took an interest in her. I saw him at—at Hardin’s funeral, but I do not know where he is at present.”
“Well, I hope he comes through the war safely.”
The war! Men off to their first battle talked of “seeing the elephant,” as Mary had learned from her visits to the hospitals in the cases where the seeing had not gone well, and the war stood between her and her sister like an elephant, blocking a natural conversation. How could she wish anyone on Emily’s side well, without feeling that she was thereby wishing her own side ill? With trepidation, she said, “Emily, I was also grieved to learn of Sam’s and Alec’s deaths. You understand I could not openly mourn for them, nor could Mr. Lincoln, but it saddened us deeply. They were fine young men, with promise of more.”
“Yes.”
Mary turned the topic to Elizabeth, Frances, and Ann, her three sisters in Springfield. With their husbands past fighting age and no sons in the war yet, the Springfield sisters were eminently safe topics of conversation. Unfortunately, this safeness also meant a certain dullness, which made the discussion of the ladies’ doings a short one, not enlivened by Emily’s monosyllables.
With a certain desperation, Mary plunged on. “Do tell me about that your new son of yours, and your daughter Dee.”
At last, she had struck conversational gold. Emily reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a slender photograph album, large enough to hold half-a-dozen cartes de visite. “Here are the three of them. It was taken in Atlanta, during—during Hardin’s last leave. Aren’t they just like their father?”
Repressing a sigh—for she saw that all roads led to Hardin—Mary agreed.
* * *
“This is the Prince of Wales Room, where you will be staying, my dear,” Mary said, pointing to Emily’s trunk, which had already found its way there. “It is named, of course, because during the previous administration, the Prince of Wales stayed here. I rather wish he had delayed his visit to America, so we could have hosted him.”
“Then I am quite honored. It’s lovely.” In truth, there was far too much dark purple in the room for Emily’s taste, even though it was lightened somewhat by yellow cords.
“Several presidents died here, as did our poor Willie.” Mary’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I hope you may never know such a loss, my dear.”
“I pray I do not.” Emily looked around the room, which seemed more funereal than ever. “Perhaps—”
“Our sister Elizabeth stayed here during her last two visits,” Mary said in a more cheerful tone. “She found it quite commodious—although, being Elizabeth, she had to say it might be a bit too large for her taste.”
The knowledge that her practical sister Elizabeth had slept in the room cheered Emily somewhat. “Perhaps you could call it the Todd Room.”
Mary chuckled, a bit too much, as she did at every remark Emily made.
Emily knew she was not being particularly companionable. In her still-raw grief, she found it hard to withstand the force of her sister’s personality, and she could also not shake the feeling that she was in hostile territory, even if the White House was an oasis in the midst of it. But Mary was exerting herself so much for Emily, despite clearly still feeling the loss of poor Willie, that Emily determined to rouse herself. “Could you show me the greenhouse?”
Mary put an arm through hers. “I would be delighted.”
In the evening, a caller came for Mary—General Daniel Sickles, who entered the room with as much aplomb as a one-legged man on crutches could manage. Emily, knowing of his scandalous reputation, not to mention the fact that he had borne arms against the South, was inclined to give him a formal reception, but was surprised when he gave her an equally formal one—it not having occurred to her that he might have his own grievances. Having exchanged a few inconsequentialities with him and Mary, Emily said, “If you don’t mind, Mary, I will retire. It has been a long day.”
“Of course, my dear.”
In her room, however, she found a visitor: Tad, playing checkers with Kate, who should have been in bed but was at least in her nightgown. “Hullo, Aunt Emily,” he said, standing politely but showing no inclination to leave. “I thought I’d stop by and see Cousin Kate.”
“That is very kind of you.”
“Did General Sickles tell you about his leg?”
“Well, no. I understand he lost it at Gettysburg, though. A pity,” she added politely.
“He gave it to the Army Medical Museum, and they say he can visit it anytime he likes.”
“Really? I wonder what on earth he will say to it.”
“That’s a good question,” Tad said. “Well, I guess I should be off. Cousin Kate is a very good checker player,” he added gallantly.
“I won two games,” Kate said.
“So, how do you like your cousin?” Emily asked when Tad had left the room.
“He’s nice.” Kate furrowed her brow as she amended her remark. “For a Yankee.”
* * *
The next morning, Mary showed Emily her winter wardrobe, which proved to be as purple as Emily’s room. “I will wear this on New Year’s,” she said, indicating a purple velvet. “Do you think the color suits me?”
“Very well.”
“Mr. Stewart was kind enough to give this to me during one of my visits to his store in New York,” Mary said, gesturing toward a white lace shawl, so delicate that if folded, it could have passed through a wedding ring. “I could certainly not look Mr. Lincoln in the face if I had purchased it myself, for it cost a frightful amount.”
“How much?” Emily asked idly.
“Two thousand five hundred.”
So it was that shawl—a legendary garment the entire South had heard about, and condemned as an example of the North’s extravagance and greed. “May I put it on?” Emily asked.
“Certainly.” Mary draped the garment around Emily, who gazed at herself in the mirror. Even in her severe mourning, it looked lovely on her. Hardin would have told her so—although he had told her more than once that he preferred to see her in nothing at all. “I can scarcely even feel it on my shoulders.”
“Indeed, it is that fine.” Mary carefully removed the shawl and returned it to its place. “To hear the press, of course, you would think that I not only paid for it with money stolen from our army, but paid for three more just like it with money stolen from the navy. But come, let us look in this wardrobe. Now that I am out of full mourning for dear Willie, there are a few things I would like you to have.”
Over the next couple of hours, they occupied themselves with this task, Emily trying on garment after garment and Mary finally falling into her favorite subject—politics in general, and in particular Mr. Lincoln’s chances of getting reelected. For a while, it was almost as if they were sitting in her sister’s modest parlor in Springfield, an impression that was strengthened when Cousin John Stuart Todd paid a call.
That evening, Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln went to Ford’s Theater. Even if her state of deep mourning did not dictate that Emily avoid such frivolity—not to mention the unspoken desire of her host and hostess not to let it be known that a Confederate widow was their guest at the White House—Emily would have remained behind, as she disliked the curious glances at her mourning garments. Instead, as Mary had ordered the state rooms to be lit for her, she took the opportunity to wander around the White House by herself, admiring the portraits of President Lincoln’s predecessors and finally concluding her tour in the Red Room with the portrait of George Washington that Dolley Madison had saved from the British. Having given it due attention, Mary turned to the piano, which Mary had ordered from Philadelphia not long after moving to Washington. It was the finest instrument she had seen, and after only a few minutes of debate, she settled in front of it and began to play, singing an accompaniment in a low voice.
