Mrs. Lincoln's Rival (22 page)

“I am so sorry, my darling child.” Father lay his large, warm hand upon her bowed head. “One of his Zouaves immediately avenged him, killing his assailant with a single musket round to the head.”

“What good did that do?” Kate choked out bitterly. “What does that matter? Did it bring Colonel Ellsworth back?”

“Of course not, Katie. It couldn’t. But we must take some consolation in knowing that the colonel died in the valiant service of his country, and that he was the only casualty of the mission.”

It was very small consolation—and Kate suspected it would bring no comfort at all to his fiancée, whom she imagined peacefully asleep in Rockford, Illinois, or sitting at the breakfast table with her family, unaware that she was enjoying the last few contented hours she would know for many a day.

• • •

Later that morning, Father learned from Mr. McManus, the elderly White House doorman, that Mr. Lincoln had been in his library with visitors when word came of the colonel’s death, and that he had been so overcome by emotion that he had been rendered speechless. The household had plunged into mourning. Colonel Ellsworth was only a few years older than Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln’s eldest son, Robert, and he was like another son to the president. He had taken up the study of the law at Mr. Lincoln’s urging, and he had been part of the honor guard that had accompanied the president-elect on the train from Springfield to Washington. Kate knew that Mrs. Lincoln was nearly as fond of Colonel Ellsworth as her husband was. She would be heartbroken.

The colonel’s remains were brought to the Navy Yard, where throughout that long, sad day, thousands came to pay their respects. Kate was not among them; her grief was too raw, and she could not bear such a public display of it.

Later that evening, Colonel Ellsworth’s body, clothed in the uniform in which he had perished, was placed in an elegant paneled rosewood coffin with a glass top, his sword and cap arranged at his head. The coffin was covered with bouquets of rare and beautiful flowers and draped with the Stars and Stripes, and with a detachment of the New York Seventy-First as a guard of honor, he was escorted to the White House, where he lay in state in the East Room.

At eleven o’clock the next morning, Kate, clutching the bouquet Colonel Ellsworth had given her two nights before, clung to her father’s arm as Reverend J. Smith Pyne and several assistant ministers performed the services of the Episcopal Church. After Reverend Pyne spoke his concluding prayer for peace, the grand procession to the train station formed in the circular drive in front of the White House. Kate wept silently into her handkerchief as her father escorted her to their places in it, finding no comfort in the solemn splendor of the military regiments, the delegations from fire companies, the hearse drawn by four white horses, or the groom on foot leading Colonel Ellsworth’s horse, which bore an empty saddle.

As the dignitaries climbed into their carriages, Corporal Brownell, the Zouave who had shot Colonel Ellsworth’s murderer, presented the bloodstained secession flag to Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln. They were moved to tears, but as soon as the corporal turned to go, Mrs. Lincoln snatched her hands away and left the flag to her husband alone, as if it were an object of horror rather than a cherished relic.

For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Kate thought she understood exactly how Mrs. Lincoln felt, and she did not fault her for shuddering and pulling away. She too could not bear to look upon the terrible banner for which her friend had sacrificed his life.

The procession set out, making its way from the White House down Pennsylvania and New Jersey Avenues to the depot. Immense crowds had gathered to witness the brave young soldier’s last journey, many weeping openly, although they could not have known him. All along the Avenue flags were lowered to half-staff, shops were closed, and bells tolled a solemn requiem.

The coffin was placed with much ceremony into a railcar, but just before the doors were closed, Kate tore herself away from her father and hurried across the platform to one of the officers belonging to the honor guard that would accompany Colonel Ellsworth home.

“If you please, sir,” she said, her voice rough from grief as she divided her bouquet in two. “Colonel Ellsworth brought me these flowers only two nights ago, when he was still so full of life. Would you please see that they are given to his parents?”

Startled but sympathetic, the officer promised he would.

Kate thanked him and turned away, and as the doors to the railcar closed, she returned to her father and took his arm again, pressing the rest of her bouquet to her heart.

Slowly the train chugged away from the station. No one on the platform moved until it had disappeared from sight.

J
UNE
–J
ULY
1861

T
he day after Colonel Ellsworth’s funeral, Kate wrote to Miss Carrie Spafford to express her condolences for the young woman’s loss. She did not dwell on how he had died, for she had only secondhand accounts and Miss Spafford had surely suffered through enough reports of his fall already. “He spoke of you often, and with great affection,” Kate wrote instead. “Although our acquaintance was brief, I can tell you sincerely that I believe his love for his country was outshone only by his love for you.” She enclosed a lengthy account of the funeral from the
National Republican
so Miss Spafford could see how beloved Colonel Ellsworth had been to his men, his friends, and the people of Washington.

In early June, another death rocked Washington and the nation. After a severe attack of acute rheumatism followed by a brief, painful decline, Senator Stephen A. Douglas perished in Chicago, where he had traveled on a speaking tour to rally the people of his native state to the Union cause. It was in that city where he was laid to rest, and Kate read sadly of the tremendous outpouring of grief at his funeral, the tolling of bells, the artillery salutes, the wailing dirges of the bands. Nearly eight thousand mourners comprised the funeral cortege, which stretched for two miles and took an hour to pass. Thousands of people from throughout the city and state and regions beyond lined Lake Street and Michigan Avenue to pay their respects as the celebrated “Little Giant” journeyed to a peaceful resting place in Cottage Grove near the lakeshore. He was only forty-eight.

In Washington, the papers and the people celebrated his life and accomplishments, and in tribute to his former rival turned steadfast friend, President Lincoln ordered flags lowered to half-staff and the prominent buildings of the capital draped in mourning. Kate knew that Adele Douglas, a native of Washington City, had wanted her husband buried in the nation’s capital, but a committee of various state and municipal authorities had prevailed upon her to inter his remains in Illinois. She acquiesced to their wishes, not with reluctance but with pain.

When her widowed friend returned to Washington after the funeral, Kate called on her to express her sorrow and sympathy. Mrs. Douglas was clad in black from head to foot, her skin pale, her eyes dry but red-rimmed, her manner quiet but composed. She and Mr. Douglas had no living children—their only child, a daughter, had perished in infancy—but she had raised two sons from his first marriage, and she had a great many friends, so she would not mourn alone.

“What will you do now?” Kate asked her gently, after Mrs. Douglas had described in a calm, unwavering voice the funeral and the Masonic ceremonies that had followed. “Will you move to Chicago?”

Mrs. Douglas uttered a sad, small laugh. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Chicago was my husband’s home, but this city is mine. I intend to remain here, where we were happy together.” She managed a wan smile. “You and I are both political creatures, Miss Chase. Neither of us would be happy so far from the center of things.”

“I am glad for my own sake you will not be leaving us too,” Kate told her, clasping her hand. She wondered how many more friends would lose their lives, and how many more would be widowed, before the terrible rebellion could be quelled.

• • •

Five days after Senator Douglas’s death, Tennessee seceded from the Union. Soon thereafter, Governor Sprague called at the Chase residence and invited Kate to go riding, and something in his guarded expression told her not to invite Nettie along. The governor led her on another route rather than the river path that led to the secluded willow grove, which rendered her both relieved and disappointed. Instead they rode out to the encampment of the Rhode Island First, where they watched the regiment drill on the grass before riding on to admire the view of the city from above.

She knew he had something unpleasant to tell her, and when he finally began, reluctance made him terse and abrupt. “Tomorrow I return to Rhode Island.”

“So soon?” she asked, although it was not really soon at all. He had lingered in Washington much longer than he had intended, and she had always known that day would come.

“I can’t leave the legislature unsupervised for too long,” he said, managing a pained smile. “My brother needs me back at the mills, and the people of Rhode Island need me back at the State House.”

“Of course they do. I understand.”

“I also hope to organize another regiment there,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “President Lincoln and General Scott have been so pleased with the First that they’re eager to receive more Rhode Island men into the service.”

“Yes, I’ve heard,” said Kate, remembering her father’s description of the ceremonies on the White House grounds the day the regiment was sworn in.

“May I write to you while I’m away?”

She arched her eyebrows at him. “I’d be rather unhappy with you if you didn’t.”

“Then I promise to write often. I could not bear to make you unhappy.”

Then he should stay another week, Kate was tempted to suggest. Or another month. Surely Rhode Island and the A. & W. Sprague Company could do without him for that long. “I’ll look forward to your letters.”

“Kate—” He broke off as two officers walked past, and salutes were exchanged. “Miss Chase,” he began again. “I hate to part with so much left unsaid. If we were alone—” He frowned over his shoulder at the encampment full of soldiers, but when he turned back to her, his gaze was intense, slightly mocking, and yet imploring. “If we were alone, I would kiss you.”

“If we were alone, I would let you.”

She fell silent, confounded by her own boldness. She had not intended to say anything of the sort. He was leaving and she had no idea when he might return. He had acquired many female admirers during his time in Washington, and almost certainly had another girl back in Providence, or two or three to choose between. She had meant to let him go on believing her to be only vaguely interested in him so that he would not take her feelings for granted. Instead she had all but admitted that he had captured her heart and imagination the way no other gentleman of her acquaintance ever had.

She tried to think of a clever phrase to undo the confession, but she could think of nothing, so instead she made a hopeless little shrug, and smiled, and turned her horse toward home. His white stallion fell into step beside her, and they rode on without speaking until they reached the Chase residence. There William helped her down from her horse, his hands lingering on her waist for a moment before he released her. “Good-bye, Miss Chase,” he said gruffly.

“Good-bye, Governor. I hope you have safe travels.”

He nodded, swung himself up into the saddle, lifted his hat to her, and rode away.

• • •

Governor Sprague wrote to her as he had promised to do, but his letters were infrequent and somehow both cordial and distant, as if she were a constituent whose vote he sought but whose friendship he did not crave. Puzzled and disappointed, she nonetheless responded with pleasant good cheer, hoping his former frankness would return. Perhaps he feared that her father read her mail. Perhaps he had an understanding with a beautiful young belle in Providence, and regretted indulging in a flirtation while traveling out of town. Perhaps he simply did not write well. Whatever the reason, in his absence Kate began to look upon his inexplicable fluctuations between hot ardor and cool indifference with a more critical eye, and she gradually became annoyed with him, and with herself for tolerating his peculiar temperament. She had many other, more constant, suitors vying for her attention, and she resolved to enjoy the company of other gentlemen without feeling obliged by any particular attachment to Governor Sprague.

And yet, when his letters arrived, her heart leapt with joy, she savored every dispassionate line, and she invariably wrote back without delay. Sometimes she forced herself to wait, so as not to seem too eager or too idle, for she was certainly neither. Her days were full from dawn until well after twilight. As spring bloomed into summer, many of the Washington social elite fled the heat and the stench and the sickliness of the capital for cooler climes, but Kate remained to establish her father’s social calendar, as well as her own, to his best advantage.

Every morning began with the household gathering together for a scripture reading and prayer, but immediately afterward, they all set themselves to her father’s business. Kate continued the custom they had established in Columbus of hosting breakfasts for visiting dignitaries and government officials who sought an unhurried, uninterrupted audience with him. After the meal, when Father was obliged to hurry off to the Treasury Building or the White House, Kate would preside at the table, encouraging frank criticism of the administration, forging agreements, making arrangements, granting favors, and taking careful note of significant details the gentlemen unwittingly let fall, valuable information she would either pass on to her father or employ on his behalf. After the guests departed, she would attend to her correspondence and fend off the occasional patronage seeker who had been turned away at her father’s office but hoped that her recommendation would encourage him to change his mind.

With the day well begun, she would embark upon her morning calls to the social and political elite—enjoying companionship and gossip, shoring up support for her father, seeking information, advancing his causes, and most often a combination of all four—or she might receive callers at home. Mondays, in particular, were reserved for what was known as “cabinet calling,” a weekly occurrence in which the cabinet secretaries’ wives—or daughter, in Father’s case, or daughter-in-law, in the case of Mr. Seward—would all receive callers at their homes, and so on Monday mornings, the ladies of Washington would make the rounds, visiting each cabinet member’s residence in turn. Afternoons were for attending receptions; visiting Congress to observe an important debate; riding out into the countryside to call on a general at his headquarters or offer gifts of her kitchen, gardens, and knitting basket to the troops; tutoring Nettie; taking care of various household appointments; or, on a particularly lovely day, setting out on a long horseback ride through Rock Creek Park, as often alone as with a gentleman admirer or a company of friends.

Every Wednesday evening, Kate hosted elegant candlelight dinners that soon became the most celebrated and anticipated events of the capital’s weekly social calendar. With meticulous attention to the finer points of etiquette, Kate composed the guest lists, planned the menus, and devised seating arrangements, often recalling her friend Miss Harriet Lane’s laments about her struggles to safely arrange places for feuding guests throughout the tense secession winter. Father presided at the head of the table, and Kate encouraged lively, entertaining conversation from her place at the foot. Music, dancing, and more conversation followed the meal. Kate was proud that diplomats and statesmen considered it a true honor to be her guests, and even the most prominent men of letters found that they needed their wits about them to match her in conversation.

On the other nights, more often than not Kate would dress with care in one of her best gowns, take her father’s arm, and set out for a dinner, levee, ball, or reception. Wherever they went, she felt vivacious and lovely, admired and happy. It was easy to charm everyone she met, because she so thoroughly enjoyed herself, and her warmth and pleasure were contagious. If there were times when she regretted the simplicity of her wardrobe, her lack of jewels, her abundance of white linen and scarcity of silk, she refused to let it show. For the time being, her simplicity and minimal adornment evoked admiration and even imitation from the other ladies, for her style of choice, or so they all believed it to be, emphasized her youth, natural grace, and loveliness. Kate knew that eventually the novelty would fade, and her admirers would judge her lack of jewels and silk more critically, but she hoped that by then, somehow, she would be able to afford more expensive adornments.

Comparisons to Mrs. Lincoln, the only lady in Washington society ahead of her in rank, were inevitable. Kate overheard enough gossip to know that while her artful simplicity of attire won praise, Mrs. Lincoln was considered plain despite her diamonds and pearls and exquisite silk dresses, whose beauty she diminished with too many embellishments, unsuitably low necklines, and an overabundance of flowers in her hair. Both ladies were considered well versed in politics and excellent conversationalists, but Mrs. Lincoln often seemed tense and anxious, tired and overwrought, while Kate’s fresh, spirited discourse evoked delight in her listeners. Mrs. Lincoln was often snubbed by Washington’s social elite, while Kate was invited everywhere, sought out by everyone. Although it was true that Mrs. Lincoln did on occasion prove that she could charm and impress as well as any other cultured, well-educated woman, more often than not, she seemed tempestuous, flighty, strident, jealous, and uncertain, as if she wanted too badly to win approval. In striking contrast, Kate conveyed self-assurance, confidence, poise, and intelligence beyond her years, with a regal grace and vivacity that made her the center of attention at every gathering, although, unlike the First Lady, she never seemed to seek it.

It was little wonder that Mrs. Lincoln despised her, Kate considered, with a hint of annoyed exasperation. She had not sought a rivalry with Mrs. Lincoln, but from the moment Mrs. Lincoln had made it her ambition to put Kate in her place, their roles had been cast, their course set. Now Kate would never defer to Mrs. Lincoln, never acknowledge her as her social superior. Kate did not have the White House—at least, not yet—but she did have her pride. In lieu of the title First Lady, for the moment she would accept Belle of Washington—and let Mrs. Lincoln try to claim that for herself if she could.

• • •

One sultry Monday afternoon near the end of June, Kate sought a breath of fresh air in the cool shade of the garden with a cup of apple cider still cold from the cellar and the morning papers, which she had been unable to read at breakfast because her father had been entertaining guests. Seated gracefully on a quilt spread on the grass, she was perusing the “Local Matters” column of the
Daily National Intelligencer
when the name of a particular state caught her eye, and she eagerly skipped ahead to see if it contained a particular name.