Mrs. Lincoln's Rival (28 page)

“I suppose.” John tugged at his ear and regarded her appraisingly. “It is strange to hear you defending Mrs. Lincoln.”

“Why, John,” she said airily, “I’m not entirely heartless.”

“You are not heartless at all,” said John levelly. “You have the strongest, most honest, and most loyal heart of any woman I know.”

For a moment he looked as if he might say more, but instead he rose, bade her farewell, and gruffly asked her to save a dance for him, if the ball was not canceled.

Days passed, and Mrs. Lincoln did not recall her invitations, so at nine o’clock on the evening of February 5, Kate put on her simple gown of mauve silk and arranged her hair in a Grecian knot adorned with a wreath of tiny white flowers. When she was ready, Father escorted her to the carriage that whisked them off to the White House, where they presented their cards and were granted entrance. The Marine Band played operatic airs in the vestibule, and the Green, Blue, and Red parlors, where guests mingled and chatted, were decorated abundantly with flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln received their guests in the East Room, a chamber so large and bright and opulent that it was almost impossible to believe that Union troops had been quartered there in the early months of the war.

When Kate and her father joined the receiving line, she noted that Mrs. Lincoln’s gown was even more sumptuous than Mrs. Douglas had described; the deep train was swathed in black Chantilly lace, the décolletage was as low as it could modestly be, and a garland of myrtle trailed down the skirt, echoing the wreath of black-and-white crepe myrtle Mrs. Lincoln wore on her head. She wore myrtle and the colors of half mourning, a lady ahead of Kate in the receiving line whispered to a companion, in honor of the late Prince Albert as a gesture of goodwill to Lord Lyons, who was also in attendance.

It was quite some time before Kate and her father reached the front of the receiving line, but once there, Kate exchanged a few pleasant words with the president before turning to Mrs. Lincoln and asking gently, “How is young Willie? I heard that he is ill.”

For a moment Mrs. Lincoln looked as if she might weep. “He is quite unwell, it grieves me to say, quite unwell. But Doctor Stone assures us that he has passed through the worst of it, and he will soon be all right.”

“I am very glad to hear that,” Kate said sincerely, reaching for her hand. Mrs. Lincoln looked half-stunned as Kate held her hand for a moment, patting it reassuringly, and offered her a sympathetic smile before moving on to let the next guest enjoy a moment with the president and his wife.

Except for a few self-righteous folk like Senator Wade, all the elite of Washington society were present—the members of the cabinet and their ladies, generals and their senior staff, diplomats, senators, congressmen, and even prominent lawyers and men of business. General McClellan, clad in his dashing dress uniform and looking much recovered from his lengthy illness, escorted his blond, blue-eyed wife, Ellen, nine years younger than he and at least two inches taller, lovely though reserved in a white tunic dress with bands of cherry velvet and a headdress of white illusion. General Frémont’s most notable adornment was a scowl, but his wife, Jessie, was in excellent spirits, laughing and chatting merrily. Kate spoke at length with Senator Sumner, but she could not grant John Hay’s request for a dance, as Mrs. Lincoln had canceled the dancing out of deference to Willie’s condition. The Comte de Paris and the Duc de Chartres, the two young princes of the House of Orleans exiled from France, were handsomely attired in the blue uniforms of officers of the Union army, and they commanded much of her time, pleased to converse with someone so gracefully fluent in their native tongue. Kate liked them both, especially the intelligent, elegantly featured Comte de Paris, but for conversation she secretly preferred their uncle, the Prince de Joinville, for he was fascinated by life in America and was endearingly eager to learn all he could about it.

On several occasions, Kate noticed that Mr. or Mrs. Lincoln would slip from the room and return minutes later with downcast expressions they quickly tried, unconvincingly, to conceal. She could only assume that they were taking turns hurrying upstairs to check on Willie, who was being attended by Mrs. Lincoln’s apparently rather versatile dressmaker, Elizabeth Keckley. Each time one of the anxious parents returned to the party, Kate hoped to see in their faces a look of relief, a thankful smile, but evidently whatever they beheld in the sickroom evoked only worry.

Shortly before midnight, President Lincoln, with Miss Browning of Illinois on his arm, and the First Lady, escorted by the young lady’s father, Senator Browning, led the promenade around the East Room to the dining room entrance—where their procession abruptly halted at the locked doors because the steward had misplaced the key. “I am in favor of forward movement,” a man declared within the crowd gathered around the doors, and everyone laughed, even General McClellan.

Once the key was located and the guests given entry, Kate beheld a feast that surpassed all her imaginings. Near the entrance, an elegant table held plates of tiny sandwiches and a Japanese bowl filled with champagne punch; but although servants clad in spotless new mulberry-colored uniforms filled delicate china cups with a silver dipper and offered plates, most guests declined in favor of the abundance of the dining room just beyond. Kate had heard that the exclusive caterers, Maillard’s of New York, had ordered a ton of game, and as she eyed the platters of turkeys, hams, venison, pheasant, ducks, and partridge, she could well believe it. In the center of the table lay a looking glass, and around it were arranged the fancy pieces of confectionary. At the head of the table was a large helmet crafted of sugar, signifying war. Nearby, the frigate
Union
was in full sail in spun sugar on a flag-draped stand. On the opposite side, water nymphs of nougat supported a fountain, and all around, beehives of sugar cradled generous portions of charlotte russe. Artfully scattered between the larger pieces were Chinese pagodas, Swiss cottages, Greek temples, and baskets and cornucopias, all of sugar, all bearing sugared fruits. An impressively large model of Fort Pickens constructed of cake commanded pride of place on a side table, evoking murmurs of admiration from all who beheld it.

Suddenly Kate’s appetite fled. She had been enjoying herself tremendously all evening, except for her worries about the poor, sick child upstairs, but at that moment she felt weighed down by an overwhelming sensation of defeat. Although Mrs. Lincoln had rarely looked more miserable than she had that evening, the lavish gala would surely mark her triumph in Washington society. No one had complained about excessive expense as they marveled at the magnificently refurbished rooms, and no one would leave that enticing dinner table disappointed. Kate might be more beautiful, more engaging, more poised, but her gracious, comfortable, happy home could not compare to the White House, and she could not command the Marine Band to entertain her guests, and although Addie was an excellent cook, she did not possess the genius of excess that marked Maillard’s of New York. Kate never could have put on a gathering as lavish and wonderful as Mrs. Lincoln’s glorious party, and not only because it would cost more than her father’s annual salary. As long as she held the White House, Mrs. Lincoln would have an advantage over Kate, and there was little she could do about it.

As she took her seat at the table among the other guests, Kate firmly banished her sad, self-pitying, awestruck thoughts. She had much to offer that Mrs. Lincoln lacked, qualities that could not be purchased in a shop on Fifth Avenue or ordered from Paris. She would put her faith in her own mind and her own heart, because clothes could be torn and furniture broken and elaborate confections turn stale, but nothing could rob Kate of herself.

She ate sparingly, her appetite returning as the conversation drew her in and her natural confidence reasserted itself. All would be well, if she did not lose faith.

After supper, the Marine Band played on, and the contented guests promenaded through the resplendent rooms, and talked, and laughed, and forgot the war for a little while. At three o’clock the party drew to a close, and Father escorted Kate to their carriage.

“Mrs. Lincoln put on a magnificent gala,” Father remarked as they rode home, stifling a yawn. “I cannot imagine anyone could have done better.”

“No,” said Kate, suddenly exhausted, and feeling bruised. “I don’t suppose you can.”

• • •

In the days that followed Mrs. Lincoln’s glorious ball, the newspapers and the public gave the evening overwhelmingly positive reviews. The
Washington Evening Star
complimented the “beauty and quiet good taste of the floral decorations” and declared that “The supper was, in many respects, the most superb affair of the kind ever seen here.” Mrs. Lincoln, they noted approvingly, had been “tastefully, elegantly dressed,” and
Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper
described her as “our fair Republican Queen,” attired “in perfect keeping with her regal style of beauty.” Although a few curmudgeons who had not attended still grumbled about the excess, most people concurred with the
Evening
Star
that “In the completeness of its arrangements, the distinguished character of the guests assembled, and the enjoyment afforded to those present,” Mrs. Lincoln’s party would rank as “by far the most brilliant and successful affair of the kind ever experienced here.” Kate granted that the praise was well deserved, but it stung to see that although numerous guests were mentioned by name, their attire and comportment described in fine detail, Kate and her father were not.

Kate wished that the magnificent evening had been hers, and that the reporter had singled her out as being a particularly brilliant guest, and that he would have had cause to rave about her elaborate gown and sparkling diamonds, but she did not have the heart to envy Mrs. Lincoln, for she knew the worried mother was not savoring her triumph. Alongside the glowing descriptions of the ball were terse reports of troop movements and naval maneuvers—and sympathetic briefs that Willie’s condition had not improved, and that his younger brother Tad had become afflicted by the same malady.

Aside from the success of the ball, the only good news the Lincoln family received in those first weeks of February came from Tennessee, where the unkempt, reputedly drunken, and unreliable General Ulysses S. Grant captured Fort Henry on the Tennessee River, and, ten days later, Fort Donelson on the Cumberland. The assault on Fort Donelson had been particularly bloody. The papers breathlessly reported that when the battered Confederate commander proposed a cease-fire so that they could negotiate terms, General Grant telegraphed back the terse phrase that would soon evoke a roar of approval across the North: “No terms except unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted.” The commander capitulated, the Union troops took fifteen thousand Confederate prisoners, and General Grant became a hero. Jubilation filled every Northern city and town, and hundred-gun salutes were fired in celebration of the first significant Union victories of the war. In the capital, President Lincoln signed papers promoting Grant to major general, and city officials quickly made plans to celebrate the two victories, as well as the 130th anniversary of George Washington’s birth, with an elaborate illumination of the city’s public buildings. Reports that General Grant was a humble man of the people who had taken the field with only a spare shirt, a hairbrush, and a toothbrush invited inevitable comparisons to General McClellan, whom everyone knew had needed six wagons, each pulled by a team of four horses, to carry his attire and personal belongings to the front.

But the national rejoicing did not touch the White House, where young Willie and Tad languished in their sickbeds, tended by their devoted mother and the reassuring, eminently capable Mrs. Keckley. John Hay had tears in his eyes when he told Kate that Willie suffered the worst, and that with each passing day he declined, steadily and inexorably, while his parents watched and waited and prayed. The president canceled a cabinet meeting and Mrs. Lincoln a levee rather than venture too far from their son’s side, and when Willie’s best friend visited, he refused to go when evening came but curled up on the floor next to the ailing child’s bed and fell asleep. As word of Willie’s desperate condition spread through the capital, the celebratory illuminations were canceled out of respect, and the newspapers, even those most critical of President Lincoln and the First Lady, expressed their heartfelt concern and hopes for both children’s swift recoveries.

On February 20, a mild, sunny day, Willie died, his two weeks of suffering ended by the eternal peace that all who loved him had prayed would be long deferred.

Soon word came to the Chase residence that Tad was expected to survive, though he was terrified that he would die like his brother. Mr. Lincoln was utterly devastated, and his wife so staggered by anguish that she had taken to her bed, inconsolable and keening. Kate absorbed the terrible news in a state of numb, shocked disbelief, while Father, pale and shaken, sank heavily into a chair, groped for his Bible on the side table, and held it on his lap, unopened and unseen. “There is no pain like the grief provoked by the loss of a child,” he said in a strangled voice. “Mr. Lincoln knows this already, but this, to lose his most precious, beloved child—” Tears in his eyes, Father cleared his throat and shook his head. “There are no words for it. May God comfort him.”

Kate ran to her father, sank to the floor beside his chair, and buried her head in her arms on his lap. Distractedly, Father stroked her hair as she wept.

Having received no orders to the contrary, Father reported to the White House at eleven o’clock the next morning for the usual Friday cabinet meeting, but when he returned home, he somberly reported that Mr. Lincoln had not attended, and that in the family’s private rooms, Mrs. Lincoln had collapsed in paroxysms of grief, shrieking and wailing in anguish until a physician dosed her with laudanum. The White House had been draped in the black crepe of mourning, the curtains drawn, the mirrors covered. Mr. Lincoln had arranged for a capable nurse from one of the military hospitals to care for Tad, while Mrs. Keckley and a few other close friends watched over Mrs. Lincoln, who, whenever she drifted out of her drugged stupor, became delirious and wild with newly felt despair.