Mrs. Lincoln's Rival (36 page)

“Yes,” he said ruefully. “I was delayed in Providence, and have only just arrived. As it happens, it’s a rather involved process to resign as governor, even of a state as efficiently run as Rhode Island.”

“I can well imagine.”

“I will be there tomorrow, if you should happen to return.” He smiled, his gaze lighting warmly on hers, and she had to look away. “It would be good to know that I have an interested friend watching from the gallery.”

“If I happen to be there,” she said evenly, “I will look around and see if I find anyone who meets that description.”

“You mean to say you do not?”

She halted and fixed him with a steady look. “I was not aware that we were friends any longer.”

“Indeed?” he said, wounded. “What about all the letters we exchanged this past winter?”

“I don’t believe that ‘exchanged’ describes it properly, but regardless, your recent letters could not have undone the letter you sent me last spring. Or have you truly forgotten it?”

“I have not forgotten it,” William replied, with quiet calm, “but I do regret it.”

“Then why have you not said so?”

“You have always understood me so well, I had hoped it would not be necessary.”

“Even when apologies for dreadful behavior are not strictly necessary, they are very often desirable.”

She started to walk away, but he quickly caught up to her. “Miss Chase, please. Let’s go riding together and I will tell you everything.”

She halted and looked him squarely in the eye. “I am not inclined to go riding with you today. If you have something to say to me, you should say it here and now.”

He frowned, and glanced up and down the sidewalk warily, and drew closer. “I did not want to say this where anyone might overhear.”

“Then lower your voice,” she said, resolute.

He studied her, and when she did not flinch, he heaved a sigh of resignation. “Very well. A year ago, while traveling, I met a man from Columbus. Naturally I mentioned my acquaintance with Secretary Chase, and you, because you were prominent residents of that city. He knew Mr. Chase and had only praise for him, but he made an aside about your character that provoked my anger. When I demanded that he explain himself, he protested that it was common knowledge in Columbus that you had comported yourself inappropriately with a married man, much to the distress of his poor, scorned wife. He even named the gentleman—a Mr. Richard Nevins.”

The sound of the horrid name made Kate’s stomach lurch. “What exactly am I accused of?” she asked, but she quickly waved off the query. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. A better question is why you peremptorily believed this stranger you had only just met instead of trusting what you knew of my character, why you simply accepted his word instead of asking me if there was any truth to his accusations.”

“I was shocked and offended, and I acted in haste,” William admitted. “But it’s all right. I now know you did nothing wrong. When I was at the governors’ conference in Altoona last September, I befriended a gentleman from the Ohio entourage, a native of Columbus. He told me that he was aware of the incident, and he insisted that although you were somewhat impetuous as a girl, your behavior was never unethical or immoral, and anyone who claims otherwise speaks either from jealousy, ignorance, or spite. He said everyone in Columbus, with the exception of an envious few, regarded you as a respectable young woman.”

William clearly seemed to believe his explanation resolved the matter, but Kate fixed him with a steely gaze. “You mean to say that you’ve judged me innocent of these charges, not because your own observations of my deportment and character make them utterly impossible to believe, but because the testimony of yet another stranger persuaded you?”

William hesitated. “It was his testimony and my own observations together that persuaded me,” he said. “I never should have listened to that first fellow, and I’m truly sorry I did.”

“I’m sure you are,” said Kate sharply, “now that you want a cotton trading permit for your friend Mr. Harris Hoyt.”

“Who?” William’s brow furrowed in confusion, until understanding dawned. “Oh, yes, that fellow. I would hardly call him a friend. We met at the Willard during one of my visits to the capital, and he told me such a sad tale of his longing for his wife and children and his worries about his cotton languishing in Texas that I was moved to write to your father on his behalf.” He winced, chagrined. “At the risk of sounding like a fool, I trusted him in part because he shares a last name with some of my cousins, although of course there is no family connection.”

Kate studied him intently, searching his face for the smallest nervous flicker that would betray a lie, but his expression was so pained and earnest that she felt her anger ebbing. “I don’t know whether I should believe you.”

“Kate, listen.” He shifted the reins to one hand and took her hand with the other. “I swear to you, my interest in your friendship has not been some scheme to win a cotton permit. Surely you remember that my . . . fascination with you began not only before your father was in a position to dispense permits, but before the war, when none of us could have conceived that permits would ever be necessary.”

Kate thought back to the ball in Cleveland in September before the presidential election and felt her resistance wavering. It was true; his romantic interest had preceded any economic necessity. Even then, she might not have believed him on his own, but Mr. Barney’s and Mr. Cooke’s recent remarks corroborated William’s version of events.

“You said that you wanted us always to be honest with each other,” she reminded him. “If you had done that, no estrangement would have come between us.”

“And I’ll regret that every day of my life, if you don’t forgive me now.”

The intensity of his words left her speechless for a moment, but she quickly regained her composure. “As a Christian, I must forgive you, and I do, but that does not mean I must accept your friendship again, or anything else.”

“If you give me a second chance, I swear I will not disappoint you again.” William pulled her closer, but she was mindful of passersby even if he was not, and she did not let him draw her too near. “Kate, I know I’ve made mistakes, but I’m certain that with your womanly moral influence, and your esteemed father’s noble example, I can be a better man.”

Kate felt a rush of gladness and heat and longing rise within her, but she was careful not to let it sweep her away. The prudent course would be to remember how he had hurt and disappointed her, and to ask him never to speak to her again. But although she had many admirers, and she enjoyed the friendship and company of other men, none of them made her feel the heady, powerful rush of passion that William made her feel. And William was the only man she had ever met who revered her father as much as she did.

“I will come to see you take your oath in the Senate tomorrow,” she told him. “Afterward, you may escort me home. The day after, you may call, and if you make a favorable impression, my father might invite you to supper the following evening. That is where we will begin. Prove that you will be a true, enduring friend to me, and I may be willing to consider whether someday you could become something more.”

“I will prove myself to you,” William said fervently. “I swear it.”

“You must promise me one thing more,” said Kate. “If, whether after a few weeks or mere days, I conclude that you are no true friend to me, we will part amicably, and you will not trouble me again.”

The hopeful light in his eyes dimmed somewhat, but he nodded. “I accept your condition,” he said. “I’m not afraid of it, because I know you will not invoke it.”

“Time will tell,” she told him, hoping with all her heart that he was right.

M
ARCH
–O
OCTOBER
1863

T
he next day, Kate wore a new dress of lilac silk trimmed in purple ribbon and a bonnet adorned with wood violets and lilac tulle to the Senate gallery, where she sat in the front row and witnessed William Sprague being sworn in as the newest senator from Rhode Island. Afterward, when he walked her home, Kate found his conversation so engaging that she deliberately slowed her pace to prolong their time together. He called on her and Father at home the following day, and after he departed, Father admitted that he’d had some reservations about allowing him into their home, but Kate’s explanation about his connection to Harris Hoyt had sufficiently eased his worries. Now, after seeing William again and looking into his eyes as they conversed, Father could not believe that he was unscrupulous. “He seems a good and decent man, at heart,” said Father. “He should choose better friends and not squander his recommendations on men he scarcely knows, but I think he has a promising future and may do much good in the Senate.” Almost as an aside, he added, “It’s a pity he enjoys his tobacco and whiskey so much.”

Kate agreed. Nearly all the men she admired most, including her father, abstained. Whiskey made William loud and boastful, and she wrinkled her nose at the odor of tobacco in his clothes and on his breath, but what troubled her most was what his habits said about his self-control. A man was not truly his own master if he could not refrain from indulging his appetites.

As spring brought blossoms and birdsong to Washington, so too did it illuminate the war-weary spirits of the people of the North. As soon as the sunshine dried the muddy roads and made them passable, General Hooker would be able to march the Army of the Potomac on to Richmond at last. In the meantime, enormous rallies sprang up in cities throughout the Union, loud outcries of support for President Lincoln and their brave soldiers—cheering crowds, rousing speeches, stirring martial music, thunderous artillery salutes—all to drown out the misery and defeatism of the Copperheads. On the last day of March, Kate and her father attended a massive Union rally at the Capitol, observing the speeches and the vast, cheering crowds from the dignitaries’ platform alongside President Lincoln and his family, the other members of the cabinet, and William Sprague. Kate hoped word of their staunch support would reach the soldiers on the battlefield and the sailors at sea and hearten them, for she imagined very little else did.

• • •

William fulfilled her conditions, so when her father raised no objections, Kate allowed William to resume courting her. With every hour they spent together, every letter they exchanged, Kate found her faith in him growing, her confidence in his affection restored. And she observed that the more she trusted him, the more he endeavored to deserve that trust. She felt lighthearted and breathless when she heard his footsteps on their front stairs; when he was obliged to return to Rhode Island, she felt downcast and lonely and she counted the days until his return. She longed for his touch and treasured stolen kisses. Surely, she thought, she was falling in love, but her glow of delight was shadowed with apprehension.

In early April, when William asked her to marry him, she demurred and asked him if he had spoken to her father.

“I wanted to ask you first,” he said. “If you refuse me, there’s no point in asking your father.”

“I regret that I can’t accept your proposal today,” she told him as kindly as she could. “You know that you have several habits I cannot abide.”

William nodded unhappily. “Tobacco and whiskey.”

“If you truly wish to marry me,” she said, “abandon these vices and ask me again.”

For a moment he only glared at her, mutinous and angry, and she thought he might storm away, but then he heaved a sigh of resignation and agreed.

Kate was impressed by how diligently he went about reforming his habits, although he was unbearable company during his first week without tobacco, irritable and scathing, but with soothing patience, she could usually cheer him out of his bad tempers. Eventually, as his physical vigor increased, his good spirits returned and he became quite companionable again. And so, in the middle of May, William asked her a second time to marry him.

His timing could not have been worse. Back in March, Father had again threatened to resign from the cabinet, this time because President Lincoln had decided not to renominate one of Father’s appointees for the collector of internal revenue in Hartford, Connecticut. Furious, Father had declared that unless he was granted authority over his own appointments, he could not be useful to the president or the country in the Treasury and thus he would be obliged to resign. Thankfully, the president had managed to assuage Father’s injured pride, but the underlying problem remained unresolved.

Then, in early May, the president instructed Father to investigate another one of his appointees, a Mr. Victor Smith, collector of the Puget Sound district in Washington territory, who had been accused of mismanaging his office, not through corruption but sheer bad judgment. Father entrusted the investigation to his assistant secretary, but before it was complete, and while Father was away from Washington on another campaign to raise money for the war, Mr. Lincoln dismissed Mr. Smith and appointed a successor. Enraged anew, and disregarding Kate’s urgent pleas that he wait until the next day to allow his temper to cool, Father sent the president a solemn, caustic letter expressing his profound disappointment and anger that he had not been consulted. “If you find anything in my views to which your own sense of duty will not permit you to assent,” he wrote, “I will unhesitatingly relieve you from all embarrassment, so far as I am concerned, by tendering you my resignation.”

Kate agreed absolutely that Mr. Lincoln should have consulted Father about replacing his subordinates, and the president’s timing was suspicious, but she wished her father would not so quickly threaten to resign whenever he was affronted. On May 11, she and Father waited at home for Mr. Lincoln to read the letter and respond—Father pacing grumpily in his study, Kate sewing trim on a new spring bonnet and mentally composing a letter of her own to persuade the president to reject her father’s resignation.

The hours passed, their gloom deepening as twilight descended. Then, suddenly, a knock sounded on the door. Expecting a messenger from the White House, Kate bounded from her chair and reached the door before Will. Opening it, she discovered that the White House messenger was Mr. Lincoln himself.

“Mr. President,” she said graciously, opening the door wider and noting, with a quick glance, that he carried her father’s resignation letter. “What a pleasure it is to see you. Please, do come in.”

“Thank you, Miss Chase,” he said, his morose features forming a kindly smile as he removed his hat and entered.

By that time Father had reached the foyer. “Good evening, Mr. President,” he greeted him stiffly.

Mr. Lincoln’s brow furrowed and his eyes conveyed wounded regret. “Chase,” he said, shaking his head. He placed his hands on Father’s shoulders, the letter crinkling between his palm and Father’s suitcoat. “Chase, here is a paper with which I wish to have nothing to do; take it back, and be reasonable.”

Silently Kate inhaled deeply, pressing her hand flat against her waist to settle her nervous stomach. Father too was silent as Mr. Lincoln explained that he had been compelled by troubling reports from the Puget Sound district to remove Mr. Smith immediately, and it was by unfortunate coincidence, not design, that Father had happened to be away from Washington at the time. “I will leave the authority to name his successor entirely in your hands,” he promised, but although Father looked mollified, Mr. Lincoln was obliged to plead awhile longer before Father agreed to withdraw his resignation.

Thrice now Father had submitted his resignation and thrice Mr. Lincoln had persuaded him to stay, but Kate knew even the president’s vaunted patience was not infinite. Eventually the day would come when Father would loftily offer to quit and the president would gladly accept.

It was the next day, when her nerves were still raw from her latest narrow escape, that William asked her again to marry him.

“Speak to my father,” she said. “If he does not object, then you may ask me again.”

Two days later, William came to her, every line of his face arranged in determination. “I have reformed my habits, as you required,” he said. “I have spoken to your father, and have received his blessing. Our bond has been tested by adversity and has grown stronger because of it.”

Trembling, Kate nodded.

“Miss Kate Chase, my dearest darling, will you marry me?”

She took a deep, shaky breath. “I thank you for the honor you have shown me. I’ll consider your proposal very carefully, and I’ll give you my answer soon.”

He regarded her for a long moment in silence, disappointed and incredulous. “I must say I expected you to have your answer ready. If you don’t know whether you want to marry me today, how will you be any more certain in a week?”

She didn’t know that she would be, but it would be cruel to tell him that. “My father approves, we know,” she said, a slight tremor in her voice, “but now that this moment has come, I find myself at a loss, and in great need of a woman’s counsel.”

His face softened. “Of course,” he said, taking her hand in both of his. “At a time like this, you wish you could seek your mother’s guidance. I understand completely.”

She knew he did—William, who had lost his father, would always understand that part of her that felt forever bereft and abandoned, beyond consolation.

“One week,” she said, managing a smile. She did love him dearly. “One week and you will have your answer, for better or for worse.”

He smiled wanly at her inadvertent echo of the marriage vow.

She wrote to the two aunts whose opinions she valued most, pouring her heart out to them, her hopes and her fears, all that she admired and cherished about William and all that worried her and left her uncertain. They wrote back immediately, with kindness and affection, and both separately told her that they did not know William well enough to judge his character, but he seemed to have a promising future and it spoke well for him that he had given up his most objectionable habits for her. They found no reason to urge her to refuse him, but in the end she must make up her own mind, trusting in her father’s counsel and her own conscience.

Although Kate was grateful for their loving advice, she knew that their responses had sprung from generous hearts. What she truly needed was the counsel of someone who could examine the match with cool objectivity and pragmatism, and help her determine not only how happy she would be on her wedding day, but also how contented she was likely to be every year thereafter.

She called on Adele Douglas, described her plight, and confessed her uncertainties. “I love him,” Kate concluded, “but I don’t know if I should marry him.”

Mrs. Douglas nodded and sank into a thoughtful silence, which she broke with the same question everyone asked: “What does your father say?”

“He gave his blessing, but he has some reservations. In all fairness to William, I suspect my father would have reservations regardless of the suitor in question.”

“Of course. He’s a loving, protective father, and you’re his pride and joy.” Mrs. Douglas studied Kate fondly. “Oh, my dear girl. You have so many excellent men in love with you. Some are more handsome than Senator Sprague, quite a few are similarly accomplished, and others are more intellectually equal to yourself. What is it about William Sprague that makes you consider marrying him instead of another?”

“It’s something I cannot explain or define,” she admitted. “When we’re together—and even when we’re not—I feel a . . . a sort of passion that I’ve never felt for any other man.”

“I see.” Mrs. Douglas looked amused. “Tell me, Miss Chase. I know your mother and your stepmother passed away when you were quite young, so I can only assume you never discussed marriage with them. What do you know of the marriage bed?”

“Very little,” Kate admitted, a flush rising in her cheeks. “I know about my monthly cycles, of course, and about how children are brought into the world. I know something of kissing. My aunts tell me that my husband will teach me what else I need to know on our wedding night.”

“Is that what they said?” Mrs. Douglas’s smile deepened. “Well, my dear, whether you choose Senator Sprague or another gentleman, you and I will need to have another lengthy chat before your wedding night.”

“I do not dread the embraces of a husband, as some young ladies do,” Kate said in a rush, her face aflame.

Mrs. Douglas patted her hand. “And you should not discount that attraction, especially if it is mutual, but let us examine the practical facts with cool heads free of giddy romanticism.”

“Yes,” said Kate, relieved. “Yes, that’s precisely why I came to you.”

“The senator has satisfied your concerns about his abrupt severing of your friendship a year ago, as well as his involvement with Mr. Hoyt, has he not?” When Kate nodded, she said, “He has abandoned his worst vices at your request—as far as you know.”

“As far as I know they are his worst vices,” Kate echoed, startled, “or as far as I know, he has abandoned them?”

“I meant the latter, although I suppose the other is true too. In any event, he has shown that he will sacrifice to deserve your love. Not all men are willing to do that, and of those who are willing, not all are able.”

“His triumph over his vices has raised him even higher in my esteem.”

“It speaks well for his self-discipline,” Mrs. Douglas acknowledged. “However, there is another, entirely unromantic matter that you must also consider: Senator Sprague’s fortune.”

“I would never marry a man solely for his wealth.”

“No, of course you wouldn’t, but you must consider his prospects.” Mrs. Douglas paused. “I wish there were a more delicate way to put this, but I am aware that you do not have a personal fortune.”

“That is so.” Father must have told her—although perhaps his indebtedness was not quite the secret they supposed. It was ironic, she often thought ruefully, that her father ran the Treasury masterfully but his own finances very badly indeed. “I have only a very small bequest from my mother.”