Mrs. Lincoln's Rival (37 page)

“Your future security, and that of your children, will depend upon how well Senator Sprague will provide for you,” Mrs. Douglas said. “Not only does he possess considerable wealth, but he has proven himself to be industrious, persevering, and determined. His accomplishments suggest that you need not fear poverty.”

Kate laughed shakily. “That would be a great relief, one that I confess is unfamiliar to me.”

“I know we ladies prefer to speak of true love, but there is more to a successful marriage than affection and passion, although without them marriage can be very dull indeed.”

Kate nodded, knowing she was right. “There is one more consideration.”

Mrs. Douglas peered at her questioningly over the rim of her teacup.

“I cannot bear to leave my father.”

Mrs. Douglas’s hand froze for a moment, but then she carefully set her cup down upon its saucer. “I see,” she said, her expression curiously guarded.

“For years I’ve devoted myself to helping him achieve his life’s ambitions,” Kate explained. “I can’t bring myself to abandon him, or his noble cause, not when he is closer than he has ever been to fulfilling his destiny.”

“When a young woman marries,” Mrs. Douglas said carefully, “her husband should come first in her life, not second to her father.”

“I know that,” Kate replied miserably. “And yet, these are unusual circumstances. My father should be president—not for his own self-aggrandizement, but for the good of the country.”

“I share your opinion.”

“Senator Sprague reveres my father,” Kate added. “I sincerely believe there is no reason why I cannot serve my husband’s interests as well as my father’s. Senator Sprague might agree that I should continue in my present role, for the good of all.”

“He might,” Mrs. Douglas admitted, with a little shrug and a wistful smile. “Your marriage might even help your father gain the White House, if Senator Sprague is as generous and devoted to your father as it seems. You can but ask him, and base your decision upon his reply.”

Suddenly Kate felt inordinately happy. “I shall do exactly that,” she vowed, and she thanked Mrs. Douglas profusely for her motherly advice. She knew what to do and say. The rest depended upon William.

A week after his third proposal, William called for Kate and they went riding together along the Potomac, and when they reached the secluded stand of willows, they dismounted and walked together in the shade, leading their horses. There Kate told him frankly that she would marry him, if he agreed that she need not relinquish the role she played in her father’s life.

William frowned, dubious. “I had thought when I married to be master of my own household.”

“My father will not command you,” Kate assured him, reaching for his hand. “That is not why I ask this of you. You must see how I cannot abandon my duty to my father. He needs me.” When William appeared unmoved, she quickly added, “If you prefer, we could have a long engagement. Perhaps we could marry in December after the presidential election.”

“That’s almost two years away.”

She attempted a teasing smile. “Do you think you’ll change your mind between now and then?”

“No, but I fear you might.”

“I will not,” Kate told him emphatically. “However, if you cannot abide my condition, I understand, and if you need more time to consider—”

“No.” Suddenly he took her in his arms, his voice a rough, warm caress close to her ear. “If that’s what I must do to have you, then that’s how it will be.”

Breathless, she tried to thank him, to tell him of her joy and gratitude, but his lips were upon hers, stealing the words from her mouth.

Afterward, they rode back to the Chase residence, happy and contented, and together they told Father that the matter was decided. With tears in his eyes, Father embraced Kate, and shook William’s hand vigorously, and declared that it was his most ardent wish that they make each other very happy.

“God bear me witness that it will be the object of my life to see that Kate receives no detriment in my hands,” William vowed solemnly. “If a life of devotion to her, and to yourself, can make me worthy of it all, I shall deem it well spent.”

Father smiled beneficently, clearly moved, and Kate welled up with joy to see them together, the two men she loved so dearly. She had never before felt so happy, so blessed, so certain of her future contentment.

William departed soon thereafter, parting from her with a discreet kiss at the door. Still glowing with delight, Kate hurried off to fetch pen and paper so that she could keep her promise to Nettie that no one else would learn of her engagement before her dear sister.

In the days that followed, Father, Kate, and William shared the happy news with their family and closest friends. While all congratulated the couple, many of Kate’s friends and acquaintances expressed surprise, if not outright shock. Worse yet, as Kate had expected, the friend whom she most dreaded to tell of her engagement proved to be the least happy to learn of it.

She had seen less of John Hay that spring as she had seen more of William, and John had noticed the difference, and had made halfhearted jokes about her neglect. She had hoped the news would not come as a complete surprise to him, but as she spoke, his expression became so thunderstruck and dejected that her announcement trailed off into silence.

“I hope you will be very happy together,” John said stiffly, guessing the rest. “Sprague is a very fortunate man. I suspect he has no idea how fortunate.”

“That is very kind of you to say.”

“Not at all.” He sounded almost angry. “Have you set a date yet?”

“No.” She managed a light laugh. “Father and I would prefer a long engagement. William would not.”

“I don’t blame him. Sprague would be mad to give you any time at all to change your mind.” Abruptly John rose. “Thank you for the honor of including me in the close circle of acquaintances to hear the news from you directly.”

“Of course.” She remained seated, studying him. “Are you leaving already?”

“Is there reason for me to stay?”

“I should say so,” said Kate tearfully. “You are still my very good friend, John, and I think I’m going to need friends in the years to come.”

In a moment he was by her side, holding her hands in his own as she bent her head to hide her tears. “Kate,” he said, astonished. “Are you quite all right? Why are you so unhappy?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry I was a brute. Please don’t weep on account of my careless cruelty.”

“I’m not weeping, and you weren’t a brute.” She took a deep breath. “I’m all right. Please don’t mention this to my father.”

John snorted. “Of course not, but Kate—you seem profoundly unhappy.”

She shook her head and tried to smile. “I’m merely overwrought. Making this decision, sharing the news, seeing the shock and worry on my loved ones’ faces—”

“Not shock and worry, surely,” said John. “Surprise, perhaps—”

“Perhaps. But I can’t help suspecting that people believe I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Well,” John said carefully, “if
you
think you have, it’s not too late. You’ve been engaged only a handful of days.”

“I can’t break off the engagement now, nor do I wish to,” said Kate. “I love William. I’m just . . . anxious. I’m sure all brides feel this way, don’t you suppose?”

John looked skeptical. “I know very little about the temperament of brides, but I do think you should insist upon a long engagement.”

Kate agreed. She had seen so much of William lately that she was beginning to yearn for solitude, and that too contributed to her unusual bouts of nervous strain. So it was with mixed feelings that Kate bade farewell to William when the special session of the Senate ended and he returned to Rhode Island to look after his business. “I wish you were coming with me,” he said, caressing her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

“I wish I were too, but I have obligations here.” She gave him a teasing smile. “And you know we can’t travel together unchaperoned.”

“Of course not,” he said, feigning alarm. “Who knows what sort of mischief we would get into?”

“I think
you
know, and that’s precisely why a chaperone is required.”

“But at the end of the summer, you’re coming to Rhode Island to visit. If I have to do without you any longer than that I’ll go mad.”

“I’ll come as soon as I can,” she promised. “Nettie and Father too.”

“Are we never to be alone?”

“On our wedding night.”

“Then let us be married tomorrow.”

“You know that isn’t possible,” she scolded teasingly. “I must have a new gown, and flowers, and I must plan the party—”

“You shall have everything you want. I swear it. Your wedding day must be as perfect as you desire. Fulfill your every wish. Spare no expense.”

“You know I can’t do that,” said Kate, as startled by his vehemence as she was touched by his generosity. “I must be frugal. The bills will go to my father.”

“Why should they, when I can easily pay them?”

“Darling William,” said Kate tenderly. “He claims a father’s right. Remember, that will be the last day he provides for me.” She smiled mischievously. “After we are married, however, I give you permission to spoil me with as many trinkets and treasures as you wish.”

“You will have them all,” he vowed, kissing her cheek, and her neck, and the hollow of her throat. “And I will have you.”

“Not quite yet,” she said breathlessly, prying herself free from his embrace.

“Such exquisite torture,” he lamented, but he let her go.

William’s departure brought Kate a curious sensation of painful relief. She missed him, but in his absence she felt as if she could finally catch her breath and think. They wrote to each other every day, and as the early weeks of summer passed, their letters grew more affectionate, more passionate, more full of longing to be reunited. Father still had not agreed to set a wedding date—in fact, he would not even settle upon a time to travel to Rhode Island to meet William’s family. Even after Nettie returned to Washington from school for her long summer holiday, brightening the home with her sweet ebullience, Father was often grumpy and petulant, and the more he insisted that he expected Kate to bestow the greatest measure of her loyalty upon her husband, the more she doubted his sincerity. As the days grew more sweltering, Kate showered her father in attention and affection, reassuring him whenever he made sorrowful asides about his impending loneliness, which he seemed to believe would descend like a shroud upon him the moment Kate and William exchanged vows.

As if to prove his willingness to relinquish the most prominent place in her heart, at the end of June, Father reluctantly agreed to allow Kate and William to meet for a brief, well-chaperoned visit with Mrs. McDowell at Buttermilk Falls in Upstate New York. It was an idyllic respite from the stifling heat of Washington and the grim miasma of war—and Father’s exasperating, exhausting complaints. Although Mrs. McDowell rarely left them alone, the couple found that their separation had inflamed their desire, and they took sweet pleasure in stolen kisses and caresses whenever they could.

Kate returned home to find Father more peevish and gloomy than when she had left. It was then that she proposed the idea she had mulled over for weeks, awaiting the most opportune occasion to present it. As William had no permanent residence in Washington—like many bachelors in Congress, he had simply taken a suite of rooms at the Willard—it was impractical for Kate to give up her beloved home for her bridegroom’s. After they married, the newlyweds could instead reside with Father in the mansion at Sixth and E streets, which was more than large enough to accommodate them all, as well as Nettie when she was home from school and their ever-shifting company of houseguests. At first William expressed some reluctance, but after Kate reassured him that he would not be subject to Father’s commands, William satisfied another point of pride by purchasing the mansion from their landlord, for he insisted he could not make his home in another man’s house. He and Father, who had his own pride to satisfy, worked out a scheme whereby Father would pay a certain amount of rent depending upon whether he was in residence or traveling, and they arranged to divide the other household expenses equitably. Kate’s heart soared to see how cheerfully her gentlemen agreed to the arrangements, once she and William convinced Father that they truly would miss him if he moved elsewhere.

Resolving that troublesome matter made Father more amenable to setting a wedding date, and before long they chose November 12. Much relieved, Kate happily threw herself into the delightful toil of planning the ceremony and reception, ordering invitation cards from Tiffany, and choosing the menu, the flowers, and the guests with scrupulous care. She arranged for the Marine Band to serenade the guests, and it was with great pleasure that she accepted the talented Frederick Kroell’s request to compose a new wedding march in her honor.

After a lifetime of worrying about extravagance and debt, she often veered from the path of sensible frugality in purchasing her trousseau, most of which she ordered from Paris. Of all the dresses and linens and lingerie she selected, she lavished the most care and attention to the design of her wedding costume—a splendid gown from Madame Hermantine du Riez of the Place Vendôme, fashioned of white velvet trimmed in white point lace, with a snug bodice and a long, elegant train. Her rich lace veil would be held in place by a dazzling parure of diamonds and pearls in an orange blossom pattern, a magnificent piece of jewelry William had commissioned for her wedding gift.

It was too important that the jewels be absolutely perfect for them to remain a surprise, William explained, and so he had asked General and Mrs. McDowell to accompany him to Tiffany in New York City to advise him on the design. It was Mrs. McDowell who suggested certain alterations so that parts of the tiara could be worn separately as a brooch and a necklace. William encouraged Kate to visit the jewelers to see how it was coming along, which Kate eventually did. The lavish beauty of the piece rendered her breathless and enchanted, but she nevertheless worried about the exorbitant expense and wrote to William to assure him she would be perfectly content with something less extravagant. “It is not extravagant in the general sense,” he replied, although it certainly was, and he begged her to allow him to indulge her. “You know I am but gratifying my own desires when I contribute to your pleasure. I have earned the right to do this.”