Mrs. Lincoln's Rival (41 page)

“Were you surprised?” inquired Mary, Amasa’s wife.

“Oh, yes, more than you can possibly imagine.” Turning to William, Kate implored, “Would you please show me to my room? I’m feeling quite unwell.”

His brow furrowed in concern, and while his family looked on, surprised and uncertain, William quickly led her inside and upstairs to the bedchamber they would share. “What’s the matter?” he asked, assisting her to a seat on the bed. “Can I fetch anything for you—a glass of water, smelling salts?”

“A glass of water would be lovely, thank you.”

With a solicitous nod, William hurried off, and by the time he returned, she had decided that the best course of action was simply to tell him, straight out, that the gaudy decorations had overwhelmed her and that she would be grateful if they were removed. “My mother and sisters thought a little fuss would please you,” he said, bewildered and disappointed. “The housemen and gardeners have gone to a lot of trouble. Their feelings will be badly hurt.”

“I do regret that,” Kate said, “but after our harrowing night, I require peace and calm, and that display is anything but. Surely you see that.”

William agreed, but uncertainly, and her heart sank when she realized that he thought the decorations were perfectly fine. Apparently she would have to redouble her efforts to refine his taste.

William left her alone to rest with the curtains drawn and a scented handkerchief covering her eyes and forehead. Later he returned to report, somewhat brusquely, that he had excused her lack of enthusiasm as fatigue, and that the decorations had been removed. Kate thanked him, but he merely nodded and left her alone in the darkened room. When she emerged for supper, she realized that the pragmatic, equanimous Madame Fanny had taken her implicit criticism well in stride, but that William and Amasa were disconcerted and offended.

The next day, after a good rest and time to reflect, Kate endeavored to make it up to the brothers by being a gracious and charming houseguest, a dutiful daughter-in-law, and a fond sister. William’s good spirits quickly returned, but Amasa and Mary were not so easily won over. Privately Kate resolved that no matter what tasteless decor adorned Young Orchard on the night of the reception, she would hold her tongue for the sake of family harmony.

When Friday evening came, however, Kate was pleasantly surprised to discover that all had been stylishly arrayed. Dozens of Chinese lanterns had been hung from the trees in front of the residence, beautifully illuminating the expansive grounds and transforming them into something from the realm of fairy. Inside, the hall and dining room were adorned with fragrant flowers tastefully arranged, with nary a scrap of bunting to be seen. A quintet of musicians provided excellent music, and the banquet proved to be a delectable feast, the seafood succulent and almost impossibly fresh, the confections artful and light and airy. Hundreds of guests attired in their finest suits and silks and satins graced the halls, and everyone was so gracious and agreeable and obviously pleased to make her acquaintance that it was some time before she realized that something was amiss.

But something was.

As the reception went on, Kate smiled and laughed and chatted and danced, her joyful demeanor concealing her increasing confusion. At first she thought—she hoped—she was mistaken, but a careful study confirmed her suspicions: None of the first families of Providence had attended the reception. The ladies and gentlemen of the Rhode Island social and political elite who had welcomed her and Father and Nettie so cordially the previous summer were nowhere to be seen. The last time Kate had witnessed such an obvious snub was when the elite of Washington City had spurned invitations to Mrs. Lincoln’s earliest receptions at the Willard and the White House. More puzzled than upset, Kate resolved to enjoy the party nonetheless and solve the mystery of the guest list later.

The next day, William exulted in rapturous review of the gala that appeared in the
Providence Evening Press
. “Young Orchard was ‘the scene of one of the most superb affairs that ever graced our city,’” William read, his voice ringing with triumph. “Listen to this: ‘Beauty and fashion were allied with solid worth in the brilliant throng whose assemblage was a fitting acknowledgment of the happy circumstances’—our marriage, of course—‘which contrast so pleasantly with war’s alarms.’”

“I’m sure your mother’s guests will be flattered by such charming praise,” said Kate carefully, “but did it not seem to you that many friends were absent?”

William’s eyebrows drew together, though his gaze did not leave the paper. “As far as I could tell, everyone who had accepted my mother’s invitations was present, although there were so many hundreds here I suppose I could have overlooked one or two absences.”

Kate had counted far more than one or two local dignitaries who had been, to her thinking at least, conspicuously absent. “What about Judge MacDonald?”

“He sent his regrets a week ago. Oh, this is well said: ‘The banquet which ministered to appetites heightened by the general pleasure, was fairly unsurpassable in its elegant profusion.’”

“Yes, the food was superb. William, darling, only a very few of the ladies and gentlemen my father and I met at City Hall last summer attended us last night. Did your mother not invite them?”

William’s happiness dimmed. “Mother knows how to compose a guest list, and she knows the character and conviviality of the people here more than you.”

“Of course she does,” Kate said, taken aback, “but that doesn’t preclude the possibility of an oversight—”

“Hundreds of friends wished us well last night,” William interrupted. “As I recall you never lacked company.”

“I didn’t, but—”

“Then be content.” William returned his attention to the paper, and soon his smile reappeared. “‘The youthful senator and his lovely bride contributed very decidedly to the enjoyment of the evening by their graceful cordiality. None could help rejoicing that Rhode Island has such a son, and that in the event which secures his domestic happiness, she gains a charming daughter.’”

“I have never heard anything more obsequious,” Kate said under her breath.

“What was that?” asked William.

Kate smiled innocently. “I have never heard any sing more lovingly of us.”

Knowing she was unlikely to get anything more out of William, or anything at all out of his mother or sisters, Kate turned her attention to the servants, quickly picking out the newest and youngest chambermaid, a fair-haired, peaked, rather frightened-looking Irish girl. Still learning her trade, she surely listened to every word uttered in the household lest she commit an embarrassing mistake, and she would not have yet formed loyalties that would prevent her from sharing unflattering gossip about her employers.

Kate easily managed to catch her alone by hasting back to her bedchamber when she was meant to be out so that the servants could tend to the linens and the fires. “Why, good morning,” she exclaimed brightly, startling the poor girl. “And who might you be?”

The girl scrambled to her feet and gave a small curtsy. “Katie, ma’am.”

“How delightful! I’m a Katie too.”

The girl nodded, looking as if she couldn’t imagine ever addressing her by that name.

“How long have you been in service here, Katie?”

“Since August, ma’am.”

“And is this your first situation?”

“No, ma’am. I worked for the Johnsons on Galbraith Street from February until May. That was my first.”

“Why did you leave their employ?”

Her cheeks reddened. “I dropped the lamb while serving table at Easter.”

“Oh, dear.”

“But it wasn’t my fault,” she added with a burst of spirit, “and it won’t ever happen again.”

“I’m sure it won’t,” said Kate soothingly. “The Johnson family . . . I don’t recall meeting them at the reception last night. Do you happen to know if they were here?”

She shook her head. “They wouldn’t have been, ma’am.”

“Wouldn’t have been?” Kate echoed. “Why
wouldn’t
have been?”

The girl looked uneasy. “I only meant they weren’t here, ma’am.”

“No,” Kate replied, smiling. “That isn’t what you meant. You’re a clever girl, I can tell, and you meant what you said. Why were you so certain that your former employers would not have been here?”

“I—I really shouldn’t say.”

“On the contrary.” Kate leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You really should.”

The housemaid hesitated again, glanced over her shoulder, and gulped air. “Everyone knows the Spragues aren’t received in society, ma’am.”

“How very curious,” said Kate, masking her sharp dismay. “The family of the former governor of Rhode Island, the current United States senator, a military hero, and one of the most successful businessmen in the state is not received in society?”

Miserable, the poor cornered housemaid nodded.

“Why on earth not?”

At that, tears pooled in her eyes. “That’s not for me to say, ma’am,” she said, distressed. “I—I really should get back to my work, ma’am, if you please, or the housekeeper will box my ears—”

“Of course,” said Kate. “I apologize for detaining you.” With one last gracious smile, she swept from the room.

The revelation defied all logic, but it confirmed what Kate had observed the night before. For some reason, which William either did not know or was reluctant to divulge, the Sprague family was not accepted among the social elite of Rhode Island, in spite of their wealth and William’s position, marks of status that usually guaranteed admittance to the highest circles of any community. The gracious and the good of Providence would receive Miss Kate Chase, daughter of the secretary of the treasury, but they would not receive Mrs. William Sprague, and she meant to discover why.

• • •

Kate had little time to pursue the question on their wedding trip, however, for on the Monday after the reception, she and William left Nettie at school, glum but resigned to her fate, and embarked on their honeymoon, a tour of Ohio during which they would visit some of Kate’s dearest family and friends. Traveling alone with her husband at last, Kate felt alive and blissful and free. William was in such congenial, tender, and affectionate spirits that Kate could not bear to deflate him by pricking him with questions about the Providence snub, so she set the puzzle aside, although she never completely forgot it.

Their travels took them to Cincinnati, Columbus, and on to Cleveland, where they stayed with Mr. and Mrs. Parsons, who hosted a grand party in their honor. Early December found them in Loveland, Ohio, in the home of Kate’s cousin Jane Auld, both suffering from bad colds contracted along the way, but still determinedly cheerful. “A red nose does not diminish your beauty,” William told her, interrupted by a sneeze, “and my watery eyes cannot prevent me from appreciating that.” In reply, Kate laughed and embraced him, and gave him a fresh handkerchief.

They had almost entirely recovered by the time they departed for Washington a few days later. Father welcomed them home with such great joy that Kate felt a stab of guilt for their long absence. Pleasantly weary from travel, she happily settled back into the routine of home, content and thankful that it had become William’s home too.

She had barely finished unpacking and they had only just settled into the comfortable companionship of a trio when William announced that he was obliged to return to Providence to attend to business matters.

“So soon?” Kate protested. “When must you go?”

“The day after tomorrow.”

Kate was disconsolate, but she did not want to spoil their newlywed joy with complaints, so she cheerfully asked what she could do to help him prepare for the trip. After he departed, she tried to forget her loneliness by occupying herself with her father’s business and preparing for the holidays, which were sure to be wonderful, since they would be the first she and William would celebrate as husband and wife.

She wrote to William at least once a day, sometimes twice, and she could not always keep her ardent yearning from the penned lines. “Shall I tell you how much I miss you,” she wrote a few days after his departure, “and how the sunshine has all gone from our beautiful home? My life is indeed deserted in my longing for my own darling. I prayed to God very earnestly before going to rest for your protection and safe return.” A few days later, she concluded a summary of the news from Washington with the wistful lament, “There are letters lying for you unopened upon the table and I feel every now and then that you will come in with your accustomed smile and I shall have the joy of welcoming my husband home again. Oh darling I hope these separations will not come very often. They are hard to bear.”

The pain of separation was augmented by the paucity of William’s letters, which, when they came at all, resembled in no fashion the passionate, affectionate, tender notes he had sent her with endearing regularity throughout their engagement, even when he resided at the Willard Hotel only a few blocks away. William offered little more than terse descriptions of his work and sent along perfunctory greetings from his mother, brother, and sisters, and nothing in his words suggested that he missed her the way she ached for him.

Shortly before Christmas, Nettie returned home for her school holiday, and Kate anxiously awaited a letter from William telling her when she could expect him to complete the new family circle. Instead he sent her a lovely ashes-of-rose silk shawl for her Christmas gift along with his regrets, for he had decided to spend the holiday with his family at Young Orchard.

Shocked, Kate immediately wrote back to remind him that she couldn’t possibly get away. They were expecting a houseful of guests, like every year, and they had already invited dozens of friends and colleagues to several festive gatherings. William responded by assuring her that he had not expected her to come, and that she should remain in Washington and carry on as she always had.

Heartbroken that they would not spend their first Christmas as a married couple together, and deeply troubled that this bothered William not at all, Kate made the mistake of complaining to her father. Clearly uncomfortable to be thrust into the middle, he took William’s side and urged her to submit to her husband’s will with good cheer and Christian forbearance. Although she knew her father was probably right, his advice grated, so instead she tried to bring William home by inviting his entire family to spend the holidays in Washington with the Chases. Her hopes were dashed when William’s sister Mary Ann wrote to decline politely on behalf of the family, whom she said remained too exhausted from their trip to the capital for the wedding to attempt the journey again so soon.