“I should hope not,” said Elizabeth, visibly hurt. “We’re sisters.”
Ann muffled a sigh. What did sisterhood mean to Mary anymore?
“I for one believe Mary should remain at Bellevue where trained physicians and nurses can properly care for her,” said Frances. “Elizabeth, my dear, sweet sister, you have an abundance of love and compassion, but no medical training in diseases of the mind. In this regard, Dr. Patterson and his staff surpass you.”
Elizabeth mulled that over. “I suppose you’re right. I’ve always tended her before, but this—perhaps this is beyond my poor abilities.” Suddenly she looked up and held Ann’s gaze. “What do you think, Ann?”
Ann hesitated, surprised to be asked, reluctant to share her honest opinion, certain they would think less of her for it. How it would shock them to hear that she did not believe Mary was insane at all, but merely needy and selfish, indulging in dramatics to get what she wanted. Mary had always manipulated her sisters by professing to suffer more, grieve more, deserve more than they did. Mary had long felt abandoned and neglected, not only by Robert and his family but by her sisters, by Washington society, by all those who had profited from her late husband’s political largesse, and most of all by an ungrateful public who would allow the wife of the great martyred president to live humbly, alone, and quite forgotten. So Mary had feigned illness, and when that did not get her the attention and financial reward she so desperately craved, she had embellished her performance until it was impossible to ignore her. But she had overshot the mark. Instead of convincing her would-be benefactors that she was ill enough to deserve their support, they had decided to lock her up.
“I am not convinced that Mary is mad,” Ann admitted. “But I believe she should remain where she is, just in case I’m wrong. Time will tell.”
“Ninian said much the same,” said Elizabeth, resigned. “Very well. I will not invite her here.”
Frances clasped her hand. “It’s for the best,” she assured her elder sister.
On that point, Ann agreed. Mary ought to stay exactly where she was—not because she needed medical treatment, but because she needed to learn some humility. Let her stay at Bellevue until its bucolic beauty grew stale, until the peaceful isolation became annoying, until she found herself bored and frustrated without an audience. Then she should stay a few months longer, until she had learned her lesson.
They were all suffering, Mary no more than anyone else. When her shameful little game did not get her what she wanted, she would abandon it and find herself miraculously restored to reason. Ann knew it was only a matter of time.
4
1825–1826
Elizabeth
After Mama died, her spinster sister, Aunt Ann Maria Parker, moved in to manage the household and care for Elizabeth and her siblings, but their mother had been unique in all the world to them and no one could hope to fill her role completely. Fortunately, Aunt Ann Maria was not alone. Grandma Parker often welcomed the heartbroken children into her home up the hill, and one of Papa’s sisters, Aunt Eliza Todd Carr, came to Lexington to help out as much as she could. The household slaves comforted and cared for Elizabeth and her siblings with more tenderness than before, especially Auntie Chaney and Mammy Sally, and a wet nurse was hired for baby George. But despite the circle of sympathetic affection surrounding them, the children were bereft, keenly aware of the gaping, aching, unfillable void left in their lives by their mother’s death.
Though Elizabeth was not yet twelve, her younger siblings instinctively sought from her all the intangible things their mother had once provided. Her place in the family inexorably shifted, and she found herself assuming the roles of consoler, adviser, confidante, and mediator of disputes. She accepted her new duties without complaint, even on long days when she wanted to fling herself into a comforting embrace and sob out her own sorrows rather than be strong for everyone else.
Papa could not offer her the consolation she longed for, not because he was cold or uncaring, but because he struggled with his own grief, and because he was so often away. He had always been preoccupied with his businesses, his elected office as clerk of the Kentucky House of Representatives, and the many society obligations of a scion of the proud Todd family, but after Mama’s death, he threw himself into his work as if only exhaustion would bring him untroubled sleep. The children missed him desperately and could not help feeling doubly abandoned, but when tears threatened, Elizabeth would lift her chin bravely and remind her siblings that he worked as hard as he did to provide for them. They would be silly to feel neglected with Grandma Parker, their aunts, and the slaves seeing to their every need, and how could they ever feel lonely with a houseful of brothers and sisters for company?
Sometimes they believed her. Sometimes Frances would study her dubiously, Levi would scowl and go off on his own to throw rocks at birds or commit some other act of boyish cruelty, and Mary would burst into tears.
Autumn came, then winter, and with each passing month the sharp edge of Elizabeth’s grief wore down until it had faded to a dull, persistent ache that never entirely went away. The family celebrated Christmas at Grandma Parker’s house, where Elizabeth helped the adults make the occasion festive for the younger children. They all tried not to dwell too much upon memories of happier Christmases past, when Mama had made the holiday season merry and bright for them all.
Early in the New Year, Elizabeth was carrying her schoolbooks from room to room, seeking a quiet corner to study in, when she heard conversation down the hall. Drawing closer to the parlor doorway, she heard Grandma Parker and Aunt Ann Maria chatting over tea with another lady whose voice she did not immediately recognize. Reluctant to be drawn into a dull conversation when she had work to do, Elizabeth decided to tiptoe away before they beckoned her in to sit and chat.
Just as she turned to go, she heard the visitor say, “I assure you, this is not mere gossip. I myself saw him calling at the young lady’s house, and my cousin saw them sleigh-riding together a few days later.”
Elizabeth froze.
“It is far more likely that he was calling on her mother,” said Grandma Parker. “Mrs. Humphreys is one of the most esteemed ladies in the capital, and Robert knows the family well. Two of her brothers taught at Transylvania University. Two others served in the US Senate.”
“And yet this might explain why Robert so frequently travels to Frankfort,” said Aunt Ann Maria tentatively, “and why he is so distracted and restless when he comes home.”
“He goes to Frankfort often because his legislative duties require his presence,” said Grandma Parker. “No, I cannot believe it. Robert adored my daughter. She has been gone less than six months. I cannot believe that he would seek a new wife so soon.”
A new wife? Elizabeth’s heart plummeted. Instinctively she drew back from the doorway, nearly dropping her schoolbooks.
“Not even to find a new mother for the children?” prompted the neighbor.
“The children have my daughter and me,” said Grandma Parker. “His sister Eliza stays with them from time to time and Mammy Sally rarely lets them out of her sight. They have no need for a stepmother.”
“As you say,” replied the neighbor, a trifle affronted. “I’m only telling you what I would want to know in your place. Folks say he is courting Miss Humphreys like a lawyer determined to win a lawsuit and that they already have an understanding.”
“Impossible. Robert would never disgrace my daughter’s memory so. It would be unforgivable.”
Holding her breath, Elizabeth backed slowly away down the hall, unwilling to hear any more. She did not want to believe that her father would put aside his mourning so swiftly, and yet the details their neighbor had shared were unsettlingly specific. Why would she spread rumors certain to cause injury if they were not true?
With so little to go on, Elizabeth dared not share the dreadful secret with anyone, especially her sisters. All she could do was wait and watch and listen, catching clues as the grown-u
ps let them fall.
One morning a few days after the neighbor’s visit, Elizabeth came down to breakfast to find Papa and Grandma Parker sitting alone at the table, cups of coffee cooling before them, the air thick with tension. They broke off their hushed conversation when she entered, but before she could bid them good morning, Papa shoved back his chair, rose, and quit the room, brushing past Elizabeth with little more than a curt nod.
Elizabeth turned to her grandmother, bewildered. “What’s wrong?”
Grandma Parker studied her for a moment, a flush in her cheeks, tight lines around her mouth. “Where are the other children?”
“Baby George is with the nurse, Mammy Sally is getting the girls dressed, and I thought Levi was down here with you.” Elizabeth glanced around. “Maybe he’s in the kitchen?”
“Getting in the way, no doubt. Why don’t you hurry back upstairs and help Mammy Sally with your sisters? I’m sure she has her hands full.”
The mild rebuke stung. “Yes, Grandma.” And yet she lingered, then carefully rephrased her question. “Is something wrong with Papa?”
“Nothing that a good shake and a dose of common sense wouldn’t cure,” her grandmother retorted, but her tone softened as she added, “Go on, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth nodded and hurried off, a sob catching in her throat. She knew then that her father truly was courting this Miss Humphreys of Frankfort, and that it was only a matter of time before he won her heart. They would have a new stepmother before long, whether they wanted one or not.
This was too troubling a burden to carry alone, so Elizabeth swore Frances to secrecy and confided what she knew. Frances’s eyes grew wide and anxious, but she said, “He might like Miss Humphreys, but we don’t know that he’s going to propose, and she might not accept even if he does.”
“Why wouldn’t she? Papa’s very handsome, he’s successful, and he’s a Todd. Who would refuse him?”
Frances made a face as if surprised that Elizabeth hadn’t grasped the obvious. “He’s old and he has six little children.”
“Thirty-four isn’t old.”
“He’ll be thirty-five next month.”
“That still isn’t old.” But Frances was right about one thing: few young ladies pictured six young stepchildren gathered around when they imagined themselves as blushing brides. Fewer still would find the situation agreeable, even for a man as wonderful as Papa.
As the winter passed and neither Papa nor Grandma Parker said a word about an impending marriage, Elizabeth dared to hope that perhaps Frances was right. Maybe the lady from Frankfort had declined their father’s proposal, or maybe he had decided not to make one. Papa was traveling less frequently to Frankfort, she observed, but he seemed more distracted and irritable. Three times a week, when the stagecoach brought mail to the Lexington post office, Papa would send Nelson to collect the family’s letters and pace in his study until he returned. Then Papa would practically snatch the letters from his hand, leaf through them with his jaw clenched, and either clasp one to his chest and sigh with relief or thrust the envelopes back at Nelson and storm off in a fury. If Nelson did not react quickly enough, the mail would scatter like autumn leaves upon the foyer floor.
Once, in late February, Elizabeth was about to carry Ann upstairs for her nap when she came upon Papa and Nelson only moments after the taciturn slave had returned from the post office. “It is no great difficulty for an educated lady to write letters with reasonable frequency,” Papa grumbled. “Have they run out of ink and paper in New Orleans?”
“Who’s in New Orleans, Papa?” asked Elizabeth, shifting Ann onto her other hip as she stepped into the foyer.
Her father gave a start and turned around. “No one you know, child. A business acquaintance.”
“You said an educated lady.”
“So I did.” Papa glanced at Nelson, who gave him the barest shrug but otherwise offered no assistance. Squaring his shoulders, Papa turned back to Elizabeth. “Well, my dear girl, as it happens, I was referring to Miss Humphreys, a lady from Frankfort whom I hope to persuade to join our family as my wife and as a mother to you children.”
Elizabeth clutched Ann a trifle too tightly; the little girl squirmed and mewed a complaint. “Why?” she asked faintly. If the lady required persuasion, why not leave her alone?
“Why? Because—” His voice broke, and his expression grew agitated. “Because my domestic circle is broken, and when I am worn down by the cares and perplexities of the world, I long to retire into the sanctuary of an unbroken home. I feel more unsettled and afloat than I ever have before. A sun is wanting to complete the system of which I compose a part.” He paused, cleared his throat, and studied her, uncertain. “I suppose you’re too young to understand.”
Miserable, she merely nodded. She didn’t understand him, but not because she was too young. She patted Ann gently on the back and continued upstairs, wondering how she was going to break the news to Frances.
As it happened, she did not need to. That evening before bedtime, Papa called the children together in the parlor, and with Grandma Parker looking on, steely-eyed, he told them that he had proposed to Miss Humphreys, and that she had accepted, and now all that remained was to set a date and bring their new mother home.
“I don’t think I want a new mother,” said Mary in a small voice, her blue eyes pensive.
“From the mouths of babes,” grumbled Grandma Parker.
“Mary,” Papa protested, drawing her onto his lap, ignoring her grandmother. “Is that how you all feel?”
Scowling, Levi nodded emphatically, but Elizabeth and Frances merely hung their heads and looked away. Ann clung to Elizabeth’s skirts and gazed up at her worriedly, while George dozed in his nurse’s arms, blissfully unaware of how their lives were going to be turned upside down once again.
Papa heaved a sigh and told them firmly that they must give Miss Humphreys a chance. She was a lovely, accomplished young woman from an exceptional family, much like their own, and a maternal presence would restore the comfort and happiness they had lost. At that, Grandma Parker made a disparaging noise in her throat and shifted in her seat, resting one elbow on the arm of her chair and touching a forefinger to her temple. Her steely gaze, which never shifted from Papa’s face, turned blisteringly contemptuous.
When Papa asked them to promise to welcome their stepmother with loving hearts and open minds, the children obeyed, but Elizabeth saw her own uncertainty and hurt reflected in their eyes, and she knew that keeping that promise would be easier said than done.
Winter passed and spring blossomed, but still Papa and Miss Humphreys did not set a wedding date. Elizabeth and Frances, eavesdropping together and separately, soon pieced together that their father wanted to marry immediately, but again and again his bride-to-be demurred, driving him to distraction.
“Six children,” said Frances sagely when she and Elizabeth pondered her delay while picking strawberries one warm afternoon in June. “That’s reason enough to wait.”
“I suppose,” Elizabeth replied, doubtful. Grandma Parker said that Miss Humphreys was already twenty-five, practically a spinster. It was cruel to keep Papa on a string while waiting for a gentleman unencumbered by children to come along, if that was what she was doing. There were days when Elizabeth thought it might be nice to have a stepmother, someone to gladden Papa’s heart and nurture the younger children so she could be a simple schoolgirl again. More often, she was grateful that the engagement was prolonged, for the longer the wedding was postponed the less likely it seemed that it would happen.
Grandma Parker made the most of the months of suspense and uncertain waiting. She had never met Miss Humphreys, but she didn’t need to know her daughter’s would-be successor to be absolutely certain she was unworthy of the role. At odd moments, she would make disparaging comments about the dangers of indolent wives and wicked stepmothers. Elizabeth and Frances politely ignored her remarks, out of loyalty to Papa, but Levi, Mary, and Ann gleefully joined in, wi
th as little genuine malice as if they were mocking an evil witch from a fairy tale. Their grandmother’s displeasure with their father spiked whenever a new letter from Miss Humphreys filled him with elation and hope, just as her satisfaction rose when the post brought no word from his intended for a week or more and he sank into perplexed despair. Observing the ebb and flow of her father’s and grandmother’s moods, the happiness of one in inverse proportion to the other’s, Elizabeth discovered another reason to dread the marriage: Grandma Parker’s resentment would surely only worsen when Papa brought Miss Humphreys home as his bride.
Summer passed, autumn came, and then the prolonged uncertainty that had enveloped the household for nearly a year abruptly ended in mid-October when Papa announced after supper one evening that he and Miss Humphreys would marry in Frankfort on the first day of November. They must all prepare to welcome their new stepmother into their home, which would thenceforth be hers as well. The children absorbed the news in various ways, according to their personalities: Elizabeth with dutiful resignation, Frances skeptically, Levi with a shrug and feigned indifference, and Mary with tears and frantic pleas to their father not to go through with it. This endeared her to their grandmother, no doubt, but Papa regarded his favorite child sorrowfully and told her that he expected her to treat her new stepmother with respect and kindness, assuring her that affection would come in time.
Elizabeth was surprised, a few days later, when Aunt Ann Maria mentioned that none of the Parkers or Todds would attend the wedding, not even the children. “It seemed unwise, given the circumstances,” she added vaguely, but she refused to elaborate.
A week after the wedding, Papa brought Miss Humphreys home—but of course she was not Miss Humphreys anymore but Mrs. Todd. She was quite pretty, the Todd sisters agreed when they conferred in whispers in their bedroom later that evening. She was poised and graceful too, more reserved than their warm, affectionate Mama, but they could not blame her for that, since she hardly knew them. Frances noted that she had taken George in her arms as if she were accustomed to cuddling babies, and she had not recoiled when he spat up on her dark blue, elegantly tailored traveling dress, but had calmly asked Mammy Sally for a wet cloth to wipe up the mess. “Maybe that’s a good sign that she likes children,” Frances added.
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