Mrs. Lincoln's Sisters

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  And yet after a respite of hours or days, her exasperated lamentations would resume.

  Frances thought that both of her sisters were correct, up to a point. It seemed petty to complain about Abe’s occasional irksome, homespun turns of phrase when virtually every man in the legislature marveled at his eloquence when he spoke on matters of law, and yet without the attire and manners of a cultivated gentleman, he would not be taken seriously and it would be far more difficult for him to rise. And rise Mary had been determined to do, perhaps as high as Aristocracy Hill, perhaps higher.

  Despite her aspirations, it was at the Globe that, in August 1843, Mary had borne their first child—Robert Todd Lincoln, Papa’s namesake. Frances would have helped her with the baby, but she had a young child of her own by then and William had often been ill. If she and Mary had been closer, Frances probably would have found a way to care for Mary too, and in hindsight she wished she had, for it might have brought them closer together. Instead, Mary had relied upon a hired girl and the wife of one of Abe’s friends, who had visited every now and then to tidy up or to watch the baby while Mary rested or caught up on other chores. Their help had been even more essential after Abraham had set out on the court circuit again, leaving Mary almost entirely alone with a newborn for more than six weeks.

  She must have been terribly lonely, Frances reflected guiltily. She wished she had not been so absorbed in her own cares and had found time to attend to her sister. It was entirely possible that Mary would have gratefully accepted assistance, or even simple companionship, but had been too proud to ask for them.

  As autumn had turned to winter, little Robert’s nighttime cries, though no louder or more frequent than any other baby’s, had begun to annoy the other residents of the boardinghouse, mostly single men unaccustomed to children. In January 1844, aware that they had worn out their welcome and badly needing more space and a kitchen of their own, Abraham and Mary had purchased a modest home from Reverend Dresser, a five-room Greek Revival cottage only a few blocks from Abraham’s law office, with a woodshed, a privy, and space for a carriage. It boasted none of the luxuries of Elizabeth’s home or even Frances’s, but it was sturdily built and a place of their own where Mary at last had room to breathe.

  Once she was fully the mistress of her own home, Mary had set about redecorating the cottage—a more compliant subject for her improvement schemes than her husband had proven to be. Frances remembered being impressed by how Mary had transformed the cottage into a genteel, comfortable home with shrewd purchases of furniture, household goods, and yards of inexpensive calico from which she herself sewed curtains, tablecloths, and the like. Twelve years later, when Abe’s legal practice was thriving, the Lincolns had enlarged and remodeled their home, transforming it into the gracious showplace Mary had long desired. Of all the places she had called home, only the White House was grander.

  Frances knew that despite what Mary had said as she reluctantly prepared to leave Washington, the memories she, Abe, and their children had forged in the cottage were not all happy but rather a mix of sunlight and shadow. They had celebrated the glorious news of Abe’s 1846 election to Congress in the parlor, but they had also returned to it, discouraged and facing an uncertain future, when he had lost his bid for reelection after a single, disappointing term. Their second child, a son they named Edward, had been born in 1846 in the cottage, the same place where, three and a half years later, he died of diphtheria. And then, a year later, the home witnessed the return of hope and happiness when Mary birthed another son, named William Wallace after Frances’s husband, who had tended Eddie so tirelessly throughout his fatal illness. A little more than two years after that, they had welcomed their fourth and last son—Thomas, soon to be nicknamed Tad—in the same room where two of his elder brothers had been born. Their happy, rambunctious brood was complete, and the indulgent parents had watched their boys grow, full of hope and worry and anticipation for their future.

  Happy memories indeed had been made beneath that roof, but Abe had been gone ten years, and Willie and Tad too had joined their father and elder brother Eddie in death. It was little wonder that Mary, shattered by grief and facing a bleak future, had so adamantly refused to return to the cottage after leaving the White House—and stranger still that she dared to return now to Springfield, with her nerves in as fragile a state as they had been since that terrible April of 1865.

  Frances pondered the curious contradiction. Perhaps, despite what Mary had said a decade before, it was only her former home she dreaded, not Springfield itself. The once-cherished house would remind her too painfully of the loved ones she had lost, while the Edwards residence had only happy associations, as it had been the scene of her glorious coming out in Springfield society and of her wedding, where she had pledged her heart forever to her one great love. As for Elizabeth, despite their estrangement, she surely remained a figure of maternal love and consolation for Mary, as she did for all the siblings she had helped raise after their mother’s death.

  If regarded from that perspective, Mary’s urgent need to seek refuge at Elizabeth’s house, which she had once been invited to consider her own for as long as she liked, was entirely logical and rational, not the strange, urgent impulse of a deranged mind, but a natural yearning to come home. Elizabeth’s willingness to take in a troubled, fragile sister from whom she had long been estranged was more difficult to understand.

  But coming Mary was. Frances and Ann were uncertain how to help Elizabeth manage. When they hesitantly asked if she wanted them to be present to welcome Mary when she arrived, Elizabeth pondered the question before shaking her head. “I believe we should allow her to settle in quietly, with as little excitement as possible,” she said. “Too much fanfare might overexcite her.”

  “But Mary always liked to have a fuss made over her,” Ann objected mildly, but Frances agreed with Elizabeth, so it was decided that Frances and Ann would come for tea on the second day after Mary’s arrival. If Mary seemed well enough to attempt a more ambitious gathering, Ann’s husband and the sisters’ adult children could join them for dinner the next week.

  On September 10, after four months at Bellevue Place, Mary left the asylum in the watchful care of a female attendant. They traveled by coach to Chicago, where they met Robert at the station and boarded the train for Springfield. Dr. McFarland had arranged for a nurse to come to the Edwards residence the next day; she would sleep in the room next to Mary’s and care for her throughout her visit. For this was a visit, everyone involved emphasized; it was not a relocation, but an experiment to see how Mary fared outside the sheltering walls of the asylum.

  Later that day, Frances heard the train whistle, glanced at the mantel clock, and felt her heart thud at the realization that Mary and Robert had arrived. The rest of the day passed in curiosity and apprehension as she tried to imagine what was going on at the Edwards residence at various hours. Would Mary be calm or distraught? Had she and Elizabeth reconciled on sight, or were their conversations strained and redolent of old bitterness? Torn between impatience and dread, Frances was grateful for the message Elizabeth sent over later that evening to assure her that Mary had arrived safely and had settled comfortably into her former room. The next morning her thoughtful eldest sister sent her maid with another note to report that Mary had slept well, had eaten a healthy breakfast, and looked forward to seeing her and Ann the next day.

  Frances’s nerves fluttered at the very thought of it.

  On the afternoon of September 12, Ann came by for Frances in her carriage; it was out of her way, but a light rain was falling, enough to make Frances’s walk most unpleasant. The sisters said little as they rode through the city and up Aristocracy Hill to the Edwards residence, which they knew almost as well as their own. “Do you think she’ll make a scene?” Frances asked nervously as the carriage halted in the raked gravel drive.

  “Mary always makes a scene,” said Ann, adjusting her gloves. “The only question is how dreadful it will be.”<
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  “Or how pleasant,” protested Frances. “Mary can be very charming when she wishes.”

  Ann gazed heavenward and stepped down from the carriage. “That was years ago, when it was necessary,” she said, turning around to see if Frances needed a steadying hand as she descended.

  So helpful to one sister, so contemptuous of the other. Frances muffled a sigh as they approached the front door. She regretted that she had ever teamed up with Ann in teasing Mary or gossiping meanly about her behind her back. Frances had grown out of it, but apparently Ann never would.

  If Ann had hoped to find Mary raving or in a stupor, she must have been sorely disappointed by the calm, quiet scene that unfolded in Elizabeth’s parlor when the four eldest Todd sisters took tea together for the first time in years. Mary’s lustrous chestnut brown hair had gone gray, and her once-sparkling blue eyes seemed tired and puffy. She greeted them kindly, but with reserve, somewhere between the familiarity of a sister and the gracious condescension of a first lady. Ninian had forewarned Frances not to mention the asylum, so instead she asked Mary—carefully, obliquely—how she was feeling.

  “A bit tired from travel,” Mary replied, offering a wry smile, “but otherwise, perfectly sane.”

  Heartened by the bit of humor, Frances smiled back.

  Mary inquired politely about their children and grandchildren, and they asked about hers. When Mary mentioned that Robert had departed on the morning train to Chicago due to an urgent matter at his law office, Frances detected not a trace of resentment or hostility in her sister’s voice. Mary smiled and even laughed when she recounted an amusing anecdote about Robert’s eldest, Mamie, and she listened with keen interest to news of old friends from Springfield with whom she had lost touch. Sometimes she fidgeted or wrung her hands, and twice she started in her chair and looked over her shoulder as if she had heard a door slam or a glass shatter, but otherwise she seemed mostly fine, albeit tired, as she herself had admitted.

  They parted with embraces and promises to meet again soon. Since the tea had gone so smoothly, Frances was not surprised when the next day she received an invitation summoning herself, Mary Jane, Will, Fanny, and Ed to a family dinner at the Edwards residence the following Tuesday.

  Robert returned to Springfield for the occasion, which, defying expectations, turned out to be a perfectly delightful evening. True, Robert kept a watchful eye on his mother throughout the evening, as if he feared that at any moment she might burst into a frenzy of accusations or weeping, but Mary remained composed throughout, an ideal guest, grateful to be among the company and to receive such kind attention from her hostess.

  “Her good behavior cannot last,” Ann predicted as Clark helped first her and then Frances into their carriage for the ride home. And yet one day passed and then another without any sign that it would not. With her grandnephew Lewis as her escort, Mary took walks and went for carriage rides; she delighted in visits from extended family and a few trusted, longtime friends; she came to tea at Frances’s house and was invited to dine with Clark and Ann at their home. All the while, it seemed to Frances, she, her sisters, and their husbands held their breath and hoped that everything would continue to go well. To their surprise and relief, everything did. In fact, Mary seemed to improve day by day.

  “You could not have known this visit would go so well,” Frances said to Elizabeth one afternoon. She had arrived early for tea on purpose, so that she might speak to her elder sister alone. “After everything we had read in the papers about her condition, as well as the doctors’ recommendations that she remain in the asylum, why did you allow her to come?”

  Elizabeth spread her hands, brow furrowing. “Habit, I suppose? I’m the eldest. I’ve looked after her since I was little more than a child myself. Why not now, when she most needs me?”

  “You had every reason to decline,” Frances countered. “Two expert doctors advised against allowing her to travel. There must have been more to your decision than mere habit.”

  Suddenly, tears sprang into her elder sister’s eyes. “Perhaps I am more inclined to sympathize with Mary because I believe that insanity, while new to our family line, is not restricted to her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one ever speaks of it, but our grandfather, Levi Owen Todd, died in an asylum.”

  Frances studied her, uncomprehending. “No, he died in a hospital, of consumption.”

  Elizabeth shook her head, her expression bleak. “That is the most widely known story. Papa and Grandma Parker shared a different version with me. I thought perhaps they had told you as well.”

  “They never breathed a word, not to me.” Frances pressed a hand to her brow, shaken. She would have gone to her grave believing a lie.

  Elizabeth clasped her hands together at her waist, bracing herself. “I have also observed signs of madness in my own dear Julia.”

  Frances gasped and reached for her hand. “No, not Julia?”

  Elizabeth squeezed her hand tightly and nodded, a tear trickling down her cheek. “I suspected it first when she was only thirteen,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Melancholia and mania that came and swiftly passed, only to return as if with the seasons. Her symptoms worsened with the birth of each child, and they were severely felt by all those around her, particularly by her husband and myself.”

  “But—but she must be doing well, if she has been allowed to accompany Edward to his posting abroad, so far from home—”

  “Yes, truly, she has been quite well in recent years.” Elizabeth took a deep, shaky breath. “But one never knows. I live in dread that her dark moods will come upon her again and this time linger forever. How can I abandon Mary when one day I might need a sister or a cousin to do for my own beloved child what Mary requires of me now?”

  Wordlessly, Frances embraced her, stroking her back soothingly so that Elizabeth could compose herself before their other sisters arrived. She had never imagined that such unhappy secrets afflicted Elizabeth. Now her decision to take Mary in made perfect sense—and yet it did not make it seem any wiser. Had Elizabeth put emotion before safety in disregarding the explicit warnings of Dr. Patterson and Dr. McFarland?

  Throughout Mary’s visit, Elizabeth kept Robert apprised of his mother’s condition through daily letters describing her habits and moods. “I can truly say that she has not appeared to better advantage in years than she does now,” she wrote to him at the end of the first week. The experiment appeared to be succeeding, and Frances knew that Robert had begun to wonder whether perhaps his mother would be more likely to recover her reason at the Edwards residence than at Bellevue Place.

  On September 20, he asked Dr. Patterson to reexamine his mother and advise him.

  “I am not able to report much change in the mental condition of Mrs. Lincoln since you last saw her,” Dr. Patterson wrote in a letter Robert later shared with his aunts. “I do not hesitate to say that as a result of her communication with Judge and Mrs. Bradwell, she became worse; and since they have ceased their visits and letters, she is again better and improving.” With regard to her permanent transfer from Bellevue Place to her sister’s home, since Mary had complied with all of the conditions imposed upon her for the visit, Dr. Patterson acknowledged that an extended stay ought to be attempted.

  With that, Mary’s return to the asylum was postponed indefinitely—even though, as Frances noted apprehensively, not once had Dr. Patterson claimed that she was cured.

  12

  1854–1856

  Emilie

  Although Emilie felt perfectly content and cherished at Buena Vista with her Ma and her siblings, she longed to follow her elder half-sisters to Springfield, just as she had followed Mary to Madame Mentelle’s Ladies’ Academy, albeit as a day student. For years her half-sisters’ stories of the Coterie and Springfield society had enchanted her, filling her imagination with scenes of lovely young ladies in exquisite gowns mingling with handsome gentlemen at balls and parties—the music, the danc
ing, the flirtation, the lively conversations about literature and politics. Emilie had little interest in politics per se, but she respected men with the ambition to seek political office, and she admired women who could discuss policy and debate points of law as cleverly as any legislator.

  Emilie had adored Mary and Abe ever since they visited the Todds in Lexington en route to Washington for his first—and thus far only—term in Congress. When Mary made a second visit to Buena Vista in the summer of 1851, she impressed and delighted Emilie with her wit and vivacity. Flattered by the attention and charmed by Emilie’s prettiness, Mary took a special interest in her, and their bonds of affection grew. On the eve of Mary’s departure, she embraced her beloved Little Sister and promised that when she came of age, she could come to Springfield and stay with her and Abe and their three young sons for as long as she wished.

  Thrilled, Emilie longed for the months to fly swiftly past until she turned eighteen, at which time Ma had promised to consider Mary’s invitation. Three years had passed since Ann, the last of the Todd sisters to move to Springfield for some sisterly matchmaking, had married the merchant Clark Moulton Smith. In their fine house on South Fifth Street on the same block as the Governor’s Mansion, Ann had borne two children, an eldest son named Lincoln and his younger brother, Edgar. The time seemed ripe for another Todd sister to take Springfield society by storm. With rising anticipation, Emilie counted the days until her eighteenth birthday, but Ma needed some persuading before agreeing to let her go. Once Ma’s blessing was secured, Emilie sent word to Mary that she was accepting her invitation at long last. She packed her trunk and boarded the train to Springfield, full of soaring hopes and fond wishes she could not wait to fulfill.

  It was a cold, brilliantly sunny day in December when Emilie crossed the threshold of the Lincoln residence, where Mary greeted her with a cry of joy and a heartfelt embrace. Brother Abe followed by clasping her hand and welcoming her warmly, his dark eyes beaming with kindness and affection. Robert was attending prep school, but Willie and Tad ran to greet their aunt, delightfully noisy and cheerful and rambunctious, before racing off again.