Mrs. Lincoln's Sisters

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Then, in early May, she received an urgent letter from Ninian informing her that Julia had suffered some minor complications with her pregnancy. It was nothing life-threatening, but the fear and anxiety they caused were affecting Julia’s health, and she desperately needed her mother’s calming presence. Something in Ninian’s turn of phrase suggested that Julia was perfectly fine and the alleged complications were only a ruse meant to give Elizabeth an excuse to come home right away. Nevertheless, it was with genuine worry that she explained the situation to Abe and Mary and immediately began arranging her homeward journey.

  Mary accepted the news resignedly and with more grace than Elizabeth had expected. “Please carry my love and thanks to everyone back in Springfield,” she said two days later as they shared a parting embrace in the carriage outside the train station. “We’ll be leaving the White House soon ourselves, to escape the summer heat and miasma.”

  “Oh, indeed?” said Elizabeth, pleased. This was surely another encouraging sign. “Are you going to New York?”

  “Not nearly so far. Last year I found us a summer residence on the grounds of the Soldiers’ Home about two miles from the city.” Mary inclined her head to the north. “It’s a cool, wooded, secluded haven on a hilltop, far enough away from the Capitol and the White House to serve as a restful retreat, but near enough for Abe to travel back and forth, if he must. It’s truly lovely, and I trust it will be perfectly serene. I wish you had time to see it.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Perhaps the next time I visit,” she said as the officer escorting them opened the carriage door to help her descend.

  “Write to me in care of the Soldiers’ Home,” Mary called through the window. “There I expect to have few distractions and sufficient leisure to reply promptly, so I won’t neglect our correspondence as I did before.”

  So that was how Mary chose to explain away their months of estrangement—she had simply been too busy to write. “The Soldiers’ Home,” Elizabeth repeated, nodding. “And you should write to me at the same address as always. I trust you remember it?”

  “Of course,” said Mary, allowing a brief smile. “I think I know your home as well as any I have ever called my own.”

  As she should, Elizabeth thought as she gave Mary a small, parting wave and turned toward the station. Elizabeth had told her sister once, long ago, that she should consider the Edwards residence to be her own home for as long as she liked. Elizabeth had never revoked that privilege, nor would she ever.

  21

  January–May 1876

  Frances

  Although Mary had relinquished the pistol and ceased making absurd threats against Robert’s life, her anger persisted and her demands to have her bonds restored only increased. When a fortnight of excessively frigid and snowy weather in late January kept her away from the shops, she spent hours in Ninian’s library poring over his law books, taking notes and comparing statutes. Privately her sisters speculated that perhaps she intended to follow the narrow path blazed by her friend Mrs. Bradwell and become a lawyer, although Ann pointed out rather unkindly that this would require years of study and Mary was off to a late start.

  “Leave her be,” Frances advised. “Study occupies her mind and distracts her from her resentments. She may surprise us all and become the second-most-famous lady lawyer in the land.”

  Mary did surprise them, but in a far less dramatic and pleasing fashion. On the first day of February, when the Todd sisters took advantage of a relatively mild day to gather in Elizabeth’s parlor for tea and sewing or knitting, Mary left them for a moment and returned with a crisp, neatly written manuscript several pages long. “There is no legal reason why my bonds must be kept from me one day longer,” she declared, holding out the document to Elizabeth, who seemed too startled to take it, and then to Frances, who did. “My selfish son is entirely mistaken. I have found precedent in the law by which they may be restored to me.”

  “It was not only Robert who told you that, but also Governor Palmer,” Frances pointed out as she leafed through the document. She was not familiar enough with legal language to parse the various clauses and subsections, and she was surprised that Mary understood it any better. “Why would you doubt your own lawyer, especially someone as renowned as he?”

  “He must have overlooked this,” said Mary. “This sort of law practice isn’t his specialty. I certainly don’t mean to accuse him of colluding with my son.”

  “Don’t you? That’s cause for rejoicing,” said Ann in an undertone that her sisters were meant to overhear.

  “Mary—” Elizabeth paused, apparently searching for the proper words. “Would you like Ninian to review your brief, or your lawsuit, or whatever it is?”

  “It’s a legal study, and indeed I would like him to read it,” said Mary. “I would also like him to represent me in court, if my son does not relent and I am obliged to sue him.”

  As Ann heaved a sigh, exasperated, Elizabeth suggested that Mary leave the document on Ninian’s desk so he could examine it that evening after dinner. Mary went off to complete the errand and returned looking well satisfied with herself. The pleasant mood of their sewing circle was spoiled, but they forged on for another hour, carefully steering the conversation away from any topics likely to remind Mary of her many grievances against those whom she believed had wronged her.

  The following afternoon Elizabeth stopped by Frances’s house to report that Ninian had examined Mary’s paper thoroughly and found several errors in the application of the law that rendered her argument moot. Not unexpectedly, Mary had refused to believe this, and so an appointment with Governor Palmer had been arranged for two days hence. “I almost hope Mr. Palmer finds a mistake in Ninian’s review,” said Elizabeth wearily. “Then Mary could have her bonds back and this endless struggle would be behind us.”

  “This meeting will surely resolve the struggle either way,” said Frances. “If the governor agrees with Mary, so be it. Let her have her bonds back. If he agrees with Ninian, Mary will just have to wait until June for her sanity hearing, as she already knows. It’s unlikely that she could come up with another legal maneuver to reclaim her bonds between now and then, so she will probably turn her attention to preparing for her appeal.”

  “I hope you’re right,” said Elizabeth, dubious. “Mary has always demanded that things be exactly as she wants, exactly when she wants them. It’s hard to imagine that she would let the matter drop after forcing it upon us for so many months.”

  Frances acknowledged that Elizabeth made a fair point, but she still believed that Mary would abandon her cause when she had irrefutable proof that it was lost. Her lawyer’s opinion about her new legal brief would convince her. Mary was clever and persistent, and no fool. Frances had always admired this about her, even when those qualities were inconvenient.

  Two days later, to no one’s surprise but Mary’s, Governor Palmer sided with Ninian, showing citations from law books to support his position. Soon thereafter, as Frances had predicted, Mary turned swiftly away from the pursuit of her bonds. Unfortunately, instead of withdrawing to Ninian’s library to prepare for her upcoming sanity hearing, she renewed her verbal assault upon Robert. She sent him letter after letter demanding that every item of hers currently in his possession be returned to her immediately or, she threatened, she would hire movers and arrange a police escort to forcibly remove them from Robert’s home.

  Frances supposed that Robert could have fought his mother on this demand, especially since a great many of the items she listed were gifts she had presented to Robert and his wife years before her sanity trial. Silver that graced their table, paintings displayed on their walls, jewelry and clothing they had worn, books they enjoyed—Mary wanted it all back, every page and piece and scrap.

  On February 7, Frances received an urgent summons from Elizabeth and hurried to the Edwards residence as soon as she could. Upon her arrival, she discovered her eldest sister standing in her front hall looking dazed and distressed. Surroun
ding her, filling the foyer and the hall and spilling over into the parlor, were trunks and cartons and crates, all recently arrived from Chicago, containing every last item on Mary’s detailed lists. The packing documents ran to a startlingly thick sheaf of pages.

  “I have absolutely no idea where we’re going to put all of this,” said Elizabeth, dismayed. “We barely managed to stow the last lot. We squeezed so many trunks into one corner of the attic that the housemaid who used to sleep in the bedroom beneath it resigned out of fear that one day it would all come crashing through the ceiling and crush her in her bed. Now what shall we do?”

  “I could store some trunks at my house,” said Frances, gazing about, impressed in spite of herself at the sheer volume of Mary’s hoard. “If Mary will part with them. Where has Robert been keeping all this? Does he rent a second house simply for storage?”

  Elizabeth nudged a small carton aside with her foot and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “That is an option I had not yet considered. As farfetched as it is, I’m tempted. I cannot abide a cluttered house.”

  In the days that followed, Frances and Ann helped Elizabeth and Mary find places to stow Mary’s worldly goods. Ninian, clearly disapproving, wanted nothing to do with the project, but he grudgingly assisted when they needed help with a particularly heavy or cumbersome object. Frances surmised that one of her sisters, or perhaps Ninian himself, must have complained to Robert about the overwhelming mess he had made of the Edwards residence, for Elizabeth soon received a letter apologizing for how his obligation to satisfy his mother’s demands had disrupted the household. “Although I considered these things as much my own as if I had bought them, I have returned them to her, desiring to satisfy her as far as I can,” he explained. “Her entire demand is so unreasonable in the light of any possible use these things could be to her in her present situation that it is plainly irrational and the emanation of an insane mind.” He concluded by alluding once again to the possibility of returning Mary to Bellevue, but Frances knew Elizabeth would never abide by this solution, however reasonable it seemed to everyone else.

  By the end of February, most of Mary’s belongings had been stored out of sight. A visitor would never have suspected they were there, nor imagine the sweat, stress, and short tempers that had gone into the laborious task of concealing them. Nearly every closet and storage room, as well as the attic, now resembled a puzzle box, with cartons and trunks carefully stacked just so in order to use every available square inch of space. In consequence, Mary could only with extraordinary difficulty get to any of her belongings, but that was her own fault. She had refused to let Frances or Ann store anything in their homes, which would have allowed her to more easily enjoy those things she had insisted upon having.

  The other Todd sisters were ever mindful that Elizabeth bore the brunt of Mary’s needs and eccentricities. Perhaps to offer her a respite, Emilie wrote to Frances in early March, wondering if she should invite Mary to visit. “If you think Elizabeth could spare her, I would love to entertain Mary here for a month or so,” wrote Emilie. “It would be ideal if she could come in Spring, when travel is more agreeable and Lexington is in bloom. Katherine, Ellie, Ben Jr., and I long to see her. Could you please take her measure and let me know if I should send a proper invitation?”

  Frances thought this was a wonderful idea. Mary had loved to travel once, and she enjoyed being pampered and amused, which was undoubtedly what Emilie and her children had in mind. The Helms had not worn themselves out with months of worry and conflict; they were fresh and rested and forewarned. Mary would enjoy the novelty of a change of scene and new conversation, and the temporary easing of their responsibilities would allow Elizabeth and Ninian to rest and restore themselves until they were ready to welcome Mary back.

  But when Frances approached Mary with the suggestion, her younger sister recoiled as if she had been struck. “Return to Lexington?” she said, aghast. “I couldn’t possibly. I adore Little Sister and I’m gratified that she longs to see me, but I could never return to Lexington.”

  “Certainly you could,” protested Frances, astonished. “Lexington is your home, your birthplace. It’s breathtakingly beautiful in spring, as you surely must remember. We have so many friends and relations who would be delighted to see you again—”

  “Yes, that’s precisely the point. There will be a great many people in Lexington eager to gape at the mad Mrs. President, the Todd sister who left Lexington so proudly, so full of promise, and went from the White House to the asylum. I could not bear so many pitying glances and careful conversations everywhere I might go.”

  Frances’s heart sank. “Emilie shall be so disappointed if you refuse.”

  “I trust you will break it to her gently then.”

  Mary’s hard look and the decisive set of her mouth told Frances that any attempt to cajole her into accepting the invitation would fail utterly. Feeling sorry for Emilie and sorrier still for Elizabeth, Frances told Mary she would invent a plausible excuse for declining the invitation. Then, resigned, she went home, took pen in hand, and told Emilie exactly what Mary had said.

  Emilie replied that she understood perfectly and that she was grateful for the attempt. “Perhaps Mary will change her mind and visit me in early summer,” she wrote, suggesting that she may not have understood perfectly after all.

  With no visit to Little Sister to look forward to, Mary was free to concentrate on her ongoing animosity toward her son. Frances knew that in an attempt to defuse his mother’s anger, Robert had tried to find men his mother trusted to take over his conservatorship, but understandably, no one was willing to undertake the role. By the middle of May, Mary had contrived a new way to punish her son: she repeatedly threatened to intentionally bankrupt herself and depend entirely upon government support for the rest of her days, just to shame and spite him.

  Robert bore this new attack with the same steady but pained resolve with which he had endured all the others. “I should hardly think of my mother as fully restored to sanity, as Aunt Elizabeth does,” he wrote wryly to Frances after she warned him. “The sane way to punish me for trying to look after her best interests would be not to plunge herself into poverty, but to make a will and leave me nothing in it.”

  Nothing proved his mother less fit to manage her own financial affairs than threats to bankrupt herself to spite her heirs, Robert added. If his mother wished to prove that she needed a conservator indefinitely, she should continue to do exactly what she was doing.

  Mary would have only herself to blame at her sanity hearing in June if her vindictive threats convinced the judge to affirm the original decision and return her to Bellevue.

  22

  September 1861–December 1863

  Emilie

  Five months after declining the commission to serve as paymaster of the United States Army, Ben packed his kit and kissed Emilie and the girls good-bye. He lowered his head as if in prayer as he rested his hand upon Emilie’s abdomen, the slight rounding still unnoticeable beneath the layers of gown and petticoats. Then he set out for Bowling Green to join the Confederate Army. Upon his arrival, he accepted a commission as colonel with the First Kentucky Brigade under General Simon Bolivar Buckner, who had been his instructor at West Point and had become a good friend.

  “This separation I sincerely hope will not continue long,” Ben wrote to her soon thereafter, “but dear Em, I have gone in for the war & if God spares my life I expect to battle to the end of it. I feel that I am fighting for civil liberty & in that cause I feel that all men capable of bearing arms should be in the service.”

  Five months later, he was promoted to brigadier general, and three weeks after that, he was tasked to organize the Third Kentucky Brigade, in Breckinridge’s division. Less than a year had passed since he had declined Abe’s commission and the rank of major, knowing that such promising opportunities rarely came by twice in a lifetime. Now Ben had risen even higher than the post he had declined, and after the Confederate Ar
my triumphed, Emilie could only imagine how much higher he might soar.

  If Ben could commit his life to a cause, so could she—and her cause was her husband and children. Perhaps that was not as impressive as the struggle to create a new nation, but to her it was infinitely more precious. She and Ben had promised each other on their wedding day that they would not let his career separate them, so after she recovered from the birth of Benjamin Jr. in May 1862, she resolved to follow him into the South, joining the wives of other officers who moved from camp to camp as their husbands did.

  Ma tearfully begged her not to go, and her younger sister Kitty was terribly afraid of what might befall her and the children, but Emilie would not be deterred. “I won’t be on the battlefield, but in the town nearest the brigade’s encampment,” she assured them. “The nearest safe town.”

  After arranging for a wet nurse, Emilie kissed her precious baby good-bye and entrusted him to his loving grandmother and aunt at Buena Vista. Then she packed one trunk for herself, another for her daughters, and a third full of essential supplies that Ben had mentioned were sorely lacking in the South. They traveled by rail to Elodie’s home in Selma, Alabama, from whence Emilie intended to choose another safe destination closer to Ben.

  Elodie was thrilled to see them. She had recently married, and her new husband, Colonel Nathaniel Henry Rhodes Dawson, was away serving with the Fourth Alabama Infantry. Twice widowed, he had entrusted to Elodie’s care his two daughters, ages seven and two, one from each of her predecessors. Even with the help of a capable mammy, Elodie was feeling overwhelmed by her new responsibilities and was grateful for the companionship of a beloved elder sister who also happened to be a more experienced mother. A short ride away stood the charming Italianate cottage of Martha and her husband, Major Clement B. White of the Alabama State Guard. The three sisters spent many companionable hours watching the cousins play together, reminiscing about bygone days in Kentucky and Illinois before war split the family apart, and yearning for their absent husbands.