Mrs. Lincoln's Sisters

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Elizabeth had ended her note with a plea for Ann to come to the Edwards home early the next day to help distract Mary as they awaited the men’s arrival—and perhaps more importantly, to help diffuse the tension when the mother and son met. “Mary has been so furious with Robert for so long that I cannot imagine she will receive him with affection and cordiality,” Elizabeth wrote. “He will endure whatever comes with uncomplaining stoicism, but I hope that with her sisters present, she will endeavor to control her temper. Perhaps once she has her bonds in hand, she shall forget her anger and reconcile with him.”

  Ann thought reconciliation was unlikely, but otherwise she agreed with her sister’s reasoning, so she sent the messenger back with a note assuring Elizabeth that she would be there.

  Frances had been invited too, as Ann discovered when she arrived the next morning and found her three sisters in the parlor, chatting about a recent letter from Emilie while they knitted and sewed. A warning look from Elizabeth behind Mary’s back told her not to mention the hearing; Ann offered a barely perceptible nod in reply as she took her usual seat. It was unlikely that her sisters had any news to share about the hearing that Ann had not already read in the morning edition of the Chicago Tribune. In Ninian’s testimony, which Ann had found a bit puzzling, he was reported to have said, “Mrs. Lincoln has been with me for nine or ten months, and her friends all think she is a proper person to take charge of her own affairs.” Which friends? Ann wondered. The Bradwells? Certainly not her sisters. “She has not spent all that she was allowed to spend during the last year,” Ninian had said, though not for lack of trying, Ann thought as she read the article. “And we all think,” he concluded, “she is in a condition to take care of her own affairs.”

  The jury must have found Ninian’s testimony and Robert’s willingness to be relieved of the conservatorship convincing, for they had retired only long enough to sign the verdict before returning to declare, amid other legal jargon, that they had found that “the said Mary Lincoln is restored to reason and is capable to manage and control her estate.”

  Again that phrase had been used, even though not a single physician had examined Mary and she had not even been present for anyone to question directly. Ann was no lawyer, nor was she married to one, but the proceeding did not seem quite right to her, although it very well may have been perfectly legal.

  The article concluded with an inventory of Mary’s property, which Robert had presented to the court. Ann was pleased to see that Robert had increased Mary’s holdings by $8,000 during his tenure as her conservator, and that he had waived the standard ten-day notification period so that the verdict could be enacted as soon as possible. Ann dared to hope that Mary’s heart would soften when she was presented with the facts of how she had prospered thanks to her son, but it was a thin hope.

  Ninian and Robert arrived shortly after eleven o’clock, and at the sound of them crossing the threshold, the sisters set aside their handwork and exchanged wary glances. Frances and Elizabeth instinctively rose, but Ann stayed put, watching Mary as she drew herself up in her chair and fixed an imperious gaze on the doorway.

  Ninian entered first, with Robert close behind, carrying a leather briefcase fastened with a strap. They greeted the ladies, and Elizabeth went to kiss her husband’s cheek, but when Robert approached his mother, she bolted from her chair, scrambled behind it, and held up a hand. “Don’t come any closer,” she commanded.

  Robert halted. “Good morning, Mother,” he said evenly, indicating the briefcase. “I’ve come only to return your bonds to you. I knew you were anxious for them, and bringing them myself was the fastest way to deliver them.”

  “Give them to your uncle,” Mary snapped. “I see on your face the reluctance with which you yield them up, my poor pittance which you so ignominiously fought for.”

  “On the contrary,” Robert said, handing the briefcase to Ninian, “I am relieved to be rid of them.”

  Mary laughed, sharp and incredulous. “Nonsense and lies. You were not satisfied with the fortune I bequeathed you when I first made my will, so you brought false charges against me so you could steal my money!”

  Her voice rose with every word until she was nearly shouting.

  “Mary,” Frances broke in, “that’s simply not true. As your conservator, Robert increased your wealth. Is that the behavior of a thief?”

  Mary ignored her. “Look at this white hair,” she commanded, gesturing to her head. “You have caused this, with the torment you inflicted upon me this past sorrowful year.”

  A muscle worked in Robert’s jaw, but otherwise he was stoic. “Everything I did was in what I believed to be your best interest.”

  “My heart fails me when I think of the contrast between you and your noble, glorious father, and my three precious sons who have gone before.” Mary’s face flushed, and she trembled as she clutched the back of her chair with both hands. “God is just, and retribution must follow those who act wickedly in this life! Sooner or later, compensation surely awaits those who suffer unjustly, if not here, then in a brighter and happier world.”

  “Mary, please calm yourself,” Elizabeth implored.

  “I am sure our lost loved ones are anxiously awaiting the reunion after which no more separation comes,” Mary shrilled, her gaze locked on her son’s face, which had gone stony and pale. “But you will not be able to approach us in that other world on account of your heartless conduct to me. Your father worshiped me, as well as my blessed sons did, and they will not let you draw near us in the world to come!”

  “Mary,” Ann exclaimed. “How could you be so cruel? Shame on you!”

  “It’s all right,” said Robert, his voice low and weary. “I’ve done what I came here to do, and I need not stay. Mother, the children would like to see you, Mamie especially. I will leave it up to you when, or if, you would like to arrange to see them.” Nodding to his aunts and uncle, he turned and left, and a moment later they heard the front door open and quietly, firmly close.

  “Did you hear that?” Mary asked, sinking down upon the sofa beside Elizabeth, trembling, looking around at her sisters for confirmation. “Did you hear how he threatened to withhold my grandchildren from me?”

  “He did nothing of the sort,” Ann retorted.

  “I have been deeply wronged, and by one for whom I would have poured out my life’s blood,” Mary lamented. “His wickedness cannot be allowed to triumph.”

  “Mary, please, do be calm,” said Elizabeth, taking her hand. Frances sat down on Mary’s other side, resting a hand on her shoulder and murmuring soothing phrases. Muffling a sigh, Ann glanced from her sister to the doorway, tempted to hurry after Robert, but instead she sat in a chair across from her sisters so that the burden of calming Mary did not fall to Elizabeth and Frances alone. A vague shadow of anger and disgust passed over Ninian’s face as he excused himself and carried off the briefcase, no doubt to put the bonds in his safe until Mary needed them.

  For nearly an hour and a half, Mary tearfully expounded on the allegedly terrible sins Robert had committed against her, a pitiable, brokenhearted woman who had been called upon to give up all her dearly beloved ones until they were reunited in heaven. Although Ann remained, and fetched water and a fresh handkerchief upon request, she stopped listening to Mary’s rant after a while, indignant on her nephew’s behalf and exhausted by Mary’s tempers and pertinacity. All of her demands had been met. Could she not be gracious in victory?

  Later, after Mary had retired to her bedchamber afflicted with migraine and exhaustion, Elizabeth led Ann and Frances to Ninian’s study, where she asked him for his firsthand account of the trial. He told them little they had not already learned from his telegrams and the newspaper reports, but he acknowledged that everyone in the courtroom had seemed surprised by the jury’s verdict. “They were not called upon to try the question of Mary’s sanity,” he said, frowning and shaking his head, “and I regret very much that the verdict stated that she was ‘restored to reason.�
�”

  “Mary objected to that phrase too,” Elizabeth said. “She said no one can restore what was never lost.”

  Ann thought that if the jury could have seen Mary’s ugly display in the Edwardses’ parlor, they might have returned a different verdict altogether.

  Mary’s sisters were disappointed that regaining possession of her bonds had not mitigated her anger toward Robert, but Ann was not surprised. Even so, they little understood the intensity of her antipathy until Robert forwarded a letter to Elizabeth, a caustic list of demands and accusations that his mother had sent him three days after he returned her bonds.

  Springfield, Illinois.

  June 19th, 1876

  Robert T. Lincoln

  Do not fail to send me without the least delay, all my paintings, Moses in the bulrushes included—also the fruit picture, which hung in your dining room—my silver set with large silver waiter presented me by New York friends, my silver têtê-à-têtê set also other articles your wife appropriated & which are well known to you, must be sent, without a day’s delay. Two lawyers and myself, have just been together and their list, coincides with my own and will be published in a few days. Trust not to the belief, that Mrs Edwards’ tongue, has not been rancorous against you all winter & she has maintained to the very last, that you dared not venture into her house & our presence. Send me my laces, my diamonds, my jewelry—My unmade silks, white lace dress—double lace shawl & flounce, lace scarf—2 blk lace shawls—one black lace deep flounce, white lace sets 1/2 yd in width & eleven yards in length. I am now in constant receipt of letters, from my friends denouncing you in the bitterest terms, six letters from prominent, respectable, Chicago people such as you do not associate with. Two prominent clergy men have written me, since I saw you—and mention in their letters, that they think it advisable to offer up prayers for you in Church, on account of your wickedness against me and High Heaven. In reference to Chicago, you have the enemies & I chance to have the friends there. Send me all that I have written for; you have tried your game of robbery long enough. Only yesterday, I received two telegrams from prominent Eastern lawyers. You have injured yourself, not me, by your wicked conduct.

  Mrs A. Lincoln

  My engravings too send me. Send me Whittier Pope, Agnes Strickland’s Queens of England, other books, you have of mine. M. L.

  “I never said anything rancorous about Robert to Mary,” Elizabeth protested when Ann finished reading the letter. “I certainly never banished him from my home! How could she say such outrageous things?”

  “She never thought Robert would dare forward the letter to you,” said Ann, returning it to her, “or that you would show it to me. And Frances and Ninian, I presume.”

  “Yes, of course, I did.” Elizabeth clasped a hand to her brow, sighing, shaking her head. “Frances is most upset by the insults and accusations of thievery, Ninian by her threat to publish this list of allegedly stolen property.”

  Ann closed her eyes and heaved a sigh. She sincerely hoped that going to the press with accusations of theft was merely a ploy to pressure Robert, but with Mary, one never knew. “And the six letters from eminent Chicagoans denouncing him?”

  “Ninian does not believe they exist, and neither do I.”

  Ann was inclined to agree. Robert had been almost universally praised in the press for his steadfast, honorable conduct throughout his mother’s ordeal, and it seemed unlikely anyone would put their name to a letter condemning him. Yet Mary’s friends included the meddlesome Bradwells and others like them. If Mary truly wanted to create a firestorm of trouble for her son, it was within her power to do so.

  “I must return this to Robert in the afternoon mail,” said Elizabeth, giving the letter one last look of distaste before slipping it into her pocket. “He has already shown it to his lawyer, and although Mr. Swett made a copy, Robert would like the original back.”

  Ann pursed her lips and nodded, barely managing to hold back words she knew she would later regret. Was it too much to ask that they handle their disagreements quietly, within the family? Had they not had their fill of public scandal—nearly all of it due to one headstrong, impossible, very troubled sister?

  Someone had to call Mary’s bluff, or she might never cease her threats and accusations. Neither Robert nor Ninian nor Elizabeth had managed to do it, but perhaps Robert’s lawyer would.

  There was only so much they could be expected to endure out of sisterly duty and respect for her martyred husband.

  24

  April–May 1865

  Elizabeth

  A pounding on the door late at night heralded the sudden, terrible, irrevocable transformation of their world.

  The fearsome noise roused the entire household, and all gathered in the foyer to hear the dreadful news the messenger had brought to Ninian. Earlier that evening, while Abe and Mary were attending a play at Ford’s Theater, a dark-haired man had broken into the state box and shot Abe in the back of the head at close range. A friend seated nearby had attempted to apprehend him, but the assailant had slashed him with a knife, injuring him badly, and then leapt down to the stage and fled through a rear exit. Mortally wounded, Abe had been carried across the street to the Peterson boardinghouse, where physicians were fighting to save his life.

  Elizabeth groped for a chair, stunned, ears ringing. Her blood felt as if it were frozen in her veins, and her lungs as if they would collapse for want of air. Distantly, she heard that an attempt had been made on Secretary of State William Seward’s life as well, and that he and his son had been stabbed multiple times and were close to death. Guards had been posted around the homes of Vice President Johnson and other members of the cabinet.

  “Is Abe expected to live?” Elizabeth heard herself say. Ninian looked to the messenger for an answer, but the boy, pale and stricken, merely shrugged.

  Elizabeth imagined Mary wild with grief, keening ceaselessly as she had when Willie died. And what of Robert and Tad—where were they? Although she and Mary had had another falling-out and had not spoken in ages, Elizabeth longed to comfort her sister and nephews, but hundreds of miles separated them and a telegram would have to wait until morning.

  Never had the nighttime hours dragged so slowly. Every minute seemed an eternity, and Elizabeth could do nothing but wait and weep on Ninian’s shoulder and watch the eastern sky through the window for the dawn.

  Morning came at last, gray and somber. When he was not pacing, Ninian stood at the window, gazing down the sidewalk and muttering under his breath about the long overdue messenger. Sometime after seven o’clock, a distant church bell began to toll, and then another joined it, and another, until all the bells in Springfield resounded with the terrible news. Abe is dead, Elizabeth thought, stunned and disbelieving. A moan escaped from her throat, and she collapsed into Ninian’s arms, anguished and weeping.

  The morning papers told the terrible story, but Elizabeth was too heartsick to take in more than a few scattered details. Celebrated comedienne Laura Keene, whom President Lincoln had gone to see perform that night, had identified the assassin as the actor John Wilkes Booth. After Abe had been shot, Mary, who was holding on to his arm at the time, had cried out, “Oh, why didn’t they shoot me? Why didn’t they shoot me?” In great distress, she was said to be at her husband’s bedside along with several members of his cabinet. The surgeons were doing all that could be done, but it would not be enough. “The president is slowly dying,” came a grim report dispatched at 1:15 a.m. “The brain is oozing through the ball hole in his forehead. He is, of course, insensible. There is an occasional lifting of his hand, and heavy, stentorious breathing—that is all.” Another dispatch from 3:00 a.m. stated that the president’s condition was unchanged.

  The mournful bells had offered the dreadful postscript, which telegrams and afternoon papers soon confirmed. Abe was gone. Days after Richmond had fallen and General Lee had surrendered at Appomattox, Abe had been cruelly killed, having led the nation through a devastating war only to be d
enied the blessed reward of peacetime.

  In the bleak, grief-numbed days that followed, Elizabeth rarely left home, and then only when she had no choice. Springfield, so recently the scene of merry celebrations as the end of the war appeared on the horizon, had plunged into mourning. Never had a nation plummeted so suddenly from joyful hope to utter despair. The merry bands fell silent. Flags that had waved proudly in victory were slowly lowered to half-staff. Grief-stricken citizens took refuge in churches and in the company of friends. Others found strength in righteous anger, demanding justice and retribution. Government offices and shops were darkened and closed. Every public building in Springfield and nearly every residence, be it grand or humble, was draped in the black crepe of mourning for the city’s favorite son.

  As going out in public was unbearable, Elizabeth’s sisters and their families often gathered at the Edwards home to console one another, to share news from Washington, and to avoid the press. Ann’s husband had happened to be in New York on business on that fateful Good Friday, and he had rushed to Washington to see how he could be of service to Mary and her sons. “Clark will let us know what he learns there,” said Ann. “Mary may not see him—the papers say she will see almost no one but her children and a few trusted friends and advisers—but Clark will certainly meet with Robert.”

  Ninian, too, departed for Washington as soon as he could pack a suitcase. “Will you not join me?” he asked Elizabeth. “You know how Mary is. I’m certain she needs you desperately.”

  “She has not summoned me,” Elizabeth replied, her voice curiously flat. “Nor has Robert.”

  This tragedy was not like three years before, when Willie had died and Robert had begged Elizabeth to come even in the midst of her estrangement from Mary following their quarrel over Julia’s insulting letter. Then their silence had lasted several months. This time their estrangement had been so unyielding that they had not spoken in almost two years.