“You could well be right,” Father said. He cleared his throat. “If he does keep his word, you must be on guard that he doesn’t pay you and Miss Surratt improper attentions. He is—how should I put this?—a man of the world.”
“Oh, Father.” I giggled. “I won’t let him seduce me.” Though I was thrilled beyond description at the possibility that someone thought he might try, even if that someone was only my father.
Father gave me a stern look, and I sat up straighter and sipped my tea.
“I am certain she is in good hands with Mrs. Surratt,” Peter said kindly. “Despite her regrettable proclivity for the Confederacy.”
Having finished our tea, we returned to our rooms to prepare for Mass. I was heading into the small chamber where my bed was when Father stopped me. “I have had a letter from Mrs. Surratt about you.”
I winced. I had never been in genuine trouble at school—I did not bully other students, or cheat, lie, steal, or sneak out to meet young men—but I did rather like to have things my own way, and I had been known to answer back. On several occasions, my headmistresses had sent notes home, and it had been agreed at both St. Joseph’s and the Visitation Academy at Frederick that I might be happier elsewhere. “What did she say?” I said in a small voice.
“She said that you are a delightful companion to her and Anna and that she could not be better pleased with having you in her house. I am proud of you, Nora. You have grown up into a fine young woman.”
I blinked back tears. “Thank you, Father.”
Father opened the larger of his bags. “I have something for you—besides your Christmas present. I thought you might want to wear it to church.”
He handed me a soft bundle. I gasped as I untied it. Inside the wrapping was a Kashmir shawl, full enough to cover my entire gown. I had shawls, of course, but none so large, so soft, or so beautiful as this one. “Father, it’s wonderful.”
“I bought it a couple of months ago when I traveled to New York. I was saving it for a special occasion.” My father smiled and pinched my cheek. “I found one.”
I arranged the heavy shawl until it hugged me from my shoulders to my ankles. But as we headed out in the chilly Baltimore night, it was not the warm shawl that made me glow from the inside out. It was my father’s compliment, prompted by Mrs. Surratt’s kind letter.
From that night on, I would love Mrs. Surratt as I would a mother.
5
MARY
DECEMBER 1864
With Mr. Weichmann and Miss Fitzpatrick safely bound for their respective destinations and Anna fussing over the cooking, I took the opportunity to catch Johnny alone. He was leaning against a partly open window, smoking a cigar—the reason, I surmised, for the open window. “Sorry, Ma. Last of the day, I promise. So what do you think of my new acquaintance?”
“As I haven’t met him yet, I presently think nothing about him.”
“Ah, come. Wouldn’t he make a good husband for Anna? Although she might have some competition there with Miss Fitzpatrick. I’ve never seen her so excited.”
“I’m not looking to match my daughter with an actor.”
“Not even a rich one? They say he makes a handsome sum. But it might be wise not to get Anna’s hopes up, anyway. He has his eye on a senator’s daughter.”
“You certainly did learn a lot about Mr. Booth in a short time.”
“He’s a very personable man. It was almost like meeting an old friend.”
I began to wonder who was more stagestruck, the young ladies or Johnny. “How did Mr. Booth meet Dr. Mudd?”
“The same way I did.” Johnny flicked the remnant of his cigar expertly out onto H Street and closed the window.
“You mean that Mr. Booth is a Southern man?”
“You have hit the nail on the head and pulverized it, Ma. Yes, he is, and a quite passionate one. He wants something from me in connection with that business. I’m not sure what yet. I shall find out when we meet after Christmas.”
I shook my head. As much as it pained me to think it, the South was crumbling, the city of Savannah having been President Lincoln’s Christmas present this year. Johnny was expending all of his youth and energy on a lost cause.
“Now, Ma, don’t look so glum! I know what you are thinking, and I’m going to offer you some Christmas cheer. I am employed, at a salary of fifty dollars per month. I will start work at Adams Express Company next Tuesday.”
“Truly, Johnny?”
“Truly. I wrote to offer my services with ‘a ready hand and a willing heart’—a pretty turn of phrase, I thought, and so did the agent there, for he offered me a position upon receipt of the letter.”
“You could not have given me a better Christmas present, Johnny.” The truth was, I did not have nearly enough boarders and had resorted to advertising for them, whereas I once hoped to acquire them strictly through the recommendations of mutual acquaintances. My very breath seemed to come easier with the news that Johnny would be bringing in a steady income. I had no doubt he would flourish in his job, for he had always done well when he applied himself. Perhaps—although the thought was a guilty one—he would even give up his clandestine activities. Surely having to worry about one son being felled by a Yankee bullet was enough for a mother.
6
NORA
JANUARY 1865
The New Year came in quietly and, I thought, promisingly. There was an end to the war in sight, and although I knew that end wasn’t the one Mrs. Surratt and her children were hoping for, they and everyone else would surely be better off when peace prevailed. In the meantime, I stayed busy with my convalescents—we were working through David Copperfield—and Anna occasionally lent a hand with the piano lessons at the nearby Visitation school for girls. Mr. Weichmann was still employed at the War Department, and Mr. Surratt seemed to enjoy his new job at Adams Express—at least, he said he had no complaints. As for Mrs. Surratt, she had a new boarder, a ten-year-old girl named Mary Apollonia Dean, who attended school nearby and who had not been happy at her previous lodgings.
That was the state of affairs one evening in early January when Anna and I sat side by side on the piano bench, singing a duet. I was not particularly musical—my older sister, the nun, had inherited all of the family talent in this direction—but I did enjoy singing, and no one had been known to cringe when I lifted my voice in song. Anna, on the other hand, played and sang beautifully, to the point where she could have earned her living working in a music hall, had it been respectable. So she and I were happily warbling away when the parlor door opened. As Mr. Surratt was expected any moment, we paid it no mind and carried on until we finished with a great flourish.
“Bravo!” said a voice of pure velvet. “Well played, ladies!”
Anna and I turned and found ourselves face-to-face with John Wilkes Booth. If I looked half as foolish as Anna, and I daresay I looked far more foolish, the two of us must have resembled a pair of gaping idiots. And how we were dressed! We weren’t in curl papers, fortunately, but I had my oldest shawl flung carelessly around my shoulders, and Anna’s fair hair was twisted up in a ragged knot. Neither of us would have wanted to meet a lady friend in such a condition, much less this epitome of male beauty.
For Mr. Booth was every bit as splendid as I could have imagined. To my surprise, he was not tall, but of medium height. I quickly decided tallness was an overrated trait in men, especially since I myself was short. In every other aspect, however, he was even finer than he appeared in his photographs, which could be purchased at any studio in Washington. His black hair fell in soft curls, framing a face that was lit up by deep brown eyes that I, to this day, dare not demean with any further description, lest it be inadequate. His clothing, a study in black and white, was simply yet exquisitely cut, and showed off his fine physique without at all seeming to do so.
He was, in short, sheer perfection.
“That’s a very long name,” Mr. Booth said gravely. “It rather wears out the tongue. What say we call you Miss Apples?”
Miss Dean, who clearly had not the slightest idea who Mr. Booth was, giggled. “That would be all right.”
“Hark!” Mr. Surratt turned at the sound of feet on the staircase. “Here comes Weichmann. You are now in the presence of the entire Surratt household.”
Mr. Weichmann, who generally read in his room at about this time, entered at the sound of his name. “Mr. Booth,” he said with an emphasis on the surname, “how good to see you again.”
Mr. Booth held out his hand. “You are just in time, Mr. Weichmann, to join my petition.”
“Petition?”
“To have Miss Surratt and Miss Fitzpatrick perform another song for us. I was unfortunate enough to catch only the last few minutes of their final piece.”
Anna beamed. “We would be honored, Mr. Booth.” She riffled through some sheets of music. “How about this, Nora?”
I nodded without even seeing the piece she indicated.
We squeezed together on the bench and began to play. Anna had chosen a piece where she could shine, which was reasonable, I supposed, as she was the more talented and the daughter of the house to boot. It was just as well, because I flubbed my first few notes before my instinct took over and allowed me to get through the rest creditably.
“Beautiful!” Mr. Booth clapped. “Have either of you had professional training?”
Although he had considerately addressed his question to both of us, I knew Anna was its true object, so I stayed silent as she replied, “No, indeed, only at school.”
“She won several medals at school,” Mrs. Surratt added proudly.
“And do you sing these duets every night?”
“Nearly so,” I said, startling myself to find my voice sounding so normal, as if I was speaking to any ordinary person.
“Well, it is charming. You will think me foolish for running on so upon the point, but living as I do in hotels and associating mainly with fellow bachelors, I so seldom encounter family scenes such as this, except when I visit my own people, and they are scattered now.”
I mustered the courage to make another contribution to the conversation. “I believe you have a large family, Mr. Booth?”
“Indeed, I do. You know of my brother Edwin, of course, and Junius is making a name for himself on the stage as well. Joseph lives out West and is carrying mail, the last I heard—not an easy task in San Francisco, he tells me! I confess to being closer to my sisters than my brothers. Asia is the prettiest and the most outgoing; she is the most like me, they say. Rosalie is rather shy, but a very good sort of girl. She is the best of all of us. And of course there is our mother. She makes her home with Edwin now.”
“Does she have a favorite, Mr. Booth?” Anna asked archly.
“Anna!” Mrs. Surratt said, more amused than reproving. “No mother admits to such things.”
“No, she does not mention it, as you say, Mrs. Surratt, but I believe my brothers and sisters, if pressed, would say that I was the favorite.” Mr. Booth bestowed a smile upon us. “They would probably be right, I fear, for I certainly was the most petted growing up, I believe. I could hardly be expected to object, though.”
We laughed.
“But enough about me. Your son tells me, Mrs. Surratt, that he has a brother fighting for the South.”
“I have not heard anything about him, good or ill, for several years,” Mrs. Surratt said sadly.
“I hope you will hear good of him, and soon. And you, Miss Fitzpatrick? Do you have kinsmen fighting?”
I felt myself flush with pleasure. Men seldom remembered my name, or at best remembered it only partially and called me Miss Fitzgerald. Some of the patients at the hospital, even one who rather liked me, still called me by the latter name; with all the misery they had seen, it seemed petty to correct them. “Not close ones, sir. My father is employed by a bank here in town, and my brother teaches. He wants to become a priest.”
“Miss Fitzpatrick’s sister is a nun,” added Anna, rather too precipitously.
“Do you have plans to enter a convent?”
I put my chin up. “Certainly not.”
“Well, good,” Mr. Booth said. “I have every respect for those good women, but it is a life that one should enter only if one embraces it wholeheartedly, I should think.” He turned to Miss Dean. “You, Miss Apples?”
“Only some cousins,” Miss Dean said, “and I don’t like them anyway.”
“Well, that is a comfortable way of looking at it,” Mr. Booth said. He grinned, showing teeth I need hardly say were perfect, and turned his attention to Mrs. Surratt. “Mrs. Surratt, I have been enjoying the company of your son very much over the last few weeks. I sought an introduction to him in the purely selfish hope that he could smooth out a business transaction for me, but I found his company so amusing, we have become friends.”
Mrs. Surratt glowed with motherly pride. “Business with Dr. Mudd, sir?”
“Yes. I grew up in Maryland, in the country and in Baltimore, and I have been considering buying some property in Charles County for a country retreat. Dr. Mudd owns land that would be ideal for my purpose. But, alas, he is proving to be intractable as to price, in spite of Mr. Surratt’s efforts. I am prepared to be reasonable, but he really is demanding too much. I must live, after all, and he would leave me absolutely land poor. But it is such pretty country. I hope he will relent.”
We all clucked our tongues sympathetically at Mr. Booth’s sad predicament. “I hope he sees reason, Mr. Booth,” Anna said. “I should think that with the war, and times so hard, he would be happy to sell. I’m sure your offer is perfectly fair.”
“I wonder if he’s waiting until the war ends, so he can sell at a higher price,” I said darkly. “A detestable man.”
“I may have to replace you as my agent for the negotiations, John,” Mr. Booth said solemnly. “The young ladies plainly surpass you as an advocate.”
At that moment, my cat wandered in. He was a white cat, greatly prone to shedding, and I knew from experience he would be drawn as if to a lodestar to Mr. Booth’s smart black pantaloons unless I intervened. “Here, Mr. Rochester,” I said, gathering him up as he yowled in protest. “Sit with me.”
“Mr. Rochester? We have an admirer of Miss Charlotte Brontë here, I see.”
“Yes, sir. Have you read her novels?”
“Why, of course. Who hasn’t?”
“I haven’t,” offered Mr. Weichmann. I had forgotten he was in the room.
“Mr. Weichmann believes that novels are frivolous,” Anna said.
“That is not true,” Mr. Weichmann protested. “You have seen me read Dickens countless times here.”
“I really pay little attention to what you read, Mr. Weichmann.”
I stole a look at Mr. Booth to see if he was put off by this bickering and was relieved to see he looked amused. Perhaps this too reminded him of home.
Mr. Booth stayed for another hour or so, guiding but never dominating the conversation, always seeing to it that no one was left out. When he rose to leave, he shook the men’s hands and kissed the women’s. “I hope you will come again,” Mrs. Surratt said. “It has been a delightful evening.”
“I certainly shall, madam.” Mr. Booth flashed a parting smile, leaving Anna and me bedazzled.
7
MARY
JANUARY 1865
“So how did
you like our guest?” Johnny asked the evening of Mr. Booth’s visit to our house.
“I liked him very much. I was surprised that so famous a man should be so easy and natural. He could have been one of our neighbors from Surrattsville, practically.”
“Only much better looking. I’m glad you liked him, Ma, because I have to leave town for a few days on account of his business.”
“Leave town? You mean, take leave from your job?”
“Yes.”
“But you have been working there only for a short time.”
“Twelve days,” Johnny said gloomily. “I haven’t done the arithmetic for the hours yet. Too depressing.”
“Johnny, you can’t just take leave from a job you’ve held only for a couple of weeks! Not without a good reason.”
“I have a good reason. I will be escorting you to Surrattsville on business, as your protector.”
“Johnny, you know perfectly well I am making no such journey. That is a blatant lie.”
“But in a good cause.”
“What cause? Mr. Booth’s land negotiations with Dr. Mudd? Surely you could write a letter to Dr. Mudd instead of taking leave and losing pay. If you’re even allowed leave.”
“Ma—” Johnny peeked through the folding doors of the parlor into the bedroom, where little Miss Dean was snoring slightly on her trundle bed. The young ladies had scurried up to one of the attic rooms after Mr. Booth’s departure, stars in their eyes. In a low voice he said, “There are no land negotiations. As I thought, Booth wanted my help with something for the Confederacy.”
“Courier work?”
“No, although he’s done a bit of that himself in his traveling about.”
“Then what is it?”
“I can’t say. But it is important. Far more important than anything I am doing for the express company.”
Hanging Mary: A Novel Page 4