Hanging Mary: A Novel

by Susan Higginbotham

  Nora nodded. “It is becoming unbearable, not knowing.”

  I was getting ready to reprove them when we heard Mrs. Slater’s light footstep coming downstairs. “Can I bring you anything else to eat?” I asked her.

  “No, indeed, Mrs. Surratt. I am perfectly fine now. I think now that everyone has gone to their offices, I will go for a morning walk. It is such a crisp, clear—”

  A key turned in the front door, and Johnny loped into the parlor. “Why, Mrs. Slater! Are you ready for our trip?”

  With a flick of her tiny hand, Mrs. Slater swept her veil back. The face revealed was exemplary, without a single mark or scar, except for a tiny, perfectly placed beauty mole. “Mr. Surratt,” she cooed in a voice that was suddenly far more Southern than Northern, and with a hint of French, “how lovely to see you!”

  14

  NORA

  MARCH 1865

  At first, I did not trouble myself too much about the comings and goings at Mrs. Surratt’s. It was a boardinghouse, after all, and—as my father took care to remind me every time I saw him—Washington was teeming with odd sorts of people brought here by the war. One would have to be shut in a nunnery to avoid them. Instead, I rather enjoyed the parade of people so far removed from anyone I’d seen at Georgetown Visitation, or at the Misses Donovan’s house.

  Then came the lady in the veil, a Mrs. Slater. A lady who could not have been much older than myself, as I learned once I finally saw her features. She stayed for one night, keeping her veil down more determinedly than Esther Summerson after the smallpox. Only when Mr. Surratt ambled in from one of his unexplained absences did she lift the veil, to reveal not the ravages of disease but a very pretty visage. Why had she kept her face hidden all that time?

  I was not the only one wondering, I suspected. Almost as soon as Mr. Surratt had come home, he and Mrs. Slater had departed in a buggy—in itself a little odd, I thought, for surely there were more suitable escorts for a pretty young married woman than a young bachelor. But Mrs. Slater must have packed hastily, for soon after Mr. Weichmann came home from work, he appeared in the parlor with a dainty pair of women’s slippers in his hand. “I think Cinderella left two slippers behind, Mrs. Surratt.”

  Perhaps it was because she was tired from cooking that afternoon, but Mrs. Surratt had just scowled, and kept on scowling even after Mr. Weichmann made all of us ladies in the boardinghouse try on Mrs. Slater’s slippers. Only Miss Dean could fit into them, and even she would probably not be able to once she became a year or two older.

  Where had Mrs. Slater and Mr. Surratt gone? And where did Mr. Surratt go on all of these trips of his? As I sat at church that afternoon with a number of other young ladies, painting china for the upcoming fair, I pondered these questions. Without having any business to attend to that I could tell, he was always coming and going. Furthermore, despite his lack of employment, he dressed well and never seemed short of cash, yet I had gathered Mrs. Surratt did not have much of that to spare. She had once commented, when Father paid my board a little ahead of time, how nice it was to have it; since then, my father had always brought it by early. Anna certainly did not have much spending money; were it not for the piano lessons she gave a couple of little girls from church, I doubted she would have had any at all.

  I decided to raise the question with Anna as we walked home from St. Aloysius Church, located over by Swampoodle north of the Capitol. “Anna, where does Johnny go on those trips of his?”

  “To Surrattsville, I suppose.”

  “But he doesn’t like it there. I’ve heard him say so often enough. And doesn’t your mother have a tenant there? He surely can’t want Johnny interfering. And who is that lady?”

  “How should I know? You’re as nosy as Mr. Weichmann.”

  “I am not. I am only curious. And surely, since I am paying to live here, I should be allowed to know something of the people I live with.”

  “You’re not paying, your father is.”

  “All the more reason. He would not want me to be living with someone who is disreputable.” Anna’s eyes were flashing, so I hastened to add, “I don’t think he is disreputable, of course, but Father might. I want only to make sure that he does not take me away from here because of some misunderstanding.”

  “I don’t think I am at liberty to discuss my brother’s affairs.”

  “Don’t you trust me? You have confided in me before, and I have never betrayed your confidence. I even went to the National with you to spy on Miss Hale.”

  “We were not spying on her. We were merely watching her.”

  “Regardless, I never said a word to anyone. Did I?”

  “I’m not even sure what I think is true. He’s never told me anything about what he does, and neither has Ma, though she must know. Ever since Father died and left Johnny as the man of the house with Isaac gone, they treat me like a child, even though I’m older than Johnny.” Anna’s eyes flashed again, but this time I was not their target. “Why shouldn’t I tell you, then? I believe that Johnny runs the blockade, and that he carries messages to Richmond.”

  “Really?” I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, but this was certainly more than I had anticipated. “Are you sure?”

  “First you ask me to tell you, and then you ask whether I am sure.” Anna waved away my apology in what I thought of as her best grand duchess manner. “But yes, I am sure, or as sure as I can be without following Johnny around. I heard him and Ma arguing about it once. Ma wishes he would get a regular job.”

  “It must be dangerous.”

  “That’s what Ma says to Johnny.”

  “So is Mrs. Slater a courier too? Or a spy?”

  “I imagine she is.”

  “Do you think they’re”—I looked around before saying the word—“lovers?”

  Anna nodded in her most worldly manner. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”

  I giggled. “No wonder your poor mother was glaring at her so. Maybe she’s not even married.” I cast my mind back over the other people who had frequented the house lately. “That consumptive Mr. Howell. Do you think he’s one of them?”

  “Oh, certainly.”

  “And Port Tobacco?” He had come by the boardinghouse a few times lately, slightly better dressed than when I first met him but somehow not much less grimy looking.

  “Lord no, Nora. Johnny just makes use of him once in a while. Who would trust him with such business?”

  “I wonder if Mr. Booth is involved.”

  Anna stopped so quickly that she nearly lost her balance in her hoop. “How can you even think such a thing? Lumping Mr. Booth in with that Port Tobacco creature, and that strumpet Mrs. Slater?”

  “I was just thinking aloud. He and your brother do spend a lot of time together, and you yourself said you thought he supported the South. And isn’t Mr. Surratt handling some business for Mr. Booth?”

  “Respectable business. Aboveboard business, for Mr. Mudd’s estates.”

  “But no one’s mentioned that for weeks.”

  “Maybe it fell through, and Mr. Booth simply likes my brother’s company. Johnny is well bred, after all.”

  I smiled, remembering Mr. Surratt’s drunken duet with Mr. Weichmann. Fortunately, Anna did not catch my smile. “Mr. Booth didn’t look happy the day of the inauguration.”

  “What sensible person would?”

  “I should think you’d like to have Mr. Booth on your brother’s side.”

  “I would, but the idea of him sneaking about is too nonsensical. Anyway, I don’t really approve of what Johnny’s doing. It’s dangerous, and it upsets Ma, I know.”

  “I can’t help but wonder.”

  “I think you read too many novels, Nora.”

  “Which reminds me,” I said. “Let’s stop by the bookstore. I have not bought the latest installment of Our Mutual Friend.”


  • • •

  Every other day, I stopped in at the post office and called for my mail. I was seldom disappointed, for between my sister in Baltimore, my brother in Boston, some school friends, and some relatives on my mother’s side, there was always a chance some correspondence would be there for me. Since Private Flanagan’s release from the hospital, however, I had been checking every day, though I felt rather foolish in doing so.

  Today, however, underneath a letter written in a school friend’s elegant script, was a rather grubby-looking envelope addressed to me in a sprawling hand. I knew it could be from no one else than my hospital friend.

  It took me a while to read my letter, between the left-handed penmanship and the spelling, but I smiled the entire time I read. Private Flanagan had kept his promise and not written anything that could be construed as lover-like. Instead, he wrote about his dog, who had been glad to see him, and his younger brothers, who had been as well until they realized he had come to share their bed again. (There, Private Flanagan, considering it indelicate to write the word bed, had scratched it out, struggled to find another word, and finally written it again, with “EXCUSE WORD!” written beside it.) He had not found work yet, but his priest and an old friend of his father’s were doing the best they could to help him, and perhaps when he wrote me next, he would be “AN EMPLOYED MAN!” Private Flanagan, I gathered, put a great deal of faith in capital letters and exclamation marks. He had signed his letter “YOURS TRULY,” amended that to “YOUR FRIEND,” and finally settled on “YOUR HUMBEL SERVANT.”

  I put the letter in my purse—I did not need to fold it, as Private Flanagan had done such a thorough job of that himself—and walked home, lost in thought. I had not entirely expected Private Flanagan to keep his promise to write to me. Now that he had, what did this mean for me? Could I love a poor man, an uneducated man?

  But Private Flanagan was educated enough to write an intelligible letter, and as my father often said, no man in America had to remain poor forever. And in any case, I was being a bit presumptuous. New York City had its share of young women, and no doubt one might come across Private Flanagan’s way. One whom he didn’t have to communicate with by letter. One whom he could court in person, and walk out with wherever people in New York did their walking out.

  But in the meantime, I might as well enjoy my new correspondent, which meant I would have to write my own letter to Private Flanagan. I didn’t think I could do nearly as good a job as he had.

  • • •

  That very night, we had a familiar guest at the boardinghouse: Mr. Wood.

  That wasn’t the name he gave us, though. He called himself Mr. Lewis Payne. I could hardly forget his height, however, or his build, or his black hair, as straight as Mr. Booth’s was curly. Unlike the last time he had come here, he was elegantly dressed in a gray suit that looked new. I remembered he said he had worked in a china shop, but this evening, he introduced himself as a Baptist preacher. He didn’t look like any of the men of the cloth I had known, but admittedly my clerical acquaintance was confined almost entirely to Catholic priests.

  Maybe this was what men meant by “muscular Christianity,” I thought as I gazed at the burly Mr. Payne.

  I had barely seen him during his last visit, as he had spent most of the evening in his room, but this time, he was downright sociable, as a preacher should be. Scarcely after he seated himself in the parlor, he inquired whether any of we ladies were musical, and being told that Anna possessed the talent in that regard, he begged her to favor us with a song. Anna, of course, obliged, and Mr. Payne opened the piano lid for her with a flourish almost worthy of Mr. Booth.

  Mr. Weichmann too was giving Mr. Payne a quizzical look, but I was seated too far from him to share my thoughts. When Anna finished, to general applause, Mr. Payne looked at me and said in Mr. Wood’s high voice, “Do you play, miss? Or would you like to favor us with a song?”

  “I don’t play nearly as well as Miss Surratt,” I said. “But thank you for asking, Mr. Wood.” I had not meant to address him as such—truly—but it had slipped out, and when it did, I saw Mr. Weichmann’s face was a study in enlightenment.

  No one else took any notice of my slip of the tongue, however, except for Mr. Payne himself, who shot me an imploring look. I supposed he was one of Mr. Surratt’s associates, so I said nothing more, and when we sat down to play cards, it was with Mr. Payne and not with Mr. Wood. “Do you have a church, Mr. Payne?” I asked.

  “Not at the moment. I preach here and there.” Mr. Payne gave a glimmer of a smile. “I don’t guess you would want to hear a sermon.”

  “Maybe on Sunday,” I demurred.

  “I should be interested in hearing your sermon when you give one,” Mr. Weichmann said. “As I am weighing the question of going into the priesthood, it is a subject that interests me, and I have never been in a Baptist church.”

  “It’s different from a Catholic church, I reckon,” Mr. Payne said.

  “Have you ever been to one of our churches, sir? I would be happy to take you.”

  “No, I haven’t. I’ll take you up on that offer sometime, sir.”

  “Your first convert, Mr. Weichmann,” Anna said.

  “Oh, I am not attempting to convert Mr. Payne. I only think that it is a good thing to visit churches of another denomination from time to time. It is broadening. Don’t you think so, sir?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought.” Mr. Payne studied his cards. “No harm in it, I reckon.”

  “Odd preacher,” Mrs. Holohan hissed to me later that evening when I went upstairs to repay her for some thread she had given me. “I don’t think he will save many souls.”

  • • •

  A few days later, the day before I was to go on a visit to Baltimore, Mr. Surratt turned up with a ten-dollar box ticket to see The Tragedy of Jane Shore at Ford’s Theatre, courtesy of Mr. Booth. As I could not resist such an opportunity, I eagerly assented when Miss Holohan had to decline. She and Miss Dean had been the original recipients of the invitation. It was so typical of Mr. Booth, I thought, that he should ask the littlest two girls in the house, who were the least likely to be included in such an invitation, to enjoy an evening at Ford’s.

  “Who is going with us?” asked Miss Dean.

  “Why, me, of course, and Mr. Payne,” Mr. Surratt said, glancing at the latter, who looked less than enthusiastic. Perhaps Baptists did not approve of the theater.

  “I have a mind to go myself,” Mr. Weichmann said, snatching the ticket out of Mr. Surratt’s hand.

  Miss Dean, evidently thinking the precious ticket was going to be destroyed, shrieked as Mr. Surratt deftly snatched the ticket back, then gave Mr. Weichmann a good-natured punch in the belly. “Not tonight, old man. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “But perhaps your blue cloak can go. Mr. Payne will strike a more dashing figure with it, and Anna’s not here to take umbrage at it.”

  This struck me as a rather rude request of one who had been left out of the theater party, but Mr. Weichmann merely snorted, said, “Fine by me,” and headed upstairs.

  “We’ll make a bachelor party of it next time, Weichmann,” Mr. Surratt promised when Mr. Weichmann returned with his cloak, part of the blue attire he and his fellow War Department employees were occasionally required to wear for drills. “But Booth specifically requested the presence of Mr. Payne, myself, and the ladies, and the box only holds four.” He nodded at Miss Dean and me on the sofa. “And their skirts will make it a tight fit at that.”

  Mr. Surratt had hired a hack for us, which soon arrived. Mr. Payne had me in his charge, and Mr. Surratt had Miss Dean. As we stepped inside the hack, I felt grateful for our respective pairings, as I was still angry with Mr. Surratt for referring to me as an old maid, all the more so because I had not been supposed to see the letter in question and therefore could not take him to task properly. I had not expected the laconic Mr.
Payne to be much of an escort, but to my surprise, he roused himself to what for him must have been a veritable fever pitch of conversation. “You said you were going to Baltimore tomorrow, Miss Fitzpatrick. Do you have family there?”

  “My sister lives there, and I will probably see her, but she is not the purpose of my visit, as she is a cloistered nun. I will be staying with a school friend.”

  “I was in Baltimore not long ago. I—”

  “Tell me, Mr. Payne. What do you know of this play?”

  I frowned at Mr. Surratt for this rather rude interruption, but Mr. Payne appeared indifferent. “Nothing. Who was Jane Shore?”

  “Not to be discussed before ladies, Mr. Payne.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mr. Surratt. It’s history.” I turned to Mr. Payne. “She was a mistress of King Edward IV, sir. Shakespeare wrote about her in his play about Richard III.”

  “The king with all of the wives?”

  “No. The king with the hunchback.”

  Having set Mr. Payne straight on the English monarchy, I settled myself more comfortably in the hack and gazed down at the theatergoers who were traveling via shank’s mare below us. What a pleasure it was, not to have the hem of my best gown dragging in the Washington mud!

  When we entered the theater, I saw that Ford’s was as elegant as it had been when I saw Mr. Booth play Richard III there back in the fall of 1863. The only thing different was my box seat, in contrast to the twenty-five-cent family circle seats into which Father and I had squeezed ourselves then. Taking my seat and letting my skirts billow around me, I found myself pitying Mr. Weichmann, left out of this excursion.

  I did not concern myself with Mr. Weichmann’s plight long, however, but settled down to enjoy the first show of the evening. It was a marvelously tragic play, in which the unfortunate Jane Shore, bereft of her royal lover through his death, menaced by Lord Hastings, betrayed by her one female friend, and persecuted by wicked King Richard, finally succumbs to death in the arms of her cast-off husband, arrived too late to save her from the king’s clutches. My appreciation of it was unhampered by the occasional soft snores of Miss Dean, who indeed was up past her bedtime, and who fell asleep during the second act, rather to the amusement of the audience, which watched us on the occasions where their attention was diverted by a quiet moment onstage. Mr. Payne seemed to be hampered by some difficulty in following the plot, and Mr. Surratt watched Mistress Shore’s misery unfold with the detached enjoyment of one accustomed to sorrow befalling other people. But I compensated for all of the deficiencies of the rest by dissolving into tears early on, and remaining in that teary state until the curtain finally dropped. I was still sniffling when Mr. Booth poked his curly head into our box. “I see you are liking the play, Miss Fitzpatrick.”