Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  What were not distributed as relics and mementoes were loosely packed into fifty or sixty boxes and a score of trunks. Privately Elizabeth believed that many of the things Mrs. Lincoln insisted upon taking with her were not worth carrying away, but she went along with it when she observed that the work of sorting and folding and packing occupied Mrs. Lincoln so completely that she had far less time for lamentation.

  Into the boxes and trunks went all the bonnets Mrs. Lincoln had brought with her four years before from Springfield, along with every one she had purchased since coming to Washington. “I may find use for the material someday,” she replied when Elizabeth carefully asked if she meant to take even those that were no longer in fashion and had not been worn in years. “It is prudent to look to the future.”

  Elizabeth, still unhappy with her reluctant decision to accompany Mrs. Lincoln, pressed her lips together rather than declare that she wished Mrs. Lincoln’s foresight with regard to the future had not been confined to the present moment, and to worn-out clothing. Patience, she counseled herself. She knew she was tired and disgruntled, and grieving too in her own way. Mrs. Lincoln needed her to be steadfast and sensible. First Ladies—and queens too, she supposed—could fall apart from grief, but women like Elizabeth could not.

  During their time in the White House, Mrs. Lincoln and her children had received many gifts from admirers and dignitaries, and those too were packed up for Chicago. Mrs. Lincoln took no furniture with her save a dressing stand her husband had particularly liked and that the commissioner had given her permission to keep for Tad. Mrs. Lincoln replaced it with another, equally fine piece, but Elizabeth observed that other furnishings had disappeared from the executive mansion, carried off by servants and visitors after the steward was dismissed and no one was superintending affairs. Elizabeth was dismayed to see so much of Mrs. Lincoln’s lovely and expensive refurbishment of the White House being stealthily undone, day by day, but Mrs. Lincoln seemed too distracted to notice.

  Robert was often in the room where his mother and Elizabeth were packing boxes, and he argued in vain that she should set fire to her vast stores of old goods, or at the very least leave them behind. “What are you going to do with that old dress, Mother?” he asked, scowling and nudging a box with the toe of his boot as she folded yet another garment and tucked it away.

  “Never mind, Robert,” she replied. “I will find use for it. You do not understand this business.”

  “And what is more, I hope I never may understand it,” retorted Robert, gesturing impatiently to the piles. “I wish to heaven the car in which you place these boxes for transportation to Chicago would take fire, and burn all of your old plunder up.” He turned on his heel and strode from the room.

  Elizabeth had watched his tirade from the corner of her eye, saying nothing. She agreed with him that Mrs. Lincoln would probably never put any of the old clothes to good use, but she disapproved utterly of his arrogant, disrespectful tone.

  “Robert is so impetuous,” Mrs. Lincoln said, making excuse for her son, as if she could read Elizabeth’s thoughts. “He never thinks of the future. Well, I hope that he will get over his boyish notions in time.”

  “I’m sure he would not speak to you this way if he were not grieving.”

  “He has spoken to me this way for years,” Mrs. Lincoln reminded her, and then she sighed. “Elizabeth, I may see the day when I shall be obliged to sell a portion of my wardrobe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Congress does not do something for me, then my dresses someday may have to go to bring food into my mouth, and the mouths of my children.”

  “Surely it will never come to that,” Elizabeth hastened to assure her. She did not like to imagine the dresses she had so painstakingly fashioned being haggled over like apples in a market, sold off for as much as they could fetch before they spoiled.

  Later, upon reflection, Elizabeth realized that perhaps Robert thought quite a bit about the future. His had certainly undergone enormous change in the weeks since his father’s murder. On April 14, he was a proud Union officer, courting the lovely young Miss Mary Harlan and intending to study the law. Now he was the head of a household, planning to leave Washington for Chicago—and like herself, he knew not for how long. In the midst of his own grief, he surely also felt terribly disappointed for himself, responsible for his only surviving brother, and worried about his unstable mother. That did not excuse his impertinence, but it did make his behavior more understandable, and more forgivable.

  At last everything, worthless and invaluable alike, was packed, and the day of their departure arrived. As she accompanied Mrs. Lincoln from the White House, Elizabeth was stunned almost breathless by the stark contrast with Mr. Lincoln’s final leave-taking, when his casket was carried from the hall in a grand and solemn state. Thousands had gathered to bow their heads reverently as the plumed hearse bore him off to the Capitol rotunda surrounded by the mournful pomp of military display—battalions with reversed arms, the riderless horse with boots turned about in the stirrups, the flags at half-staff, the melancholy strains of funeral dirges. Mrs. Lincoln left to complete indifference, the only music the chirping of birds, with scarcely anyone to bid her farewell. The silence was almost painful.

  On the threshold, Mrs. Lincoln paused for a moment, drew a deep, shaky breath, and took Tad’s hand in hers. “Come along,” she said, eyes fixed straight ahead. She left the White House without looking back, boarded her carriage, settled herself as the rest of her party climbed in after her, and said nothing more as they drove to the depot to board the private green railcar that had so often carried Mrs. Lincoln to and from the capital and New York City.

  Before long the train puffed and chugged away from the station. Until they left the city limits, every exhalation of steam from the engine seemed to Elizabeth a great sigh of relief—Washington City, glad to see the last of Mrs. Lincoln, who had never been good enough for their great, martyred president and now could be forgotten.

  They were a small party—Mrs. Lincoln, Robert, and Tad; Elizabeth; Dr. Anson Henry, a longtime friend of the family and Mr. Lincoln’s former personal physician; and Thomas Cross and William Crook, two White House guards who had been assigned to escort the Lincoln family back to Illinois. Not long after the train headed westward, Mrs. Lincoln began to complain of one of her terrible, head-splitting migraines, so Dr. Henry dosed her with laudanum, and Elizabeth bathed her temples with cool water. “Lizzie, you are my best and kindest friend,” Mrs. Lincoln told her drowsily, reclining with her eyes shut, her face pale. “I love you as my best friend. I wish it were in my power to make you comfortable for the balance of your days.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Lincoln,” said Elizabeth, touched. “For now, let’s think about how to make you comfortable.”

  Mrs. Lincoln grasped her arm. “If Congress provides for me, depend upon it, I will provide for you.”

  Gently Elizabeth patted her hand, thanked her, and urged her to rest quietly.

  Mrs. Lincoln slept soundly that night, and the next morning she felt well enough to sit up and gaze out the window. For hours she seemed distracted, dazed, while Elizabeth sat sewing quietly nearby, keeping an eye on her.

  “What’s that you’re making?” Mrs. Lincoln suddenly asked. “A quilt?”

  “That’s right.” Elizabeth set her needle and fabric pieces on her lap and handed her one of the completed sections, seven small pieces joined together, a light center hexagon encircled by six dark. “I’ve just begun. You know I’m not accustomed to idleness, and dressmaking is too difficult to do well with the motion of the train.”

  “Such small pieces, and such fine stitches.” Mrs. Lincoln peered closer. “These fabrics look familiar.”

  “They’re scraps left over from making your dresses,” said Elizabeth. “I’m glad you recognize them. Each one seems to me like an old friend, and when my gaze falls upon one, I remember the gown cut from the same cloth, and the grand occasion
for which it was made.”

  “What a lovely idea.” Mrs. Lincoln returned the quilt pieces, and her gaze went back to the window. “A memory album made of fabric. It is just the thing.”

  She paused so long, Elizabeth thought she was finished, but then she added in a barely audible whisper, “Unless it is too painful to remember.”

  Fifty-four hours after they set out from Washington, their train arrived in Chicago. No one met them at the station; Elizabeth did not know who might have met them, if indeed anyone knew they were coming. Mrs. Lincoln had arranged for rooms at the Tremont House, a luxurious hotel on the southeast corner of Lake Street and Dearborn. “My husband began his Senate campaign from that balcony,” Mrs. Lincoln said as they descended from the carriage, indicating the place above by lifting her chin. “Back in 1860, it served as the headquarters for the Illinois Republican Party during the Republican National Convention. My, how they rallied around my husband here in those days!”

  Robert glanced at the impressive edifice, tugging on his ear thoughtfully. “Isn’t this also where Senator Douglas died?”

  Mrs. Lincoln’s lips thinned. “Yes,” she said sourly. “It is that too.” She swept inside, and without another word, they all trailed after her.

  Elizabeth was astounded by her sumptuous room. Never had she stayed anyplace so fine, and her heart sank with dismay when she estimated the likely expenses. Mrs. Lincoln had become accustomed to the grandeur of the White House, and she apparently expected to keep herself in that style. Elizabeth realized that as her friend and companion, it fell to her to warn Mrs. Lincoln that she would soon bankrupt herself if she persisted in that way. Just as she gathered her courage, Mrs. Lincoln spared her the onerous duty by reaching the same conclusion herself. “Everything here is so very fine, and so very dear,” she confessed to Elizabeth, sighing heavily. “We cannot stay. I cannot fall into further financial embarrassment.”

  She dispatched Robert to find them less expensive accommodations, and within a week Robert proposed they move to the Hyde Park Hotel, a quiet retreat seven miles from the city center on the shore of Lake Michigan at Fifty-third Street. The village of Hyde Park, population five hundred, was a cool, lovely spot that had become a popular summer escape for well-to-do Chicagoans. The hotel’s owner, Mr. Paul Cornell, a Chicago lawyer and developer for whom Mr. Lincoln had once done some legal work, told Robert that he would consider it a great honor if Mrs. Lincoln decided to reside there.

  And so she did.

  They traveled by train, arriving in Hyde Park at about three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Elizabeth was struck by the newness of the hotel, which had opened only the previous summer and still smelled faintly of pine boards. The accommodations were markedly different from Tremont House, the rooms comfortable but small and plainly furnished. Most of Mrs. Lincoln’s boxes and trunks had been stored in a warehouse upon their arrival, but what remained they unpacked. Elizabeth helped Mrs. Lincoln put away her clothes, and then she assisted Robert as he unpacked his books and arranged them on shelves in the corner of his room. They chatted pleasantly all the while, and when they were finished, Robert folded his arms, stood by the mantel, and gazed into space as if the weight of his change of fortune, the dramatic contrast between the past and the present, had just become real to him. “Well, Mrs. Keckley,” he eventually said, “how do you like our new quarters?”

  “This is a delightful place,” said Elizabeth, “and I think you will pass your time pleasantly.”

  He studied her quizzically for a moment, as if he had expected a different answer. “You call it a delightful place. Well, perhaps it is.” He looked around the small but neat room, and she realized then that he saw it quite differently than she—cramped and spartan. “Since you do not have to stay here, you can safely say as much about the charming situation as you please. I presume that I must put up with it, as my mother’s pleasure must be consulted before my own. But candidly, I would almost as soon be dead as be compelled to remain three months in this dreary house.”

  If he had not said “almost,” Elizabeth thought wryly, she might have accused him of exaggeration. She watched as he went to the window and gazed out upon the lovely scenery with a moody, querulous expression. Muffling a sigh, she excused herself, left him to his brood, and went to check on Mrs. Lincoln, who had retired to her room to rest before they sent down to the kitchen for their supper. Elizabeth had listened to Mrs. Lincoln’s sobbing for eight weeks, so she was not surprised to find her lying on the bed, weeping as if her heart was broken. Elizabeth backed quietly into the hallway and slowly began to pull the door shut, but Mrs. Lincoln had heard her enter and rolled over to see who had disturbed her.

  “What a dreary place, Elizabeth,” she lamented, propping herself up on her elbow and wiping tears from the corner of her eyes with her other wrist. “And to think that I should be compelled to live here, because I have not the means to live elsewhere. Ah! What a sad change has come to us all.”

  “It is not so bad,” Elizabeth said, seating herself in the spindle chair beside the bed. “The views are lovely, and the breeze from the lake is refreshing.” She reached out her hand. “Come and see it with me.”

  Mrs. Lincoln shook her head and fell back against the pillow. “I couldn’t bear it. How could I enjoy any small beauty when my husband lies in his grave and I know not what will become of me and my poor sons?”

  Elizabeth sighed softly. “Very well. As you wish.” She excused herself, found Tad playing alone in his room, and took him outside instead. He held her hand and chattered excitedly as they walked to the lakeshore, and once there he tore himself free and ran whooping and hollering down to the water. Together they walked along the beach, picking up smooth, round stones, stacking the prettiest and most interesting in a pile by the grass to take back to their rooms, flinging the rest into the lake one by one so they might enjoy the satisfying splashes.

  Sunday dawned quiet and peaceful. From her window, Elizabeth looked out upon the beautiful lake, only one of many enchanting views from the hotel she had discovered. The wind rippled the broad, blue expanse of the water, and sunbeams made the waves sparkle like scattered jewels. Here and there a sailboat silently glided by or disappeared below the faint blue line of the horizon. Her thoughts turned toward the heavenly realm to which she aspired, the sunbeams on the water suggesting crowns studded with the jewels of eternal life. Elizabeth could not fathom how anyone could consider Hyde Park a dreary place, when it shone so brilliantly with light and life. She would be happy to rest there. She had seen so much trouble in her life, and she was weary, and knowing that she had to shepherd Mrs. Lincoln through her misery made her wearier still, and reluctant to leave her room and face the day. She would almost prefer to fold her arms and sink into an eternal slumber, so that the great longing of her soul for peaceful rest would at last be gratified.

  Robert spent the day in his room with his books, while Elizabeth remained in Mrs. Lincoln’s, describing the many charming features of their new accommodations Mrs. Lincoln had perhaps not noticed in her grief, speaking plainly but gently about how Mrs. Lincoln’s present circumstances were different from what she had come to expect as her due and encouraging her to plan for the future. Mrs. Lincoln refused to think beyond the summer, insisting that she wanted to live in seclusion all that while. “Old faces will only bring back memories of scenes I wish to forget,” she said, “and new faces could not possibly sympathize with my distress, or add to the comforts of my situation.”

  Elizabeth disagreed but could not persuade her otherwise. Overnight, however, Mrs. Lincoln evidently relented enough to allow herself to ponder Tad’s future, for on Monday morning, after Robert went into Chicago on business, she told Tad that he was going to have a lesson every morning, beginning that very day.

  Tad protested that he did not want a lesson, to which Mrs. Lincoln replied that in that case she supposed he wanted to grow up to be a great dunce. “You must do as Mother tells you, Tad,” she said firml
y. “You are getting to be a big boy now, and must start school next fall. You would not like to go to school without knowing how to read.”

  Tad considered her words, perhaps imagining his humiliation if he were the only boy in his class who could not read, and then bounded to his feet, declaring that he did want a lesson after all and that he must have his book and start right away. Elizabeth looked on, amused, as Mrs. Lincoln seated herself in the easy chair and Tad pulled his own smaller chair up alongside, his book on his lap. The scene would have pleased Mr. Lincoln very much, Elizabeth thought. Tad had been humored and pampered by his parents, especially by his father. Tad suffered from a lisp and had never been sent to school, and so he did not know his book at all well. Elizabeth had never understood how two parents who valued knowledge and learning as much as the Lincolns did could have neglected Tad’s education, so she was pleased to see that Mrs. Lincoln meant to make up for lost time. It was not only for Tad’s sake that Elizabeth approved of this new plan. As much as Tad needed to learn his letters, Mrs. Lincoln needed some worthy endeavor to occupy her time and thoughts.