“Do you think you shall be sufficiently recovered by then?” Governor Sprague inquired.
“I am certain I shall be.”
He smiled, amused and knowing. “Then it would be my honor to escort you.”
She managed to smile in return, hoping fervently that color was not rising in her cheeks, as she handed him her dance card. He wrote in his name, returned the card to her with a bow, gave his compliments to the ladies, and strolled away, only to return a few minutes later to claim her for the dance she had promised.
It was another lancers, and the movement of the figure was such that it was blessedly difficult to converse. He seemed perfectly content to hold her hands and whirl about or step to this side or the other as the figure required, judging by his smile, warm and amused and almost too familiar. She smiled back, polite but aloof, and as they danced, she began to feel annoyed, but she could not have said whether his behavior or hers provoked the feeling. Instead of asking her to dance, Governor Sprague should have apologized for his ill-mannered behavior at the ball in Cleveland. Instead of allowing him to engage her, she should have pretended that her dance card was full, except for necessary rests, and ignored him for the rest of the evening. It bothered her that he disconcerted her so, she who conversed easily with the greatest political minds of the age, her father’s allies as well as his rivals, impressing them with her wit and intelligence. Why did this so-called Boy Governor fluster her, and fascinate her? She ought to be too offended to speak to him, but instead, knowing and not quite believing how he had already crossed the line of propriety so brazenly and without remorse, she was compelled to see what he might do next. It was as if she expected and dreaded that something even more shocking might yet unfold and could not tear her eyes away, as if she were watching a carriage crash from a great distance.
She was not sure whether she was more disappointed or relieved that he conducted himself as a perfect gentleman. She almost began to wonder if her mind had played tricks on her the previous September, if she had merely imagined him pulling her close and murmuring in her ear, but before she could frame a question she noticed a commotion near the front entrance. The music quickly died away and dancing was abruptly suspended as word swept through the ballroom that the president had arrived. Everyone turned expectantly to the doorway, and soon President Lincoln appeared, accompanied by Vice-President Hamlin and Senator Anthony of Rhode Island. A burst of applause greeted them, and the band struck up “Hail, Columbia.”
Following the president and his companions was Mrs. Lincoln, escorted, Kate was surprised to discover, by none other than Senator Douglas. The end of their campaign rivalry, implied by Mr. Douglas’s courteous holding of the president’s hat earlier that day, could not have been more firmly or convincingly expressed than by this great honor. Mrs. Lincoln looked almost radiant in a low-necked blue silk gown of an exquisite hue, perfect fit, and evident richness, embellished with point lace. Her necklace and bracelets were fashioned of gold and pearls, flowers adorned her headdress, and every element of her costume spoke of refinement and taste.
“The president is infinitely a better-looking man than he has been represented,” Governor Sprague remarked, “but I am pleasantly disappointed in Mrs. Lincoln. She is not at all as coarse, ignorant, or unfashionable as I had been led to believe.”
Although privately Kate agreed, and ordinarily enjoyed a bit of gossip, she pretended she had not heard him over the applause rather than compose a clever reply he might carry elsewhere. She did not trust him to keep her confidences.
Other dignitaries and family members completed the presidential entourage, and after a brief promenade, President Lincoln and Mr. Hamlin took stations at the upper end of the room, where many guests promptly availed themselves of the opportunity to be presented to Mr. Lincoln, who cordially shook hands with one and all.
“Would you like me to introduce you to the president?” Governor Sprague offered.
“Thank you, but we have already met,” Kate replied. “I will, of course, pay my respects, but later, after the line diminishes.”
“Then may I request the honor of another dance, especially since our first was cut short?”
The band had begun another refrain of “Hail, Columbia” and nearly everyone had left the dance floor. “I don’t think dancing will resume until after supper,” Kate said. “And forgive me, but should you engage the same lady for two dances, when there are so many other ladies present?”
“We have had only three-quarters of a dance,” the governor protested. “And in any case, I doubt that anyone is keeping count.”
Incredulous, Kate had to laugh. “I assure you, a great many people are. For some it will be their favorite entertainment of the evening.”
“Well, then, if it will give a few vinegary dowagers pleasure to perceive scandal where there is none, it would be unkind of me to disappoint them.” He raised his eyebrows and extended his hand, and she knew it to be a challenge. Annoyed, and yet somehow also amused, she gave him her dance card again, with only the barest, almost inaudible sigh of exasperation. He signed his name on one of the few remaining unclaimed lines, and when he returned it to her, she slipped it into her reticule without troubling herself to see which dance he had chosen. His smile deepened knowingly as he escorted her to a chair, bowed, thanked her, and departed.
She did not see him again until half past eleven, when the guests promenaded into the supper hall, and that was only from across the room—one brief, shared glance before the gentleman seated at Kate’s right distracted her with a question. The meal was excellent, and afterward the dancing resumed. She was never without a partner unless she chose to be, and among the gentlemen whose company she enjoyed most were Senator Sumner, a friend of her father’s she had long admired; Colonel Elmer Ellsworth, a very dear but much younger friend of Mr. Lincoln’s from Chicago, who looked gallant in his red-and-black Zouave uniform and spoke with endearing earnestness about his pretty fiancée back home in Rockford; and Mr. John Hay, the handsome, debonair, and very charming assistant private secretary to the president. She enjoyed Mr. Hay’s company so much that she allowed him to a second dance, and when he asked if he might call on her on another occasion, she graciously agreed.
But it was the governor of Rhode Island whom she most desired to dance with again, though when the time came, she endeavored to show no more eagerness for his company than any other gentleman’s. It was a waltz, and Kate felt the heat rising in her chest as she remembered that other waltz, and what he had done and said, and part of her dreaded that he would do the same again, and part of her could not believe that he would be so brash as to attempt it in such illustrious company.
She had worked herself into such a state of suspense that when he behaved with perfect courtesy, she was almost disappointed.
The dance ended, and as he escorted her from the floor, Governor Sprague asked, “May I call on you and Senator Chase before I return to Rhode Island?”
She felt a crushing disappointment. Of course he wanted to speak to her father more than herself, and of course he would not remain in Washington long; he had a state to govern. “You may,” she replied, slightly aloof. “I’m sure Senator Chase would be pleased to speak with you again.”
He recognized the chill in her tone, but misunderstood her reason, or pretended to. “Did I offend? Perhaps I should have said Secretary Chase instead?”
“Not at all,” she said evenly. “My father was sworn in as a senator of Ohio earlier today. Perhaps you heard something of the event?”
“Oh, yes, I do recall hearing something about a rather large gathering at the Capitol.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially, and for a moment her heart pounded again, but when he leaned closer, all he said was, “I have heard other things too, and I am not certain your father will remain long in the Senate.”
And with that, he transformed his intimate bend into a formal bow, straight
ened, and left her staring after him, utterly astonished.
The dancing and celebrating continued until the small hours of the morning, but President Lincoln left before two o’clock, visibly exhausted and, Kate supposed, mindful of the arduous duties that awaited him in the morning. Father had not wanted to leave before the president, but as soon as he departed Father found Kate and told her it was time to go. Concealing her reluctance, Kate collected her wraps, found Adele Douglas in the throng and bade her good night, and took her father’s arm. She hated to leave while Mrs. Lincoln was still whirling about on the dance floor, clearly having the most wonderful night of her life.
“You were the brightest star of the evening, my dear,” Father said as they drove home, his voice heavy with weariness.
Kate thanked him, but she knew she had not been. Whether the cause was her lingering disappointment that father had been denied both the presidential chair and the cabinet, or her unsettling distraction over Governor Sprague, or Mrs. Lincoln’s greater sense of joy and triumph, she knew the president’s wife had outshone her.
• • •
Even Father slept in past dawn the next day, but the household was bustling by midmorning. Over a late breakfast, Kate gave in to Nettie’s pleas to describe the ball, although she did not divulge her conflicted feelings about Governor Sprague.
Soon thereafter, Father and Kate returned to the Capitol for his first full day as a senator for the Thirty-Seventh Congress. Nettie had been invited along too, but she had had quite enough of speeches the previous day and had begged to be allowed to stay home and draw. Once again within the Senate chamber, Father took his seat beside Senator Wade, Kate found a place in the gallery above, and after greeting other ladies and gentlemen she knew, she settled back to observe the machinery of government at work. She was proudly confident that with her father present, the people of Ohio would be well represented, and the peace and prosperity of the nation well served.
The first order of business was to appoint a committee to inform the president that the Senate was assembled and ready to receive any communication he would be pleased to make. The resolution passed, the committee was formed, and the Senate voted to recess for a half hour until the committee could report back from its errand to the Executive Mansion. Kate had to smile at the familiar back-and-forth and the often slow and tedious progress of the legislative body, but she conducted business of her own during the break, chatting with the wives of her father’s colleagues and making introductions between people she thought ought to know one another. But even then, and after the proceedings resumed, she also kept careful watch over her father’s rivals, in case she needed to alert him to a curious or clandestine pairing. Her observations were especially important on the few occasions when her father was obliged to leave the chamber and would not know what had occurred in his absence.
Father was away on an errand, she knew not what, when the Senate shifted from considering various resolutions to executive business, and the clerk prepared to read aloud messages from the president delivered by his private secretary, Mr. Nicolay. “To the Senate of the United States,” the clerk began in a booming voice, “I nominate William H. Seward, of New York, to be secretary of state of the United States. Signed, Abraham Lincoln.”
Kate glanced to the door through which her father had departed. It was probably just as well that he had missed that particular announcement, and the applause it had evoked.
“To the Senate of the United States,” the clerk intoned, his eyes on the second message, “I nominate Salmon P. Chase, of Ohio, to be secretary of the treasury of the United States. Signed, Abraham Lincoln.”
Someone behind her gasped. Stunned, Kate sat perfectly still, the words echoing in her thoughts. A gentleman murmured congratulations to her, and she nodded, eyes fixed on the clerk, then darting to the door, and to her father’s empty chair. She must have misheard—but she knew she had not. Her heart thudded as the clerk read off the nominees for the Department of War, for the navy, for postmaster general, and on through the cabinet. Kate clasped her hands together in her lap, fixed her gaze on the doorway, and willed her father to return. She had no idea where he had gone, so she could not send a messenger running for him.
He was still away when the Senate, by unanimous consent, resolved to advise and approve Father’s appointment and that of four other nominees. A few of the president’s other choices were voted on and confirmed by a large majority, but with a few nays voiced by senators from North Carolina, Virginia, Arkansas, and Kentucky.
Other appointments, diplomats and assistant secretaries, were nominated and approved, and it was while Secretary Seward’s son was being confirmed as the assistant secretary of state that Father returned to the chamber. Immediately, several of his colleagues approached to clap him on the back and shake his hand, and Kate’s heart went out to him in that moment of confusion, for he had no idea why congratulations were in order. She watched, pained, as realization dawned on his face. Suddenly he gathered up his coat and satchel and strode from the room.
Murmuring apologies to those seated around her, Kate quickly rose and hurried from the gallery, expecting to meet her father in the rotunda, but although she waited, pacing back and forth and glancing down the corridors, he failed to appear long after he should have done.
She had been too slow and had missed him, and in his shock he had forgotten to wait for her.
Kate considered returning to the gallery, but the sudden bustle of senators and spectators in the corridors told her that executive business had been completed and the Senate had adjourned for the day. Thoughts racing, she began to walk home, wondering where Father had gone, hoping she would find him at his desk at the Rugby House writing a furious letter to Mr. Lincoln, and fearing that he had gone straight to the White House to voice his outrage and decline the appointment.
She wondered if any man had ever been offered a place in a president’s cabinet in such an inexplicable, almost underhanded manner.
When Kate returned home, she found Nettie and Vina hanging red, white, and blue bunting around the parlor, and they had bought a cake to celebrate Father’s first full day in the Senate. Kate laughed helplessly at the thought of a celebration, when she had no idea whether Father was at that moment elated or furious.
She waited, pacing until Nettie begged her to stop, and then she tried to distract herself with a novel, and then with letter writing to the many aunts, uncles, cousins, and distant friends who had asked her to send them her impressions of Inauguration Day. Shortly before suppertime, she heard the door open and Nettie greet their father delightedly. Setting her pen aside, Kate flew to meet him, and knew from the consternation in his expression that he had called on the president and was not altogether pleased with the words they had exchanged.
He had gone to the White House, Father reported as he sank into the room’s best chair and Kate sent Vina to fetch some tea. “I expressed to him my anger, and my disappointment, and my shock at his neglect of the proper protocol and simple decency in his handling of this matter.”
Kate tried not to wince as she imagined the scene, her father angry and hectoring, Mr. Lincoln somber and sympathetic. “And then?”
“And then, naturally, I declined the office.”
Kate sank into the chair opposite him. “How did the president respond?”
Father sighed, ran a hand over his brow, and was silent for a moment. “He was very somber, and full of regret, and he noted quite correctly that, having been confirmed by the Senate, if I withdrew now, it would occasion him great embarrassment.”
“It certainly would,” said Kate carefully, “and you could suffer in the esteem of the people for it.”
“It could weaken his administration before it could properly take hold, and it would damage the party,” Father acknowledged. “He asked me to reconsider, and I told him that I would give it careful thought.”
“I think
that was the wise thing to do,” said Kate, unable to keep a tremor of relief from her voice.
Father did reflect carefully that night, and prayed about it, and in the morning he told Kate that he had decided to accept the president’s appointment. The Department of the Treasury and the second-most-powerful cabinet position were his.
It was not until later that Kate remembered Governor Sprague’s prescient words at the Inaugural Ball. How had he known what was to come, when even Father had not?
Chapter Seven
* * *
MARCH–MAY 1861
W
hen Father sat down for the first time behind his polished walnut desk in his high-ceilinged office on the third floor of the southeast corner of the new Treasury Building, a magnificent marble structure at Fifteenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue, tears of pride sprang into Kate’s eyes, but she quickly blinked them away before Father or Nettie noticed. “You look quite at home here,” she proclaimed. “These elegant rooms make the White House look shabby in comparison.”
“The White House looks shabby compared to almost anything,” said Nettie, quite correctly. “All that torn carpeting and worn-out furniture and cut-up draperies. I think if Mr. Lincoln could see your office, Father, he would want to trade jobs with you so that he could have this for himself.”
“I rather think he would not,” said Father wryly, and Kate hid a smile. “Besides, the White House might not remain an embarrassment much longer. Congress allots twenty thousand dollars to each administration to refurbish the White House, and from what I’ve heard, Mrs. Lincoln has begun spending the allowance with unrestrained delight.”
“The Executive Mansion should be beautiful, elegant, and glorious,” said Kate, stifling a twinge of envy as she imagined selecting draperies, carpeting, and furniture for the Executive Mansion, “as befits a distinguished nation.” How wonderful it would be to have so much money to spend, and to put the mark of her own excellent taste on a building of such national and historic importance! She had enjoyed decorating their home in Columbus, and refurbishing the White House would have been an even more exhilarating task. It pained her to think what Mrs. Lincoln, fresh from the frontier, would consider tasteful and refined.
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