Mrs. Lincoln's Rival

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Kate’s absence from Washington was also marked by a modest stack of letters from William that she discovered, thankfully unopened, in her bedroom upon her return. “I was surprised to see so many letters from Providence,” said Father somewhat peevishly when he discovered her reading them. “I had supposed Governor Sprague was nothing to you except a friend. If any other relation is desired by him toward you I ought to know about it.”

  “Of course you should,” said Kate, keeping her voice reasonable and steady. “I am sure if he ever has other intentions, he will speak with you. Until then, we both must assume that he desires nothing more than my friendship.”

  Father seemed satisfied by her reply, but she began to wonder if gossips were circulating stories about her and William, a concern that seemed justified by one of Nettie’s letters from school. “Dear Sister,” she began, “I am going to ask you a question, which you may think I have no right; but I do love you so dearly, that all that concerns you, seems to concern me also. Are you really engaged to Gov Sprague? If you think it is not my business and I have no right to ask you Please say so and I will never ask you again.”

  Startled by her sister’s question, Kate nevertheless adopted an air of reassuring calm and wrote back that Nettie was welcome to ask her any question she wished—a sister’s privilege Kate intended to invoke from time to time—but in this case, whatever rumors Nettie apparently had heard were false. “I am not engaged to anyone,” Kate wrote. “If that day should ever come, I will share the happy news with my only dear sister myself, and I promise you shall know about it long before the papers do.”

  Kate was tempted to write a breezy, cheerful letter to William telling him of Father’s concerns and Nettie’s questions, more to see how he would respond than to prompt him into action. Fortunately she thought better of it before putting pen to paper. The truth of the matter was that William’s letters alternately charmed and distressed her. For weeks at a time, he would seem interested, ambitious, eager, and confident—not only about Kate but about his work and his soldiery too—but then weeks would follow in which his letters were melancholy, terse, discouraged, and discouraging, if he bothered to write at all. William’s sudden and dramatic shifts in temper upset and confused Kate until she became more accustomed to them. She crafted her letters with care, uncertain whether something she wrote was the catalyst that shifted his mood in one direction or the other. Ever mindful of his tragic childhood, she was certain that if only they could be together, in the same city, she could help him learn to master his temper. The distance between them was the cause of their occasional discord, and if that could be remedied, all would be well.

  Soon after Kate’s return to Washington, she learned that Mrs. Lincoln was planning an extravagant evening ball to be held at the White House in the first week of February. Kate learned from Mrs. Douglas, who employed the same dressmaker, that Mrs. Lincoln had commissioned an off-the-shoulder, white satin gown with a low neckline, flounces of black lace, black and white bows, and a long, elegant train. From John Hay, Kate heard that Mrs. Lincoln was planning an elaborate menu of roast turkey, foie gras, oysters, beef, duck, quail, partridge, and aspic, complemented by an assortment of fruits, cakes, and ices, and fanciful creations of spun sugar. The First Lady sent out more than five hundred invitations to prominent men in government and their wives, as well as to certain favorite friends, important Washington personages, and visiting dignitaries.

  As word of Mrs. Lincoln’s lavish plans spread, she yet again provoked criticism from her usual detractors, who expressed astonishment and disgust for the vain spectacle of the ball and its hostess. But in spite of such denunciations, since the event was not open to the public, invitations remained highly coveted items. “Half the city is jubilant at being invited,” John told Kate, “while the other half is furious at being left out in the cold.”

  “Not everyone fits into the two halves you describe,” Kate noted. “What about Senator Wade?”

  “Ah, yes.” John grinned impishly. “Your fellow Ohioan did greatly displease Her Satanic Majesty with his reply.”

  Rumors of Benjamin Wade’s acerbic rejection had come from other sources, but John had confirmed them. “Are the President and Mrs. Lincoln aware that there is a civil war?” Senator Wade had written acidly as he spurned the invitation. “If they are not, Mr. and Mrs. Wade are, and for that reason decline to participate in dancing and feasting.” Imagining the red flush of mortification that must have come to Mrs. Lincoln’s pale cheeks as she read the note, Kate could almost forgive Senator Wade for the cold, discourteous manner in which he had treated Father in the months leading up to the Republican Convention two years before.

  Senator Wade was not alone in his opinion. A great many of Mrs. Lincoln’s invitations had been brusquely declined, or so John reported, and nearly one hundred were returned with indignant notes protesting her excessive frivolity when the nation was distracted, mournful, and impoverished by the war. And yet Mrs. Lincoln did not moderate her plans even a trifle in response to her critics. Kate supposed she would have done the same in the First Lady’s place.

  Kate was astonished, then, a few days before the ball when John soberly confided that Mrs. Lincoln wanted to cancel the entire spectacle. “Why?” protested Kate, who had been invited along with Father and had been looking forward to it, and not only to see whether it measured up to expectations, which had soared after the New York Herald predicted that the ball would be “the most magnificent affair ever witnessed in America.” Father had permitted her to buy a new silk gown for the occasion, and although she had entertained wistful daydreams of donning it for the first time on a night when she would dance in William’s arms, Mrs. Lincoln’s party would have been an ideal time too.

  “Not long ago, young Master Willie caught a severe cold while riding his pony in foul weather,” John said. “A few days ago, it turned into a bad fever. Mrs. Lincoln said that it was ridiculous to think of hosting a grand ball with Willie on his sickbed, but the Tycoon said that she had gone to too much trouble and expense to call back the invitations now. Their doctor examined the boy, declared that he was on the mend, and said there was no reason why the ball should not go on as planned. The Hellcat acquiesced, but now she frets and worries incessantly, as she always does when the boys fall ill.”

  “Not without reason. She lost a child to sickness before. She must live in terror of losing another.”

  “I suppose.” John tugged at his ear and regarded her appraisingly. “It is strange to hear you defending Mrs. Lincoln.”

  “Why, John,” she said airily, “I’m not entirely heartless.”

  “You are not heartless at all,” said John levelly. “You have the strongest, most honest, and most loyal heart of any woman I know.”

  For a moment he looked as if he might say more, but instead he rose, bade her farewell, and gruffly asked her to save a dance for him, if the ball was not canceled.

  Days passed, and Mrs. Lincoln did not recall her invitations, so at nine o’clock on the evening of February 5, Kate put on her simple gown of mauve silk and arranged her hair in a Grecian knot adorned with a wreath of tiny white flowers. When she was ready, Father escorted her to the carriage that whisked them off to the White House, where they presented their cards and were granted entrance. The Marine Band played operatic airs in the vestibule, and the Green, Blue, and Red parlors, where guests mingled and chatted, were decorated abundantly with flowers. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln received their guests in the East Room, a chamber so large and bright and opulent that it was almost impossible to believe that Union troops had been quartered there in the early months of the war.

  When Kate and her father joined the receiving line, she noted that Mrs. Lincoln’s gown was even more sumptuous than Mrs. Douglas had described; the deep train was swathed in black Chantilly lace, the décolletage was as low as it could modestly be, and a garland of myrtle trailed down the skirt, echoing the wrea
th of black-and-white crepe myrtle Mrs. Lincoln wore on her head. She wore myrtle and the colors of half mourning, a lady ahead of Kate in the receiving line whispered to a companion, in honor of the late Prince Albert as a gesture of goodwill to Lord Lyons, who was also in attendance.

  It was quite some time before Kate and her father reached the front of the receiving line, but once there, Kate exchanged a few pleasant words with the president before turning to Mrs. Lincoln and asking gently, “How is young Willie? I heard that he is ill.”

  For a moment Mrs. Lincoln looked as if she might weep. “He is quite unwell, it grieves me to say, quite unwell. But Doctor Stone assures us that he has passed through the worst of it, and he will soon be all right.”

  “I am very glad to hear that,” Kate said sincerely, reaching for her hand. Mrs. Lincoln looked half-stunned as Kate held her hand for a moment, patting it reassuringly, and offered her a sympathetic smile before moving on to let the next guest enjoy a moment with the president and his wife.

  Except for a few self-righteous folk like Senator Wade, all the elite of Washington society were present—the members of the cabinet and their ladies, generals and their senior staff, diplomats, senators, congressmen, and even prominent lawyers and men of business. General McClellan, clad in his dashing dress uniform and looking much recovered from his lengthy illness, escorted his blond, blue-eyed wife, Ellen, nine years younger than he and at least two inches taller, lovely though reserved in a white tunic dress with bands of cherry velvet and a headdress of white illusion. General Frémont’s most notable adornment was a scowl, but his wife, Jessie, was in excellent spirits, laughing and chatting merrily. Kate spoke at length with Senator Sumner, but she could not grant John Hay’s request for a dance, as Mrs. Lincoln had canceled the dancing out of deference to Willie’s condition. The Comte de Paris and the Duc de Chartres, the two young princes of the House of Orleans exiled from France, were handsomely attired in the blue uniforms of officers of the Union army, and they commanded much of her time, pleased to converse with someone so gracefully fluent in their native tongue. Kate liked them both, especially the intelligent, elegantly featured Comte de Paris, but for conversation she secretly preferred their uncle, the Prince de Joinville, for he was fascinated by life in America and was endearingly eager to learn all he could about it.

  On several occasions, Kate noticed that Mr. or Mrs. Lincoln would slip from the room and return minutes later with downcast expressions they quickly tried, unconvincingly, to conceal. She could only assume that they were taking turns hurrying upstairs to check on Willie, who was being attended by Mrs. Lincoln’s apparently rather versatile dressmaker, Elizabeth Keckley. Each time one of the anxious parents returned to the party, Kate hoped to see in their faces a look of relief, a thankful smile, but evidently whatever they beheld in the sickroom evoked only worry.

  Shortly before midnight, President Lincoln, with Miss Browning of Illinois on his arm, and the First Lady, escorted by the young lady’s father, Senator Browning, led the promenade around the East Room to the dining room entrance—where their procession abruptly halted at the locked doors because the steward had misplaced the key. “I am in favor of forward movement,” a man declared within the crowd gathered around the doors, and everyone laughed, even General McClellan.

  Once the key was located and the guests given entry, Kate beheld a feast that surpassed all her imaginings. Near the entrance, an elegant table held plates of tiny sandwiches and a Japanese bowl filled with champagne punch; but although servants clad in spotless new mulberry-colored uniforms filled delicate china cups with a silver dipper and offered plates, most guests declined in favor of the abundance of the dining room just beyond. Kate had heard that the exclusive caterers, Maillard’s of New York, had ordered a ton of game, and as she eyed the platters of turkeys, hams, venison, pheasant, ducks, and partridge, she could well believe it. In the center of the table lay a looking glass, and around it were arranged the fancy pieces of confectionary. At the head of the table was a large helmet crafted of sugar, signifying war. Nearby, the frigate Union was in full sail in spun sugar on a flag-draped stand. On the opposite side, water nymphs of nougat supported a fountain, and all around, beehives of sugar cradled generous portions of charlotte russe. Artfully scattered between the larger pieces were Chinese pagodas, Swiss cottages, Greek temples, and baskets and cornucopias, all of sugar, all bearing sugared fruits. An impressively large model of Fort Pickens constructed of cake commanded pride of place on a side table, evoking murmurs of admiration from all who beheld it.

  Suddenly Kate’s appetite fled. She had been enjoying herself tremendously all evening, except for her worries about the poor, sick child upstairs, but at that moment she felt weighed down by an overwhelming sensation of defeat. Although Mrs. Lincoln had rarely looked more miserable than she had that evening, the lavish gala would surely mark her triumph in Washington society. No one had complained about excessive expense as they marveled at the magnificently refurbished rooms, and no one would leave that enticing dinner table disappointed. Kate might be more beautiful, more engaging, more poised, but her gracious, comfortable, happy home could not compare to the White House, and she could not command the Marine Band to entertain her guests, and although Addie was an excellent cook, she did not possess the genius of excess that marked Maillard’s of New York. Kate never could have put on a gathering as lavish and wonderful as Mrs. Lincoln’s glorious party, and not only because it would cost more than her father’s annual salary. As long as she held the White House, Mrs. Lincoln would have an advantage over Kate, and there was little she could do about it.

  As she took her seat at the table among the other guests, Kate firmly banished her sad, self-pitying, awestruck thoughts. She had much to offer that Mrs. Lincoln lacked, qualities that could not be purchased in a shop on Fifth Avenue or ordered from Paris. She would put her faith in her own mind and her own heart, because clothes could be torn and furniture broken and elaborate confections turn stale, but nothing could rob Kate of herself.

  She ate sparingly, her appetite returning as the conversation drew her in and her natural confidence reasserted itself. All would be well, if she did not lose faith.

  After supper, the Marine Band played on, and the contented guests promenaded through the resplendent rooms, and talked, and laughed, and forgot the war for a little while. At three o’clock the party drew to a close, and Father escorted Kate to their carriage.

  “Mrs. Lincoln put on a magnificent gala,” Father remarked as they rode home, stifling a yawn. “I cannot imagine anyone could have done better.”

  “No,” said Kate, suddenly exhausted, and feeling bruised. “I don’t suppose you can.”

  • • •

  In the days that followed Mrs. Lincoln’s glorious ball, the newspapers and the public gave the evening overwhelmingly positive reviews. The Washington Evening Star complimented the “beauty and quiet good taste of the floral decorations” and declared that “The supper was, in many respects, the most superb affair of the kind ever seen here.” Mrs. Lincoln, they noted approvingly, had been “tastefully, elegantly dressed,” and Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper described her as “our fair Republican Queen,” attired “in perfect keeping with her regal style of beauty.” Although a few curmudgeons who had not attended still grumbled about the excess, most people concurred with the Evening Star that “In the completeness of its arrangements, the distinguished character of the guests assembled, and the enjoyment afforded to those present,” Mrs. Lincoln’s party would rank as “by far the most brilliant and successful affair of the kind ever experienced here.” Kate granted that the praise was well deserved, but it stung to see that although numerous guests were mentioned by name, their attire and comportment described in fine detail, Kate and her father were not.

  Kate wished that the magnificent evening had been hers, and that the reporter had singled her out as being a particularly brilliant guest, and that he would
have had cause to rave about her elaborate gown and sparkling diamonds, but she did not have the heart to envy Mrs. Lincoln, for she knew the worried mother was not savoring her triumph. Alongside the glowing descriptions of the ball were terse reports of troop movements and naval maneuvers—and sympathetic briefs that Willie’s condition had not improved, and that his younger brother Tad had become afflicted by the same malady.

  Aside from the success of the ball, the only good news the Lincoln family received in those first weeks of February came from Tennessee, where the unkempt, reputedly drunken, and unreliable General Ulysses S. Grant captured Fort Henry on the Tennessee River, and, ten days later, Fort Donelson on the Cumberland. The assault on Fort Donelson had been particularly bloody. The papers breathlessly reported that when the battered Confederate commander proposed a cease-fire so that they could negotiate terms, General Grant telegraphed back the terse phrase that would soon evoke a roar of approval across the North: “No terms except unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted.” The commander capitulated, the Union troops took fifteen thousand Confederate prisoners, and General Grant became a hero. Jubilation filled every Northern city and town, and hundred-gun salutes were fired in celebration of the first significant Union victories of the war. In the capital, President Lincoln signed papers promoting Grant to major general, and city officials quickly made plans to celebrate the two victories, as well as the 130th anniversary of George Washington’s birth, with an elaborate illumination of the city’s public buildings. Reports that General Grant was a humble man of the people who had taken the field with only a spare shirt, a hairbrush, and a toothbrush invited inevitable comparisons to General McClellan, whom everyone knew had needed six wagons, each pulled by a team of four horses, to carry his attire and personal belongings to the front.