Mrs. Lincoln's Rival

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Mr. Lincoln arrived in a private carriage alone and unheralded, his shoulders bent with the burden of his office, his expression careworn and weary, acknowledging with a gracious bow the burst of cheers and applause that greeted him. He was quickly ushered into the drawing room, where William, clad in rich, elegant black, and the most intimate circle of friends and family awaited the appearance of the bride.

  When Kate entered the room on her father’s arm, she knew by the murmurs and the intake of breath that she had rendered them awestruck, resplendent in her white velvet gown and magnificent jewels. The Marine Band struck up the newly composed “Kate Chase Wedding March” as she processed down the aisle after her lovely bridesmaids—Nettie, her cousin Alice Skinner, and Ida Nichols, one of William’s nieces. When they reached the front of the room where Bishop Clarke stood smiling benevolently, his open Bible in hand, Father kissed her on the cheek and entrusted her to William, who regarded her with shining eyes as he took her hands, as awestruck as all the rest.

  The bishop led them in prayer, spoke on the profound nature of the marriage bond, and guided the exchange of vows. Then, with a final benediction and a sweet, chaste kiss, they became husband and wife.

  Applause rang out, and as the couple accepted warm embraces and congratulations from those dearest to them, the doors to the parlors were flung open so that all their guests could enjoy the wonderful moment. Before Kate was whisked off to open the reception, Mr. Lincoln bent to kiss her cheek and offer his warm good wishes. “I am sorry Mrs. Lincoln could not attend,” he said. “She would be here, but her heart is too mournful yet for such a merry celebration.”

  “I understand,” Kate assured him, sensing his discomfort with the half-truth. Not even a deliberate snub from the First Lady could diminish her joy on such a glorious occasion. “I hope that her sufferings will ease with time.”

  The president thanked her and moved on to congratulate her father, while Kate took her husband’s arm and let him escort her into the reception. The doors between two adjacent parlors had been opened to create one grand hall, elegantly draped in the national colors and glowing in the warm gaslight, made even more brilliant by the reflecting mirrors. While the Marine Band serenaded them from a rear alcove, Kate, William, Father, and Madame Fanny met at the top of the room and accepted congratulations and good wishes from the hundreds of guests who passed through the receiving line. “You are magnificent, my darling,” William told Kate in a brief respite between handshakes and greetings, and thereafter he murmured tender endearments whenever a guest’s slower pace afforded a momentary lull.

  When all the guests had been properly received, the servants cleared the rear parlor for dancing. With the long train of her luxurious gown swept over her arm, Kate led the first dance, a lancers, with her father’s friend Mr. Richard Parsons, who had introduced her to William in Cleveland years before. The band played for hours, and the rooms were filled with laughter and music, and champagne and cider flowed and toasts were offered in abundance. When the revelers needed refreshments they proceeded upstairs to the dining room to partake of the lavish buffet arranged by the Washington caterer F. P. Crutchet—galantines of truffles, patés, terrines, aspics, veal salad, oysters, rolls, and fourteen dozen roast partridges.

  Mr. Lincoln honored them with his presence until eleven o’clock, and around midnight, the other guests began to disperse, fatigued but exhilarated from the wonderful evening. John Hay was among the last to go, and when he came to bid Kate good-bye, he seemed content, and with a wicked grin he assured her that Mrs. Lincoln would seethe with jealousy when she heard how splendid the wedding had been.

  William found her as the last guests departed, and she felt her pulse quicken as he took her hand. Before long only their houseguests remained, but they graciously withdrew after bidding the newlyweds good night.

  “At last,” William murmured as he and Kate retired to their bridal chamber alone. There, with the doors shut tight against the cares of the world, Kate discovered the bliss and fire of William’s embraces, and as she fell asleep in his arms afterward, she felt whole, and wholly loved, for the first time.

  • • •

  The next evening at five o’clock, Kate and William embarked on their wedding trip accompanied by a large bridal party—Nettie; cousin Alice Skinner; Madame Fanny; William’s two sisters, Almyra and Mary Ann; his brother, Amasa; Amasa’s wife, Mary; and William’s three groomsmen. So that they might be shielded from curious gawkers, Mr. William Prescott Smith of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad had provided them with a private railcar, a courtesy he had extended to Father on several previous occasions, though usually only for official business. They spent the night in Philadelphia before continuing on to New York City, where they took rooms at the Fifth Avenue Hotel.

  On Sunday morning, after attending church services with the Barney family, the wedding party spent the day sightseeing and paying calls, with Nettie in particularly high spirits, knowing that only a few blocks away, her classmates were toiling over their books while she ran free. Supper was another lavish, lighthearted affair, with jokes and merry stories and happy reminiscences of the marvelous wedding. Kate was obliged to guide the conversation elsewhere whenever William and Amasa boorishly bandied about the value of the great many wedding gifts the couple had received, which the newspapers estimated to be in excess of one hundred thousand dollars, but otherwise all was pleasant. Afterward, when she and William withdrew to their private chamber, his caresses made her forget anything he ever might have done to annoy her.

  She drifted off to sleep in his arms, sated and content, only to wake abruptly in the darkness. “Kate, darling,” William said urgently, shaking her. “Get up and dress as quickly as you can. We must flee.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked groggily, crawling out from beneath the covers. Before he could reply, the distant clanging of the alarm bell registered and shocked her fully awake. The hotel was on fire.

  Quickly they threw on their clothes and raced into the hall, pounding on the doors of their companions’ chambers in case they had not heard the warning. Outside on the pavement, breathless and frightened, Kate embraced Nettie and Alice and counted heads to be sure all of their loved ones were safe.

  For two hours they stood outside watching and shivering in the cold as the firefighters battled the blaze, sharing cloaks and shawls with those who had neglected to snatch up their warm wraps in their haste to evacuate. Eventually only smoke and the odor of charred wood remained to mark the defeated blaze. William learned from the fire chief that the fire had begun in the boiler room and had quickly spread to the laundry, drying, and engine rooms within the hotel basement. An insufficient amount of hose had prevented the firemen from extinguishing the blaze sooner, but the chief was satisfied that it had been put out, and the guests were allowed to return to their rooms.

  After all the excitement Kate found it difficult to settle down to sleep again, but eventually she did—only to be jarred awake not two hours later by more clanging alarms. “There must be some mistake,” she said, scrambling back into her clothes, but she and William nevertheless again hurried down the hallway pounding on friends’ doors, down the stairs, and outside, where the hotel guests mingled in consternation and confusion. The firemen quickly determined that a fire had been set to the woodwork beneath the stairway on Twenty-Fourth Street, and after it was extinguished, the chief told William grimly that it was evidently the work of an incendiary. “Thieves take advantage of the confusion to make off with whatever they can carry,” he said, quickly adding that the police had prevented anyone from leaving the hotel with any parcels or luggage, thus thwarting the villains.

  It was some time before the guests were again allowed to return to their rooms, but by then Kate, William, and their companions were so shaken that they only hesitantly went inside, and once there, they stayed awake until morning. Dread had stolen over Kate as soon as the fear of immediate danger h
ad passed, inexplicably strong and steadily increasing, until with a sudden shock of recognition she understood its source.

  “William, darling,” she said shakily. “This fire—it is a terrible omen. Something dreadful is going to happen.”

  Bleary-eyed and half-asleep in his chair, William regarded her in bewilderment. “Something dreadful has happened, I would say. The hotel has suffered some expensive damage thanks to those malicious would-be thieves, and we’ve all lost a good night’s sleep.”

  “Yes, that’s dreadful too, but something else, something even more dire, awaits us.” She knew she sounded foolish and hysterical, but she could not be silent. “I’ve witnessed terrible hotel fires before, and each was followed by a dreadful calamity. On the night Mr. Lincoln was elected, the Neil House in Columbus burned to the ground, and soon thereafter, the South seceded from the Union and war began. Early in the war, you’ll remember, the Willard Hotel caught fire. The New York Fire Zouaves successfully fought it and saved the building, but Colonel Ellsworth was killed in the taking of Alexandria only weeks later, shot to death in a hotel.” She pressed her hand to her heart and willed it to stop racing, all in vain. “And now, two fires in one night—surely that portends some terrible disaster.”

  “Birdie,” protested William, rising from his chair to take her in his arms. “Don’t be distressed. You describe coincidences, nothing more.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because signs and omens are the stuff of superstition. They have no power beyond what frightened minds give them.” William took her hands and smiled encouragingly. “Come, now. You’re too clever to fall prey to such nonsense. If you weren’t so tired and frightened, you would not indulge in such unhappy speculation.”

  It was true that she was exhausted and nervous, straining her ears, expecting the tocsin to sound again at any moment. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  “A little logic will defuse your argument,” said William, pleased that his words were having the desired effect. “The Willard didn’t catch fire. It was the building next door.”

  “That’s true,” Kate admitted.

  “As for the other, the war was an inevitable consequence of a long chain of events stretching back years. Astute men needed no fiery omens to tell them it was coming.”

  She nodded and gave him a wan smile, embarrassed by her foolishness.

  “My dear little frightened birdie.” William raised her hands to his lips, kissed them, and embraced her. “Hotel fires aren’t portents of terrible calamity, Kate. They are the calamity.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Kate, managing a shaky laugh, “but nevertheless, I’ll be glad to leave as soon as the sun rises, and gladder still to reach Providence.”

  The next day, the tired but obligingly cheerful wedding party departed the Fifth Avenue Hotel, assuring one another that the exciting story of their misadventure would eventually prove to be ample compensation for the loss of one night’s sleep. Their spirits rose further as they boarded the ferry that would take them across the Long Island Sound and up Narragansett Bay to Providence. Madame Fanny assured them that a pleasant family welcome awaited them at her home, Young Orchard, and that she would host a more formal public reception in honor of the newlyweds on Friday evening.

  Kate was glad to hear that the day of their arrival would be limited to family, for she was looking forward to some restorative tranquility after the whirlwind of celebration and travel and fire alarms. Her hopes to find a peaceful haven were dashed, however, when Young Orchard came into view through the carriage window. An enormous, garish WELCOME HOME sign hung from the archway above the front entrance, which was lavishly festooned in red, white, and blue bunting. Streamers in the national colors hung from the eaves and all around the central tower, with more bunting and flags adorning the doors and windows. Above the front door hung a large banner inexplicably decorated with the flags of many nations. Kate drew in her breath slowly, shocked and dismayed. Rather than making her feel welcomed into the Sprague family circle, the gaudy display instead gave her the odd sensation that she had arrived at some sort of international regatta.

  Cousin Alice had another take on the tawdry scene. “It looks like they’re preparing for a horse fair,” she murmured in horrified wonder.

  Nettie smothered a laugh, but Kate felt faintly ill. It was a small mercy that their party was so large that they had been obliged to divide themselves between two carriages when they departed from the ferry dock, and that William, Madame Fanny, and the rest of the Spragues were in the other. Kate had time to compose herself and to warn Nettie and Alice to stop giggling into their handkerchiefs before she had to face the perpetrators of the horrific crime against good taste and refinement.

  As the carriage pulled into the front drive, she found William waiting for her, beaming. “Welcome home, indeed,” he declared, taking her hand and helping her alight from the carriage. She managed a tight smile as he admired the nightmare of ribbon and banners and bunting, while nearby, Madame Fanny and her daughters watched him, fairly bursting with pride.

  “Were you surprised?” inquired Mary, Amasa’s wife.

  “Oh, yes, more than you can possibly imagine.” Turning to William, Kate implored, “Would you please show me to my room? I’m feeling quite unwell.”

  His brow furrowed in concern, and while his family looked on, surprised and uncertain, William quickly led her inside and upstairs to the bedchamber they would share. “What’s the matter?” he asked, assisting her to a seat on the bed. “Can I fetch anything for you—a glass of water, smelling salts?”

  “A glass of water would be lovely, thank you.”

  With a solicitous nod, William hurried off, and by the time he returned, she had decided that the best course of action was simply to tell him, straight out, that the gaudy decorations had overwhelmed her and that she would be grateful if they were removed. “My mother and sisters thought a little fuss would please you,” he said, bewildered and disappointed. “The housemen and gardeners have gone to a lot of trouble. Their feelings will be badly hurt.”

  “I do regret that,” Kate said, “but after our harrowing night, I require peace and calm, and that display is anything but. Surely you see that.”

  William agreed, but uncertainly, and her heart sank when she realized that he thought the decorations were perfectly fine. Apparently she would have to redouble her efforts to refine his taste.

  William left her alone to rest with the curtains drawn and a scented handkerchief covering her eyes and forehead. Later he returned to report, somewhat brusquely, that he had excused her lack of enthusiasm as fatigue, and that the decorations had been removed. Kate thanked him, but he merely nodded and left her alone in the darkened room. When she emerged for supper, she realized that the pragmatic, equanimous Madame Fanny had taken her implicit criticism well in stride, but that William and Amasa were disconcerted and offended.

  The next day, after a good rest and time to reflect, Kate endeavored to make it up to the brothers by being a gracious and charming houseguest, a dutiful daughter-in-law, and a fond sister. William’s good spirits quickly returned, but Amasa and Mary were not so easily won over. Privately Kate resolved that no matter what tasteless decor adorned Young Orchard on the night of the reception, she would hold her tongue for the sake of family harmony.

  When Friday evening came, however, Kate was pleasantly surprised to discover that all had been stylishly arrayed. Dozens of Chinese lanterns had been hung from the trees in front of the residence, beautifully illuminating the expansive grounds and transforming them into something from the realm of fairy. Inside, the hall and dining room were adorned with fragrant flowers tastefully arranged, with nary a scrap of bunting to be seen. A quintet of musicians provided excellent music, and the banquet proved to be a delectable feast, the seafood succulent and almost impossibly fresh, the confections artful and light and airy. Hundre
ds of guests attired in their finest suits and silks and satins graced the halls, and everyone was so gracious and agreeable and obviously pleased to make her acquaintance that it was some time before she realized that something was amiss.

  But something was.

  As the reception went on, Kate smiled and laughed and chatted and danced, her joyful demeanor concealing her increasing confusion. At first she thought—she hoped—she was mistaken, but a careful study confirmed her suspicions: None of the first families of Providence had attended the reception. The ladies and gentlemen of the Rhode Island social and political elite who had welcomed her and Father and Nettie so cordially the previous summer were nowhere to be seen. The last time Kate had witnessed such an obvious snub was when the elite of Washington City had spurned invitations to Mrs. Lincoln’s earliest receptions at the Willard and the White House. More puzzled than upset, Kate resolved to enjoy the party nonetheless and solve the mystery of the guest list later.

  The next day, William exulted in rapturous review of the gala that appeared in the Providence Evening Press. “Young Orchard was ‘the scene of one of the most superb affairs that ever graced our city,’” William read, his voice ringing with triumph. “Listen to this: ‘Beauty and fashion were allied with solid worth in the brilliant throng whose assemblage was a fitting acknowledgment of the happy circumstances’—our marriage, of course—‘which contrast so pleasantly with war’s alarms.’”

  “I’m sure your mother’s guests will be flattered by such charming praise,” said Kate carefully, “but did it not seem to you that many friends were absent?”

  William’s eyebrows drew together, though his gaze did not leave the paper. “As far as I could tell, everyone who had accepted my mother’s invitations was present, although there were so many hundreds here I suppose I could have overlooked one or two absences.”

  Kate had counted far more than one or two local dignitaries who had been, to her thinking at least, conspicuously absent. “What about Judge MacDonald?”