In her joy, she probably snatched the book too fast.
“Remember that you still are not a law clerk,” he warned her. “That decision belongs to Mr. Dennard.”
“Yes, Mr. Sickles.”
“You are not reading for the bar. You are simply helping out in a crisis.”
“I understand.”
Again his eyes flicked over her in a most ungentlemanly way. “Young Hilliman is a lucky man.” A wink before she could reply. “I will need that memorandum,” said Sickles, “before you leave for the reception.” He paused. “Grafton, from downstairs, also frequents the Eameses’. You’ll want to stay away from him.”
“I understand,” she said again.
“Especially now,” he added; and, offering no further explanation, went in to see Dennard.
II
Over a hundred thousand people lived in Washington City, and nearly half of them were colored. The negroes had long numbered in the tens of thousands, and only a fraction of them had ever been slaves. Over the years, a significant merchant class had evolved, and lately a small but growing professional class, including some half a dozen lawyers and twice as many doctors. Largely shut out of white society, the better-off among the colored residents of the city had established a society of their own, mimicking, insofar as possible, the habits of the white well-to-do. As a consequence, Abigail needed no instruction on the rules of etiquette for evening receptions. Men, she knew, were expected to wear black dress coats, and women full evening attire. The invitation was for eight o’clock, and so she left the office at four to return home and change, under the watchful eye of Dinah, who tutted and fixed and corrected, while Louisa looked on in awe and Nanny stomped about downstairs, signaling her disapproval by making enough noise to shake the house.
The gown Abigail chose was blue, and daringly cut, one that Dinah had made her order from a dressmaker in Philadelphia, and which she had never worn.
“You will be irresistible,” Dinah murmured, fluffing the bunched sleeves.
“That is not my goal,” said Abigail, staring, astonished, at the unfamiliar creature in the mirror.
“Whether or not it’s your goal, darling, it’s what you’re going to achieve.”
“I simply wish not to embarrass the President.” She found herself preening, twisting this way and that, studying her reflection. “Or … or the firm.” She shook her head. “I should not be wearing this dress. It is … sinful.”
“It is perfect,” said Dinah.
“I should change to something more … modest.”
“Don’t be a ninny,” said Louisa, eyes still wide.
“Some of Mr. Lincoln’s opponents will be there.” Still staring in the mirror. “I should not allow myself to be seen this way.”
“Believe me, darling,” drawled Dinah, leading the way downstairs. “One look at you in that gown and they’ll turn into supporters.”
Louisa and Dinah helped Abigail into her wrap, then into her coat. Nanny Pork stood at the kitchen door, smoking her pipe. Her eyes said that this was no way for a lady to behave.
“I won’t be late, Nanny.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Please don’t be like this.”
“Girl, I’m not bein like nothin.”
Jonathan had offered to drive her to the reception, but there Abigail had drawn the line. A colored man in the neighborhood had a cab. Abigail had arranged to have him drop her, with his wife riding along as chaperone.
Dinah would not hear of it.
“I will drop you,” she said. “Then Cutler will take me home, and I will send the carriage back to the Eameses’ to wait.” Cutler being her coachman and nighttime bodyguard.
The Berryhill barouche, with its dark wood inlays and gleaming coach lamps, was among the finest in Washington; certainly it was the finest in black Washington.
“There is no need—”
“That is what we are going to do,” said Dinah.
As they stepped out of the house, the coachman pointed to a rider tying his horse to the rail.
“He says he gots to see Miss Abigail.”
But Miss Abigail had already recognized the broad, bluff, swaggering figure approaching the house: Varak, the police inspector who either was or was not investigating the murders of Arthur McShane and Rebecca Deveaux.
III
“Perhaps I have come at a bad time,” said Varak, no hint of apology in his voice as he eyed the two black women in their finery. “Going out for the evening, are we? And in so fancy a coach.” He patted the polished wood. Abigail had not invited him in, so the three of them stood in the cold, watched over by Cutler.
“How may I be of assistance?” asked Abigail coldly.
But Dinah did better, speaking in the practiced tone of one who cannot be bothered to be rude to inferiors. “I’m afraid we’re in bit of a hurry, Inspector.”
Varak gave her that special policeman’s glare, the one that intimidated the biggest crooks in the city. When Dinah refused to flinch, he turned back to Abigail. “Just a couple of questions,” he said. “If this is a bad time, I can always come by your offices tomorrow.” Not waiting for an answer, he inclined his head toward Dinah. “Private, if it’s all the same to you.”
“It most certainly is not all the same to her,” Dinah snapped. “I am not going anywhere.”
Abigail shooed her off. “Get in the carriage. I shall only be a minute.” She tried to project Dinah’s air of easy condescension. “The inspector only has a couple of questions, after all.”
A moment later, they were alone in the front walk, although Dinah watched from one side, and Nanny and Louisa doubtless from the other.
“What can I do for you, Inspector Varak?”
“I was wondering. The dead negress. Rebecca.”
This Abigail had to challenge. “Miss Deveaux.”
Varak ignored the correction. He had a small notebook in his hand, and turned a page. There was a bit of illumination from the house, and more from the lighted carriage lamps, but still she did not see how he could possibly read what was written there. “Did you know her at all, I wonder?”
“No. Of course not.”
“No acquaintance at all? Never met her? You’re quite certain?”
“I am.”
“Bloody odd.” The inspector turned another page. Night mist swirled at their ankles, creating the illusion of a dark, private world.
“Did somebody tell you I knew her?” Abigail ventured.
But Varak did not seem to think he was there to respond to her inquiries. “How did you and Mr. McShane get along?”
“Excellently well,” she said, startled.
“Indeed. I am given to understand that he raised some question as to your suitability for a position at his firm.”
“That is not so.”
He made a note, laboriously, wanting her to watch him do it. “Mind telling me where you were on the night in question?” he asked, not raising his head.
“Surely you don’t think—”
“The Thursday. The night of the murder. Where were you, please?”
“I was at a dinner. The Mellisons.” She stood straighter. “And if you are implying that I had anything to do with—”
“Just answer my questions, if you would, please.” Face still buried in the notebook. “The Mellisons are a colored family, are they not?”
“They are.”
“Anybody white present that night, I wonder?” Tapping the page. “Anybody who can corroborate your statement?”
“I beg your pardon.”
He wrote a few words, then lifted his head. “And you’re sure you never encountered the negress Rebecca? Excuse me, Miss Deveaux?” His bulbous eyes searched her face. “No meetings in out-of-the-way places? Say, the Metzerott Hotel, the weekend prior to her murder?”
“Of course not. Where would you get such an idea?”
Eyes back on the page. A frown. “Oh, but wait. You do know David Grafton, do you not?” Varak lo
oked up again. “Mr. Grafton, from the law office downstairs.”
“I do.”
“And you would no doubt be astonished to learn that Mr. Grafton, too, was acquainted with your friend Miss Rebecca Deveaux?”
Abigail could think of nothing to say; and so said nothing.
“You will admit that this is all very peculiar, Miss Canner. Mr. Lincoln’s lawyer is murdered in the company of a colored prostitute. The prostitute turns out to be acquainted with one of the said lawyer’s employees.” He silenced her objection with a glance. “She is also acquainted with the said lawyer’s former partner, who is said to despise him. But you of course know nothing of any of this. All a series of coincidences, misunderstandings, and lies, is that it?”
“Yes, Inspector. That is it precisely.”
“Very well, then. Thank you for your assistance, Miss Canner.” He shut the notebook, tucked it away. “Sorry to have detained you. Do enjoy your evening at the Eameses’.”
She started to ask Varak how he knew where she was going, but he had already turned away.
CHAPTER 13
Salon
I
IT WAS OBERLIN all over again, but without the innocence. White faces everywhere, all of them comfortable and confident, visible proof of the existence of what her brother, Michael, liked to call the people who—as in “the people who have money,” “the people who run things,” “the people who matter.” Abigail had long been fascinated by the people who. At Oberlin, although she pretended to a disdain for the ways of the people who mattered, everyone knew how desperately she longed to be one of them.
When Dinah’s rig pulled up, Jonathan was waiting outside. He helped Abigail down as Dinah smirked. Abigail made the nervous introduction.
“A pleasure,” said Jonathan.
Dinah was mischievous. “Abigail has told me simply everything, Mr. Hilliman.”
The carriage clattered off. Jonathan told Abigail she looked magnificent. She dropped her eyes. She had refused to tell Dinah the details of her conversation with Inspector Varak, and suspected this was not the right moment to share them with Jonathan.
“You are very kind,” she said.
A servant admitted them without raising an eyebrow, because Mrs. Eames ran a very modern salon. They stood in the foyer, Jonathan awkward in his tails, Abigail more so in the flowing gown. She considered dressing this way ridiculous, but the attire was what etiquette now demanded for evening receptions during what Washington society called “the Season”—running, roughly, from New Year’s Day to Lent. There were probably fifty people present. The pianist was playing “Away with the Past,” which was presumably Mrs. Eames’s way of being clever, serenading her guests with popular tunes rather than the chamber music common to the city’s salons. Jonathan leaned close to ask whether she knew the song. Abigail nodded, but said nothing, even as her mind recited the haunting words: Away with the past, be it mine to forget / The hopes, the fond hopes that in darkness have set.… She grimaced. Inspector Varak’s questions had reminded her of a past she was desperate to forget.
Never met her? You’re quite certain?
She never had.
No meetings in out-of-the-way places? Say, the Metzerott Hotel?
All at once, she decided to tell Jonathan. But just as she leaned toward him, he was grabbed by the always grave Senator Fessenden of Maine, the former Treasury secretary, who was among Lincoln’s biggest supporters on Capitol Hill. Before anybody could so much as attempt an introduction of Abigail, Fessenden had dragged his captive over to a corner, where he began haranguing him, gesticulating wildly, as if Jonathan were personally to blame for the events of the past few days.
Left alone, Abigail hesitated, not sure what etiquette commanded. Was she to seek out her hostess? Attach herself to a conversation? Should she perhaps search for Senator Sumner, as Dan Sickles had advised? Or enjoy the buffet, which was piled high with more varieties of meat and fish than Abigail had ever seen on a single table? A moment later, the choice was snatched from her as Fanny Eames bustled over and welcomed Abigail enthusiastically, as if she were a long-awaited arrival from distant shores. Mrs. Eames locked an arm in hers and, as several prominent Washingtonians looked askance, led her toward the main group of guests. Mrs. Eames asked her how she liked working as a clerk, and told her, before she could answer, what a brave and impressive inspiration she was. It was so unjust, Mrs. Eames proclaimed, that women were barred from so many professions. And, as neatly as that, the hostess introduced Abigail to the guest of honor, a small, girlishly handsome man named Morphy, who was said to be the strongest chess player in the world. Morphy looked unimpressed. Their hands barely touched. He turned his back on her. An instant later, Mrs. Eames had deposited a breathless Abigail into the midst of a clutch of large, fluttery women, augmented by a man or two. They greeted her uncertainly. One of the women was Mary Henry, who was said to be writing a book about growing up inside the Smithsonian Castle, where her father was curator. Another was Lucretia Garfield, known as Crete, a stern-eyed woman whose husband was James Garfield, yet another Civil War officer turned congressman, also said to be interested in higher office. The women treated her with a suspicious amiability, kindly because they were ladies, even if they doubted that Abigail was. A moment later, she was all but smothered by a thickset woman with tight, inky hair and a joyously half-mad half-smile—obviously important, given the way the others deferred. She was two or three years older than Abigail. Her odd silver eyes were bright with excitement as she took Abigail by the forearm and drew her toward the center of the group. “You must tell us the whole story,” the newcomer commanded, in a tone that did not admit of contradiction. “Tell us your adventures.”
“My adventures?” said Abigail, mystified.
“It’s a wonder she doesn’t write a book about it,” murmured one of the other women, “those books being so popular these days.” She turned to her friend. The pianist had switched to “Saint Clare to Little Eva in Heaven,” a choice Abigail found ridiculous. “Tell her, Bessie, darling. Tell her she simply must write a book.”
“If your husband will endorse it,” said the silver-eyed woman. Her heavy grin widened. “Are you writing one, dear?”
Abigail realized that the largish woman who still had her by the arm must be Lucy Lambert Hale, known as Bessie, with whom Jonathan was now and then seen around town: he claimed unwillingly.
“I’m not writing a book,” said Abigail, bewildered. “I have nothing to write about.”
“Nonsense,” said Bessie Hale, eyes moist and shining. “Your escape.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Your escape,” she repeated, slowly this time. “How did you come north? The Underground Railroad? Were you a child still? Or did you leave your plantation and attach yourself to the Union Army during the war?”
“Look at her,” said Mrs. Garfield. “So thin. She’s been starving. Starved by her master. They used to do that, you know,” she confided to Abigail. “Not as a punishment. As a policy.”
“I wonder that the government hasn’t fed her better,” said someone else.
“When are you going south again?” resumed Miss Hale. “I assume your family will be taking over your forty acres soon?”
Abigail blinked. “My family has been free for three generations,” she said, somewhat desperately. “We’ve been in Washington City all that time.”
The women tittered and elbowed each other, as though she had made the funniest joke of the night so far.
“You must forgive them, Miss Canner,” said a smooth male voice, very near her ear. Turning, she found herself staring into the brilliant blue eyes of Senator Charles Sumner.
II
Next to the President, General Grant, and perhaps the Secretary of State, Charles Sumner was the most famous man in Washington. He was described, by the newspapers but also himself, as the conscience of the Senate. Tall and straight, powerful through the shoulders, he had smoothly shining blond-gray hair an
d the confident good looks that marked the hereditary upper classes of a nation that still denied it had any. He was charming and elegant and cultured, a favorite among both the crowned heads and intelligentsia of Europe. Any book of his speeches would become a best seller around the world. He had been perhaps the leading Abolitionist in the country, and was said to despise Lincoln with all the passion of moral superiority.
“You must forgive them,” said Sumner again, contriving, without actually touching Abigail, to guide her into a private corner of the drawing room, where two walls of books met. “They know nothing of free black people. They are committed Abolitionists because they hate slavery and because they want to do good, but they have no particular interest in people of your race.” A confident smile. “Like so many people of liberal persuasion, they value their own progressive opinions more than they value the people they hold those opinions about.” He tilted his head slightly back and away, as if examining a precious but inferior work of art. “I am Charles Sumner.”
“Abigail Canner.” She lifted her hand. He took it, kissed the air near her fingers in the proper continental manner of the day, returned it dry.
“It is a great pleasure,” he declared, “to meet you at last.”
Abigail was, for a moment, speechless. “At last?” she managed.
Sumner nodded comfortably. “Professor Finney has naturally corresponded with me. He considers you his finest student. Perhaps you were not aware of his opinion?”
“You know Professor Finney?” she said, feeling a bit stupid. “He said that about me?”
“Of course. And yet I imagine he is somewhat disappointed,” Sumner continued, with no change in tone, “to find you laboring on behalf of Mr. Lincoln.” Before she could reply, he added, “Finney has never been an admirer of Mr. Lincoln, as I am sure you are aware.”
“He taught us to think for ourselves,” she managed, as the air in the crowded, noisy room began to feel constricted. Being criticized by the great Charles Sumner was nearly more than she was able to bear. Over near the piano, Jonathan was listening carefully to Fessenden, as Bessie Hale hovered.
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