Lucy laughed. “Nonsense! He was a murderer.”
“He was a patriot.”
Her mirth faded, overtaken by curiosity. “I believe you are in earnest.”
“Never more so. Brutus loved Rome. He loved his country more than any other man in the play—more than Caesar, more than Cassius, and certainly more than Antony. He could not allow his beloved country to be ruled by a tyrant. ‘As Caesar loved me, I weep for him. As he was fortunate, I rejoice at it. As he was valiant, I honor him. But, as he was ambitious, I slew him.’”
“Mr. Booth, I confess you have me at a disadvantage, as you know the play much better than I,” said Lucy, smiling and shaking her head, “but Brutus and his conspirators were traitors, and murderers, and I cannot consider them heroes. I don’t believe that was Shakespeare’s intention.”
“Brutus took one dictator’s life to save all of Rome,” said Mr. Booth, all traces of amusement fading from his expression, his voice rising. “Thus I call him hero. In the words of the motto of my beloved Virginia, ‘Sic semper tyrannis.’”
For a moment Lucy could only stare at him, rendered speechless by his sudden, indiscreet passion. “Mr. Booth, I daresay you should not shout the motto of a rebellious state so publicly,” she murmured. “Someone might misunderstand you.”
An instant later, his angry frown had disappeared, transforming into a mischievous smile. “It seems to me someone already has.”
Then she understood. “Shame on you, Mr. Booth,” she scolded, as relieved as she was delighted. “You’ve been teasing me.”
“I meant every word,” he said, but although he sounded utterly sincere, she would not be fooled a second time.
• • •
On the evening of December 16, Lucy dressed for supper early and told her family that she would wait for them downstairs, darting out the door before anyone could raise objections. As he had promised, Mr. Booth met her in their usual place by the window in the lobby, but as soon as they sat down, he told her that he would be leaving very early the next day for Maryland. “To visit family?” she inquired, though she knew his family no longer resided there.
“Sadly, no, not this time,” he replied.
Though reluctant to spoil their leave-taking with annoying questions, she could not resist one more. “What weighty matter beckons you away from Washington, then?”
He smiled, looking rather satisfied with himself. “You mean away from you.”
“Perhaps I do,” she retorted airily. “Perhaps I don’t really care where you go or what you do but feign interest only to be polite.”
His laugh rang out rich and full. An older couple passing through the lobby glanced their way and smiled indulgently.
“If your curiosity must be satisfied,” he said, “I’m going to look at a plot of land in Charles County. I’ve been thinking about purchasing a farm.”
She regarded him in astonishment for a moment. “You wish to become a gentleman farmer?”
“Would that not be more suitable for a senator’s daughter than an actor?”
Mortified, she looked away. “I would never wish to hurt you, Mr. Booth, but I beg you to understand that my parents have certain expectations for me.”
“They are absolutely correct to do so.”
“And I have certain expectations for myself.”
He gazed at her, longing and hope and worry intermingled in his compelling dark eyes. “Miss Hale, I think I understand what you’re too demure to say. Forgive me if I’m being forward, but I must know. Is it only my profession that you find objectionable?”
“It is not objectionable,” she murmured, conscious of other guests passing through the lobby. “You’re exceptionally talented. You’re the son of the great tragedian Junius Brutus Booth, born to the stage—”
“Miss Hale.” He took her hand, his touch gentle, his gaze firm. “Let us be frank. Is my profession the only impediment, or is there something else? Do you have an understanding with another gentleman? Have I misinterpreted your kindness as affection, and am I speaking entirely out of turn?”
“No, no, certainly not.” Heat rising in her cheeks, she withdrew her hand from his and clasped hers together in her lap. “There is no other gentleman, not for me.”
“And your feelings for me?”
“Have you not guessed?”
“Then dare I hope that if I give up the stage, you might encourage me to court you?”
“I—I confess I thought we were courting already.”
“To court you openly, then, with your parents’ blessing?”
The crux of the matter could no longer be avoided. “I would never ask you to give up a profession to which you have devoted your life and for which you are so well suited. However—” She hesitated. “Please don’t despise me for this, but my parents would never approve, and I love them too dearly to break their hearts.”
“I could never despise you, my dear, dear Miss Hale.”
His voice was so warm and tender that she felt a thrill of hope and expectation surge through her with all the force and height of a spring tide—as powerful, as natural, and as dangerous. Emboldened, she asked, “Then what do you feel for me?”
“How can I speak the truth of how confounded I am?” He ran a hand through his silky black hair, suddenly agitated. “If not for you, how clear the future would be to me! How easily I could grasp the ambition closest to my heart! What exquisite timing, that just as I am about to set foot upon the path I have chosen, that I should find myself in love!”
“I don’t understand.” Shocked, stung, Lucy fought to keep her voice even. “Did you think this declaration would please me? You don’t sound like a man happy to find himself in love. I certainly wouldn’t wish to interfere with any unrealized ambition you hold so dear.”
“Lucy, darling, you mistake me.”
“I certainly hope I do.”
“I’ve set a course for my life, leading me toward a solemn duty I must fulfill.”
She felt a pang of apprehension. “Are you planning to enlist, despite your old injury?”
“No, not that.” He gave her a strangely lopsided smile and reached for her hand, but she kept them clasped in her lap. “But it is a service to my country.”
“Tell me what it is, and I may be able to help you achieve it.”
He shook his head. “I could not ask you to share my fate.”
“Is that not what marriage is?” she countered. “The intertwining of fates? The sharing of love and life and all that it brings, for better or for worse?”
He regarded her in silence for a long moment. “Yes, of course it is.” Again he reached for her hand, and this time, she let him take it. “I love you, my darling Lucy. I will prove myself worthy of you.”
“I don’t doubt that you are, Mr. Booth.”
“Please, call me John.”
Lucy felt close to tears, but she struggled to keep her composure, mindful of the guests and staff passing through the lobby. What should have been a glorious, romantic moment had turned deeply painful, bewildering. Did he want to marry her or not? Did they have an understanding or were they agreeing to part company?
“Lucy, dear,” her mother called.
Startled, Lucy looked up to discover her parents and Lizzie waiting for her at the foot of the grand staircase. Heart sinking, she wondered how long they had been standing there, watching. They could not have overheard a word, but so much could be inferred from what they must have seen.
She and John rose and went to meet them, and as they all exchanged greetings, Lucy marveled at how immediately John appeared to be his usual genial self again, lighthearted and courteous. He was an actor, she reminded herself, wondering what her own expression betrayed.
To her surprise, her father invited John to join them for supper, and to her relief, John declined. “I’m leaving Washington early in
the morning,” he said, regretful, “and I have much to do before I go.”
“Another time, perhaps,” her mother said.
John thanked her, wished them all a good evening, and departed with a bow.
“What on earth were you two discussing so earnestly?” asked Lizzie, linking her arm through Lucy’s as they followed their parents to the dining hall.
“The future of our country,” Lucy said, the barest tremor in her voice. “Duty and ambition.”
“Indeed?” Lizzie’s eyebrows rose. “I would not have guessed that Mr. Booth cared for such weighty subjects. Apparently I’ve misjudged him.”
Lucy managed a smile and, employing all her strength of will, she refrained from glancing over her shoulder to see if John had lingered at the top of the stairs to watch her go.
• • •
John had told her that he intended to depart early the next morning, but he had not mentioned when he intended to return. As winter deepened and Christmas approached, the Hale family made arrangements to return to New Hampshire for the holidays, and Lucy resigned herself to the possibility that she might not see John again until the New Year.
Three days before Christmas, Lucy, Lizzie, and their mother were packing their trunks when they heard the door to the suite open and close. “I’m home, darlings,” her father called out wearily.
His ladies had time to exchange glances of surprise and worry before they went to greet him. They had not expected him for hours, especially since it was the last day before the Senate adjourned for the holidays. He had intended to present a bill to incorporate the association of the Sisters of Mercy in the District of Columbia, and he surely would not have left before seeing that through.
They kissed him and helped him out of his coat and hat, trying not to fuss, though his expression of disappointment and resolve troubled them more than his early homecoming. “Did you present your bill, darling?” asked Lucy’s mother as he removed his shoes and settled into his favorite armchair with a sigh.
“I did.”
“Was it tabled, Papa?” asked Lizzie.
“On the contrary,” he said. “I obtained unanimous consent to present it. It was read first and second times, again by unanimous consent, and was referred to the Committee on the District of Columbia.”
“But that’s good news,” said Lucy, bewildered. “Why are you so downcast?”
“I don’t want you to worry,” he said, which all but ensured that they would. “When I arrived at the Capitol this morning, I found Senator King of New York—former senator, I should say—waiting for me in the rotunda. He had come to inform me privately, as a courtesy, that he had written a letter to the president recommending John Bigelow to be appointed Minister to France.”
“But Senator King said he supported you,” said Mama.
“Apparently he changed his mind.” Papa sighed again, took out his handkerchief, and ran it over his brow. “He gave his letter to Secretary Seward, who promised to deliver it personally to Mr. Lincoln today.”
Mama frowned, pensive. “Is there a chance that Mr. Lincoln will discount Mr. King’s letter and choose you instead?”
“Highly doubtful, my dear, since the secretary of state has endorsed it. Secretary Seward is not only one of the president’s closest advisers, but also a personal friend. Mr. Lincoln trusts his opinion implicitly.”
“Who on earth is John Bigelow anyway?” queried Lucy, indignant. “He couldn’t possibly be more qualified for the post than you.”
Her father smiled wanly. “The president might disagree. Mr. Bigelow is the current United States Consul General in Paris.”
That gave Lucy pause, but only for a moment. “Perhaps you could take over as Consul General.”
“Perhaps.” He rose and held out his arms, and they quickly embraced him. “Oh, my dear girls. Such steadfast confidence you have in me, more than I could possibly deserve.”
“Nonsense,” said Mama briskly. “President Lincoln will remember your many qualifications and find an excellent post for you, if not in France, then somewhere even more delightful.”
He managed a rueful smile. “Maybe Santa will leave a cabinet position in my stocking.”
They laughed, relieved to see his characteristic resilience come to the fore.
Later that same evening, Lucy was banishing Thackeray’s tedious The History of Henry Esmond to its shelf in the drawing room when she heard footsteps behind her and, glancing over her shoulder, she discovered John crossing the threshold. “Good evening, Miss Hale,” he said courteously, bowing.
She felt a pang of regret that he had resorted to the old formalities. “Good evening, Mr. Booth. How was your journey?”
“Longer than I had expected, and as uncomfortable as I had feared.”
She nodded, turned back to the shelves, and pretended to search for a book. “At least it’s over, and you arrived safely. Did you buy a farm?”
“No, just a horse,” he replied. “Miss Hale, have you dined yet this evening, and if you have not, would you care to join me in the dining room?”
Her heart leapt, and for a moment she considered attempting a second repast, but honesty, prudence, and an aversion to gluttony won out. “Thank you, but I dined earlier with my family.”
“Then I shall give you your Christmas present now.” He reached into his breast pocket, withdrew a slender box wrapped in red paper, and held it out to her. “Merry Christmas, Lucy.”
She hesitated before accepting it. “Mr. Booth, I—”
“John, please.”
“John—” Then words failed her. She carefully unwrapped the box, lifted the lid, and discovered inside an elegant silver locket nestled in a bed of white paper. With trembling hands, she opened the locket and found his portrait within, a fair likeness that nonetheless failed to capture how handsome he truly was.
“Please accept this as a symbol of my esteem and affection,” he said. “I hope you will always wear it close to your heart, where I hope always to be.”
She pressed a hand to her lips, lightheaded, and inhaled deeply to steady herself. “It’s beautiful,” she said when she could speak. “Thank you.”
“Shall I put it on you?”
She nodded, handed him the box, and turned around, lifting her hair out of the way, wondering how she would explain this new adornment to her family. An electric thrill passed through her when she stood within the circle of his arms, when his hands brushed the back of her neck.
“There,” he said after fastening the clasp and setting the box aside. “Turn around and let me see you.”
She did as he asked, scarcely able to meet his gaze for the way it made her feel—unbearably, exquisitely wonderful.
“You are extraordinarily lovely, Lucy Hale.”
“You are too kind, John Wilkes Booth,” she said, trying for a light tone, and from the look on his face, not quite achieving it. “I regret that I have no gift for you.”
“I want only this,” he said, taking her hands in his. “The honor of your promise to wait for me, and not to enter into an understanding with any other gentleman, until I can prove myself worthy and win your parents’ blessing.”
She felt tears gathering. “That, I am only too happy to give.”
He kissed her then, his lips soft and searching on her own. For a moment she melted into bliss, but then a thrill of alarm compelled her to pull away. “John, darling, no. No one can discover us like this. It would ruin any chance we have of winning over my parents.”
“Of course,” he said huskily, taking a step back. “But know that I shall cherish my Christmas gift, even if I can’t tell a soul about it. I won’t forget that you gave it to me, and you mustn’t either.”
“Of course I won’t forget. How could I? I give you my promise with my whole heart.”
“And I will keep it safe in mine.” He bow
ed, bade her good evening, and departed just as two gentlemen entered and seated themselves by the fire, too engrossed in their own conversation to notice them.
Lucy turned back to the bookshelves, trembling, exhilarated. She pretended to read the embossed titles, but her heart was pounding, her thoughts racing, so she snatched down a well-worn volume of A Tale of Two Cities and hastened away, breathless and guiltily glad that her father would not be moving the family to France after all.
Before she entered the suite, she tucked the beautiful locket beneath her bodice, and when she undressed for bed later that night, she took care to keep it out of Lizzie’s sight. In the morning she went through the same secretive contortions as she put on a gown of rich blue wool, choosing it not for its color though friends assured her it set off her dark hair and gray-blue eyes beautifully, but because of its high neckline, which concealed the locket’s silver chain. She enjoyed the feeling of the cool, smooth metal against her skin, and she decided that when she next saw John, she would lay her hand upon her bosom so he would know the locket, and her promise, were kept safely close to her heart.
But she did not see him at breakfast, nor did she encounter him elsewhere in the hotel all day. It was not until that evening, after her father had settled into his armchair by the window and she had brought him his slippers and the evening papers, that she glanced out the window and was for a brief moment rendered motionless by the sight of John about a block away, striding toward the National Hotel in the company of three men she did not recognize.
“I believe I’ll follow your example and read for a while,” she told her father.
He glanced to the pile of papers on the end table. “Would you like the Herald or the Evening Star?”
“No, thank you, Papa,” she said, hastening to the door. “I’m more in the mood for Dickens.”
“Have you finished A Tale of Two Cities already?” he asked absently, returning his gaze to the paper. “You brought it upstairs only yesterday.”
“No, I haven’t, but I’ve read it before, and A Christmas Carol is better suited for the season.”
When he nodded, she quickly slipped into the hallway and shut the door behind her, breathing a sigh of relief. Deception did not come naturally to her and she prayed she would soon be done with it.
Fates and Traitors Page 21