Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “Her?” I repeated, my interest piqued. “Has something at long last sparked for our homely honest Abe?”

  “Perhaps.” There was a hint of a sly grin on his face.

  “Don’t be coy. Who’s the unlucky girl?”

  “Margaret Owens.”

  “Really.” I tried to keep my voice as neutral as possible.

  “You don’t approve?”

  “Of course I do.” Miss Owens was a pleasant girl with a round face and straight black hair hanging nearly to her waist. She lived with her older brother, the apothecary. She was occasionally sickly and sometimes disappeared from public view for weeks at a time, presumably battling her illness. If she had uttered five words in her life, I hadn’t heard them. She seemed an odd choice for my garrulous friend.

  “It sounds as if you don’t like her.” Lincoln’s expression was falling fast.

  “I don’t know her, is more like it. Barely had the pleasure of her acquaintance. But if you’ll be keeping company with her, then I look forward to knowing her better. Starting with this morning.”

  “Maybe the whole thing’s a folly,” said Lincoln, his face now pale. “I haven’t let myself have feelings for anyone since I lost Ann, you know. But I was over at Henry Owens’s store, looking for a remedy for a sore tooth, and Margaret was helping out behind the counter, and—well, she has a nice way about her. And she smells like lavender.”

  I laughed out loud at this last sentence as we came to a halt. We had arrived at the entrance to the Owens apothecary, which stood opposite my general store on the other side of the town square.

  “Fantastic. Truly, Lincoln, you should know better than to take my advice on matters of women and the heart. Not that I have any advice to give as regards Miss Owens. Now let’s greet the woman.”

  We pushed open the door, and Henry Owens looked up from his counter. The apothecary wore shirtsleeves, a black vest, and a reassuring expression. The walls of his store were lined with wooden shelves, each holding hundreds of colorful bottles and small glass vials. Restoration awaited! One could not help but feel more healthful after merely walking into the establishment.

  “What brings you gentlemen in?” asked Owens. “Don’t tell me that toothache has recurred, Lincoln?”

  We looked around the shop, but Miss Owens was not in evidence. “The tooth is fine,” said Lincoln. “But I thought, perhaps … your sister…” He tailed off into awkward silence.

  Owens gave him a knowing smile. “She’s out, I’m afraid. Be back this afternoon. I’ll tell her you called.”

  “Er—yes—thank you,” stammered Lincoln, turning to leave.

  “Before you go,” called Owens, “there’s a question I’ve been meaning to put to you. I’ve been tending to my investments in real estate lately and I’ve found this fellow Early, the registrar, difficult to deal with.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” replied Lincoln patiently. This wasn’t the first time I’d heard him take complaints about some public official. Many local residents seemed to view it as part of his job as a state representative.

  “So I’ve been wondering,” continued Owens, “whether there’s someone else I can take my land office business to.”

  “Just Early, I’m afraid. He’s a good man. You tell him I said to treat you fairly.”

  “Thank you, Lincoln. I shall.” The apothecary seemed mollified.

  “It’s all I can say,” explained Lincoln when he and I had exited the store. “People always think I should intercede specially on their behalf. But government can’t function that way. Knowing Early, I’m sure he’s already treating Owens fairly.”

  “Before you arrived at Spotswood’s last night,” I said, “Early was telling me he had some business to discuss with you. Something he’s found in the land office files. He didn’t say what.”

  “I’ll track him down after I deal with my relations. Let’s see if I can’t get them to move along out of town and fast. Wish me luck.” Lincoln gave a short laugh. “I’ll need it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I saw little of Lincoln for the next few days, and when I did he appeared much more harried than usual. Several evenings later, however, he reported with relief that his father and stepbrother had departed town in search of a rundown gristmill they’d heard might be for sale at a reduced price in Coles County.

  “I’m pleased, for your sake,” I said as we jostled side by side in front of the looking glass in our bedroom. It was the fourth day of July and we were getting ready for the annual grand summer gala at the home of Ninian and Elizabeth Edwards on Quality Hill.

  “Will Miss Sarah Butler be present this evening?” Lincoln asked. He fidgeted with the knot of his tie, which seemed to be either lopsided to the left or lopsided to the right, depending on which way he tugged. “I know you’ve been walking with her regularly.”

  “I hope so. I haven’t seen her for a few days. I stopped by her house yesterday, but she was out. Her brother said she’d been spending time at the tent meeting of revival.”

  I contemplated my reflection in the glass: oblong face, strong brows, vaguely aquiline nose, and unruly black hair, which I ran a comb through now in a vain attempt to impose some order. Billy the Barber had given me a cut last month, but already the black curls were falling nearly to my shoulders.

  “Have you been out to the tent meeting?” I added.

  Lincoln frowned and shook his head. “A folly, if you ask me. And from what I’ve heard, there aren’t many voters lurking about in the forest either. If you have your sights set on eternal salvation, earthly concerns like which party is best able to fix the internal improvements mess seem blessedly inconsequential.

  “This blasted thing is never going to sit right,” he added, staring at his necktie in the mirror as if it were a mortal enemy and throwing up his hands in frustration. He settled his stovepipe hat on his head and frowned at his reflection. “This is as good as it gets, I’m afraid. Shall we go?”

  We took the stairs two at a time. “I have it on good authority,” I said as we reached the storeroom on the ground floor, “that Miss Owens’s interest is inversely related to your sartorial skills.”

  “It better be.”

  With Lincoln a half step behind me, we burst through the door. The warm glow of a sunny summer’s day lingered on the streets. The sun had just dipped below the horizon and the azure sky was streaked with clouds glowing a soft yellow. I took in the beauty of the scene and breathed deeply of the fresh, pure air.

  “Come,” I said, slapping my friend on the back. “There are women to woo.”

  We headed across town to collect my sister. When Martha had arrived in Springfield last summer, it had been clear at once she couldn’t stay with me in the crowded second-floor room above my store. Instead, she’d arranged to lodge with Molly Hutchason, an old schoolgirl friend of hers from Louisville and now the wife of Springfield’s sheriff. We soon reached the modest, one-story home of Sheriff Hutchason, and I knocked on the front door.

  The door opened and Martha stood before us. She was wearing a white silk dress with a rectangular neckline and wide sleeves. A shiny white sash encircled the dress high above her waist. Draped around her shoulders and arms was a woven red scarf decorated with a stitched pattern. Like me, she had a black silk band wrapped around her arm.

  “Lovely,” I said, as Martha twirled around and came down the stoop to take my outstretched hand.

  Behind Martha I saw Molly Hutchason, her infant son swaddled in her arms. “Have fun for the both of us,” Molly called.

  Martha gave me a kiss on the cheek, stared, then pulled out her handkerchief and wiped something off my face. “Honestly, Joshua—do you even look in the glass? I don’t know how you managed before I arrived in town. Now, let’s hurry. I’ve heard so much about this party. I don’t want to be late.”

  Quality Hill loomed over the rest of Springfield, both literally and figuratively. There were six mansions set upon it, and the men who owned them were the mo
st renowned citizens of the town. But no name, and no mansion, loomed larger than those of Ninian Edwards.

  The first Ninian Edwards had been the territorial governor of Illinois before it achieved statehood. He’d then served as senator and governor of the newly admitted state. His son, the second Ninian Edwards, had been the state’s attorney general, and he now served with Lincoln in the state legislature. Along the way, the younger Edwards had married a savvy, well-to-do woman from Lexington, Kentucky, named Elizabeth Todd.

  Lincoln, Martha, and I walked up the side of Quality Hill toward the Edwards mansion. It glowed above us in the darkening evening, and as we neared we smelled and then saw a dozen whale-oil torches ablaze, lighting up the lawns in front of the house. It was a grand home, two stories tall and large enough to swallow a dozen prairie-farmer cabins. Seven columns created a stately entrance portico. Cannons that had served the United States in the late war with Great Britain flanked either side of the curved drive.

  The master and mistress of the house stood at the front door. Ninian Edwards, with a sharp beak nose and receding hairline, greeted us warmly. “It’s about time the younger Lincoln arrived,” he said, winking at me.

  “The younger?” asked Lincoln sharply.

  “We were chatting with your father and brother earlier,” Edwards replied. “Most amusing fellows. I think they may have been the first guests to arrive.”

  “We could readily see that your sense of humor and gift for storytelling run in the family, Mr. Lincoln,” added Mrs. Edwards. She was an attractive woman with straight brown hair pulled back and a soft feminine jaw. She wore an expensive blue lace dress and matching cap.

  “They’re—here?” Lincoln looked dumbfounded.

  “Somewhere about, no doubt,” said Edwards, waving generally toward the extensive house and grounds.

  “Oh dear,” murmured Lincoln, and he stalked away in search of his relations.

  “An unwelcome surprise?” Edwards asked me, his eyebrows arched.

  “He didn’t expect them back in town so soon is all,” I said, deciding Lincoln would probably think the less said about his father and stepbrother, the better.

  “Either way, I’m glad all of you could join us,” said Edwards, indicating that we should proceed inside. “I’ve arranged for a special entertainment at the end of the night. A memorable way to commemorate the anniversary of our nation’s founding.”

  “You go ahead,” I murmured to Martha. “I want to see if Lincoln needs help.”

  I started with the grounds, wandering among the trees and hedges in search of Lincoln’s stovepipe hat. I saw many familiar faces, including Jacob Early and Henry Owens standing together and conversing intently, but not Lincoln. I was about to head inside when I heard a hoarse voice call out from behind me, “Why, it’s Mr. Fry Speed, ain’t it?”

  I swung around to find Thomas Lincoln and his stepson slouched beside a gooseberry bush. Each of them held a pork chop, which they were attacking as if they hadn’t eaten in some time. I touched my hat in greeting.

  “If you’re looking for Abe, you just missed him,” said Thomas Lincoln.

  “He ain’t too happy to see us,” John Johnston added with a grin. He belched.

  “I believe he was under the impression you were headed to Coles County,” I said.

  “We was until we met a fella on the road who told us the mill we was after didn’t exist no more,” said the elder Lincoln. “So we come to have a pint at a grog shop, by the by, considering our options, when we met one of the hands of this Edwards fella”—he gestured toward the great house behind us—“who said they was preparing to have a big old party—”

  “—‘a grand soiree,’ he called it,” said Johnston, pronouncing it “swarry” in what he imagined to be an elevated accent.

  “—and that he was sure his gov’nor wouldn’t mind the two extra guests, specially not when he heard we was related to Abe. So we showed up, told the mister and missus who we was, and they was most welcoming to us. Most ‘enchanted,’ even.”

  “And generous,” added Johnston with a chortle, raising his chop in the air.

  “In that case, it’s very nice to see you both again,” I said. “It looks like you’ve found a comfortable spot—perhaps you should stay here. I did want a word with Lincoln. I’ll see if I can’t find him inside.”

  CHAPTER 6

  As I walked back toward the house, I noticed a number of guests had come attired in patriotic costumes. Among the men, powdered wigs and black velvet suits reminiscent of Washington and the waistcoat, breeches, fur cap, and spectacles of Franklin were the most common outfits. Among the women, flowing silk taffeta gowns made popular by Lady Washington were a frequent choice. Several guests of both sexes wore masks in their revelry.

  Inside, the Edwards parlor overflowed with people. The room, wide and double-long and covered with light pink wallpaper, was the largest private space in Springfield. Mrs. Edwards had decorated the walls with black silhouette profiles that an artist had executed at last summer’s party. I noted with amusement how many guests stood, wittingly or not, beneath their cutout likenesses.

  “There you are, Mr. Speed,” came a feminine voice from beside me.

  I turned to find Miss Sarah Butler, the young woman with whom I’d lately been walking. She was wearing an all-black dress with a deep-purple sash over her shoulder. She had short, dark hair, curled and parted in the middle, a straight nose, an enigmatic smile, and coal-black eyes.

  She offered her hand to me and I pressed it lightly as I bowed.

  “My brother told me you called,” she said.

  “I understand you were out at the camp meeting?”

  Miss Butler must have noticed a certain skepticism in my voice, because she wrinkled her nose. “Camp is a revelation. I hope you’ll join me next time.”

  “Perhaps,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “Preacher Crews has been traveling around the county, but he’s decided to stay in Springfield for the rest of the summer. There are so many souls waiting to be saved here.”

  “I’m not sure mine is among them.”

  Miss Butler gave me a peculiar glance. “Preacher Crews says it takes some people longer than others to hear the Word. Some people might never hear it. But the door’s always open for salvation, right up until your last breath. Oh, I see another exhorter from camp,” she added, indicating a young woman on the other side of the room. “I must have a word. But do save a turn around the floor for me, Mr. Speed.”

  Puzzled, I watched her walk away. Miss Butler had been gay and carefree when I’d first made her acquaintance. I didn’t think I’d ever heard her utter a religious sentiment. Before I could decide what to make of the change, a strong hand gripped my shoulder from behind.

  “Ahoy, Speed,” shouted a familiar reedy voice.

  Lincoln was standing next to a young woman with long, straight hair. She was wearing a peach-hued satin dress. My first thought was that she was too short to be a proper match for my friend.

  “Joshua Speed, I believe you’re already acquainted with Miss Margaret Owens,” said Lincoln. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and, unusual for him, carried a nervous expression on his face.

  “How do you do?” I bowed deeply.

  “Very well, thank you,” said the lady.

  The three of us looked at each other in silence. After one beat too many, I hastened to add, “I had the pleasure of seeing your brother earlier,” at the very same moment Miss Owens blurted out, “I understand you recently lost your sister, Ann. I am so very sorry.”

  Miss Owens and I nodded at each other and made agreeable noises. We each turned back to Lincoln.

  “Well then,” said the man, nodding vigorously. He opened his mouth again and then closed it, bobbing all the while.

  “If you’ll excuse me…” I began a moment later.

  “Yes, of course, Speed. You go about your business.”

  “It was very nice to make your acquaint
ance, formally I mean,” I said to Miss Owens.

  “And yours as well.”

  I bowed and she curtsied, and I pushed through the crowd of Washingtons and Franklins and masked men and women, looking for my sister. As far as I could tell, every politician and office-holder in Springfield was present tonight. And so was the press, for looming in front of me was the distinctive figure of Simeon Francis.

  “Evening, Speed,” he said.

  “What’s the good word, Simeon?” I asked, still scanning the room for Martha.

  “Bloviation.”

  “That’s a new one for me. Meaning?”

  “What you get when you have a roomful of politicians competing to see who spews the greatest number of falsehoods for the fewest breaths taken.”

  “Hah! You haven’t seen my sister, have you? I’ve lost track of her.”

  “Over in the corner.” Simeon indicated behind me.

  I looked over but couldn’t spot Martha through the forest of hats. I did recognize, however, a highly distinctive silhouette pasted high on the wall where the newspaperman had pointed. “Don’t tell me she’s talking to…”

  Simeon snorted and patted me on the back. I hurried toward the silhouette and came upon its subject and my sister in close, almost confidential, conversation. Stephen Douglas looked up suspiciously.

  “He’s the enemy, Martha,” I said without preamble.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” returned my sister. “He’s perfectly charming and perfectly harmless. Aren’t you, Mr. Douglas?”

  “I will accept the first of those designations with pleasure,” said Douglas in a gravelly voice. “As for the second, Miss Speed, I suggest you wait until you know me better before forming a definite opinion.”

  Martha’s eyes widened and she giggled. I glared down at Douglas. He was thickset and barely five feet tall, several inches shorter than my sister. His massive head, covered by dark, curly hair, appeared to have been chiseled out of the craggy granite of his native New England. His blue eyes met mine with the alert, remorseless gaze of a hawk.