Thursday, May 28
The day had been the longest yet for Bryant. It began with a cruel prank and was now ending in sodden fatigue. Where did she hand in her resignation?
She had woken to find a goat’s face inches from her own. She had shrieked, then heard laughter behind the door to Tad’s room. Then the smelly animal started braying as it paced the state bedroom.
She had screamed for Tad to remove his pet. Tad had snickered it was not proper to enter a lady’s bedroom. She yelled louder, then Mary Toad was yelling at Tad, then Lizzie came to the rescue and drove away the agitated animal.
If Tad Lincoln were her child, Bryant would have drowned him long ago. Jack thought Tad the epitome of a red blooded American boy, but she increasingly loathed him. An over indulged brat to his rotten little core.
Tad fit right into this dysfunctional family. The President was working and worrying himself to death, Mary Toad was in communication with the dead, and Tad lived to disrupt. No wonder the older son, Robert, stayed away much as he could.
Bryant wondered how the completely normal Lizzie Keckley could be fast friends with a dingbat like Mary Toad. Unless it was an act; Mary Toad was her employer. Yet genuine camaraderie seemed to exist. Lizzie must detect something agreeable in the sour little woman—who still thought Bryant was trying to steal her husband.
She had come to really like Lizzie. From the first day this woman had been pleasant and helpful. Lizzie even helped with the security screening of petitioners, which Bryant particularly welcomed.
Jack and the President had worked out a compromise. Lincoln could start receiving the public again, but only sixty people—equally divided between the sexes—would be admitted each weekday. Each person would undergo interrogation and full pat-down before being escorted by soldiers to the second floor.
Lamon and Jack screened the men, Lizzie and Bryant the women. The first day several women refused to let a “coon” touch them. That ended after observers saw these women swiftly booted from the Mansion grounds.
Before today’s screening began, she told Jack of the goat ambush. He had been long gone when it occurred; as usual he slipped out of the bedroom at dawn.
She had not gotten sympathy. Instead Jack tried to hide a smile. She could have drowned him too.
Bryant didn’t have time to fume, as screening started shortly. Another day, another gaggle of surly women to process. The heat and humidity added to the misery.
By the end of it Bryant was sweating like a pig. Afterward she bathed in the first floor washroom, and didn’t mind a bit the cold water. She luxuriated in shivering. Then it was back to sweating.
She didn’t know how women remained sane during summer in Washington. Lizzie said a proper lady should wear drawers, chemise, stockings, hoop skirt, petticoats, undersleeves, then dress, gloves and bonnet. The blanket of sticky air added a final layer of torture.
Bryant suffered, too, but she wore only bra and panties (providentially she had packed several pair) under her hoop skirt and dress. And she now refused to wear headgear, indoors or out. She didn’t care what anyone thought or said. Even Jack.
Well, she did care. Fortunately, for both of them, he hadn’t remarked on her going bareheaded. She was snapping enough at him lately.
After the favor seekers were herded from the Mansion, Jack was off again with Lincoln to the telegraph office. William Stoddard asked her to come along for lunch at the Willard. She declined, citing the heat. “Stod” was starting to get a bit too friendly. She hardly wanted to encourage him, however handsome and debonair he might be.
For God’s sakes, she was a married woman. Married to Edwin Stein, who even Hill Lamon would give berth. And why would Stod desire her, with so many better looking—and unattached—women in this wartime city?
Bryant took lunch in the basement dining room with the servants. After eating sleepiness tugged, and she napped in a corner of the room. A basement storeroom would have been cooler and quieter, but she had been warned of the co-inhabitants. Waking to a goat she could get over; to a rat, no.
She got a good nap, which she desperately needed. At night on the second floor of the Mansion the day’s heat would not fade. She lay damp even in her cotton nightie (another item thankfully packed; she could not have tolerated a knee length chemise). She slept fitfully.
Jack slept like a log. Often he snored like he was sawing one. At least once a night she jabbed him to halt the racket. She hated herself for robbing him of even a minute of sleep, for he rarely got to turn in before midnight. By now he had to think her an absolute bitch.
He still treated her genially. The man had amazing reservoirs of physical and mental endurance. Not to mention goodwill. She had always admired him, never more than now. And Chloe Bryant was showing her admiration by acting the insufferable shrew.
By early evening she was back on duty. The Lincolns hosted a dinner party in the gilded state dining room, and she and Jack attended. Because the twenty guests were friends of the president, overt screening was waived. Discreet surveillance continued.
Bryant sat on one side of the table bedecked with fragrant flowers, Jack the other. Each watched the hands of the guests opposite. The chance was remote that a pistol would suddenly appear, but one never knew. Some guests had lost a son in battle. Hate for the man responsible—hate perhaps stoked by Allison Naylor—might cause a father or mother to snap.
Lincoln and his lard butt wife faced each other at the middle of the long table. The President had asked Bryant to sit at his left shoulder. She could hardly refuse, even if the hard blue eyes of the First Lady shot fire at her.
The President courteously conversed with everyone in at the table. And she spoke with him only when spoken to. But Old Abe’s eyes kept drifting to the expanse of skin that the swooping neckline of her evening dress revealed.
An off shoulder gown was the one garment that made sense in steamy Washington. Its bodice was even more comfortable than a tank top. Acres of flesh lay open front and back. Bryant was surprised such a garment—one that actually exposed cleavage—was permitted in this, the heart of Victorian times.
She noticed many of the men stealing glances at her. She wondered why, when several of the spouses were more attractive and showed similar flesh. The woman with the flaxen hair was beautiful. But her congressman husband also checked out Bryant.
The wives certainly had to notice. However only Mary Toad looked at her with hate. Bryant wondered if some morning she would wake to a knife at her throat instead of a goat.
Despite her nap, and limiting herself to one glass of wine, after a couple hours she had to fight to stay awake. Even the on and off blaring of the Marine Band down the corridor failed to stimulate her.
Despite his lesser ration of sleep Jack remained animated. She knew it was irrational, but she resented his staying power. She itched to say something sarcastic to him. What a bitch.
A more rational response was jealously. Women, including the lovely blonde, looked over Jack. He did cut a fine figure in evening suit and he was pumping out plenty of charm. She was sure the women thought they could have landed Jack in any contest with Bryant.
The dinner party finally ended at eleven. Even at that hour the air remained warm and muggy, though candles illuminated the room instead of the gas fueled chandeliers. Every brow wore beads of perspiration. The women’s shoulders glistened. The relentless twitching of hand fans did little to cool.
Once the guests left, the President and Jack went to the War Department. Mary Toad awarded Bryant one last bilious glare before going upstairs. Bryant remained on the first floor to take her fourth bath of the day.
After she bathed she thoroughly patted her body with lavender water. She liked the aromatic scent, but she wouldn’t have bothered except for the water’s ability to repel mosquitoes. That was another tip from Lizzie Keckley.
She didn’t head up until she was sure the Toad had turned in. E
ach step on the grand staircase brought an increase in temperature. When she reached the second floor sweat again filmed her. She just sighed.
Thankfully she quickly fell asleep. She didn’t wake until something thumped. For a moment she feared Mary Toad had actually crept into the room. But it was just Jack.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I dropped my boot.”
“It’s okay. What time is it?”
“Past two. Abe got into telling stories to the poor operators on duty.” He laughed. “No good way to shut up the President of the United States.”
“God, Jack, I don’t know how you make it on so little sleep. I get twice as much, and I’m still a zombie.”
In the semidarkness—gas lamps in the north driveway cast a little light through the open window—she saw Jack pulling off his pants. Boxer briefs were underneath. She turned on her side to give him privacy.
Another little laugh. “Maybe I am already a zombie.”
“Jack—”
“Yes?” She heard more clothes coming off.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so disagreeable the past couple of days.” Though it was more than a couple.
“Don’t worry about it. I know this is no picnic.”
“You’re handling things fine.”
“I’ve spent most of my life in the field. This is in the field, believe me.”
“I’ll be better. I promise.”
“You’re doing great. Look, if I have a complaint about your performance, I’ll let you know.”
Dammit, why did he have to be so nice? Chew her out. She deserved it.
“I want to kill the First Lady.”
“Yeah, she can be difficult.”
“No, Jack. I wouldn’t mind blowing her away. Really.”
He fell silent.
“I hate her,” she said. “She treats me like dirt.”
“Chloe, you can’t take it personally. She is jealous of every young woman.”
Bryant didn’t consider herself a young woman. She was almost thirty-five. Yet people in 2015 thought her younger, she supposed because of the touch of baby fat in her face. Having a line free complexion didn’t hurt either.
Here people really miscalculated. Lizzie had been shocked when “Lily” finally revealed her age. Lizzie thought Bryant barely into her twenties. As must Stod and other interested males.
Of course, the reverse was true for them. John Nicolay was thirty-one, but he looked over forty. Stod, twenty-seven, looked in his thirties. Lamon looked Jack’s age, though Lamon was twelve years younger. Living in the 1800’s obviously took it out of a person.
“Chloe?”
“Yes?”
“You cannot take it personally.”
But she did.
“They say she trapped the President. Got herself pregnant, then cornered him into marriage.”
“Who told you that?”
One of the kitchen help had. She had asked Stod if the tale was true, and he just smiled. Which confirmed it.
“It’s common rumor.”
“You can’t get sidetracked by personal feeling.” Jack spoke with exasperation. “We have the mission, and only the mission. We keep Lincoln alive.”
“I know that. But I’ll be glad when I never set eyes on Mary Lincoln again.”
“She is a tormented person. Have pity on her.”
“I know she lost her son last year. That doesn’t give her excuse to about spit in my face each time we cross paths.”
“She lost a son before Willie. She’s lost two half-brothers in this war, and will lose a third. In eight years she will lose Tad.”
She hadn’t known that. “How?”
“Like Willie, to typhoid. That will be the final blow. Losing her husband will crush her, losing Tad will destroy her. So have pity, Chloe.”
Her throat lumped. “I do,” she whispered.
“Yes, she borders on a whackjob. But there’s a lot of positive in her. I saw her at Campbell Hospital the other day. It was incredible what she did.”
Bryant could have accompanied them to the hospital. But she hadn’t the nerve.
“What happened?”
“There was a soldier at one end of the ward. They had removed other wounded from the cots nearest him. As we entered the ward a nurse was leaving his cot—well, more like double timing away. The nurse had a handkerchief over her nose and mouth, but you could tell whatever cologne she had in the handkerchief wasn’t working.”
Jack sat on the bed and the frame creaked. Bryant wondered how much clothing he still had on. In this hot weather he had been sleeping in T-shirt and Boxer briefs.
“You’ve smelled rotting meat before. Multiply that by a thousand and you can guess at gangrene. The soldier—another teenager—had it in his arm stump. At the other end of the ward the smell made you want to heave. But the First Lady headed right for him.”
No way, she wanted to say.
“I’ve never seen such a look of misery as on that boy. I’ve had infection from a wound. In China I expected gangrene, but they never let it get that far. What I did have was bad enough. Continuous fatigue, fever and nausea.”
“I’m so sorry, Jack.”
She’d read the report on what happened to him there. Eighteen months of repeating physical and mental torture. Each round would bring him near death. They would pull back, let him recover, then start again. Somehow Jack had not broken. She had cried as she read the report. She would hate China forever.
“The First Lady pulled up a chair to his cot. On the side facing the stump. I don’t know how she didn’t gag. She instead was smiling as she talked to him. I don’t think he believed it, someone still treating him like he was human. Instead of like putrefying meat.”
Bryant couldn’t believe Mary Toad had that much compassion. Maybe it had just been for show.
“The boy actually brightened.” Jack’s voice caught. “It was so magnificent of her.”
Bryant supposed it was.
“The President came over after he had talked to the other wounded. I stayed at his side. Then I saw what looked like rice on the boy’s wound. Except the rice moved. They were maggots.”
Her stomach heaved. She had not needed to hear that detail.
“Why didn’t the nurses clean them off?” It was their duty, no matter how bad the boy smelled.
“The maggots were his only chance, actually. They eat diseased flesh and leave the good alone. But the sight is pretty horrible. Yet the First Lady stayed with the boy long enough to write a letter for him.”
Good God. Bryant wondered if she could have sat there.
“So you see, Chloe, Mary Todd Lincoln has a heart too. Underneath all her rudeness, she’s basically decent.”
“I just wish she’d treat me better.”
“Why don’t you talk to her? Don’t express sympathy about Willie, she’s tried hard to forget that. Tell her you want to be on good terms. Say something good about Tad, too.”
“Maybe.”
Mary Toad wouldn’t be buying that, especially about Tad. Bryant would try to stay out of her way and count the days until she and Jack departed this semi lunatic asylum.
“Sorry again that I woke you.”
“Sorry you have to get up so early.”
“Always been an early riser. And needed only five, six hours sleep. Chloe, would you mind if I slept without my T-shirt? It is warm in here.”
It was a damn oven.
“Of course not, Jack.”
“I know it’s not fair. I mean—”
“It’s perfectly alright. Go ahead.”
In that moment her nipples hardened and she came very close to shedding her nightie.
How she would love to. Sex urge had gnawed many days now. She had not made love for a couple months, and she had always physically desired Jack.
What would Jack do if the nightie came flying off and she tu
rned to face him? Would he reach for her? Or would he be appalled?
“Good night, Chloe.”
“Good night, Jack. Sleep well.”
“You too.”
Jack dozed right off, blessedly not snoring. But it didn’t matter. She couldn’t sleep.
She loved him. But he didn’t love her, never would. Even if neither of them had dropped an iota of height so far. When they finished here, he would get off in 1996 and head for Teri. And that would be that.
Day Nine Page 10