Fates and Traitors (28 page)

As soon as they entered the Blue Room, Lucy glimpsed Mr. Lincoln on the other side, shaking hands and offering a cordial welcome to all who passed before him. He seemed to be in unusually excellent health and spirits as he received his illustrious guests, his eyes clear and shining with good humor, his handshake firm and vigorous. Over the course of the war, Lucy—and indeed, all of Washington—had observed how the president had become gaunt and aged beyond his years, but on that day Lucy was glad to see that he seemed much restored.

The president, who was not usually known for his impeccable taste in dress, looked very smart that day in a plain black suit and white kid gloves, understated and elegant. At his right hand stood his secretary John Nicolay, making introductions, and to his left was Ward Lamon—tall, strong, and imposing, the president's good friend, former law partner, and self-appointed bodyguard.

“Did you hear,” Lizzie said close to her ear, in the tone she adopted for gossip, “that last month Mr. Lamon submitted his resignation?”

“I did not,” Lucy replied, astonished. “Are you sure? He's famously loyal to the president. Why would he wish to vacate his post?”

“I have it on very good authority that he's become increasingly frustrated with the president's refusal to take precautions against assassination,” said Lizzie. “One evening in early December Mr. Lincoln attended the theatre with Senator Sumner without taking a guard as escort, and that, apparently, was too much for Mr. Lamon. He turned in his letter of resignation the next day.”

“It would appear that Mr. Lincoln refused to accept it.”

“Indeed, although whether he's changed his habits to Mr. Lamon's satisfaction is another question.”

Lucy nodded as they moved up the queue a pace closer to the presidential party, where she could see a trifle better. Just beyond Mr. Lincoln and his two aides stood Mrs. Lincoln, shaking hands and chatting pleasantly with everyone who passed in the line, smiling graciously at those who were too bashful to approach her. She carried herself with queenly grace and dignity and was, as ever, elegantly attired, although she still wore the dark, somber colors of half mourning in memory of her poor lost young son, Willie, who had succumbed to typhoid fever nearly three years before. Her gown was fashioned of a heavy purple brocade silk, richly trimmed with black velvet, with an exquisitely fine black lace shawl upon her bare shoulders, and delicate gloves, a floral headdress, and luminous pearl jewelry to complete her costume.

To Mrs. Lincoln's immediate right stood John Hay, whom Lucy had not seen since the evening he had spotted her on John's arm outside Grover's Theatre, and whom she fervently hoped would have the good sense and discretion not to mention that occasion in front of her family. Beside him stood Benjamin Brown French, the commissioner of public buildings. Lucy was surprised to see him given such pride of place, for it was well known that he and the president's wife, once good friends, had fallen out due to her controversial overspending.

Lucy liked Mrs. Lincoln and sympathized with her for the tremendous burdens she endured as the wife of a wartime president, with her concerns for her husband's health, her fears for his safety surely foremost among them. Lucy thought it unfair and ungallant that the press treated Mrs. Lincoln with such gleeful cruelty, and she shuddered at the thought of suffering such malicious scrutiny herself. As much as
she admired her father and respected his accomplishments in the Senate, she sometimes wondered whether she might be more content to marry a man whose profession did not expose him, and therefore her, to constant public examination.

And so, she thought ruefully, she fell in love with an actor.

When the Hales reached the top of the queue, Mr. Lincoln greeted Lucy's parents first, shaking their hands and wishing them a happy New Year with his customary warmth and familiarity. Then he welcomed Lizzie and Lucy, so amiable, kind, and courteous in his manner that Lucy felt somehow that he regarded her as both a distinguished guest and the dear daughter of close friends. Mrs. Lincoln was equally gracious, complimenting the sisters on their gowns and offering regrets on her eldest son's behalf that he was not present to receive them. “His law studies keep him terribly busy,” she lamented, “but Harvard will have a school holiday later this month. Would you both like to come to tea with me and Robert when he comes home? I know he would be delighted to see the lovely Hale sisters again.”

“We would like that very much,” said Lucy, and Lizzie chimed in her agreement. Mrs. Lincoln promised to send them word as soon her secretary could arrange a date, and then the queue proceeded and Lucy and Lizzie were obliged to move on.

Next in the presidential party, John Hay behaved nearly as courteously as his employer as he shook their hands and wished them a happy New Year, but after Lizzie followed their mother and father out of the queue, he held Lucy's hand a moment longer. “Was that indeed you on the arm of John Wilkes Booth outside Grover's Theatre that night,” he inquired, smiling ironically, “or was that vision a hallucination brought on by the bitter cold?”

“It was not that cold,” she said, lowering her voice, “and you know very well it was I.”

He shook his head, bewildered, exasperated. “Does that mediocre actor actually think to court you?”

“That is unkind and unjust,” she protested in a murmur, glancing after her parents and Lizzie, who were quickly disappearing into the crowd. “Have you ever seen him perform? He's quite gifted.”

“I think his appeal on the stage resides rather in his romantic beauty of person than in any talent or industry he possesses.”

Despite her indignation, she could not help smiling. “Why, Mr. Hay, if I didn't know better, I might think you were jealous of Mr. Booth.”

“Not so. Not I.”

“All appearances to the contrary notwithstanding.”

“Miss Hale, in all seriousness—” He hesitated. “Mr. Booth has . . . a reputation. I sincerely hope he is not courting you.”

“Why? Because he is an actor?”

“Because he is no gentleman.” He clasped his other hand over hers that he already held, his expression one of deep concern. “The matter is too delicate to discuss here—and to a lady, anywhere, ever—but as your friend, I urge you to be cautious.”

She felt apprehension stir, and yet loyalty and love compelled her to say, “I cannot relinquish one friend based upon such vague accusations from another.”

And then the queue, held up too long, pushed forward, and Mr. Hay was obliged to release her hand. “We should speak again,” he said, raising his voice to be heard as she was carried along.

She nodded and turned away, quickly making her way through the crowd until she caught up with her family and fell in step beside her sister.

For Lucy, the brilliance had faded from the reception, and she was all too willing to go when her mother suggested that they depart before the gates were opened to the public at one o'clock and a crush of thousands of eager citizens filled the reception rooms. Mr. Hay's warnings haunted her as she accompanied her family on a round of calls to the homes of her mother's friends and her father's colleagues, greeting acquaintances with smiles and embraces, listening to excellent music at one reception and savoring tasty delicacies at another, all the while mulling over the unsettling exchange. Despite her teasing words to Mr. Hay, he had not truly seemed to speak out of jealousy but out of concern.

And yet—she loved John. When she had doubted him, he had explained himself, and she had found her worries unwarranted. She could not condemn him based upon rumors and idle speculation. That was not love. If she could not find it within herself to trust him, she did not deserve him.

But for his part, Mr. Hay had proven himself a good and
trustworthy friend, and he had nothing to gain by spreading false tales. He had barely been able to bring himself to reveal the little that he had said. Perhaps it was not romantic to be cautious, but she would rather be cautious and unromantic now than sorry later.

She was not some giddy, reckless girl, Lucy told herself as her family completed their merry rounds and headed back to the National Hotel. She was a sensible, prudent young woman, and if she married John—when she married him—it would be with clear eyes and an open heart. John would make of his past an open book, and satisfy her every question, or she could not marry him.

She held fast to her resolution as she followed her parents into the lobby and upstairs to their suite, assuring herself that John would pass every test.

Having eaten their fill at the series of receptions, the Hales had no appetite for supper, but their New Year's revelries were not yet finished. After a brief respite in the relative quiet of their suite, Lucy and her family proceeded downstairs to the lobby for a dance hosted by the hotel's proprietors. The tables had been cleared away to create space for a dance floor, the chairs arranged along the walls and black marble pillars for those who preferred to sit and watch rather than whirl about. From an alcove near the foot of the grand staircase, a chamber orchestra played waltzes and reels to the delight of the entire assembly.

Among them, soon none was happier than Lucy, for after she had danced with a congressman's son from Kentucky and a bespectacled young doctor visiting from Pennsylvania, John appeared by her side, smiling warmly, one hand behind his back, the other extended to her. “Miss Hale,” he said tenderly, “would you honor me with a dance?”

She nodded, gave him her hand, and let him lead her on.

“How was your day of New Year's revelry?” he inquired as they took their places. “Did you enjoy the president's reception?”

“Very much so, thank you.”

“And did the president look well?”

“Remarkably so, I'm pleased to say, better than he has since the early months of the war.”

Mr. Booth nodded thoughtfully. “I would have liked an introduction. Perhaps the next time you visit the Executive Mansion, I may accompany you.”

“You could have met the president today,” she teased. “All you had to do was join the many thousands who were admitted at one o'clock.”

“Not I,” he declared as the orchestra struck up a sweet melody. “I would not enter with the rabble. I would be among the dignitaries admitted at noon or not attend at all.”

She laughed and assured him she would do what she could to arrange a more agreeable introduction.

They danced one dance after another together, heedless of long-held custom that decreed they were obliged to mingle and not devote themselves to any one particular partner. When they were breathless from dancing, they sat or strolled the length of the room instead, conversing beneath the music, as privately as if they were alone.

Once, at the end of a set, Lizzie led a captain on leave from the First Massachusetts Cavalry to the two chairs by the window where Lucy and John were engrossed in conversation. Lizzie made introductions and quickly accepted a request to take the floor with another gentleman, leaving Lucy to choose between dancing with the captain or incurring scandal by rejecting a brave Union officer to remain with John, which was really no choice at all. So Lucy danced with the captain, and was as pleasant, graceful, and charming as she could be, for etiquette demanded no less and his faithful service to the nation made him deserving of her respectful attention. But as soon as the dance ended and the courteous captain escorted her from the dance floor, John was at her side, bowing, gracefully extending a hand, beckoning her once more into his arms. She found herself powerless to demur, as if all the doubts and worries of the day required a counterargument of equal force, compressed into the all-too-brief duration of the ball.

At the end of the night, John escorted her to her parents, whom he addressed respectfully, only to receive civil but coolly abrupt replies in return. Lucy felt herself flush with embarrassment and regret, understanding too late that she had made herself the subject of gossip, deceived by the splendor of the music and the firelight and the graceful, vigorous movements of the dancers that she and John had been alone in a world of their own, unencumbered by responsibility, duty, and custom.

“What were you thinking?” Lizzie whispered as they followed their unsmiling, silent parents upstairs to their suite.

“I was a fool,” Lucy murmured, sick at heart.

“I'm the elder sister. I should have interceded.”

“You tried,” said Lucy, remembering her sister's warning looks and discreet gestures, which in the heady intoxication of the hour she had convinced herself meant nothing. “It's not your fault—”

“Girls,” their mother broke in as they reached the landing. “If you must say it in a whisper, perhaps you shouldn't say it at all.”

Lucy slept restlessly that night, and woke to a strange, sinking pressure in her chest and a roaring in her skull, as if thunder rumbled ominously overhead. The storm that soon broke, not unexpectedly, was her mother.

“Lucy, dear, would you stay a moment?” she asked as the family prepared to go down to breakfast. Obediently, Lucy nodded, dreading the reprimand that was sure to come, that she knew she deserved.

As soon as her father and Lizzie left, her mother regarded her sternly. “Lucy, you must realize that you made yourself the subject of gossip last night with your extravagant attentions to Mr. Booth.”

“I know, Mama, and I'm sincerely sorry.”

“I'm pleased to hear it, but do you understand what you did wrong?”

“Yes, Mama, and I promise I'll never again be so indiscreet. I shouldn't have danced so often with the same partner to the exclusion of all other gentlemen.”

Her mother's eyebrows rose. “Nor should you have walked off alone with that same partner, nor sat so long with your heads bent together as if you were conspiring in whispers.”

“That too,” said Lucy, abashed.