Fates and Traitors (29 page)

“Darling—” Her mother sighed and took Lucy's hands in her own. “You seem much infatuated with Mr. Booth, and I confess it worries me.”

Lucy stung to hear her love dismissed as infatuation. “Mr. Booth has become a very dear friend, and I'm quite fond of him.”

“I know, child. I daresay everyone present at the dance last night knows. However, you mustn't let this friendship go too far.”

“What do you mean?”

“You cannot think of allowing Mr. Booth to court you. He is entirely unsuitable for you, and your father and I could not give you our blessing.”

Tears filled Lucy's eyes, and she slipped her hands from her
mother's grasp. “You've made that decision already, and yet you hardly know him.”

“Lucy, darling,
you
hardly know him.”

“I know him well enough to be certain he's a good man, worthy of me in every sense. If you object because he's an actor, rest assured he won't be one for much longer. He has gone into the oil business, and is a full partner in a company he founded.”

“It is not only his profession that gives us pause. Trusted friends have warned your father and me that Mr. Booth has publicly expressed sympathy for the South.”

“For the Southern people, perhaps, for he considers himself a Southerner by birth, but certainly not for the Confederacy.”

“I'm afraid that's not so. He has also been overheard denouncing the president as a tyrant.”

Lucy was taken aback, but she could not bear to leave John undefended. “Many Northern newspapers have done the same. It seems that you and Papa have formed your opinions about Mr. Booth based upon rumors rather than your own experience.”

“We cannot disregard the counsel of wise friends where our daughter's well-being is at stake.” Suddenly her mother's shoulders slumped and she sank into a chair, her expression profoundly sad. “My dear daughter, I remember the first blush of young love—the wonder, the exhilaration—and I know, as perhaps you do not, how it can cloud one's judgment.”

“I know it can.” She thought she did. “But there is judgment and there is prejudice. I'm sure if you and Papa knew Mr. Booth better, and judged him on his own merits, you would esteem him as I do.” She knelt beside her mother's chair and took one of her hands in both of hers. “Could you not give him the chance to prove himself? Think of the dreadful gossip we've heard about Mr. Lincoln, about my own dear Papa. Only a small fraction has any truth to it, and that's usually twisted beyond all recognition.”

“I cannot deny that.” Her mother frowned, pensive, and for an agonizing moment Lucy held her breath. “I suppose, if you promise to be more discreet, I could persuade your father to allow Mr. Booth to court you, so that we—and you—could better evaluate his character and suitability. Anyone can feign the manners of a perfect gentleman for a little
while, an actor better than most, but I trust that time will bring his faults to the surface.”

Lucy flung her arms around her mother. “Oh, Mama, thank you.”

Gently, her mother took Lucy by the shoulders and held her at arm's length, the better to look steadily into her eyes. “There will be conditions,” she warned. “You must never see Mr. Booth without a chaperone, not even in the National. You must be more mindful of your reputation, and put on no more shameful displays as you did last night.”

Lucy flushed and lowered her gaze. “Of course. You have my word.”

Her mother cupped Lucy's chin with her hand and raised it so their eyes met. “Finally, when all is said and done, you must accept our decision regarding Mr. Booth. You must promise not to marry him without our blessing.”

“I would never marry anyone without your consent,” said Lucy, shocked that her mother thought she might. “I'll abide by your decision, yours and Papa's. That's how confident I am that Mr. Booth will prove himself worthy.”

“We'll see,” her mother replied, simply and sadly.

Blinking away tears, Lucy smiled, rose, and held out her hands to help her mother to her feet. But her smile swiftly faded. She had expected to be forbidden to see John again, and yet somehow she had emerged with her mother's permission, albeit reluctantly given, to allow him to court her. Why, then, did she feel bereft, as if something precious had been irretrievably lost?

•   •   •

H
er mother's certainty that time would bring John's faults to light proved prescient, perhaps intentionally so. It was hardly surprising that when Lucy was compelled to keep a wary eye out for reasons to doubt John, to mistrust him, she found them.

The first week of the New Year continued promisingly enough. Lucy's mother convinced her father to let John court Lucy, to discourage clandestine meetings and to give him a fair chance to rise in their esteem. He occasionally dined or breakfasted with the family, and he and Lucy sometimes met in the drawing room to read together, though always with one of her parents, Lizzie, or cousin Parker seated nearby, ostensibly absorbed in a book, but frequently glancing up from the page to study the couple.

John's tolerance of the new, unwanted scrutiny wore thin after a fortnight. He never complained—he couldn't, as their chaperone would surely overhear—but Lucy perceived his umbrage in a new tension in his neck and shoulders, in an unfamiliar strain in his voice. Neither did he become more forthcoming about the nature of his work. He passed in and out of the National at unpredictable hours and rarely explained where he had been and with whom he had met. He traveled to Baltimore on January 10 and returned two days later with little to share about the trip beyond a few lackluster remarks about the weather. “I did nothing but meet with dull men about investing in oil wells,” he said when she prompted and prodded him for more. “It's a tedious business and I won't bore you with a lengthy description.”

“Let me decide if I find it boring,” she implored, but he merely laughed indulgently and kissed her—Lizzie, their chaperone of the moment, had averted her eyes—and told her that he would rather hear about her tea with Mrs. Lincoln and Robert Lincoln at the Executive Mansion.

He remained so stubbornly resistant to her entreaties that she had to consider that, although he might not be a spy, he was perhaps engaged in some other clandestine work for the War Department, a task where his knowledge of the oil business and his skills as an actor came into play. She hoped that someday soon he would trust her enough to reveal his secrets to her, if she could not figure them out on her own first.

On a Friday evening soon thereafter, John returned to the stage for a single night to play Romeo to Miss Avonia Jones's Juliet in her farewell benefit at Grover's Theatre. As he had promised long ago, Parker escorted Lucy to the performance, and she watched, enthralled and awestruck, as John transformed himself entirely into the tragic young lover. The stage was his to command, his voice veritable music, his movements the most graceful dance. She fell in love with him anew with his every expression of love for Juliet, and she wept when he took his own life rather than survive his lost beloved.

The next day, she could not resist reading aloud to her family the glowing reviews he received in the papers. “What glorious praise from the
National Intelligencer,
” she declared. “Just listen: ‘As earned by his Romeo, we hasten to add our laurel to the wreath which the young actor deservedly wears; to offer him our congratulations, and to say to
him that he is of the blood royal—a very prince of the blood—a lineal descendant of the true monarch, his sire, who ranks with the Napoleons of the stage.' Oh, and this: ‘His death scene was the most remarkable and fearfully natural that we have seen for years upon the stage.'”

“Yes, I seem to recall hearing that Mr. Booth has often died upon the stage,” her father remarked, his gaze fixed on his own newspaper.

Lizzie laughed, but Lucy ignored the barb. “‘His elocution was faultless, his step as light as vanity.'”

“What does that mean?” asked Lizzie, wrinkling her nose. “‘As light as vanity'? I'm not so certain it's a compliment.”

“‘He is full of genius,'” Lucy read on determinedly, “‘and almost as perfect an artist as his brother Edwin. One could be forgiven for believing that his love for Miss Jones was real.'”

“I'm not at all surprised to learn that the younger Mr. Booth is skilled at feigning love,” said Mama, taking a sip of coffee and regarding Lucy over the rim of her delicate china cup.

Cheeks burning, Lucy read the remaining reviews in silence.

Her family was civil to John when he was present, but in private it was as if they had linked arms and braced themselves against him. If John was aware of this, he did not complain, nor did he express any concern about their resistance to his celebrated charm. And yet he was occasionally ill tempered and abrupt, only to be smiling, affectionate, and as courteous as ever the next time Lucy saw him. His mood seemed to shift with the wind, turning Lucy this way and that like a weathervane, powerless to hold fast against bewilderment and hurt.

•   •   •

A
week after his triumph at Grover's Theatre, John left for Baltimore, and from thence he went to New York, and on to Philadelphia, and then back to New York, until Lucy could scarcely keep track of his travels and began to wonder if his letters were crossing in the mail. At Lizzie's urging, she fended off loneliness and worry by redoubling her labors for the Union cause, visiting the wounded in the city's many military hospitals, organizing fund-raisers for the Sanitary Commission, and knitting innumerable pairs of thick, warm socks for soldiers in the field. She also took time for the more lighthearted distractions of levees, dinner parties, and dances, though she missed her favorite partner too much to entirely enjoy them.

One grand event she would have loved to attend was the magnificent state dinner Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln hosted at the White House on February 13 for sixteen senators and their wives, including Lucy's parents. Lucy and Lizzie were so eager to hear every detail that they waited up for their parents to return home, even though it was half past eleven o'clock before they finally returned to the suite, tired but smiling.

“The table took up the entire length of the state dining room,” their father told them as he removed his coat and shoes and glanced about for his slippers. “Mrs. Lincoln was seated at the center of the table, with the president immediately opposite her. Your mother had the honor of occupying the place to Mr. Lincoln's left.”

“I think the exalted place they gave
me
was meant to honor
you
,” their mother said, regarding their father fondly as she nodded to his slippers, halfway hidden beneath the ottoman. “The table was beautifully decorated with vases of flowers arranged by the president's head gardener, and the French caterer Jacobs prepared the meal, so I won't torment you with descriptions of how absolutely delicious every bite of every course was.”

“What did Mrs. Lincoln wear?” Lizzie asked as she went to fetch her father's slippers.

“An exquisite gown of white crepe, with delicate puffs and trimmings of lilac,” their mother said. “On her head she wore a wreath of lilac and white flowers—you know how she adores flowers—and her ears, throat, and wrists were adorned with lovely pearl jewelry.”

“And what was her mood?” Lucy prompted. She knew her friend Robert often worried about his mother's strained nerves, an unfortunate consequence of her eminent position.

“Quite good. She presided over the gathering with elegance and grace.” Her mother hesitated and, with a small, fond, sympathetic smile for Lucy, she added, “There was one matter that seemed to trouble her. You're aware, I'm sure, that Robert has long desired to join the army.”

“Yes, so he has told me, but his mother absolutely refuses to give him her blessing.” On one occasion, not long after he graduated from Harvard, Robert had angrily declared that if he could not live as he wanted, he would at least escape the “glass house” of Washington. The next Lucy heard, he had returned to Massachusetts and had enrolled in Harvard Law School.

“Be that as it may, his father apparently decided to grant his wish,” her father said. “Your friend is now Captain Robert Lincoln, and in a few days he will begin serving as an assistant adjutant general on General Grant's own staff.”

“Oh, my goodness.” Lucy placed a hand over her heart, stunned. Another brave friend, sent into danger. “How is Mrs. Lincoln bearing it?”

“I imagine she had choice words for her husband in private,” said her father dryly.

“She assured everyone at the table that she was very proud of her son and wholeheartedly supported his decision to serve,” said her mother. “Later, though, she confided to me that she feels nervous and afraid, even though her son will be so well placed at military headquarters that he'll probably never see a single battle.”

“I hope that's true,” said Lucy fervently. “Robert won't like that, of course, but for his sake and his parents', I hope he remains miles away from the front lines.”

Nodding his agreement, her father stifled a yawn.

“There was one other curious thing.” Her mother put her head to one side, frowning slightly as she pondered a memory. “Just before the sweets were served, Mr. Lincoln turned to me, smiled kindly, and inquired, ‘How good is your Spanish, Mrs. Hale?'”

The sisters exchanged bewildered glances. “Were you talking about Spain at the time?” asked Lizzie.

“No, nor was the subject Mexico or Panama or any other Spanish-speaking nation.”

“What did you say?” asked Lucy.

“I told him my Spanish is worse than my French but far better than my Portuguese.”

“What an odd question,” said Lizzie.

“Yes, very odd,” said their father, making no effort to disguise a second yawn, so they quickly agreed when he suggested that the rest of their report could wait until breakfast.