Fates and Traitors (31 page)

“How glorious,” Lizzie murmured. Lucy nodded, too overwhelmed by the profundity of the moment to speak. Just as her father had said, in the midst of its most terrible crisis, the country had held national elections, and even those who had not cast their ballots for Mr. Lincoln had accepted the result. Their democracy had endured, and its faithful citizens had every reason to believe that they had been tested and had triumphed, and could surely survive any other challenge the future might bring.

The president's address was brief, simple, and profoundly beautiful—clear and poignant and warm, full of forgiveness and reconciliation. The president spoke of the war, and how slavery was the undeniable cause of it, and how four years earlier everyone, North and South alike, had wanted to avoid war, but one side would make war rather than let the nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish. He suggested that the Lord had allowed them to fall into war as punishment for the offense of slavery, and that the war could be a mighty scourge to rid them of it. All people, North and South alike, hoped and fervently prayed that the war would soon end, but if God willed that it should continue “until all the wealth piled by the bond-man's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash, shall be paid by another drawn with the sword,” they must accept that the Lord's judgment was true and righteous.

Tears filled Lucy's eyes as Mr. Lincoln closed with an extraordinary expression of forgiveness and magnanimity. “With malice toward none,” he urged his listeners, “with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in; to bind up the nation's wounds; to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow, and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just, and a lasting peace, among ourselves, and with all nations.”

Lucy reached for Lizzie's hand and squeezed it tightly as Mr. Lincoln turned to Chief Justice Chase, who came forward to set an open
Bible on a wooden stand. Mr. Lincoln placed his right hand upon it, the chief justice solemnly administered the oath of office, and when the last words were spoken, President Abraham Lincoln bent and kissed the holy book.

The crowd, thousands strong, roared their approval, the Marine Band broke into a stirring tune, and an artillery salute boomed. After bowing courteously to the throng to acknowledge their ardent cheers and thunderous applause, Mr. Lincoln left the portico for the lower entrance, where a carriage waited to carry him back to the White House.

Like most of the Washington elite, the Hale family did not plan to attend the public reception at the Executive Mansion that evening, which would have obliged them to stand in line for hours with six thousand citizens, all eager to shake the president's hand and offer him congratulations. Instead they would defer paying their respects until they could do so much more pleasantly at the Inaugural Ball two evenings hence.

Contemplative, hopeful, and yet inevitably downcast, the Hales retired to their suite and tried to settle down to writing letters, reading, or sewing, but Lucy sensed that they all felt somewhat adrift. Suddenly she remembered John and the ticket she had given him. She had not glimpsed him among the vast multitude, but she was certain he had attended, and she hoped that Mr. Lincoln's powerful oration had moved him. John was a sensitive soul, and she did not see how he could fail to respond in kind to the president's message of hope and reconciliation.

Suddenly a knock on the door shattered the pensive quiet. Lucy's father rose to answer, and from her chair by the window Lucy glanced up from her book to see a messenger with a letter. Papa took it, offered the lad a few coins, closed the door, and stared at the folded paper, one hand lingering on the doorknob, as if he dreaded to discover whatever news it contained.

Eventually he inhaled deeply, squared his shoulders, and opened the note. Lucy studied him, shifting quietly in her chair so she could see his expression better, but he neither brightened nor blanched. Instead he read the letter over again as if he could not quite believe it.

“Lucy, dear,” he said, meaning his wife, “how
is
your Spanish?”

“As I told President Lincoln,” she replied, eyes widening, “it is worse than my French, but far better than my Portuguese.”

“Well, you'll have to make a quick study of it, you and the girls.” He smiled, slowly and incredulously, until he fairly glowed with relief and happiness. “President Lincoln wants to know if I would consider accepting the post of Minister to Spain.”

They all ran to embrace him, offering kisses and congratulations and laughingly brushing aside his cautions that the president had not made him an official offer quite yet. “It will be forthcoming,” Mama assured him, and she urged him to sit down with paper and pen and immediately respond that he would accept the prestigious position if it were offered. Papa happily agreed that he should, and they gathered around his desk as he swiftly wrote a gracious reply to the president, breaking into applause when he sealed the letter. As her father took it downstairs to entrust it to a messenger, Lucy was overwhelmed with a dizzying mixture of elation, pride, and dismay. She would be going abroad after all, crossing the ocean to enjoy an exciting adventure in a strange, marvelous, foreign land, far from home, far from John.

After such a momentous day, they all found it difficult to sleep, but they woke the next morning cheerful and refreshed—even Lucy, despite the pangs of grief she felt whenever she imagined bidding John farewell. They were pleased that President Lincoln had honored Papa with such a prestigious post, thankful that their family would be provided for, thrilled to imagine the wonders that awaited them in Madrid, and somewhat daunted by the many tasks they must complete before they sailed for Spain.

As they went down to breakfast, Lucy's father reminded them that President Lincoln had not publicly announced the appointment yet, so they must not discuss it in the dining room or speak of it to anyone. As her mother and sister nodded, Lucy asked, “May I tell John?”

Her father paused on the staircase. “Yes, in fact, I think you should inform him right away.”

Lucy nodded, and when she saw the glance that passed between her parents as they continued down the stairs, she knew they were very glad that hundreds of miles would soon separate their daughter from her suitor.

John was not at breakfast, and the drawing room and lobby remained so packed with visitors who had come for the inauguration that
she had no hope of taking him aside for a private chat anytime soon. Thus when Parker called later that morning, and after her father entrusted him with the secret of his pending appointment, Lucy took him aside and quietly asked him to accompany her to John's room. His eyebrows rose, but he agreed.

Lucy's hand trembled when she knocked upon John's door, but she steeled herself with a deep breath, smoothed her skirts, and silently rehearsed what she intended to say. A minute, perhaps more, passed in silence, so she knocked again, louder, and this time she heard stirring within. Suddenly the door swung open, and John stood before her, bleary eyed and unshaven, his trousers and shirt unkempt and wrinkled as if he had slept in them. “Lucy,” he said, startled, quickly running a hand through his hair and tucking in his shirt.

“Good morning, John.” She recoiled slightly at the faint, stale odor of liquor on his breath. “I'm sorry we caught you still abed.”

“Late night?” asked Parker archly. “Did we celebrate the inauguration with a little too much enthusiasm?”

John shrugged and managed a wan smile.

With an effort, Lucy kept her expression smooth to conceal her displeasure at his shameful dissipation. “May we come in?”

After a moment's hesitation, John nodded and stepped back to allow them to enter. Parker gestured to the only chair, which Lucy took, while John glanced around for a moment before sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed. Parker closed the door and remained standing near it, hands in his pockets.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” John asked, his voice hoarse, his eyes bloodshot.

“I have news. Exciting and yet distressing news.”

Lucy clasped her hands in her lap and told him of Mr. Lincoln's offer, her voice trembling. John's brow furrowed in confusion as he listened, but when she finished he ran a hand over his jaw and stared at her as if she were already hundreds of miles away. “You're leaving,” he said, his voice curiously flat.

“I am.”

“Is there anything I could do to persuade you to stay?”

At his post near the door, Parker stirred, but Lucy did not glance
back at him. “I couldn't live here at the hotel alone. It would be improper.”

“Don't you have a maiden aunt you could live with?” John's voice carried an edge. “Someone on this side of the Atlantic?”

“I must go to Spain with my family. It has been decided, and I would never be able to convince my parents to let me stay behind.” Nor did she wish to, for although it would be unkind to tell John so, she was thrilled to be setting off on a grand adventure. Although she would miss him terribly, she trusted that she would see him again upon her return. How foolish she had been to think that he might be happy for her.

His shoulders slumped, but his gaze remained fixed on hers. “So it may be years before I see you again.”

“Not so long as that, I hope,” she said, but his dispirited glower silenced her. Until that moment, it had not occurred to her that he might not wait for her.

She could bear no more. Abruptly she stood, but John too rose and took her hands. “Will you still dance with me at the inaugural ball tomorrow night?”

“Of course. John, I won't be leaving the country for weeks, and my feelings for you are unchanged.”

“And yet everything else has changed.”

He raised her hands to his lips, disconsolate, and she found herself powerless to contradict him. Resigned, she glanced about, wishing she could find the words to comfort him, and her gaze fell upon an envelope on the dresser, a pen, and ink. Gently she withdrew her hands from his grasp, and as the words of John Greenleaf Whittier came to mind, she wrote,

For of all sad words from tongue or pen

The saddest are these—it might have been.

March 5th, 1865

In John's room.

Tears in her eyes, she set down the pen and handed the envelope to John, who read them, let out a soft moan of anguish, seized the pen, and added a few lines above hers. Wild-eyed, he thrust the envelope at her, and she read the verse in silence.

Now in this hour that we part,

I will ask to be forgotten never.

But in thy pure and guileless heart,

Consider me thy friend, dear, ever.

J. Wilkes Booth.

“This is not the hour that we part,” she protested. “We'll enjoy many hours together before my family sets sail. And I will return, John, but until then we can write, and perhaps you can visit us in Madrid.”

“It won't be the same.”

“No, but it will have to do.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. “Dearest John, this is not farewell. This is not an ending. We've not yet performed our final act together.”

Unexpectedly, he allowed a small smile. “The very thought of you, the senator's—no, the minister to Spain's daughter, treading the boards—”

Lucy laughed weakly. “Oh, my poor dear mother. She would never recover from it.”

Behind her, Parker cleared his throat.

“My parents are waiting.” Lucy kissed John on the cheek, swift and chaste. “I'll see you soon.”

“Take this,” he said, handing her the envelope.

“Don't you want it?”

“I'd rather you kept it. Take it to Spain and read it over whenever you miss me.”

“Very well.” She took the envelope and pressed it to her heart. “You may be sure I'll read it over every day.”

John nodded and opened the door, but he spoke not a word as Lucy and Parker left the room and he closed the door behind them.

•   •   •

J
ohn was not mistaken—everything had changed.

On the night of Monday, March 6, Lucy was among the Washington elite who attended the Inauguration Ball at the Patent Office, and she arrived to find it beautifully transformed for the occasion. The marble hall appropriated for dancing was about two hundred and eighty feet long and about a quarter that in width, with blue-and-white marble floors, an elaborately frescoed ceiling, and walls tastefully
appointed with emblems, banners, and devices among which the Stars and Stripes and flags of various army corps were prominently featured. At the north end of the room, sofas and chairs furnished in blue and gold were arranged on a dais for the comfort of the president and his family. A fine brass band occupied a gallery at the east end, ready to provide music for the promenade, while in the center on the south side, a string ensemble would furnish music for the dance.

Although Lucy had arrived with her parents and Lizzie, John was understood to be her escort, and he met her upon her arrival and claimed the first dance. The music was excellent, the gentlemen handsome and gallant, the ladies dazzling in their finery, and John was perfectly charming and attentive. Lucy had not forgotten the scandal at the New Year's dance at the National Hotel, however, and she made sure to dance with other gentlemen and to encourage John to dance with other ladies. She danced a quadrille with John Hay, who spent most of the evening attending to their mutual friend Kate Chase Sprague, whose delicate condition obliged her to sit out the dancing. Lucy also enjoyed a lancers with Robert Lincoln, who looked dashing in the splendid dress uniform of an army captain.

Soon after Robert escorted her from the dance floor, John appeared at her side and claimed her for the waltz, although they had danced the schottische together not long before. “You seemed to enjoy whirling about with Hay and young Lincoln,” he said close to her ear.