Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker (39 page)

“Such small pieces, and such fine stitches.” Mrs. Lincoln peered closer. “These fabrics look familiar.”

“They’re scraps left over from making your dresses,” said Elizabeth. “I’m glad you recognize them. Each one seems to me like an old friend, and when my gaze falls upon one, I remember the gown cut from the same cloth, and the grand occasion for which it was made.”

“What a lovely idea.” Mrs. Lincoln returned the quilt pieces, and her gaze went back to the window. “A memory album made of fabric. It is just the thing.”

She paused so long, Elizabeth thought she was finished, but then she added in a barely audible whisper, “Unless it is too painful to remember.”

Fifty-four hours after they set out from Washington, their train arrived in Chicago. No one met them at the station; Elizabeth did not know who might have met them, if indeed anyone knew they were coming. Mrs. Lincoln had arranged for rooms at the Tremont House, a luxurious hotel on the southeast corner of Lake Street and Dearborn. “My husband began his Senate campaign from that balcony,” Mrs. Lincoln said as they descended from the carriage, indicating the place above by lifting her chin. “Back in 1860, it served as the headquarters for the Illinois Republican Party during the Republican National Convention. My, how they rallied around my husband here in those days!”

Robert glanced at the impressive edifice, tugging on his ear thoughtfully. “Isn’t this also where Senator Douglas died?”

Mrs. Lincoln’s lips thinned. “Yes,” she said sourly. “It is that too.” She swept inside, and without another word, they all trailed after her.

Elizabeth was astounded by her sumptuous room. Never had she stayed anyplace so fine, and her heart sank with dismay when she estimated the likely expenses. Mrs. Lincoln had become accustomed to the grandeur of the White House, and she apparently expected to keep herself in that style. Elizabeth realized that as her friend and companion, it fell to her to warn Mrs. Lincoln that she would soon bankrupt herself if she persisted in that way. Just as she gathered her courage, Mrs. Lincoln spared her the onerous duty by reaching the same conclusion herself. “Everything here is so very fine, and so very dear,” she confessed to Elizabeth, sighing heavily. “We cannot stay. I cannot fall into further financial embarrassment.”

She dispatched Robert to find them less expensive accommodations, and within a week Robert proposed they move to the Hyde Park Hotel, a quiet retreat seven miles from the city center on the shore of Lake Michigan at Fifty-third Street. The village of Hyde Park, population five hundred, was a cool, lovely spot that had become a popular summer escape for well-to-do Chicagoans. The hotel’s owner, Mr. Paul Cornell, a Chicago lawyer and developer for whom Mr. Lincoln had once done some legal work, told Robert that he would consider it a great honor if Mrs. Lincoln decided to reside there.

And so she did.

They traveled by train, arriving in Hyde Park at about three o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. Elizabeth was struck by the newness of the hotel, which had opened only the previous summer and still smelled faintly of pine boards. The accommodations were markedly different from Tremont House, the rooms comfortable but small and plainly furnished. Most of Mrs. Lincoln’s boxes and trunks had been stored in a warehouse upon their arrival, but what remained they unpacked. Elizabeth helped Mrs. Lincoln put away her clothes, and then she assisted Robert as he unpacked his books and arranged them on shelves in the corner of his room. They chatted pleasantly all the while, and when they were finished, Robert folded his arms, stood by the mantel, and gazed into space as if the weight of his change of fortune, the dramatic contrast between the past and the present, had just become real to him.
“Well, Mrs. Keckley,” he eventually said, “how do you like our new quarters?”

“This is a delightful place,” said Elizabeth, “and I think you will pass your time pleasantly.”

He studied her quizzically for a moment, as if he had expected a different answer. “You call it a delightful place. Well, perhaps it is.” He looked around the small but neat room, and she realized then that he saw it quite differently than she—cramped and spartan. “Since you do not have to stay here, you can safely say as much about the charming situation as you please. I presume that I must put up with it, as my mother’s pleasure must be consulted before my own. But candidly, I would almost as soon be dead as be compelled to remain three months in this dreary house.”

If he had not said “almost,” Elizabeth thought wryly, she might have accused him of exaggeration. She watched as he went to the window and gazed out upon the lovely scenery with a moody, querulous expression. Muffling a sigh, she excused herself, left him to his brood, and went to check on Mrs. Lincoln, who had retired to her room to rest before they sent down to the kitchen for their supper. Elizabeth had listened to Mrs. Lincoln’s sobbing for eight weeks, so she was not surprised to find her lying on the bed, weeping as if her heart was broken. Elizabeth backed quietly into the hallway and slowly began to pull the door shut, but Mrs. Lincoln had heard her enter and rolled over to see who had disturbed her.

“What a dreary place, Elizabeth,” she lamented, propping herself up on her elbow and wiping tears from the corner of her eyes with her other wrist. “And to think that I should be compelled to live here, because I have not the means to live elsewhere. Ah! What a sad change has come to us all.”

“It is not so bad,” Elizabeth said, seating herself in the spindle chair beside the bed. “The views are lovely, and the breeze from the lake is refreshing.” She reached out her hand. “Come and see it with me.”

Mrs. Lincoln shook her head and fell back against the pillow. “I couldn’t bear it. How could I enjoy any small beauty when my husband
lies in his grave and I know not what will become of me and my poor sons?”

Elizabeth sighed softly. “Very well. As you wish.” She excused herself, found Tad playing alone in his room, and took him outside instead. He held her hand and chattered excitedly as they walked to the lakeshore, and once there he tore himself free and ran whooping and hollering down to the water. Together they walked along the beach, picking up smooth, round stones, stacking the prettiest and most interesting in a pile by the grass to take back to their rooms, flinging the rest into the lake one by one so they might enjoy the satisfying splashes.

Sunday dawned quiet and peaceful. From her window, Elizabeth looked out upon the beautiful lake, only one of many enchanting views from the hotel she had discovered. The wind rippled the broad, blue expanse of the water, and sunbeams made the waves sparkle like scattered jewels. Here and there a sailboat silently glided by or disappeared below the faint blue line of the horizon. Her thoughts turned toward the heavenly realm to which she aspired, the sunbeams on the water suggesting crowns studded with the jewels of eternal life. Elizabeth could not fathom how anyone could consider Hyde Park a dreary place, when it shone so brilliantly with light and life. She would be happy to rest there. She had seen so much trouble in her life, and she was weary, and knowing that she had to shepherd Mrs. Lincoln through her misery made her wearier still, and reluctant to leave her room and face the day. She would almost prefer to fold her arms and sink into an eternal slumber, so that the great longing of her soul for peaceful rest would at last be gratified.

Robert spent the day in his room with his books, while Elizabeth remained in Mrs. Lincoln’s, describing the many charming features of their new accommodations Mrs. Lincoln had perhaps not noticed in her grief, speaking plainly but gently about how Mrs. Lincoln’s present circumstances were different from what she had come to expect as her due and encouraging her to plan for the future. Mrs. Lincoln refused to think beyond the summer, insisting that she wanted to live in seclusion all that while. “Old faces will only bring back memories of scenes I wish
to forget,” she said, “and new faces could not possibly sympathize with my distress, or add to the comforts of my situation.”

Elizabeth disagreed but could not persuade her otherwise. Overnight, however, Mrs. Lincoln evidently relented enough to allow herself to ponder Tad’s future, for on Monday morning, after Robert went into Chicago on business, she told Tad that he was going to have a lesson every morning, beginning that very day.

Tad protested that he did not want a lesson, to which Mrs. Lincoln replied that in that case she supposed he wanted to grow up to be a great dunce. “You must do as Mother tells you, Tad,” she said firmly. “You are getting to be a big boy now, and must start school next fall. You would not like to go to school without knowing how to read.”

Tad considered her words, perhaps imagining his humiliation if he were the only boy in his class who could not read, and then bounded to his feet, declaring that he did want a lesson after all and that he must have his book and start right away. Elizabeth looked on, amused, as Mrs. Lincoln seated herself in the easy chair and Tad pulled his own smaller chair up alongside, his book on his lap. The scene would have pleased Mr. Lincoln very much, Elizabeth thought. Tad had been humored and pampered by his parents, especially by his father. Tad suffered from a lisp and had never been sent to school, and so he did not know his book at all well. Elizabeth had never understood how two parents who valued knowledge and learning as much as the Lincolns did could have neglected Tad’s education, so she was pleased to see that Mrs. Lincoln meant to make up for lost time. It was not only for Tad’s sake that Elizabeth approved of this new plan. As much as Tad needed to learn his letters, Mrs. Lincoln needed some worthy endeavor to occupy her time and thoughts.

Tad opened his book and slowly spelled the first word. “A, P, E.”

“Well,” his mother prompted, “what does A, P, E spell?”

Tad glanced at the small woodcut illustration above the word. “Monkey.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Lincoln exclaimed. “A, P, E does not spell monkey.”

“Does too spell monkey!” Tad pointed triumphantly at the picture. “Isn’t that a monkey?”

“No, it is not a monkey.”

Tad’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “Not a monkey! What is it, then?”

“An ape.”

“An ape! That’s not an ape. Don’t I know a monkey when I see it?”

“Not if you claim that is a monkey.”

“I do know a monkey,” he insisted. “I’ve seen lots of them in the street with the organ grinders. I know a monkey better than you do, ’cause I always go out to see them when they come by and you don’t.”

“Tad, listen to me. A monkey is a species of ape. It looks much like a monkey, but it is not a monkey.”

“It shouldn’t
look
like a monkey then. Here, Yib—” This was the name he had adopted years before for Elizabeth, when his youth and speech impediment had conspired to render her name impossible to pronounce. “Isn’t this a monkey, and don’t A, P, E spell monkey? Ma don’t know anything about it.” And with that he thrust the book at Elizabeth, earnest and excited.

Elizabeth could not help it; she burst out laughing. Tad drew back, very much offended. “I beg your pardon, Master Tad,” she gasped, fighting to chase away her mirth. “I hope that you will excuse my want of politeness.”

He bowed his head, forgiving her as graciously as a little lord, but then he persisted, saying, “Isn’t this a monkey? Don’t A, P, E spell monkey?”

“No, Tad,” she said kindly. “Your mother is right. A, P, E spells ape.”

“You don’t know any more than Ma.” Indignant, Tad slammed the book shut. “Both of you don’t know anything.”

At that moment, Robert entered, home from Chicago, and Tad immediately posed the question to him. It took some doing, but eventually Robert convinced his younger brother that Mrs. Lincoln and Elizabeth did indeed know what they were talking about, and that A, P, E did not and never would spell monkey. Once Tad accepted this irrefutable truth, the rest of the lesson proceeded with far less difficulty.

Elizabeth watched from the corner of her eye while she pieced her quilt, biting her lips together until the urge to laugh had passed. Then
it occurred to her that if Tad had been a colored boy rather than the son of a president, and a teacher had found him so difficult to instruct, he would have been ridiculed as a dunce and held up as evidence of the inferiority of the entire race. Tad was bright; Elizabeth knew that well, and she was sure that with proper instruction and hard work, a glimmer of his father’s genius would show in him too. But Elizabeth knew many black boys Tad’s age who could read and write beautifully, and yet the myth of inferiority persisted. The unfairness of the assumptions stung. If a white child appeared dull, he and he alone was thought to suffer from a lack of intelligence or a deficient education, but if a colored boy appeared dull, the entire race was deemed unintelligent. It seemed to Elizabeth that if one race should not be judged by a single example, then neither should any other.