The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln (27 page)

Abigail could not help herself. “Can you explain that, please?”

And so he did. The key was that the digits were so low, other than the six. His tutor had explained that low numbers were generally a sign that the cipher was based on a book. Books rarely had more than two or three hundred pages, so a high proportion of low numbers—especially ones and twos—was evidence that pages were meant.

“Generally, the cipher is keyed to the words on a page. One number gives the page, another the line, another the word. Put the words together, and you will have the message.” He frowned. “It is unusual, however, to have only a single six, and nothing higher. I suppose that whoever enciphered the message needed to use only the first few lines on each page to find the words he needed. That likely means either a very simple message or a very sophisticated book. Usually, the book is one that is readily available. The Bible, for example. Or a volume of Shakespeare. It would not appear that the message contains more than five or six words. Seven, perhaps. I wonder if—”

He was on his feet again. Abigail stood with him. “With your permission, Miss Abigail, I would like to look this over for a few days.
There is something odd about the cipher. I believe that it is designed to deceive. It may not be a book code at all, even if intended to look like one. I should like to see whether I can work out where the deceit occurs.”

“By all means, Mr. Addison. Let me copy it out for you—”

“No need,” he said, and without looking at the page, recited: “One-three-one-six-three-two-two-two-two-three-two-one-two-one-two-four-four.” He inclined his head. “May I have your leave?”

She had to smile. And not only because he was so gallantly determined to help. His archaic formality, no doubt gleaned from his lonely readings of Shakespeare, she had always found off-putting, but now it was somehow endearing. And what charmed Abigail most about the episode was also what she had secretly counted on: that Octavius Addison was too much the gentleman to ask why she need to know what the cipher represented, or how it had come into her possession. Best of all, she would soon know what great secret Rebecca Deveaux had died to protect.

“Of course,” Abigail said. She considered asking him to keep the project to himself, but decided that cloaking the cipher in mystery might draw unwanted attention. Besides, Octavius was a gentleman, and would keep a lady’s secrets. “I shall look forward to hearing from you soon.”

At the door, Octavius took her hand shyly and, with a sudden surge of excitement, said, “I know that the trial begins in nine days. If you are not too busy preparing, I wonder whether you might do me the honor of going riding with me next weekend.”

“It would be my pleasure,” she murmured.

“Shall we say Sunday?”

“Sunday would be lovely.”

When the young man had gone, Abigail said, not turning, “Come out, Louisa, dear.” After a moment, her sister emerged grudgingly from her hiding place behind the stairs. “Did you enjoy your eavesdropping?”

“What’s a cipher?”

“Nothing!”

“Is it a love note?”

“Forget what you heard, Louisa.”

Her sister giggled. “He is a very sweet man.”

“Indeed.”

“Still. You know what Nanny always says.”

Abigail drew herself up. “No. What does Nanny say?”

“If you ask a man for a favor, he’s going to want one, too.” A giggle. “And I don’t mean riding.”

III

That night was her second reception at the Eameses’. Nanny considered it unladylike to attend any social event unescorted. When Abigail explained that the young ladies of Washington City often did, Nanny laughed. Unpleasantly. “Child, all that proves is that they ain’t no ladies.” She chomped on her pipe while Abigail fought the urge to roll her eyes. “You should get that nice white gentleman to escort you.”

“He is in Philadelphia.”

“Then find another white gentleman. I knows you don’t like the colored ones to take you to your talkin parties.”

“That is untrue!”

“Then get that nice Octavius.”

“Nanny, I am a professional of this city. I am employed by the firm that is defending the President of the United States. I believe that I can manage a single reception.”

But this objection led only to a further peroration from Nanny on the subject of the corrupting aspects of employment, and why a true lady avoided it like the plague. In the end, they compromised. Abigail refused to be escorted, but she agreed to allow her brother, who was back in town, to carry her to the party and back in his wagon. Along the way, Michael told her he had been down in Virginia, helping some of the farmers organize groups to protect their property from the night riders.

“Armed groups?” she asked.

“There wouldn’t be much point to any other kind, now, would there?”

“Are you in danger?”

“Every negro in this country is in danger, every minute.”

“Thank you for the ride,” she said as the wagon drew up at the Eameses’. “I shall be ready to depart at ten.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and touched his forehead, as some of the other negro drivers did. Michael had told her once that this common salute was actually a secret signal of mocking disrespect, but the white folks were too dumb to realize it.

She went in.

IV

Ash Wednesday had fallen in the middle of the week just past, and with the start of Lent, the Season had ended in Washington City; but Fanny Eames was not bound by convention. In deference to Christian sensibilities, she teased her guests by withholding alcohol. But there was food enough to feed an army; given rumors that a legion of destitute veterans was marching south from New York, provender on this order might prove necessary.

There was no Sumner this time, and no Grafton either, and little talk of politics, but shortly after Abigail stepped through the door the same clutch of Washington ladies who last time had demanded to know when she was writing her book descended upon her. “Miss Canner!” burbled Crete Garfield, grabbing Abigail’s hand, looking her up and down. “You simply must tell us where you get those marvelous clothes, dear.”

“Oh, yes,” burbled Bessie Hale. “Why, they look right out of the pages of
Peterson’s Magazine
.”

Abigail smiled. It was difficult to believe that just a week ago she had found these women intimidating. She knew that they were putting her down, because
Peterson’s
was aimed at women of the working classes who wanted to look and behave as though they were members of the upper class. “Indeed they are,” she gushed. “And yours!” she exclaimed, happily. “So beautiful and expensive! Why, they are right out of the
Peterson’s
story on fashions of the eighteenth century.”

A fresh round of tittering; but this time, if only for a lovely instant, the great ladies of Washington were on Abigail’s side; and if she did indeed in private hours read
Peterson’s
and
Godey’s
and the other magazines for social pretenders, well, that was nobody’s business but her own.

Then Lucy Lambert Hale linked a plump arm through hers and led her away from the group. The last time Abigail had laid eyes on Bessie, the young woman had been in tears following her argument with David Grafton. Tonight she was bright and alert.

“It’s such a tragedy, isn’t it?” she gushed. “That Mr. Hilliman has gone north? Really, I wonder what the young ladies of this city are going to do without him. Do you have any idea when he will be returning? Or where he has gone?”

“I believe he is visiting Miss Felix.”

“With the start of Mr. Lincoln’s trial a week away? I don’t believe that silly story, and neither do you. Where has he gone, Abigail? He wouldn’t tell me, the lamb. I begged him and flattered and teased and he simply wouldn’t say a word. Do tell me if you know. For my own private ear. What
is
that silly boy up to that he refuses to talk about?” Bessie leaned close. “Crete Garfield says Mr. Hilliman is on a secret mission for the President. Now, that would be a feather in his cap, wouldn’t it? If he’s the man who saves Mr. Lincoln, why, he would have his pick of the young ladies of this city, wouldn’t he? Only where would that leave you and me?” She squeezed Abigail’s upper arm. “He hasn’t told you, dear? He hasn’t let anything slip?”

“No,” said Abigail, head spinning. “Not at all.”

“Pity,” said Bessie, and was gone.

A few minutes later, as Abigail stood recovering near the piano, listening while an amiable British journalist expostulated on America’s many flaws, a cultured male voice cried, “Oh, say! There you are! You’re the one Hills is on about, aren’t you?”

Which was her introduction to Fielding Bannerman.

V

He was beautiful, in that peculiar way that only the very rich and very careless ever quite attained. Dinah Berryhill possessed the same graceful certainty that the world cared greatly for her opinions on all subjects but dared offer none of its own; Fielding Bannerman managed it better, and less disdainfully. He was about her height, with the fleshy, pampered softness of a man too busy to be bothered, a little wild about the hair, a little sloppy in his absurdly expensive dinner jacket. The dark, moist eyes were frank and appraising, the eyes of a man who neither asked permission nor offered apologies. Jonathan said that the Bannermans owned banks—“lots of banks”—as well as bits of railroads, bits of shipping, bits of everything.

Fielding steered her away from the crowd, never questioning that she would go with him. He admired a piece of sculpture, dismissed an oil as fourth-rate, and asked her opinion. When she sounded knowledgeable, he offered to show her his father’s collection of Renaissance art.

“That would be very kind of you,” she said.

“I am at your service,” he said, with a little bow. “Let’s set a date, shall we? We live mostly in Philadelphia, but the main part of the collection
is in New York. We have a place in the city and a place up on one of the lakes. We could take the cars. What do you say?” Abigail had trouble suppressing a giggle.

“I suppose you’re busy right now. This silly trial and so forth. Perhaps in the summer. Nobody stays in Washington City in the summer. Didn’t Hills tell me that you summer in Ohio?”

“No, no, I went to school in Ohio.”

“I have a cousin in Ohio. Wants to be governor, imagine. Or Senator. I don’t recall.” Fielding studied her. “Hills is right for once.”

“About what?”

“You are an absolutely fascinating creature.”

“Why do you call him Hills?” she asked by way of diversion as she tried not to blush. She could not remember when she had met a man so charming; or one, at least, who focused all of that charm on her.

“Goes back to when we were in rompers. He was Hills, I was Fields.” He flapped a hand dismissively. “Never mind. Private thing. Between friends and all that.” He looked her up and down, not bothering to hide his scrutiny. “I can see why he’s taken with you.”

“Mr. Bannerman, please.”

“He says you’re engaged, though. Pity.” He brightened. “Say. He’s not in the city, is he? Your fiancé?”

“Ah, no.” The hectic leaps from subject to subject were dizzying. “No, he isn’t.”

“Then you could perfectly well go to the theater with me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Well, Miss Hale goes with Hills, and he’s engaged.” He seemed not to notice her sudden unease; or was too much the gentleman to mention it. “And then we shall go to the lake in the summer. You can look at my father’s collection, and I shall introduce you to New York society. How does that sound?”

“Sir, I am not … I mean …”

“Say. What do you think of Bessie Hale, anyway?”

“I … I don’t really know her.”

“I thought I saw you talking to her a moment ago. Didn’t I rescue you from her clutches? Well, you must return the favor. Not for me. For Hills. She is after him, and we have to protect him, you and I. We are his friends, and that woman is a monster.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Every time Hills has been out with her, he tells me some fantastic
story she came up with. Some piece of evidence the House Managers have in their possession. Some rumor. I think Bessie is most likely lying through her teeth to snare young Hilliman, the way she snared Robert Lincoln. He would have married her, you know, but Mrs. Lincoln would not permit it. Mrs. Lincoln considered the young lady a trollop.” His eyes brightened, as though the whole matter was hilarious. “And it’s true that Miss Hale has had a number of beaux. Came after me, as a matter of fact, but I’m rather impervious. And then, of course, there was Booth. Poor Bessie. He broke her heart.”

“Who is Booth?” Abigail asked shakily. Her head was spinning. Octavius this afternoon, Fielding Bannerman tonight, Jonathan mooning every day. She had never been popular with men, the way Dinah was, or even Judith: why this sudden embarrassment of beaux?

“You know. Booth. The actor. The one who shot Mr. Lincoln in the head.”

“Wilkes Booth? Is that who you mean?” She stared. “Are you telling me that John Wilkes Booth and Bessie Hale were … were …”

“Involved,” said Fielding. A chuckle. “One story even claims they were engaged. They say that Booth was carrying a photograph of Bessie when he was caught, but nobody has ever produced it, and I am inclined to think the story isn’t true. Still, she has had quite a life, has our Miss Hale.” He saw the look on her face, and laughed. “Oh, it’s a lot worse than that. The reason her father took her to Spain in the first place, the whole reason he left the Senate, was to get his daughter out of this city and away from rumor. But she couldn’t stay away. This is her city, Miss Canner. Bessie Hale knows everybody and hears everything. Washington is like a giant web to her, and she loves nothing more than catching men in it. Spinning those tales is part of how she snares them.”

Abigail found her voice. “So her stories … those things she tells Jonathan … Mr. Hilliman … are you saying she makes them up?”

“No idea. But that would be her style.” He shook his head. “She can’t stand Mr. Lincoln, you know. Her father used to be an enemy, too. Now I’m not so sure. Lincoln gave him the appointment to Spain.” That throbbing chuckle again. “I will say this for him. He is a man of integrity.”