Mary and Abe met Emilie and Katherine at the front door of the Executive Mansion, welcoming them with warm embraces and tears in their eyes. At first, the adults were too grief-stricken to speak; they had all suffered such terrible losses that for a long moment all they could do was to embrace one another in silence and tears. Emilie’s heart went out to her sister and brother-in-law to see how the burdens of his office had taken their toll on them both, but especially Abe, whose kind eyes and warm smile belied the lines that worry had etched on his face, his sunken cheekbones, his intensely melancholic aura.
Duty soon summoned Abe back to his office. While Katherine ran off to play with her cousin Tad, Mary led Emilie upstairs to the family’s private quarters, where they sat in the parlor and let their tears fall unheeded as they spoke of their children and of old friends in Springfield and Lexington. They said nothing of the pain and politics that divided them, nothing of the future, which seemed empty of anything but despair. Emilie chose her words carefully, loath to say anything that might inadvertently injure her sister’s battered heart. From the hesitant way Mary introduced new topics, Emilie knew she was picking her way through the same uncertain terrain.
They dined alone, and afterward Mary led her on a tour of the White House, which she had refurbished magnificently. The East, Green, and Blue Rooms were beautifully illuminated, and in the Red Room, Emilie admired the portrait of George Washington that Dolley Madison had cut out of the frame and carried off to save it from the British. “Dolley Madison’s first husband was a Todd,” Mary remarked, repeating a fact Emilie knew well.
Emilie was offered a lovely bedroom that had been redecorated for a visit from the Prince of Wales. Its purple draperies and wall hangings were rich and sumptuous, but to Emilie they seemed grim and funereal despite the bright yellow cords that bound them. Katherine had a smaller but much brighter room next door. Although Emilie had expected to rest uneasily in the Union capital, surrounded by Yankees, they both slept well and awoke refreshed, Katherine cheerful and lively, Emilie full of calm acceptance.
That calm remained with her throughout the day, but deserted her later that evening. At midmorning, Emilie and Mary were engrossed in conversation when a strikingly beautiful colored woman entered the room, a sewing basket on her arm. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly to see the two sisters seated together on the sofa, clutching hands and choking back tears.
“Ah, Mrs. Keckly,” said Mary, rising, her hand still in Emilie’s. “Allow me to present my dear sister, Mrs. Emilie Helm.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Helm,” said Mrs. Keckly cordially, with a polite bow of the head, but Emilie was too undone to do more than nod and press her lips together in a pained semblance of a smile.
Mary crossed the room, placed a hand on Mrs. Keckly’s elbow, and guided her back toward the door. “My sister and her daughter arrived only yesterday, and we have so much to discuss. Would you come back tomorrow—no, the day after? And would you please—” Her voice dropped to a murmur. “What I mean is, we would not like it whispered about that Little Sister is staying with us.”
Somewhat bemused, Mrs. Keckly agreed and bade them farewell. Thus did Emilie come to realize that while Abe and Mary would not deny that she was visiting, they did not want it widely known to the public. Though this made her uncomfortable, Emilie understood: many in Washington would look askance at a Confederate widow residing at the White House. She did not wish to make matters more difficult for the Lincolns, who had enough to contend with without troublesome relations stirring the pot.
As if to prove that they had no intention of hiding her away, when Abe went to bed early with a bad cold, Mary invited their cousin John Todd Stuart to join them for dinner. Emilie had not seen him since she was a belle of eighteen, and at first she dreaded to see how he would treat a rebel cousin. He was so kind and courteous, however, that she was quite at her ease by the time they retired to the Blue Room for coffee. Her wariness returned in an instant when a maid delivered cards from two callers and Mary agreed to receive them. Excusing herself, Emilie left the room and went to choose a book from Abe’s study, but a few minutes later Mary found her there and asked her to return. “Our visitors came especially to see you, Little Sister, to inquire about mutual friends in the South,” she cajoled. “Could you perhaps help ease their worries?”
Emilie was reluctant to accept—it was painful to see friends, and meeting strangers felt even worse—but she did, arranging her veil over her face as she followed her sister back to the Blue Room. There Mary introduced New York senator Ira Harris, father of one Union officer and stepfather of another. The second gentleman was General Daniel Sickles, a former US congressman from New York and founder of the famed Excelsior Brigade of the Army of the Potomac. Although he had lost a leg at Gettysburg, he remained on active duty, and rumor had it that he deeply resented General Grant for refusing to appoint him to a combat command.
“When I heard that you were at the White House, just arrived from the South,” said General Sickles, “I told Senator Harris that you could probably give him some news of his old friend General John Breckinridge.”
“I’m sorry, Senator,” said Emilie, turning to him, “but as I have not seen General Breckinridge for some time, I cannot give you any news of his health.”
“Thank you all the same, madam,” replied Senator Harris, bowing. He then proceeded to ask her several pointed questions about the Confederate government and military, its resources and general morale. Increasingly wary, she offered only polite, noncommittal answers, until in his vexation he declared, “Well, we have whipped the rebels at Chattanooga, and I hear, madam, that the scoundrels ran like scared rabbits.”
“It was the example, Senator Harris, that you set for them at Bull Run and Manassas,” she replied tightly.
A faint flush of embarrassment had risen in Mary’s cheeks. “Senator Harris,” she ventured, “I wonder if you have heard of the Contraband Relief Association. My dear friend, Mrs. Keckly, founded the organization to—”
“And you, madam,” Senator Harris interrupted, turning upon her. “One might well ask you why your son Robert isn’t in the army. He is old enough and strong enough to serve his country. He should have gone to the front some time ago.”
Mary blanched and bit her lip, steadying herself. “Robert is preparing even now to enter the army,” she replied. “He is not a shirker, as you seem to imply, Senator, for he has been anxious to go for a long time. If fault there be, it is mine, as I have insisted that he should stay in college a little longer. I believe an educated man can serve his country with more intelligent purpose than an ignoramus.”
The senator rose from his armchair, harrumphed, and pointed at Mary. “I have only one son and he is fighting for his country.” Fixing his glare upon Emilie, he added, “And, madam, if I had twenty sons, they should all be fighting rebels.”
“And if I had twenty sons, Senator Harris,” Emilie retorted, trembling, “they should all be opposing yours.”
Blinded by tears, heart pounding, she fled the room and stumbled away, desperate to reach the privacy of her room where she could weep unobserved, but Mary caught up to her and embraced her. Emilie felt her sister’s tears fall upon her head as she wept on Mary’s shoulder.
They said nothing more about the incident that night, but the next morning Mary told her that after she and Emilie had fled, General Sickles had gone to Abe’s bedchamber to harass him on his sickbed despite cousin John’s attempts to intervene. After the general indignantly reported what had unfolded in the Blue Room, Abe had grinned at John and said, “That child has a tongue like the rest of the Todds.”
Infuriated, General Sickles had slapped the table with his palm. “You should not have that rebel in your house.”
At that, Abe had drawn himself up, solemn and dignified in spite of his illness. “Excuse me, General Sickles, my wife and I are in the habit of choosing our own guests,” he had said, regarding the general with all the courtesy due him a
s a wounded veteran. “We do not need from our friends either advice or assistance in the matter. Besides, the little ‘rebel’ came because I ordered her to come, not of her own volition.”
Emilie was both touched and astonished to hear how courteously Abe had defended her. “Of course he did,” said Mary, surprised. “Union or Confederate, family must come first. If everyone felt this way, we might not have had any war at all. Oh, Little Sister, I could fill pages and pages if I listed all the families I know that have been divided by this war. I would start with our own and go on and on until it broke my heart.”
Abe was too noble, and Mary too defiant, not to defend her, but Emilie realized that every time they did so, their political enemies would use it against them.
Later that afternoon, Emilie and Mary were drinking tea in the family parlor while Tad and Katherine sat on the rug before the fire looking through a photograph album. “This is the president,” Tad said proudly, pointing to a portrait of Abe.
“No, that is not the president,” said Katherine, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Mr. Davis is president.”
Scowling, Tad shouted, “Hurrah for Abe Lincoln!”
“Hurrah for Jeff Davis,” Katherine shouted back defiantly.
Just as the mothers were about to intervene, a chuckle from the doorway alerted them to Abe’s presence. “Pa, you’re the president. Tell her,” Tad demanded, shooting his younger cousin a look of indignant fury.
Amused, Abe sat down on the sofa and drew a child onto each knee. “Well, Tad, you know who your president is,” he said reasonably, “and to your little cousin, I am Uncle Abe.” He chatted with them calmly until they stopped glaring at each other, but Emilie, chagrined, knew it would not be the last disagreement between the two.
In the days that followed, even as Emilie worried that she and Katherine were wearing out their welcome, Mary and Abe each took her aside privately to encourage her to stay. “I hope you can come up and spend the summer with us at the Soldiers’ Home,” Abe suggested once as they walked together in the conservatory. “You and Mary love each other, and it is good for her to have you with her.”
“Perhaps,” Emilie replied, although she thought it unlikely. “After being away from little Ben so long, I don’t know when I might be ready to travel again.”
Abe nodded, rueful. “I feel worried about Mary,” he confided. “Her nerves have gone to pieces. She cannot hide from me that the strain has been too much for her.”
“She does seem very nervous and excitable. I think she fears that other sorrows may be added to those we already have to bear.” Emilie hesitated before adding, “I believe if anything should happen to you or Robert or Tad, it would kill her.”
Abe shook his head, his sorrowful expression deepening. “If anything does happen to me or my boys, would you promise to look after Mary? This is a great favor, and perhaps too much to ask, but it would ease my mind.”
“Of course I promise,” said Emilie, “but nothing will happen to you, and you mustn’t think that way.”
He gave her a sad half-smile and thanked her.
That night, after Emilie had retired to her chamber and was preparing for bed, a knock sounded on the door. “Little Sister, may I come in?” Mary called softly.
Emilie quickly rose to let her enter, and when she did, Emilie saw that Mary was smiling though her eyes were full of tears. “I want to tell you, dear Emilie, that one may not be wholly without comfort when our loved ones leave us.”
Was she referring to the solace of prayer? “I’m not sure I understand.”
Mary drew closer, clasping and unclasping her hands. “When my noble little Willie was first taken from me, I felt that I had fallen into a deep pit of gloom and despair without a ray of light anywhere. Had it not been necessary to cheer Mr. Lincoln, whose grief was as great as my own, I could never have smiled again, and if Willie did not come to comfort me I would still be drowned in tears—”
“What?” Emilie broke in, startled. “Willie—”
“Yes, he comes to comfort me, and while I long to touch him, to hold him in my arms, and I still grieve that he has no future in this earthly realm—he lives, Emilie!” she cried, a strange, eerie thrill in her voice. “He comes to me every night and stands at the foot of my bed with the same sweet, adorable smile he always had. And he does not always come alone.”
“What—what do you mean?”
“Little Eddie is sometimes with him, and twice he has come with our brother Aleck. He tells me he loves his Uncle Aleck and is with him most of the time.” Mary clasped her hands to her heart. “You cannot imagine the comfort this gives me. When I thought of my little son in the vastness of eternity, alone, without his mother to hold his little hand in loving guidance, it nearly broke my heart.”
Mary’s eyes were wide and shining, as if she were in the presence of the supernatural. Emilie shivered when Mary drew closer to kiss her cheek before bidding her good-night and leaving the room, the strange, unsettling smile still upon her lips.
The next morning Emilie remained so disturbed by Mary’s midnight revelations that she could not bear to repeat them, but she did warn Abe that Mary was nervous and overwrought from being under a tremendous strain. Abe again asked her to stay longer, but Emilie knew the time had come for her to take Katherine home, to reunite their little family and wait out the rest of the war.
On the morning of her departure, Abe provided her with a pass that allowed her to return to Kentucky, relieved her of all penalties and forfeitures, and restored her rights. “You know this only protects you from past transgressions,” he added wryly. “It will not safeguard you from crimes you may commit in the future.”
“I understand,” said Emilie, allowing a hint of a smile as she tucked the precious document into her reticule.
He studied her for a moment, his expression earnest and grave. “Little Sister, you know I tried to keep Ben with me. I hope you don’t feel any bitterness toward me, or believe that I am to blame for all this sorrow.”
Emilie took a deep, shaky breath. “Let neither of us blame the other. My husband loved you and was deeply grateful to you for the commission you so generously offered, but he had to follow his conscience. He had to side with his own people—and I had to side with him.”
They parted in forgiveness and gratitude, with fervent wishes to meet again in happier days, when the sorrows of the past would diminish beneath the bright hope of the future.
23
May–June 1876
Ann
Elizabeth claimed to believe that Mary’s reason had been restored, but Ann and Frances agreed with Robert that she remained in the grip of mania and depression. Robert wrote to his aunts that he dreaded what might become of his mother if she were able to spend her money and travel with no restrictions, but with each letter, his tone became increasingly resigned. At the end of May, he confided to Ann that Justice David Davis had advised him to let the conservatorship cease, uncontested, at the end of the stipulated year. Even if his mother did squander her fortune, as her compulsion to shop perhaps made inevitable even if she had not threatened to do so deliberately, she would still be able to live on her annual pension of $3,000 from the United States government. “Justice Davis concludes that it would be better for my happiness to give a free consent to the removal of all restraint on her person or property and trust to the chances of time,” Robert wrote. “I am inclined to agree. It will be a leap of faith, but perhaps all will be well. As for my mother’s unmitigated anger with me, I sincerely hope that Aunt Elizabeth is correct, and it will cease once control of her bonds is returned to her.”
Ann hoped so too, but she was skeptical. Nothing she had observed over the past year—or indeed, throughout all the years she had known Mary—suggested that her sister would simply let bygones be bygones once she had what she wanted.
On Thursday, June 15, Ninian traveled to Chicago to represent Mary in the long-awaited hearing to remove her conservator and to restore her righ
ts and property. Unlike her insanity trial of the year before, Mary was not required to be present, and so she did not attend. Before Ninian departed, he reminded her sisters that this would not be a trial to declare her sane, but only to confirm that she could control her assets.
“Perhaps that’s for the best,” Frances replied. “Mary would never accept a verdict declaring that her sanity was restored, for she never believed she had lost it.”
The hearing at the Cook County courthouse would be a relatively simple affair. Mary’s petition requesting the dismissal of her conservator would be submitted, Ninian would testify regarding Mary’s fitness to assume control over her property, Robert would consent to step down from the role, and an accounting of her estate would be provided. In addition to Robert and Ninian, also present would be Robert’s attorney, Leonard Swett; the county court judge; the court clerk; and a jury of twelve citizens rather than a panel of learned physicians. To avoid a spectacle in the courtroom, Robert had asked the court to keep the hearing confidential. “They cannot ban reporters,” he had mentioned to Ann in his last letter, “but at least they can keep out the crowds of loafers expecting some entertainment.”
The hearing convened at two o’clock, and not quite three hours later, a messenger knocked on Ann’s door bearing a note from Elizabeth. She and Mary had both received telegrams from Ninian after the proceedings, which had taken less time than the swearing-in and seating of the jury. Mary had been declared restored to reason and capable of managing and controlling her own estate. Robert would accompany Ninian to Springfield on the morning train to return her bonds to her in person.
“Restored to reason?” Ann echoed, puzzled. Ninian had emphasized that this hearing was not intended to resolve that question. Mary would be thrilled, no doubt, to have her bonds back, but she would take great offense at the phrasing of the verdict that had returned them.
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