Mrs. Grant and Madame Jule

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Although the afternoon was chilly, Jule casually slipped out of the shawl, folded it, and draped it over her arm, forcing herself to breathe steadily, to keep to a walk. Julia was not likely to recognize her. Unless she had trained that officer to see for her as Jule had done for so many years, from that distance her former slave would be only one more blurred figure in a plain dress going about her errands.

  What was Julia Grant doing in Washington City? Had she somehow discovered that Jule was there?

  Her heart in her throat, Jule ducked inside the nearest shop and watched through the front window until Julia and her escort passed. She knew she ought to hurry home, but she was determined to keep her appointment. In recent weeks she had been hired to dress the hair of well-to-do colored ladies in their homes, and thanks to the recommendations of Mrs. Elizabeth Keckley, a popular, very successful dressmaker she had met at Union Bethel Church, she had added several white ladies of Washington’s most elite social circles to her clientele. After a fellow resident of her boardinghouse employed as a bellboy at the Willard mentioned her services to the concierge, she had begun receiving occasional requests from hotel guests who needed their hair dressed for whatever important occasion had brought them to the capital. Jule was steadily accumulating clients and experience, but she was too new to her profession to risk damaging her reputation by failing to show up for an appointment.

  Steeling herself, Jule emerged from the shop and followed behind Julia and the officer, keeping her distance, silently willing them to enter a building or turn down another block. But they kept to the same route Jule intended, and before long they confirmed her fears by entering the Willard through the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance. Without breaking stride, Jule continued around the corner and slipped quietly into the hotel through the rear door reserved for employees and servants.

  When she emerged into the lobby, she hung back and surreptitiously scanned the room until she was certain Julia was not among the busy throng. The hotel’s public rooms were illuminated by gaslight and opulently furnished in rosewood, damask, lace, and velvet, and they smelled of cigar smoke and spilled whiskey. Everywhere gentlemen hurried back and forth, their arms full of documents, their lapels adorned with bright pins declaring their various allegiances. Julia was not among them.

  Jule discreetly inquired with the concierge and was sent upstairs to the suite of Mrs. Bramlette, the wife of the governor of Kentucky, who had come to Washington to confer with President Lincoln on the contentious issue of Negro enlistment. “What do you think, Jule?” Mrs. Bramlette queried after describing at length and with great enthusiasm how her husband’s position conflicted with the president’s.

  “I know General Grant’s in favor of it,” Jule said, frowning in concentration as she wound locks of Mrs. Bramlette’s long, wheat-brown hair around a hot iron, framing her face in glossy ringlets. “He’s sure colored soldiers will strengthen the Union army so much that the Confederacy will reel from the blow.”

  Heedless of the hot iron, Mrs. Bramlette turned to peer up at her in surprise. “How would you know so much about General Grant’s opinion?”

  Quickly Jule assumed a knowing expression. “Oh, I hear things—but I never say where or who. You understand.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Bramlette made a little pout as she turned back to the looking glass. “In your occupation, discretion is everything. I’m glad to know that my secrets—and my husband’s—will be as safe with you too.”

  If the governor’s wife was disappointed that Jule refused to gossip, she was thoroughly delighted with her hair, and she promised to recommend Jule to all her friends whenever they visited the capital. With her wages—as well as a generous gratuity—tucked safely into her reticule, Jule bade Mrs. Bramlette good afternoon and left the Willard as inconspicuously as she had come.

  From her first day as a fugitive, Jule had followed the Grants in the papers, not only to see if Julia would advertise a reward for the capture and return of her fugitive maid, but also to gather news of young Fred’s recovery from his illness. She had read about the general’s promotion and had known that he had come to the capital to see the president, but she had seen no mention of Julia’s arrival in the city.

  The next morning, still shaken from her narrow escape, Jule went to Union Bethel Church to seek her pastor’s advice. Astonishment pushed him back in his chair when she revealed the identity of her former mistress, but he listened intently as she described her plight, without warning her that she had made an enemy of the wife of one of the most powerful men in the country. That, Jule already knew.

  “I’ve just gotten settled,” she lamented when her tale was done. “I’d hate to start over somewhere else, but don’t see how I can stay in Washington if Mrs. Grant means to live here too.”

  “She’s taken rooms at the Willard,” the minister said. “If she meant to stay longer, wouldn’t General Grant rent a house for her?”

  “I suppose so.” A faint hope stirred. “She’d likely have all the children with her too, and one of the bellboys told me he’s seen only the youngest.”

  “You’re probably safe for now. Mrs. Grant may be entirely unaware that you’re in the capital. Avoid the Willard, watch for news of her travels in the press, and if you discover that she means to settle here—well, let’s not worry about that unless it happens.”

  Much relieved, Jule thanked him, but as she made her way back to her boardinghouse, she felt as if she were already bidding a sad, reluctant farewell to the street corners and shops and friends she had only recently come to know.

  • • •

  “A messenger brought this while you were sleeping,” Ulys said after kissing Julia good morning. Newly returned from the front to confer with President Lincoln, General Halleck, and Secretary Stanton, he kept to military hours and had been awake to receive the cream-colored envelope on a silver tray.

  “It’s addressed to both of us,” Julia said, squinting at the elegant script.

  “I thought you’d enjoy opening it.”

  Julia broke the seal and peered carefully at the paper, bringing it closer to her eyes, moving it farther away, tilting her head. Then she gasped and thrust the page toward Ulys. “Darling, tell me if my silly eyes deceive me or if we’ve been invited to a reception at the White House this evening.”

  “It appears that we have been,” said Ulys, barely glancing at the paper, enjoying her excitement.

  “Oh, we must accept right away! I wonder what I shall wear—one of the gowns I bought in Philadelphia, perhaps. Do you think them elegant enough?”

  “You’ll be lovely in anything you wear,” Ulys assured her, but then he hesitated. “I’ll find someone to escort you.”

  “Can’t you delay your return to the field one day more?” she cajoled. “You can’t decline an invitation from the president.”

  “I have before and survived to tell the tale,” said Ulys. “You can give the Lincolns my regrets—and yours, if you refuse to go without me.”

  Julia had no intention of declining, and so later that evening, hours after Ulys had departed for headquarters, she donned her most becoming new gown, a deep-green watered silk trimmed in eyelet lace, and engaged a maid to brush her long, thick locks and arrange them into a stylish coil. Jule would have done better, Julia thought with a pang as she studied her reflection in the mirror, but it would suffice.

  The night air was brisk, but Julia found the exercise invigorating as she walked the few blocks to the White House accompanied by her two dashing escorts, Lieutenant Colonel Badeau and Admiral David Farragut, whose recent successes at sea had earned him great acclaim throughout the North.

  Carriages filled the circular drive in front of the White House nearly all the way to Lafayette Square, but Julia and her companions easily made their way past the bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson in the center of the driveway and proceeded beneath the tall white columns of the
front portico. The burly, white-haired doorman greeted them in an Irish brogue and admitted them into the vestibule, and from there they strolled down the brightly illuminated corridor to the Red Room. The public parlor was richly furnished in crimson satin and gold damask, with heavy gilded cornices framing the windows and a profusion of ormolu work gleaming in the gaslight. Elegant vases, some of them appearing quite ancient, adorned polished tables along the walls, and in a corner sat a grand piano, unattended at the moment, but hinting at the pleasing possibility of music later. An impressive full-length portrait of George Washington commanded attention from the wall to her left, and although Julia was much too far away to read the artist’s signature, she was certain she beheld the work by Gilbert Stuart that Dolley Madison had famously saved from being consumed in flames when the British destroyed the first Executive Mansion. A lovely new red carpet softened the footfalls of the dozens of guests mingling and chatting or standing in the line to pay their respects to the president and his wife.

  Admiral Farragut drew admiring glances and respectful murmurs as they joined the queue, and Julia observed a few curious looks for herself, as if everyone wondered who the plain, sturdy woman on the arm of their valiant hero could be. Julia smiled and nodded pleasantly, knowing that her anonymity would be short-lived, for the ladies in the crowd who had called upon her at the Willard would quickly enlighten the others.

  Before long she and her escorts reached the top of the queue. President Lincoln—clad in a handsome black suit, tall and gaunt and melancholy of expression—immediately recognized Admiral Farragut and welcomed him heartily. The admiral presented Julia, but his words were drowned out in the din. “I beg your pardon?” the president said, bending his lanky frame toward them and smiling kindly.

  “This is Mrs. General Grant, Mr. President,” said Badeau, loud enough for all nearby to hear. Heads turned, eyebrows rose, interested gazes took in Julia up and down and politely flitted away.

  “Mrs. General Grant,” the president echoed. He beamed warmly as he took both her hands in his. “Mrs. Grant, it is truly my great pleasure to meet you at last. But where is the general?”

  “I begged the general to remain and accompany me,” Julia explained, “but he said he must go to the front, and that he was sure the President and Mrs. Lincoln would excuse him.”

  Mr. Lincoln seemed delighted with her reply, and he assured her that General Grant’s absence was entirely forgivable. He presented her to his wife, who smiled so cordially and took her hand so readily that Julia could hardly believe she despised Ulys or had ever called him a butcher. Mrs. Lincoln’s expression was intelligent and inquisitive, her complexion white and smooth except for faint shadows beneath her clear blue eyes, her neck and arms elegantly molded, but otherwise, like Julia herself she was plain and tended toward stoutness, which her short stature and her husband’s great height unfortunately exaggerated. Her elegant gown of deep lavender silk was masterfully fashioned, if a trifle too elaborately embellished for Julia’s simple tastes, but it unquestionably outshone any Julia had seen in the fine shops of Philadelphia. She knew it was the handiwork of the gifted, generous woman she had met at Union Bethel Church, Elizabeth Keckley.

  “My dear Mrs. Grant,” Mrs. Lincoln said warmly. “Mr. Lincoln admires General Grant very much. He is convinced that the general will bring about a Union victory at last.”

  “The general has dedicated himself to that great endeavor,” Julia replied. “I speak as a partial judge, but I’m certain the president will have no cause to regret entrusting General Grant with his high command.”

  Mrs. Lincoln smiled knowingly. “I’m not one to dismiss the judgment of a great man’s wife, partial or not.”

  They chatted pleasantly for a few moments, and upon discovering a mutual fondness for flowers, Mrs. Lincoln invited Julia to tour the White House conservatories. “But first, would you care to join me in receiving our guests?” she inquired, gesturing to a place at her side. “I’m sure they would all welcome the opportunity to meet the wife of our new general in chief.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mrs. Lincoln, but I couldn’t,” Julia replied, a trifle bashfully. “You are Mrs. President, and I am merely a guest. This place is rightfully yours alone.”

  Julia had spoken with her usual sincerity, but Mrs. Lincoln drew herself up and beamed proudly, obviously flattered.

  The queue moved along and Julia and her escorts with it, but when they withdrew to the Blue Room, the press of the crowd was so great that Admiral Farragut proposed that they pass on to the Green Room. Lowering his voice, he added, “The commonality gather there. Do you dare venture it?”

  Smiling up at him, Julia replied, “I think I may venture anywhere on the arm of Admiral Farragut.”

  He smiled, bowed, and led her off, while Badeau remained behind, cornered by a distinguished-looking gentleman in civilian attire who probably hoped to petition Ulys for a favor or an appointment. Ulys’s aides had become quite popular of late with opportunists who sought a quick and easy way to reach the great man.

  No sooner had they found a good place to stand and observe the beautiful ladies and brave men in attendance than the guests from the Blue Room followed after and, without any instructions whatsoever, formed another queue to pay their respects. To Julia’s astonishment, cabinet ministers, senators, foreign dignitaries, Supreme Court justices, distinguished officers of the army and navy, and a hundred or more of the beaux and belles of Washington passed before her and Admiral Farragut, smiling, welcoming her to the capital, and cordially shaking her hand.

  More than an hour elapsed before the entire receiving line passed before them, and everyone Julia met showed her the utmost courtesy for her husband’s sake. Afterward, Julia reminded Admiral Farragut of Mrs. Lincoln’s gracious suggestion that she tour the conservatory. “I believe Badeau claimed the honor of escorting you there,” the admiral said, offering her his arm and leading her back to the Green Room.

  They found Badeau standing a little apart from the throng, engaged in a quiet, heated conversation with the loveliest woman in attendance, quite possibly the most beautiful young woman Julia had ever seen. The auburn-haired beauty looked to be in her early twenties, with intelligent green eyes flecked with hazel. Graceful and vivacious, she was becomingly attired in a gown of pale green silk, her hair arranged in an elegant Grecian twist adorned with pearls and diamonds.

  As Julia and the admiral approached, the young woman and Badeau broke off their muted argument. “Mrs. Grant,” Badeau said, “May I present Mrs. Senator William Sprague. Mrs. Sprague, please allow me to introduce you to Mrs. General Ulysses S. Grant.”

  “Mrs. Grant,” said the young woman warmly, clasping her hand. “It is such pleasure to meet you. My father and I—and my husband—trust that he will bring about a Union victory soon.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sprague,” Julia replied.

  “Mrs. Sprague’s father is Mr. Salmon Chase,” said Admiral Farragut.

  “Yes, of course.” Julia had never met Mr. Chase, but she certainly knew of him. As secretary of the treasury, he was responsible for issuing cotton permits and making trading policies that Ulys had been obliged to spend far too much of his time enforcing. He was also a teetotaler—quieter on the subject than the fiery Rawlins, perhaps, but just as adamant in his views and suspicious of drinkers, even those who indulged in only a rare tipple. According to trusted friends, it was Secretary Chase who had passed along to the president scurrilous rumors that during the siege of Vicksburg, Ulys had been drinking excessively out of sheer boredom. Ulys was, reporter Murat Halstead was said to have written to Mr. Chase, “Most of the time more than half drunk, and much of the time idiotically drunk.” After Secretary Stanton ordered an investigation, he had concluded that Ulys’s drunkenness—of which no proof had been discovered—clearly did not interfere with his ability to win battles. No action been taken against Ulys, and rumor told that Mr. Lincoln had jok
ed that if he knew which brand of whiskey Ulys favored, he would immediately distribute bottles of it to his other generals.

  Julia had been outraged when she learned about the investigation, but Ulys had reminded her that petty, cowardly folk had been raising the same accusations against him for most of his military career, and no one had ever found a scrap of evidence against him. “It could be worse,” he had said as Julia fumed. “Sherman was accused of being insane—not reckless or foolhardy, but entirely insane—and it wasn’t easy to defend himself against that.”

  But Julia decided there was nothing to be gained by introducing this long, fraught history into a conversation with Mr. Chase’s lovely daughter, who was being quite friendly and perhaps did not know what her father had done. “You’re a native of Cincinnati, are you not?” Julia asked instead. “I’ve had the great pleasure of visiting the city often, as General Grant’s family live across the river in Covington.”

  “Yes, I am, and I’m proud that General Grant represents our home state with such distinction.” Mrs. Sprague had an enchanting voice, rich and musical. “I do hope I’ll have the honor of meeting him soon.”

  “I hope so too, because that will mean he’s returned to Washington, and I do miss him when duty calls him away.”

  Mrs. Sprague smiled sympathetically and rested a graceful hand on Julia’s forearm. “I completely understand. Business often calls my husband home to Rhode Island, but I find consolation in the company of my father and sister—and in meeting pleasant ladies such as yourself.”

  Charmed, Julia smiled and thanked her. With a gracious bow, Mrs. Sprague bade her good evening and moved on in a whisper of silk, gracefully gliding across the floor until she was detained by several handsome officers.

  “Take care with her,” Badeau warned, offering Julia his arm as they watched the younger woman smile up at her admirers, engaging them in what seemed to be lively banter. “She’s someone to be reckoned with.”