The dark-haired woman did not introduce herself, nor did she need to. “You are Elizabeth Keckley, I believe.”
Elizabeth bowed her assent.
“The dressmaker that Mrs. McLean recommended?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Lincoln returned to her dressing table and examined her face in the mirror, touching the delicate skin beneath her eyes, frowning at what might have been newly discovered or newly imagined lines. “I have not time to talk to you now, but would like to have you call at the White House, at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” Turning in her seat, she caught Elizabeth’s gaze and held it. “Where I shall then be.”
The brief meeting was over. Elizabeth bowed herself out of the room and returned home, insensible to the ever-increasing crowds, the gathering of horses and men for the grand parade, the distant strains of martial music. Only a few years before, she had been a slave in St. Louis, working herself into a state of near collapse and wondering if she would ever earn enough money to purchase her freedom and her son’s. Now she had an invitation to meet with the First Lady at the White House—and an extraordinary opportunity to win her as a patron.
Elizabeth wished George could be there to walk into the White House at her side. She would remember every detail and describe everything to him—every sight, every word of conversation, filling pages and pages if necessary so that it would be as if he had experienced it with her.
She spent the rest of the day alone in her rooms, sewing when she could keep her mind on her work, but more often letting her thoughts drift to her upcoming interview with Mary Lincoln.
Later her friends would tell her about the thrilling inauguration ceremony, about how the sky had finally cleared and how the proud cavalry had surrounded the president-elect’s carriage as it rumbled at a stately pace up the cobblestones of Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol. They would tell her about Mrs. Lincoln, how she had glowed with pride as she observed the ceremony with her family from her seat on the platform erected on the Capitol steps. Elizabeth would smile when they described how the tall, gaunt president-elect had stepped forward, removed his hat, and then suddenly halted, realizing only then that he had no place to put it while he took his oath. His former opponent, the Illinois Democratic senator Stephen A. Douglas, had gallantly taken the hat and had held it for the new president until the last words were spoken. Elizabeth would be moved, later, when she read a transcription of President Lincoln’s speech and learned how he had said, of the disagreeing citizens of North and South, “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearth-stone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”
Knowledge of all this would come later. From the solitude of her rooms on Twelfth Street, Elizabeth heard only the low booming of cannon fire that marked the moment Abraham Lincoln became the sixteenth president of the United States. More than thirty thousand people had packed the fenced grounds of the Capitol to witness the historic occasion, but Elizabeth, lost in her own thoughts and eagerly anticipating what could turn out to be the most important day of her life, was not among them.
Chapter Three
MARCH–APRIL 1861
A few minutes before eight o’clock on the morning after the inauguration, Elizabeth walked one-third of a mile from her home to the White House, crossing Lafayette Square, passing the bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson in the semicircular drive. When she ascended the portico leading to the front entrance of the Executive Mansion, the short, burly, elderly Irish doorman admitted her into the vestibule, where moments later she spotted a familiar figure approaching from down a wide hall. “Good morning, Mrs. Keckley,” the butler greeted her. “Welcome to the White House.”
“Thank you, Mr. Brown,” she replied, pleased and unexpectedly comforted to see a friendly face. Like her, Peter Brown was a former slave. He and his family lived only three blocks from Elizabeth, and they had become acquainted through the Lewises. “I’ve come to meet with Mrs. Lincoln to see if she would care to hire me as her dressmaker. Any advice to smooth my way?”
Peter Brown chuckled and escorted her up a busy central staircase. Men of all types hurried by, both coming and going, almost certainly job seekers like herself, eager to secure a post within the new administration. “I haven’t known the new First Lady long enough to be a good judge of her likes and dislikes,” Peter confided in an undertone. He paused for a moment on the landing, allowing others to pass. “I’ll say this much: Whatever you see, don’t let it trouble you.”
Mystified, Elizabeth wondered what he could possibly mean, but when he led her into a waiting room full of worn mahogany furniture, and three other well-dressed women looked up at their approach, she understood at once. She should have realized that the First Lady would have asked several of her acquaintances to recommend their favorite dressmakers, and naturally each lady would have been eager to curry favor by putting forth her favorite. As the women exchanged nods of greeting, Elizabeth felt their eyes upon her taking in every detail of her attire, just as she was assessing theirs. No one trusted a dressmaker who was not herself garbed in the most becoming costume she could afford. She was thankful she had worn her newest, most stylish dress, sewn from the finest blue, red, and tan plaid wool and perfectly tailored to her figure, with the colored lines so painstakingly matched that the pattern seemed unbroken from bodice to skirt.
“Mrs. Lincoln is still at breakfast,” Peter told her, showing her to a chair. “She’ll summon you presently. Chin up.”
Elizabeth thanked him with a smile, but as she sank into her chair, her hopes plummeted. She had not expected to face any rivals that morning, and she doubted she would be chosen over these women, who were almost certainly better established in Washington City than she was. To make matters worse, each of them had the distinct advantage of being white. But she could do nothing to change those plain facts, so she sat straight in her chair, serene and patient, until at last one of the ladies Elizabeth had seen with Mrs. Lincoln at Willard’s appeared and summoned the first mantua maker into an adjoining room.
Elizabeth was the last to be called.
She was taken into a family sitting room, oval shaped with a high ceiling and tall windows that looked out upon the White House lawn, which sloped downhill to a tall iron fence and a marsh leading to the Potomac just beyond. Mrs. Lincoln stood beside one of the windows chatting animatedly with a companion Elizabeth did not recognize, but she glanced up as Elizabeth entered and came to greet her. “You have come at last,” she said warmly.
“Thank you for seeing me, madam,” said Elizabeth. She reached into her bag and withdrew several papers, which she had protected from creases and tears between two stiff pieces of cardboard. “I bring you several letters of recommendation from my customers in St. Louis.”
“Yes, I know your reputation well.” Mrs. Lincoln scanned the letters, nodded with satisfaction, and returned them. “For whom have you worked in Washington City?”
“Among others, Mrs. Senator Davis has been one of my best patrons.”
Mrs. Lincoln’s eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Davis! So you have worked for her, have you? Of course you gave great satisfaction?”
“Certainly, madam.”
“So far, so good. Can you do my work?”
“Yes, Mrs. Lincoln,” Elizabeth assured her emphatically. “Will you have much work for me to do?”
Mrs. Lincoln cupped her chin in her hand as if considering the question. “That, Mrs. Keckley, will depend altogether upon your prices. I trust that your terms are reasonable. I can’t afford to be extravagant.” She threw a rueful glance to her companion, who shook her head in commiseration. “We are just from the West, and are poor. If you do not charge too much, I shall be able to give you all my w
ork.”
“I don’t think there will be any difficulty about charges, Mrs. Lincoln.” In Elizabeth’s experience, white ladies of Mrs. Lincoln’s status defined “poor” rather differently than she herself would. “My terms are reasonable.”
“Well, if you will work cheap, you shall have plenty to do.” A slight frown belied the breezy lightness of her tone. “I can’t afford to pay big prices, and so I frankly tell you so in the beginning.”
They quickly arranged satisfactory terms, and only then did Mrs. Lincoln mention that she wanted Elizabeth to begin immediately. She beckoned to her friend, who promptly produced a bright, rose-colored moiré-antique dress that Mrs. Lincoln wished to wear to the first levee of her husband’s presidency, a grand public reception to be held on Friday evening. Mrs. Lincoln described the alterations she wanted, which were not at all daunting, so although Elizabeth would have only three days to work on it, she assured Mrs. Lincoln that the dress would be finished on time. After taking the First Lady’s measurements, she carried the dress home, where she worked on it until late into the night. She knew that this garment, though not of her own design and inelegantly begun, was an audition of sorts. If she did well, Mrs. Lincoln would trust her with an original gown, and perhaps many more after that. If her alterations were judged unsatisfactory, she should expect no second chances.
The next day Elizabeth returned to the White House to fit the gown and found Mrs. Lincoln in excellent spirits, the center of a lively group of ladies, relations from Illinois, Kentucky, and elsewhere, all come to Washington City to enjoy the festivities. Mrs. Lincoln was dressed in a cashmere wrapper with fine quilting worked down the front and a simple headdress, while her companions wore morning robes. They chatted and teased one another cheerfully as Elizabeth helped Mrs. Lincoln into the dress and marked a few necessary adjustments. All the while Mrs. Lincoln was so merry and gracious that Elizabeth wondered what could have inspired the disparaging rumors about her temperament. Elizabeth had overheard some of her patrons—all Southerners, now that she thought about it—refer to the new First Lady as an ill-mannered, ignorant, and vulgar country bumpkin, but Mrs. Lincoln was certainly none of those things. Clearly Elizabeth would do well to trust the evidence of her own observations and dismiss such unkind remarks as the product of jealousy and politics.
Later, back in her own rooms, Elizabeth worked diligently upon the gown, adorning it with pearls and a point-lace cape with little time to spare. On Thursday afternoon, she was surprised to receive another summons to the White House, but having learned from the fiasco with Mrs. McLean, she quickly packed up the dress and her sewing basket and hurried off without a moment’s delay. Upstairs in the oval sitting room once again, Mrs. Lincoln informed her that the levee was postponed until Tuesday, but before Elizabeth could breathe a sigh of relief, Mrs. Lincoln added that she had conceived of a few more improvements for the gown. Elizabeth hid her dismay as Mrs. Lincoln described what she wanted and it became evident that these were no simple adjustments but rather a significant alteration of the style. Still, she thought she could accomplish them in time and said so, and when Mrs. Lincoln added a waist of blue watered silk for her cousin Mrs. Grimsley to the order, she agreed.
“All will be ready in plenty of time for you to dress for the levee on Tuesday,” Elizabeth promised, taking her leave as quickly as she could, knowing she had not a moment to spare.
For days she sewed and sewed, rising early and working late, barely pausing for meals and church and a newly arrived letter from George. She completed the last stitches early on Tuesday evening, just in time to fold it carefully with Mrs. Grimsley’s completed blue silk waist and hurry the one-third of a mile to the White House. Peter Brown greeted her in the vestibule, but she knew the way well enough by then that he let her hasten upstairs on her own.
There she found Mrs. Lincoln in her dressing gown, in a terrible state of excitement despite her companions’ attempts to soothe her. “I cannot go down,” Mrs. Lincoln exclaimed, tearing herself from a cousin’s embrace. “How could I possibly? I have absolutely nothing to wear. Imagine what people will say. Think of how they’ll mock me.”
“No one will mock you,” said Mrs. Edwards, Mrs. Lincoln’s patient elder sister, clad in a subdued gown of brown brocade.
“Wear the gray velvet,” said Mrs. Grimsley, who wore a blue watered silk gown with a long train adorned with turquoises and pearls, and a headdress of white roses. “It’s lovely and no one here has seen it yet.”
Just then, the youngest of the ladies spotted Elizabeth lingering uncertainly in the doorway. “She’s here,” she cried out, gesturing, and everyone turned Elizabeth’s way.
“There, now,” said Mrs. Edwards, visibly relieved. “Didn’t we tell you she would come?”
Her lips pressed together tightly, Mrs. Lincoln strode two paces toward Elizabeth before stopping short. “Mrs. Keckley, you have disappointed me—deceived me.” Her face was pale with outrage, her eyes red rimmed. “Why do you bring my dress at this late hour?”
Elizabeth took a deep breath and carefully unfolded the gown, Mrs. Grimsley’s smaller garment still draped over her arm. “Because I have just finished it, and I thought I should be in time.”
“But you are not in time, Mrs. Keckley.” Mrs. Lincoln shook her head, wrung her hands, and began pacing. “You have bitterly disappointed me. I have no time now to dress, and, what is more, I will not dress, and go downstairs.”
Her ladies protested and reached out to her, but she brushed them off.
“I am sorry if I have disappointed you, Mrs. Lincoln, for I intended to be in time.” Humiliated, Elizabeth took care to keep her voice calm, even, and firm. She saw no reason for such distress. She had plenty of time to get Mrs. Lincoln ready for the levee if the good woman would only consent to it. “Will you let me dress you? I can have you ready in a few minutes.”
“No, I won’t be dressed.” Mrs. Lincoln halted, threw one glance at the window, another at the door, and flung her hands into the air, helpless. “I will stay in my room. Mr. Lincoln can go down with the other ladies.”
“But there is plenty of time for you to dress, Mary,” said Mrs. Grimsley.
“Let Mrs. Keckley assist you,” implored Mrs. Edwards, “and she will soon have you ready.”
Uncertain, Mary looked from her sister to her cousin and back. “Oh, very well,” she said, subdued. “She may try.”
Quickly Elizabeth helped Mrs. Lincoln out of her dressing gown and into the moiré antique before she could change her mind. She arranged Mrs. Lincoln’s dark hair with red roses that complemented the hue of her gown. The dress was very becoming, and when Mrs. Lincoln examined herself in the mirror it was as if a freshening breeze blew away the storm clouds of only moments before, for she was all sunshine and smiles, very pleased with her appearance. She did indeed look very elegant in the rose moiré antique, accented beautifully by her pearl necklace, earrings, and bracelets.
A knock sounded on the door, and President Lincoln himself came in, with young Tad and Willie trailing after him. He greeted the ladies with smiles and compliments, and then threw himself on the sofa without any apparent fear of wrinkling his evening attire. His sons were immediately upon him, wrestling and laughing, and he made a great show of bravely fending them off, joking all the while. Amused, Elizabeth suppressed a smile. She never could have imagined the leader of the land roughhousing with his boys like any fond father.
Before long, Mrs. Lincoln said pointedly, “Perhaps the boys have had enough of that for now.”
“No, Mother,” said Willie. “We’re not at all tired.”
Mr. Lincoln laughed. “Maybe not, but your father is.” He swung his long legs around and rose from the sofa as the boys darted off to play. Pulling on his gloves, he quoted a few lines from a poem about a barefoot boy’s carefree play, and then another about a blacksmith whose hard work earned him a night’s repose.
The other ladies were charmed, but his wife seemed barely able to
contain her impatience. “You seem to be in a poetical mood tonight.”
“Yes, Mother, these are poetical times.” His smile deepened as he looked her over. “I declare, you look charming in that dress. Mrs. Keckley has met with great success.” As he offered compliments to the other ladies—Mrs. Grimsley in the blue watered silk, Mrs. Edwards in an understated gown of brown and black, Miss Edwards in crimson, Mrs. Baker in ashes of rose, and Mrs. Kellogg in lemon-colored silk—Elizabeth flushed with pleasure and pride. The president himself had praised her handiwork and referred to her by name, although until that moment she had not realized that he even knew it.
“Shall we go downstairs, Mother?” the president asked his wife.
“In a moment,” she said, frowning as she searched her dressing table. “I cannot find my lace handkerchief.”
Everyone swore that they had seen it on the table only moments before, but no one had any idea what had become of it. Elizabeth joined in the search with the others, but after a few minutes, Mr. Lincoln’s laughter boomed again, and he raked a long-fingered hand through his hair and sent an aide after Tad and Willie. When the boys were brought back to face their parents—Willie, somber and good; Tad, bursting with mischievous smiles—it was easy enough to deduce what had become of the handkerchief. Eventually the playful thief was persuaded to relinquish his prize and the handkerchief was restored to its rightful owner. Only then did Mrs. Lincoln smile, take her husband’s arm, and lead the other ladies downstairs to the levee, as elegant and regal as any queen.
For a long moment, Elizabeth stood watching after them, a bit confounded, marveling at all that she had seen. “George will never believe this,” she murmured as she drew on her shawl and collected her satchel. Yet she had observed the scene with her own eyes.
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