Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  Robert Lincoln came home from college for the holidays, and his presence added joy to what already had turned out to be a surprisingly triumphant season for the First Lady. Her much-maligned renovations had transformed the reception areas of the White House into elegant showplaces, earning rave reviews in the papers and grudging praise from even her most persistent detractors.

  As for Elizabeth, she celebrated Christmas quietly, with church services on Christmas Eve and the morning of Christmas Day. As they had the year before, the Lewises invited her to join their family for a midday feast, and this time Emma too was a welcome guest. Her friends were so gracious and easy that it wasn’t until later that Elizabeth realized that they were each taking care to amuse and divert her, knowing that her first Christmas without her son was bound to be mournful. She was so touched by their kindness that she endeavored to be of good cheer. She reminded herself that thanks to the Savior whose birth they celebrated that day, her son would have eternal life. Surrounded by friends, comforted by the certainty that she and George—and her father and mother too—would be reunited in heaven someday, she could not grieve, if only for that day, if only on Christmas.

  The social success Mrs. Lincoln enjoyed during the Christmas season extended into the New Year. Thousands visited the White House for the traditional New Year’s Day reception, and although some guests continued to criticize Mrs. Lincoln’s decorating expenses and others gossiped about corruption scandals within the administration, many more visitors praised the refurbished Executive Mansion as tastefully and elegantly done, befitting a glorious nation.

  A brilliant levee followed shortly after the New Year’s Day reception, and the next morning, Mrs. Lincoln spoke of it in glowing terms while Elizabeth fitted her for a dress. “I have an idea,” she mused. Although she spoke as if suddenly inspired, Elizabeth had the distinct impression that she had been pondering whatever she was about to say for quite some time. “These are war times, and we must be as economical as possible. You know the president is expected to give a series of state dinners every winter.”

  “Yes, of course.” Elizabeth had dressed Mrs. Lincoln for almost every one of them.

  “These dinners are very costly.” Mrs. Lincoln shook her head and sighed as if no words would suffice to describe the outrageous expense. “I thought that if I gave three large receptions, the state dinners could be scratched from the program. What do you think?”

  Elizabeth considered. A large reception would allow the Lincolns to entertain a far greater number of guests for the cost, but what Washington society would think of abandoning tradition was another matter. In any event, Mrs. Lincoln had surely already made up her mind, in which case it was simply best to agree with her. “I think you’re right, Mrs. Lincoln.”

  Mrs. Lincoln brightened. “I am glad to hear you say so. If I can persuade Mr. Lincoln, I shall not fail to put the idea into practice.”

  Before Elizabeth finished her work for the day, Mr. Lincoln joined them, his expression clouded with frustration. “I’ve just come from the sickbed of my recalcitrant general,” he said, sighing gloomily as he settled into a chair. “At least today he can blame typhoid fever for his reluctance to budge.”

  Mrs. Lincoln murmured sympathetically for a moment, and then, either to distract him from his gloom or because she simply couldn’t wait, she proposed her changes to their social calendar. The president mulled it over, then frowned and said, “Mother, I am afraid your plan will not work.”

  “But it will work, if you will only determine that it shall work.”

  “It is breaking in on the regular custom,” he noted mildly. The protocol was indeed complex, with the rules of etiquette and the ranking of guests carefully noted. The president and the secretary of state alternated hosting evening receptions from the last week of January through March, and the White House also gave weekly dinners for various members of the government as well as receptions for military officers, diplomats, and Supreme Court justices. Breaking these well-established Washington traditions had the potential to offend.

  “But you forget, Father, that these are war times, and old, impractical customs can and should be set aside,” Mrs. Lincoln said. “The idea is economical, you must admit.”

  “Yes, Mother, but we must think of something besides economy.”

  Elizabeth hid a smile. Matters of economy plagued both Lincolns, due in no small part to Mrs. Lincoln’s notorious spending habits, but frugality had become a tool each employed when it served them and dispensed with when it did not. Mrs. Lincoln was usually the spendthrift and her husband the more cautious, and it was amusing to see them trade roles.

  “I do think of something else,” Mrs. Lincoln retorted. “Public receptions are more democratic than stupid state dinners—are more in keeping with the institutions of our country, as you would say if called upon to make a stump speech. There are a great many strangers in the city, foreigners and others, whom we can entertain at our receptions, but whom we cannot invite to our dinners.”

  Mr. Lincoln pondered this. “I believe you are right, Mother,” he finally said. “You argue the point well. I think that we shall have to decide on the receptions.”

  When her husband’s gaze was turned elsewhere, Mrs. Lincoln shot Elizabeth a look of triumph. She had won the day.

  For all her talk of economy, for the first of these receptions, Mrs. Lincoln decided to host a grand ball in the East Room. As word of her lavish plans spread, she once again invited criticism—not only from the usual suspects in the press and the popular circles, but also from her husband’s cabinet secretaries, who took to calling her Hellcat behind her back, though not behind Elizabeth’s. She wouldn’t carry hurtful tales of their bold hostility to her patron, but she knew cruel remarks usually managed to make their way from the offices, through the servant’s quarters, and on to the subject of their derision.

  If the men’s sniping troubled Mrs. Lincoln, she feigned indifference and threw herself into her preparations. She collaborated on a new dress with Elizabeth, an off-the-shoulder white satin gown with a low neckline, flounces of black lace, black and white bows, and a long, elegant train. She planned an elaborate menu of roast turkey, foie gras, oysters, beef, duck, quail, partridge, and aspic, complemented by an assortment of fruits, cakes, and ices, and fanciful creations of spun sugar. She sent out seven hundred invitations to prominent men in government and their wives, as well as to certain favorite friends, important Washington personages, and visiting dignitaries. “Half the city is jubilant at being invited,” Elizabeth overheard Mr. Lincoln’s personal secretary remark, “while the other half is furious at being left out in the cold.” Expectations soared after the New York Herald predicted that the ball would be “the most magnificent affair ever witnessed in America.”

  But such raptures in the press were not enough to entice everyone. The usual detractors, and many more besides, expressed astonishment and disgust for the vain spectacle of the ball and its hostess. A great many of the invitations were brusquely declined, and nearly one hundred were returned with indignant notes protesting such excessive frivolity when the nation was distracted, mournful, and impoverished by the war. “I am astonished by such impertinence from a gentleman,” Mrs. Lincoln exclaimed to Elizabeth one afternoon as she read her mail. “Listen to what Senator Benjamin Wade writes: ‘Are the President and Mrs. Lincoln aware that there is a civil war? If they are not, Mr. and Mrs. Wade are, and for that reason decline to participate in dancing and feasting.’” Mrs. Lincoln slapped the letter down on the table. “Are we aware there is a war? We are scarcely aware of anything else!”

  “I cannot imagine that anyone is more mindful of the war than Mr. Lincoln,” said Elizabeth.

  Outraged, Mrs. Lincoln bolted from her seat and stalked to the window. “If canceling the ball would bring a swift end to the war, or even a single hour of respite to a weary soldier, then I would be the first to propose it.”

  Elizabeth murmured soothing words until Mrs. Lincoln ca
lmed herself. If only the war could be ended so easily. At the moment, Elizabeth would have settled for an end to the tempests that sprang up whenever someone affronted Mrs. Lincoln. Her critics judged her actions without understanding the motives behind them, which meant they would never be fair and only rarely accurate. As they were unlikely to change, it would serve Mrs. Lincoln well to cultivate a sense of calm and learn to ignore them. A dignified silence was often the best response to spiteful gossip—but that was not Mrs. Lincoln’s way.

  Soon thereafter, Mrs. Lincoln was distracted from her frenzy of planning when Willie caught a severe cold while riding his pony in foul weather. A few days before the ball, his condition worsened into a fever. Elizabeth had nursed both children through measles and a host of other illnesses, and this time too Mrs. Lincoln summoned her to his bedside. With tender efficiency, Elizabeth cared for Willie—a kind, gentle, thoughtful boy, everyone’s favorite—and tried to comfort his mother, who fretted and worried incessantly, as she always did when any of her children fell ill. She had lost her second-born, Eddie, to chronic consumption when he was not quite four years old, and she lived in terror of losing another son.

  Soon it was evident that Willie was becoming steadily weaker. One afternoon, Elizabeth was at his bedside pressing a cooling cloth to his brow while Mrs. Lincoln hovered nearby, telling Willie cheerful stories of his pets, although he was too drowsy to pay much attention. Mr. Lincoln entered to check on his son, as he often did throughout the day. “How is my boy?” he asked.

  “He seems to be unchanged since this morning,” Elizabeth replied. “No worse, but no better either.”

  “Perhaps he’ll turn the corner soon,” said Mr. Lincoln, but his eyes did not brighten as they would have had he felt true hope.

  Elizabeth managed what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “I’ve seen sick little boys recover from much worse.”

  “I should cancel the ball,” Mrs. Lincoln fretted. “It’s ridiculous to think of hosting such an event with our boy in his sickbed. I can recall the invitations, postpone it until after he recovers.”

  “No, the reception should go on,” said Mr. Lincoln. “You’ve already gone to too much trouble and expense to cancel now.”

  “I don’t mind the trouble.” Mrs. Lincoln’s voice carried an edge. “Surely our guests will understand, and if I send word to the caterers immediately, they shouldn’t have any difficulty accommodating a delay of a week or two.”

  The president fell into a thoughtful silence for a moment and then said, “Why don’t we consult Dr. Stone first?”

  His wife agreed, so the Lincoln family physician was sent for, and in due time he arrived to examine his patient. “Your son is much improved,” Dr. Stone announced after checking the boy’s pulse, listening to his breathing, and questioning him about his symptoms. “There is every reason to expect a full recovery soon.”

  “Oh, thank heavens,” said Mrs. Lincoln fervently. “And—what do you think about the reception?”

  “I see no reason why it shouldn’t go on as planned,” the doctor replied, packing his instruments into his bag. “I assure you, Mr. President, madam, your son is in no immediate danger.”

  Mrs. Lincoln clasped her hands together as if in prayer and thanked Dr. Stone profusely, but after he left, her momentary brightness faded. “As glad as I am with this good news, I don’t feel like dancing with Willie suffering so.”

  “If you don’t feel like dancing, we won’t have dancing,” Mr. Lincoln replied. “Come now, Mother. We won’t be far away. We can come upstairs and look in on him as much as you like, and I’m sure we can rely upon Madam Keckley to nurse him in our absence, can we not?”

  “Certainly,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll stay the night too, if you like.”

  Thus reassured, Mrs. Lincoln agreed to the arrangements, and so plans for the reception continued. Even after Tad too fell ill, the Lincolns reminded themselves of Dr. Stone’s diagnosis and carried on, hopeful that their boys would be up and around soon.

  On the evening of the reception, Elizabeth arrived early to dress Mrs. Lincoln and found her sitting at Willie’s bedside, drawn and pensive, holding his small hand in hers. “His fever worsened overnight,” she told Elizabeth softly. “The doctor insists he is in no danger, but I believe he’s taken a turn for the worse.”

  The boy’s sweet face did appear more flushed than Elizabeth had yet seen it, and his breathing seemed labored. “How is Tad?”

  “Not well, but he’s faring better than his brother.” Mrs. Lincoln sighed and rose, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. “I’d better dress for the ball. To think, at one time I had been so looking forward to it.”

  Mrs. Lincoln summoned a servant to sit with Willie until Elizabeth could return after helping her prepare for the evening. In the boudoir, Elizabeth helped the First Lady don the white satin gown with its long train and black and white embellishments, and then arranged her hair in a headdress of black and white flowers. Mrs. Lincoln wore more flowers on her bosom, a half-mourning bouquet of crepe myrtle in honor of the recently widowed Queen Victoria.

  Mr. Lincoln came in to escort his wife downstairs to the reception before she was quite ready, and while he waited for them to finish, he stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands clasped behind him. His expression was solemn, and although his gaze was fixed on the carpet, his thoughts seemed very far away.

  When Mrs. Lincoln was dressed, she admired herself in the mirror, her long train sweeping the floor. The rustle of satin roused Mr. Lincoln from his reverie, and he regarded his wife for a moment before the barest of smiles touched his lips. “Whew! Our cat has a long tail tonight.”

  Mrs. Lincoln raised her eyebrows at him but otherwise made no reply.

  “Mother,” he said, taking in her bare arms and neck, “it is my opinion that, if some of that tail was nearer the head, it would be in better style.”

  Elizabeth did not often disagree with the president, but in this case, she did not share his opinion in the slightest. Mrs. Lincoln’s beautifully formed shoulders and neck were her best features, and the gown’s low neckline set them off to great advantage. Mrs. Lincoln turned away from her husband with a look of offended dignity, but before long she consented to take his arm, and together they went downstairs to welcome their guests.

  Elizabeth returned to the sickroom, where Willie languished in a fitful, sweaty doze. Before long she heard the Marine Band begin to play in the reception halls below, their music drifting through the ceiling and down the halls like the low, muted whispers of grieving spirits.

  Throughout the evening, Mrs. Lincoln frequently left the party to come upstairs and look in on her darling boy, sometimes with her husband by her side. Anxiously she would ask Elizabeth if there had been any change, but each time Elizabeth could only shake her head. Shortly before the ball ended, Willie seemed to struggle for breath, but after a worrisome hour, his breathing eased. The moment her guests departed, Mrs. Lincoln joined Elizabeth at Willie’s bedside, and together they kept vigil until the first light of dawn crept above the horizon.

  “You should rest, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Lincoln told her in a voice raspy from exhaustion and worry.

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Lincoln,” she replied gently. “Why don’t you go to bed instead?”

  “It would be no use. I couldn’t sleep. No, Elizabeth; you’ve been keeping watch over Willie longer than I. I must insist that you rest.”

  Elizabeth knew that it would do her no good to argue. “Very well, Mrs. Lincoln.” She rose wearily, arching her back to relieve the stiffness. “I’ll sleep for a time, but I’ll be back down as soon as I wake so you can take a turn.”

  Mrs. Lincoln nodded distractedly, her gaze fixed on her suffering child.

  Elizabeth found the bed that had been made up for her in the servants’ quarters, undressed to her chemise, and lay down with the quilt pulled up to her chin. She slept restlessly and woke shortly before noon with vague memories of foreboding dreams. Someon
e had kindly left a full pitcher beside the washbasin, and after making a quick toilet she hurried downstairs to relieve Mrs. Lincoln, only to discover that Willie had not rallied during her absence.

  Over the next few days, Willie declined, steadily and inexorably, while his parents watched and waited and prayed. The president canceled a cabinet meeting and Mrs. Lincoln a levee rather than stray too far from their son’s sickbed. Willie’s best friend, Bud Taft, visited, and fell asleep on the floor, so determined was he not to leave his favorite companion’s side. Elizabeth attended them all, not neglecting little Tad, who was not as seriously ill as his brother and had been confined to a separate bedroom. She stayed overnight at the White House when she was needed, and hurried away to her own home for rest and a change of clothes when she could be spared. All the while, Mrs. Lincoln kept vigil at Willie’s bedside, surely haunted by memories of the long, sorrowful days more than a dozen years earlier when she had watched her son Eddie slip away.

  On February 20, a mild, sunny day, Willie finally breathed his last. For all the long hours Elizabeth had spent at his sickbed, when he passed away she happened to be at home, where a messenger immediately summoned her. She hurried to the White House, and once there she asked to see Mrs. Lincoln, but the First Lady had been taken to her bed, inconsolable and keening. Elizabeth paused to check in on Tad—the poor child was feverish, grief stricken, and terrified—before she went to assist in washing and dressing Willie, laying him out upon the bed in the Green Room, and covering his face gently with a white cloth.