Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Yes, I am.”

  “How do you do?” The younger woman extended a hand, and Elizabeth shook it. “My name is Mary Ames. I’m a Washington correspondent.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Elizabeth without thinking, surprise driving away her usual composure. “That is—I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ames. How do you do?”

  “I’m quite fine, thank you.” She glanced past Elizabeth’s shoulder into her rooms, and Elizabeth was profoundly grateful that Mrs. Lincoln had not chosen that day of all days to surprise her with a visit to discuss a new dress design. “I wondered if we might chat for a bit?”

  “I’m terribly sorry, but if you’re seeking information about the president and Mrs. Lincoln—”

  “Oh, no, no, that’s not my purpose at all,” Mrs. Ames interrupted. “I am pursuing a story, but you are my intended subject, not the Lincolns.”

  “Why would you want to write about me?” Curiosity compelled Elizabeth to open the door wider. “For that matter, why would anyone want to read about me?”

  “Because of the new emancipation law, of course. Everyone wonders what the consequences will be, for Washington itself as well as all the new freedmen. I would like to write a piece describing the accomplishments of several former slaves who have done well for themselves since coming to the city.” She smiled winningly. “And who has accomplished more than the celebrated dressmaker Elizabeth Keckley? From slave cabin to White House—quite a remarkable rise.”

  “That’s very kind.” Elizabeth managed a small, uncertain smile. “I’ve always tried to be industrious, and I’ve been blessed by generous patrons who have graciously recommended me to their acquaintances.”

  “Oh, you’re too modest,” protested Mrs. Ames. “You’ve succeeded thanks to your talent and your unmatched reputation. Surely you know how highly the ladies of Washington regard you. When I asked around for recommendations for successful late slaves to interview, your name came up more than any other.”

  Elizabeth firmly warned herself not to succumb to flattery, but she felt herself wavering. “If I agree to an interview, it is with the understanding that I never gossip about my patrons.”

  “Of course.” A shadow of disappointment darkened Mrs. Ames’s amiable expression for a moment, but it quickly lifted. “Discretion is essential between a dressmaker and her customer, whether she lives in the White House or the house around the corner.”

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  “I don’t intend to publish a scandal, Mrs. Keckley.” Mrs. Ames paused for a moment, considering. “No matter how much my editor might prefer one. After all, scandalous tales sell papers. But so do newsworthy and inspirational pieces, which is what I intend this to be. Your story will inspire these newly emancipated slaves to practice economy, industry, and morality so that they might achieve as you have done.” Almost as an aside, she added, “It might also serve to reassure the white citizens of Washington that they have nothing to fear. Sudden change can be frightening, you know, and emancipation has brought dramatic change.”

  Elizabeth hesitated. “I suppose it would do no harm if I spoke to you. The story might even do some good.”

  “There’s no question that it shall,” Mrs. Ames declared as Elizabeth beckoned her inside.

  Elizabeth prepared tea, and they chatted in her front room. At first Elizabeth spoke cautiously, with great reserve, mindful of how her patrons—Mrs. Lincoln in particular—would react to her words. Then, halfway through her second cup of tea, she lost herself in reminiscing about her slavery days, about George, about her astonishing new life in Washington, and she revealed more about her past sorrows than she had intended. It was only after the teapot had cooled and Mrs. Ames had filled up several pages with notes that Elizabeth, too late, wondered if she had said too much.

  “When will your story be printed?” Elizabeth asked after the interview concluded and she had shown Mrs. Ames to the door.

  “Perhaps as early as tomorrow, if I apply myself,” Mrs. Ames replied cheerfully.

  Elizabeth’s heart thumped anxiously as they exchanged good-byes. She had expected to have more time to—not to warn Mrs. Lincoln, exactly, but to inform her that the article was forthcoming, and to reassure her that Elizabeth had not carried any tales from the White House. She didn’t think she had said anything that could possibly offend, but with the First Lady, that was sometimes difficult to anticipate. With any luck, she would be able to read the piece before Mrs. Lincoln did—and perhaps Mrs. Lincoln wouldn’t see it at all.

  The very next day, one of Elizabeth’s neighbors in the Lewis boardinghouse rapped on her door and handed her the newest edition of the Evening Post. “I know you must be the ‘Lizzie’ in this story,” Miss Brown said, her dark eyes shining with excitement. “Congratulations, my dear.”

  “Thank you,” said Elizabeth, taking the paper. They chatted for a few minutes, but as soon as Miss Brown departed, Elizabeth closed the door, sank into a chair, and held the paper in her lap, eager and yet apprehensive to see what Mrs. Ames had written. She took a deep breath and began to read, her eyes lighting on the title, “Lives of the Late Slaves,” and the first subtitle, “A Slave-girl’s Story.” Elizabeth skimmed the tale of a nine-year-old girl from the Congo and stopped when the column was broken by another subtitle, “A Stylish Black Woman.” Then she steeled herself and read on.

  Lizzie——— is a stately, stylish woman. Her cheek is tawny, but her features are perfectly regular, her eyes dark and winning; hair straight, black, shining. A smile half sorrowful and wholly sweet makes you love her face as soon as you look on it. It is a face strong with intellect and heart, with enough of beauty left to tell you that it was more beautiful still before wrong and grief had shadowed it.

  That was not such a bad beginning, Elizabeth thought. Her name was spelled differently than she wrote it, but the editor had also removed her last name to shield her privacy, so perhaps the alternate spelling was meant to do the same. And it was good to hear that she had “enough of beauty” remaining at her age, she thought wryly before returning her gaze to the newspaper.

  Lizzie’s father was a gentleman of “the chivalry,” and in her mother’s veins ran some of the best blood of the Old Dominion.

  I cannot tell the wrongs of her childhood and early youth; if I were to try my hand would stiffen with horror, my heart, in its strong indignation, would stifle the words I might utter.

  In her girlhood she was sold to a family who took her to a great city of the Northwest. For years the “gentleman,” the “lady,” and their large family of children were supported by the labors of this young slave. Lizzie’s great skill and taste made her the fashionable dressmaker of this metropolis. She earned thousands of dollars, and it all went to the support of her master’s family. The young ladies went in fashionable society and enjoyed their fine costumes none the less that they were first earned and then made by the young slave, who, thrice as intelligent and quite as handsome as themselves, sat through the weeks and months in a chamber at home, spending her life for them.

  Elizabeth felt her first stirrings of dismay. She had never called Armistead Burwell her father; that honorific she reserved for George Hobbs, her mother’s devoted husband, whom Elizabeth had loved dearly. She had also never referred to Colonel Burwell as a member of “the chivalry”; that turn of phrase was entirely Mrs. Ames’s. But that was not the worst of it. She had never claimed to be “thrice as intelligent” as her former young mistresses. They could not sew as well as she, but to be fair, few people could. They were as bright and clever as any young ladies Elizabeth had ever known, and Elizabeth cared for them very much, despite the regrettable tension ever present in the bonds of their affection that prevented them from being true friends. What on earth would they think of her if they believed that she had boasted of her superior intelligence? She could only pray that the fracture in the nation would prevent the newspaper from falling into their hands, or if it did, that they would know that Elizabeth never would have s
aid such a thing and that the reporter must have misunderstood her.

  The article went on to describe how Elizabeth had earned fame as a skilled dressmaker in that “great city of the Northwest,” how she had purchased her freedom, how her son had died on the battlefield wearing Union blue and taking with him “the last earthly hope and consolations of his mother’s heart,” and how she had “turned her face from the West, and came here, sorrowfully, wearily, to begin life anew.” She winced at a few factual and chronological errors, but overall, Mrs. Ames had described her experiences nearly as Elizabeth had shared them. A few mistakes could be forgiven.

  The article went on to praise her accomplishments since arriving in Washington City:

  It is Lizzie who fashioned those splendid costumes of Mrs. Lincoln, whose artistic elegance has been so praised during the past winter. It was she who “dressed” Mrs. Lincoln for “the party,” and for every grand occasion. Stately carriages stand before her door, whose haughty owners sit before Lizzie docile as lambs while she tells them what to wear. Lizzie is an artist, and has such a genius for making women look pretty, that not one thinks of disputing her decrees. Thus she forgets her sorrows, interesting herself to serve each one who comes, as if to dress her was the chief business of her existence. But to the woman who stretched out her hand to her as a sister, she broke into passionate tears, saying, “I am alone in the world. I have nothing to live for any longer. I try to interest myself in these things, but cannot.”

  “Oh, dear,” Elizabeth murmured to the empty room. She did not mind being called an artist, or a genius, but she doubted very much that any of her patrons would be pleased to know that they had been described as haughty in one sentence and docile as lambs and subject to her commands in the next. But the conclusion of the paragraph utterly bewildered her. At first she did not know who the “woman who stretched out her hand to her as a sister” was meant to be—Mrs. Le Bourgois, who had organized the ladies of St. Louis to help her attain her freedom? Mrs. Lincoln?—until it came to her that the reporter was speaking of herself, a rather strange claim to make based upon their short acquaintance. It was also astonishing to read how she had wept during their interview, for Elizabeth had not shed a single tear. She might have said that she lived alone, but she had never lamented that she was alone in the world, nor would she ever say that she had nothing to live for any longer. She had her work, her friends, her freedom, her faith—she would never succumb to despair. How embarrassing it was to think that now her friends and patrons would believe she did, because of course they would recognize her as quickly as Miss Brown had done. What had possessed Mrs. Ames to invent such sentimental phrases, and to place them in Elizabeth’s mouth?

  The article went on to describe where Elizabeth lived, although thankfully Mrs. Ames had not provided her address or named the Lewises as her landlords. She concluded with a dramatic final assessment of Elizabeth, saying, “A woman of thought and refinement, a woman of deep affection and high aspiration, she stands alone in her womanhood, alone in the universe.”

  Why did Mrs. Ames emphasize Elizabeth’s solitude? Elizabeth was not friendless, helpless, and forsaken. She had lost her son, but in this she was not unlike many other mothers in those perilous days of war. She had many friends. She had the patronage of Mrs. Lincoln and many other ladies of quality in Washington. Elizabeth did not understand what she had said or done to make such an impression of loneliness upon the reporter.

  “If one is going to write the life of another,” Elizabeth said aloud, rising from her chair with the newspaper still clutched in her hand, “one should always, always write the truth. Anything else is a waste of paper and ink and words.”

  She should have thrown the paper away and forgotten it, and yet some faint pride or vanity compelled her to fold it neatly and tuck it away for safekeeping in the same trunk in which she saved fabric from Mrs. Lincoln’s gowns, leftover scraps too small for dressmaking that Mrs. Lincoln generously allowed her to keep.

  Suddenly Elizabeth realized that the article could have been much worse. For all her mistakes and fictions, Mrs. Ames had said nothing unflattering about Mrs. Lincoln and had written several things that could be construed as praise for the First Lady’s style and elegance. That was no small blessing, and as Elizabeth latched the trunk shut, she breathed a sigh of relief and resolved to avoid speaking to reporters in the future. She would not tempt fate by risking embarrassment and scandal in the press a second time.

  Chapter Seven

  MAY–OCTOBER 1862

  In May, although Mrs. Lincoln still grieved deeply, she made an effort to resume her usual routines and former duties. She forced herself to stroll the White House grounds with visiting friends and to take carriage rides. She sent bouquets from the conservatory to acquaintances and important dignitaries, and she gave Nurse Pomroy delicacies from the White House kitchen and garden to distribute at military hospital wards. Her remaining sons, Tad and Robert, the latter of whom had come home from college for the summer, provided her with the most compelling distraction from her sorrow.

  For weeks she had mentioned idly in conversation that she believed fresh air and a change of scenery would do her good, so Elizabeth was not surprised when Mrs. Lincoln announced that in the middle of June, the Lincoln family would relocate to their summer residence. Anderson Cottage, she told Elizabeth, was a charming two-story dwelling of stucco and gables on the 240-acre grounds of the Soldiers’ Home, an asylum established as a place for wounded veterans to convalesce. It was about two miles north of the city, a cool, wooded, secluded haven on a hilltop, far enough away from the Capitol and the White House to act as a restful retreat, but near enough for Mr. Lincoln to travel back and forth as needed.

  Although Mr. Lincoln returned to the city almost daily, Mrs. Lincoln and her sons did not, so Elizabeth saw the First Lady very little throughout the late spring and summer. Although many other ladies left Washington to escape the heat, the insects, the pervasive illnesses, and the sights, sounds, and smells of a city given over to the care of thousands of ill and wounded soldiers, enough of Elizabeth’s patrons remained to keep her sewing busily during Mrs. Lincoln’s absence.

  At times Elizabeth wished she too could ride off to a cool summer retreat, but she made the most of the early mornings and temperate evenings to go for walks, attend lectures, or enjoy outings with the Lewises.

  One evening, she and Virginia were coming home from a choir concert at the Fifteenth Street Presbyterian Church when they heard a band playing merry music a few blocks away. Curious, they both instinctively slowed their pace to listen. They exchanged a glance, and Elizabeth asked what they were both thinking: “Shall we see what that’s about?”

  Virginia eagerly agreed, and so they followed the enchanting melody to the home of Mrs. Farnham. The yard was brilliantly illuminated with lanterns, and white ladies and gentlemen were strolling about, enjoying conversation in the night air, glasses of punch, and lovely music.

  Virginia tucked her arm through Elizabeth’s and, with a nod, indicated the colored butler standing sentinel at the gate. By unspoken agreement, they crossed the street and approached him. “Good evening,” Elizabeth greeted him pleasantly. “Would you kindly satisfy our curiosity? What happy occasion is Mrs. Farnham celebrating?”

  “It’s a festival, ma’am,” he said. “A benefit for the sick and wounded soldiers.”

  “A benefit?” echoed Virginia.

  The sentinel nodded. “Yes, ma’am. The guests pay twenty-five cents to enter, and then they can buy tickets to exchange for punch and delicacies. For a few tickets more, they can request a special tune from the band. All the money will go to help the suffering soldiers get the things they need—medicine, bandages, blankets, good food—everything that’s in short supply.”

  “What a marvelous idea,” said Elizabeth. “I hope it’s a complete success.”

  The sentinel thanked them politely as they moved on.

  As she and Virginia made their way home, E
lizabeth mulled over what they had seen. “Virginia,” she said thoughtfully as they turned onto Twelfth Street, “something occurs to me.”

  “And what is that?”

  “If white people can give festivals to raise funds for the relief of suffering soldiers, why shouldn’t the well-to-do colored people work for the benefit of the suffering of our race?”

  “I don’t see any reason why we should not,” said Virginia. “Heaven knows we have suffering colored folks all around us in abundance, and more coming every day.”

  It was a sobering truth. Just as the opponents of the president’s bill had warned, Washington after emancipation had become the refuge of contraband, runaways, and freedmen emigrating from slave states. Before the law abolished slavery in the district, the contraband population had numbered only a few hundred. Newcomers found places to live in the town houses along Duff Green’s Row on East Capitol Street and were taken up into the ebb and flow of the city with little difficulty. After emancipation became law, however, their numbers had swelled into the thousands. They arrived in the city alone or with their families in tow, footsore, hungry, exhausted, most of them field hands with no trade or training except farm labor, almost all of them illiterate. Very few contraband could find or afford rooms in colored homes or boardinghouses, and even fewer had set out for the capital with any thought of what they would do once they arrived. At first they were accommodated in Camp Barker, a complex of empty soldiers’ barracks, stables, and tents, but when these places filled to overflowing, the refugees built themselves shacks of blankets, mud, and scraps of wood in camps that sprouted up near military hospitals, beside the forts on the outskirts of the city, or tucked away in alleys. Sometimes the government administrators failed to distribute rations efficiently, and entire families went hungry. Diseases like dysentery, smallpox, and typhoid flourished in the overcrowded, filthy camps, and the dead were buried in makeshift cemeteries not far away.