Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “Tell us how you made it,” an elderly woman prompted.

  That Elizabeth could do well enough. Steeling herself with a deep breath, she stepped closer to the wax figure and told them how Mrs. Davis had purchased the fabric herself, how the specter of war had compelled her to economize, how she had needed Elizabeth to complete the garments quickly because she anticipated—correctly, as it turned out—that her husband would soon decide to leave Washington. These first details came out in a rush, but then Elizabeth began to talk about how she had made the garment, how a particular technique was a signature of her style, and that part came easily.

  While she spoke, the curtain was shoved out of the way so a large crowd could gather around her. It grew by the minute as Elizabeth proved, as best she could, that she knew firsthand that the garment had belonged to Mrs. Davis because she was the seamstress who had made it. She knew that words were not proof—for all her listeners knew, she could be a very good actress or a particularly skilled liar—but her self-confident manner and knowledgeable descriptions of the wrapper’s finer details seemed to convince them of her veracity.

  “This colored woman says she made the dress old Jeff Davis wore when he was captured,” a man shouted over his shoulder, beckoning others to gather around.

  “I make no such claim,” Elizabeth protested. “That is to say, I did indeed sew this garment for Mrs. Davis, but I have no idea whether Mr. Davis ever wore it as a disguise. I would think that he did not, that he could not have done, for his shoulders are far too broad and the bodice too narrow—”

  They interrupted her explanation with jeers and protests that she must not defend him, so she quickly steered the subject back to the making of the wrapper. In the meantime, someone had run to fetch the chairwoman of the fair, who stood among the crowd, listening as eagerly as the others. The spectators had expected to enjoy amazing sights at the fair, but nothing quite like this, and they had not even had to pay the extra twenty-five cents for the privilege.

  “Will you swear to all this?” someone called out when she finished. The crowd was pushing forward and she was becoming a little uneasy.

  Elizabeth agreed, because she could not imagine what the mob’s disappointment would compel them to do if she refused. The fair’s chairwoman, Mrs. Bradwell, dashed off to find a notary public, and while Elizabeth waited, she answered questions and demurely avoided others about the Davis family and the Lincolns. At last Mrs. Bradwell returned with a short, dark-haired, portly gentleman who quickly produced paper, pen, and the seals of his office. He and Mrs. Bradwell advised her what to say, but she changed the wording slightly as she wrote her oath:

  I hereby certify that I, Elizabeth Keckley, was originally the dressmaker for Mrs. Jefferson Davis, that I have recently been dressmaker for Mrs. President Lincoln and have attended her from Washington to Chicago; that I have seen the figure of Jefferson Davis now on exhibition at Trophy Hall, and recognize the dress upon said figure as made by me for Mrs. Jefferson Davis, and worn by her.

  Elizabeth Keckley

  Chicago, June 6, 1865

  Three witnesses, including Mrs. Bradwell, signed the document after she did, and the notary stamped and sealed it and held it up for all to see. They burst into cheers, and in the confusion Elizabeth managed to slip away, flustered and breathless, but not before she glimpsed Mrs. Bradwell affixing the signed and notarized document to the display.

  The next day, Elizabeth was surprised and chagrined to read about her little adventure in the Chicago Evening Journal. Her oath had been printed in its entirety, and it was noted that after she had verified the authenticity of the wrapper, ten thousand fairgoers had spent a total of twenty-five hundred dollars on lottery tickets for a chance to win the garment.

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars,” Elizabeth mused aloud, impressed. She decided that her small embarrassment had been well worth it, since it had helped to raise a substantial amount of money for a very worthy cause.

  It was almost mid-June when the fund to pay for Elizabeth’s services ran out and Mrs. Lincoln could no longer afford her room and board. Mrs. Lincoln begged her to remain a little while longer regardless, but Elizabeth, missing her own home and worried about her dressmaking business, was secretly not altogether disappointed that she could not.

  By that time she had persuaded Mrs. Lincoln to leave her rooms occasionally and take the air, and as the day of Elizabeth’s departure approached, they often strolled together in a nearby park that Mrs. Lincoln had become quite fond of, or along the lakeshore, where they enjoyed the refreshing breezes.

  On their last day together, Mrs. Lincoln was melancholy and tearful, and since Elizabeth realized that nothing she could say would ease the pain of her departure, she spoke very little but instead listened attentively while Mrs. Lincoln lamented. “It almost appears to me that I am on the seashore,” said Mrs. Lincoln sadly, gazing out at the lake. “How wide is it, do you suppose?”

  “I believe it is some seventy-five miles in breadth.”

  “Well, then, it is little wonder I cannot discern the opposite shore.” Mrs. Lincoln sighed heavily, dejected. “My friends thought it would be quieter here during the summer months than in the city, and they were right, but it will be far too quiet without you, Lizzie.”

  “If I could stay, I would.” Elizabeth spoke truly. She needed not hurt Mrs. Lincoln’s feelings by adding that she was relieved that she could not stay.

  “Tell me, how can I live without my husband any longer?” Mrs. Lincoln suddenly cried. “This is my first awakening thought each morning, and as I watch the waves of the turbulent lake under our windows I sometimes feel I should like to go under them.”

  Elizabeth felt a chill every time Mrs. Lincoln spoke thus, but she said firmly, “You thought you couldn’t live after Willie died, and yet you did. You have Tad and Robert to live for if you don’t care about living for yourself. You must think of your sons, and rally.”

  Mrs. Lincoln inhaled deeply and shuddered. “You are the only person who talks to me this way. Tad becomes frightened when I sink into despair, and Robert becomes impatient. You are the only good, kind friend I have anymore, and I don’t know how I shall get along without you.”

  “You would perhaps have more friends if you would allow them to see you instead of sending them all away.”

  Mrs. Lincoln was silent for a long moment. “I suppose there is something to what you say.” She threw Elizabeth a beseeching look. “Promise me, that if Congress makes an appropriation for my benefit and I can bear your expenses, you will come with me to visit my husband’s tomb on the first anniversary of his death.”

  “I have already promised you that,” Elizabeth reminded her, smiling fondly, “but if it will comfort you to hear me say it again, then I promise, again, that I will.”

  “And promise me that you will write.”

  “I will, but—” Elizabeth hesitated. “I confess that I am not a good writer.”

  “You don’t think you are, but you are,” Mrs. Lincoln declared with a little of her old fire, “and I wouldn’t care if you were not. Write to me as often as you can.”

  So Elizabeth promised that she would.

  Chapter Fourteen

  JUNE 1865–SEPTEMBER 1866

  In the middle of June, Elizabeth returned to Washington with Mrs. Lincoln’s best wishes for her continued success in business. She also assured Elizabeth that she still considered her to be her personal modiste, though hundreds of miles would soon separate them. “You know my form as well as I do myself,” Mrs. Lincoln remarked. “I will still ask you to make new dresses for me, when I have the occasion and the means to have a new dress made. I must insist that you sew every stitch yourself, as you have always done; I am no longer First Lady, and I’m sure your assistants are quite good, but they cannot be your equal.”

  “I will always consider it a great privilege to sew your dresses with my own hands,” Elizabeth assured her.

  The train ride east was long and tiresome,
but each mile brought her closer to home. The front door of her boardinghouse on Twelfth Street was a welcome sight, and as she approached, Virginia and Walker hurried out to greet her, taking her satchel and embracing her and declaring how good it was to see her again. After she settled herself in her room, which Virginia had kindly aired and dusted in anticipation of her arrival, she accepted the couple’s invitation to join the family for dinner.

  After they finished eating and the children left the table, little Alberta in Jane’s arms and Lucy trailing along behind, Virginia and Walker queried Elizabeth about her time in Chicago and what she planned to do next. “First I intend to salvage my dressmaking business,” she said. “I have some duties to attend to at the White House on behalf of Mrs. Lincoln, and of course I want to resume my work with the Freedmen and Soldiers’ Relief Association.” The charitable organization that she had founded to assist the contraband seeking refuge in Washington City had changed its name in 1864 to reflect the changing times and emancipation.

  “Have you sent business cards to President Johnson’s family?” asked Walker. “Or maybe you plan to leave one at the White House when you take care of Mrs. Lincoln’s business?”

  “I don’t intend to do so at all,” Elizabeth said. “I have no desire to work for the new president’s family.”

  “Why not?” asked Virginia. “Mrs. Lincoln was your best customer. Why wouldn’t you want to sew for the new First Lady?”

  “Or in this case, all three of them,” said Walker. “Mrs. Johnson is said to be so often indisposed that her daughters have taken responsibility for most of the duties of White House hostess.”

  “Is that the problem?” said Virginia, smiling as if she couldn’t believe it. “Too many First Ladies to please and too much work?”

  “That’s not it at all.” How lovely it was to be among her friends again, enjoying their teasing. “Mr. Johnson was never a friend to Mr. Lincoln, and he failed to treat Mrs. Lincoln with common courtesy in the hour of her greatest sorrow.”

  “You don’t have to sew for him,” Walker observed. “His wife and daughters surely did nothing wrong.”

  Elizabeth hesitated. He made a fair point, and yet she could not overcome her reluctance. She would feel disloyal to Mrs. Lincoln if she sewed for her successor. Also, if she sewed at the White House again, she was likely to encounter Mr. Johnson as frequently as she had seen Mr. Lincoln, and she had no desire to spend any time in his company.

  She took a day to rest and recover from her journey, and then she called at the White House to transact Mrs. Lincoln’s business. Her heart filled with dread as she passed through the front doors, for every familiar sight and sound and smell bitterly reminded her of the past. Inside, she discovered that its new occupants had already altered the mansion significantly, and more refurbishments were in progress. The walls had been painted here and new wallpaper hung there. Stained and damaged upholstery had been concealed within linen slipcovers. The wood floors, doors, and trim had been refinished and repainted to a glossy sheen. Taking in the scene, Elizabeth was reminded painfully of Mrs. Lincoln’s extensive beautification efforts, and how all her hard work had been undone by unscrupulous staff and greedy treasure seekers.

  When Elizabeth completed her errand and departed, which she did as quickly as she could, she fervently hoped that she had crossed the threshold for the last time.

  Elizabeth had promised Mrs. Douglas that she would create her long-overdue spring trousseau as soon as she returned from Chicago, so after setting Emma to the task of delivering notes to her favorite patrons to inform them she was back in business, she called on Mrs. Douglas to meet their engagement. Mrs. Douglas looked very pleased to see her, but also quite surprised. “Why, Mrs. Keckley,” she exclaimed, “can it really be you? I did not know you were coming back so soon. It was reported that you would remain with Mrs. Lincoln all summer.”

  Elizabeth acknowledged that she had expected to stay longer too. “Mrs. Lincoln would have been glad to have kept me with her had she been able.”

  “Able?” Mrs. Douglas echoed. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Only that she is already laboring under pecuniary embarrassment, and was only able to pay my expenses, and allow nothing for my time.”

  “You surprise me. I thought she was left in good circumstances.”

  “So many think, it appears,” said Elizabeth ruefully. “I assure you, Mrs. Lincoln is now practicing the closest economy.” She went on to tell her of Mrs. Lincoln’s fruitless efforts to obtain a widow’s pension from the government and the withholding of her inheritance due to the delays sorting out her husband’s estate.

  In the days and weeks to come, Elizabeth would share the tale of Mrs. Lincoln’s woes to mutual acquaintances and sympathetic patrons—Mrs. Lee, Mrs. Welles, anyone kind enough to listen and perhaps to advocate her cause to their influential husbands and friends. If the truth about Mrs. Lincoln’s circumstances came to light, perhaps Congress would be compelled to make a provision for her.

  With Mrs. Douglas’s spring trousseau at last under way, Elizabeth gathered her assistants, polished her sign, and, to her great relief, soon had her business going along at a steady pace. As word of her return to Washington spread, orders soon began to come in faster than Elizabeth could fill them. One day in late June, the girl attending the door found Elizabeth in the cutting room, where she was hard at work on a lovely rose silk gown. “Mrs. Keckley,” the youngest of her assistants said, “there is a lady below who wants to see you.”

  Caught in the middle of a difficult section, Elizabeth finished cutting before she answered. “Who is she?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t learn her name.”

  Elizabeth did not want to interrupt her work at that moment, but she also didn’t wish to offend an important patron. “Is her face familiar? Does she look like a regular customer?”

  The girl shook her head. “No, she is a stranger. I don’t think she was ever here before. She came in an open carriage, with a colored woman for an attendant.”

  “It might be the wife of one of Johnson’s new secretaries,” Emma mused.

  “Do go down, Mrs. Keckley,” urged another assistant.

  Their curiosity had fanned the flames of her own, so she set down the shears, brushed loose threads from her skirt, and went below. When she entered the parlor, a tall, brown-haired, plainly dressed woman rose and asked, “Is this the dressmaker, Mrs. Keckley?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “I am she.”

  “Mrs. Lincoln’s former dressmaker, were you not?”

  “Yes, I worked for Mrs. Lincoln.”

  The woman smiled. “And are you very busy now?”

  Elizabeth spread her hands and laughed, indicating the workroom just beyond, where the sounds of her industrious assistants hard at work could not be mistaken. “Very, indeed.”

  “Can you do anything for me?”

  “That depends what is to be done, and when it is to be done.”

  The woman tapped her chin with her forefinger, thinking. “Well, say one dress now, and several others a few weeks later.”

  Elizabeth quickly ran through her mental list of work she had already accepted. “I can make one dress for you now, but no more,” she said with a hint of polite regret. “I cannot finish the one for you in less than three weeks.”

  “That will answer,” the woman said, her manner cheerfully decisive. “I am Mrs. Patterson, the daughter of President Johnson. I expect my sister, Mrs. Stover, here in three weeks, and the dress is for her. We are both the same size, and you can fit the dress to me.”

  For a brief, disquieting moment, Elizabeth wished she had asked the woman for her name before agreeing to sew for her, but they soon arranged satisfactory terms. After Elizabeth measured Mrs. Patterson, she bade her good morning, entered her carriage, and drove away.

  When Elizabeth returned to the workroom, her assistants were naturally eager to learn who her visitor had been. “It was Mrs. Patterson,” she
replied. “The daughter of President Johnson.”

  “What?” exclaimed one of the girls. “The daughter of our good Moses. Are you going to work for her?”

  When Elizabeth spoke, it felt like an admission of guilt. “I have taken her order.”

  “I fear that Johnson will prove a poor Moses,” said Emma, frowning, “and I would not work for any of the family.”

  Several of the young women murmured agreement. It was not until that moment that Elizabeth realized how little they liked Mr. Lincoln’s successor. That Mrs. Lincoln disliked him, Elizabeth knew, and that he had made a bad impression when he had arrived drunk for his own inauguration, all of Washington was well aware. But since Mr. Johnson had taken office, Elizabeth had been either sequestered with the grieving First Widow in her White House chambers or hundreds of miles away in Hyde Park. She knew very little about any policies he might have enacted or speeches he had made in the past few weeks, but clearly, he had not won over the women in that room.

  Elizabeth wondered if Mr. Johnson would turn out to be as poor a leader as Emma predicted, or if her assistants were merely biased against him because he was not Mr. Lincoln, the Great Emancipator they had all admired and respected. That, Elizabeth thought, with the first pang of empathy she had felt for him, was not his fault, and he should not be condemned for it.

  Before long she finished the first dress for Mrs. Patterson—or rather, her sister—and was pleased when it was received with great satisfaction. She agreed to make additional dresses for the sisters, and as the summer passed, she discovered that both Mrs. Patterson and Mrs. Stover were kind, plain, unassuming women, making no pretensions to elegance. One day when she called at the White House, she found Mrs. Patterson busily at work with a sewing machine. The novelty of the sight struck her, because although Mrs. Lincoln knew how to sew and had owned a lovely sewing machine in a solid redwood full case, silver plated and adorned with inlaid pearl and enamel, Elizabeth had never seen her use it, nor could she recall having ever seen Mrs. Lincoln with a needle in her hand.