“He sent his regrets a week ago. Oh, this is well said: ‘The banquet which ministered to appetites heightened by the general pleasure, was fairly unsurpassable in its elegant profusion.’”
“Yes, the food was superb. William, darling, only a very few of the ladies and gentlemen my father and I met at City Hall last summer attended us last night. Did your mother not invite them?”
William’s happiness dimmed. “Mother knows how to compose a guest list, and she knows the character and conviviality of the people here more than you.”
“Of course she does,” Kate said, taken aback, “but that doesn’t preclude the possibility of an oversight—”
“Hundreds of friends wished us well last night,” William interrupted. “As I recall you never lacked company.”
“I didn’t, but—”
“Then be content.” William returned his attention to the paper, and soon his smile reappeared. “‘The youthful senator and his lovely bride contributed very decidedly to the enjoyment of the evening by their graceful cordiality. None could help rejoicing that Rhode Island has such a son, and that in the event which secures his domestic happiness, she gains a charming daughter.’”
“I have never heard anything more obsequious,” Kate said under her breath.
“What was that?” asked William.
Kate smiled innocently. “I have never heard any sing more lovingly of us.”
Knowing she was unlikely to get anything more out of William, or anything at all out of his mother or sisters, Kate turned her attention to the servants, quickly picking out the newest and youngest chambermaid, a fair-haired, peaked, rather frightened-looking Irish girl. Still learning her trade, she surely listened to every word uttered in the household lest she commit an embarrassing mistake, and she would not have yet formed loyalties that would prevent her from sharing unflattering gossip about her employers.
Kate easily managed to catch her alone by hasting back to her bedchamber when she was meant to be out so that the servants could tend to the linens and the fires. “Why, good morning,” she exclaimed brightly, startling the poor girl. “And who might you be?”
The girl scrambled to her feet and gave a small curtsy. “Katie, ma’am.”
“How delightful! I’m a Katie too.”
The girl nodded, looking as if she couldn’t imagine ever addressing her by that name.
“How long have you been in service here, Katie?”
“Since August, ma’am.”
“And is this your first situation?”
“No, ma’am. I worked for the Johnsons on Galbraith Street from February until May. That was my first.”
“Why did you leave their employ?”
Her cheeks reddened. “I dropped the lamb while serving table at Easter.”
“Oh, dear.”
“But it wasn’t my fault,” she added with a burst of spirit, “and it won’t ever happen again.”
“I’m sure it won’t,” said Kate soothingly. “The Johnson family . . . I don’t recall meeting them at the reception last night. Do you happen to know if they were here?”
She shook her head. “They wouldn’t have been, ma’am.”
“Wouldn’t have been?” Kate echoed. “Why wouldn’t have been?”
The girl looked uneasy. “I only meant they weren’t here, ma’am.”
“No,” Kate replied, smiling. “That isn’t what you meant. You’re a clever girl, I can tell, and you meant what you said. Why were you so certain that your former employers would not have been here?”
“I—I really shouldn’t say.”
“On the contrary.” Kate leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You really should.”
The housemaid hesitated again, glanced over her shoulder, and gulped air. “Everyone knows the Spragues aren’t received in society, ma’am.”
“How very curious,” said Kate, masking her sharp dismay. “The family of the former governor of Rhode Island, the current United States senator, a military hero, and one of the most successful businessmen in the state is not received in society?”
Miserable, the poor cornered housemaid nodded.
“Why on earth not?”
At that, tears pooled in her eyes. “That’s not for me to say, ma’am,” she said, distressed. “I—I really should get back to my work, ma’am, if you please, or the housekeeper will box my ears—”
“Of course,” said Kate. “I apologize for detaining you.” With one last gracious smile, she swept from the room.
The revelation defied all logic, but it confirmed what Kate had observed the night before. For some reason, which William either did not know or was reluctant to divulge, the Sprague family was not accepted among the social elite of Rhode Island, in spite of their wealth and William’s position, marks of status that usually guaranteed admittance to the highest circles of any community. The gracious and the good of Providence would receive Miss Kate Chase, daughter of the secretary of the treasury, but they would not receive Mrs. William Sprague, and she meant to discover why.
• • •
Kate had little time to pursue the question on their wedding trip, however, for on the Monday after the reception, she and William left Nettie at school, glum but resigned to her fate, and embarked on their honeymoon, a tour of Ohio during which they would visit some of Kate’s dearest family and friends. Traveling alone with her husband at last, Kate felt alive and blissful and free. William was in such congenial, tender, and affectionate spirits that Kate could not bear to deflate him by pricking him with questions about the Providence snub, so she set the puzzle aside, although she never completely forgot it.
Their travels took them to Cincinnati, Columbus, and on to Cleveland, where they stayed with Mr. and Mrs. Parsons, who hosted a grand party in their honor. Early December found them in Loveland, Ohio, in the home of Kate’s cousin Jane Auld, both suffering from bad colds contracted along the way, but still determinedly cheerful. “A red nose does not diminish your beauty,” William told her, interrupted by a sneeze, “and my watery eyes cannot prevent me from appreciating that.” In reply, Kate laughed and embraced him, and gave him a fresh handkerchief.
They had almost entirely recovered by the time they departed for Washington a few days later. Father welcomed them home with such great joy that Kate felt a stab of guilt for their long absence. Pleasantly weary from travel, she happily settled back into the routine of home, content and thankful that it had become William’s home too.
She had barely finished unpacking and they had only just settled into the comfortable companionship of a trio when William announced that he was obliged to return to Providence to attend to business matters.
“So soon?” Kate protested. “When must you go?”
“The day after tomorrow.”
Kate was disconsolate, but she did not want to spoil their newlywed joy with complaints, so she cheerfully asked what she could do to help him prepare for the trip. After he departed, she tried to forget her loneliness by occupying herself with her father’s business and preparing for the holidays, which were sure to be wonderful, since they would be the first she and William would celebrate as husband and wife.
She wrote to William at least once a day, sometimes twice, and she could not always keep her ardent yearning from the penned lines. “Shall I tell you how much I miss you,” she wrote a few days after his departure, “and how the sunshine has all gone from our beautiful home? My life is indeed deserted in my longing for my own darling. I prayed to God very earnestly before going to rest for your protection and safe return.” A few days later, she concluded a summary of the news from Washington with the wistful lament, “There are letters lying for you unopened upon the table and I feel every now and then that you will come in with your accustomed smile and I shall have the joy of welcoming my husband home again. Oh darling I hope these sepa
rations will not come very often. They are hard to bear.”
The pain of separation was augmented by the paucity of William’s letters, which, when they came at all, resembled in no fashion the passionate, affectionate, tender notes he had sent her with endearing regularity throughout their engagement, even when he resided at the Willard Hotel only a few blocks away. William offered little more than terse descriptions of his work and sent along perfunctory greetings from his mother, brother, and sisters, and nothing in his words suggested that he missed her the way she ached for him.
Shortly before Christmas, Nettie returned home for her school holiday, and Kate anxiously awaited a letter from William telling her when she could expect him to complete the new family circle. Instead he sent her a lovely ashes-of-rose silk shawl for her Christmas gift along with his regrets, for he had decided to spend the holiday with his family at Young Orchard.
Shocked, Kate immediately wrote back to remind him that she couldn’t possibly get away. They were expecting a houseful of guests, like every year, and they had already invited dozens of friends and colleagues to several festive gatherings. William responded by assuring her that he had not expected her to come, and that she should remain in Washington and carry on as she always had.
Heartbroken that they would not spend their first Christmas as a married couple together, and deeply troubled that this bothered William not at all, Kate made the mistake of complaining to her father. Clearly uncomfortable to be thrust into the middle, he took William’s side and urged her to submit to her husband’s will with good cheer and Christian forbearance. Although she knew her father was probably right, his advice grated, so instead she tried to bring William home by inviting his entire family to spend the holidays in Washington with the Chases. Her hopes were dashed when William’s sister Mary Ann wrote to decline politely on behalf of the family, whom she said remained too exhausted from their trip to the capital for the wedding to attempt the journey again so soon.
Her last gambit thwarted, Kate resolved to try following Father’s advice, and so she sent along gifts to Young Orchard for William and his family and told him she would count the days until his return. They would welcome the New Year together, and all would be well.
As Christmas drew closer, Kate wrote faithfully to William at least once a day, knowing that due to the vagaries of the mails he might receive them out of order and some not at all. She endeavored not to reproach him for his absence, or for the scarcity of his terse letters, and so she was especially hurt when he wrote to complain that she did not write to him enough. Her long-simmering anger boiled over. “I received your brief note written ‘Sunday’ this morning just as I was leaving home, and was a good deal grieved by the imputed reproach of ‘forgetfulness’ it contained,” she quickly responded, barely keeping her indignation in check. “Of one thing always rest assured, if a promise I have made does not appear to have been kept, the fault is not mine. The day after you left home—Thursday—I wrote you twice, a hasty note in the morning when posting some official communications as you directed, and a longer letter in the evening. Since, I have written every day and in the morning until now, in order as I thought, to have my letters get off in the noon mails. I can only regret the delay that has prevented your receiving them darling for they were sent in such good faith.”
On Christmas Day William made no mention of her explanation in a telegram he sent wishing her a Merry Christmas. And then, two days later, Kate received a thick envelope with his beloved inscription, but when she opened it, she discovered nothing more than official documents he needed her to deliver to various departments on his behalf. Later that afternoon, another envelope arrived containing a letter for Father and a brief but very welcome note for her—or at least it was welcome until Father wordlessly handed her his letter and she read it only to discover that William did not intend to return for New Year’s Day either.
“He tells you,” she said numbly. “Why did he not tell me?”
Father shrugged, looking pained. “I’m sure he knew I would inform you.”
That was not the point, but Kate did not bother to tell him what he already knew. Instead she shut herself away in the study, paced until she had quite composed herself, and then seized pen and paper and dashed out a reply. “Forgotten so soon?” she wrote. “Oh darling how could you serve me so? Father has only just received your letter saying you will not return for New Year’s Day. That it was a bitter disappointment to me you well know. New Year’s Day with us this year promises to be a great failure.”
She considered burning the letter instead of sending it, but indignant anger compelled her to put it in the mail. She had been as patient and forbearing as any bride could be expected to be under the circumstances, and he ought to know how angry and disappointed he had made her so he could put things right. But in this regard too she was disappointed, for on the last day of the year she received his coldest letter by far.
My dear wife:
It is almost to the day twenty years ago that my good father was murdered and your letter brought further vexation and disappointment to a sorrowful anniversary. That your January reception will promise a failure I very much regret. I would that you would make it a success despite my inability to be with you and you would lighten my burden this much by exhibiting a willingness to deny yourself for that purpose. I am in every moment engaged in large & numerous duties & engagements and try to do my duty in every way and I have a right to ask your aid and sympathy. You my love are not I hope to prove an additional burden to me, as you will certainly do if you consider my acts as the cause of any unhappiness.
The rebuke stung. She had not deliberately arranged for her letter to arrive on a particularly melancholy day—as if she could have done, when not even Postmaster General Montgomery Blair commanded such precise control over the mails—and she knew from his mother’s letters describing the many pleasurable ways he was taking his leisure that he was certainly not working “every moment.” As for his warning that she not become a burden, she did not know whether to laugh or weep. No man of her acquaintance had ever considered her a burden or likely to become one, and none had thought of her companionship as something to be patiently endured when he was not occupied with business. William’s cold contempt was unbearable. Kate knew many married couples who lived apart, allowing their marriages to drift along in a state of benign estrangement for years, but she had not expected that to happen to her and William, and certainly not so soon.
Despondent and angry and hurt, Kate did not understand William’s behavior or know how to restore his tender affection, and she had no one in whom to confide. Father’s instinct was to side with William, and at sixteen Nettie was still too young to understand. Her most reliable friend was John Hay, but obviously she could not complain about her husband to him without suffering the worst of mortifications, and telling anyone else, even her dearest cousins, seemed like a betrayal of William’s trust, of their marriage bond itself.
There was another reason she endured her unhappiness in silence as the old year drew to a melancholy close.
It was profoundly humiliating and shameful to admit that she, who had always been so proud and admired and loved and cherished, was not treasured by the one man to whom she had given her heart completely, the one man who knew her better than any other.
Chapter Eighteen
* * *
JANUARY–JUNE 1864
T
he first day of January dawned cold and overcast, with nipping frosts and blustery winds that scattered the clouds by midmorning, revealing a bright sun that mirrored the people’s good cheer. Over breakfast, many Washingtonians found good tidings in the National Republican, which published a long list of the victories won by the Union army throughout the previous twelve months. The general consensus, or perhaps it was merely a fervent wish, was that 1864 would surely be the year the war would end and peace would descend upon a newly united, reconciled nation.
At ten o’clock, Father, Kate, and Nettie attended the traditional New Year’s Day reception at the White House with the dignitaries and officials, an occasion that Kate discovered would mark Mrs. Lincoln’s transition to half-mourning, which some believed was long overdue. The First Lady wore a beautiful gown of rich purple velvet, exquisitely fashioned, adorned with Valenciennes lace and white satin fluting, with a sweeping train, finished with a headdress boasting a large white plume. Although she greeted the Chases with frosty concision, Kate could sense the steely determination beneath. While Mrs. Lincoln surely still felt the pain of Willie’s death acutely, she must have realized that the demands of the upcoming election obliged her to put aside the solace of mourning ritual for the sake of her husband’s political future—and her own.
Perhaps too, Kate surmised, Mrs. Lincoln wanted to make a defiant show of resilience in the face of renewed controversy over her family’s Confederate ties. Back in December, Mrs. Lincoln’s younger half sister, Emilie Todd Helm, had come to stay at the White House. Mrs. Helm, the young widow of a Confederate general killed at the Battle of Chickamauga, had been traveling with her daughter from Atlanta to Mrs. Lincoln’s stepmother’s home in Kentucky, until she had been detained at the border for refusing to take the oath of allegiance to the United States. When her resolve had not faltered, the stymied border guards had telegraphed President Lincoln, who promptly telegraphed back, “Send her to me.” Word had spread throughout Washington that the Lincolns were secretly harboring an unrepentant rebel beneath the White House roof, stirring up displeasure and contempt and more aspersions about Mrs. Lincoln’s suspect loyalties.
As for Mr. Lincoln, on that first day of the New Year he greeted Father, Kate, and Nettie with his customary warmth and familiarity. He seemed to be in unusually excellent health and spirits as he received the Washington dignitaries, his eyes clear and shining with good humor, his handshake firm and cordial. Still, he must have shared some of Mrs. Lincoln’s evident worry about what the year might bring, for his nomination and reelection were by no means certain—especially when his secretary of the treasury offered a viable alternative.
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