“I fancy this one,” said Dinah, fingering a diamond tiara priced in the thousands. Ordinary people, black or white, were not welcomed in the private suites of the city’s finer jewelers; but Dinah was no ordinary person, and spent her father’s money like water. “What do you think?”
“It’s very nice,” said Abigail, hardly looking.
“Pay attention. Tell me what you honestly think.”
“Too showy.”
“Nonsense. It is perfect.” Dinah turned to the jeweler, who was all but rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “How much?”
“Two thousand,” said the delighted man.
“Ridiculous. I will give you twelve hundred.” She began writing out a draft without waiting to hear whether he agreed. She had been buying from him for some time, and they understood each other.
“Dinah.”
“Wait.”
“Dinah.”
“I want to look at earrings next. Something different this time. Emeralds, perhaps.”
The jeweler went into the next room, where he kept his safes.
“What is it, dear?”
Abigail was at the window. “Come. I want you to see something.”
They looked out across the street together, at Seward’s grim granite prison. “Yes, dear?”
“See the soldier? The guard outside?”
“The one with the rifle?”
“The other one. By the carriage.” She pointed. “Do you see him?”
“Yes, dear.”
The jeweler was back, with several selections for her to look at.
“Wait. Dinah, look. Your eyes are better than mine.”
“All that reading is ruining you, dear.”
“Maybe so. Just tell me—from this distance—can you see his face? He seems to me to have long black moustaches.”
“He does, dear. And a red band at his shoulder. Excuse me.” Turning back toward the jeweler. “No, no, not like that. Those are tiny. Those are for children. Real emeralds. Big ones. Abigail, dear, come look. Aren’t they hideous?”
But Abigail was staring at the Old Clubhouse, residence of Mr. Lincoln’s closest friend and most trusted adviser, wondering why Edwin Stanton’s personal bodyguard was skulking outside.
II
Abigail had not visited the trial since resigning her position. Jonathan had sought her out at home on Monday after court. He had started to describe the battle over Sherman’s testimony, and she had asked him to stop. Then she had told him why she had returned to the office on Saturday evening: she wanted to see Mr. McShane’s diary, hoping that the book so important to every lawyer might contain the key to Rebecca’s cipher. Jonathan told her that the diary and any secrets it might have held had disappeared the night of the murders.
A few minutes later, Abigail asked him to leave the house.
But now, on the Thursday, she slipped back into the gallery, and there was the same seat, still empty, between Mrs. Sprague and Miss Felix.
“I was hoping you might return,” said Kate as Abigail sat. “I gather everything turned out well for your brother?”
“It did. Thank you.”
“You know, of course,” said Margaret Felix, “that Fielding Bannerman has left the city.”
Abigail was startled, and unable to hide her surprise.
Kate nodded toward the counsel table. “I believe that some sort of difficulty has arisen between Mr. Bannerman and Mr. Hilliman. I would not of course venture a guess as to what that might be.”
“I had no idea,” said Abigail.
“The two of you made a lovely couple,” said Meg, venomously. “Perhaps you will choose to follow him.”
Abigail looked at the malevolent eyes, then looked away. Margaret Felix was from Philadelphia. Mrs. Orne was from Philadelphia. Fielding Bannerman was from Philadelphia. The Belmont interests in Philadelphia were substantial. And of course David Grafton made his home in Philadelphia. Abigail was not ready to declare every prominent Philadelphian a part of the conspiracy. And yet, when she studied Margaret’s mocking face—
Meanwhile, down below, the President’s lawyers were foundering. There seemed little left for them to try. Sherman was the only military officer Lincoln had allowed them to call, and his testimony had been severely circumscribed. They put on several Southern negroes, from various walks of life, who testified to their gratitude toward and admiration for Mr. Lincoln, and assured the chamber that they had never had trouble getting assistance or protection from the Freedmen’s Bureau or their local military commanders. They put on two War Department telegraphers who handled all communication with troops in the field, who testified that they had never heard of or transmitted any orders concerning the Department of the Atlantic. But Bingham embarrassed the second of the two very badly on cross-examination, naming several other subjects, and asking the man whether he had ever transmitted an order concerning it. Twice he said no, and Bingham had a copy of the telegraph message to prove him wrong. The next time, the witness guessed yes, and Bingham told the Senators that a search of War Department records turned up no such message. Bingham then asked how many messages the telegrapher handled each day. At least twenty, the man said; sometimes fifty; and on especially busy days, a hundred or more.
Bingham than moved that the entire testimony of both telegraphers be stricken, because of the obvious difficulties of memory.
Dennard argued strenuously, but lost.
“Call your next witness,” said Chase. He sounded quite exhausted.
Reduced to minutiae, the defense called several presidential staffers to prove that Mr. Lincoln had made no secret trip to New York to see Reverend Beecher. Sickles had argued adamantly against this strategy, suggesting that the evidence of Eliza Caffey was best forgotten: why bring the public attention back to it? But Dennard and Speed insisted that, whatever people outside the chamber might think, inside the chamber it was vital to meet the Managers’ proof item by item.
Finally, Lincoln’s lawyers were out of witnesses. The trial would be adjourned for the weekend. The Managers had planned beautifully. Next week, they would likely call Stanton as a rebuttal witness, and his testimony would bury the President.
Everyone in the room knew it.
As the lawyers prepared to depart, Dennard actually slipped an arm around Jonathan. “You did well, my boy,” he said consolingly. The old man seemed to be ready to accept the inevitable. He lifted his paunchy chin toward the gallery. “I think Miss Canner is trying to get your attention.”
She was leaning over the parapet, signaling him to meet her in the lobby. As Jonathan hurried up the aisle, he saw, in another corner of the balcony, his beloved Margaret, contriving somehow to stare at both him and Abigail at once. And he knew, as the bird knows when it takes to wing ahead of the approaching hurricane, that disaster was about to strike.
III
“Thank you for meeting me, Mr. Hilliman,” said Abigail, with a crisp formality explained by the presence of Jonathan’s fiancée on his arm. The three of them stood together at the barrier blocking the corridor to the lawyers’ suites. “It’s very kind of you, Miss Felix.”
Margaret inclined her head and said nothing, but the baleful green eyes seemed to be taking notes. “I wonder,” said Abigail, addressing Meg, “if I might borrow Mr. Hilliman for a brief moment.”
Nobody moved.
“I have no secrets from Margaret,” said Jonathan, after a noticeable pause.
“None,” said Margaret, the intensity of her gaze rising. There were times, her face said, when one must engage the tools of diplomacy, and there are times when one must be prepared for war.
Abigail looked at Jonathan in appeal, then back at Margaret; seemed to reach a decision. She stood straighter, and gave a tight nod, fingers still clutching that purse.
“It’s Michael. My brother. He’s gone off somewhere.”
“Gone off? What on earth does that mean?” Around Margaret, Jonathan often found himself slipping all too easily into t
he arch hauteur that Margaret and her father and for that matter his own family expected of him. He struggled to calm his voice, and to throw some warmth into it. “He’s run away? Is that what you’re saying?”
“This is not easy to say.” Abigail bit her lip. She looked not at Jonathan but at Margaret. “You have an older brother, Miss Felix. You know what a bond that is.”
Margaret might or might not have known; she was not saying, although her gaze suggested that the commonalities between the two of them were becoming less numerous by the minute.
“Michael’s gone off,” said Abigail again, this time addressing the dirty marble floor. She had to speak very loud to be heard above the storm of conversation echoing through the Rotunda. “He has a gun. I’m not sure what he’s going to do. He was saying things, making wild threats and accusations.”
“Against whom?” said Jonathan.
Abigail shook her head. “Just accusations,” she whispered, voice as weak and hopeless as he had ever heard it.
Margaret finally spoke. “This is a matter for the police,” she said, firmly.
“I can’t go to the police. You know what they do to”—she searched for a neutral phrase—“to my people when they’re thought to be dangerous.”
“From what you’re telling us,” said Margaret, inexorably, “your brother is dangerous.”
“He would never hurt anyone,” Abigail said stubbornly. The crowd flowed around them, creating an island of calm; but she could feel eyes on her all the same.
“It is my understanding,” said Margaret, “that he wanted to go off with John Brown to kill women and children in Virginia, but was not allowed because of his youth.”
Abigail’s head came back up. She stared at Jonathan in surprise.
“As my fiancé told you,” continued Margaret, coolly, “we have no secrets from one another.”
“My brother”—Abigail struggled visibly for control—“would never harm anyone. Whatever Michael’s desires, Miss Felix, he did not actually go on Mr. Brown’s raid.” Her voice was flat. In the lobby she was backing away, but Jonathan felt the sudden distance as enormously greater. “I am sorry to have troubled you both. Do enjoy your evening.”
She left them.
IV
They stood together in the crowd at the carriage block outside the West Portico. Several grand city personages waited ahead of them. Margaret’s rig was fourth or fifth in line.
“There was no need to be so hard on her,” said Jonathan, having battled his demons to a draw, and now seeking only compromise.
Margaret seemed not to hear. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold. “I suppose you will be going back to the office.”
“I have responsibilities.”
“It’s simply that the Jay Cookes are only in Washington two or three times a year. How can we miss their soirée?” When Jonathan only shrugged, she leaned into him once more. “Ah, well. I suppose one of Cousin Fielding’s Harvard friends can always escort me.” A thought struck her. “And Miss Canner? Will she be at the office, too?”
“You know she is no longer employed at Dennard & McShane.”
“She retains her ticket to the trial.”
Jonathan managed a smile. “You have nothing to fear, my darling.”
“Fear?” the Lion’s daughter repeated, playing with the word as if he had uttered a charming vulgarity. “Goodness me. Whatever would make you imagine that I am afraid of something?” Before he could answer, she punched him lightly in the side. “Whereas you, my dear, would seem to have much to fear.”
“I do?”
“Miss Canner seemed very … distraught. And guilty. Very guilty.” It was the turn of Margaret Felix to play detective. “From the way she was behaving, my love, I rather believe that those mad threats her brother was making must have been against you!”
“Me?”
“Why else go to all of this trouble to warn you? Oh, Jonathan! Do you suppose this mad brother of hers would try to shoot you?” A shiver of delight. “That would be so exciting.”
“Only if he missed.”
“I should find it exciting either way. I do see how your experience of the matter might be limited.” Her pale brow furrowed. “This is the same brother who was arrested for assaulting those two white men, is it not?”
“That isn’t what happened—”
“But he was arrested.” Firmly. “Father says that Mr. Lincoln can afford no more scandals. I accept that Miss Canner is quite talented, but scandal does seem to attach to her, does it not?”
He handed her up into the carriage.
And reached a decision. “Meg, look—”
But the Lion’s daughter was ahead of him. “I believe that I shall follow Cousin Fielding north,” she said. “It is time, Jonathan. The trial is coming to its end, and you will not profit from the distraction of my presence in these final days. I have written to Father, and he agrees. A period apart will doubtless benefit us both.” She slipped off a glove and touched his face with her fingers. Her green eyes were wondering but without doubt. “After the verdict is rendered, and you have had the opportunity to rest, and to reflect on the future you prefer to pursue, you will know where to find me.”
“Meg, I—”
“Farewell, Jonathan, dearest.”
She signaled to the coachman and clattered off. Jonathan stood watching.
Neither waved.
CHAPTER 50
Conversation
I
THE MOOD AT Dennard & McShane was dispirited. On Monday, the respondent would rest its case. There were no other witnesses; there was no more evidence. Nevertheless, the President’s lawyers refused to concede the defeat that even the pro-Lincoln newspapers called inevitable, now that Salmon P. Chase seemed to have chosen sides.
“A trial is war” is the way Dennard put it; he had fought in the Mexican War and knew what he was taking about. It was Saturday afternoon, April 13. Closing arguments would be held on Tuesday. Then each member of the Senate would have his say, a process that would take all of Wednesday and most of Thursday. The vote would be taken no later than Thursday afternoon, so as to finish the trial before Good Friday.
“This isn’t a battle,” said Sickles. Perhaps marking the seriousness of the occasion, he was sitting at the table, not lying on the divan. “It’s a slaughter.”
“A slaughter for which side?” asked Speed, charmingly unwilling to waver in his steadfast belief in his friend the President.
Sickles chuckled. Not happily. “In this particular battle, the Managers had all the big guns. Moorhead, Yardley, that Caffey woman. The kind of witnesses people read about in the newspaper next day and are still talking about next month. We put on a swarm of gnats. Irritating, sure, but nobody remembers them later.”
“We put on General Sherman,” said Rellman, who, since Abigail’s departure, seemed to have shed most of his shyness. “He’s as big a gun as there is.”
“And we were not allowed to ask him anything important,” said Jonathan, who had made it his task, for reasons he was able to perceive but dimly, to disagree, rudely, with every word out of Rellman’s mouth. “And the cross hurt us. None of it was important, but all of it hurt us.”
Rellman’s pink face twisted. He was not done. “Also, the Managers never called Mr. Stanton.” He struggled to keep the analogy going. “So that’s one gun they haven’t fired.”
“Do you really think—” Jonathan began.
“Stop it, you two,” said Sickles, too tired to play. “They will put on Stanton this week.”
“But they have rested their evidence!” cried Speed.
Dennard spoke heavily. He, too, was exhausted. “They will call him as a rebuttal witness. We put on evidence of what the President did not say. They will want the last impression of the trial the public gets to be the face of the Secretary of War, giving evidence of what the President did say. And then the Senators will convict, at least on Count Three, and quite possibly on Count Four as well.”
II
Jonathan returned to the Bannerman mansion. Ellenborough had a cold supper waiting. Sitting alone at the long dining table, Jonathan hardly noticed what he ate. Meg was gone. Abigail was gone. And three days ago, he had risen in the morning to find Fielding’s bags in the front hall, waiting to be loaded for the ride to the depot.
“It’s like this, old man,” said his friend when Jonathan tracked him to the library. “There’s two of us and one of her. We can fight a duel or we can go our separate ways.”
“I’m engaged to your cousin,” said Jonathan—who, at that time, still was.
“And yet I doubt that you shall marry her.” Clapping him on the back. “Well, maybe if your man is convicted.”
Jonathan stood silent, wondering whether Abigail was the true reason for his friend’s departure from Washington City. Fielding paused in the open doorway. Down by the carriage block the horses snorted and shied in the freezing rain.
“Oh, say,” he continued. “Heard the glad news about General Baker?”
Jonathan, now pressed on all sides by the prospect of solitude, shook a weary head. “Who’s he arrested now?”
“Nobody. He’s sick in bed. Might not live. I was down at the club tonight, and Tubby Longchamps was saying that everyone on the Hill thinks Baker’s been poisoned. But you know Tubby and his stories.”
Watching the carriage clatter off through the freezing rain, Jonathan found himself wondering whether the conspiracy was finally beginning to show cracks.
III
And, sitting up late in the kitchen of the house on Tenth Street, munching on one of Nanny Pork’s snickerdoodles, her notebook open in front of her, Abigail Canner smiled in triumph.
She had figured it out.
CHAPTER 51
Confrontation
The Impeachment of Abraham Lincoln Page 50
