Fates and Traitors

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “It is not only his profession that gives us pause. Trusted friends have warned your father and me that Mr. Booth has publicly expressed sympathy for the South.”

  “For the Southern people, perhaps, for he considers himself a Southerner by birth, but certainly not for the Confederacy.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not so. He has also been overheard denouncing the president as a tyrant.”

  Lucy was taken aback, but she could not bear to leave John undefended. “Many Northern newspapers have done the same. It seems that you and Papa have formed your opinions about Mr. Booth based upon rumors rather than your own experience.”

  “We cannot disregard the counsel of wise friends where our daughter’s well-being is at stake.” Suddenly her mother’s shoulders slumped and she sank into a chair, her expression profoundly sad. “My dear daughter, I remember the first blush of young love—the wonder, the exhilaration—and I know, as perhaps you do not, how it can cloud one’s judgment.”

  “I know it can.” She thought she did. “But there is judgment and there is prejudice. I’m sure if you and Papa knew Mr. Booth better, and judged him on his own merits, you would esteem him as I do.” She knelt beside her mother’s chair and took one of her hands in both of hers. “Could you not give him the chance to prove himself? Think of the dreadful gossip we’ve heard about Mr. Lincoln, about my own dear Papa. Only a small fraction has any truth to it, and that’s usually twisted beyond all recognition.”

  “I cannot deny that.” Her mother frowned, pensive, and for an agonizing moment Lucy held her breath. “I suppose, if you promise to be more discreet, I could persuade your father to allow Mr. Booth to court you, so that we—and you—could better evaluate his character and suitability. Anyone can feign the manners of a perfect gentleman for a little while, an actor better than most, but I trust that time will bring his faults to the surface.”

  Lucy flung her arms around her mother. “Oh, Mama, thank you.”

  Gently, her mother took Lucy by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length, the better to look steadily into her eyes. “There will be conditions,” she warned. “You must never see Mr. Booth without a chaperone, not even in the National. You must be more mindful of your reputation, and put on no more shameful displays as you did last night.”

  Lucy flushed and lowered her gaze. “Of course. You have my word.”

  Her mother cupped Lucy’s chin with her hand and raised it so their eyes met. “Finally, when all is said and done, you must accept our decision regarding Mr. Booth. You must promise not to marry him without our blessing.”

  “I would never marry anyone without your consent,” said Lucy, shocked that her mother thought she might. “I’ll abide by your decision, yours and Papa’s. That’s how confident I am that Mr. Booth will prove himself worthy.”

  “We’ll see,” her mother replied, simply and sadly.

  Blinking away tears, Lucy smiled, rose, and held out her hands to help her mother to her feet. But her smile swiftly faded. She had expected to be forbidden to see John again, and yet somehow she had emerged with her mother’s permission, albeit reluctantly given, to allow him to court her. Why, then, did she feel bereft, as if something precious had been irretrievably lost?

  • • •

  Her mother’s certainty that time would bring John’s faults to light proved prescient, perhaps intentionally so. It was hardly surprising that when Lucy was compelled to keep a wary eye out for reasons to doubt John, to mistrust him, she found them.

  The first week of the New Year continued promisingly enough. Lucy’s mother convinced her father to let John court Lucy, to discourage clandestine meetings and to give him a fair chance to rise in their esteem. He occasionally dined or breakfasted with the family, and he and Lucy sometimes met in the drawing room to read together, though always with one of her parents, Lizzie, or cousin Parker seated nearby, ostensibly absorbed in a book, but frequently glancing up from the page to study the couple.

  John’s tolerance of the new, unwanted scrutiny wore thin after a fortnight. He never complained—he couldn’t, as their chaperone would surely overhear—but Lucy perceived his umbrage in a new tension in his neck and shoulders, in an unfamiliar strain in his voice. Neither did he become more forthcoming about the nature of his work. He passed in and out of the National at unpredictable hours and rarely explained where he had been and with whom he had met. He traveled to Baltimore on January 10 and returned two days later with little to share about the trip beyond a few lackluster remarks about the weather. “I did nothing but meet with dull men about investing in oil wells,” he said when she prompted and prodded him for more. “It’s a tedious business and I won’t bore you with a lengthy description.”

  “Let me decide if I find it boring,” she implored, but he merely laughed indulgently and kissed her—Lizzie, their chaperone of the moment, had averted her eyes—and told her that he would rather hear about her tea with Mrs. Lincoln and Robert Lincoln at the Executive Mansion.

  He remained so stubbornly resistant to her entreaties that she had to consider that, although he might not be a spy, he was perhaps engaged in some other clandestine work for the War Department, a task where his knowledge of the oil business and his skills as an actor came into play. She hoped that someday soon he would trust her enough to reveal his secrets to her, if she could not figure them out on her own first.

  On a Friday evening soon thereafter, John returned to the stage for a single night to play Romeo to Miss Avonia Jones’s Juliet in her farewell benefit at Grover’s Theatre. As he had promised long ago, Parker escorted Lucy to the performance, and she watched, enthralled and awestruck, as John transformed himself entirely into the tragic young lover. The stage was his to command, his voice veritable music, his movements the most graceful dance. She fell in love with him anew with his every expression of love for Juliet, and she wept when he took his own life rather than survive his lost beloved.

  The next day, she could not resist reading aloud to her family the glowing reviews he received in the papers. “What glorious praise from the National Intelligencer,” she declared. “Just listen: ‘As earned by his Romeo, we hasten to add our laurel to the wreath which the young actor deservedly wears; to offer him our congratulations, and to say to him that he is of the blood royal—a very prince of the blood—a lineal descendant of the true monarch, his sire, who ranks with the Napoleons of the stage.’ Oh, and this: ‘His death scene was the most remarkable and fearfully natural that we have seen for years upon the stage.’”

  “Yes, I seem to recall hearing that Mr. Booth has often died upon the stage,” her father remarked, his gaze fixed on his own newspaper.

  Lizzie laughed, but Lucy ignored the barb. “‘His elocution was faultless, his step as light as vanity.’”

  “What does that mean?” asked Lizzie, wrinkling her nose. “‘As light as vanity’? I’m not so certain it’s a compliment.”

  “‘He is full of genius,’” Lucy read on determinedly, “‘and almost as perfect an artist as his brother Edwin. One could be forgiven for believing that his love for Miss Jones was real.’”

  “I’m not at all surprised to learn that the younger Mr. Booth is skilled at feigning love,” said Mama, taking a sip of coffee and regarding Lucy over the rim of her delicate china cup.

  Cheeks burning, Lucy read the remaining reviews in silence.

  Her family was civil to John when he was present, but in private it was as if they had linked arms and braced themselves against him. If John was aware of this, he did not complain, nor did he express any concern about their resistance to his celebrated charm. And yet he was occasionally ill tempered and abrupt, only to be smiling, affectionate, and as courteous as ever the next time Lucy saw him. His mood seemed to shift with the wind, turning Lucy this way and that like a weathervane, powerless to hold fast against bewilderment and hurt.

  • • •

/>   A week after his triumph at Grover’s Theatre, John left for Baltimore, and from thence he went to New York, and on to Philadelphia, and then back to New York, until Lucy could scarcely keep track of his travels and began to wonder if his letters were crossing in the mail. At Lizzie’s urging, she fended off loneliness and worry by redoubling her labors for the Union cause, visiting the wounded in the city’s many military hospitals, organizing fund-raisers for the Sanitary Commission, and knitting innumerable pairs of thick, warm socks for soldiers in the field. She also took time for the more lighthearted distractions of levees, dinner parties, and dances, though she missed her favorite partner too much to entirely enjoy them.

  One grand event she would have loved to attend was the magnificent state dinner Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln hosted at the White House on February 13 for sixteen senators and their wives, including Lucy’s parents. Lucy and Lizzie were so eager to hear every detail that they waited up for their parents to return home, even though it was half past eleven o’clock before they finally returned to the suite, tired but smiling.

  “The table took up the entire length of the state dining room,” their father told them as he removed his coat and shoes and glanced about for his slippers. “Mrs. Lincoln was seated at the center of the table, with the president immediately opposite her. Your mother had the honor of occupying the place to Mr. Lincoln’s left.”

  “I think the exalted place they gave me was meant to honor you,” their mother said, regarding their father fondly as she nodded to his slippers, halfway hidden beneath the ottoman. “The table was beautifully decorated with vases of flowers arranged by the president’s head gardener, and the French caterer Jacobs prepared the meal, so I won’t torment you with descriptions of how absolutely delicious every bite of every course was.”

  “What did Mrs. Lincoln wear?” Lizzie asked as she went to fetch her father’s slippers.

  “An exquisite gown of white crepe, with delicate puffs and trimmings of lilac,” their mother said. “On her head she wore a wreath of lilac and white flowers—you know how she adores flowers—and her ears, throat, and wrists were adorned with lovely pearl jewelry.”

  “And what was her mood?” Lucy prompted. She knew her friend Robert often worried about his mother’s strained nerves, an unfortunate consequence of her eminent position.

  “Quite good. She presided over the gathering with elegance and grace.” Her mother hesitated and, with a small, fond, sympathetic smile for Lucy, she added, “There was one matter that seemed to trouble her. You’re aware, I’m sure, that Robert has long desired to join the army.”

  “Yes, so he has told me, but his mother absolutely refuses to give him her blessing.” On one occasion, not long after he graduated from Harvard, Robert had angrily declared that if he could not live as he wanted, he would at least escape the “glass house” of Washington. The next Lucy heard, he had returned to Massachusetts and had enrolled in Harvard Law School.

  “Be that as it may, his father apparently decided to grant his wish,” her father said. “Your friend is now Captain Robert Lincoln, and in a few days he will begin serving as an assistant adjutant general on General Grant’s own staff.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Lucy placed a hand over her heart, stunned. Another brave friend, sent into danger. “How is Mrs. Lincoln bearing it?”

  “I imagine she had choice words for her husband in private,” said her father dryly.

  “She assured everyone at the table that she was very proud of her son and wholeheartedly supported his decision to serve,” said her mother. “Later, though, she confided to me that she feels nervous and afraid, even though her son will be so well placed at military headquarters that he’ll probably never see a single battle.”

  “I hope that’s true,” said Lucy fervently. “Robert won’t like that, of course, but for his sake and his parents’, I hope he remains miles away from the front lines.”

  Nodding his agreement, her father stifled a yawn.

  “There was one other curious thing.” Her mother put her head to one side, frowning slightly as she pondered a memory. “Just before the sweets were served, Mr. Lincoln turned to me, smiled kindly, and inquired, ‘How good is your Spanish, Mrs. Hale?’”

  The sisters exchanged bewildered glances. “Were you talking about Spain at the time?” asked Lizzie.

  “No, nor was the subject Mexico or Panama or any other Spanish-speaking nation.”

  “What did you say?” asked Lucy.

  “I told him my Spanish is worse than my French but far better than my Portuguese.”

  “What an odd question,” said Lizzie.

  “Yes, very odd,” said their father, making no effort to disguise a second yawn, so they quickly agreed when he suggested that the rest of their report could wait until breakfast.

  The next day was Saint Valentine’s Day, and when the post arrived shortly before noon, Lucy received a lovely acrostic poem John had composed in her honor, a sweet, romantic gesture that reminded her anew how much she adored him. A week later, on February 21, Parker told her that he had received a telegram from John, and that he intended to return to Washington late the following evening. Overjoyed, Lucy kissed her cousin to thank him for the welcome news. John had been gone almost four weeks, traveling here and there and back again visiting family and conducting business, so frantically busy, he lamented in his letters, that he could not spare even half a day in the capital. Now, at long last, he was coming back to her.

  Their reunion on the morning of February 23 was as joyful as she could have hoped. When they met in their favorite chairs in the lobby, he kissed her hand, and she kissed him in return on the cheek—swiftly, modestly—while Lizzie pretended to be fascinated by a family with three young children passing by the window.

  “Thank you for the lovely poem.” Smiling mischievously, perhaps to punish him a little for being so long away, Lucy added, “It is not the first love poem a gentleman has written for me, but it is certainly my favorite.”

  “As long as I am your favorite,” he growled, feigning jealousy, a pretense his shining eyes immediately betrayed, “I don’t care if a beau you spurned years before was a better poet.”

  For his valentine gift, she gave him a photograph of herself and a book of Byron’s poems, because he had once confided that his parents had enjoyed reading them together. She apologized for the belated nature of the gift, unable to resist adding that she would have been able to give them to him earlier if he had not been away so long.

  “For a gift as lovely as this,” he declared, admiring her portrait, “I would be willing to wait another fortnight, months if I had to.”

  It was a tender sentiment, Lucy thought, but he had missed her point entirely.

  As if to make up for lost time, John was more affectionate and attentive than ever, until Lucy was blissfully willing to forgive his long absence and his exasperating reticence. She even dared hope that her parents, who had thus far not discovered any evidence to support their doubts, would surrender their fiercely entrenched defenses and cede the battle to John.

  But just as she thought an armistice might be at hand, John revealed an aspect of his character she had not previously suspected, and for the first time, she found herself at a loss to defend him.

  In the first week of January, Ohio congressman James M. Ashley had reintroduced into the House the Thirteenth Amendment abolishing slavery throughout the United States. Thanks in no small part to the tireless efforts of Lucy’s father, the amendment had already passed the Senate, and on January 31, the House had held the final debates before their voting commenced. Dozens of senators, including Lucy’s father, had attended to witness the historic moment, as had the justices of the Supreme Court, several members of President Lincoln’s cabinet, and many foreign ministers. Lucy, Lizzie, and their mother had arrived early to claim good seats in the gallery, which for the first time had also admitted pe
ople of color. The Negro men and women had watched the final speeches and heard the vote taken in solemn, breathless quiet, breaking into cheers and joyful weeping when the measure passed. Although three-fourths of the states would have to ratify the amendment before it would become the law of the land, people of color and abolitionists nonetheless rejoiced, certain that slavery had been dealt a fatal blow. As they had walked home, exultant and proud, Lucy, Lizzie, and their mother had agreed that the successful passage of the amendment would someday be recognized as the greatest achievement in Papa’s long, tireless, and storied career as an abolitionist and lawmaker.

  A few days after John returned from his lengthy travels, Lucy and John met in the drawing room to catch up on the news from their time apart. Still glowing from her father’s triumph, Lucy described the fiery debates in the House and the momentous final vote, but she had not quite reached the end when John’s handsome features twisted into a bitter scowl. “Lincoln is intent upon making himself a king,” he said.

  For a moment Lucy could only stare at him. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “He does not seek to govern but rule,” John declared. “He wants to crush out slavery by any means—robbery, rapine, slaughter, and bought armies. He presumes to walk in the footprints of old John Brown, but he is no more fit to stand with that rugged old hero—great God, no! John Brown was a man inspired, the grandest character of this century. Lincoln would be another Bonaparte, overturning this blind Republic and crowning himself king!”

  Parker had looked up from his novel as the harsh invective increased in volume, and he fixed John with a level gaze. “I say, Booth, you might want to calm down. People might mistake you for a copperhead.”

  “Has freedom of speech been abolished along with the writ of habeas corpus?” John snapped, but he lowered his voice, shifted in his chair, and suddenly bolted from it. “I need some air. Good evening Lucy, Parker.” He bowed and strode from the room.