Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker (45 page)

Elizabeth received Mrs. Lincoln’s letter too late to write back and advise her against the interview, but she consoled herself with the realization that it might not have mattered in any case. Mrs. Lincoln could have disregarded Elizabeth’s misgivings, or Mr. Herndon might have written whatever he pleased even without speaking with Mrs. Lincoln. Elizabeth hoped that whatever Mr. Herndon chose to do, it would be of so little consequence that no one would ever hear of it, but in this matter she was disappointed. In November, Mr. Herndon delivered another lecture, which he arranged to distribute widely on broadsides in advance and which was reprinted in newspapers throughout the nation. In his lecture, the perfidious Mr. Herndon claimed that Mr. Lincoln had never loved his wife, but instead pined for Miss Ann Rutledge, to whom he had been engaged until her untimely death in 1835. After that, he had never addressed another woman with love and affection. He had even signed his letters to Miss Mary Todd “Your Friend Abraham Lincoln” rather than “Yours affectionately,” and he had eventually married her only out of obligation to honor. Thus Mary Lincoln was not to blame for the well-known difficulties in the marriage, because Mr. Lincoln had never loved her.

When Elizabeth read the shocking assertions, her heart went out to Mrs. Lincoln. If Mr. Herndon’s intention had been to wound the
grieving widow, he could not have chosen a more devastating tactic. On the first anniversary of her husband’s death, Mrs. Lincoln had written to Elizabeth, “It was always music in my ears, both before and after our marriage, when my husband told me that I was the only one he had ever thought of, or cared for. That will solace me to my grave.” Now Mr. Herndon had stolen that comfort from her. And on what shaky grounds? Was Mr. Herndon constantly at Mr. Lincoln’s side, day and night, year after year, so that he could with all certainty confirm that Mr. Lincoln had never addressed any other woman but Miss Ann Rutledge with love and affection? Had he read every letter Mr. Lincoln had written to his wife, heard every word uttered? Elizabeth could not count how many kind, affectionate phrases she had heard Mr. Lincoln speak to his wife through the years. Admittedly, they had quarreled from time to time, but so did every husband and wife of Elizabeth’s acquaintance, and however hotly their tempers flared, Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln had always been anxious to make up soon afterward.

It comforted Elizabeth very little—and as she would learn in letters yet to come, Mrs. Lincoln not at all—that Mr. Herndon was roundly disparaged for his lectures. The people were shocked and appalled that he would violate all standards of decorum by addressing such intimate details of the martyred president’s life, and many were sure that Miss Rutledge was a figment of his imagination. A furious Robert Lincoln took measures to discredit and silence the aspiring biographer, warning that the subject of the Lincoln family was strictly off-limits for his manuscript in progress. The Lincolns’ pastor from their Springfield days, Dr. James Smith, wrote a scathing rebuke, addressed to Mr. Herndon but widely published in the newspapers, including the
Chicago Tribune,
which was where Mrs. Lincoln discovered it. The pastor had read Mr. Herndon’s lecture “with feelings of mingled indignation and Sorrow, because coming as it did from his intimate friend and law partner, it was calculated to do the character of that great and good man an incalculable injury, deeply to wound the feelings of his heart broken widow and her orphan boys, and to place that whole family both the dead and living, in their family relations, in a most unenviable light before the public.” He
emphatically asserted that no man was better placed to know Mr. Lincoln’s heart than his pastor, esteemed and respected by the family, entrusted with their spiritual care, intimate with all the joys and sorrows of their lives, relied upon for his advice and counsel. “During the seven years when he and myself were at home,” he wrote, “scarcely two weeks ever passed during which I did not spend a pleasant evening in the midst of that family Circle.” Dr. Smith’s intimacy with the Lincoln family had convinced him that Mr. Lincoln was “utterly incapable of withholding from the Bride he led to the Altar that which was her due, by giving her a heart dead and buried in the grave of Another; but that in the deep and honest sincerity of his Soul, he gave her a heart overflowing with love and affection.” He was certain that Mr. Lincoln “was to the Wife of his bosom a most faithful, loving and Affectionate husband.”

Mrs. Lincoln must have felt a certain sense of vindication to have her husband’s own pastor publicly confirm that Mr. Lincoln had loved her most tenderly, but even so, Mr. Herndon’s claims had dealt her a terrible blow. “There are hours of each day, that I cannot bring myself to believe, that it has not
all
been some hideous dream,” she lamented to Elizabeth. “In my bewildered state, I sometimes feel that my darling husband,
must and will
return to his sorrowing loved ones. This I know shall never be, in this World, and if not for Tad I would all too willingly join him in the Next.”

In the first few weeks of 1867, Mrs. Lincoln’s letters often alluded to her sinking fear that she would not be able to afford her home on West Washington Street much longer, and that she would be obliged to take cheap rooms for herself and Tad elsewhere, rent out the house, and live off the income. In March she wrote again to confess that her fear had become a certainty. She had struggled long enough to keep up appearances, but that mask at last had to be thrown aside, for she simply could not live on her meager allowance. “As I have many costly things which I shall never wear,” she wrote, “I might as well turn them into money, and thus add to my income, and make my circumstances easier. It is
humiliating to be placed in such a position, but, as I am in the position, I must extricate myself as best I can. Now, Elizabeth,” she continued, “I want to ask a favor of you. It is imperative that I should do something for my relief, and I want you to meet me in New York, between the 30th of August and the 5th of September next, to assist me in disposing of a portion of my wardrobe.”

Elizabeth knew that Mrs. Lincoln’s income was modest, only seventeen hundred dollars a year, and that her collection of elegant gowns, packed away in boxes of trunks since her move from Washington, was of no tangible value to her any longer, since she would almost certainly never wear the dresses again. Elizabeth decided that since Mrs. Lincoln’s need was urgent, it would be prudent to dispose of the gowns quietly, and that New York would be the best place to transact such delicate business.

“Why do you take this on?” Emma asked when Elizabeth explained why she might have to leave the dressmaking business in her care or shut it down altogether while she traveled on behalf of Mrs. Lincoln. “You have already done so much for her, and she is never any better for it.”

“I think she is better for knowing she can rely on me,” Elizabeth countered. “Everyone else has betrayed or abandoned her, except her sons. The question should not be why I help her so much but why other people help her so little.” Mrs. Lincoln was the wife of the Great Emancipator, the martyred president who had done so much good for their race. How could Elizabeth refuse to do anything that would be to her benefit?

On September 15 Elizabeth received a letter from Mrs. Lincoln announcing that she would arrive in New York City on the night of the seventeenth. She instructed Elizabeth to come beforehand and secure rooms for them at the St. Denis Hotel under the name Mrs. Clarke, an alias she had sometimes employed while traveling as First Lady.

Startled, Elizabeth read the letter again to be sure she had not misunderstood it. She had never heard of the St. Denis Hotel, which suggested that it was not a first-class establishment and was unlikely to be up to Mrs. Lincoln’s standards. She also was perplexed by Mrs. Lincoln’s
decision to travel without protection under an assumed name, and forgo the trust and deference due to her as the First Widow. Most dismaying of all, she knew it would be difficult if not impossible for her as a colored woman to engage rooms at a strange hotel for a person about whom the proprietors knew nothing.

“What is she thinking?” Elizabeth murmured, shaking her head as she scanned the letter. If only she could ask! Mrs. Lincoln would already be en route to Washington before a letter could reach her in Chicago, and a telegram was out of the question, because Elizabeth could not expose the delicate business to every curious operator along the line. Caught in an impossible predicament, Elizabeth’s only hope was that at the last moment, Mrs. Lincoln would send word that she had changed her mind. So Elizabeth remained in Washington, waiting for a letter or a telegram, her anxiety increasing each day. When Mrs. Lincoln sent no word by September 18, the morning after she had said she would arrive in New York, Elizabeth immediately telegraphed “Mrs. Clarke” at the St. Denis Hotel and told her she would join her there soon.

She took the next train to New York, and after an anxious ride by rail and then by stage, she arrived at the hotel, a six-story building at Broadway and East Eleventh Street. Pulling the bell at the ladies’ entrance, she inquired with the boy who answered whether a Mrs. Clarke was staying there. He did not know, but went off to check with the manager, and soon returned to reply that Mrs. Clarke was indeed their guest. “Do you want to see her?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, just walk right there.” He gestured in an indefinite direction. “She’s down here now.”

Hesitating, thinking that perhaps Mrs. Lincoln was in the parlor with company, Elizabeth gave him one of her business cards. “Take this to her, if you please,” she said, but at that moment, Mrs. Lincoln came into the hall, drawn by the sound of her familiar voice.

“My dear Elizabeth, I am so glad to see you,” she exclaimed, crossing the room and giving Elizabeth her hand. “When I arrived last night and you were not here, I was simply frantic.”

Elizabeth had not seen Mrs. Lincoln in more than two years, and her pale, haggard appearance momentarily rendered her speechless. “I sent a telegram,” she managed to say.

“Yes, but I have only just received it. It has been sitting here all day but it was never delivered until this evening. Come, and let us find out about your room.”

She led Elizabeth into the office, where the clerk, like all modern hotel clerks, was exquisitely arrayed, highly perfumed, and too self-important to be courteous. He eyed Elizabeth with disdain as Mrs. Lincoln approached. “This is the woman I told you about,” she said. “I want a good room for her.”

The clerk’s eyebrows rose. “We have no room for her, madam.”

“But she must have a room. She is a friend of mine, and I want a room for her adjoining mine.”

“We have no room for her on your floor” was his pointed reply.

Elizabeth understood his meaning perfectly, and she regarded him with steady, dignified silence. She would like nothing more than to quit his establishment and find a room for herself at a hotel run by a courteous colored proprietor, but night had fallen and she dared not venture out again, nor could she leave Mrs. Lincoln alone.

Mrs. Lincoln drew herself up, frowning. “That is strange, sir. I tell you that she is a friend of mine, and I am sure you could not give a room to a more worthy person.”

“Friend of yours or not, I tell you we have no room for her on your floor.” He paused and reluctantly added, “I can find a place for her on the fifth floor.”

“That, sir, I presume, will be a vast improvement on my room,” declared Mrs. Lincoln imperiously. “Well, if she goes to the fifth floor, I shall go too. What is good enough for her is good enough for me.”

“Very well, madam.” The clerk heaved a sigh and checked his register and room keys. “Shall I give you adjoining rooms, and send your baggage up?”

“Yes, and have it done in a hurry. Let the boy show us up. Come, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Lincoln turned away from the clerk with a haughty
parting look. The boy who had met Elizabeth at the door led them to the stairs, which they climbed and climbed until Elizabeth began to suspect that they would never reach the top. When they did, and the boy opened the doors to their rooms, Elizabeth could not have said which of them was more appalled. They had been given a pair of cramped, dingy, scantily furnished, three-cornered rooms in the servants’ garret that smelled of dust and damp and sweat. Never in her life would Elizabeth have imagined a president’s widow in such humble accommodations.