Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker (20 page)

And then, in the late afternoon, a deacon burst into the chapel, breathless, sweat on his brow, a paper clutched in his right hand, the smell of ink still fresh upon it. “It’s done!” he shouted. He was too winded from his run to read the proclamation aloud, so he handed it to the minister, who stepped up to the pulpit and read it slowly and emphatically, each word ringing through the church. Elizabeth felt relief and joy wash over her as with every line it became more evident that the president had made only a few changes to the preliminary proclamation she had read so often that she had learned it by heart. The list of territories under Union control had been revised due to the advances the army had made in the interim—but far more significant were two new paragraphs that had not appeared in the preliminary version released the previous autumn. In the first of these, President Lincoln enjoined the people newly freed by the proclamation “to abstain from all violence, unless in necessary self-defense.” A murmur arose from the congregation as the meaning of the words sank in. Never before had they been permitted to defend themselves physically, to fight off a vicious beating by a cruel white master or mistress. Now they could stand their ground and fight to preserve their lives, if confronted by such a choice. It was a revelation.

The second addition was more astonishing yet. “And I further declare and make known that such persons”—the newly emancipated—“of suitable condition, will be received into the armed service of the United States to garrison forts, positions, stations, and other places, and to man vessels of all sorts in said service.”

Cheers rang out, and shouts of astonishment. In the rebellious
territories, slaves were free and men of color would be allowed to fight for the Union.

The day many among them thought would never come had arrived at last.

The congregation broke into prayers of thanksgiving and songs of rejoicing, and together they paraded to the White House, where hundreds of other jubilant citizens both white and black sang and shouted praise to the president, who briefly appeared at a window to acknowledge them with a humble, solemn bow.

Later Elizabeth went to the contraband camps, where the struggling freedmen forgot their cares for a while and celebrated the dawn of a new day of liberty, the first day of their new lives when they would not fear the whip, live in terror of the auction block, or dread having their children and husbands and wives sold away from them, never to be seen again.

In the evening, a hush fell over the throng as the Reverend Danforth B. Nichols, superintendent of freedmen, read the Emancipation Proclamation aloud, intoning each word with careful clarity. When he finished, and after the applause and cheers faded, he raised his hands for their attention and cautioned them that the law did not apply everywhere—not in neighboring Maryland, for one. But not even that sobering counsel could diminish their joy.

At long last, freedom was at hand.

As the anniversary of Willie’s death approached, Mrs. Lincoln became almost feverishly restless, and she poured her excess energies into her social obligations as First Lady. She resumed receiving callers on Saturday afternoons, and although she still dressed in deep mourning, she and the president began to venture out in the evenings again, attending recitations or going to the theater, which was Mr. Lincoln’s favorite entertainment.

Mrs. Lincoln continued to find her greatest comfort in her two surviving sons. She brightened considerably every few months when Robert visited, and although Elizabeth privately found the young man severe
and prickly, she was always happy when he came home from school for the joy his company brought his parents. His visits were not entirely cheerful, however, for he was very eager to quit Harvard and join the army, and he would always use his few days at home to press his case.

Mrs. Lincoln adamantly opposed his enlistment, as she often told her husband when they were alone—alone except for Elizabeth, sewing nearby and quietly listening. “We have lost two sons, and their loss is as much as I can bear, without being called upon to make another sacrifice,” Mrs. Lincoln declared one day in mid-February when the subject resurfaced yet again.

“But many a poor mother has given up all her sons,” Mr. Lincoln replied mildly. At that, Elizabeth half expected them both to glance sympathetically her way, but they did not. It stung to think that they might have forgotten her loss, or forgotten that she was there. “Our son is not more dear to us than the sons of other people are to their mothers.”

“That may be, but I cannot bear to have Robert exposed to danger. His services are not required in the field, and the sacrifice would be a needless one.”

“The services of every man who loves his country are required in this war,” Mr. Lincoln replied. “You should take a liberal instead of a selfish view of the question, Mother.”

Mrs. Lincoln was firmly resolved that Robert should stay in school, and since neither could persuade the other they let the matter drop for a while, perhaps wearily certain that it would not be long before Robert again implored them to permit him to enlist.

Although the argument had ended for the moment, Mr. Lincoln’s words lingered in Elizabeth’s thoughts. The services of every man were required, he had said. Perhaps she was still hurt that it had not occurred to Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln that one of those mothers who had given up all her sons to the Union cause sat among them, because she felt a strange, unfamiliar desire to rebuke the president. Every man who loved his country, he had said. She was tempted to inquire whether he included men of color in that calculation.

Why did he
not
include men of color—
every
man of color, not only
the newly emancipated slaves living in captured Southern territories—if every man who loved his country was needed so desperately?

Elizabeth’s prediction that the Contraband Relief Association would be more essential than ever after emancipation proved true. The needs of the men, women, and children in the camps were so great that even the generous contributions of concerned friends were insufficient to supply everyone with the basic necessities of health and comfort. Throughout the winter, Elizabeth gave increasingly more of herself to the association—more of her time, and more, too much more, of her money. For the first time since she had established herself comfortably in Washington, she found herself struggling to make ends meet, and she could not endure the worry and uncertainty. For most of her life, she had served masters and mistresses who badly managed their finances, incurring debt and moving from one town to another in a futile pursuit of a better living. While a slave, she had promised herself that if she ever gained her freedom, she would never be so careless with money. Now it seemed that she was following her old masters down the same road of precarious economy. It made no difference that her debts sprang from altruism rather than reckless pursuit of a loftier style of living than she could afford; she would end up at the same miserable destination.

She would have confessed her troubles to her friends, but she didn’t want to worry Emma needlessly about the state of the dressmaking business, and she was reluctant to upset Virginia, who was with child. Instead she brooded silently and secretly, or so she believed, until one day at the White House. She was sorting trims for Mrs. Lincoln to consider for a new dress and mulling over her worries when Mrs. Lincoln suddenly said, “Good heavens, Lizzie, why are you scowling at those ribbons? If you dislike them so much, we’ll send you to the shops for something else, although I don’t know what else they’ll have in black that we haven’t seen already.”

“Forgive me,” said Elizabeth, embarrassed. “The ribbons are fine. I confess my thoughts were elsewhere.”

“I knew something was wrong.” Mrs. Lincoln sat beside her and patted her hand. “Tell me. You’ve been sighing and frowning for days. Are you unhappy? Indisposed?”

“Merely worried.” Elizabeth hesitated, but she felt cornered, and she had to offer some explanation. “I find that I am living beyond my means.”

“You?” said Mrs. Lincoln, astonished. “I don’t believe it. You’ve never been a spendthrift. You are always reliably sensible.”

Elizabeth managed a small, wan smile. “I don’t live lavishly, if that is what you mean, but lately I’ve been spending much of my earnings—whatever does not go to food and rent—on the contraband camps.”

“Well, then…” Mrs. Lincoln thought for a moment as if tallying the ways Elizabeth might economize. “You must simply stop doing that.”

“But the need is so great.” Elizabeth steeled herself and said aloud what she had been dreading to acknowledge, even to herself. “I must earn more money.”

Mrs. Lincoln looked taken aback. “Lizzie, dear, as much as I would love to assist you, I cannot possibly pay more for my dresses than I already do. Mr. Lincoln already believes I spend too much—not on dresses, mind you, but on other things.”

Elizabeth tended to agree with the president on that count. “Oh, no, Mrs. Lincoln. I didn’t mean to suggest that I intend to raise my prices. I wouldn’t dream of asking any of my patrons to pay more than is fair, especially not you.” She hesitated. “However, I do think I need to find some way to increase my income.”

“Could you take on new customers, sew more dresses?”

Elizabeth thought back to those hard, long years in St. Louis when she had worked herself almost to collapse from exhaustion and injury trying to earn the money to buy her freedom and George’s. She nearly shuddered from the memory of pain, of constant headaches and backaches and eye strain and sore fingers. “I don’t think I could possibly sew more than I already do.”

“Well, there must be another way you could earn a little extra,” said Mrs. Lincoln confidently. “And there are surely other sources of funding
for your association other than your wages. We simply haven’t given it enough thought. We’ll think of something.”

Elizabeth thanked her, her spirits lifting even though she wasn’t truly any closer to a solution. It was good to see Mrs. Lincoln more like her old self again, briskly efficacious and intent on a new scheme.

A few days later, Mrs. Lincoln rose to meet her when she arrived and clasped Elizabeth’s hands in her own. “Elizabeth, I think I have a solution.”

“It would be very welcome news if you do,” Elizabeth replied, as surprised as she was relieved.

Mrs. Lincoln explained that the Treasury Department needed employees for the cutting room, workers who trimmed the printed sheets of currency into bills. Seamstresses were highly desirable for these posts due to their proficiency with scissors. “The work is not arduous, and the pay is reasonable,” said Mrs. Lincoln, clearly delighted with herself. “Best of all, it should not take away time from your dressmaking business.”

“I—I hardly know what to say,” stammered Elizabeth, overwhelmed. “It sounds ideal.”

“Good! You’ll need to apply, of course, but I’m confident that with my recommendation you’ll have no trouble.” Mrs. Lincoln hesitated for a moment and seemed to steel herself. “There’s one small hurdle that you’ll have to overcome first—an ugly, unpleasant, dishonest hurdle.”

The choice of adjectives was so bewildering that for a moment Elizabeth could only look at her. “What do you mean?”

“I think it would ease your way if you were introduced to Mr. Chase before you apply.”

She meant Salmon P. Chase, the secretary of the treasury and the father of Mrs. Lincoln’s biggest social rival, the lovely and charming Miss Kate Chase. “But you despise Secretary Chase.”

Mrs. Lincoln lifted her chin and inhaled deeply. “I shall put aside my revulsion long enough to arrange the interview.”

And so she did. Later that afternoon, when Mr. Chase came to the White House to confer with the president, Mrs. Lincoln managed to
be outside her husband’s office as he departed. Expressing delight at the chance encounter, Mrs. Lincoln told him there was someone she would very much like him to meet, and she led him to the Lincolns’ private sitting room, where Elizabeth waited.

Elizabeth had seen Mr. Chase in passing often, but they had never been formally introduced. She set aside her sewing and rose when Mrs. Lincoln escorted him in, keeping her features carefully composed even though the obvious annoyance and impatience in his expression disconcerted her. To his credit, he did his best to be gracious when Mrs. Lincoln introduced them. “Mrs. Keckley, of course,” he said, shaking her hand. “The renowned dressmaker. My daughter speaks very highly of you.”