A whimsical breeze rustled the paper beneath Elizabeth’s pen as she wrote in the garden, but she held the sheet firmly against the table with her left hand and it was not carried aloft. She lifted her pen and waited for the gust to subside rather than risk smearing the ink, and in that momentary pause a light shower of blossoms from the plum tree fell upon her, the table, and the head of her sixteen-year-old grandson Lewis, sprawled in a chaise lounge nearby, so thoroughly engrossed in Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days that he did not notice the petals newly adorning his light brown hair. She smiled, tempted to rise and brush the blossoms softly to the ground with her fingertips, but he looked so charming that she decided to leave them be.
It was to Lewis’s mother she was writing—Julia, her eldest child and only daughter. Julia’s husband, Edward Lewis Baker Sr., had been appointed United States consul to Argentina the previous year, and when the couple moved to Buenos Aires, Lewis came to stay with his grandparents. Ninian and Elizabeth’s gracious home on Aristocracy Hill in Springfield had more than enough room for one much adored grandson, and they were delighted to take him while he finished his education, or indeed for as long as he wished.
The breeze subsided, leaving the delicate fragrance of hyacinth and narcissus in its wake, but before Elizabeth could again put pen to paper, the dull, chronic ache in her abdomen suddenly sharpened. She must have gasped aloud, for Lewis glanced up from his book. “Are you all right?” he asked, brow furrowing.
She managed a smile. “Perfectly fine, dear. I’m merely . . .” She inhaled deeply, ignoring the stab of pain, and forced a sigh of contentment. “Enjoying the lovely spring air.”
He peered at her inquisitively, unconvinced. “Are you sure? Would you like me to have Mrs. Henderson or Carrie fix you a cup of tea?”
“I have one,” she replied, gesturing to the cup on the table. A pale lavender petal floated upon the surface of the amber liquid, which was not proper tea but a tincture of ginger, willow bark, and raspberry leaf prepared for her by an elderly woman of color respected throughout the city for her knowledge of herb lore. No one but Elizabeth and her loyal housekeeper knew that she partook of the remedy almost every day, sometimes twice, morning and night. Although the brew temporarily relieved her symptoms and evidently did her no harm, she knew that Ninian and her sister Frances would chide her for wasting money on flavored water when her doctor had assured her that the aches and pains were all in her head.
At the time, knowing that a sharp rebuke would merely confirm for the doctor the accuracy of his diagnosis, Elizabeth had managed, with great effort, to nod politely and thank him. Although she had agreed to avoid strenuous activity, she had declined the laudanum he recommended. Only later, when she and Frances were alone, had she said what she truly thought. “And the droplets of blood on my undergarments, are they all in my head too?” she had demanded indignantly, albeit in an undertone, lest anyone overhear and be shocked by her impolite language.
Frances herself had looked somewhat shocked, but her late husband had been a doctor as well as a storekeeper, and she had probably heard far worse. She had assured Elizabeth that her pains and aches and blood were merely symptoms of the change of life, something all women must endure, and in time they would subside. Elizabeth hoped her sister was right, but feared she was not. At sixty-two, Elizabeth had passed through the change several years before, or so she had thought. This felt like something else, but if her doctor, her husband, and her closest sister said it was nothing, who was she to question them?
The pain faded back to a faint, dull ache. Setting down the pen and taking up her spoon, Elizabeth fished the plum petal from her teacup, set it on the saucer, and sipped the herb woman’s brew. Even if unusually flavored, it was rather tasty, and made all the better with a spoonful of honey stirred in. The concoction did her no harm, she reminded herself, so no one else need know of it. If ever the time came when it failed to ease her pains, she would insist upon seeing another doctor.
As she set down her cup, the back door opened and Carrie emerged, small and fair in her gray dress and white apron and cap. “Mrs. Edwards, ma’am,” she said, bobbing a curtsy, “there’s a gentleman at the door who says he must speak with you most urgently.”
Elizabeth was not expecting any callers. “Did he give you his card?”
“No card, but his name is Mr. Smith. Not your Mr. Smith,” the maid added quickly, referring to another of Elizabeth’s brothers-in-law, her sister Ann’s husband. “I would have shown him in.”
“Of course.” Puzzled, Elizabeth rose. “I can’t think of any urgent business I have with any Mr. Smith, or with any gentleman, for that matter.”
“Do you want me to see to it?” Lewis swung his coltishly long legs over the edge of the chaise lounge and prepared to stand. “I can direct him to Grandfather’s office or send him on his way, whatever seems best.”
Elizabeth smiled indulgently, gestured for him to stay seated, and gave in to the impulse to brush the flower petals from his hair. “Thank you, dear, but I believe I can manage.”
She accompanied Carrie back inside and through the house to the front entrance, where she found a slim fellow perhaps a decade older than her grandson standing on the doorstep, clutching his hat, and surreptitiously trying to peer through the front windows. Dismissing Carrie, she smoothed her skirts and opened the door. He brightened at the sight of her, and in the customary exchange of pleasantries that followed, he identified himself as Mr. Philip Smith of Elkhart. The unfamiliar name revealed absolutely nothing about his purpose in wanting to speak to her—and that, coupled with his keen gaze and palpable eagerness, made her instinctively wary.
“I regret that I cannot invite you in,” she said. “Mr. Edwards is not at home presently, and I assume your business is with him. Perhaps if you leave your card—”
“Oh, no, I’m here to see you,” the man interrupted, nodding for emphasis. “I must say, madam, I’m pleased to see you looking so well under the circumstances.”
Her heart thudded. “Circumstances?” Her thoughts flew to Julia and Edward in far-off South America, to her beloved Ninian a few blocks away. “I don’t understand.”
“Surely you do.” His gaze turned disbelieving, impudent. “You are Mrs. Lincoln’s sister, aren’t you?”
Of course. Why else would a stranger turn up uninvited at her door if not for Mary? Morbid curiosity-seekers did not plague the family as frequently as they once had, ten years after her brother-in-law’s horrific assassination, but every so often a snake slithered out from beneath a rock. “I am one of her sisters,” Elizabeth acknowledged, bristling. “I beg your pardon, but I was not expecting callers, and I must—”
“I won’t need more than a moment of your time.” He stepped forward as if he meant to block the door with his foot before she could close it. “Would you care to make a statement about Mrs. Lincoln’s sad misfortune?”
“A statement?” Which misfortune? There were so many from which to choose, not that Elizabeth would know of any recent mishaps, not that she would ever confide in a random stranger who appeared on her doorstep without so much as a—
Then she understood. “You’re with the press,” she said, drawing herself up and fixing him with a withering look.
“Yes, as I said, Philip Smith, Elkhart Gazette.”
“You most certainly did not say.” Grasping the doorknob, she said, “You have no honor, sir, but if you leave now, I won’t summon the police and have you charged with harassment and trespassing. Good day.”
She shut the door firmly and slid the bolt in place, heart pounding, mouth dry. Mr. Smith rang the bell and called her name as she shrank back into the foyer, bewildered and upset. Her family had been tormented by vile stories in the papers through the years, but rarely had a reporter violated the sanctity of their home or sought out Elizabeth in particular. How dare a reporter approach her now? She was a private citizen, not a politician who had deliberately chosen a public life. How could anyone think her so devoid of compassion and loyalty that she would conspire to dredge up ugly incidents from Mary’s past? An estranged sister was a sister yet.
Unless—
Perhaps Mr. Smith was not looking into Mary’s past but her present.
Elizabeth forced herself to take a deep breath, to think clearly, to remember precisely what he had said. He wanted a statement, not Elizabeth’s reflections upon her sister’s history but her reaction to some new incident. She pressed a hand to her forehead. Oh, Mary. What new scandal had she become entangled in, to the embarrassment and mortification of her family?
Whatever had compelled that reporter to visit Springfield, it was something so dreadful that he had expected to find Elizabeth in distress, and so significant that he assumed she already knew of it. And yet he had found her utterly unaware. How could this be? How had Mr. Smith outpaced the telegraph?
Unsettled, she went to the dining room in search of the morning newspapers, which her husband always read over breakfast. Elizabeth had slept poorly the night before, owing to the ache in her abdomen, and by the time she had risen and dressed, Ninian had already left for work. She did not remember seeing the papers folded on the table in front of his empty chair, and they were not there now. She went next to his study, but the papers were not on his broad mahogany desk. Nor were they in the library, where the tall bookshelves were neatly filled with law books and works of history and natural science, as well as a few popular novels and volumes of poetry. Nary a scrap of newsprint caught her eye.
She went to the parlor and rang for Mrs. Henderson, who had just returned from the market. The housekeeper confirmed that the papers had been delivered that morning as usual, and that she herself had glimpsed Mr. Edwards reading them at the breakfast table. She was as mystified as Elizabeth regarding their apparent disappearance, but she offered to search for them. In the meantime, Elizabeth returned to the garden to ask Lewis if he had any idea what had become of the papers. He had not seen them that morning either, nor had he spoken to his grandfather except to exchange hasty greetings as Ninian departed the house in a rush.
“Has something happened?” asked Lewis, setting his book aside and rising.
Before Elizabeth could reply, Mrs. Henderson emerged from the house steering a reluctant Carrie along by the elbow. Bringing the maid to a halt before them, she fixed the girl with a stern look. “Tell the missus what you told me.”
Eyes downcast, the maid meekly said, “Mr. Edwards told me to burn the papers.”
“What?” exclaimed Elizabeth. “And yet you watched me search the house for them and said nothing?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Mr. Edwards said to keep mum about it.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Elizabeth felt a pang of distress. “Did he say why he wanted you to burn the papers?”
The young maid pressed her lips together and shook her head, but the only explanation was that there was something in the papers Ninian did not want her to see.
As Mrs. Henderson warned Carrie that they would have a serious discussion later about the consequences of keeping secrets from the missus, Elizabeth sent Lewis out to buy replacement papers. She paced in the garden as she waited, torn between annoyance with Ninian and apprehension for the dreadful news he had tried to conceal from her.
When Lewis returned, she knew from his stricken expression that he had paused to scan the front pages on the way home. “What is it?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. “What has my sister done?”
Lewis said nothing, but merely shook his head and held out the stack of papers. She took the Chicago Tribune from the top, unfolded it—and froze, breathless, when the familiar name leapt out at her in bold headlines.
CLOUDED REASON.
Trial of Mrs. Abraham Lincoln for Insanity.
Why Her Relatives and Friends Were Driven to This Painful Course.
Testimony of Physicians as to Her Mental Unsoundness.
Hearing Strange Voices—Fears of Murder—Sickness of Her Son.
What was Seen by the Employees of the Hotel.
Tradesmen Testify Concerning Her Purchases of Goods.
She Is Found Insane, and Will Be Sent to Batavia.
Scenes in Court.
Head spinning, Elizabeth sank down at the table where her letter to Julia lay forgotten, weighed down by her teacup. She could scarcely breathe as she read of how Mary had become so feeble of mind and so eccentric in her habits that a council of eminent physicians and concerned friends had gathered to determine what should be done to protect her from harm. A judge had ordered a warrant for her arrest, and on Saturday last, she had been brought unwillingly into court, “pallid, her eye watery and excited,” accompanied by several unnamed friends. Also present, his eyes, too, “suffused with tears,” was Robert Lincoln, her eldest and only surviving son, at whose behest the hearing had been called. Word of the insanity trial had spread swiftly through the city, and the courtroom had been densely packed with curious citizens and members of the press. One by one, witnesses had been called to the stand, where they had testified in lurid detail about Mrs. Lincoln’s nervous derangement, her frenzied shopping sprees, her inexplicable terrors and strange imaginings that her son was deathly ill or that she herself was being stalked by sinister black-cloaked men determined to murder her. The witnesses had agreed that the poor, afflicted widow was not of sound mind, and that for her own safety she must be committed to an asylum.
The jury had adjourned, and in the interim Robert had approached his mother, attempting to comfort her, but she had rebuffed him with the tearful exclamation, “Oh, Robert, to think that my son would ever have done this!”
Only a few minutes later, the jury had returned with their verdict: Mary Lincoln was insane and must be consigned to the State Hospital for the Insane. The judge had quickly conferred with her son and her friends, who had agreed that she would instead be admitted to Bellevue Place in Batavia.
“Oh, my poor sister,” murmured Elizabeth, pressing her fingertips to her lips, heart aching. And poor Robert, to have watched in helpless horror as his mother’s condition had become so desperate that he had felt obliged to pursue this heartbreaking course. But had it indeed been necessary? Mary was troubled, her behavior erratic, but was she insane? Surely not. Surely all she needed to ease a mind troubled by years of unmitigated grief was compassion and sympathetic companionship, nothing more.
But who would provide her with such spiritual comforts? Not the unnamed friends who had accompanied Mary to her trial; obviously they had not held her back from her precipitous fall and could not save her now. Nor could Elizabeth, even if she wanted to, for Mary had not spoken or written to her in years. Frances was kindhearted and dutiful enough to shoulder the burden, but Mary was estranged from her too, just as she was from her longtime rival Ann and even from dear Emilie, everyone’s favorite. Of all their siblings and half-siblings still living, Elizabeth could not think of any who had not offended Mary, or been offended by her, and remained in her good graces. Perhaps a cousin or niece or childhood friend could be prevailed upon—
But no. It was too late for a loving friend to volunteer to soothe Mary’s mental wounds with gentle ministrations and kindnesses. She had been committed to an asylum at the instigation of her own son. Elizabeth knew Robert well, and she was certain that her nephew never would have resorted to such drastic measures if he had believed any other treatment would suffice. All she could do now was pray for God’s healing grace and hope that Dr. Patterson’s sterling reputation was well deserved.
What else was there for a sister to do?
Anguished, she turned to the other papers in hopes of finding a more optimistic account of the trial, but each report confirmed the first one she had read. Lewis read silently beside her, taking up the pages as she discarded them, his youthful features clouded by concern. “Is there anything we can do?” he finally asked, raking a hand through his tousled brown hair.
“I don’t know, dear,” she said. “I need time to think.”
“Shall I fetch Grandfather home at least?”
“No,” she replied, her voice harder than she intended. “I’ll see him soon enough.”
Later that afternoon, when Ninian returned home from work, she met him in the foyer, wordlessly beckoned him to follow her into his study, and closed the door behind them. She had arranged the replacement newspapers on his desk, but he did not even need to glance at them to know that she had discovered what he had tried to conceal. “I had hoped to spare you grief,” he said, without preamble, before she could properly accuse him. “It was a vain hope, I know that now. I knew it as soon as Carrie put the papers on the fire.”
“Did you honestly believe that you could keep this from me indefinitely?”
“I hoped to delay the inevitable, to give you a few more hours’ peace. I know you haven’t been well.”
“Indeed? I thought that you agreed with the doctor that my pain is only in my head—” Abruptly Elizabeth’s words were choked off. The doctor’s words took on an entirely new, foreboding meaning in the shadow of Mary’s confirmed madness.
Ninian must have seen the frantic worry in her eyes. “You are not your sister,” he said firmly, taking her in his arms and kissing her on the forehead. “You are not mad. You simply need a more qualified doctor and a better diagnosis.”
“Oh, Ninian.” Relieved, she closed her eyes and clung to him. “I’m glad you believe me, but . . . perhaps we should believe Mary too.”
“You think the verdict is wrong, that she isn’t insane?” He gestured to the newspapers on his desk. “I assume you read about her delusions of an Indian pulling bones from her face and wires from her eyes? That she hears raps on a table predicting the date and hour of her death? That she was wandering the hotel clad only in her nightdress? That she spied smoke coming from the chimney of a nearby building and became frantic that the city was burning down? That she accused a man of stealing her pocketbook, which turned up in her own bureau drawer?”
She held up a hand to interrupt him. “Yes, yes, I read the testimony. Every lurid detail is seared into my mind. I’m not disputing that Mary is deeply troubled, but I’m not certain that confining her to an asylum is the best way to help her.”
“Several esteemed physicians were on that jury,” Ninian reminded her. “We should trust their expertise. From everything I’ve learned—and I spent a good portion of my day investigating this very subject—Bellevue is no grim institution with scowling guards and bars on the windows, but a quiet, healthful resort in the countryside supervised by skilled doctors and devoted nurses. Mary will be well looked after there, and whatever her affliction may be, she will benefit from fresh air and rest. If your sister truly isn’t mad but is merely exhausted, the truth will come out in time.”
“I suppose—” Elizabeth inhaled shakily. “I suppose that’s true. I hope it is.”
Ninian looked as if he might say more, but he hesitated and took her hand. “Darling, whatever your sister’s prognosis may be, the days ahead are going to be difficult. The press is certain to exploit Mary’s misfortune for profit, and as her family, we may all find our names paraded before the public soon.”
“Soon?” She offered a mirthless laugh. “I’m afraid the parade has already begun. While you were at the office, a reporter turned up on our doorstep and asked me for a statement. Thanks to your misguided attempt to protect me, I had no idea why he had come and made no comment at all. I can only imagine how he’ll portray my confusion in his article: ‘Mrs. Lincoln’s Sister Utterly Indifferent to Her Plight.’”
“He wouldn’t dare,” said Ninian. “Even if you had known what he was after, a dignified silence still would have been the only appropriate response.”
“Even so,” said Elizabeth, “where news of my family is concerned, I’ll thank you to protect me a little less vigilantly.”
To her disappointment, he promised no more than to consider her words. She knew that meant he would rely upon his own judgment when deciding what to reveal to her, as he always had. Well, then. No more lying abed for her, regardless of poor sleep or discomfort the night before, if being informed meant racing him to the morning papers.
She slept no better that night, but nonetheless she woke with the sun, washed and dressed, and descended the stairs only a step or two behind her husband, who had risen later but needed less time to attend to his clothes and hair. The newspapers were folded neatly beside Ninian’s plate, and after they were seated, Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at her husband, who sighed, kept the Illinois State Journal for himself, and passed her the Chicago Tribune.
She had prepared herself for the worst, and yet the article that immediately caught her eye rendered her stunned and breathless.
Mrs. Lincoln Attempts Suicide.
Chicago.—Between 2 and 8 o’clock yesterday afternoon Mrs. Lincoln attempted to commit suicide by poisoning. After being removed from the court room where she was adjudged insane earlier that day, her lunatic symptoms became quite violent, and she was put under the strictest surveillance, it being feared that she might do injury to herself. To-day she escaped from her room and hurried to the drug store of Frank Squair, under the Grand Pacific Hotel; she ordered a compound of camphor and laudanum, ostensibly for neuralgia. Knowing her mental condition, Mr. Squair pretended that he had none ready, and that it would take half an hour to put it up. She said she would call in again for it, and then walked out into the street, whereupon she took a carriage and drove to two other drug stores. Mr. Squair, guessing her intentions, had followed her, and in each case was able to warn the druggist not to provide her with the compound. Then, seeing that she intended to return to his own store, he hurried back and prepared a tincture of burnt sugar and water with a few drops of camphor. Supposing this harmless mixture to be what she had ordered, she left the store and immediately drank the entire bottle. She returned to her hotel, but upon discovering soon thereafter that the mixture had no effect, she tried to leave her room again to obtain a stronger dose, but was prevented. She will be removed to the private hospital at Batavia, Illinois, this afternoon, where she will have every attention.
“Ninian,” Elizabeth gasped, “my sister—”
“Yes, I know.” He set the Journal aside and reached across the table to clasp her cold and trembling hand. “It’s terrible, but she’s safe, unharmed. No doubt she’s being watched very closely so that she won’t be able to repeat the attempt.”
“She was being watched very closely before, and yet she evaded her guards.” Elizabeth shook her head, fumbled for her water glass with both hands, raised it to her lips, and carefully drank, wishing it was the herb woman’s elixir. “How could a woman of her age and infirmity slip past her guards in broad daylight? How do we know she won’t manage it again?”
“We both know how clever she is. Her guards underestimated her yesterday, but surely now they will be more vigilant.” Shaking his head, Ninian took up Elizabeth’s newspaper and scanned its version of events. “Your sister insists that she is sane, but this desperate act proves she is not. Thank God she was stopped before she harmed herself.”
“Thank God,” Elizabeth echoed. Sick at heart, she fervently hoped that those entrusted with Mary’s safety would take their jobs far more seriously than they apparently had thus far.
Mary’s suicide attempt confirmed the jury’s verdict, or so Ninian believed. Elizabeth could not dispute the reasonableness of his conclusion, and yet she felt a stirring of doubt.
Was her sister’s attempt to take her own life truly the impulse of a deranged mind, or was it the desperate act of a sane woman horrified to be confined to an insane asylum against her will?
How had Mary come to this?
Once they had been the Todd sisters, the belles of Lexington and Springfield. In the years that had unfolded since those bright seasons full of promise, they had all endured tragedy. Some of the sisters had lost homes, others fortunes, or husbands, or children. None but Mary had tried to take her own life.
But none of the Todd sisters had risen higher or endured more tragedy than Mary.
Could she be saved by the bonds of sisterhood, worn thin yet still enduring?