When Mary crossed the threshold of the house on Aristocracy Hill in October 1839, having eagerly accepted Elizabeth’s invitation to stay indefinitely, her clear blue eyes shone with delight and her smooth cheeks flushed rose pink from expectation. “Ann is absolutely green with envy that I am here and she is not,” Mary confided as she and Elizabeth settled her in the best guest room. “Not merely green, but an entire palette of emerald, olive, and chartreuse!”
“Ann will have her turn soon enough, if she wishes to come,” replied Elizabeth mildly, sighing over the unconcealed glee in Mary’s voice. Was it too much to ask for a little sisterly compassion for poor Ann, the only stepdaughter left to squirm and fume beneath Ma’s watchful, critical gaze?
Mary had plenty of reasons to be joyful, and her rival’s unhappiness should not have been one of them. Even in sophisticated Springfield, the Athens of the West, Mary’s arrival created quite a stir. Everyone in the Coterie—as well as a great many on the fringes longing to be invited in—were eager to meet the most recently arrived Todd sister. Ninian had established himself as a young politician on the rise, Elizabeth was now regarded as one of the city’s most gracious hostesses, and Mary’s status as a Todd enhanced their anticipation.
Elizabeth was pleased and proud to observe that her sister did not disappoint. Mary swept into society with charm, grace, and poise to spare, delighting the young ladies and winning the admiration of the gentlemen. Soon everyone in Springfield had seen or heard about the beguiling intensity of her clear blue eyes fringed in dark lashes, the allure of her flawless complexion, and the silky richness of her chestnut brown hair flecked with gold, which she often adorned with flowers. She embraced the gaiety of balls, dinners, and soirees with abandon, sparkling on the dance floor as brilliantly as she did in the animated political discussions and debates, in which intelligence and wit were essential. In no time at all, Mary had accumulated an abundance of admirers, and it was obvious that she enjoyed the art of flirtation, teasing and enticing, encouraging many without relinquishing her heart to any particular one.
“She could make a bishop forget his prayers,” Ninian remarked dryly to Elizabeth one evening as they observed her holding court in a senator’s drawing room, her hair artfully coiled atop her head and embellished with hothouse flowers, her neck smooth and elegantly turned, her beautifully sculpted shoulders shown to their best advantage by the low, curved neckline of her claret watered silk gown. Elizabeth might have been jealous except that Ninian did not sound as if he approved of his sister-in-law’s popularity—unless it was her outspokenness, her headstrong nature, or her evident desire always to be the center of attention that vexed him.
As for Elizabeth, it did not trouble her in the least that her sister reveled in the attention. Mary had spent far too many years feeling unwanted in her own home for Elizabeth to begrudge her this brief, precious time as the most desirable belle in Springfield. Wasn’t the point of her visit to make her an excellent match, and wasn’t a charming, lovely, witty young woman at least as likely as a shy, demure girl to attract a good husband?
And indeed, Mary did draw the eye of practically every eligible bachelor in Springfield. State legislator Stephen Douglas became a particular favorite, even though, regrettably, he was a Democrat and supported President Jackson. Aside from that significant drawback, he was intelligent, ambitious, and exceedingly clever, so Mary enjoyed his conversation and spent more time in his company than with any other member of their set. But Mary also showed favor to a gentleman from Missouri, a congenial lawyer and grandson of Patrick Henry, as well as other handsome fellows who impressed her with their dancing or their wit.
For a time, Elizabeth—and quite a few other observant members of the Coterie—thought her sister might be hoping for a proposal from another legislator, Mr. Edwin Webb. Elizabeth had often seen them engrossed in conversation at soirees, their heads bent close together, their voices earnest. She had also overheard Mary and Mercy Levering, their next-door neighbor and Mary’s closest friend in Springfield, refer to him as “the winning widower.” When Ninian mentioned that Mr. Webb’s name and Mary’s were being linked in gossip and conversation about town, Elizabeth decided to ask her sister outright if they had an understanding.
“Goodness, no, we have nothing of the sort,” Mary replied, laughing. “Mr. Webb is indeed a widower of merit, our principal lion of the legislature, but a match between us is out of the question, there being a slight difference in our ages of some eighteen or twenty years!”
“Many successful marriages have been made of such matches,” Elizabeth pointed out.
“Yes, but for me, such a vast difference would preclude the possibility of congeniality of feeling.” With a wry smile, Mary added, “And let us not forget his two adorable little objections.”
Elizabeth nodded, understanding and not judging her. Given Mary’s history with Ma, Elizabeth could not blame Mary for her ambivalence about raising stepchildren.
Another young man who sought to win Mary’s favor but failed utterly was William Herndon, an innkeeper’s son who had attended college in Jacksonville about forty miles to the west, although he had dropped out after a year. He was a member of the Young Men’s Lyceum and aspired to become a lawyer, but in the meantime he clerked at Mr. Joshua Speed’s store and honed his legal arguments in debates around the potbellied stove with men like cousin John Todd Stuart and Abraham Lincoln. He was not really included in the Edwardses’ illustrious set, but he and Mary did cross paths from time to time, and that was enough for him to develop quite an infatuation with her. Nothing came of it, however, for early in their acquaintance, when they danced together at a party, he stammered out that she seemed “to glide through the waltz with the ease of a serpent.” He had meant it as a compliment, but Mary took offense and retorted, “Mr. Herndon, comparison to a serpent is a rather severe irony, especially to a newcomer.” She wanted nothing more to do with him after that, and her rebuff quickly cooled his ardor.
But aside from the unfortunate Mr. Herndon, Mary charmed a vast majority of Springfield’s eligible bachelors. She even brought out previously unseen qualities in Mr. Lincoln, whom Frances had dismissed as lacking all refinement and romance. He seemed intrigued by Mary’s conversation, which was ever graced by wit and intelligence. They shared a passion for poetry, literature, and Shakespeare, and both enjoyed reciting lengthy passages from memory. Mary’s ability to debate the finer points of politics impressed him, and she was personally acquainted with Henry Clay, a Whig leader he had long admired. It was little wonder they enjoyed conversing so much, Elizabeth thought, since intellectually they had much in common, although they came from such different stations in life that they could never be more than friends. Frances had discovered this, and eventually Mary would too, especially since she was surrounded by so many other more attractive, more suitable gentlemen.
But as winter passed and their acquaintance seemed to deepen rather than fade, it was Frances who first noticed that Mary seemed more affected by Mr. Lincoln’s opinion than that of any other suitor. If she teased him for failing to observe some convention of society, his look of gentle reproof made her blush furiously. If he came upon her in the midst of making fun of an absent acquaintance, or addressing someone with unnecessary sarcasm, she would abruptly fall silent, mortified that he had overheard. “I have never seen Mary so eager to impress a gentleman,” Frances mused for Elizabeth alone. “Usually she stands aloof and waits for them to attempt to impress her.”
Mildly alarmed, Elizabeth passed on Frances’s observations to Ninian, who told her not to worry. Mary was clever, he reminded her unnecessarily, and it was unimaginable that a genteel young woman like her would abandon the luxury and prestige to which she was accustomed to share poverty with even the kindest and most eloquent of men. Elizabeth wanted to believe her husband, but all chance of that fled one evening in early spring when their cousin Stephen Logan called on them at home and proceeded to tease Mary about her popularity.
“I hear the Yankee, the Irishman, and our rough diamond from Kentucky were here last night,” he said, throwing a sidelong grin to Elizabeth and Frances. “How many more have you on the string, Mary?”
“Are they not enough?” she replied archly. “Which of them do you fear the most?”
Cousin Stephen folded his arms over his chest and pondered the question. “I fear I am in grave danger of having to welcome a Yankee cousin.”
“Never,” Mary exclaimed. “The Yankee, as you call Mr. Douglas, differs from me too widely in politics. We would quarrel about Henry Clay. And James Shields, the Irishman, has too lately kissed the Blarney Stone for me to believe he really means half of his compliments. As for the rough diamond—”
“The rough diamond,” their cousin interrupted, “is much too rugged for your soft little hands to attempt to polish.”
“Ah, but to polish a stone like that would be the task of a lifetime,” said Mary, her voice taking on a new warmth. “What a joy to see the beauty and brilliance shine out more clearly each day! The important thing is the diamond itself, clear and flawless under its film.”
Elizabeth exchanged a quick, alarmed glance with Frances.
Cousin Stephen regarded Mary, astonished. “You don’t mean that you would seriously consider it?”
“Why not?” she countered. “He is one of your best friends. You have told me time and again you never met a man with more ability, more native intellect.”
“Mary is not thinking of Mr. Lincoln in the light of a lover, cousin,” Elizabeth broke in hurriedly. “He is merely one of her most agreeable friends, and not one whit more agreeable than Mr. Douglas or any other.”
Mary said nothing, but only pressed her lips together in a stubborn little line, and cousin Stephen good-naturedly changed the subject. That was all well and good for one evening, but from that day forward, Elizabeth and Frances both observed that Mary flew to Mr. Lincoln’s defense the moment anyone spoke critically of him, even in the smallest degree, while she herself still made harmless, amusing jokes about him when he was not present.
Even Ninian agreed that these were troubling signs.
By the spring of 1840, within the Coterie and throughout the concentric circles of society emanating from it, there was a widespread understanding that Mary and Mr. Lincoln were engaged, or soon would be. Determined to put such speculation to rest, Elizabeth and Ninian agreed that as her guardians in Springfield, it was their responsibility to make her see reason. One afternoon in late March, they summoned Mary into the parlor, where they sat her down, informed her of their strong objections, and pointed out, since she seemed determined to ignore it, the incongruity of such a marriage.
“Although Mr. Lincoln is honorable, able, and popular,” said Ninian frankly, “his future is nebulous, his family relations on an entirely different social plane.”
“I am aware of his humble background,” said Mary. “That only makes his accomplishments all the more impressive.”
“His education, unlike your own, has been desultory,” Ninian continued, as if she had not spoken. “He has no culture, he is ignorant of social forms and customs, and he is utterly indifferent to social status.”
“Why could you not fancy some gentleman possessing the qualities Mr. Lincoln lacks?” asked Elizabeth, disliking the cajoling tone in her voice but unable to quash it. “Why not Mr. Douglas or one of the other promising young men in love with you?”
Mary’s gaze held a challenge. “Mr. Douglas has no wealth to speak of either.”
“Perhaps not,” said Ninian. “But he’s an educated and polished young man, a rising young politician with a future bright enough to satisfy the most ambitious woman.”
“He’s four years younger than Mr. Lincoln, and yet he has already achieved great political honors and is spoken of as a potential candidate for Congress.” Remembering her sister’s childhood vow, Elizabeth added, “He could become senator, perhaps even president. From every perspective, nothing could be more desirable or more likely to secure your future happiness than to marry him.”
Mary listened impassively, but a resolute thrust to her chin told Elizabeth that her entreaties were wasted words.
Increasingly worried, Elizabeth confided to her sisters and to other Todds and Parkers in Springfield and Lexington that she feared Mary was on the verge of making a dreadful matrimonial mistake. At first they were amused, certain this was just another of Mary’s many inconsequential flirtations, but when Elizabeth insisted that her relationship with Mr. Lincoln was of a different sort altogether, their alarm surpassed Elizabeth’s own. They inundated Mary with letters full of advice and warnings and objections, disturbing anecdotes and tearful lamentations, until she began to meet the daily delivery of the post with an expression of grim fatalism.
An unforeseen and regrettable consequence of the ongoing dispute was that eventually word circulated through the Coterie and on to Mr. Lincoln that the Todds did not consider him a desirable addition to the family. But what could be done about that? Elizabeth’s duty was to her sister, and if saving her from a bad match came at the expense of Mr. Lincoln’s pride, so be it.
Elizabeth waited in dread for Mary to announce their engagement. She did not fear that the couple would elope, for Mr. Lincoln was too honorable and Mary would insist upon a proper wedding with all the trimmings, but instead, like a prayer answered, the danger receded.
In mid-April, Mr. Lincoln embarked on his annual spring tour of the Illinois Eighth Judicial Circuit, following the circuit court judge as he traveled from town to hamlet through nine counties, taking on clients, arguing cases, and soliciting future business for Stuart & Lincoln. Along the way he campaigned for the Whig candidate for president, William Henry Harrison, making speeches and winning over voters with eloquence and humor. He and Mary exchanged occasional letters—Mary naturally refused to divulge the contents to her sisters—but in his absence Mary enjoyed dances and soirees as much as ever, and she did not shun the company of other gentlemen. In this, Elizabeth found reason to hope.
Her hopes soared higher yet in midsummer, for by the time Mr. Lincoln returned to Springfield in June, their separation had been prolonged by Mary’s departure for a lengthy visit to their uncle David Todd in Columbia, Missouri. Elizabeth and Frances agreed that the two surely continued to exchange letters, and their uncle mentioned that Mr. Lincoln had visited Mary after attending a Whig convention in Rocheport, fifteen miles due east, a significant distance out of the way for a man on horseback. Still, the elder sisters assured each other, time and distance would allow passions to cool and reason to resume control.
And then, another gift of fate: when Mary returned to Springfield in September, she discovered to her dismay that Mr. Lincoln had set out on another long trip through southern Illinois. When he returned at the end of the month, they had only a few days together before he departed on the fall county court circuit, from which he would not return until November.
Elizabeth hoped that this time Mary would tire of waiting for Mr. Lincoln and turn her attention to another gentleman, but this she adamantly refused to do. She and Mr. Lincoln continued to correspond, and in late October, when Elizabeth steeled herself and demanded to know whether, against the advice of all her family, Mary had formed an attachment to him, Mary fixed her blue eyes upon hers and said, “We have an understanding. When Mr. Lincoln returns, we will resume courting.”
“Very well,” said Elizabeth, exasperated. “Do as you please, and bear the consequences.”
Things were icy between them for some days, but the chill thawed when Ninian’s cousin, Matilda Edwards, arrived for a visit. Beautiful and beguiling at eighteen years old, Matilda became the most admired young lady of the Coterie, enchanting with her novelty as much as her loveliness. Elizabeth half-expected Mary to become jealous, but instead the young ladies became fast friends, perhaps because Mary had given her heart to Mr. Lincoln and was confident that he was too honorable a man to betray her trust.
Elizabeth and Ninian resigned themselves to a betrothal when Mr. Lincoln returned to Springfield in early November, but to their relief, the couple did not hasten to make their intentions known. Rumors circulated that they were secretly engaged, but when they met at society functions, they made no overt displays of affection. By early December, Elizabeth began to wonder if their affections had cooled, so little did they resemble a couple passionately in love.
“Do you think Mr. Lincoln fancies Matilda?” Frances murmured in Elizabeth’s ear at a Christmas party where Mary held court at one end of a ballroom and Mr. Lincoln regaled a cluster of young lawyers with tales from his circuit court travels on the other.
“Everyone fancies Matilda,” replied Elizabeth, searching the crowd for her husband’s young cousin. “She is the most beautiful and charming young lady in Springfield. All the men are at least half in love with her, except your husband and mine.”
“I believe she means more to Mr. Lincoln than that,” said Frances, cupping her chin in her hand as she pondered the scene before them—ladies in beautiful gowns of velvet and silk flirting with gallant gentlemen, ingenues and youths mingling with matrons and statesmen, music from a string quartet serenading them all. “Or perhaps he simply dislikes that Mary has gotten so fat.”
“Frances!”
“I’m not trying to be cruel, but look at her. She’s become corpulent. She’s straining the seams of her gown.”
“That’s a dreadful thing to say.” Yet Elizabeth could not deny it. “I might expect as much from Ann, but not from you.”
“Others have said far worse, though apparently not in your hearing.” Frances put her head to one side, considering. “However, I suppose Mr. Lincoln is too decent a man to break off an engagement because of her looks, if they are engaged and it is not merely wishful thinking on Mary’s part.”
“Enough,” said Elizabeth sharply in an undertone. Bickering between sisters tried her patience. They were no longer children competing for attention from Papa and approval from Ma.
But something had altered between Mary and Mr. Lincoln; that much was evident. Mary was still lovely, if a bit plump, and if Mr. Lincoln gazed admiringly at Matilda, so did nearly every other man in the city. Elizabeth longed for her sister to confide in her as she once had, but Mary had been deeply offended by the confrontation in the parlor the previous March, and she refused to reveal anything about her feelings or their understanding, or to divulge when, or if, a betrothal would be forthcoming.
Then, on the first day of the New Year, Mr. Lincoln called unexpectedly at the Edwards residence, his voice low with regret, his expression somber. Mary received him in the parlor, while Elizabeth, Matilda, and Ninian withdrew to give them privacy. They knew not what to expect, but the sound of raised voices through the closed door made them wary, and the high-pitched sobs that followed were more foreboding still. After a lengthy interval of quiet, the sound of footsteps in the hall and the closing of the front door indicated that Mr. Lincoln had departed without bidding them good-bye. They hurried back to Mary, who sat crumpled on the settee, tears streaming down her face. In a voice choked by grief, she told them that their engagement had ended.
“He asked me to release him,” she said as Elizabeth swiftly sat beside her and took her in her arms. “I told him that I would do so, but I declared that my heart is unaltered, unlike his, and he is duty-bound to marry me.”
“Oh, sister,” said Elizabeth, exchanging an anguished look with Ninian. “It would be better just to let him go.”
“I’ve no doubt you would think so,” said Mary, pulling free from her sister’s embrace. “I’m sure your disapproval of the match was at least in part what compelled him to end it.”
Pained, Elizabeth put her arms around Mary again, gently, and this time her sister allowed it. “All will be well in time,” she said, holding her close, swaying slightly from side to side as if she were comforting her own young daughter. “All will be well.”
In the months that followed, Mary gradually recovered from her broken heart. She returned to society almost immediately, to dispel gossip, and was thankful that they had never publicly announced their betrothal so she need not explain what had happened to it. At first her laughter and gaiety had a forced, hollow quality, but soon she seemed to be genuinely enjoying herself, if not with the same lightheartedness as before.
Mr. Lincoln, quite to the contrary, looked dreadful and undone, like a man on the brink of losing his reason. Ninian confided to Elizabeth that his friends worried he was suffering a nervous breakdown from which he might not recover. Rumors swirled that he met with his physician daily and described himself as the most miserable man living. He missed a legislative roll call, and when he finally emerged after a week’s self-imposed confinement to his rooms, witnesses observing him on the street said that he looked haggard and emaciated. He never came by the Edwards residence anymore, of course, but mutual friends kept Ninian informed. By spring, Mr. Lincoln was apparently recovering from his profound distress. Later that summer, a five-week stay at Mr. Speed’s country estate in Kentucky was said to have done him a world of good.
A year passed. Life went on for Mary and Mr. Lincoln, separately.
Frances and William had long since moved from the small room at the Globe Tavern to a charming home on Sixth Street, and it was there that Frances gave birth to a precious daughter they named Mary Jane. Soon thereafter, the Wallaces invited eighteen-year-old Ann to live with them, ostensibly to help with the baby, but also to seek a husband. Though Mary was yet unmarried, and it was generally desirable for elder daughters to marry before younger, Papa and Ma thought it unfair to make Ann wait. Also, Ma had birthed two more children since Mary had gone to Springfield, and the house on Main Street was too crowded yet again.
To Elizabeth, Mary seemed ever mindful that her twenty-fourth birthday was swiftly approaching, and that with each passing year she would become less likely to marry. Her mood was either in the garret or the cellar, blissfully happy or profoundly depressed. As for Mr. Lincoln, according to the rumor mill, he struggled even to climb out of the cellar. It was impossible not to hear news of him from time to time, not only because they had many mutual friends, but also because cousin Stephen Logan had taken him on as a junior law partner earlier that spring.
For months, Mary mingled in society while Mr. Lincoln avoided it, focusing on his law practice, his legislative responsibilities, and the company of sympathetic friends. Mary was occasionally heard to say that she wished Mr. Lincoln would rejoin society, for his intelligent conversation and tall tales were greatly missed, and his acquaintances wanted reassurance that he was well. Elizabeth was proud of Mary for maintaining a tone of sincere friendship when she spoke thus, betraying none of the sadness or regret that surely lingered in her heart.
Then, in September 1842, Mary and Mr. Lincoln met by chance at the wedding of mutual friends. Elizabeth observed them from a discreet distance as they chatted amiably, shared a dance, and parted with cordial smiles. A wave of relief swept through the gathered throng; Miss Todd and Mr. Lincoln had reconciled, and no longer would mutual friends be obliged to keep them apart or side with one or the other.
After that, Mary never spoke of Mr. Lincoln at home among the family except with casual indifference. Thus, it came as a complete shock one afternoon in early November when Ninian rushed home from work, burst in upon Elizabeth in the parlor, and declared, “Mary and Lincoln are getting married!”
“What?” exclaimed Elizabeth, rising. “They are betrothed?”
“Yes, and not only that, they are marrying today. I ran into Lincoln on the street just as he was leaving the home of Reverend Dresser, and he informed me that they had arranged for him to perform the ceremony at his residence this evening.”
“Marrying—today? It cannot be!”
“Naturally I insisted that the vows would be exchanged here, at our home, instead.” Ninian ran a hand over his beard, grimacing. “How would it look otherwise?”
Elizabeth nodded, her thoughts in a whirl. How could she possibly pull together a proper wedding with only a few hours’ notice? “We must prevail upon them to postpone, if only for a day.”
Ninian agreed, so Elizabeth gathered up her skirts and raced upstairs to her sister’s bedroom, where she discovered Mary singing happily to herself as she packed her trunk. “You are engaged?” Elizabeth managed to say. “Without a word to me, to Ma, to anyone?”
Mary offered a coy smile and a little shrug. “After all that happened, we believed it was best to keep the news of our renewed courtship from all eyes and ears.”
“What courtship? When did you ever see each other?”
“We met at the home of Mrs. Francis. It was she who brought us together at the wedding of Martinette and Alexander, and she who offered us her parlor and companionship so that we might talk and rekindle our affection.” She smiled, her gaze turned inward. “Only we two knew that the embers had continued to burn all these long months.”
Elizabeth shook her head and clasped a hand to her brow, exasperated. She pleaded with Mary to delay the wedding one day, and although at first Mary regarded her suspiciously, she eventually consented. Then Elizabeth sprang into action, swiftly sending out three dozen invitations, engaging three bridesmaids and a best man, selecting a simple white muslin dress from Mary’s wardrobe for a bridal gown, and putting the parlor in proper order.
“There is hardly time to arrange a wedding supper,” said Elizabeth peevishly as she and her sister passed on the stairs, rushing about on separate errands. “Instead of baking a cake, I may have to send out for gingerbread.”
“Gingerbread is good enough for plebeians,” Mary snapped back, referring to the Edwardses’ previous objections to Mr. Lincoln’s humble origins.
Elizabeth bit back a retort, and she did attempt to bake a proper wedding cake, but in her haste and distraction she made some error and it turned out badly, sinking in the middle and drying out around the edges. There was nothing to be done for it.
Rain fell in torrents on the wedding day, pounding against the parlor windows as the couple exchanged vows from the Book of Common Prayer before their hastily assembled friends and family. Abraham—for that was what Elizabeth must call him now—slipped a gold ring on Mary’s finger inscribed with the phrase, “A.L. to Mary, Nov. 4, 1842. Love is Eternal.”
Mary was radiant, Abe smiling and yet solemn. It was an unexpected end to a tumultuous courtship, but they loved each other, the deed was done, and her sister was immeasurably joyful at long last, so Elizabeth pushed her lingering worries to the back of her mind and wished the couple every happiness.