Until the legislative session adjourns in late January, Molly and I spend little time together. It’s probably for the better. Melancholy has been my constant companion for weeks, and if she saw that side of me, I’m sure she wouldn’t fancy me as much as I’m told she does.
The Democrats buried the program of internal improvements—passing a resolution to suspend construction of new bridges, railroads, dams, and canals. Even those projects which have been completed are required to halt operations until more capital is available. Nothing can be done about it until we reconvene, so I’ll try to put the dreary business out of my mind and put on a more cheerful face.
I walk six long blocks to the Edwards’ mansion, bracing against a bitter wind. The butler answers the door, and Lizzie, standing behind him, rolls her eyes. She calls over her shoulder in an icy tone, “Molly, it’s Mr. Lincoln.”
“Good day, Lizzie,” I say.
She says nothing and points to the parlor.
It takes Molly only a minute to join me on the horse-hair sofa. We both look over at Lizzie standing in the hallway.
Lizzie scowls back at us, her hands on her hips. I turn to Molly with a quizzical look. Lizzie tosses her head back and walks away.
I say to Molly. “What’s your sister in a huff about?”
“My high-and-mighty brother-in-law lectured me after you came calling. He doesn’t want me to give my attentions to the likes of a fellow so ‘rough cut.’” She looks down. “He’d rather see me keeping company with the ‘Little Giant’ Douglas.”
“I see.”
“You know, he’s quite incensed about not being re-nominated by the Whigs for a seat in the legislature. He’s talking about joining the Democrats.”
I look out the window beyond the snow covered lawn. A bank of storm clouds is gathering on the horizon. “It seems he’s intent now on carrying a grudge against all of us Whigs.”
She takes my hand. “Maybe we should tread lightly. We can exchange letters, and when you have time to call on me, we can meet somewhere private.”
I squeeze her hand. “I’m sorry I’ve been scarce lately. The session got brutal toward the end.”
“I understand.”
“You know, I’m going to be away an awful lot. There’s the Circuit coming up, the law office where I’m canoeing up river without a paddle thanks to your cousin Stuart’s re-election campaign, and the national campaign coming up in the fall.”
She gazes out the window. “You’re worth waiting for.”
I shake my head. “Why is that?”
She beams. “Why, haven’t I told you? You’re going to make me Mrs. President some day.”
I laugh. “You have quite an imagination.”
In early April, Speed and I are preparing to turn in for the night when we hear a loud, persistent knocking on the store’s front door. We pull on our trousers and scramble downstairs.
On opening the front door, we find Speed’s older brother James, his face drawn, eyes sagging and bloodshot. He’s travelled all the way from Louisville.
Speed grabs his brother’s arm. His voice is pitched as he says, “What is it?”
I can’t imagine the news is anything good.
James clutches Speed’s shoulder. “It’s Father.”
Speed’s eyes widen. “What of Father?”
“He’s dead,” James whispers.
Speed shrinks back. “Dead? How?”
James shakes his head. “Fever.”
Speed throws his arms around James and buries his face in his brother’s chest. Both men sob.
After their sobbing subsides, I guide James inside and find both of them chairs to sit in. Then I stand away from them to give them space to grieve.
After James explains the sudden illness that took their father, he helps his brother pack to leave for the family’s Farmington estate near Louisville. Speed wants to start out right away.
As they climb in James’ buggy I ask Speed, “How long will you be gone?”
He glances at his brother.
James looks at me. “That’s hard to say. We’ll be talking about that along the way.”
During Speed’s absence, my mood is dark, and memories of winter chills riddle my bones, despite the warming weather. I bury myself in work.
Weeks later, when Speed returns, his normally bright eyes are dull, and his face is drawn. His countenance is not solely from mourning.
My chest tightens. “It’s good to have you back.”
He stares blankly into the horizon. “They want me to move back. To take over the plantation.”
“What about James? He’s the elder.”
“His law practice is too lucrative to abandon. They say it’s time for my frontier adventure to come to an end. My place is Farmington.”
My heart races. “You don’t want to go, do you? You’d be a slave master.”
“Not sure it’s about what I want. I’m about duty.”
“There has to be another way. You don’t have any duty to become a slave master.”
“It’s my father’s legacy.”
Welts rise on my back where Father used to whip me. I mutter under my breath, “Damn our fathers. Why are we bound to their legacies?”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing worth repeating,”
We stand in silence for a moment, then I ask, “How long before you leave?”
“Don’t know.”
“What’ll you do with the store?”
“Sell it, I guess.”
I gaze at him. He shakes his head. “I’m not even sure I’m going back.”
“Do you have to decide right away?”
He furrows his brow. “Don’t know. Need to go upstairs—I’m tired.”
I don’t wait long for Speed to make up his mind about leaving before I seek out new lodging. William Butler, an old friend from New Salem who loaned me his horse when I removed to Springfield, is now Clerk of the Sangamon County Court. Speed and I have taken meals with him and his family most evenings since they moved here, and now he offers to rent me a large room in his spacious home.
When I tell Speed of my plans to move in with the Butlers, he insists on joining me. My room will be bigger than the loft we’ve been sharing. On top of that, he’ll be able to tout our old living quarters as extra storage space. I agree, though a twinge in my chest complains that I’ll be abetting his plans to return to Farmington.
On a sweltering July evening the Courthouse in Springfield is packed with folks who’ve come to hear candidates make pitches for votes. Judge Jesse B. Thomas, Jr., who presided over the Truett murder trial, is one of the Democrats running for the legislature.
In an eloquent fashion fitting his refined manners, Thomas accuses members of the Sangamon delegation of chicanery and swapping votes for favors. When he finishes, I take the podium and exaggerate his voice and gestures, caricaturing his walk as I pace the stage.
I point to Thomas. “He says Sangamon County men are devious, underhanded.”
Whigs in the audience snicker.
I spit out seemingly odious words as if they have a bitter taste. “They compromise. Vote for railroads and canals that are certain to bring greater prosperity to our state. What do they receive in exchange?” I wag my finger in the air. “Votes—votes to make Sangamon County the center of banking and power.” I turn my thumbs down.
Others join the Whigs, roaring their approval.
Pointing to Thomas again, I mimic his voice, chanting, “Shame. Shame. Shame.”
Many in the crowd look at Thomas and echo, “Shame. Shame. Shame.”
I say, “Thomas, here, has been soft on the scoundrels. Surely he should have turned them over to the sheriff as thieves. After all, they must have robbed the other politicians of their votes. How else would our legislators have voted for the Internal Improvements bill? Surely, no honest politician would have supported better transportation systems, more efficient commerce, and prosperity for the average man.”
With a host of folks laughing, heckling him, and calling him names, Thomas bolts from the arena. Someone calls out from the back of the hall, “Lincoln’s made the old fellow cry.” Hearing that, I chase down Thomas to make my apologies. Of late, my head is ruled by gloom, jealousy, and resentment. It is I who should be ashamed. I shall never again go to such an extreme in attacking an opponent.
The next day, after winning re-election, melancholy continues to taunt me. It would overwhelm me except for nine cases pending before the Illinois Supreme Court that require my attention. The national election three months hence also occupies me.
I’d rather the Whigs had nominated Henry Clay, the Senator from Kentucky for president. He’s my ideal candidate. Every Whig heart should burn with the same zeal that he has for our country’s prosperity and glory. We are proof to the world that free men can prosper.
Mr. Clay’s predominant sentiment, from first to last, is a deep devotion for the cause of human liberty, a strong sympathy with the oppressed everywhere, and an ardent wish for their elevation. He believes the elevation of the oppressed must be gradual. Otherwise freedom, if not all of civilization, would be crushed by the force of such drastic change. I concur.
Instead of Clay, we nominate William Henry Harrison to block Democrat Martin Van Buren from winning a second term as president. I crisscross the state making speeches on Harrison’s behalf. In my speeches, I try to turn Illinois voters against Van Buren by criticizing his advocacy of reckless polices being debated in his home state of New York. He supports laws allowing free Negroes to vote and slaves to testify against white men in court.
Upstate abolitionists accuse me of being pro-slavery. I reply, “I am by nature opposed to slavery, but I agree with Senator Clay. Equality of the races is too abrupt of a change.”
The down-state slavery sympathizers complain I’m a friend of abolition. I try to reassure them that the slave system is safe, though wrong. “It is protected by the Constitution which makes the Negro lesser than the White in terms of franchise.”
Neither side is appeased, nor do my efforts have much effect on the outcome. The Democrat Van Buren wins our state’s Electors, but Harrison becomes the first Whig to be elected president.
In late November, when I return from campaigning for the national ticket and traveling the judicial Circuit, I call on Molly. Her face is aglow when she comes into the Edwards’ parlor to greet me. Lizzie hovers out in the hallway, pursing her lips and glaring at the bouquet of flowers in my hand. She’s shadowed by a willowy, blue-eyed girl, whose golden hair reminds me of Annie. Her features, though, are more like those of a goddess than a frontier girl.
“Mr. Lincoln,” Molly says. “I’m so delighted you’ve come. Won’t you have a seat?” She leads me to the sofa.
“Oh … yes, thank you.” I take my seat and glance at the girl. Her beauty captivates me.
Molly puts one hand to her mouth. “My goodness, pardon my rudeness.” She motions for the girl to join us in the parlor. “Mr. Lincoln,” Molly says, “this is my cousin, Matilda. Her father is Cyrus Edwards. I’m sure you know him; he’s a Senator from Alton, and young Mattie has come along with him for the legislative session.”
I stand and nod. “Miss Edwards, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Mattie curtsies and smiles. “Call me Mattie. Everyone else does.”
I look down at the flowers in my hand. “Oh, Molly.” My face warm with embarrassment. “These are for you.”
She touches my hand as she takes the bouquet. “Why, thank you. You shouldn’t have.”
Molly smiles at Lizzie. “Thank you for showing Mr. Lincoln in. I’m sure he has many things to tell me about his exploits on the campaign trail and the Circuit.”
My eyes are drawn again to Miss Mattie, her supple figure swaying as she follows Lizzie into the hallway.
Molly sits next to me, folding her hands in her lap. “I enjoyed every one of your letters while you were away.”
I look down and pinch the creases in my trousers. “I enjoyed yours as well.”
“Did you mean what you said about making future plans?”
“Oh …” I glance toward the hallway, then look back at Molly. “Yes. It seems to me the right thing to do.”
“The right thing?” she says, pursing her lips.
“Yes, the right thing because of our feelings.”
“Precisely what feelings are you referring to?”
I press my palms onto my legs. “Why … uh … feelings of love, I reckon.”
She raises her voice. “You reckon?”
“I reckon for sure.”
“Then you mean you love me?”
“Yes, I love you.”
A smile unfolds across her face. “And I love you, Mr. Lincoln.”
I slide off the sofa and kneel in front of her. “Molly, will you marry a poor, homely fellow such as me?”
She takes my hands in both of hers. “Why Mr. Lincoln, I’d be proud to be the wife of such a bright, enterprising, clever man as yourself.”
We both stand, and I gather her into my arms. She clutches me tight around the waist. Just as I lean down to kiss her, a loud “Humph,” from the hallway stops me.
I turn to find Lizzie again standing in the doorway. “Mr. Lincoln,” she says, her eyes narrowed. “In this house we have certain protocols. Springfield is not some backwoods village.”
Molly steps back and glares at her sister. “Mr. Lincoln has just proposed marriage.”
Lizzie plants her hands on her hips. “As your guardians, I’m sure Ninian and I will want to discuss the matter when he comes home.”
Molly presses the back of her hand to her forehead.
Lizzie glares up at me. “And, as for you Mr. Lincoln, I imagine my husband will have a word with you, as well.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Her face hardens and she points to the door. “It would be best if you took your leave … now.”
As I stand and tread lightly into the hallway, she stares in the opposite direction. When I pause at the front door and glance to the top of the stairway, Miss Mattie smiles down at me. Her image prompts me to ponder Shakespeare’s verse.
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty’s rose might never die
More of the bard’s verse taunts me as I walk back to the office.
Music to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly’
Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy?
At my desk, I stare at a stack of promissory notes our firm has been hired to collect. My mind stays fixed on the memory of Mattie’s alluring smile and striking features. The sheen of her hair gives it a near halo appearance. Her shapely curves and alabaster skin can only belong to some heavenly being. No woman has consumed my thoughts this way since Annie.
The next morning, I’m awakened by pounding on my office door. “Lincoln,” a man shouts. “Are you in there?”
I roll off the sofa and spring to my feet.
He bangs again. “Lincoln! It’s Ninian Edwards.”
I tuck in my shirt and rub the wrinkles out of my suit. “Coming.”
When I open the door, Edwards pushes his way past me and stops in the middle of the room. He turns and surveys me, sneering.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Lincoln, I’ll be direct. You’re to stop seeing Molly.”
“But —”
He raises his hand. “No buts. I heard about your ridiculous proposal. This thing must stop, now.”
“I intend to make her a fine husband.”
“Look.” He juts out his jaw. “I’m sure your intentions are honorable. You’re a popular young man, but your future is nebulous at best. You two are the wrong match.”
“Isn’t that for her to say?”
“No. As her guardian, this matter is my responsibility. You don’t appreciate the demands that society puts on families like ours. She comes from a well-bred home.” He glares at me. “Lincoln, you’re beneath our station. You are destitute, your education is desultory, you have no culture, no command of social forms and customs.”
“My promise to marry her is a contract. She accepted. Even if I wanted to back out, she must agree. Have you spoken with her?”
“I came here this morning hoping you’d have the good sense to let her down—gently. It’s not my intent to break the girl’s heart.”
“So you want me to break her heart, to break a sacred promise?”
“It is for the best, Lincoln. You need to exercise good judgment and consider Molly’s best interests.”
I walk to the door and hold it open, glaring at him. “Good day, Ninian.”
He glares back at me. “I will amend my statement. You show good judgment and do what’s in your interest, as well. In addition to my family being above your station, we also wield a goodly amount of power.”
After he leaves, I rush over to the store and find Speed displaying the day’s goods. “Speed, I need your advice.”
“Where did you sleep last night?” he asks.
“Oh … at the office. Had things on my mind.”
He unrolls a new bolt of fabric. “That makes two of us who slept alone … and on such a cool night.”
“Sorry. Didn’t think about ….”
He laughs. “Frankly, I was hoping for someone a bit daintier, someone who wouldn’t take up so much of the bed.”
I cock my head. “Anyone in particular?”
“Maybe.”
“Thought you were planning to sell the store and go back to Farmington. You were going to court a girl back there.”
He rubs his forehead. “Still haven’t made up my mind to leave. Been thinking a lot about a local belle.”
“Who is it this time?”
A customer comes through the door, and Speed motions for me to have some coffee and wait while he attends to business. When he finishes he says, “I met the most exquisite beauty the other day. She’s just come to town with her father and will be staying through the legislature’s special session.”
“What’s she like?”
He gazes out the door. “Clear blue eyes, a brow as fair as Palmyra marble touched by the chisel of Praxilites. Lips so sweet, fair, and lovely that I’m jealous even of the minds that kiss them. A form as perfect as Venus de Medici’s. Her mind is clear as a bell, and her voice bewitching, soft, and sonorous. She smiles so sweetly, playfully, that her soul shines through it. All these charms combined in one young lady.”
“Who is she?” I take a sip of coffee.
“Matilda Edwards. Her father is a Senator from Alton.”
I choke on the coffee.
He tosses me a rag. “Aren’t you happy for me?”
“Of course I am.” I look toward the doorway. “Does this mean you might be staying?”
He looks away. “That’s another matter. If I can capture her heart, I will take her wherever I go.”
I fidget with the coffee mug. My chest tightens. “What about the girl you’ve talked about over in Louisville?”
He looks down. “Choices. Indeed it seems I’m cursed with an abundance of them lately.”
I hang my head.
He looks up. “Oh … but you wanted to ask me something?”
“No … it can wait.” I force a smile and leave. I could never compete with my dearest friend.