Fates and Traitors (21 page)

It was all Lucy could do to finish her meal with grace and decorum, biding her time until her father at last suggested they retire. Concealing her excitement behind a demure smile, she rose and followed her parents from the dining room and upstairs, her arm linked through her sister's. Only after the family was alone in their suite with the door to the hallway firmly closed did her father take the messages from his pocket and hand them to her mother. “Reports from Baltimore, Boston, and Philadelphia are optimistic,” he said. “The news from Indiana and even Pennsylvania is equally promising.” Then he smiled and shook his head, almost disbelieving. “It seems too that Mr. Lincoln may claim an overwhelming victory in New York.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” exclaimed Lucy.

“It's not over yet,” her father cautioned. “Mr. Lincoln may very well have won, and I pray that he has, but the outcome of many an election has turned on the results of a few key districts.” His smile grew rueful, with a hint of sadness it pained Lucy to see. “I daresay we four know that as well as anyone, do we not, my dears?”

The Hale ladies knew all too well. Although they anticipated that they would soon celebrate Mr. Lincoln's reelection, their own dear father and husband had not retained his high office. Despite his many years of exemplary service, despite his status as the incumbent, at a contentious meeting at Rumford Hall in Dover the previous June, the Republican party of New Hampshire had not nominated him as their candidate for the senatorial election. Papa would serve out the
remaining four months of his term, but in March, his long, distinguished career in the United States Senate would come to an end.

•   •   •

A
lthough Lucy intended to stay up and keep her father company until a messenger brought the final election results, shortly after midnight, long after her mother and sister had retired, she confessed that she could no longer keep her eyes open. “Go on to bed, darling,” her father urged, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her on both cheeks. “When Mr. Lincoln's victory is certain, I'm sure you'll hear it.”

Many years in Washington City had honed Papa's prescience. At two o'clock, Lucy groggily awoke to the sounds of men raucously singing “Rally Round the Flag, Boys” on the sidewalk outside the hotel, and somewhere in the distance she heard the faint strains of a brass band playing a spirited march. She drifted back to sleep, only to be jolted awake sometime before dawn by the booming of cannons. Cannon salutes to mark important victories had become so commonplace that she did not fear, as she would have only a year ago, that the capital was under attack. Instead she settled back to her slumbers, relieved and thankful that the wise people of the loyal North had decided to keep Mr. Lincoln at the helm of the ship of state.

In the morning, after a celebratory breakfast in the hotel dining room, where a good many Southern sympathizers revealed themselves by staring glumly into their coffee cups and pushing away their plates of eggs and sausage and toast barely tasted, the Hales settled in the drawing room with the morning papers, reading aloud reports of particular interest, marveling at the fullness of Mr. Lincoln's victory. Lucy learned that at about half past two o'clock in the morning, a crowd of Pennsylvanians led by a Captain Thomas had gathered outside the White House to serenade the president. Loudly and joyfully they had entreated Mr. Lincoln to address them, erupting in cheers when he had at last appeared in an upstairs window. “I earnestly believe that the consequences of this day's work will be to the lasting advantage, if not to the very salvation, of the country,” he had told his admirers, or so the
Daily National Republican
reported. “I am thankful to God for this approval of the people; but, while deeply grateful for this mark of their confidence in me, if I know my heart, my gratitude is free from any taint of personal triumph. I do not impugn the motives of anyone
opposed to me. It is no pleasure to me to triumph over anyone. But I give thanks to the Almighty for this evidence of the people's resolution to stand by free government and the rights of humanity.”

“President Lincoln is as humble in victory as any other man would be in defeat,” Mama said after Papa finished reading his remarks aloud.

“Indeed,” said Papa, setting the paper aside. “But all loyal citizens of our democracy have reason to be proud today. The fact that we held a presidential election in the midst of a terrible civil war proves that a nation of free people can endure the gravest of divisions, the most dire of national calamities. If the rebellion had forced us to forgo or even to postpone this national election—well, then it would not have been exaggeration to say that the rebels had defeated us.”

“But they have not,” said Mama as she took her husband's hand. “They have not, and they shall not.”

It was a decisive victory, the only outcome that allowed for the preservation of the Union, but in the days that followed, the Hales' rejoicing was restrained, not only because of Papa's circumstances, but because they were well aware that peace and the restoration of the Union would not come until the war was won.

After supper one evening, the family retired to their suite on the second floor, but just as her father fit the key in the lock, Lucy realized that she had left her reticule in the dining room. “Would you like me to come with you?” her mother asked.

“There's no need,” Lucy said as she turned to go. “I won't be but a moment.”

Gathering up her skirts, she hurried downstairs as quickly as decorum permitted. When she inquired at the dining room, the maître d'hôtel told her he had found the small beaded bag beneath her chair and had left it with the front desk clerk. Lucy thanked him and went to claim it, but she halted abruptly a few paces from her destination, transfixed by the sight of a handsome gentleman signing the guest book. She recognized him at once, as any devotee of the theatre surely would—the dark, silky locks tumbling rakishly over a strong brow; the perfectly sculpted chin, the broad chest and strong shoulders; the alabaster skin; the full, expressive mouth. Even his slightly bowed legs were endearing, emphasizing a slender waist, a strong arm. Elegantly attired in trousers of dark gray, a close-fitting black coat, a wine-colored
waistcoat, and a gray silk cravat, John Wilkes Booth was the perfect embodiment of masculine beauty, precisely as she remembered from the last time she had seen him perform.

She had stood transfixed and gazing at the actor too long; the clerk glanced up and smiled inquiringly. “May I be of some assistance, Miss Hale?”

Steadying herself with a quick breath, Lucy nodded and returned his smile as she approached the desk. “Yes, please. My reticule wandered off, but the maître d'hôtel assures me you have corralled it here.”

At the sound of her voice, Mr. Booth had turned to smile politely her way, but she did not meet his eye. Her heart was pounding too fast, and she found herself terrified of his searching gaze, certain it would detect the sudden, overwhelming intensity of her emotion.

“Certainly, Miss Hale,” the clerk replied. “It's locked in the safe. I'll retrieve it for you at once.”

With that the clerk deserted her, disappearing into a back room and leaving her alone with the famous thespian. She sensed Mr. Booth studying her and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. Should she nod politely? Give him her hand? Seize his hand in both of hers and babble profusely about how much she admired his work? She fervently wished her mother were with her, and yet she was equally glad she had come downstairs alone.

“Forgive me for presuming upon so slender a thread of our acquaintance,” said Mr. Booth unexpectedly, his voice rich, full, and thrilling. “But you are Miss
Lucy
Hale, are you not?”

She inclined her head but still could not look directly at him. “I am, sir.”

“I thought so. I confess, Miss Hale, you have caught me in a moment of utter consternation, and I know not how to proceed.”

Surprise compelled her, at last, to meet his gaze. “How so, Mr. Booth?”

“Ah! Then you do recognize me. That makes everything so much easier.”

Charmed, intrigued, she felt herself smiling. “What makes what easier? Pray enlighten me.”

“I meant only this—when I heard the clerk speak your name, and I recognized you, I found myself torn between politeness and propriety.
Surely I ought to thank the young lady who has fortuitously appeared at my side for the lovely bouquet of flowers she sent me a year ago, but custom demands that I not address her until we are properly introduced, and yet there is no one here to perform that duty. I was at war with myself, thinking that I ought to speak, knowing that I must not.” He shook his head, his brow furrowing in amusement and feigned helplessness. “What is a well-meaning gentleman to do when confronted with such a thorny thicket of tangled obligations?”

“Apparently you found your way through it.”

“Indeed, yes, and without tearing my coat or losing my hat.” He peered at her, his smile broadening. “You
are
the Miss Lucy Hale who sent flowers to my dressing room at the Washington Theatre in May of last year?”

“I am she,” Lucy admitted, very much embarrassed. How she wished, too late, that she had heeded Lizzie's warnings to constrain the expression of her appreciation to applause! “Please forgive me my girlish impetuosity. I was—overcome with admiration for your portrayal of Charles de Moor. I had seen
The Robbers
before, but never had the villain seemed so startling and terrible and yet wonderful—strong and passionate, and yet tender and penitent. You were astonishing, absolutely brilliant—” She caught herself. “If I may say so, Mr. Booth.”

“You may indeed say so, as often as you like. It may surprise you, but I encourage such talk.”

She laughed, still embarrassed, but feeling a bit relieved as well. “A note would have sufficed, I suppose.”

“Perhaps, but ink on a page is too dull and plain to properly represent the loveliness of the sender. Flowers suit her much better.”

Lucy rarely found herself at a loss for a witty reply, but Mr. Booth's ineffable charm rendered her lightheaded and tongue-tied. “Will the people of Washington City be so fortunate as to enjoy another one of your performances soon?”

“Alas, they will not, unless they're clever enough to find themselves in New York City at the end of the month.”

As Mr. Booth resumed signing the register and set down the pen, Lucy's heart inexplicably plummeted. “Then you will not be staying long enough to perform in Washington?”

“Not this time. I'm traveling on other business. My only upcoming
engagement is at the Winter Garden in Manhattan, a performance of
Julius Caesar
with my elder brothers for the benefit of the Shakespeare monument to be erected in Central Park. Junius will portray Cassius, Edwin Brutus, and I Mark Antony. This will be the first time the three of us have appeared onstage together.”

“How wonderful.” Lucy did not know Junius, but she had seen Edwin Booth perform several times. She agreed with the general consensus that he was the greatest tragedian of the day, but John Wilkes was by far the more handsome of the two. “Such a momentous occasion. I'm sure you'll have a sell-out crowd. Dare we hope for a repeat performance here in the capital?”

Mr. Booth shook his head. “Unfortunately, I think not. It was no small feat to arrange our conflicting schedules to allow even this single night's engagement.”

“What a shame,” she lamented. “I should love to see the three sons of the great Junius Brutus Booth perform Shakespeare onstage together.”

“Perhaps you shall,” he said, as if struck by sudden inspiration. “If you wouldn't find the train ride to New York objectionable, I could arrange for tickets to be held at the box office for you.”

For a moment she could only blink at him, astounded. “That is very generous of you, Mr. Booth,” she managed to say, “however, I couldn't possibly—”

“Do forgive me, Miss Hale,” he said, his dark eyes endearingly concerned. “You must think me terribly forward. By tickets, I meant four—for you, and your parents, and your sister.”

“Of course,” Lucy murmured, both relieved and disappointed. Of course Mr. Booth had not intended to invite her to New York City alone to watch him perform. For a fleeting moment she imagined sitting in the audience with her family at the Winter Garden, delighting in the performance of the three celebrated Booth brothers, applauding as John Wilkes took his bows, warming to a smile that was meant for her alone—but then she imagined her mother's eyebrows raising as she learned of the invitation; her parents exchanging a long, knowing, skeptical look; Lizzie regarding her with astonishment and shaking her head in dismay.

Her parents would consider the invitation entirely improper. Their
families did not know each other, and they hailed from vastly different worlds. Senators did not see actors socially, and neither did their daughters.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Booth,” Lucy told him with feeling. “I would very much like to accept, but my family is obliged to remain in the capital for the foreseeable future. I cannot tell you how sorry I am that I won't be able to witness what I'm sure will be a magnificent production.”

“I'm sorry too,” he replied affably, but something in his expression told her that he knew the real reason she had declined. “But perhaps our paths will cross again someday, and I can give you my own, utterly biased review.”

In spite of her distress, she smiled. “I do hope so.”

“Perhaps we could read the play together, and I could attempt to re-create the performance for you.” Somewhat ruefully, he added, “If you would like that, and if the absence of my brothers doesn't make the idea less appealing.”

“I would like that very much, with or without your brothers.”