Fates and Traitors (22 page)

At that moment, the clerk emerged from the back room with her reticule, which she accepted with her thanks. She offered Mr. Booth her hand in parting, he made an elegant bow over it, and she hurried off, heart pounding, wishing—or nearly so—that for just one day, she could be the sort of bold young woman who would have accepted his invitation.

•   •   •

S
omething—embarrassment, perhaps, or a girlish desire to keep the memory all to herself, to savor in private—kept her from telling anyone about her encounter with the famous actor. For several days thereafter, she looked for Mr. Booth surreptitiously whenever she strolled through the hotel's public rooms, but to her disappointment, she did not see him again.

She assumed he had concluded his business in the capital and had moved on to New York to meet his brothers, so when her father almost bumped into Mr. Booth one evening as he was entering the dining room and they were going out, surprise struck her with almost physical force, an electric thrill running from head to heart and to all her extremities like a frantic signal on a telegraph wire.

“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Booth said to her father, bowing and stepping aside to allow them to pass.

“Not at all,” Papa replied as he bowed in return and led his wife and daughters from the dining room. Lucy inclined her head slightly to Mr. Booth as she passed by, and to her astonishment, he winked back.

“Excuse me, sir,” Mr. Booth called after them as they proceeded toward the staircase, as if he had only then recognized Papa. “Are you not Senator Hale of New Hampshire?”

Papa paused and acknowledged that he was. After the two gentlemen introduced themselves, and Mr. Booth had commended Papa for his vote on a particularly obscure piece of mining rights legislation, Papa introduced his ladies to Mr. Booth. When Lucy gave him her hand—his palm was more calloused and rough than she expected of an actor—she tried to regard him sternly, silently reproaching him for deceiving her father. Mr. Booth's eyes twinkled with such mischievous merriment that she could not keep up the pretense, and she smiled in return.

Now they had been formally introduced, and by her father, no less. If they met in public again, there was no point of etiquette forbidding Mr. Booth from striking up a conversation with her, if he wanted to.

Lucy and her family saw Mr. Booth again the following morning at breakfast, but her father was eager for his coffee so they did not pause to chat but only exchanged a few pleasantries in passing. And then, just as suddenly as before, Mr. Booth vanished. Lucy could not imagine what business kept him traveling to and from Washington City if he were not performing, but since his absence denied her any more chance meetings in the hotel, she had no opportunity to ask.

She searched for him in the papers instead. On November 24, the
New York Herald
rewarded her diligence with an announcement of the Booth brothers' upcoming production of
Julius Caesar,
which, the reporter proclaimed, “ought to be chronicled as a great event in the history of drama in this city.” Junius and John Wilkes Booth were less familiar to New York playgoers than their brother, but “they are spoken of as worthy associates of Mr. Edwin Booth, so well and so favorably known here.” The piece concluded with a glowing declaration that read as both praise and challenge: “If there is any real taste for a great and
pure dramatic entertainment in this city, the house will be one of the most densely crowded ever seen.”

It surely would be, Lucy thought, muffling a sigh of regret, and she could have been there, an admiring and keenly interested witness to theatre history.

The day after the historic performance, the Hales settled down to share the morning papers after breakfast, their usual practice when the Senate was in recess. Lucy hoped to find a brief mention of Mr. Booth, but she had barely begun to scan the headlines when Lizzie gasped in alarm. “Last night the rebels tried to burn New York City,” she exclaimed.

Papa had been reading letters in an armchair by the window, but he quickly set them aside as Lizzie and Lucy took turns reading aloud the shocking reports. At about nine o'clock the previous night, blazes had broken out almost simultaneously at the St. James Hotel, Barnum's Museum, and the St. Nicholas Hotel. Then, over the next three hours, flames had erupted and had burst through upper windows of the Metropolitan Hotel, Lovejoy's Hotel, and the Lafarge House—which shared a building with the Winter Garden Theatre. At midnight five more hotels as well as several other buildings suddenly caught fire. Thankfully, the blazes had been extinguished before the structures could be badly damaged, and no lives had been lost. Afterward, investigators concluded that dozens of Confederate agents, many of them “importations from Richmond, Petersburg, and Canada,” had stolen into the city Friday morning carrying in their luggage jars of phosphorous and turpentine. They had checked into rooms at the various hotels, had soaked the beds and blankets with combustible liquids, and had ignited them with Lucifers matches.

“How frightened the people of New York must be to discover that rebel spies have infiltrated their city,” said Lizzie shakily.

“My dear, it's entirely possible that some of the arsonists have lived among them all the while, as their neighbors and friends, and continue to do so,” said Papa carefully, as if not wishing to frighten them. “Confederate sympathizers lurk in every Northern city, and only the most brazen announce themselves.”

“I find their choice of targets even more disturbing than their
secrecy,” said Mama, a deep crease of worry appearing between her brows. “Why attempt to burn hotels and theatres rather than factories and warehouses, unless the purpose is to take civilian lives rather than to destroy military resources?”

Lucy shuddered, imagining women and children shrieking in pain as they fled the tall buildings of New York City, their clothing engulfed in flames. No lives had been lost, she reminded herself as she searched the columns for any other mention of the Winter Garden. Then, at last, a small notice caught her eye: The performance of
Julius Caesar
had been briefly interrupted when a gentleman seated in the dress circle had observed firemen arriving to extinguish the flames at the Lafarge House. He had told the ladies in his company that the theatre was on fire, his remark had been overheard, and as the alarm spread, nearly everyone in the audience rose at once to flee. At that moment an inspector with the Metropolitan Police, who happened to be present for the show, had called out, “It is only a drunken man. Keep your seats.” His deception had quelled the rising panic and had no doubt saved many lives by preventing a general stampede for the exits, and the play had continued without further disruption.

Lucy was greatly relieved to know that Mr. Booth and his brothers had not been harmed, but it was not until the following Wednesday that she learned that their historic performance had been a resounding success despite the alarming interruption. “The audience was fairly carried by storm from the first entrance of the three brothers side by side in their respective parts,” the
New York Herald
reported. “Brutus was individualized with great force and distinctness—Cassius was brought out equally well—and if there was a lack of real personality given to Mark Antony, the fault was rather in the part than in the actor.”

Indignant, Lucy winced at the slight to Mr. John Wilkes Booth, but she decided that she could hardly trust the opinion of a reporter who could not spell the character's name correctly.

She was glad to see that the
National Intelligencer
appreciated the talents of all three of the Booth brothers equally. Asserting that the production was “unprecedented in the records of the drama,” the writer praised each of the brothers Booth by name, declaring, “Never, even on the British stage, to our knowledge, have artists of such merit, as on this
occasion, been associated in any one tragedy of the Great Dramatist.” The reporter went on to lament that a production of such elevated artistic merit had not taken place in “this large, refined, and intelligent city of Washington, the capital of a great nation, combining as it does a class of people as critical as any in America.” Lucy wholeheartedly shared in his disappointment.

But that very evening, she discovered that the quality of Washington theatricals might affect her very little in the months ahead. After considering his options, her father had decided to muster support among his Republican friends in the Senate to petition President Lincoln to appoint him Minister to France.

•   •   •

L
ucy absorbed her father's announcement with a curious mixture of excitement and regret. Although Papa's appointment was by no means certain, Lucy and Lizzie promptly began studying French, a language they had learned at boarding school but had used only rarely in the years since. The idea of living in Paris as the daughter of a high-ranking diplomat—the parties they would enjoy, the fascinating people they would meet, the fashions, the museums—delighted Lucy beyond measure, and yet Washington had recently acquired a fascination all its own, thanks to a certain actor who occasionally made it his home.

Mr. Booth checked in to the National Hotel again on the first day of December, retrieving his key from the clerk just as Lucy returned to the hotel from a concert, escorted by her cousin John Parker Hale Wentworth.

“Lucy,” Parker said in a strained voice as they crossed the foyer. “Why do you squeeze my arm so tightly?”

She murmured an apology and loosened her grip, pretending she did not see Mr. Booth standing there, willing her heart to stop racing. Then he turned, and he saw her, and his face lit up and he smiled so warmly that she felt herself melting. Then she noticed something else—a thick white bandage jutting out from the top of his collar. “Mr. Booth,” she exclaimed, worry making her forget discretion. “What happened? Are you injured?”

Mr. Booth frowned and gingerly touched his neck and collarbone. “I thought I had hidden that bandage better.”

Lucy felt heat rising in her cheeks. “Forgive me for crying out. I should have pretended not to notice it.”

“It's difficult to ignore,” he acknowledged, sparing Parker a polite nod and what might have been an appraising glance. “I'm glad you didn't pretend. Your concern for my well-being is touching.” He extended a hand to Parker. “John Wilkes Booth.”

“Yes, of course. Lucy mentioned that she had made your acquaintance.” Smiling, Parker shook Mr. Booth's hand. “Parker Wentworth. And I can verify that Miss Hale's concern is sincere. She greatly admires your work on the stage.”

Mr. Booth's eyebrows rose as he turned an amused glance upon Lucy. “Is that so?”

“Indeed. She has quoted reviews praising your portrayal of Mark Antony in New York last month so often, and has added such fulsome praise of her own, that one might think she had seen it herself. She has already made me promise to escort her to the opening night of your next performance in Washington City, whenever that should be.”

Thoroughly embarrassed, Lucy nonetheless could not help laughing. “My cousin exaggerates,” she said with mock outrage, giving Parker a little push. “I insist you pay no attention to anything he says. His favorite sport is tormenting me.”

“Only because I excel at it,” Parker replied, smiling.

“Cousins,” echoed Mr. Booth, looking from one to the other. “I should have guessed.”

“Please don't say there's a family resemblance,” said Lucy, feigning a shudder. “I would feel obliged to wear a heavy veil whenever I go out.”

Mr. Booth's smile deepened. “Now one would suppose you to be brother and sister.”

“My sweet cousin adores me, no matter how much she teases,” said Parker, tucking Lucy's hand in the crook of his elbow again.

“But tell us, Mr. Booth, how did you come by this injury?” she inquired, her mirth swiftly fading. “Was it a stage battle gone awry? Your reputation as an excellent swordsman precedes you, but perhaps you shared a scene with a far less agile actor.”

“There was nothing staged about the battle that gave me this.” Mr. Booth's fingertips brushed his collar again. “It's an old wound, recently reopened after vigorous exercise that I now heartily repent.”

“You fought for the Union?” asked Lucy, surprised.

“No, not I.” He shook his head and uttered a small, involuntary laugh. “Except in the sense that I acquired this wound while we were still one nation, undivided. I was an officer with the Richmond Grays when John Brown attacked Harpers Ferry, and I served as a scout in one of the regiments sent to capture him. In the furor surrounding his capture, I was shot in the neck by one of his compatriots.”

“Good heavens!”

“Not to worry, Miss Hale. I recovered sufficiently in time to serve as a guard at Brown's execution.” Mr. Booth shook his head. “Whatever one might think of his beliefs or the crime for which he was convicted, he died bravely for a cause he believed in. He earned my respect for that.”

“You were with the Richmond Grays?” asked Parker. “I thought that the Booth family hailed from Maryland.”

“Certainly we do, but I was a featured player at the Marshall Theatre for several seasons, and in that time the people of Richmond embraced me with such affection that Virginia became my adopted home. The sons of the best families of Richmond were members of the Grays, so when they implored me to join their ranks, how could I refuse?”

“You could have been killed,” said Lucy faintly, sickened by the thought.

“But I was not killed. I survived with a single scar.” He winced and adjusted his collar to conceal more of the bandage. “But it never properly healed, and remains prone to injury, which is why I was discouraged from enlisting for this war.”

“Goodness, Mr. Booth,” said Lucy. “I never imagined you had such adventures in your past.”