Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker (49 page)

A few days later, Elizabeth finished writing her account of the disastrous attempt to sell Mrs. Lincoln’s wardrobe, the final chapter of her book. After Mr. Redpath read it, he praised her for her unflinching frankness and honesty in describing what surely must have been as embarrassing an episode for herself as it was for Mrs. Lincoln.

“Unflinching?” echoed Elizabeth. “On the contrary, I did flinch,
quite often, as I wrote it. I confess I’m very concerned about divulging Mrs. Lincoln’s private conversations and personal thoughts to the world.”

Mr. Redpath’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “I understand completely. I promise you, nothing published in the book will hurt Mrs. Lincoln.”

Elizabeth was relieved to hear it. “That pleases me very much.”

“You’re nearly finished,” Mr. Redpath remarked, gathering the day’s pages into a neat stack. “You must be looking forward to completing the manuscript and returning to Washington.”

“I am,” said Elizabeth tentatively. She had thought the manuscript
was
finished. “What else would you like me to add?”

“Well, there’s the preface, which should describe your purpose and qualifications for writing a book of this nature.”

“Oh, of course. I’ll begin it right away.”

“I had another thought as well. The letters you’ve included from Mr. Douglass and the Garland ladies are most illuminating. Do you have any letters from Mrs. Lincoln? I’m sure your readers would find them fascinating.”

Elizabeth felt a thrill of excitement and fear when he spoke of her readers, as if they already existed in eager multitudes. “I have many, but I simply could not include them in the book, fascinating or not. Mrs. Lincoln would not approve.”

Mr. Redpath shrugged, thoughtful. “She allowed several letters to be printed in the
World
.”

“Yes, and she deeply regretted it afterward.”

“Ah.” Mr. Redpath nodded, thinking, and then ventured, “I don’t suppose you would let me read them?”

“Are you merely curious?”

“I am
very
curious, but not
merely
curious. Reading Mrs. Lincoln’s letters would give me a sense of her manner and intonation, which will be of great help to me as I edit your manuscript. The facts her letters include, too, will help me verify dates and details you have provided. And there is the matter of your credibility. Some foolish people will argue that a former slave never could have written such a fine book, nor
gained admission to the most intimate circles of the White House in the first place. I cannot emphasize enough the importance of personal correspondence in establishing the authenticity of a biography.”

“I understand,” said Elizabeth. She had heard of other former slaves’ memoirs that had been unfairly dismissed as works of fiction, and she knew many people who, after knowing her but a little while, insisted that she was far too dignified and talented to have ever been a slave. She could not bear to have anyone question her integrity, but such accusations were probably inevitable. If she could forestall them or at least limit their number by sharing Mrs. Lincoln’s letters with her editor, she would be wise to do so.

She went to her garret room and returned with a bundle of Mrs. Lincoln’s letters, neatly bound with a black ribbon left over from trimming one of her many bonnets. She gave them to Mr. Redpath with the understanding that they were precious mementoes and must be returned to her undamaged as soon as he was finished with them, and that they were only meant to assist him in editing her manuscript, not to become a part of it.

Mr. Redpath assured her that he would publish nothing from Mrs. Lincoln’s letters that would embarrass her, and with that, he left Elizabeth to write her preface.

Alone in her room, she held her pen hovering above the page, unable to begin. A twinge of doubt struck—who was she, to think she could write a book? Immediately she chased the thought away, impatient with her timidity. Who was she, indeed. She
had
written a book, so the question of whether she
could
had already been answered. Now all that remained was to explain why she had, and to what purpose.

“I have often been asked to write my life, as those who know me know that it has been an eventful one,” Elizabeth wrote. “At last I have acceded to the importunities of my friends, and have hastily sketched some of the striking incidents that go to make up my history. My life, so full of romance, may sound like a dream to the matter-of-fact reader, nevertheless everything I have written is strictly true; much has been omitted, but nothing has been exaggerated.”

Elizabeth paused. A sudden vision filled her mind’s eye—Mrs. Lincoln picking up her book, examining the cover, and turning the pages, her frown deepening with every paragraph. Elizabeth drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and refreshed her pen in the ink. “In writing as I have done, I am well aware that I have invited criticism.” Elizabeth figured she could probably compose an accurate list of those who would be first and loudest to complain. “But before the critic judges harshly, let my explanation be carefully read and weighed.”

The critic might refuse, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

Elizabeth next ruminated briefly on slavery, a topic she would return to in a more personal, revelatory way early in her memoir. Then her thoughts again turned to Mrs. Lincoln. “It may be charged that I have written too freely on some questions, especially in regard to Mrs. Lincoln,” she acknowledged. “I do not think so; at least, I have been prompted by the purest motive. Mrs. Lincoln, by her own acts, forced herself into notoriety. She stepped beyond the formal lines which hedge about a private life, and invited public criticism.”

But was that fair? The nagging question brought Elizabeth’s pen to a halt. Mrs. Lincoln had not run for office and had not been elected First Lady; the role had been bestowed upon her by virtue of her husband’s choices and actions. It was, admittedly, a role she had relished, a title she had desired since childhood. She had reveled in the attention, so long as it was favorable, and she had certainly enjoyed the benefits and privileges of being, as she had sometimes called herself, Mrs. President. So yes, Elizabeth decided, it was fair to say that Mrs. Lincoln had chosen a public life.

Even so, the people had judged her too harshly. “The people knew nothing of the secret history of her transactions, therefore they judged her by what was thrown to the surface.” Indignantly, Elizabeth rebuked a few prominent personages who had been especially unkind and certain newspapers who had taken excessive glee in exposing Mrs. Lincoln’s faults, but then she thought better of it and scratched out the lines. “Mrs. Lincoln may have been imprudent, but since her intentions were good, she should be judged more kindly than she has been.”

If she could persuade her hypothetical readers of nothing else, Elizabeth hoped she would convince them of this. Suddenly she wondered if Mr. Herndon had entertained similar thoughts as he composed his lectures.

Her spirits dipped, but she firmly reminded herself her book and Mr. Herndon’s scribblings had nothing in common except for purporting to be about Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln. Their motives—and their degree of truthfulness—could not be more dissimilar.

And yet worry nagged at her. Would Mrs. Lincoln agree?

“If I have betrayed confidence in anything I have published, it has been to place Mrs. Lincoln in a better light before the world,” Elizabeth wrote, her hand firm and steady around the pen. “A breach of trust—if breach it can be called—of this kind is always excusable.” She took a deep breath and steeled herself; the next admission would not be easy. “My own character, as well as the character of Mrs. Lincoln, is at stake, since I have been intimately associated with that lady in the most eventful periods of her life. I have been her confidante, and if evil charges are laid at her door, they also must be laid at mine, since I have been a party to all her movements.”

To defend herself, she had to defend the lady she served, and as Elizabeth wrote the words, she realized this truth had compelled her throughout the entire writing of her memoir. She had long been admired for her integrity and dignity, but the unfortunate business at 609 Broadway had tainted her sterling reputation with scandal. She had to redeem herself, and she could not do that without redeeming Mrs. Lincoln.

Elizabeth finished the preface, hoping she had written everything Mr. Redpath wanted her to write, that she had said everything she needed to say. Readers might disregard her lengthy explanation and decide for themselves that her motives were not pure, but she knew the truth. She also knew that nothing within the pages of her book could cause Mrs. Lincoln to be regarded in a worse light than that in which she presently stood, so the secrets Elizabeth revealed could do Mrs. Lincoln no harm.

“I am not the special champion of the widow of our lamented
President,” Elizabeth emphasized. Mistrustful readers would say that she could not be honest about the former First Lady’s faults, since they were friends. She must make them believe otherwise. “I wish the world to judge her as she is, free from the exaggerations of praise or scandal. The reader of the pages which follow will discover that I have written with the utmost frankness in regard to her—have exposed her faults as well as given her credit for honest motives.”

Had she inadvertently weighted the scales too much in one direction or the other? The question had plagued her with every word she had written. She had tried her best to be fair, and Mr. Redpath assured her she had been. She hoped the world would agree.

She especially hoped Mrs. Lincoln would agree.

On April 1, Mr. Redpath brought her a copy of the
American Literary Gazette and Publishers’ Circular,
opened it to a page he had marked, and twice tapped an advertisement at the top of the left column. “Mr. Carleton and I and everyone at our publishing house are tremendously proud to have you as one of our authors,” he said. “We have great expectations for the success of your book.”

Elizabeth glanced away from the page to thank him, but she immediately turned back to it and began to read:

G. W. C
ARLETON
& C
O
.

Will publish early in April

A REMARKABLE BOOK ENTITLED

BEHIND THE SCENES

“What do you say to that?” said Mr. Redpath, smiling.

“I say it is quite wonderful,” said Elizabeth, with a warm but tremulous laugh. Although she had been working on her memoir for months, somehow the advertisement made it seem real, immediate, tangible. Hesitantly, she asked, “It says that I was thirty years a slave, but I was actually a slave for thirty-seven years, almost thirty-eight.”

“An insignificant difference,” Mr. Redpath assured her. “Thirty is a nice round number. Although you are right to say that it is not entirely accurate, it sounds better in the advertisement.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth said, regretting her criticism. “Thank you for your kind words about me and my book. You make it sound so intriguing that if I had not written it, I would be first in line to buy it.”

Mr. Redpath smiled. “You deserve abundant praise. The book is remarkable, and its author even more so.” To Elizabeth’s surprise, he took her hand and raised it to his lips. “It has been an honor working with you, Mrs. Keckley. The privilege would not have been greater if I had worked with the First Lady herself.”

“Don’t ever tell her that,” Elizabeth quickly warned him, without thinking. Laughing, Mr. Redpath assured her he would not.

A few days later, Mr. Redpath called on her again and placed her finished book in her hands. For a long moment she held it, unmoving, disbelieving. “Learn your book,” her father had urged her in his letters. How proud he would be to know that she had become an author.