Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker (6 page)

“Your note didn’t say that it was urgent,” Elizabeth reminded her.

“On the eve of the inauguration, how could it be otherwise?” Mrs. McLean’s mouth thinned in disapproval. “Mrs. Lincoln wanted to see you, but I fear that now you are too late.”

“Mrs. Lincoln wanted to see
me
?”

Mrs. McLean nodded impatiently. “A week ago, someone spilled coffee on the gown Mrs. Lincoln intended to wear today. She needed a dressmaker, so I recommended you. Lo and behold, she recognized your name. Apparently you’ve worked for some of her lady friends in St. Louis, not that it matters now.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. McLean,” said Elizabeth, her heart sinking. If Mrs. Lincoln had requested a dressmaker, why on earth had Mrs. McLean waited a week to summon her? “You did not say what you wanted with me yesterday, so I judged that this morning would do as well.”

“You should have come yesterday,” Mrs. McLean scolded, but then she relented, if only a trifle. “Go on up to Mrs. Lincoln’s room. She may find use for you yet.”

As soon as Mrs. McLean gave her the number of the suite, Elizabeth
hurried off to find parlor number six. When she knocked upon the door, a cheerful voice invited her to enter, and when she stepped into the room, she found herself face-to-face with a dark-haired woman just over forty, inclined to stoutness but with a lovely complexion and clear blue eyes that boasted a quick, keen gaze. All about her were well-dressed ladies helping her prepare for the inauguration.

The dark-haired woman did not introduce herself, nor did she need to. “You are Elizabeth Keckley, I believe.”

Elizabeth bowed her assent.

“The dressmaker that Mrs. McLean recommended?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Lincoln returned to her dressing table and examined her face in the mirror, touching the delicate skin beneath her eyes, frowning at what might have been newly discovered or newly imagined lines. “I have not time to talk to you now, but would like to have you call at the White House, at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” Turning in her seat, she caught Elizabeth’s gaze and held it. “Where I shall then be.”

The brief meeting was over. Elizabeth bowed herself out of the room and returned home, insensible to the ever-increasing crowds, the gathering of horses and men for the grand parade, the distant strains of martial music. Only a few years before, she had been a slave in St. Louis, working herself into a state of near collapse and wondering if she would ever earn enough money to purchase her freedom and her son’s. Now she had an invitation to meet with the First Lady at the White House—and an extraordinary opportunity to win her as a patron.

Elizabeth wished George could be there to walk into the White House at her side. She would remember every detail and describe everything to him—every sight, every word of conversation, filling pages and pages if necessary so that it would be as if he had experienced it with her.

She spent the rest of the day alone in her rooms, sewing when she could keep her mind on her work, but more often letting her thoughts drift to her upcoming interview with Mary Lincoln.

Later her friends would tell her about the thrilling inauguration ceremony, about how the sky had finally cleared and how the proud cavalry had surrounded the president-elect’s carriage as it rumbled at a stately pace up the cobblestones of Pennsylvania Avenue to the Capitol. They would tell her about Mrs. Lincoln, how she had glowed with pride as she observed the ceremony with her family from her seat on the platform erected on the Capitol steps. Elizabeth would smile when they described how the tall, gaunt president-elect had stepped forward, removed his hat, and then suddenly halted, realizing only then that he had no place to put it while he took his oath. His former opponent, the Illinois Democratic senator Stephen A. Douglas, had gallantly taken the hat and had held it for the new president until the last words were spoken. Elizabeth would be moved, later, when she read a transcription of President Lincoln’s speech and learned how he had said, of the disagreeing citizens of North and South, “We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearth-stone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

Knowledge of all this would come later. From the solitude of her rooms on Twelfth Street, Elizabeth heard only the low booming of cannon fire that marked the moment Abraham Lincoln became the sixteenth president of the United States. More than thirty thousand people had packed the fenced grounds of the Capitol to witness the historic occasion, but Elizabeth, lost in her own thoughts and eagerly anticipating what could turn out to be the most important day of her life, was not among them.

A
few minutes before eight o’clock on the morning after the inauguration, Elizabeth walked one-third of a mile from her home to the White House, crossing Lafayette Square, passing the bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson in the semicircular drive. When she ascended the portico leading to the front entrance of the Executive Mansion, the short, burly, elderly Irish doorman admitted her into the vestibule, where moments later she spotted a familiar figure approaching from down a wide hall. “Good morning, Mrs. Keckley,” the butler greeted her. “Welcome to the White House.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brown,” she replied, pleased and unexpectedly comforted to see a friendly face. Like her, Peter Brown was a former slave. He and his family lived only three blocks from Elizabeth, and they had become acquainted through the Lewises. “I’ve come to meet with Mrs. Lincoln to see if she would care to hire me as her dressmaker. Any advice to smooth my way?”

Peter Brown chuckled and escorted her up a busy central staircase. Men of all types hurried by, both coming and going, almost certainly job seekers like herself, eager to secure a post within the new administration.
“I haven’t known the new First Lady long enough to be a good judge of her likes and dislikes,” Peter confided in an undertone. He paused for a moment on the landing, allowing others to pass. “I’ll say this much: Whatever you see, don’t let it trouble you.”

Mystified, Elizabeth wondered what he could possibly mean, but when he led her into a waiting room full of worn mahogany furniture, and three other well-dressed women looked up at their approach, she understood at once. She should have realized that the First Lady would have asked several of her acquaintances to recommend their favorite dressmakers, and naturally each lady would have been eager to curry favor by putting forth her favorite. As the women exchanged nods of greeting, Elizabeth felt their eyes upon her taking in every detail of her attire, just as she was assessing theirs. No one trusted a dressmaker who was not herself garbed in the most becoming costume she could afford. She was thankful she had worn her newest, most stylish dress, sewn from the finest blue, red, and tan plaid wool and perfectly tailored to her figure, with the colored lines so painstakingly matched that the pattern seemed unbroken from bodice to skirt.

“Mrs. Lincoln is still at breakfast,” Peter told her, showing her to a chair. “She’ll summon you presently. Chin up.”

Elizabeth thanked him with a smile, but as she sank into her chair, her hopes plummeted. She had not expected to face any rivals that morning, and she doubted she would be chosen over these women, who were almost certainly better established in Washington City than she was. To make matters worse, each of them had the distinct advantage of being white. But she could do nothing to change those plain facts, so she sat straight in her chair, serene and patient, until at last one of the ladies Elizabeth had seen with Mrs. Lincoln at Willard’s appeared and summoned the first mantua maker into an adjoining room.

Elizabeth was the last to be called.

She was taken into a family sitting room, oval shaped with a high ceiling and tall windows that looked out upon the White House lawn, which sloped downhill to a tall iron fence and a marsh leading to the Potomac just beyond. Mrs. Lincoln stood beside one of the windows
chatting animatedly with a companion Elizabeth did not recognize, but she glanced up as Elizabeth entered and came to greet her. “You have come at last,” she said warmly.

“Thank you for seeing me, madam,” said Elizabeth. She reached into her bag and withdrew several papers, which she had protected from creases and tears between two stiff pieces of cardboard. “I bring you several letters of recommendation from my customers in St. Louis.”

“Yes, I know your reputation well.” Mrs. Lincoln scanned the letters, nodded with satisfaction, and returned them. “For whom have you worked in Washington City?”

“Among others, Mrs. Senator Davis has been one of my best patrons.”

Mrs. Lincoln’s eyebrows rose. “Mrs. Davis! So you have worked for her, have you? Of course you gave great satisfaction?”

“Certainly, madam.”

“So far, so good. Can you do my work?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lincoln,” Elizabeth assured her emphatically. “Will you have much work for me to do?”

Mrs. Lincoln cupped her chin in her hand as if considering the question. “That, Mrs. Keckley, will depend altogether upon your prices. I trust that your terms are reasonable. I can’t afford to be extravagant.” She threw a rueful glance to her companion, who shook her head in commiseration. “We are just from the West, and are poor. If you do not charge too much, I shall be able to give you all my work.”

“I don’t think there will be any difficulty about charges, Mrs. Lincoln.” In Elizabeth’s experience, white ladies of Mrs. Lincoln’s status defined “poor” rather differently than she herself would. “My terms are reasonable.”

“Well, if you will work cheap, you shall have plenty to do.” A slight frown belied the breezy lightness of her tone. “I can’t afford to pay big prices, and so I frankly tell you so in the beginning.”

They quickly arranged satisfactory terms, and only then did Mrs. Lincoln mention that she wanted Elizabeth to begin immediately. She beckoned to her friend, who promptly produced a bright, rose-colored
moiré-antique dress that Mrs. Lincoln wished to wear to the first levee of her husband’s presidency, a grand public reception to be held on Friday evening. Mrs. Lincoln described the alterations she wanted, which were not at all daunting, so although Elizabeth would have only three days to work on it, she assured Mrs. Lincoln that the dress would be finished on time. After taking the First Lady’s measurements, she carried the dress home, where she worked on it until late into the night. She knew that this garment, though not of her own design and inelegantly begun, was an audition of sorts. If she did well, Mrs. Lincoln would trust her with an original gown, and perhaps many more after that. If her alterations were judged unsatisfactory, she should expect no second chances.

The next day Elizabeth returned to the White House to fit the gown and found Mrs. Lincoln in excellent spirits, the center of a lively group of ladies, relations from Illinois, Kentucky, and elsewhere, all come to Washington City to enjoy the festivities. Mrs. Lincoln was dressed in a cashmere wrapper with fine quilting worked down the front and a simple headdress, while her companions wore morning robes. They chatted and teased one another cheerfully as Elizabeth helped Mrs. Lincoln into the dress and marked a few necessary adjustments. All the while Mrs. Lincoln was so merry and gracious that Elizabeth wondered what could have inspired the disparaging rumors about her temperament. Elizabeth had overheard some of her patrons—all Southerners, now that she thought about it—refer to the new First Lady as an ill-mannered, ignorant, and vulgar country bumpkin, but Mrs. Lincoln was certainly none of those things. Clearly Elizabeth would do well to trust the evidence of her own observations and dismiss such unkind remarks as the product of jealousy and politics.

Later, back in her own rooms, Elizabeth worked diligently upon the gown, adorning it with pearls and a point-lace cape with little time to spare. On Thursday afternoon, she was surprised to receive another summons to the White House, but having learned from the fiasco with Mrs. McLean, she quickly packed up the dress and her sewing basket and hurried off without a moment’s delay. Upstairs in the oval sitting
room once again, Mrs. Lincoln informed her that the levee was postponed until Tuesday, but before Elizabeth could breathe a sigh of relief, Mrs. Lincoln added that she had conceived of a few more improvements for the gown. Elizabeth hid her dismay as Mrs. Lincoln described what she wanted and it became evident that these were no simple adjustments but rather a significant alteration of the style. Still, she thought she could accomplish them in time and said so, and when Mrs. Lincoln added a waist of blue watered silk for her cousin Mrs. Grimsley to the order, she agreed.

“All will be ready in plenty of time for you to dress for the levee on Tuesday,” Elizabeth promised, taking her leave as quickly as she could, knowing she had not a moment to spare.