1
Mary
October 1839 to November 4, 1842
The man she intended to marry had yet to learn about their future together, but she had already made up her mind.
It was a pity, though, that she had been so bedraggled when they first saw each other, shortly after Mary arrived at her married sister Elizabeth’s house to pay an extended visit of the sort that was hoped by families to end in matrimony for the unmarried sister and quite often did. The trip from Mary’s home in Lexington, Kentucky, to Elizabeth’s in Springfield, Illinois, had taken over two weeks, and had involved nearly every means of transport known to man—rail, boat, coach, and even a stretch on foot when the coach hit a muddy patch. Mary had arrived at her sister’s house tired and out of sorts, and eager to take a nap and freshen up. Instead, she had found that Elizabeth, whose house drew anyone of any importance in Springfield, had company: their cousin John Todd Stuart and his law partner. So: a roomful of lawyers, who could be either the dullest people in existence or the most fascinating, depending on what they chose to speak about. Hoping for the latter, Mary had repaired her coach-worn appearance as best she could and entered the room.
“Cousin!” John Stuart kissed her cheek, then shook hands with her father, who had been her escort on the journey. “We were just leaving, and I’m sure you’re glad of it after your long trip. We’ll stop by once you’re settled in. You didn’t meet Mr. Lincoln here on your last visit, did you?”
“No,” Mary said. She gazed at the stranger in the room, a man of about thirty years of age who somewhat awkwardly extended his hand to her. “I would have remembered Mr. Lincoln.”
He was certainly not a forgettable person. He was tall, well over six feet, a trait that Mary, at five feet two, usually found off-putting in a man. With this man, however, she scarcely cared that she had to tip her head up to look at him, for his face, sharp-edged and topped by a thatch of ill-tamed black hair, was well worth the effort. It was not a handsome face by any means, but after years of enduring the good-looking and vacuous young men of Lexington, Mary had concluded long ago that handsomeness was overrated. This man had character in his face—character and intelligence. She had never seen the like.
But she could not simply stand there staring at Mr. Lincoln as if she were a practitioner of physiognomy. “I have heard of you, Mr. Lincoln, many times. Weren’t you the leader of the effort to get the state capital moved here?”
Ninian Edwards, Mary’s brother-in-law, broke in before Mr. Lincoln, who had appeared at a loss for what to do after releasing Mary’s hand, could reply. “Miss Todd will talk politics like a man if you allow her.”
“Why, yes I will,” said Mary. “It is unladylike, I grant you, but if we feel the effects of politics as much, if not more so, than you gentlemen, shall we not be allowed to take an interest in such a weighty subject? But you have not allowed Mr. Lincoln to answer my question, Brother Ninian.”
“It was the work of many, Miss Todd,” Mr. Lincoln said. His voice was not deep, as Mary had expected, but peculiarly high-pitched, though Mary, on reflection, found it not to be displeasing. “But we have to be off, as Mr. Stuart says.”
“Well,” said Mary. “Those many should be quite pleased with themselves, for Springfield has improved very much since I was here last. I expect it will be a regular metropolis when I next visit.”
Mr. Lincoln nodded, then all but fled from the Edwardses’ parlor.
* * *
“You quite overwhelmed the man,” her sister Elizabeth said as she showed Mary to her room a little while later. “He scarcely says boo to us women in Springfield who have known him for some time, much less a complete stranger.”
“I find him fascinating.” Mary began to unpack her trunk. In Lexington, a slave would already have accomplished that task, but it was clear that in Springfield she would have to fend for herself.
“Five, six words, and you find him fascinating?”
“He has mind, Elizabeth. I can tell that.”
“Oh, mind.” Elizabeth snorted. “Well, he needs that, because he certainly does not have breeding. Did you not see how he was dressed? He must throw his clothes on in the pitch-darkness.”
“I was not looking at his dress. I hope he comes back here soon so I can.”
“He will; he’s here quite often, but if you want to hold a conversation with him, you’ll need to be prepared to do the talking yourself—if you’re a woman, at least. With the men, he can tell stories and idle time away for hours. But tell me, how is everyone at home?”
“Oh, the same. Our stepmother sends us her kindest regards, not to mention her vast relief at having one less stepdaughter to plague her. Ann is as trying as ever, although she cheered up marvelously when I left upon finally getting to claim our room as hers. The little ones are driving Mammy Sally to distraction, and the baby is squalling as loud as he ever was. Levi’s habits do not improve.” Somewhat awkwardly, Mary shook out the gown she had just removed from her trunk. “Oh, and Emily was nearly kidnapped. The mite wandered off—probably as tired of the baby squalling as the rest of us—and a passing couple was so taken with her beauty, they took her home and kept her there until their minister happened to come by and impressed upon them that they were doing wrong! She is a lovely little thing.” Settling her chemises into a drawer, Mary asked in her most casual tone, “When do you think Mr. Lincoln will call?”
“Soon,” said Elizabeth firmly. “Now, go lie down. You must be exhausted. Probably Mr. Lincoln won’t appear nearly as fascinating to you when you’ve had some rest.”
Mary sighed but did not argue. She looked around the room, which had been occupied by her second oldest sister, Frances, until her marriage just a few months before, and saw that her bed had been turned down, but not with much care. White servants, who she had learned from Elizabeth tended to do exactly as they pleased, would take some getting used to, just like the mud that filled the mostly unpaved streets of Springfield and that had slightly contaminated her dress despite her best efforts.
The mattress she sank into was of excellent quality, as was everything in her sister’s household—no surprise, since Ninian Edwards was a former governor’s son, and his house, perched upon a hill at a slight distance from the heart of the town, was one of the best in Springfield. From her father, however, who told her everything, Mary had learned that all was not well with her brother-in-law, who was finding it hard to pay some of his bills. But the entire country had been in the doldrums due to the bank panic of two years before. Now that Springfield was the new capital—thanks in large part to this Mr. Lincoln—perhaps things would turn around for her brother-in-law.
Her last visit to Springfield had been a short one, and had served its purpose well of allowing Mary to get a respite from a house full of half siblings, all of whom had inherited the Todd temper in varying degrees, and her stepmother. (Not that Mary was completely unsympathetic to Mrs. Todd, saddled with the task of raising the children from her husband’s first marriage while bearing her own children at almost mechanical intervals.) This visit was different: with Frances married, it was time for Mary, the next sister in line, to do the same, especially as she was nearly twenty-one—by no means at the age where society would declare her doomed to spinsterhood, but still at a point of life where she had to be thinking of her prospects.