They each grabbed a pile of shingles and set off on the short walk to town, Mary’s face alight with adventure, Mercy straggling along as if being led to slaughter. For two or three blocks, the scheme worked well enough, but by the fourth block, the shingles were as muddy as the streets themselves, and more than one citizen leaned out of his or her window to stare at the spectacle of the two finely dressed young ladies hopping from one shingle to another. When they finally reached civilization—Monroe Street, with its sidewalk and shops—they tossed their filthy shingles aside and rushed into a bookstore, where Mary bought the latest novel and Mercy, the latest song. By the time they exhausted the shops an hour or so later, a drizzle was replenishing the mud, and the air had a chill.
“I’ve had enough adventure for one day,” Mercy said firmly as they left. “No more shingles. We can find my brother, or Mr. Edwards, to give us a ride home in his carriage.”
“Or Mr. Conkling. But we’ll have to wait until they leave their offices.”
“That can’t be helped.”
“Wait!” Mary waved to a passing drayman. “Here’s a way to get home.”
“Mary, are you mad?”
“No, I’m cold and tired and want to get to the warmth of my parlor. Mr. Hart”—she smiled at the drayman, who tipped his hat—“will be delighted to be of service to us. Won’t you, dear sir?”
“Most certainly, Miss Todd.”
Mercy picked up her skirts and fled. “I’ll stop by tomorrow,” she called. “My brother would be furious if I got into that thing!”
“What a rude word for such a fine dray,” Mary said as Mr. Hart helped her as best he could into the vehicle. “Shall we be off, sir?” A collection of boys were gaping at her, and she majestically waved her hand as she fancied Queen Victoria must. “To home!”
With a lurch that nearly sent her sprawling into the mud, Mr. Hart obliged.
* * *
Capital city or not, Springfield was still a small, tittle-tattle town—even more so now that the legislators were here to add to the goings-on. So Mary was not entirely surprised to hear on Tuesday—a dry day with a strong wind, all the better to drive gossip from house to house—that her adventure on the dray was known to all and sundry, to the amusement of all except for Elizabeth, whose steely silence indicated that she was in complete possession of the details.
“I didn’t tell a soul,” Mercy protested when Mary came over that afternoon. “I wouldn’t have needed to, though. Such a spectacle needed no help from me. And if there’s a soul who doesn’t know about it, the cotillion will remedy that.”
“Cotillion?”
“Oh, yes, some gentlemen are organizing a ball, as it’s been so dreary and the men are in need of civilizing. Why, Mr. Edwards is on the committee. Your sister said nothing to you?”
“Not a thing.”
“Dear, you had best sweeten her up, then.” Mercy could not help but smirk. “Especially since your Mr. Lincoln will be there. Or I assume he will, as he is on the committee as well.”
“He will?” Mary rose. “I must get a new gown.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t bother; they say he never notices what women wear. But”—Mercy snickered—“you might capture his attention if you arrive in your dray.”
* * *
Mary arrived at the American House on the day of the cotillion not in a dray, but in her brother-in-law’s carriage. As the ladies in their finery hurried into the suite that had been converted into a dressing room for the occasion, Mary watched with amusement as the younger matrons, who had entered clutching squirming bundles to their chests, briskly nursed the contents of the bundles before they handled them off to the girls who had been hired to watch them for the evening. “Don’t mix them up,” they called as the girls spread out a line of sleeping babies on the bed.
It would be pleasant to be married, but there was no need to rush into anything, she decided as she pinched some color into her cheeks. Goodness knew there were enough children back in her father’s house in Lexington to look after if she were so minded.
Following her sister into the ballroom (meekly, for Elizabeth was still silently indignant about the dray incident), Mary admired the room, ablaze with candles and decked with greenery as a herald of the Christmas season. Standing by the doorway were the men who had organized the cotillion. Though Ninian and some of the others were tall men, one nonetheless towered over them: Mr. Lincoln. In his black suit, he was nattier than he had been when Mary had last met him. As did the other men, he greeted the ladies in turn as they filed into the room.
Then he saw Mary. His face twisted into a grin, he slapped his knee, and he began to laugh so hard, he wheezed. “A…dray!” he finally managed. “A dray! There’s Miss Todd, the girl who rode in a dray.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said freezingly. “That is my sister, who rode in a dray. Come along, Mary.”
But Mr. Lincoln would have none of it. He straightened up and wiped his eyes. “Funniest…thing…I…ever…saw,” he gasped. “There I was, making some notes at my desk, and who should I see coming down the street but Miss Mary Todd, in all her fine feathers, riding in that dray. I tell you, it made my day, Miss Todd. Made my week. Made my month! The finest sight I’ve ever seen in Springfield. Miss Todd, I want to dance with you in the worst way. Will you oblige?”
Unable to muster a reply, Mary handed him her dance card, and Mr. Lincoln neatly inscribed it. “First on the list! I can’t wait, Miss Todd.”
He did indeed, as Mary was fond of telling others in years to come, dance with her in the worst way. Mary had danced with awkward men and boys before, especially at Madame Mentelle’s school, where as a boarder she had helped her teacher’s sons learn the terpsichorean art, but she could not keep her slippers clear of Mr. Lincoln’s enormous feet. This was so even though Mr. Lincoln was more focused on his feet than on Mary, who wondered wistfully if he even noticed her new gown, sprigged with blue flowers that matched her eyes, or the very becoming arrangement of her thick, dark hair.
Though she had had little patience when the swains of Lexington paid her their empty, trite compliments, she would not have taken such pretty phrases amiss coming from Mr. Lincoln. But even if Mr. Lincoln was inclined to give her such tributes, they had had no chance for conversation, because even if the dance had lent itself to it, talking and dancing simultaneously was completely beyond her partner’s powers. So she had to settle for the pleasant sensation of his large hand clasping hers as she twirled around whenever her partner remembered to let her do so.
Mr. Lincoln seemed pleased enough with his performance, however—after all, Mary was still standing and had all ten toes intact—and managed a gallant bow as the number ended. He would have lingered by Mary’s side to talk after she limped off the dance floor, but Mary, knowing the proprieties of such matters (and finding that Elizabeth had only just begun to thaw after the dray incident), gently reminded him that she was engaged for the next dance, and several thereafter.