There was yet another suitor, this one in Missouri: Mr. Patrick Henry, who bore the name of his famous grandfather and did not allow the connection to be forgotten. He had wealth, talent, and good looks—everything except for humility. Mary decided she would have to forego the chance to bear the great-grandchildren of a patriot.
So with these three unsatisfactory strings on her bow, she returned in September to Springfield. Mr. Lincoln had won his own reelection the month before, but with the presidential election drawing near, was campaigning for Harrison and had no time to savor his victory. Nor did he have time to spend in the Edwardses’ drawing room, so Mary saw him only when he gave speeches in public. This was just as well, she had to admit, for a summer lazing around in the Missouri heat, dining at her aunt’s groaning table, and taking afternoon siestas had left her more than a little plump, and she would prefer Mr. Lincoln not to see her in this Falstaffian state.
At last, Election Day arrived, and then ensued the long wait while the various states made their returns. Harrison lost Illinois. Would he meet a similar fate in other states? As the days passed, Mary took to visiting her friend Eliza Francis, a lady of middle age whose husband, Simeon, published the Springfield paper, the Sangamon Journal. If there was news to be had, her friend would have it.
As she walked toward the Francis house on a chilly November afternoon, Mr. Lincoln’s tall figure raced toward her. “Miss Todd! We’ve won! Harrison will be the next president.”
Mary squealed and clasped Mr. Lincoln’s hand. He started but did not break free. Instead, he stood smiling down at her. “I was on my way to bring you the news,” he said.
“Really? I thought I had been quite forgotten these last few months.”
“No.”
“I am most gratified to hear that.”
“It’s strange. As soon as I heard the news, I knew I had to tell you straightaway to get the full enjoyment out of it.”
Still holding hands, they began walking—not toward the Francis house, not toward the Edwards house, but purely aimlessly. Mr. Lincoln took his hat off his head and stared into it. Then he said to the hat, “Marry me.”
“What?”
“Was I unclear? I want to marry you. To live as man and wife.”
“You’ve never even kissed me.”
“Is that a prerequisite?”
“Most women would think so.”
“Well, then.” Mr. Lincoln clapped his hat back onto his head, pulled her against him, and stooped.
He was not an awkward kisser, nor was he in a hurry. Nor was Mary, even as she reflected on the splendid show the pair of them were putting on.
“Now,” Mr. Lincoln said when he at last straightened up. “Now, Molly, will you marry me?”
His use of this familiar form of the name was as good as another man’s getting upon his knees. “Yes,” said Mary. “Absolutely.”
* * *
When they stopped kissing and began to work out the details, they decided to keep their engagement secret, as neither liked the idea of being the subject of the town’s gossip. Besides, Mr. Lincoln told her, it might have to be a long engagement as he could not support Mary in the style to which she had become accustomed. “Or anything close,” he added.
“I don’t expect a fine house, or a carriage, or anything like that.”
“But you do expect a house.”
“Well—”
“And you’d have to do without servants. How many slaves does your father have?”
“Well, there’s Mammy Sally… She’s getting up there, poor thing, and Peter, and…twelve. Of course, our family is large, so… But I do almost everything for myself at my sister’s house, except to cook and clean, of course. But I could learn to do those things!”
Mr. Lincoln glanced at Mary’s hands, clad in immaculate kid gloves. “We’d best wait,” he said dryly.
* * *
Soon after Mary’s engagement, Miss Matilda Edwards, a cousin of Ninian’s, came from Alton, Illinois, on an extended visit to Springfield. She and Mary, Elizabeth was fond of pointing out, were creatures of entirely different styles: Matilda was blond, ethereal, and tall, while Mary was brunette, plumpish, and short. And it soon became clear that male Springfield, in the winter of 1840–41, preferred Matilda’s style to Mary’s.
Night after night, the drawing room filled to receive male callers, ostensibly to see both girls, but in reality to gaze at Matilda. Joshua Speed, the genteel Kentuckian who had left his plantation home behind to open a general store in Springfield, and who at least when compared to Mr. Lincoln was a virtual Casanova, was the worst of all. He would plant himself in an armchair, tip his head back, and float amongst the heavens as Miss Edwards played and sang in what a woman knew, and surely any rational man would have to admit, was a slightly croaking voice.
When Mr. Speed came, his best friend and lodger, Mr. Lincoln, came as well. Mary was grateful at first for this—it allowed her the opportunity to spend some time with her fiancé without attracting the notice of her sister—but as December wore on, even Mr. Lincoln’s eyes began to turn in Miss Edwards’s direction ever so slightly.
It would have been deeply satisfying to dislike Miss Edwards for this, but as best as Mary could tell, Matilda was perfectly unconscious of the havoc she was wreaking among the male hearts of Springfield. She received each and every one of her callers with the same bland, sweet smile and, when they departed, settled down to her tract or her knitting with no sign of wishing they would return. Only once did Mary see her blush, and that was when Mary caught her rereading a letter in the bedroom they now shared. The envelope bore the name of Newton Strong, the gentleman who had escorted her to Springfield.
Had Mary and Matilda been rivals, they would have been very miserable indeed, for not only did they receive visits together, they received invitations together, including one from John Hardin, a connection of Mary’s who asked the young women to visit him and his wife in Jacksonville over Christmas. Lest Springfield’s eligible bachelors lose the opportunity of mooning over Matilda for a few days in December, they were invited too.
“I do hope you will remember you are a Todd,” Elizabeth informed Mary as she packed.
“What on earth does that mean?”
“Mr. Lincoln will be there, will he not? I see him with you when he’s here; I hear the gossip about the two of you. He should have made his intentions clear by now, even written to our father. I know that where he comes from men sometimes get it backward; they get a child on a girl and then marry her. He needs to know you’re not that kind, and you need to remember it yourself.”
“For heaven’s sake!” Mary stamped her foot for good measure. “Mr. Lincoln has been nothing but gentlemanly toward me. More so, I must stay, than certain men I could name when they are in their cups.”