Then she understood. “You’re with the press,” she said, drawing herself up and fixing him with a withering look.
“Yes, as I said, Philip Smith, Elkhart Gazette.”
“You most certainly did not say.” Grasping the doorknob, she said, “You have no honor, sir, but if you leave now, I won’t summon the police and have you charged with harassment and trespassing. Good day.”
She shut the door firmly and slid the bolt in place, heart pounding, mouth dry. Mr. Smith rang the bell and called her name as she shrank back into the foyer, bewildered and upset. Her family had been tormented by vile stories in the papers through the years, but rarely had a reporter violated the sanctity of their home or sought out Elizabeth in particular. How dare a reporter approach her now? She was a private citizen, not a politician who had deliberately chosen a public life. How could anyone think her so devoid of compassion and loyalty that she would conspire to dredge up ugly incidents from Mary’s past? An estranged sister was a sister yet.
Unless—
Perhaps Mr. Smith was not looking into Mary’s past but her present.
Elizabeth forced herself to take a deep breath, to think clearly, to remember precisely what he had said. He wanted a statement, not Elizabeth’s reflections upon her sister’s history but her reaction to some new incident. She pressed a hand to her forehead. Oh, Mary. What new scandal had she become entangled in, to the embarrassment and mortification of her family?
Whatever had compelled that reporter to visit Springfield, it was something so dreadful that he had expected to find Elizabeth in distress, and so significant that he assumed she already knew of it. And yet he had found her utterly unaware. How could this be? How had Mr. Smith outpaced the telegraph?
Unsettled, she went to the dining room in search of the morning newspapers, which her husband always read over breakfast. Elizabeth had slept poorly the night before, owing to the ache in her abdomen, and by the time she had risen and dressed, Ninian had already left for work. She did not remember seeing the papers folded on the table in front of his empty chair, and they were not there now. She went next to his study, but the papers were not on his broad mahogany desk. Nor were they in the library, where the tall bookshelves were neatly filled with law books and works of history and natural science, as well as a few popular novels and volumes of poetry. Nary a scrap of newsprint caught her eye.
She went to the parlor and rang for Mrs. Henderson, who had just returned from the market. The housekeeper confirmed that the papers had been delivered that morning as usual, and that she herself had glimpsed Mr. Edwards reading them at the breakfast table. She was as mystified as Elizabeth regarding their apparent disappearance, but she offered to search for them. In the meantime, Elizabeth returned to the garden to ask Lewis if he had any idea what had become of the papers. He had not seen them that morning either, nor had he spoken to his grandfather except to exchange hasty greetings as Ninian departed the house in a rush.
“Has something happened?” asked Lewis, setting his book aside and rising.
Before Elizabeth could reply, Mrs. Henderson emerged from the house steering a reluctant Carrie along by the elbow. Bringing the maid to a halt before them, she fixed the girl with a stern look. “Tell the missus what you told me.”
Eyes downcast, the maid meekly said, “Mr. Edwards told me to burn the papers.”
“What?” exclaimed Elizabeth. “And yet you watched me search the house for them and said nothing?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Mr. Edwards said to keep mum about it.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Elizabeth felt a pang of distress. “Did he say why he wanted you to burn the papers?”
The young maid pressed her lips together and shook her head, but the only explanation was that there was something in the papers Ninian did not want her to see.
As Mrs. Henderson warned Carrie that they would have a serious discussion later about the consequences of keeping secrets from the missus, Elizabeth sent Lewis out to buy replacement papers. She paced in the garden as she waited, torn between annoyance with Ninian and apprehension for the dreadful news he had tried to conceal from her.
When Lewis returned, she knew from his stricken expression that he had paused to scan the front pages on the way home. “What is it?” she asked, a tremor in her voice. “What has my sister done?”
Lewis said nothing, but merely shook his head and held out the stack of papers. She took the Chicago Tribune from the top, unfolded it—and froze, breathless, when the familiar name leapt out at her in bold headlines.
CLOUDED REASON.
Trial of Mrs. Abraham Lincoln for Insanity.
Why Her Relatives and Friends Were Driven to This Painful Course.
Testimony of Physicians as to Her Mental Unsoundness.
Hearing Strange Voices—Fears of Murder—Sickness of Her Son.
What was Seen by the Employees of the Hotel.
Tradesmen Testify Concerning Her Purchases of Goods.
She Is Found Insane, and Will Be Sent to Batavia.
Scenes in Court.
Head spinning, Elizabeth sank down at the table where her letter to Julia lay forgotten, weighed down by her teacup. She could scarcely breathe as she read of how Mary had become so feeble of mind and so eccentric in her habits that a council of eminent physicians and concerned friends had gathered to determine what should be done to protect her from harm. A judge had ordered a warrant for her arrest, and on Saturday last, she had been brought unwillingly into court, “pallid, her eye watery and excited,” accompanied by several unnamed friends. Also present, his eyes, too, “suffused with tears,” was Robert Lincoln, her eldest and only surviving son, at whose behest the hearing had been called. Word of the insanity trial had spread swiftly through the city, and the courtroom had been densely packed with curious citizens and members of the press. One by one, witnesses had been called to the stand, where they had testified in lurid detail about Mrs. Lincoln’s nervous derangement, her frenzied shopping sprees, her inexplicable terrors and strange imaginings that her son was deathly ill or that she herself was being stalked by sinister black-cloaked men determined to murder her. The witnesses had agreed that the poor, afflicted widow was not of sound mind, and that for her own safety she must be committed to an asylum.
The jury had adjourned, and in the interim Robert had approached his mother, attempting to comfort her, but she had rebuffed him with the tearful exclamation, “Oh, Robert, to think that my son would ever have done this!”
Only a few minutes later, the jury had returned with their verdict: Mary Lincoln was insane and must be consigned to the State Hospital for the Insane. The judge had quickly conferred with her son and her friends, who had agreed that she would instead be admitted to Bellevue Place in Batavia.
“Oh, my poor sister,” murmured Elizabeth, pressing her fingertips to her lips, heart aching. And poor Robert, to have watched in helpless horror as his mother’s condition had become so desperate that he had felt obliged to pursue this heartbreaking course. But had it indeed been necessary? Mary was troubled, her behavior erratic, but was she insane? Surely not. Surely all she needed to ease a mind troubled by years of unmitigated grief was compassion and sympathetic companionship, nothing more.
But who would provide her with such spiritual comforts? Not the unnamed friends who had accompanied Mary to her trial; obviously they had not held her back from her precipitous fall and could not save her now. Nor could Elizabeth, even if she wanted to, for Mary had not spoken or written to her in years. Frances was kindhearted and dutiful enough to shoulder the burden, but Mary was estranged from her too, just as she was from her longtime rival Ann and even from dear Emilie, everyone’s favorite. Of all their siblings and half-siblings still living, Elizabeth could not think of any who had not offended Mary, or been offended by her, and remained in her good graces. Perhaps a cousin or niece or childhood friend could be prevailed upon—