But no. It was too late for a loving friend to volunteer to soothe Mary’s mental wounds with gentle ministrations and kindnesses. She had been committed to an asylum at the instigation of her own son. Elizabeth knew Robert well, and she was certain that her nephew never would have resorted to such drastic measures if he had believed any other treatment would suffice. All she could do now was pray for God’s healing grace and hope that Dr. Patterson’s sterling reputation was well deserved.
What else was there for a sister to do?
Anguished, she turned to the other papers in hopes of finding a more optimistic account of the trial, but each report confirmed the first one she had read. Lewis read silently beside her, taking up the pages as she discarded them, his youthful features clouded by concern. “Is there anything we can do?” he finally asked, raking a hand through his tousled brown hair.
“I don’t know, dear,” she said. “I need time to think.”
“Shall I fetch Grandfather home at least?”
“No,” she replied, her voice harder than she intended. “I’ll see him soon enough.”
Later that afternoon, when Ninian returned home from work, she met him in the foyer, wordlessly beckoned him to follow her into his study, and closed the door behind them. She had arranged the replacement newspapers on his desk, but he did not even need to glance at them to know that she had discovered what he had tried to conceal. “I had hoped to spare you grief,” he said, without preamble, before she could properly accuse him. “It was a vain hope, I know that now. I knew it as soon as Carrie put the papers on the fire.”
“Did you honestly believe that you could keep this from me indefinitely?”
“I hoped to delay the inevitable, to give you a few more hours’ peace. I know you haven’t been well.”
“Indeed? I thought that you agreed with the doctor that my pain is only in my head—” Abruptly Elizabeth’s words were choked off. The doctor’s words took on an entirely new, foreboding meaning in the shadow of Mary’s confirmed madness.
Ninian must have seen the frantic worry in her eyes. “You are not your sister,” he said firmly, taking her in his arms and kissing her on the forehead. “You are not mad. You simply need a more qualified doctor and a better diagnosis.”
“Oh, Ninian.” Relieved, she closed her eyes and clung to him. “I’m glad you believe me, but . . . perhaps we should believe Mary too.”
“You think the verdict is wrong, that she isn’t insane?” He gestured to the newspapers on his desk. “I assume you read about her delusions of an Indian pulling bones from her face and wires from her eyes? That she hears raps on a table predicting the date and hour of her death? That she was wandering the hotel clad only in her nightdress? That she spied smoke coming from the chimney of a nearby building and became frantic that the city was burning down? That she accused a man of stealing her pocketbook, which turned up in her own bureau drawer?”
She held up a hand to interrupt him. “Yes, yes, I read the testimony. Every lurid detail is seared into my mind. I’m not disputing that Mary is deeply troubled, but I’m not certain that confining her to an asylum is the best way to help her.”
“Several esteemed physicians were on that jury,” Ninian reminded her. “We should trust their expertise. From everything I’ve learned—and I spent a good portion of my day investigating this very subject—Bellevue is no grim institution with scowling guards and bars on the windows, but a quiet, healthful resort in the countryside supervised by skilled doctors and devoted nurses. Mary will be well looked after there, and whatever her affliction may be, she will benefit from fresh air and rest. If your sister truly isn’t mad but is merely exhausted, the truth will come out in time.”
“I suppose—” Elizabeth inhaled shakily. “I suppose that’s true. I hope it is.”
Ninian looked as if he might say more, but he hesitated and took her hand. “Darling, whatever your sister’s prognosis may be, the days ahead are going to be difficult. The press is certain to exploit Mary’s misfortune for profit, and as her family, we may all find our names paraded before the public soon.”
“Soon?” She offered a mirthless laugh. “I’m afraid the parade has already begun. While you were at the office, a reporter turned up on our doorstep and asked me for a statement. Thanks to your misguided attempt to protect me, I had no idea why he had come and made no comment at all. I can only imagine how he’ll portray my confusion in his article: ‘Mrs. Lincoln’s Sister Utterly Indifferent to Her Plight.’”
“He wouldn’t dare,” said Ninian. “Even if you had known what he was after, a dignified silence still would have been the only appropriate response.”
“Even so,” said Elizabeth, “where news of my family is concerned, I’ll thank you to protect me a little less vigilantly.”
To her disappointment, he promised no more than to consider her words. She knew that meant he would rely upon his own judgment when deciding what to reveal to her, as he always had. Well, then. No more lying abed for her, regardless of poor sleep or discomfort the night before, if being informed meant racing him to the morning papers.
She slept no better that night, but nonetheless she woke with the sun, washed and dressed, and descended the stairs only a step or two behind her husband, who had risen later but needed less time to attend to his clothes and hair. The newspapers were folded neatly beside Ninian’s plate, and after they were seated, Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at her husband, who sighed, kept the Illinois State Journal for himself, and passed her the Chicago Tribune.
She had prepared herself for the worst, and yet the article that immediately caught her eye rendered her stunned and breathless.
Mrs. Lincoln Attempts Suicide.
Chicago.—Between 2 and 8 o’clock yesterday afternoon Mrs. Lincoln attempted to commit suicide by poisoning. After being removed from the court room where she was adjudged insane earlier that day, her lunatic symptoms became quite violent, and she was put under the strictest surveillance, it being feared that she might do injury to herself. To-day she escaped from her room and hurried to the drug store of Frank Squair, under the Grand Pacific Hotel; she ordered a compound of camphor and laudanum, ostensibly for neuralgia. Knowing her mental condition, Mr. Squair pretended that he had none ready, and that it would take half an hour to put it up. She said she would call in again for it, and then walked out into the street, whereupon she took a carriage and drove to two other drug stores. Mr. Squair, guessing her intentions, had followed her, and in each case was able to warn the druggist not to provide her with the compound. Then, seeing that she intended to return to his own store, he hurried back and prepared a tincture of burnt sugar and water with a few drops of camphor. Supposing this harmless mixture to be what she had ordered, she left the store and immediately drank the entire bottle. She returned to her hotel, but upon discovering soon thereafter that the mixture had no effect, she tried to leave her room again to obtain a stronger dose, but was prevented. She will be removed to the private hospital at Batavia, Illinois, this afternoon, where she will have every attention.
“Ninian,” Elizabeth gasped, “my sister—”