Previously in the book: President and Mrs. Lincoln, plus a slow-witted janitor, haven been placed under guard in a room in the basement of the White House. Upstairs, Alethia Haliday unpacks her bags, ready to begin her role as Mary Lincoln.
“Oh, dear me, no.” Rose laughed. “This is my dear old friend Alethia Haliday. Her imprisonment is a farce, a perfect farce. Some scoundrel talked the simple country mouse into presenting me with a cake which contained a packet of scandalous papers meant to incriminate us both, the poor, little innocent lambs we are. She’ll be released any time now, I’m sure.”
“Is that true, madam?” Stanton studied Alethia’s clear, plain, twitching face.
“Yes, sir.” She averted her eyes.
“Would you elaborate?” Stanton said, leaning in.
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Where are you from?”
“She’s from my hometown of Bladensburg, Maryland.” Rose stepped between them.
“Let her speak.”
“Rose is correct. We grew up in Bladensburg. I still live there—until recently.”
“I swear I detect a hint of a Kentucky lilt.” A smile slashed across Stanton’s Cupid’s bow lips.
“Mother was from Kentucky,” Alethia said, becoming disarmed. “Her accent was quite thick, and I succumbed to its influence from the cradle.”
“In these war times,” Rose said after clearing her throat, “you ought to be involved in some more important business than holding an inquisition of women.”
Stanton bowed and left. A week later, prison superintendent Woods visited Alethia’s cell after midnight. After shaking her awake, Woods pulled down his trousers, exposing skinny, hairy legs.
“I was told you were a good-looking woman,” he murmured as he pinned her body to the metal cot with his arms and legs.
“You’re mistaken,” Alethia said in a small voice. She attempted to push him away but finally failed, her arms being pressed against her ample bosom. “Mrs. Greenhow is in the next room.”
“I don’t want a woman with a fresh mouth on her,” he said, continuing to force his body on her. “I want you. You got meat on your bones. My wife is too skinny.” Forcing his mouth on hers, Woods pulled up her nightgown and spread her legs apart. “I like women who know their place—bound for the gallows.”
Numb, Alethia was fixated on the irony: forty years’ of virginity ended by a vulgar, frenetic little man who, even though she did not know from experience, Alethia was certain did not do it right. Every midnight, Superintendent Woods appeared, said she was doomed to hang, and raped her. When she told Rose, Alethia expected sympathy and compassion; instead, she received a hard glint and a wagging finger of instruction.
“Tell him he’s wonderful,” Rose said, taking both of Alethia’s hands into her lap. “I know he must be dreadful—he looks like he’d be dreadful—but lie. Tell him you love him.”
“But I couldn’t lie.” Alethia’s eyes fluttered.
“Do you want to die?” Rose snapped. “Don’t be foolish. Lead him on until you can report him and gain your freedom.” Rose smiled and gently brushed her friend’s hair. “Please don’t crumble like you usually do. I could have hugged you and said, oh, you poor baby, but what good would that have done? Understand?”
“I think.”
“Alethia, darling, you can be delicate in Bladensburg, but in Washington you must be tough.”
Nodding, she forced a smile even though she did not really understand what her friend was saying. Or rather, she did not think Rose understood her. What came naturally for Rose was impossible for her. As it turned out, Alethia did not have to follow her friend’s advice. The next morning she was to be taken to the reception room of the War Department for a hearing before Secretary Stanton himself.
“Tell him you’re a poor delicate woman who has been violated,” was Rose’s quickly whispered advice in her ear as she walked to a carriage.
Alethia remember standing in the back of the room watching Stanton at a high writing desk, looking over the rim of his pebble glasses with impatience at men wanting contract bids, jobs, and political favors. Most of them, greeted gruffly with monosyllabic replies, were escorted from the room efficiently. After all the petitioners left, Stanton lifted his gnome-like hand and waved her forward, his glare withering Alethia.
I’m a fragile, delicate woman. I’m a fragile, delicate woman…
Stanton motioned to the guard at the door to leave. As soon as the door had shut and they were alone, his eyes darted Alethia’s way. “Do you know who you look like?”
“I’m a fragile, delicate woman,” she mumbled.
“What?” Stanton’s brows rose. “That made absolutely no sense. If you’re going mad, then I’ll send you to the insane asylum across the river.”
“I’m not insane, just flustered.” Alethia blushed.
“Then answer my question. Do you know who you look like?”
“I’ve always been told I look like my mother.”
“An insipid answer, but at least not insane,” Stanton said. “No, you look like the president’s wife. Mary Todd Lincoln.”
“Is that good?” Alethia fluttered her eyes.
“Very good for you.” Stanton smiled. “No one has ever pointed this out to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good. Come with me.”
“Come with you?” She furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand—and—and I have a complaint about Mr. Woods.”
“Yes, yes, I know all about that,” Stanton said.
“You know?” Alethia’s mouth fell open. “You allowed him?”
“Wouldn’t you rather come with me than be bothered with Mr. Woods anymore?”
For the next few weeks, Alethia stayed in a comfortable room, enlarging on her Kentucky accent, poring over minutiae on the life of Mary Todd Lincoln and memorizing everything about the Executive Mansion, Anderson Cottage, and the staff. For instance, she knew Anderson Cottage was the Lincolns’ summer home in the Maryland foothills. She also knew her closest friend in Washington was Elizabeth Keckley, a freed black seamstress. Alethia knew she must not like Lincoln’s secretaries, John Hay, who enjoyed partying with the Lincolns’ son Robert, and John Nicolay, who was a native of Bavaria. Details stuck with Alethia easily, until she knew Mary Todd Lincoln as well as herself. She longed to hold Tad in her arms and make him believe she was his mother.
Storing the last of her personal items in the dark oak chest of drawers upstairs in the Executive Mansion, Alethia thought of her job, that of an actress, her stage the grandest house in America, and her audience the most important people in America, who must not know they are an audience.
“Excuse me,” the tall, angular man from the next room said shyly as he stood in the doorway.
Alethia jumped slightly as she turned to smile brightly at him.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t. I tend to lose myself in thought.”
He smiled. “I thought we might want to get to know each other before folks start popping up all over the place.”
“Of course.” She stepped forward and extended her hand. “I’m Alethia Haliday from Bladensburg, Maryland.”
“Duff Read, Michigan. Nice to meet you, Miss Haliday.”
He took her hand in his, and Alethia was unsettled by the huge, hammy rough paw that tenderly engulfed her fingers. His touch was different from Woods’s touch. Funny, she thought, she never paid much attention to a man’s touch before, and now it was all consuming. Duff chuckled awkwardly as he tried to pull his hand away.
“Alethia. Please call me Alethia.”
“As much as I’d like to do that, Miss Alethia,” Duff said in a distinct Midwestern twang, “don’t you think it’d be best if we start calling each other by the Lincoln names? It wouldn’t do if I called you Alethia in front of Mr. Seward or some other important person.”
“I suppose so.”
“So you can call me Abe—“
“Oh no,” Alethia quickly corrected him. “Mrs. Lincoln always calls him Father or Mr. Lincoln.”
“That’s right. I forgot.”
“And you call me Molly or Mother.”
“I’m glad you’re smart about things like this,” Duff said. “I used to have a pretty good memory until I spent time in a rebel prison down in Virginia.”
“How terrible for you.” Alethia impulsively touched his long arm, ill-fitted in the dark suit coat—unfortunately, the same way Lincoln’s arms dangled unfashionably from his sleeve. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No, ma’am, I can’t.” He ducked his head. “I was a spy.”
“So was I,” she sadly said, “or at least that’s what I am told.” Glancing away, she added, “For the South.”
“Oh.”
“But I’m not really. While I may have some Southern sympathies, I’d never—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“I see you made your introductions.” Secretary of War Stanton entered, his Cupid’s bow mouth turned up in a form of a smile.
“Yes, sir,” Duff said.
“Very good. Work closely together. Get your stories straight. Don’t contradict each other. Play your parts.” Stanton pulled out his watch to look at the time. “You should prepare for a cozy dinner soon with Tad. He is a holy terror.” He glanced at the unpacked bags. “You go to Anderson Cottage tomorrow.” He looked at Duff. “I leave you to call a Cabinet meeting tonight so you, Mr. President, can dismiss General George McClellan as commander of the Army of the Potomac.”