Previously in the book: President and Mrs. Lincoln are being held captive in the White House basement while lookalikes settle into their places upstairs.
As he began to climb the stairs, Private Adam Christy looked up to see Phebe, stepping lightly and smiling openly at him. Adam could not remember meeting a young, attractive black woman in Steubenville, Ohio. He recalled old black men who cut his hair at the local barbershop. He recalled old black women chasing little white children around the park. He saw strong young black men digging ditches along the road, but he had never encountered a young black woman who smelled of soap and freshly cut vegetables and whose eyes met his as though they were equals. Wondering why this particular black woman knew they were equals made his heart race.
“Did you get everything in the room fine?”
“Yes, fine. Thanks.” As Adam passed Phebe he felt breathless and feared his neighbors in Ohio would not understand or approve of his reaction. When he reached the second floor, Adam looked both ways before walking across the hall to Mrs. Lincoln’s bedroom. As he opened the door and entered with a sigh of relief, he looked up and felt his heart jump into his throat as he saw Mrs. Keckley, hands on her hips, staring at him.
“Now why am I not surprised to see you here?” she said. “But I am curious why a private in the Army of the United States of America boldly walks into the boudoir of the wife of the president.”
His throat constricted, Adam coughed before words came through his lips. “I’m acting on orders from the president,” he said in a whisper.
“And what orders are those, young man?”
Before Adam could find an appropriate reply, Alethia stepped around the corner from Lincoln’s bedroom and spoke. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Keckley. Mr. Lincoln is waiting for him.”
“Mrs. Lincoln.” Mrs. Keckley’s mouth fell open as she spun around. “I didn’t think you were here. I came back because I didn’t feel right when you dismissed me, and then I saw this strange young man in the hall. There was something in the look of his eyes that—”
“Well, there’s nothing for you to fret about, dear,” Alethia interrupted, guiding her toward the door.
“But you never decided whether you wanted the blue material.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“You finally decided to come out of mourning?” Mrs. Keckley turned and beamed. “Praise the Lord.”
“Oh,” Alethia said, putting her hand to her breast. “I haven’t decided that—yet. What I said was that the blue material was lovely for when I do decide to move from black.”
“Talk to Mr. Lincoln about it, ma’am,” Mrs. Keckley said. “And the Lord. Pray about it. The Lord knows best.”
“Please don’t press me about this, Mrs. Keckley.” Alethia closed her eyes. “I think one of my headaches is coming on.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” she replied. “Not another word.” She paused and looked at Alethia sympathetically. “You have your paregoric nearby, don’t you, ma’am?”
“Please go now,” Alethia said.
“If you say so, Mrs. Lincoln,” the black seamstress said with uncertainty as she was being pushed out of the room.
After she closed the door, Alethia turned to smile sweetly at Adam. “That went well, don’t you think?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to blunder in like this, Mrs. Lincoln, but Mrs. Lincoln wanted some things.” He stopped and involuntarily moved his hand to his mouth. “I mean, Mrs. Lincoln in the basement, the real Mrs. Lincoln; I mean, not to say you’re fake—I guess you are, but I don’t mean to be disrespectful to you…”
“There’s no need to be flustered, young man.” Alethia patted his hand. “I know it’s going to be quite a curiosity to contend with two Mrs. Lincolns, but I feel we must deal with it, for I really don’t believe it’d be conducive to our enterprise for you to know my real name.”
“No, ma’am, you’re right. I mean, I don’t think it’d be right for me to know your name,” Adam said, fumbling his words.
“But I can know your name,” she said.
“Private Adam Christy from Steubenville, Ohio, ma’am.” He grinned.
“We’ll see this venture through, Private Christy,” Alethia said, “and soon our lives will return to normal.” She shook his hand.
“Molly,” Duff called out from Lincoln’s bedroom, “who’s that you’re talking to?”
“This is your new adjutant, dear, Private Adam Christy of Steubenville, Ohio.” Guiding Adam by the hand, Alethia walked into the other bedroom.
“Good to be working with you, Private.” Duff nodded as he finished putting his clothes in the dresser.
“Mrs. Lincoln—downstairs—wants a few things,” Adam said.
“That sounds reasonable.” Duff sat on the edge of the bed. “It seems to me, if we don’t treat those folks in the basement with the best of consideration, they surely will treat us with no consideration when they’re released.”
Alethia stepped toward Duff. “But Mr. Stanton promised…”
“Mr. Stanton’s promises could be empty if the real Mr. Lincoln decides he doesn’t take kindly to this.”
“He should be grateful,” Adam said.
“Well, I’ll be grateful if he’s grateful.” Duff smiled.
For a moment, Adam was taken by the similarities between the two Mr. Lincolns. Both were gaunt, tall, and innately sad. They talked almost the same, although Adam detected a rougher, less educated tone in this one. He did seem to share certain wisdom with the man in the basement, though he did not express it as cleverly. Adam also sensed the impersonator was younger, but older in his view that the world was a place to be feared.
“So.” Duff slapped his hands on his thighs. “What do they want?”
“Oh. Well, Mrs. Lincoln wanted her—well…” Adam paused as he glanced nervously at Alethia.
“I think I know what you mean.” Her eyes lowered, and she nodded. “Her…” Alethia’s voice softened, “…unmentionables.”