Previously in the book: War Stanton kidnaps President and Mrs. Lincoln and holds them under guard in the White House basement while he has installs lookalikes upstairs. Tad already realizes they are not his real parents, and Stanton is unsure how the fake Lincoln will handle his first cabinet meeting.
Stanton looked to the door and saw the last two Cabinet members enter, each trying to force the other to go first to allow for a grand entrance, but they ended up looking like a pair of buffoons. Buffoons they were, Stanton told himself, trying to control a smirk as they came to the table.
“Mr. Seward,” Duff said, “it’s reassuring to see a man who knows so much and can still smile.”
“Any occasion I can spend with you causes a smile, Mr. President,” Seward said blandly as he sat in one of the remaining wooden captain chairs and slouched down.
“Mr. Seward,” Duff said. “Pull the cord for Mr. Hay and Mr. Nicolay.”
“Yes, sir.”
Like Blair, Seward was a man Stanton could not trust. Not because of his bluntness, but because of his mystery and equivocating. The war secretary never knew where he stood with Seward, nor, indeed, where the former New York senator stood on anything. He hated the South, but loved Jefferson Davis. He could concede point after point in an argument until he won everything he wanted.
“Good evening, Mr. President,” Chase said as he sat, looking a bit smug and satisfied, which made Stanton flush with anticipation.
Chase would take the initiative, leaving the war secretary out of any suspicion of conspiracy. Stanton liked everything about Chase—except his ambition.
“Sorry to interrupt your evening, Mr. Nicolay and Mr. Hay,” Duff said as they entered, each with a pad and pen. “This shouldn’t take long at all.”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. President,” Nicolay said, sitting to the left of Duff.
Hay sat without a word to Duff’s right. Stanton lowered his eyelids as he studied the secretaries. Hay would not be a problem. He cared only for drinking and whoring. Nicolay, on the other hand, was intelligent, and might put small clues together to guess the truth. Perhaps a trip out west could be arranged for him if this project took longer than expected, Stanton mused.
“May I introduce my new adjutant, Private Adam Christy,” Duff said to an uninterested Cabinet.
Good, Stanton thought, he did not want the Cabinet to notice the change of guard.
“I have a letter for the Cabinet to consider.” Chase pulled it from his coat pocket. “It’s about the Army of the Potomac command problem.”
“There is no command problem,” Duff said, putting his hands to his face as if in prayer. “Only this week I reinstated General McClellan to that position, and expect him to perform to expectations.”
This itinerant farmer from Michigan was good, Stanton thought. It was good for him to resist the idea at first; hopefully, he would not make too good an argument for keeping McClellan.
“He assured me this was his intention when he spoke with me earlier today on his way out of the Capitol,” Welles said. “He said he was going forward. And I replied, ‘Well, onward, General, is now the word, the country will expect you to go forward.’” Welles paused to sigh. “I don’t think he detected the irony in my voice.”
“So will you please read us your letter, Mr. Treasury Secretary?” Duff said to Chase.
“Of course.”
Chase unfolded the sheet and began his recitation of objections to the general, who trained troops well but failed to engage them aggressively. Stanton nodded sagely at Chase’s words, until he reached his conclusion.
“Therefore, we the undersigned call for permanent dismissal of General George McClellan and instatement as commander of the Army of the Potomac General Joseph Hooker.”
Stanton’s head jerked as he looked at Chase, who turned to smile at him. The decision, he thought, had been for General Ambrose Burnside. Was it a misunderstanding, or was Chase instigating his first move toward his campaign for the presidency?
“Any comments?” Duff asked amiably. “Please?”
Interior Secretary Smith cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I, for one, could not sign such a document,” he said with a slight lisp. “Frankly, I appreciate General McClellan’s conservative approach. Killing thousands of our young men from the North will not in itself free any slaves, nor convince any Southerner to stay in the Union.”
“And I wonder about the legal repercussions of replacing generals so quickly,” Attorney General Bates added. “While I agree civil authority outranks the military—”
“This is war, dammit,” Stanton boomed, interrupting the gray-haired Bates, who pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair.
“Thank you, Mr. Stanton,” Chase said. “Bringing back McClellan was equivalent to giving Washington to the rebels.”
“That surprises me, gentlemen,” Postmaster General Blair interjected, his face pinched with a hint of sarcasm. “I thought you and Mr. Stanton would have preferred the fall of the capital to the reinstatement of McClellan.”
“Mr. Blair, please.” Chase rolled his eyes.
“No,” Duff interceded. “I’d like to hear more of what Mr. Blair has to say.”
“I agree we can do better than General McClellan. But I blame Mr. Stanton for the general’s defects, as much as McClellan himself.”
“Now that’s true.” Welles shook a finger at Stanton. “The general has enough failings of his own to bear without the addition of your enmity.”
“We’ve so many fine officers coming out of West Point,” Blair continued, “jewels to be mined, so to speak.”
“I don’t know if I quite agree with you on that, Mr. Blair,” Welles said.
“We all know your prejudices against West Point,” Blair replied with a wry smile.
“No efficient, energetic, audacious fighting commanding general has yet appeared from the place,” Welles said with a shrug.
This is foolishness, Stanton fumed. Why does not Duff end this banal debate?
“Another consideration, Mr. President, is political,” Blair said, now leaning forward to make his point. “As you know, my father was an adviser to Andrew Jackson, and I grew up on politics. If you replace McClellan so soon after reinstating him, especially before he has a chance to prove himself on the battlefield, you’ll look like a willy-nilly, not a quality to get you re-elected.”
“And you must consider General McClellan’s popularity with the troops,” Smith added. “Recently I read how soldiers beat up a man in a bar who dared speak ill of their commander. ‘Devil take the man who would say a word against McClellan,’ the paper reported them saying.”
“The military doesn’t run this country,” Bates said.
“You’re absolutely right, Mr. Bates.” Chase pushed the letter to the attorney general. “Sign this so we can end this war sometime this century.”
“Well…”
“Then pass it to Mr. Stanton,” Chase said. “I’m sure he has no reservations about signing it.”
“Not in its present form.” Stroking his pharaoh beard, Stanton wrinkled his brow.
“What?” Chase’s eyes widened.
“I prefer General Burnside.”
“He has declined the position twice,” Chase said.
“He’s a professional soldier. His campaigns have shown him to be capable.”
“He himself said he wasn’t fit for the job,” Chase replied.
“And he’s loyal,” Stanton continued his argument. “Once, upon hearing the rash statement by other officers that the military would run the Republican Party out of Washington and take over the government, he said, ‘I don’t know what you fellows call this talk, but I call it flat treason!’”
“Hooker will fight!” Chase blustered.
“He’s just like Pope, and he’s a blowhard and a liar,” Blair interjected.
Stanton sighed and wondered why Duff was allowing this meeting to get so out of control. But he knew why. This was not Lincoln, nor any other politician who had glided through the rough waters of government debate. Duff was drowning, and there was nothing Stanton could do without raising suspicions.
“What do you think, Mr. Seward?” Duff finally asked.
“There’s some wisdom in everything that has been offered here.” Seward smiled mysteriously. “If we just continue, we’ll find the truth, somewhere.”
Stanton made eye contact with Duff and could swear the man could read his thoughts—what the secretary of state had just said was rubbish. He watched Duff sigh with melancholy and stand, leaving the debate behind as he went back to his own desk.
“Mr. Stanton,” Chase said gravely, “you’ve never expressed any criticism of General Hooker before.”
Stanton hesitated before replying, watching out of the corner of his eye as Duff picked up a book left by Lincoln earlier in the day. No attention span, Stanton fretted, as he tried to find words to rebut Chase.
“I like Fremont myself,” Smith offered.
“Fremont!” Chase responded with irritation. “Please, Mr. Smith!”
Duff exploded with laughter, causing everyone to turn to see him with his large feet on the desk and his dour face opened by a huge grin as he read from the book.
“I was just looking at this book by Artemus Ward,” Duff said with a chuckle. “Listen to this: ‘I showed my show in Utica when a big burly feller walked up to my wax figures of the Lord’s Last Supper and seized Judas Iscariot by the feet and dragged him out on the ground. He then commenced to pound him as hard as he could, yelling, “Old man, that Judas Iscariot can’t show himself in Utica with impunity by a darn sight!” with which observation he caved in Judas’s head. The young man belonged to one of the first families in Utica. I sued him, and the jury brought in a verdict of arson in the third degree.’” Duff threw back his head and laughed loudly.
Stanton thought his worst fears had come true—Duff had succumbed to the stress and had gone out of his mind. Even this could be turned to his advantage if Stanton kept his head about him.
“Mr. President,” Seward said, “you’ve broken the tension and made your point.”
“And what, Mr. Seward, do you think this point is?” Duff finished his laughter.
“If we don’t stop bashing General McClellan in the head, we’ll surely be guilty of burning the future of our country.”
Duff looked at Stanton to shake his head imperceptibly, which the war secretary took to mean that the effort to remove McClellan was defeated, unless they ham-handedly forced their opinion on the others, which would raise too many questions. Stanton nodded.
“You sure can read my mind, Mr. Seward,” Duff said, standing. “I suggest we give General McClellan another chance to lead, until he fails so miserably even his most devoted followers would have to concede he must go.”
Seward nodded. “Wisely said, Mr. President.”

Previously in the book: War Secretary Edwin Stanton places President and Mrs. Lincoln in the White House basement under guard and replaces him with a lookalike, a deserter named Duff, so he can run the government
As Duff and Stanton entered the president’s office, Stanton looked around and quietly shut the door, then crossed the room to look through the door to Nicolay’s office.
“He and Mr. Hay are still at supper,” Duff said.
“They may have returned earlier,” Stanton replied. “You must always be on the alert for people who aren’t supposed to be there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And call me Mr. Stanton,” he continued. “‘Sir’ is much too severe a salutation and implies subservience. After all, you’re the president, and I the mere secretary of war.”
“Yes, Mr. Stanton.”
“And stop acting like a beaten dog, for God’s sake!”
Quietly, Private Christy entered, nodded, and hesitantly went to a corner to stand at attention.
“He’s your adjutant,” Stanton said at Duff’s look of unease. “He needs to be here.”
“I know he’s my adjutant. We met this afternoon. I know he needs to be here.” Duff paused to pout. “I don’t have to be told everything. I’m not stupid. I’m just nervous.”
A knock at the door caused Duff to fidget.
“Then don’t act so nervous. Relax! God, I hope you’ve a sense of humor.” Stanton paused and then spat out a sigh. “Aren’t you going to tell them to enter? It’s your office, for God’s sake.”
“Come in,” Duff called out as he sat behind the large wooden desk. When an older, balding man in servant uniform entered, he smiled. “Tom Pen, my friend.”
“The members of the Cabinet are beginning to arrive downstairs.” The servant smiled warmly and stepped just inside the door. “Shall I send them up?”
“Of course,” Duff replied. “The lamb is ready for the slaughter.”
As the old man laughed, Stanton caught the glimpse from Duff to acknowledge the fact that he indeed had a sense of humor. The war secretary told himself to calm down, because this man was going to be fine. He could see it in his eyes the day he met him in the War Department reception room. A bit stooped, defeated-looking, Duff spoke well and quickly, letting his intelligence shine through.
“That’s quite enough, Mr. Pendel,” Stanton said.
“Yes, sir.” Pendel’s eyes went to the floor.
“Mr. Pendel is my doorman, Mr. Stanton,” Duff said quite aggressively. “I’ll tell him when to leave.”
A bit startled, Stanton stammered, “Yes, sir.” His mouth pinched shut as he watched Duff relish his new authority.
Pendel smiled broadly.
“If you can’t take time out of the day for a laugh, then you might as well be Edwin M. Stanton.” He smiled as Pendel laughed again. When Stanton took his glasses off and tapped them on his palm, Duff coughed nervously. “I guess you better get along before those fellers start talking about taking over.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.” Pendel gave a side glance at Stanton and turned to leave.
“I promise to end this to-do at a decent hour,” Duff said. “I know Taddie will have you up early tomorrow morning packing for the Soldiers’ Home.”
“Thank you; very kind of you, sir.” Pendel smiled. The pleasant turn of mouth disappeared when he addressed Stanton. “Sir.”
After the doorman left, Duff began to open drawers in the desk.
“What are you doing?”
“If someone asks for a sheet of paper, I got to know where to get it, don’t I?”
“You’re bordering on insolence.”
“First you say I’m acting like a whupped dog, and then you say I’m insolent.”
“Enough of that.” Stanton waved his hand as he put his pebble glasses back on his nose. “Mr. Chase informed me this meeting was opportune, for he’d just written a letter of protest for Cabinet members to sign and present to you.”
“So he’s in on this?”
“No. While he has the right views, he lacks the imagination to understand the need for subterfuge.”
Their heads turned as they began to hear footsteps and voices come up the stairs. As they came closer, Stanton took a seat at the long table covered with a green cloth in the middle of the room. Duff looked up at the portrait of President Andrew Jackson looming over the conference table.
“I wonder what he’d think about all this,” Duff wondered aloud.
“Shh.” Stanton furrowed his brow, leaned forward and whispered, “And don’t acquiesce too easily.”
“Is that Mr. Smith and Mr. Bates I hear plotting outside my door?” Duff stood.
Two ordinary-looking, elderly gentlemen entered the room with reserved smiles.
“Never plotting, Mr. President,” Edward Bates, attorney general, said pleasantly as he extended his hand to greet Duff.
“Well, I’d plot against a man who roused me out of the house at a late hour like this,” Duff said as he firmly shook Bates’s hand.
“We’re ever pleased to do our duty in serving the presidency,” said Interior Secretary Caleb Smith with a slight lisp.
“My Lord, you should be in bed, Mr. Smith.” Duff paused in the middle of his handshake to lean forward and examine Smith’s prosaic, thin, pale face. “Forgive me, but you look worse than the puny turkey the poor relations turned down for Christmas.”
Stanton stiffened at Duff’s forwardness. If he had written a script for Duff to follow, it would not have included that observation on Smith’s health.
“Exactly Mrs. Smith’s sentiments as I dressed to come here,” Smith replied. “She would’ve been frightfully upset with you, Mr. President, if you had not yesterday sent her a note concurring with her insistence that I see my physician.”
Stanton relaxed in his chair as the light conversation continued between the men as they ambled to the conference table. Squinting at Bates, he surmised that the attorney general should not be a problem in agreeing with Chase’s letter. Most of the time he was courteously quiet during Cabinet debate, except when a matter of Constitutional law arose, and then he spoke with authority.
“I know you can’t expect to have the energy of a young man when you pass the age of fifty, but you’d think I could make it through the day without a nap,” Smith said as he slid into the nearest chair.
He would be no problem, Stanton judged the Interior secretary, though he had expressed admiration for General McClellan’s conservative approach to military strategy. Smith’s health was failing, and he conceded arguments simply to end the stress.
“Mr. President,” Gideon Welles said with a flinty New England accent, “I swear I’ll join Jeff Davis if you don’t stop calling these late meetings. I thought you were leaving for the Soldier’s Home tonight.”
The arrival of the secretary of the navy caused Stanton to stir uncomfortably in his seat. On one hand, he knew Welles was no supporter of McClellan and would welcome Chase’s initiative; on the other hand, however, he could not abide the man.
“Good to see you, Mr. Welles,” he said, smiling and stroking his pharaoh beard.
“Stanton.” Welles nodded his way.
Welles may well have been a good administrator from his years of running a newspaper in Hartford, Connecticut, but he knew nothing about ships. When Stanton joined the Cabinet, replacing corrupt Simon Cameron, he recognized Welles’s inadequacy immediately and could not conceal his contempt. Stanton showed no restraint in expressing disdain—his voice dripped with sneering reproof and his eyes glowed with incredulity until, to his surprise, Welles confronted him. It was then that Stanton had become alarmingly aware of how tall Welles was. His appearance may have invited scorn, with his flowing white beard and huge gray wig making him look like Saint Nicholas, but the gnome-like Stanton realized, as Welles loomed over him, Welles was not to be ridiculed. Since then, Stanton had forced himself to smile and be courteous, keeping his opinions of Welles to himself.
“So, Mr. President,” Welles said, “what’s the news?”
“Who else? General McClellan.” Duff stole a glance at Stanton, who looked down at the table.
“Ah,” Welles replied. “The man from West Point.”
“The man from West Point?” A hatchet-faced man appeared in the door. “We must be discussing the esteemed commander of the Army of the Potomac.”
“One and the same, Mr. Blair,” Welles said. “Come, sit down.”
“Good evening, Mr. President.”
“Mr. Postmaster General,” Duff said.
“Mr. Stanton.” Montgomery Blair, tall and weedy, focused his intense eyes on Stanton, and nodded stiffly.
“Have a seat, gentlemen,” Duff said, “we only lack two players, and we can start the game.”
A mild chuckle rolled around the table as Blair sat next to Smith and leaned toward him to whisper. Stanton squinted as he tried to make out what he was saying, for he could not trust Blair. He was an abolitionist for sure; in fact, he had acted as defense attorney for the runaway slave Dred Scott before the Supreme Court, and urged hot action on Fort Sumter, but Stanton felt as though he could not control the man, and that made him dangerous. Radicals and moderates together hated Blair, because he always said what he thought, and true believers, Stanton knew, only wanted to hear what they believed.
“Ah,” Duff said with light humor, “Mr. Seward and Mr. Chase. Now let the games begin.”

(Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton has placed President and Mrs. Lincoln under guard in the White House basement and replaced them with Duff and Alethia, lookalikes found in prison.
A few minutes later, Neal appeared with a tray holding three plates of pork chops, potatoes, and black-eyed peas. While Alethia’s family ties made her lean toward the cause of the South, she held no personal prejudice against black men, although she had never had any personal encounters with any, other than to pay the porter at the train station and to tell the old fellow sweeping the wooden sidewalk downtown to be careful not to get dust on her Sunday dress. This young black man did not scare Alethia as some did, those large, muscular laborers, black as midnight and with brooding eyes. Neal was slightly built, with light skin and freckles, which made him appear less ominous. He did have brooding eyes, though.
“Thank you, Neal,” she said.
“Neal, no.” Phebe arrived breathlessly in the doorway. “I forgot to tell you to take only two plates. Master Tad isn’t…”
“That’s all right,” Duff said, interrupting her and reaching for the tray. “Put two of those plates in front of me, Neal. I can handle them.”
“Yes, sir,” Neal said and gave a side glance to Phebe.
Was something wrong? Alethia worried. Had they noticed something already that made them suspicious? Only a few hours into their masquerade, she fretted, and found out so soon.
“Don’t look at me like that, Neal. I know it was my mistake,” she heard Phebe murmur.
Her eyes fluttering, Alethia realized they were not discovered. She sipped more tomato bisque to calm herself, thinking she should not assume every furrowed brow and every pregnant pause meant that someone had detected they were not the real Lincolns. Please, God, let this war be over soon, she prayed, for she could not take this stress very long.
“Neal, what kind of pie do you have down there?” Tad asked.
“You’ve already had your dessert,” Duff said.
“But I’m still hungry.”
“Then you should have eaten your soup.”
Good, Alethia said to herself, family squabbling is good.
“Well, Neal, what kind do you have?”
“I don’t know, Master Tad.” He pinched his lips together.
“It’s rhubarb,” Phebe offered.
“Yuck, I hate rhubarb.”
“Then it’s just as well, as you weren’t getting any in the first place,” Duff said as smoothly as the authentic Lincoln would have said.
As Phebe and Neal left, Tad looked over at their dinner. “I like pork chops.”
“You can have part of mine,” Alethia said and sliced a wedge off the thick, pan-fried chop on her plate.
“You’re going to spoil that boy,” Duff said.
“I’m not going to have any more boys.” Alethia touched his hair as he took the sliver of meat and stuffed it into his mouth. “He’s my last one.” She pulled away her hand and put it to her cheek, trying not to cry.
“Papa!” Licking his fingers, Tad’s eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open as he watched Duff finish one plate of food and reach hungrily for the second. “You’re eating like a pig!”
“Tad!” Alethia exclaimed. “What a way to talk to your father!”
Duff looked up, his eyes innocent and questioning and his mouth filled with potatoes. He swallowed hard.
“It’s just that Papa always eats just a bit at supper. And just an apple for lunch,” he said apologetically. “You’re always after him ’cause he eats so little. That’s all. I didn’t mean nothing.”
“Well, Taddie,” Alethia said with a laugh, “it seems you’re putting your father in a difficult situation. I fuss at him for eating too little, and when he tries to please me, you fuss at him for eating too much.”
“I didn’t mean to fuss.” Tad scrunched up his face.
“Go ahead, Father, and enjoy your supper,” Alethia said.
“I filled up.” Duff looked as though he had been caught doing something much worse than eating more than his share. He pushed the plate away.
“Are you sure?” Alethia furrowed her brow.
“Yes,” he replied. “Tad’s right. I guess my eyes were bigger than my stomach.” His eyes, however, gave him away as they stared longingly at the second pork chop from which he had taken only one bite.
“Then you must have a slice of that delightful rhubarb pie,” Alethia said.
“No, all filled up.” Glancing at Tad, Duff shook his head.
“Very well,” Alethia said. She dipped her fork into the potatoes and tasted them.
The rest of the meal went quietly, until Secretary of War Stanton appeared in the door and loudly cleared his throat. The three at the dining table looked up to see his disapproving glare through his pebble glasses.
“The Cabinet members will be here soon,” he said dourly. “We must prepare.”
“Yes, of course.” Duff looked up with wide eyes and wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin.
As the four of them left the small family dining room and walked down the hall, Stanton took Duff by the elbow to lead him to the service stairs. Alethia was alarmed that Duff looked confused.
“This way, Mr. President,” Stanton said.
Looking at the grand staircase at the end of the hall, Duff muttered, “But I thought…”
“The president doesn’t need to be prancing up and down the formal staircase all the time,” Stanton said, hardly hiding the reprimand in his voice. “He needs to protect his privacy by using the service stairs.”
“Of course,” Duff said as he followed Stanton.
Tad tugged on Alethia’s dress sleeve, and she bent down. “I don’t know why Papa doesn’t haul off and knock him down when he talks to him like that,” he whispered.
“Well,” Alethia replied, trying not to smile, “you know your father is very good at dealing with difficult people.”
They began climbing the service stairs, well behind Duff and Stanton, who were almost the second floor door. Tad grunted.
“I’d rather kick him in the shins.”
“Oh no; you mustn’t do that.”
“You said this afternoon that he got what he deserved when I pulled his beard.” He turned to look at her quizzically.
“You know me,” Alethia said with a desperate laugh. “Sometimes when I’m in a snit I say things I shouldn’t.” She playfully swiped at his shoulder with her hand. “As a young gentleman, you shouldn’t remind a lady of when she didn’t act like a lady.”
By the time they reached the top and entered the second floor hall, Duff and Stanton had disappeared through the glass panels into the president’s office. Alethia and Tad turned the other way to Tad’s bedroom. Alethia was pleased with herself that she remembered the correct door to open.
“And now it’s time for you to go to bed,” she sweetly announced.
As Tad went to his armoire to change into his pajamas, Alethia busied herself pouring water into a basin to wipe some of the grime and perspiration from the boy’s face and neck.
“I don’t like that Mr. Stanton,” Tad said as he crawled into bed. “He’s too cross and bossy. Sometimes I think he wants to be president instead of papa.”
“It’s war, Tad.” Alethia sat on the bed’s edge and lovingly wiped Tad’s troubled face. “That makes everybody a little cross. And men who want others to accept their ideas can look like they’re a little bossy.”
“Not a little, a whole bunch bossy.”
“Oh, Tad, what are we going to do with you?” She laughed as she caressed his slender neck with the wet cloth, wiping around the nape and down the shoulders.
“I’m not that dirty, am I?”
“Of course not. Mothers just get carried away, that’s all.” Alethia pulled back and walked to the basin where she rinsed out the cloth. “And Mr. Stanton. Don’t be too harsh on him, dear. I’m sure he has a wife and children and is quite gentle when he’s with them. Remember, people aren’t always as they appear.” She suddenly felt the back of her neck turn red with embarrassment. She tried to smile. “What I mean is, while Mr. Stanton may appear mean to you, he actually is quite affectionate with his children.”
“You already said that.”
“Oh dear, I’m getting confused again, aren’t I?” Alethia returned to the bed and sat close to Tad. She brushed the hair from his brow. “You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”
“I love you most when you’re like this, Mama.” Tad smiled and sat up.
“Like what?”
“You know, quiet and happy. Content and smiling. When you—now, don’t get mad—when you admit you make mistakes and apologize.”
“I don’t do that enough,” Alethia said. “I promise to try harder.”
“I know you try.” Tad leaned forward to hug her. “I love you, Mama.”
Alethia held her breath in an attempt not to cry from the joy of having a beautiful young boy embrace her so tightly. Duff could worry about the danger of their situation; she was going to enjoy the moment. “And I love you.”
Suddenly, Tad pulled away, his eyes wide with apprehension and confusion. He tried to talk, but no words came out. His little hand shook as it pointed at her bosom, and he held his other hand to his chest.
“What’s wrong, Tad?”
He shook his head and pointed again to her breast. Her hand went to her full bosom and covered it.
“I don’t understand, Tad. What’s wrong?”
Not saying a word, only moaning pitifully, he lay back down and pulled the covers up to his face until only his eyes, filled with fear, were left showing.
Alethia continued to look down at her bosom and then at Tad several times, until her mouth flew open and both arms went to her chest as though to hide it.
“Oh.”
Tad responded by sinking his head completely beneath the covers.

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Edwin Stanton places President and Mrs. Lincoln under guard in the White House while he installs lookalikes upstairs so he can control all decisions coming out of the Executive Mansion.

Opening the large cherry wood armoire in Mrs. Lincoln’s bedroom, Alethia smiled with the excitement of a debutante preparing for her first ball as she gently stroked the gowns hanging close together on the rack. She wondered if she would fit into the beautiful clothing as well as Mrs. Lincoln did. Would she look pretty? Alethia hoped against hope that she would be the woman everyone in the room noticed and admired. In all her years in Bladensburg, she had never been considered beautiful, not even pretty, not even considered alive. She pulled out a navy blue brocade trimmed with ivory lace on the collar and sleeves with small pearl buttons down the front. Clutching it to her ample bosom, Alethia bit her lower lip and smiled mischievously.
“Mr. Lincoln—Father—I need your advice,” she said, walking to the door of the president’s bedroom. “Would you please advise me on what to wear to dinner tonight?”
“It doesn’t make much difference,” Duff said as he pulled on his coat. He stopped as he turned to see the fancy blue dress Alethia held out. “Except…”
“Except what?” Alethia’s face briefly clouded.
“Mrs. Lincoln—you—are still in mourning,” he said.
“Oh, the little boy. Willie,” she said in a whisper. “I forgot.” Her fingers toyed with the fabric in her hands. “I’m so terrible. My heart sank when I realized I won’t get to wear her beautiful clothes for a while. Then I thought of the baby…”
“He was a little boy.”
“Oh no, they’re always your babies, no matter how old they are.” Alethia’s eyes fluttered, specks of tears glistening in her lashes. “She lost her baby in February. Of course, she’d still be wearing black.”
“Well, I don’t think anyone would mind a nice blue dress at a family supper in the private dining room downstairs,” Duff said.
“Tad would know.” She shook her head. “We must try to keep all this from him.”
The door to her bedroom flew open, and Tad charged in. “They said we’re eating in town tonight, but I already had my dinner, my pie dinner, at the Willard. Don’t you remember?”
“You could at least sit at the table and sip a glass of milk, couldn’t you?” Alethia ran her fingers through Tad’s tousled hair.
“I guess. I wanted to get back to the cottage tonight.” Tad’s eyes darted to the doorway where Nicolay and Hay stood. “So they’re wrong. I don’t have to eat again.”
“We’re terribly sorry, madam.” Nicolay took a slight step forward.
“Don’t worry about it, Mr. Nicolay,” she said graciously, pausing awkwardly as she noticed Nicolay and Hay exchange confused glances. She hardened her voice. “But don’t let it happen again.”
“Yes, madam.”
“The president and I are the only ones who determine what and when Tad eats.” Alethia’s face flushed as she attempted an imperious pose.
“Now, Molly, don’t be hard on the boys.” Duff put his arm around her.
She flushed again at his touch, a massive, strong hand gently squeezing her soft shoulder. Resisting a shudder growing from the bottom of her spine, Alethia stepped forward and smiled.
“Well, thank you, gentlemen.”
“Thank you, madam.” Nicolay bowed. “We’re going to the Willard for dinner and will return in about an hour.”
“And I was planning to visit some friends,” Hay interjected nervously, his eyes darting to Nicolay.
“I hate to dash your social plans, Mr. Hay,” Duff said, “but a late Cabinet meeting has been called. That’s why we’re here tonight. You and Mr. Nicolay will be needed.”
“Yes, sir.” Hay’s head dipped.
“There, there, Mr. Hay.” Duff walked to the two young men, put his long arms around them, and continued, “You’ll have many nights to spend with your friends.” He headed for the door.
“Let’s go to dinner, Tad.” Alethia looked down at the dress in her hands. “Oh.” Smiling at the boy, she put the dress on a chair. “I’ll put it away when we return.”
“You never let nothing stay on a chair before,” he said. “You always hang everything up.”
Running her fingers through his hair, Alethia fought to remain calm. “Never let anything. Watch your grammar.” She pushed him through the door. “Your father is already halfway downstairs. If you must know, I’ll give Mr. Lincoln a tongue-lashing for forcing me to leave this dress out to wrinkle.”
“Well,” Tad said with a sigh, “don’t yell too loud. I want to sleep.”
“You scamp.” Alethia gave him a tight hug around his shoulders as they began walking down the steps, her eyes wandering around the grand stairway as they descended slowly. Her lashes fluttered when she saw the half-moon window over the landing, and her fingers caressed the mahogany handrail.
“Mama, you’re acting like you ain’t never walked down these stairs before,” Tad said bluntly, his brow furrowed.
“Please don’t say ain’t,” Alethia said, averting her eyes from the ornate staircase. “Remember, you’re the son of the president of the United States of America. It’s important for you to use proper grammar at all times.”
“Yes, Mama.” He hung his head.
Alethia breathed deeply, praying for the self-restraint needed to mask her child-like wonder at her new surroundings.
“Sometimes I forget how beautiful this house is, Tad,” she tried to explain with humor. “There are moments—well, the way the lights hit the windows or paintings, it just takes my breath away.” She laughed. “It’s the Kentucky girl in me, I suppose.”
When Tad did not respond, Alethia sighed, because she could not describe her feelings. Garments made of rich fabrics she had seen only on fine ladies who stretched their legs during short layovers at the Bladensburg train depot were now within her touch. The most famous mansion in the nation, at one time home to Dolley Madison, was now her home. And, most important of all, a family—a warm, strong man and a beautiful, lively boy—was now hers to hold, love, and caress. All would be ripped from her bosom if she could not act as though these new joys were merely ordinary. At the bottom of the stairs she saw Duff wave good-bye to Hay and Nicolay as they left through the front door. He turned to smile at them and point to the small dining room off to a quiet corner. When Alethia walked in, she breathed a sigh of relief because, in this room, she did not feel overwhelmed but warmly welcomed. It was not imperious, but reminiscent of her aunt’s dining room where she had eaten every Christmas dinner since childhood. Her eyes caught sight of white vases on each end of the buffet, which overflowed with fresh-cut camellias. The striking view of white flowers against the antique white of the vases, accented by a few camellia leaves, made Alethia breathe deeply. What exquisite taste Mrs. Lincoln must have, she marveled, becoming fearful she could not imitate such sophistication. She resisted the urge to rush over to smell the strong scent of the camellias, to touch lightly their petals and gently caress the vases; instead, she ignored them and invited her new family to sit. Phebe entered with a tray of soup bowls.
“Thank you, Phebe,” she said, pleased she remembered her name. “You may serve the soup.”
“Tomato bisque, as you requested,” Phebe said.
“It looks delicious,” Alethia said.
Looking at Alethia, Tad whined. “But you said I didn’t have to eat this junk.” He frowned as Phebe put the bowl before him.
“Oh.” Her eyes widened. “That’s right. I forgot. I’m sorry, Phebe. Please take the bowl away.”
“That’s all right, Phebe.” Reaching for the bowl, Duff said, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Very well, Mr. President. Neal will be up in a few minutes with the main course.”
“Thank you, Phebe,” Alethia called out as she lifted her tray and left.
“This looks good,” Duff said, surveying his two soup bowls. He stopped short of picking up a spoon when his eye caught Alethia’s.
She was frowning, thinking suddenly that she did not know if the Lincolns practiced the custom of saying grace before every meal. She had read speeches by Lincoln in which he referred to Divine Providence, but even a spinster from a country village knew politicians often said anything to win votes with no intention of living the words they said.
“Mama,” Tad said. “Are you thinking about Willie again?”
‘What, dear?” Alethia turned to him, rousing from her dilemma about the prayer and whether Tad would notice. It was this young man, not members of the Cabinet or Congress, which Alethia feared most in keeping her identity a secret.
“You were awful quiet there,” he continued.
“It’s hard not to think of your brother.” She smiled.
“What do you think would help, Taddie?” Duff asked, glancing at Alethia. “Mentioning him in our prayers?”
“All right. Mama and I can talk to him at our bedtime prayers.”
“Maybe eating this good soup would make her feel better too,” Duff offered.
“Yeah, Mama; go ahead and eat.” Tad looked at Alethia and smiled.
“Let’s go ahead and eat our soup.” Duff smiled and picked up his spoon.
“It’s delicious,” Alethia murmured as she sipped, trying to hide the pleasure on her face at Duff’s clever way of solving the blessing problem.

War Secretary Stanton placed President and Mrs. Lincoln under guard in the White House basement and placed lookalikes upstairs so he could control how the war was conducted. Assigned to look over the Lincolns was Pvt. Adam Christy who was smitten at first sight of nurse Jessie Home.
When the two women drew closer, Adam stepped up and said, “Excuse me, are you Miss Cordie Zook?”
“Oh my goodness.” Her eyes widened in apprehension. “Has something happened to Gabby?” She looked in desperation at the tall young woman with red hair. “I was afraid this was going to happen. I should have never let—”
“No, ma’am; your brother is all right. He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s fine.”
“Then where is he?” Cordie’s large, liquid blue eyes searched Adam’s face intently. “Why isn’t he here?”
“He’s in the White House—” Adam stopped abruptly. “Um, he’s in the White House, and he’s fine, but he can’t come home. Right now, at least.”
“I don’t understand,” Cordie said.
The tall young woman with the red hair stepped forward and smiled confidently at Adam as she observed his uniform. “I hate to tell ye, Private, but you’re not makin’ yourself very clear at all.” She spoke with a distinct Scottish brogue. “Perhaps it’d be better if ye introduced yourself and explain how ye have all this wonderful knowledge of comin’s and goin’s at the president’s house?”
This woman was the most beautiful and intriguing female Adam had ever seen. It took him several seconds to find his voice.
“I’m Private Adam Christy, personal adjutant to President Abraham Lincoln. President Lincoln has ordered Mr. Gabby Zook to remain in the White House for an indeterminate amount of time—for security reasons.”
“For security reasons?” The young woman almost broke into laughter.
Cordie shook her head in bewilderment. “What does indeterminate mean?”
“It means he doesn’t know when your brother will come home.” The young woman put her arm around Cordie’s shoulders. “Isn’t that the truth, Private Christy?”
“Yes, miss,” he said. “It is.”
“But Gabby needs me,” Cordie replied, shaking her head. She looked at Adam. “You seen my brother, ain’t you?”
He nodded.
“Then you know. Gabby needs me. He can’t take care of himself. You know. You’ve seen him. I can’t—he needs me…” Her voice trailed off as her eyes went from Adam to the young woman.
“He’s fine, Miss Zook. We’re taking care of him,” he said. “I mean, I’m taking care of him. I mean, he’s being taken care of. You don’t have to worry.”
“But I have to worry about Gabby,” Cordie insisted. “On mama’s deathbed she made me promise to always worry about Gabby.”
“You don’t have to worry,” he repeated, trying to comfort her.
“Gabby was the smart one when we was young,” she continued, ignoring Adam. “He was like Uncle Sammy. He went to West Point. Then something happened.” Cordie shook her head. “Then he needed me. Nobody ever needed me as much as Gabby.”
“Now, I’m sure this nice young man will be very happy to meet us here every evenin’ to let ye know how brother Gabby is doin’.” She hugged Cordie. “Won’t ye be pleased to do just that, Private Christy?” She looked Adam squarely in the eyes.
“I don’t know.” He shuffled his feet and looked down. “I might be busy.” Finding his gumption, Adam turned up his face and returned her gaze. “After all, I am President Lincoln’s aide.”
“Really?” She laughed and tossed her head. “Ye can’t take a few minutes of your busy day for a dear sweet lady concerned about her beloved brother?”
“Please.” Cordie impulsively grabbed his hands and squeezed. “I must know how Gabby is. I won’t be able to sleep at night if I don’t know how he’s doing. I don’t think he could sleep at night, if he didn’t know I knew how he was doing.”
“Surely a handsome young man like yourself couldn’t ignore such a plea.” She touched his pocked cheek.
“Not handsome.” Adam mumbled, pulling his head back.
“Such a lovely head.” Not to be deterred, the young woman reached and touched his thick, red hair. “Ye must be of me blood. Scottish blood. No man is more handsome than a highlander.”
“Pa has red hair.” He shook his head to rid it of her soft, warm caress. “I really don’t know where mother’s folks came from.”
“These bother ye, don’t they?” She gently put her fingertips on the larger pock marks on his cheeks. “They shouldn’t, ye know. If ye didn’t have them, ye would be altogether too pretty. The scars make ye manly, ever so attractive for a lass like me.”
Adam opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out at first, so choked with emotion at the warm touch of her palm. His eyes went from Cordie, whose face was contorted with worry, to the Scottish girl and her sweet smile.
“Will you come with her? Each day?”
“But of course, Private Christy.” She hugged Cordie again. “Miss Dorothea Dix would have it no other way.”
“Who?” Adam wrinkled his brow.
“Miss Dorothea Dix,” she repeated. “Superintendent of Women Nurses. Faith, I thought everyone in Washington knew of the great pious lady of healing.”
“I’m new to the city.” Adam could not keep his eyes away from her.
“So you’ll meet us here each evening with news from Gabby?” Cordie ventured a smile.
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt anything.” Adam caught his breath and added, “But don’t tell anyone.”
“Who, pray tell, would care to know what two unattached ladies do on their way home from a day of honest labor at Armory Square Hospital?” The girl laughed.
“That Miss Nix,” Adam said.
“No, Dix. Dorothea Dix.” She corrected him with an impish grin. “And, no, she won’t ask. She may think she wants to know the comin’s and goin’s of all the nurses under her command, but she knows better now about tellin’ me how to live me life.”
“Don’t boast too much, dear.” Cordie touched her arm. “Miss Dix is a mighty important person. I’d not risk your words getting back to her.”
“And what if they did?” She looked at Adam again. “Ye wouldn’t tell her, would ye, Private Christy?”
“Oh no,” he said. “I don’t want her to know anything about me.”
“Don’t worry. I know how to handle her.” She held her head high. “The first day I saw her at Armory Square Hospital, I knew all about her. An elderly lady, fragile, with a thin neck but a huge bun of hair pulled so tight she must have an eternal headache. And there she sat on the edge of an injured boy’s cot, readin’ the Holy Scriptures. Faith, if there weren’t tears in both their eyes. I suppose it was because he felt he didn’t have long to live, with both legs chopped off at the knees. I walked up to her and said I was fresh off the boat from Scotland where I had tended to me mother as she died of pneumonia. I wanted to volunteer as a nurse.
“Now, when those blue-gray eyes looked me over, she smiled and said, ‘No, thank ye, dear, we won’t be needin’ ye.’ Well, I put my hands on my hips and said, ‘Now, ma’am, I’ve heard nothin’ but how the Union needs nurses.’ She pursed her lips a bit as she closed the Bible, stood, and looked me in the face. ‘I don’t want these young men’s hearts broken along with their bodies. I can’t take a chance on a pretty young woman.’”
She paused to smile ironically.
“I wasn’t about to let that stop me. So I said, ‘Is it pretty I am, Miss Dix?’ And she said in a voice that sounded like it didn’t want to pick a fight but was ready to stand tough, she said, ‘Of course, me dear, ye are pretty, young, and, from what I have observed in the last few moments, ye are on the cusp of flirtatiousness which definitely is dangerous to weakened young men.’ Then I asked her, ‘If ye had your way—and evidently ye do—no pretty girls will work at Armory Square Hospital?’ Without blinkin’ her blue-gray eyes, she simply said yes.”
Adam merely smiled, completely infatuated.
“I said, ‘Then ye must leave this hospital, Miss Dix, post haste.’ Her little mouth opened, and a bigger sound than I’d have expected exploded from her thin lips. ‘I beg your pardon!?’ Without a word I walked past her and sat on the edge of the cot of the poor unfortunate lad to whom she had just been readin’. He had drifted off to sleep apparently, but at the touch of my hand on his shoulder his eyes opened. ‘Who’s the most beautiful woman ye have seen today?’ I asked him.”
“He said you, didn’t he?” Adam said.
“Ye don’t know men as well as I do, Private Christy,” she replied. “I knew he’d look up and smile at Miss Dix and say, ‘She is.’ I told her, ‘Miss Dix, to these men your kindness, gentleness, your unconditional love, make ye beautiful, and, therefore, according to your rules, an extreme threat to the fragile emotional health of our soldiers.’ For a wee moment I thought I may have overstepped me bounds, but then Miss Dix smiled and said, ‘Ye may start tomorrow.’”
“I don’t understand.” Adam shook his head.
“Private Christy, beauty is not here,” she said, touching his cheek, “but here.” Her hand moved to his chest.
“If we can’t see Gabby,” Cordie said as she tugged at the girl’s sleeve, “we better go. It’s getting late.”
“I’ll tell your brother I talked to you and everything is all right,” Adam said, trying to be soothing. “And I’ll meet you here this same time tomorrow.”
“He’ll need a quilt.” Cordie nodded as she turned to leave. “Tell Gabby I’m making him a quilt.”
“Good.” The girl put her arm around Cordie. “Then it’s all settled.” She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “See ye tomorrow. And don’t be late. Miss Cordie gets mighty frightful to be out after dusk, even with a chaperone.”
“I promise.” After a pause, Adam jumped and waved his hand at the receding figures. “What’s your name?”
“Jessie Home. Ye know what they say. There’s no place like home.”
Adam continued waving as they disappeared into the dark, one hand touching his face where her fingers had caressed his pock-marked cheek.

Previously in the novel: War Secretary Stanton placed President and Mrs. Lincoln under guard in the White House basement. Stanton replaced Lincoln with a lookalike he had found in prison and groomed him to impersonate the president. Pvt. Adam Christy was placed in charge of the Lincolns.
Dusk fell over Lafayette Square as Private Adam Christy stopped at the Executive Mansion door to tell the Washington policeman, dressed as a doorman in a frock coat and baggy trousers, that he would be right back after meeting someone for a moment in the park. The guard narrowed his eyes.
“And who are you?”
“Didn’t Mr. Stanton tell you? I’m the president’s new adjutant.” Adam cleared his throat. “And who are you?”
“John Parker.”
John Parker…it struck a chord with Adam, who remembered Stanton telling him to be wary of a certain guard at the front door who tended to stay drunk. The metropolitan police had brought him up on charges of going to whorehouses, being drunk, and sleeping on duty.
“The president’s last adjutant was a lieutenant,” the guard said after carefully eyeing the single stripe on Adam’s rumpled blue sleeve.
“Um, I’m from Mr. Stanton’s hometown,” Adam whispered as he looked down.
“Oh. So that’s how it is.” A grunt gurgled from Parker’s lips.
“Yes.” Adam glanced across Pennsylvania Avenue into Lafayette Square to see if Gabby’s sister Cordie was there. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Of course, boss,” Parker said, his voice tinged with irony and his breath reeked of whiskey.
As Adam walked down the steps, across the driveway, and into the street, he felt the back of his neck burn, though he kept telling himself there was no shame in taking advantage of a family acquaintance to get a leg up, as his father would say. How else would a young man from a small town on the banks of the Ohio River find himself in the center of his nation’s government? Steubenville’s only link to political importance was in its name, homage to Baron Von Steuben who had trained General George Washington’s troops at Valley Forge, turning them into a viable fighting force. The Prussian native was well rewarded with land and money, but he spent his remaining years in New York, not in the back country of Ohio. So Steubenville itself was known for its manufacture of plates and cups and bolts of cloth, not its political influence. Therefore, when young Adam Christy announced as a child that he wanted to be a general, his father laughed. To be a general, his father explained as he stroked Adam’s red hair, he would have to go to West Point; and to go to West Point, he needed to be appointed by a congressman. And congressmen only came to Steubenville once every two years before an election. Perhaps one day he could be a sergeant, he had tried to encourage himself. Then his father burst through the door on a bright day in June of 1862, grinning broadly.
“Boy, you might make general after all,” he said, grabbing Adam’s shoulders.
“What do you mean, Pa?” Adam’s heartbeat quickened.
“I saw something in the newspaper back at the first of the year,” the elder Christy began. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want to get your hopes up.” He paused, smiling, to catch his breath. “You know how I’ve always said it’s not what you know but who you know, and my problem was that I never knew anybody. Well, what I saw in the newspaper let me realize I finally know somebody.”
“Who, Pa, who?”
“Well, I used to laugh and tell how I caught this fellow at the graveyard digging up your aunt. He’d taken a shine to her and wanted to make sure she was dead. But I caught him. I laughed at him and told everybody in town so they laughed at him until he finally got his back up. He blustered up to me, but dog-tailed it real fast when I said, ‘Yeah, so what? What are you going to do about it?’”
“Pa, what does that have to do with—”
“Just this. That fellow is now secretary of war for Abraham Lincoln.”
“But wouldn’t he hate your guts?” Adam frowned.
“Son, he’s a grown man,” his father said. “Grown men don’t hold grudges. Only boys do that.”
“So you wrote him about me?” Adam smiled.
“Sure did. Took a few months for a reply, but I got it today.” His father squeezed his shoulder. “He said for you to get on the next train headed for Washington. He has a special duty for you, and if you do a good job, he promised a commission.”
The next few weeks went by quickly for Adam, who mounted the train in Steubenville, crossed the Ohio River, passed Pittsburgh and the Pennsylvania countryside, entered Maryland, and stepped off the train into the different world of Washington, D.C. A nameless man in a rumpled blue uniform met him at the station and took him to an induction center where he was sworn in as a member of the Army of the Potomac, but instead of being led away to one of the training camps around the capital, Adam was taken to the War Department, where he met Edwin Stanton and his destiny.
Nothing wrong with using connections to receive a special assignment, he told himself as he looked back at the Executive Mansion from Lafayette Park. The guard at the door was only jealous. Then he looked up at the statues around him. A smile found its way to his lips as his eyes adjusted to the failing light to recognize a monument to General Frederick William Von Steuben, his hometown’s namesake. A portent of good fortune. Now that he had put his personal doubts behind him for the moment, Adam’s attention focused on his promise to Gabby Zook to tell his sister Cordie that he would not be coming home with her for some time. Looking around, Adam could see that few elderly women walked in the park at twilight, so spotting Gabby’s sister would be no problem. After a few minutes of shifting from one foot to another, however, he worried he had been wrong, until two female figures appeared far down Pennsylvania Avenue. One was short and had rounded shoulders. That one must be Cordie Zook. But he did not know who the second person might be, a tall, straight silhouette with a quick gait and lively waving of hands and bobbing of her head during conversation. He smiled, wondering what the young woman was saying. Adam already liked her.

Previously in the book, Edwin Stanton has put the Lincolns and Gabby the janitor in the White House basement, as look-alikes take the president and first lady’s place upstairs. Their guard Adam Christy must tell Gabby’s sister Cordie, who works at a military hospital, that her brother won’t be coming home.
“Thank you, Miss Jessie,” a wounded soldier murmured as he looked up from his cot in the main ward of Armory Square Hospital, several blocks south of the Executive Mansion.
A tall, red-haired young woman with a beautiful smile mopped his brow with a cloth.
“You’re quite welcome, Sergeant, darlin’,” she replied in a thick Scottish brogue.
“You come early in the morning and stay late at night, all without pay. You must be blessed with a good family who supports you.”
“Aye, a good family they were.” A cloud passed over her face. “Both me mother and father have passed away, but—” she paused, searching for a word, and then continued, “me dear pa left a wee inheritance.” Her eyes wandered. “I’m sorry, darlin’; I have to walk Miss Cordie home. She’s so nervous about the dark.”
“She’s a sweet soul,” the sergeant said. He grabbed Jessie’s arm. “And you’re a sweet soul.”
Jessie smiled and walked toward Cordie, who was putting away her mop and pail. She hoped the sergeant was unaware she was rushing away from him—actually not him, but painful memories of her parents. Her mother died before the family was to set sail for America. While visiting neighbors along the rugged, barren Scottish coast, she had caught a chill which developed into pneumonia. Her father’s plan to go to New York City, where all three of them could find jobs, had gone awry, but he did not mourn the ruined plans as he knelt by his dying wife’s bed, sobbing. Jessie’s mother had gathered the last of her strength to reach for her daughter.
“Ye have to take care of the lad now, Jessie.” Her eyes were moist with tears. “I robbed the cradle when I married your pa, but I couldn’t help it—his bright red hair, his smooth handsome face—so I forgot he was ten years younger than me.” She gasped for air. “Take care of him. His strong body deceives the eye. He’s had more than his share of ills.” A wracking cough shuddered through her. “Please, take care of him.”
Shaking her head, Jessie did not want to dwell on that day. The pain of losing her mother paled against the sight of her father’s heaving and moaning while clinging to his wife’s corpse. When she reached Cordie, Jessie put on her biggest smile.
“Time to go, Miss Cordie,” she said.
“Dear me, it’s getting dark,” Cordie replied, her watery blue eyes lit up. “Thank you, Miss Jessie, for walking with me. I’m from New York; I know how dangerous a big city can be.”
Again Jessie’s brow wrinkled as she unsuccessfully fought the memories of her traumatic past. On the streets of New York, only six months before, a lunch basket on her arm, walking to the construction site where her father worked, making good money. With her salary cleaning fancy homes on Park Avenue, the family actually was building a nest egg. Every night after work, she and her father sat at their kitchen table, discussing where they wanted to live when they could afford to move, because New York City was too big and loud for their country background.
Jessie focused on a crowd gathering in front of her father’s construction site. Instinct or intuition caused her to run toward the mass of people, pushing her way through. Stopping short when she reached the center, Jessie saw her father, lying on the ground, a vacant gaze in his eyes and bit of foam on his blue lips.
“My God!” She knelt beside him and then looked up frantically at the crowd. “Someone, please, call for help!”
Finally, an ambulance rattled up behind a team of clopping horses. The medics knelt by Jessie in front of her father’s dead body. After a routine check of vital signs, they shook their heads.
“Are you family?” one of them asked.
“He’s me father.”
“I’m sorry. We’re too late.”
“I know.” Jessie looked down at her father. “I’ve seen people die before.”
“We can take him straight to the morgue where the coroner will fill out the death certificate; you sign an indigence form, and it will cost you nothing.”
“What’s an indigence form?”
“It says you’re out of money and releases the city to dispose of your father’s body as it sees fit.”
Jessie paused to comprehend his meaning. Usually she had no problem understanding exactly what a person said. Being from a village in the isolated highlands of Scotland, Jessie was even adept at reading between the lines of slyly phrased gossip from wrinkled old women who had nothing better to do with their time. The cold, official language the medic used belied the awful reality behind it. She blinked her eyes.
“You mean a potter’s field?”
“So to speak.” He looked down. “Don’t dwell on it, miss. You have enough sorrow to deal with as it is.”
A touch on the shoulder from Cordie brought her back to the ward, where several wounded soldiers were calling out good evening to her.
“All the men love you, you know,” Cordie whispered.
“God bless you, miss; and you too, ma’am.” And older man, stripped to the waist exposing bandages over flabby skin, reached out to touch Jessie.
“That’s why they love you.” As they reached the door, Cordie leaned into Jessie to say, “You treat the old, ugly men the same as you treat the young ones.” She paused. “Gabby was handsome when he was young.”