Mrs. Lincoln's Rival: A Novel

Prologue

MARCH 28, 1861

On the occasion of President Lincoln’s first state dinner, carriages, carts, and hundreds of men on foot crowded the circular drive in front of the White House nearly all the way to Lafayette Square. Kate Chase studied the scene through the window of her father’s carriage, forgetting, for the moment, her misgivings that she was attending the event as a guest rather than the hostess. The crush of people forced their horses to slow to a walk long before they reached the bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson in the center of the driveway, and the tall white columns of the front portico suddenly seemed to be an interminable distance away.

Father, Kate said, touching his hand where it rested on the black leather seat between them. Didn’t you say that the president and his wife had invited only cabinet members, a few dignitaries, and their wives to tonight’s dinner?

Wives or daughters, as the case may be.

Or daughters, amended Kate, smiling. I ask because if the size of this crowd is any indication, it would seem that either you were misinformed, or the vast population of Washington City was.

I trust I didn’t misunderstand the president’s invitation, her father replied. No, my dear Katie, what you see before you is the capital’s most persistent plague—patronage seekers. They know they won’t be allowed past the doorman tonight, but that won’t stop them from clutching at the sleeves and pleading in the ears of any unfortunate official whom they can accost on the way to the door.

Kate lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. Then we shall have to be quick and clever to avoid them.

Yes, and we’ll keep the distance from carriage to threshold as short as possible. Salmon P. Chase frowned out the window. Impeded by the throng, the carriage had slowed to a crawl until it finally halted several yards away from the portico. Although that might prove difficult.

I’m sorry, Mr. Secretary, the driver called down. I can’t get any closer until those other drivers clear away.

Kate had no desire to spend any more of that lovely spring evening gazing longingly at the brightly lit White House through a carriage window and imagining all she was missing within. Let’s brave the gauntlet, she proposed. The president and his wife are expecting us.

Her father nodded, more impatient than she to join the gathering inside. He deplored tardiness and did not tolerate it in himself or anyone else. This will do, George, he called to the driver. We’ll walk from here.

Her father helped her down from the carriage, and as she took his arm, she felt a glow of warmth and happiness fill her heart despite the small, sad ache of disappointment that had nagged her ever since the Republican Party had selected Mr. Lincoln rather than her father as its candidate. If not for the perfidy of the delegates from his own state of Ohio, her father surely would have been sworn in as president earlier that month rather than as secretary of the treasury, and Kate, as the widower’s eldest daughter, would have become First Lady.

Salmon P. Chase was, Kate knew to the very core of her being, the better man—better educated than Mr. Lincoln, more experienced, more committed to the noble cause of abolition, and vastly more qualified. Father had been a senator and governor, while Mr. Lincoln—well, Kate liked him, but if she set sentiment aside and forced herself to be strictly objective, she had no choice but to admit that a kindly country lawyer from the West with but one term in Congress to his credit was ill prepared to steer the ship of state, especially through the rough waters the nation faced. Any observer could see that, and in fact, many had, and had said so in the streets and in the press. No one expected much of the new president, and they expected even less of his overeager, overanxious wife, a matron in her midforties who had thus far failed to make a favorable impression on Washington’s social elite.

Fortunately, Mr. Lincoln would have Salmon P. Chase to advise him. As for Mrs. Lincoln, for the good of the nation and the Republican Party, some kind lady ought to befriend her, become her confidante, and help her navigate the thorny maze of Washington society.

Kate resigned herself to the likelihood that no one was better suited for the role than herself, though she was more than twenty years younger than Mrs. Lincoln.

Mr. Secretary, a voice rang out. Glancing to her left, Kate glimpsed a freckled young man in a brown suit two sizes too large for his bony frame, waving a handful of papers and grinning hopefully. Mr. Secretary, a moment of your time, if you please.

He’s no one, Kate murmured, not unkindly. Her father was terribly nearsighted, but he hated to wear his spectacles in public and often relied upon Kate to identify people at a distance. He had been known to pass good friends and acquaintances on the sidewalks or halls of Congress without recognizing them, an unfortunate habit that contributed to his reputation as being aloof and uncongenial.

As other eager, avaricious faces turned their way, Father offered Kate his arm. Let’s make haste.

Quickly Kate slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and hurried off beside him. Perhaps you should throw a few minor treasury appointments after us to distract them, she teased, breathless. Rather like Aphrodite’s golden apples, but in reverse.

I’ll have no Hippomenes catch my Atalanta, her father declared, quickening his pace as he guided her through the crowd. Laughing, Kate did her best to keep up with him, though she was shorter than her father by nearly half a foot and encumbered by her corset and hoopskirt.

At last they reached the portico, where the burly, white-haired doorman greeted them in an Irish brogue and admitted them into the vestibule. They passed through the main hall into the Blue Room, a graceful ellipse with tall windows overlooking the south lawn and the Potomac River. It seemed to Kate to be in better repair than the other public rooms of the Executive Mansion, which were shabbily furnished with threadbare and tobacco-stained rugs, broken furniture, torn wallpaper, and ruined draperies, from which souvenir collectors had snipped pieces until they hung in tatters. Here, however, all was in elegant order. The chairs and settees were upholstered in rich blue and silver damask, the woodwork brilliantly gilded. Ornate mirrors on the marble mantel reflected the light from the chandeliers hanging high above from a frescoed ceiling of cerulean blue, beneath which men of influence clad in evening black and their ladies in elegant gowns of every hue mingled and chatted, the soft blue-and-white carpet muffling their footsteps.

Before passing from the brightly lit hall into the Blue Room, the Chases paused in the doorway, long enough for almost thirty pairs of eyes to turn their way. Conversations paused as the guests took in the newcomers, and as Kate smiled warmly and nodded gracefully to one acquaintance after another, she drew herself up proudly, knowing how she and her father looked to them. Salmon P. Chase—tall, broad-shouldered, and powerfully built, his features strong and regular beneath a high, clear brow projecting intelligence, courage, and dignity—was the very image of a statesman. And Kate herself—auburn-haired, hazel-eyed, young, slender, vivacious, becomingly attired in a gown of pale-yellow silk, her hair arranged in a simple, elegant twist and adorned with white flowers—was the very ideal of the accomplished, dutiful daughter. You look like the king and queen of Washington, her younger sister, Nettie, had sighed wistfully upon their departure from home. Father had taken a moment to lecture his youngest child on the superiority of American democracy to European monarchy, which she accepted with a good-natured shrug, with none of the shame and remorse Father’s admonishments evoked in Kate.

As John Nicolay, the president’s private secretary, made the customary introductions, Father escorted Kate across the room, where Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln waited to receive their guests. The president’s gaunt features became warmer, his eyes brighter, when he smiled, as he did when he shook Father’s hand and then Kate’s. How is little Nettie? Mr. Lincoln asked, his thick, dark brows rising quizzically, an amusing complement to the high, thin quality of his voice.

Very well, thank you, Father replied formally, bowing to Mrs. Lincoln.

Seeing her father and the president together, Kate almost laughed aloud, taken anew by the remarkable distinction between them. If Father looked every inch a statesman, Mr. Lincoln resembled a frontier schoolmaster with no wife to remind him to brush his hair and straighten his coat. Nettie is indeed well—she amended her father’s reply—but I confess she was disappointed to be left at home.

Why didn’t you bring her along? Mr. Lincoln asked, genuinely perplexed.

Oh, Mr. Lincoln, his wife chided him, laughing shortly. Her eyes were sharply blue, her complexion white and smooth, her neck and arms elegantly molded, but she was otherwise plain and tended toward stoutness, which her short stature and her husband’s great height unfortunately exaggerated. Children, at a state dinner for the cabinet? Not even Tad and Willie will be in attendance tonight.

Mr. Lincoln smiled benignly down upon his wife. I’m fortunate to have you here to remind me of such things. He turned back to the Chases with a self-deprecating shrug. When I consider the reams of paper piled upon my desk, which are almost certainly accumulating greater heights even as we speak, I can only hope that an instructive book on presidential manners lies at the bottom.

"At the very bottom, do you mean? teased Kate, detecting an ironic note in his tone. So deeply buried that no one can expect you to unearth and to read it?"

Mr. Lincoln’s laugh rang out, rich and full. Why, yes, Miss Chase. You understand me perfectly.

Father beamed proudly, but as she shook Mrs. Lincoln’s hand, Kate detected a flicker of annoyance in the First Lady’s eyes above her gracious smile, and she was not sorry to move on. There were wives and daughters to befriend, gentlemen to charm, and people of influence to impress, but as she and her father made their way around the room, Kate often thought she still felt Mrs. Lincoln’s blue eyes upon her, taking her measure with scrupulous, unforgiving precision.

Kate soon forgot Mrs. Lincoln’s displeasure, swept up in the pleasure of making new acquaintances and engaging in lively conversation that occasionally, and rather delightfully, leaned toward debate. United States attorney general Edward Bates, black-haired and white-bearded, spoke longingly and endearingly of the Missouri home he had only recently departed, while General Simon Cameron, with his keen, deep-set eyes and thin mouth, struck her as insistent and shrewd. One by one Kate addressed them all, and the ladies who had accompanied them, complimenting their attire and inquiring about their children. Kate especially liked the wife of the secretary of state, Frances Seward, whose dark, intelligent eyes belied the frailty of her form. Unfortunately, Mrs. Seward spent little time in Washington City, preferring her gracious family home and more temperate climate of Auburn, New York—but her frequent absence, and that of the vice-president’s wife, did leave Kate the second-highest-ranking woman of the executive branch according to protocol and tradition, behind Mrs. Lincoln, who never let her forget it.

A moment came when Kate found herself unaccompanied, but just as it occurred to her that they should have been called in to dinner by then, Mrs. Lincoln appeared at her side. Dinner will be delayed somewhat longer, the First Lady explained, drawing her apart from the others. General Scott has not yet arrived.

Oh, of course we must wait for him, Kate replied. I hope he wasn’t swallowed up in the crush outside.

I’m sure he wasn’t. A crowd of patronage seekers is no match for a gentleman who commands entire armies.

Kate smiled. I’m sure you’re right.

Be careful what you say in this city, even in jest, Mrs. Lincoln cautioned, linking her arm through Kate’s and strolling away from the other guests so that Kate was compelled to come along. Rumors fly so swiftly in Washington that if I were to cross this room right now, I would not be surprised if the people on the other side greeted me with the dreadful news that General Scott met his demise at the hands of a mob on our front doorstep.

Kate laughed easily. Thank you for the warning. I’ll take heed, I assure you.

Speaking of rumors. Mrs. Lincoln halted, slipped her arm free from Kate’s, and fixed her with an inscrutable look. You do know the rumors circulating about us, don’t you?

Why, no, said Kate. Why should there be any rumors about you and me?

Because people enjoy gossip even more than they relish believing that accomplished women cannot get along. Mrs. Lincoln smiled, but she glanced past Kate’s shoulder as if wary that they would be overheard. They say that you and I are embroiled in a terrible feud.

Kate was so astonished she laughed. And what reason do they give for it?

My overwhelming jealousy at the attentions my husband showed you at the military ball given in his honor when we stopped in Columbus in February on our way to Washington. Mrs. Lincoln’s smile tightened as she nodded to a cabinet official passing nearby. They say he danced with you more often than was seemly and showered you in compliments, while I looked on, weeping by some accounts and seething according to others.

That’s nonsense, Kate exclaimed, quickly lowering her voice. I wasn’t even in Columbus when your train passed through.

Why, no, you weren’t, were you? mused Mrs. Lincoln as if she had only just remembered—although an edge to her voice immediately told Kate that the perceived slight had been in the forefront of her thoughts all evening. You knew the president-elect and his wife and sons would be passing through your own city, and yet some urgent business of far greater importance compelled you away.

Not of greater importance, but essential nonetheless. Kate drew herself up to her full height and regarded the First Lady steadily. Governor Dennison had appointed my father a state delegate to the Peace Convention. My family had already come to Washington City by the time you reached Columbus, or I would have been there to meet you. I trust Governor Dennison’s wife welcomed you as well as I would have done.

Mrs. Lincoln’s smile deepened and hardened. Or better, perhaps. Almost certainly better.

With that, she moved off in a swirl of silk skirts, leaving Kate watching after her, utterly astonished.

Soon thereafter, word came that General Scott was ill and would not be able to join them after all. Mr. Nicolay signaled for the Marine Band to strike up a spirited march, and as the brisk, merry tune played, Kate quickly composed herself, found her father, and let him lead her into the state dining room. Mr. Lincoln’s place was in the middle of one side of the long table rather than at the head, while Mrs. Lincoln sat opposite him, and the others were seated all around according to rank. Kate found herself across the table from a Mr. William Howard Russell, a correspondent for the London Times, who seemed as charmed by Kate’s conversation as she was by his wit and accent.

The food was excellent, the talk around the table bright and lively and quick, but whenever Mr. Lincoln spoke, all other voices hushed and all faces turned to him expectantly as he spun an amusing tale or made a point with a clever witticism. From the first course to the sweets, Mrs. Lincoln was so merry and chatty and smiling that Kate found herself wondering if she had imagined the strange confrontation in the Blue Room.

After the meal, the gentlemen withdrew to the Red Room, but just before the ladies were led off to an adjoining drawing room, Kate observed Mr. Nicolay whisper in her father’s ear, and then in Mr. Seward’s, and on to each member of the cabinet in turn. Just before a servant closed the door between the rooms, Kate glimpsed Mr. Lincoln and his cabinet quietly disappearing into another chamber while the other gentlemen lit cigars and poured brandy, apparently oblivious to their quiet departure.

Kate frowned at the closed door. Her curiosity would have to remain unsatisfied until the drive home, when her father would surely tell her everything.

She chatted easily with the other ladies, even Mrs. Lincoln, but her thoughts were with her father, wondering what intriguing subjects of national importance the men were discussing. Had the president finally decided whether to send provisions to Major Anderson’s men holding Fort Sumter in Charleston Harbor? Had Virginia at last declared its intention to remain in the Union or to secede with the South? How she wished she could put an ear to the wall and listen. Her father was open and frank when he confided to her the substance of such clandestine conferences, but sometimes he missed the subtleties of tone and implication and expression, and thereby a significant amount of any conversation. He relied upon her for those observations, and for a great deal more besides.

She managed to stifle a sigh of relief when at last the gentlemen rejoined the ladies. She sensed a new tension in the air as she studied the cabinet secretaries and tried to read their expressions, but like her father, they were careful to maintain a facade of the former joviality of the party. She noticed that Mrs. Lincoln’s keen gaze was often upon the president’s face, and she knew that Mrs. Lincoln was as eager to hear his account of the secret meeting as Kate was to hear her father’s.

When the evening at last drew to a close, Kate slipped on her shawl, took her father’s arm, and bade Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln good night. I do hope we will prove all the rumors false and become good friends, Kate told the First Lady quietly while her father and the president were otherwise distracted. There is already too much division in our country for us to contribute to it. If malicious gossips are eagerly anticipating a fight between us, let’s conspire to disappoint them.

Why, I hope we will become good friends too, Mrs. Lincoln replied grandly, too loudly and too brightly, not for Kate but for everyone else. For Kate she reserved a private, haughty glare that announced she meant not a word of it. I shall be glad to see you at any time, Miss Chase.

Kate’s temper flared. She had spoken with utter frankness and sincerity, but Mrs. Lincoln was determined to be disagreeable. Mrs. Lincoln, she said, smiling graciously, "I shall be glad to have you call on me at any time."

Mrs. Lincoln’s eyes widened with shock at her impudence, but Kate’s smile only deepened as she turned and left the White House on her father’s arm.

Those who had overheard the exchange might conclude that Kate had innocently misspoken, that because of her youth and inexperience she was unaware of the custom that decreed that the First Lady did not call on others. Mrs. Lincoln was first in Washington society by virtue of her husband’s exalted position, and so, as an inviolable rule, others came to her. But it had been no girlish mistake. Kate understood precedent perfectly well, and she knew that by assuming that Mrs. Lincoln would call upon her like any other lady of Washington society might, she was claiming a higher rank than the First Lady.

Kate knew it, and Mrs. Lincoln knew it too.

Kate had tried to befriend her, but she had been coldly and unreasonably rebuffed. She would not try again.

If Mrs. Lincoln was determined to have a rival, Kate would be happy to oblige.

Chapter One

MARCH 1858

On a bright Saturday afternoon in Ohio, with sunlight and birdsong outside her window setting an appropriately joyful scene for her errand, Kate dressed with care in her best blue riding dress and gathered her long auburn locks into a hairnet. Her father had entrusted to her a most important task—nothing less than the redemption of an innocent man—and she must show due respect to the occasion.

The previous evening, after her father had finished his customary program of study and prayer, he had found himself with an idle hour, which, disapproving of idleness, he had sought to fill. Kate immediately proposed a game of chess, and as they studied the pieces and predicted each other’s next moves, Father had told her about the prisoner, an aged Polish immigrant who had fought bravely for his adopted country in the War of 1812 but sometime thereafter had been convicted of burglary. For years he had patiently served out his sentence in Hamilton county without the consolation of friends or any hope of reprieve, but in the course of a transfer to the state penitentiary in Columbus, new facts had come to light suggesting that he could not have committed the crime. I have become convinced that because of his years and declining health, Father said as he captured Kate’s rook, justice would be better served if I grant him a pardon rather than await the outcome of a new trial. I’ve made up my mind to sign the papers tomorrow afternoon, and as soon as they’re delivered to the warden, the poor old fellow shall walk through the prison gates a free man.

Kate felt such a rush of joy and pride that she nearly overlooked that her father was two moves away from placing her in check. Let me deliver the pardon for you, she implored, moving her bishop to defend her king. What a blessing it would be to carry such good news, to help deliver an innocent man from unjust captivity.

And what an honor and comfort it would be for the old gentleman, her father said, nodding approvingly, to have his liberty restored to him by a compassionate young woman, the governor’s own child, rather than an anonymous clerk.

They agreed that Kate should retrieve the signed document from her father’s office in the capitol the following day, as soon as it could be prepared. Then her father wondered aloud if Kate ought not to travel unescorted. Perhaps Aunt Alice should accompany you.

I’d prefer to go alone. The noble mission was Kate’s idea and she intended to carry it out herself. Besides, Aunt Alice will be busy with Nettie.

For a moment she feared she had miscalculated, and that her father would next decree that both Aunt Alice and ten-year-old Nettie should accompany her, but instead he reluctantly agreed. Do not acquire any unsuitable companions along the way, he instructed her, and as she nodded, she felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment. Would he never forgive the foolish mistakes of her girlhood? She knew she had erred in the past, that she had allowed herself to fall under the heady spell of men’s admiration and flattery, but no lasting harm to her person or reputation had been done, and they ought to let the incidents fade into history. She had resolved never to repeat them, and she was not a guileless girl anymore but a woman grown, almost eighteen. She ran her father’s household as skillfully as her mother or Nettie’s mother or his first wife would have done, had they lived, and she had become what he had raised her to be—an educated young woman, qualified to ornament any society in our own country or elsewhere into which I may have occasion to take you, as he had written to her so many years before when she was a lonely, motherless girl at boarding school in New York. He had relentlessly urged her to pursue her studies diligently, to cultivate her manners, to establish sound moral and religious principles, and all this she had done, the better to help him achieve his noble ambitions.

She knew too that if she made herself indispensable to him, he would never again send her away to boarding school—nor would he find it necessary to seek a fourth Mrs. Chase.

The memory of her father’s warning dimmed the brilliance of the day, but only for a moment, and soon she was flying down the stairs as lighthearted as a child and searching the house for her aunt and sister. She found them in the parlor side by side on the settee, Aunt Alice nodding patiently as Nettie stumbled through her Latin recitations. Nettie glanced up from her work eagerly upon Kate’s arrival, glad for any excuse to set her studies aside. She would much rather be drawing, or composing little stories in English, or flitting about in the garden. Little golden-haired Nettie resembled their strong-featured father too much to be truly pretty, but her sweet manner and cheerful spirits inspired affection from all who met her. Nettie is a sweet child and everyone seems to love her, her father had praised his youngest living child in a letter when Kate was eleven years old. He had never used such phrases to describe Kate, but it was certainly true about Nettie. Even Kate was not immune to her charms. Kate, who knew she inspired admiration and envy rather than affection, who might properly have been jealous of a much-adored younger sister, loved Nettie too much to resent her.

She bade her aunt and sister good-bye, and endured her aunt’s sad-eyed warning to be cautious in her choice of companions, silently fuming as she smiled and assured her that she would be wary of strangers. Two years had passed since her impropriety, two years without another such transgression, with scarcely anything worse than unsatisfactory marks in school, poor penmanship, and overdue replies to letters to give her father and aunt reason for complaint. She could only imagine how they would react if she did something truly, irreparably scandalous. The shrieks and lamentations would rival those of the Egyptians suffering the twelve plagues.

A giggle escaped her throat before she could contain it, so she feigned a cough, which tickled her throat so uncomfortably that she began to cough in earnest. It’s nothing, she managed to say as Nettie and Aunt Alice peered up at her, concerned. Just a little— Her words broke off in another fit of coughing.

My dear Katie, are you quite all right? her aunt queried, her brow furrowing. She had good reason to worry. Both Kate’s mother and Nettie’s had died of consumption, and Kate had been troubled with respiratory ailments nearly all her life.

Kate took a breath and cleared her throat. I’m fine, she said, smiling to reassure them. I’ll be home soon.

She hurried off to the stable before her aunt could offer to feel her forehead or dose her with castor oil.

Ohio had no official residence for its governor, but the stately Gothic residence on the corner of State and Sixth streets with its peaked roofs, towers, and numerous chimneys was mansion enough to satisfy Kate. The family had moved to the fashionable neighborhood from rented lodgings the previous December, after Father’s election to a second term convinced him that they would reside in Columbus long enough to warrant more permanent lodgings. He had delegated the task of furnishing the home to Kate, and she had delighted in traveling to Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and New York to purchase carpets and draperies, sofas and china, all to her father’s exacting standards. To be sure, he had sent her off with strict instructions and had inundated her with letters throughout her excursions, but for the most part she had been on her own, meeting with merchants, comparing the cost and quality of materials and workmanship, and making the final decisions. She had never felt so necessary and yet so free and independent. Naturally, Father fretted over the bills and warned her time and again about spending too much for too little, but when she had finished, he was well pleased with his comfortable, gracious home and the grand impression it made upon visitors.

The groom helped her saddle Honeysuckle, her beloved bay mare, and soon she was on her way to the capitol, where her father kept his offices and the legislature met. Though it was not yet complete, the magnificent Greek Revival edifice, with its tall, white Doric columns framing each entrance and large cupola on top, shone with grandeur.

Kate left Honeysuckle at a hitching post and swept up the front steps to the portico. Inside, clerks and citizens greeted her in passing, some of whom she knew, others she did not but who could not fail to recognize the governor’s eldest daughter. When she reached her father’s offices, his secretary welcomed her in the anteroom and promptly ushered her to his chamber. My dear Katie, he greeted her, rising from his chair and bending to kiss her cheek. I expected you earlier. From his orderly desktop he retrieved a single document, folded and sealed, and placed it into her hands. Deliver this to the warden as quickly as you can. An innocent man has already spent too much time wrongly imprisoned.

I will go with all speed, Kate promised, smiling to hide her disappointment. She had hoped to witness her father signing the pardon, and perhaps linger for a bit of chat, but of course Father did not have time to spare, and the poor prisoner should not be kept waiting a moment longer.

She bade him good-bye, rising on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and hurried on her way, the precious document carefully tucked inside her reticule. She and Honeysuckle had traveled scarcely two blocks from the capitol when she heard a horse’s hooves on the road behind them, swiftly closing the gap.

Resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder, she held Honeysuckle to a steady gait as a man on horseback pulled up alongside. Good afternoon, Miss Chase, he greeted her. A lovely day for a ride, wouldn’t you agree?

Why, Leonard Hillington, she exclaimed. Aren’t you supposed to be away at college?

I should be, but I came home to attend to some business of my father’s.

His father, she knew, was a prominent businessman who also served in the legislature. She wondered what urgent matter had compelled Leonard to travel so far in the middle of the term. I do hope all is well at home.

Oh, yes. It’s just a routine matter, accounts to examine, paperwork to sign. He held her gaze in a friendly way as they trotted along. To be frank, I was glad to escape my studies for a while.

Escape? Kate echoed archly. My father rather enjoyed his years at Dartmouth, and he continues to study on his own every evening without fail.

Your father is a giant among men, said Leonard. We mere mortals need occasional time away from our books.

Kate smiled, her eyes on the road ahead. He sounded sincere, but he surely realized that praising her father was the most certain way to rise in her esteem. He sets a fine example for us all.

Indeed he does. After a moment, Leonard said, If it’s no intrusion, may I ask where you’re going? Your manner seems too purposeful for someone merely taking her exercise.

I’m on my way to prison, of course.

He was so astonished he laughed. To prison?

That’s right.

With what crime have you been charged? Whatever it is, I shall stand as a character witness in your defense.

Kate smiled. How very good of you.

What is it, then? Petty theft? Breaking and entering? Or breaking hearts?

Kate laughed and groaned together. Oh, Leonard, really.

On the other hand, perhaps breaking windows is more likely, he mused. I do recall a certain auburn-haired schoolgirl hurling rocks at my friends and me on the sidewalks of Columbus years ago.

You deserved nothing less for the horrid insults you shouted.

Perhaps you’re right. I wouldn’t dream of shouting insults at you now.

Dartmouth has greatly improved you, then, she teased. Perhaps you should hurry back so they may polish away the rest of your rough edges.

His laughter rang out, and it occurred to Kate that Leonard had learned confidence as well as flirtation in his time away from Columbus. He never could have summoned up the courage to banter with her before.

She explained the true nature of her errand as they rode along, and when they reached the prison, he offered to wait and escort her home afterward. She hesitated, dismayed by the hope in his eyes. Next he would be asking to call on her, and for permission to exchange letters with her upon his return to Dartmouth. He was kind and intelligent and handsome in a boyish way—and most important, he was unmarried—but she had no time for beaux. So she thanked him but assured him she would make it home perfectly well on her own, and sent him on his way, disappointed.

At the front gate she dismounted, gave her name to the guard, and asked to be taken to see the warden. I have come on an important errand from Governor Chase, she said grandly. Looking rather startled, the guard promptly escorted her inside, taking a long, circuitous route designed, she suspected, to prevent a glimpse of the prisoners too shocking for a young lady’s gaze. At last they came to the warden’s office, but he was not alone; after welcoming her, the warden introduced her to his companions, Reverend Myers, a stout, black-haired man in a black suit and minister’s collar, and Mr. French, a sandy-haired man in a rumpled suit carrying a notepad with ink-stained fingers. A clerk, Kate decided, and turned a disarming smile upon the warden. I believe you know the reason for my visit, she said. Would you please take me to Mr. Malecki?

The warden and the minister spoke over themselves in their haste to inform her they had made more suitable arrangements, and with Mr. French trailing along behind, they escorted her to a simply furnished but comfortable sitting room, which she gathered was reserved for dignitaries and was not the usual place visitors met prisoners.

Before long a guard brought in a white-haired man, who shuffled with head bowed to stand before the warden. Kate’s smile faded as she took in a face lined with misery, a back stooped from grief and hard toil, scrawny limbs from which pale, weathered skin hung loosely, like an old, wrinkled suit that had once fit a younger, heartier man.

Her throat constricted as the warden announced her and the prisoner lifted his head to regard her warily. She should have come earlier. She should have begged her father to have the documents signed first thing in the morning. She should have sped Honeysuckle from the capitol to the prison at her fastest clip rather than allow this poor man to suffer a single moment longer than necessary.

Would you like a chair, Miss Chase? the warden asked.

Yes, indeed, Kate quickly replied, not for myself but for this gentleman.

Looking a trifle put out, at a nod from the warden the guard left the room and returned with a wooden chair, which he set down with an impatient flourish and gestured for the prisoner to take. After a moment’s hesitation, and after a murmur of encouragement from the minister, Mr. Malecki carefully seated himself, slowly folding up his bony limbs as if it pained him to move.

Kate took a quick breath to steel herself before approaching him. Mr. Malecki, she said steadily, managing a warm smile, it is my great honor to present to you this pardon from my father, the governor, which he offers with his regards and his certainty of your innocence.

The man’s watery, hooded eyes flicked from the document she held out to him to her face and back again. He did not move to take it from her.

Malecki, the warden said sternly, you owe this young woman the courtesy of a reply.

He owes me nothing, Kate said evenly, breaking the seal, unfolding the paper, and placing it in his hands on his lap. This must be quite unexpected, sir, but I assure you, everything is in order.

She held her breath as his gaze skimmed the page, taking in the printed script, the official seal, her father’s angular handwriting. He looked up, his face a study in wonder. I’m a free man?

Yes, you are, Kate assured him.

Mr. Malecki glanced up at the warden. But what about my—my new trial?

Unnecessary now, the minister told him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Trembling, Mr. Malecki looked around the room, tears welling up in his eyes. A raw, aching sob burst from him, and he crumpled, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his head in his hands. Involuntarily, Kate stepped back, and a moment later the warden was at her side, offering her his arm and murmuring that she need not remain to witness the upsetting scene. Before she could protest, he had ushered her from the room. A quick backward glance revealed the minister bent over the weeping man, and Mr. French jotting notes on his pad as he followed Kate and the warden into the hall.

That poor man, Kate managed to say as the warden escorted her to the exit. What will become of him? Does he have any family, any friends?

No family in this country, Mr. French remarked, flipping through his notepad. Any friends he might have had before he went to prison must have forgotten him by now.

Reverend Myers has arranged a room for him in the boardinghouse of one of his parishioners, the warden assured her. If, after a time, the old fellow can work, they’ll find him a job. Until then, the church will provide for him.

Kate nodded, somewhat relieved. She managed to compose herself by the time they reached the exit, where she thanked the warden and nodded politely to Mr. French, who threw her a rakish grin and said, No, Miss Chase, it is I who thank you. This was truly a fascinating episode.

Kate studied him curiously for a moment, but her attention was snatched away when the warden cleared his throat. Miss Chase, he ventured, I trust that you will assure your father that his wishes were carried out with the utmost expediency, and that you were protected at all times from any distress?

Of course. The governor will be pleased to hear how efficiently and faithfully you carried out your duties. And you, Mr. French? she asked, turning to him. Would you like me to recommend you to my father too?

Mr. French frowned thoughtfully. I suppose that wouldn’t hurt. Perhaps if you spoke well of me, he’d allow me to interview him someday.

Perhaps, Kate said faintly, keeping her smile in place. She nodded to both men and quickly turned to go, her knees trembling as she crossed the yard to the place where Honeysuckle waited, picketed and grazing.

A newspaperman, she thought as she rode away. A particular breed of man her father declared was a blessing when they spoke well of one and a curse every other day. The warden must have invited him to the prison, for her father certainly would not have done.

She decided not to mention Mr. French at home, and she fervently hoped that when he reviewed his notes and came to write his story, he would find nothing worth mentioning about her. But she knew her hopes were in vain. People always found something to say about Kate, for good or ill. Reviewing the scene at the prison in her mind’s eye, she took comfort in knowing that her behavior had been exemplary, that she had neither said nor done anything that would reflect badly upon herself or her father.

That had not always been so.

Two years before, newly liberated from Miss Haines’s School in Manhattan, she had come to Columbus, exultant with freedom—from the headmistress’s demands, from loneliness, from the strictures of childhood. She had craved attention, admiration, love—things her pious and preoccupied father offered in frustratingly minute quantities. He relentlessly admonished her for her faults, reminded her that her days on earth were limited, and urged her to pursue perfection—ceaselessly demanding, forever unsatisfied. Was it any wonder that her heart and imagination were captivated by a man who admired her exactly as she was, who thought her perfect already?

He was a young man, though nearly ten years older than she, wealthy, handsome, and recently wed to a lovely woman from a prominent Columbus family. Of course Kate was flattered when he paid attention to her whenever they met in society. Conversations in the midst of a watchful crowd led to earnest confidences shared in secluded nooks. He began calling on her at home while her father was away, and then, more boldly, taking her on drives throughout the city, heedless and unmistakable in an open chaise. Their illicit meetings went on so long and so publicly his wife inevitably learned of them. Whether she confronted her husband Kate did not know, but rumors whispered that the heartbroken wife would visit friends who lived across the street from the Chases and watch through the window day after day, tears streaming down her cheeks, as her husband helped the glowing young girl into his carriage and drove off with her alone.

When Aunt Alice told Kate’s father, he scolded her so terribly that she wept, but she could not give up her admirer. Once she had experienced the heady rush of his limitless praise and adoration, the dizzying excitement of his presence, the terrifying allure of the forbidden, she could not go back to the dull, colorless, ordinary days she had known all her life before him.

She let him kiss her once, no more, but it was enough. He boasted to his friends of his familiarity with her, and unkind but not unprovoked gossip swirled about her. Furious, her father forbade her to see him again, shouted down her tearful pleas, and threatened to send her away to live with relatives until the scandal could be forgotten. Heartbroken, without a single sympathetic friend, she yearned for her admirer and lived for the days her father traveled away from the city and she could do as she pleased, free from his condemning scrutiny.

One day it was announced in the papers that her father intended to travel to Washington City, but on the appointed day he did not go, and so he was in his study reading when the man arrived to take Kate riding. Alarmed by the sound of the governor’s footfalls in the hall, he scrambled beneath a sofa, where Father quickly found him, hauled him to his feet, and beat him soundly with the whip from his own buggy, rendering him so bruised and bloodied that he could not go out in public for several days. He never again appeared on the Chases’ doorstep, and when Kate plummeted into a dark pit of melancholy, forlorn and abandoned, her father sent her east to stay with family until she came to her senses.

After many long weeks, separation and silence from her would-be lover accomplished what all her father’s warnings and punishments had not. Remorse overcame her, and shame, and regret, and when she thought of the anguish she had put his poor wife through she could hardly bear it. Time passed, and whenever Kate thought back on those strange, intoxicating times, she remembered feeling passion and desire and love, but she could not summon up those feelings anew. She did not know what had come over her, why she had risked her reputation, her father’s respect, and all her future happiness upon someone who, it must be said, was no more than an ordinary man. In fact, his behavior marked him as worse than an ordinary man, for he had been willing to sacrifice two innocent women to his carnal desire—and he had left one less innocent than before.

Kate knew her father would be displeased to find her the subject of gossip once again, even if it were inspired by a good deed done on his own behalf rather than the reckless actions of a foolish girl who thought she was in love.

 • • • 

More than a week later, just as Kate had stopped dreading the delivery of the morning paper and had begun to hope that Mr. French would write nothing of the events at the prison, or that he had already done so but had not mentioned her role in them, her father came home from the capitol agitated and scowling. She felt herself shrinking inwardly as she waited for the storm to burst, wondering whether he would reprimand her at dinner in front of Nettie and their aunt or if he would take her aside and scold her alone. She hardly knew which she would prefer.

He chose breakfast the next morning, slapping upon the center of the table a newspaper folded open to the headline, A Pardon Scene—Miss Chase. As he lectured her on the dangers of putting herself forward in public, she nodded, half-listening, as she read the article, fearing the worst. On Saturday afternoon, Mr. French had written after a brief account of the unnamed prisoner’s ordeal, Governor Chase’s daughter, a fair and noble girl of seventeen or eighteen summers—and who in her person proves that the generally accepted truth that ‘great men never have great sons,’ does not reach daughters—takes the Pardon and makes her way to the Prison. A dramatic and somewhat embellished description of the prisoner’s response to his pardon followed, and the piece concluded on a note of apology: The fair and modest heroine, I know will shrink from this public recital; but one cannot forbear telling so beautiful an event.

That wasn’t as dreadful as I had feared, Kate said as she passed the newspaper on to her aunt. At one warning glance from her father, she quickly amended, "Although I do shrink from publicity, and I wish the reporter had shown forbearance."

A lady should strive to keep her name out of the papers, her father admonished. She should be mentioned only upon the occasions of her marriage and of her death.

Twice more only for me, then, Kate replied cheerfully, immediately regretting it when her father’s scowl deepened. Father, you must know that I didn’t seek out this attention.

The press is a tool to be used judiciously to achieve a worthy goal, her father said, rapping on the table for emphasis. "Do not let it use you."

I had no idea Mr. French was a newspaperman until it was too late, Kate protested. I thought he was a clerk.

He should have identified himself, Aunt Alice said. He should have made his intentions clear from the beginning.

Kate threw her a grateful look.

Her father heaved a sigh of resignation. "You must