Hanging Mary: A Novel Read online

  Mr. Weichmann nodded, and Nora sighed as if the weight of the world rested upon her pretty shoulders.

  • • •

  Nora bought a lovely locket in which to keep a bit of her young man’s hair—how she was to explain that to her father if he saw it, I did not ask—and was sitting in the parlor braiding the light brown strands together when Johnny came in. “A word, Ma.”

  I followed Johnny to the bedroom. “Booth and Mrs. Slater will arrive on the early train tomorrow morning. I’ll be taking her to Surrattsville, and Howell will get her to Richmond. Would you care to come with us?” He grinned impudently.

  “As a matter of fact, I would.” I could not help but smile at Johnny’s expression. “Your cousin Olivia is coming to stay for a few weeks, and your uncle doesn’t want her to travel alone in the stage. We can bring her back to Washington with us.”

  “Very well,” Johnny grumbled, as I thought with satisfaction of Mrs. Slater making the difficult journey to Richmond in the company of Mr. Howell, listening to his hacking cough and trying to drag an affirmative answer to anything from him. It would be a long trip indeed.

  • • •

  Immediately behind the house, as those of us in the back rooms were well aware, there was a stable kept by Brooke Stabler—aptly named, as Johnny liked to point out. Having secured a buggy and horses from there, Johnny left early the next morning for the train station and returned in the buggy with Mrs. Slater dozing on his shoulder. “I was on the train all night,” she explained plaintively after Johnny nudged her awake. “I scarcely slept a wink. So you are coming with us, Mrs. Surratt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Delightful!”

  This chit was maddening.

  Mrs. Slater graciously moved to the back of the carriage so I could ride up front with Johnny, but all this did was encourage Johnny, who, of course, was driving, to keep turning around to speak to her. I kept telling him to watch in front of him, and he obeyed for ten minutes until he remembered something else amusing he wanted to tell Mrs. Slater. He did this so often I almost wished he would run off the road, just so I could have the pleasure of telling him I was right.

  Mrs. Slater’s nap against my son’s shoulder seemed to have refreshed her remarkably. When Johnny was not risking life and limb to gaze into her eyes (for she had lifted that ever-present veil of hers), this hussy was chattering on: about her train ride with Mr. Booth; about the shops she had been to in New York; about her mama, the Frenchwoman; and about the beauties of New Bern, North Carolina (such as they were). The only subject she did not trip her tongue about was that of her husband, except when I asked about him. The little harlot did not even have the decency to be offended: she simply hoped he was safe. Then Johnny, as if to spare her feelings, asked her to speak in French—a language he had learned in school but claimed to speak only passably. How much he could understand of what Mrs. Slater rattled off I did not know, but he looked enthralled, and Mrs. Slater certainly did speak the language prettily.

  She had thoroughly ensnared my Johnny.

  Not a moment too soon, we arrived at Surrattsville and my tavern. Was it my imagination, or was it looking a little seedy? Before I could give this much thought, Mr. Lloyd lurched out to greet us. It was midmorning, and if he was not completely in his cups, he was certainly well on his way there. “He’s been arrested!”

  “Who?” Johnny asked.

  “Last night! He had just sat down to play a game of cards when they swooped in and seized him. Carried him off in chains!”

  “But who, man?”

  “He made a heap amount of fuss about it too.”

  “He being?”

  “Do you mean Mr. Howell?” I asked.

  “That’s what I said.” Mr. Lloyd gave us a look of offended dignity.

  “Oh,” said Johnny. “Damn.” He nodded at me. “Thank you for clearing that up, Ma.”

  “And I am ruined,” Mr. Lloyd said.

  “How? You’re here, aren’t you? Did they arrest anyone else?”

  “No.”

  “Did the card game go on?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Lloyd strained to remember. “I think I won, actually.”

  “Well then!” Johnny sighed and stroked his goatee. “But it is a pity about poor Howell. And even more of a pity for the person who tries to get him to talk.”

  Mrs. Slater had been listening to this from her perch in the carriage. Now she tugged at Johnny’s arm. “Mr. Surratt, how am I to travel now?”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll get you across the river, and if there’s no one I can trust you with, I’ll take you to Richmond myself. To Jeff Davis himself, if you please. Haven’t I brought you there safely before?”

  “Yes, and beautifully.”

  “Well then!”

  “I wish you would leave,” Mr. Lloyd said. “What if they come back?”

  “What if they do? They will see your landlady and her son, in company with a fair young lady. Hardly something to send shivers up the federal spine. But I suppose you have a point. Once the horses are rested—they’re a handsome pair, aren’t they?—I’ll take Mrs. Slater on her way, and Ma can fetch my cousin and take the stage back. Is that satisfactory to everyone?”

  I nodded, though I could not say I was happy about leaving my son and this hussy together, especially after this “sweetheart” slipped out. But I supposed the Confederacy needed whatever she was carrying.

  Mr. Lloyd, however, was still frowning. “Can’t you take those damn guns of yours too, Surratt?”

  “No,” Johnny said crisply. “They must stay here for now.”

  • • •

  “What guns was he talking of, Johnny?” I hissed when we were alone, Mr. Lloyd having found agreeable company in the bar and Mrs. Slater having gone to freshen herself for the journey.

  “Some things I stowed here after our plan fell through. They’re safest here until they’re needed. Which reminds me, can you tell Booth that I’ll likely be delayed in getting back to Washington?”

  I nodded. After bidding good-bye to Johnny and the others, I got one of Mr. Lloyd’s men to drive me to my brother’s house, where Olivia was rifling through her trunk. “Where is my new brooch? Ma! Help me find my brooch!”

  “You’re not tying up one of your good rooms, having her to visit, are you?” my brother asked when his daughter was out of earshot.

  I shook my head. “Only one of the attic rooms. And don’t you worry! Things aren’t so bad that I can’t have my niece to stay a while.”

  “But they are bad? Here.” Zadock pulled out his wallet. “Let me pay for her.”

  “I won’t have it.”

  We quarreled over this in a pleasant enough manner and finally reached a compromise: my brother would pay for Olivia’s laundry and supply her with ample pocket money. This settled, we drove back to the tavern. “I am so excited,” Olivia said as we sat in the parlor awaiting the stage to Washington. “Will I get to meet Mr. Booth?”

  “I see no reason why not. He stops by frequently.”

  “And what in the world will I say to him?”

  “Anything. He is a very friendly, approachable man. He makes anyone who speaks with him feel at ease.”

  Olivia sighed rapturously. “I can hardly wait to meet him. And nearly a whole month to spend in Washington! It will be glorious.”

  18

  NORA

  MARCH 1865

  The Saturday after I heard of Private Flanagan’s death, Mrs. Surratt went to the country with her son. I took advantage of her absence to lie in bed—even missing an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the mysterious Mrs. Slater, whom Mr. Surratt was escorting to the tavern in Surrattsville. Anna was out doing various errands in preparation for a visit from her cousin, and Miss Dean was visiting a friend from school, so I had the room to myself in which to indulge my grie
f. Only in midafternoon, with the prospect of everyone coming back, did I rouse myself and dress.

  As I darned my stockings, a dreary task for my dreary mood, the doorbell gave its usual shattering ring, and I answered it to find Mr. Booth there. “Mrs. Surratt and her son are not home,” I said dully. “They went to Maryland.”

  “Yes, Mr. Surratt told me his mother was accompanying him, but I stopped by on the off chance that she might have changed her mind, or come back early. A fool’s errand!”

  I nodded.

  “Miss Fitzpatrick, you do not seem yourself this afternoon. Are you not well?”

  “I am well. It is nothing.”

  “Nothing? Miss Fitzpatrick, I thought we were friends. Won’t you tell me what has upset you?” Mr. Booth’s eyes fell to my chest. “Is that a mourning locket, dear girl?”

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Booth pushed his way into the hallway and gently led me to the parlor, sitting beside me on the sofa. “Tell me about it, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  And so I did. Mr. Booth nodded patiently as I told him the sad little story—the same type of story so many other women had been telling for the past four years.

  “This damnable war,” he said when I had finished. “It has cost so many so much, and for what? For that tyrant to bring the South to heel?”

  I roused myself to look at him. “You mean the president, sir?”

  “Yes, I do—but never mind that for now. You are grieving, and I won’t subject you to one of my rants. May I see your locket?”

  I passed it to him, and he gently opened it. Inside was a fragment of Private Flanagan’s letter to me and his hair, which I had carefully braided. “Beautiful,” he said. “He was your first love, wasn’t he? That makes it even sadder.”

  “Yes, he was.” I sniffled and found myself confessing, “And I think he will be my last.”

  “No, Miss Fitzpatrick. You are very young and will love again. Your young man—I don’t know him, but he must have been a fine young fellow—won’t expect you to give up on your own happiness.”

  “It isn’t that.” I took a deep breath. “It is that no one had ever paid me any attention before—any man, I mean—and now no one ever will. I will die an old maid.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, look at me!” I tipped my face up and realized it was stained with tears. “I mean, not now. I look worse than I usually do.”

  “You’ve a sweet face, Miss Fitzpatrick. It’s the first thing I thought when I saw you. You look like my sister Rosalie.”

  “Is she the pretty one?”

  “She’s the best person in our entire family.”

  “You’re being evasive, sir.” I managed a smile. “But I won’t press the point.”

  Mr. Booth tipped up my chin.

  “You’re not Helen of Troy,” he said very gently. “But you’re by no means unattractive. You’ve bright eyes, pretty hair, a lovely fig—well, it would be improper to list your charms in more detail, but trust me, they are there. What your Private Flanagan, God rest his soul, saw, others will see too. Pluck your eyebrows a little more, and don’t duck your head every time a man looks your way. It won’t result in your fall from virtue, I promise. Now, I must be going. I am very sorry to hear about this young man. But you’re no old maid, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  “Mr. Surratt said I would be,” I muttered.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. In a letter I shouldn’t have seen. But he still said it.”

  “Then he is a cad and a fool. Look at me, Miss Fitzpatrick.”

  I looked him square in the eyes, and he leaned over and kissed me full on the lips.

  There are two things a girl can do when one of the most handsome men in the entire country suddenly gets a notion to kiss her. She can squeal like a namby-pamby miss and pull away, or she can kiss back for all she is worth. I kissed back, and Mr. Booth, thus encouraged, kept our kiss going for longer than was strictly necessary. Things I had read about only in the very worst dime novels began to stir in me, and I knew if Mr. Booth had chosen to, he could have ruined me then and there on Mrs. Surratt’s sofa, and I would not have let out a squawk of protest.

  He didn’t, of course. He rose as I sat stunned at what had just happened, and gave me his very best smile.

  “You don’t kiss like an old maid, Miss Fitzpatrick. Tell Johnny if he ever starts with that idiot talk that he is a prize ass.”

  • • •

  Mr. Booth had not been gone ten minutes when Anna, laden with packages, returned home. “I wish you had come along, Nora, to help me. Mr. Booth happened across me in time to help me carry them up the stairs, at least. He said he was just here.”

  “Yes, he was. He was looking for your mother.”

  “So I guessed. How long did he stay?”

  “Just a few minutes. We talked.”

  “What on earth did he say? You look as if you’ve been struck by lightning.”

  “He kissed me.”

  Anna sank down on the sofa beside me. “Kissed?”

  “It wasn’t that sort of kiss. I was telling him about Private Flanagan and grouching that I would be an old maid—and he just kissed me.”

  “Kissed you? You?”

  “Yes.”

  Anna slapped me hard in the face.

  “What on earth was that for?”

  “I’ll tell you what that’s for. You know I like him! You know I have hopes for him. And the minute my back is turned, you start flirting with him!”

  “I did no such thing! He was comforting me; that was all. I told him I would die an old maid, and he told me I was wrong. But it meant nothing to him, I am sure of it. He is not in love with you or with me or with anyone else in this house. He is in love with Miss Hale, and never misses an opportunity to say so. It’s time you just realized that.”

  “How can I realize that when you’re carrying on like some Irish slattern with him? I should have you thrown out of this house. I’ve a mind to do it. You’ve been writing to that Yankee and kissing Mr. Booth. Who knows what other antics you’ve been up to?”

  “Make up anything you please. Your mother won’t believe you. She likes me, and she’s kind to me.”

  The door opened, and Mrs. Surratt, accompanied by a pretty blond girl a little younger than myself, came into the parlor. “Girls, what was the commotion here?” Neither of us answered, and Mrs. Surratt ran a weary hand across her face. “Miss Fitzpatrick, this is my brother’s daughter, Miss Olivia Jenkins. She will be staying with us through Easter. Olivia, this is Miss Nora Fitzpatrick. She is a favorite of mine, I own.”

  Miss Jenkins and I exchanged politenesses while Anna fumed and Mrs. Surratt removed her bonnet. “Have there been any visitors today?”

  “Just Mr. Booth, ma’am. He wanted to see you.”

  “And I need to see him.”

  “Miss Fitzpatrick will be glad to go to his hotel and fetch him, Ma.”

  Mrs. Surratt frowned. “Miss Fitzpatrick visit a young man at his hotel? What are you thinking, Anna? That won’t do at all. In any case, it can wait until tomorrow, as I am tired from the ride. I will ask Mr. Weichmann to call upon him.” She lowered herself to the sofa on which Mr. Booth had kissed me.

  “I’ll see to dinner, Mrs. Surratt, in a bit.”

  “Thank you very much, Nora. That is very kind of you.”

  Sensing the family might want to visit together—and not being in a notion to be in the same room with Anna—I slipped out of the parlor and into the room Anna and I shared with Mrs. Surratt. I had a book I had bought in Baltimore, and I had been planning to read it this afternoon in an effort to fix my mind on something besides Private Flanagan, but instead I sat at the dressing table and took up a pair of tweezers. Slowly, painfully, I began to pluck my eyebrows.

  Mr. Booth was right. I did look
better when I was through.

  19

  MARY

  MARCH 1865

  I came home from Surrattsville to tension at the boardinghouse. Anna and Nora seemed put out at each other about something—I did not know what, and did not ask, as Olivia and Anna were soon chattering together, and Nora had enough sorrow weighing her down at the moment.

  Mr. Weichmann, meanwhile, was more inquisitive than ever. “I saw you depart with Mr. Surratt and Mrs. Slater this morning, Mrs. Surratt. Is she going to see her mother in New York again?”

  “I believe she is going to try to get word of her husband in Richmond,” I said coolly. “And Johnny is going to inquire about a clerkship after he sees her safely to her lodgings.” I bit my lip, wondering what on earth had possessed me to mention that Johnny was going to Richmond, but Mr. Weichmann did not seem at all surprised.

  “I see” was all he said.

  “May I ask a favor of you, Mr. Weichmann? Before church tomorrow, or after, if you please, would you stop by the National and tell Mr. Booth I wish to see him?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  For lunch, I made certain Mr. Weichmann’s favorite variety of pie was on the table.

  • • •

  I had duly warned Olivia of the probability that Mr. Booth would be our visitor on Sunday afternoon, so when the doorbell rang a few hours later, it was all she could do to restrain herself from rushing to answer it. I did instead, and found not only Mr. Booth, but Port Tobacco—the man, not the town—at the door. Although he was no match for his companion, he appeared to have shaved more recently than usual, and he was clad in a natty suit of salt and pepper.

  Before our visitors entered the parlor, I seized the chance for a few words with Mr. Booth. “Johnny may have to go to Richmond. Mrs. Slater’s expected escort was arrested.”