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Authors: Stephen L. Carter
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by a wall of gray gauze. Here and there they passed a soldier, or a beggar, or a man pushing a cart. The frozen ground was rutted, and the rig bumped and swayed.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” said Dinah. “Everybody is proud of you.”
“Not everybody.”
“You know how the Mellison girls are. They want all the attention, but in that room the conversation was all about you and Mr. Lincoln.”
“I know how they are.”
“Don’t worry,” said Dinah, touching her friend’s hand. “My parents dined last night at Edgewood, with Senator and Mrs. Sprague.” The most sought-after table in Washington City, now that the President no longer entertained. “Senator Sprague assured my father that the President will not be convicted. Even now, negotiations are under way at the highest level. So, you see, all will work out for the best, as it always does.”
Abigail refused to be consoled, least of all by a reminder that, in the midst of an impeachment crisis in which the firm that employed her was intimately involved, the Berryhill family had better information about the affairs of Mr. Lincoln than she did. Beneath the blanket, she clenched her fists. She had been made to look a fool, a role she hated at the best of times; but tonight of all nights, when the whole table had been impressed by her employment at the firm that was defending the President that colored America so adored! It had been a deliberate provocation, of course. The Mellison sisters did such things, sometimes outof envy, sometimes for sport, always dripping with malice. She should have known better. She had told Dinah she would rather not attend the dinner, and Dinah had insisted that she go and show off. And now—
“What is that?” said Dinah, suddenly.
“What is what?”
“Behind us.”
Abigail craned her neck. Another carriage might have been back there, black and vague in the night fog. “Someone’s rig.”
“It’s following us.”
“This is a public street, Dinah. Anybody can use it.”
“Nonsense.” Even in worry, Dinah was brisk, and in charge. “Nobody would bring so fancy a rig down to this neighborhood.” More Washington mythology.
“The Island is no more dangerous than any other part of the city. And, besides, Dinah, your carriage is quite fancy.”
“I do not live here. I am dropping you.”
“Perhaps he is heading to the ferry.”
“At this hour?” Dinah snorted; and said something to the driver, who, touched by the urgency in her voice, picked up the pace. The black carriage fell behind, but whenever Abigail turned to look, she fancied she could discern its wavery lines, and hear the steady clopping of hooves.
CHAPTER 5
Ambition
I
WASHINGTON WAS A modern city, alive with sound: streetcars rattling, horses whinnying, shopkeepers shouting their prices through half-open doors, machinery thudding and pumping in the factories, crowds thronging the avenues in hopes of glimpsing the rich and the powerful in their grand homes, trains rumbling through the middle of town on their way south and then others rumbling north, beggars calling as you passed, builders constructing ever-larger edifices for the government and its departments. At night some parts of the city grew silent, but for the susurration of the gas lamps. In other neighborhoods different sounds were heard, sounds proper to activities that the well-bred avoided: the angry remonstrances of the inebriated, the brassy boister of the illicit clubs, the whispered threats of the gangs, and the softly compelling calls of the streetwalkers. And coiling through it all came the whipping winter wind that rose or fell but never quite faded, winding along the streets, slithering frigidly through cracks into the smallest room of the largest house.
Alive with sound.
The city’s separate neighborhoods had their own rhythms. The farms to the north and east awoke to the lowing of cattle and the cries of the roosters. Nearer Capitol Hill, the householders were
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” said Dinah. “Everybody is proud of you.”
“Not everybody.”
“You know how the Mellison girls are. They want all the attention, but in that room the conversation was all about you and Mr. Lincoln.”
“I know how they are.”
“Don’t worry,” said Dinah, touching her friend’s hand. “My parents dined last night at Edgewood, with Senator and Mrs. Sprague.” The most sought-after table in Washington City, now that the President no longer entertained. “Senator Sprague assured my father that the President will not be convicted. Even now, negotiations are under way at the highest level. So, you see, all will work out for the best, as it always does.”
Abigail refused to be consoled, least of all by a reminder that, in the midst of an impeachment crisis in which the firm that employed her was intimately involved, the Berryhill family had better information about the affairs of Mr. Lincoln than she did. Beneath the blanket, she clenched her fists. She had been made to look a fool, a role she hated at the best of times; but tonight of all nights, when the whole table had been impressed by her employment at the firm that was defending the President that colored America so adored! It had been a deliberate provocation, of course. The Mellison sisters did such things, sometimes outof envy, sometimes for sport, always dripping with malice. She should have known better. She had told Dinah she would rather not attend the dinner, and Dinah had insisted that she go and show off. And now—
“What is that?” said Dinah, suddenly.
“What is what?”
“Behind us.”
Abigail craned her neck. Another carriage might have been back there, black and vague in the night fog. “Someone’s rig.”
“It’s following us.”
“This is a public street, Dinah. Anybody can use it.”
“Nonsense.” Even in worry, Dinah was brisk, and in charge. “Nobody would bring so fancy a rig down to this neighborhood.” More Washington mythology.
“The Island is no more dangerous than any other part of the city. And, besides, Dinah, your carriage is quite fancy.”
“I do not live here. I am dropping you.”
“Perhaps he is heading to the ferry.”
“At this hour?” Dinah snorted; and said something to the driver, who, touched by the urgency in her voice, picked up the pace. The black carriage fell behind, but whenever Abigail turned to look, she fancied she could discern its wavery lines, and hear the steady clopping of hooves.
CHAPTER 5
Ambition
I
WASHINGTON WAS A modern city, alive with sound: streetcars rattling, horses whinnying, shopkeepers shouting their prices through half-open doors, machinery thudding and pumping in the factories, crowds thronging the avenues in hopes of glimpsing the rich and the powerful in their grand homes, trains rumbling through the middle of town on their way south and then others rumbling north, beggars calling as you passed, builders constructing ever-larger edifices for the government and its departments. At night some parts of the city grew silent, but for the susurration of the gas lamps. In other neighborhoods different sounds were heard, sounds proper to activities that the well-bred avoided: the angry remonstrances of the inebriated, the brassy boister of the illicit clubs, the whispered threats of the gangs, and the softly compelling calls of the streetwalkers. And coiling through it all came the whipping winter wind that rose or fell but never quite faded, winding along the streets, slithering frigidly through cracks into the smallest room of the largest house.
Alive with sound.
The city’s separate neighborhoods had their own rhythms. The farms to the north and east awoke to the lowing of cattle and the cries of the roosters. Nearer Capitol Hill, the householders were
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