given the privilege once, when their father had traveled to Washington on business.
Rebekah had asked to go, as well, but her request had been denied.
“Politics is no place for you,” her father had said, but what he’d meant was, it was no place for her unless it served his purpose. If he needed a lady to hand out flowers or nurse wounded soldiers so his family could be known for assisting the war effort, then she was called upon.
Otherwise I am expected to keep out of the way. Be seen but not heard, she thought.
The president’s coffin was opened. The mourners began to file past, first the generals and military commanders and Governor Bradford, then her father and the rest of the state legislature. Each displayed a stone-like, somber face of dignity.
How ironic, she couldn’t help but think. Some of those same men had despised the president. Have they undergone a change of heart or are they simply seizing an opportunity to be present in front of voters?
Rebekah then spied Councilman Nash. He had not voted for the late president, either, but the look in his eyes and the set of his mouth revealed he was clearly troubled by his death. He passed Lincoln’s casket respectfully, then came to where her mother, her brothers and now her father stood. He greeted them formally, but with the same heartfelt expression still on his face.
She studied him. He was taller than her father, with a strong build. While she still would not call him handsome, there was something winsome about his face, something honest, tender.
He certainly cares for his two young charges, and he is kind to the servants employed in his household. The question, however, begged to be asked. But is that simply what he wants me to think?
Rebekah wanted to believe him a good, caring man, one who would always treat her and the children in his care with kindness, but she knew firsthand how deceiving appearances could be. Once more her promise to herself came back to her.
I will not give him my heart. I will share it with the children, but I will not allow him the opportunity to wound me.
The councilman approached. “It is a black day,” he said.
“It is indeed.” After a moment of awkward silence, she then asked. “How are the children?”
“Well, thank you. Or, rather, as well as they can be, given what they have just gone through.”
She nodded in agreement. At least he is attuned enough to realize such. Little Grace had looked so fragile, so restless when she’d seen her. Even a baby knows when something isn’t right, and as for Kathleen, what emotions lie behind those vivid blue eyes? Does she know the circumstances surrounding her parents’ deaths? Was she present in the house during her sister’s birth? Rebekah sighed. For all her upcoming marriage would be lacking in love between herself and her husband, she hoped she’d be able to bring a measure of peace, of happiness to the children.
Councilman Nash claimed the place beside her and offered his arm. Rebekah hesitated to take it at first, but knowing that her father was watching, she did so. She then returned her attention to those coming to pay their last respects.
State Delegate Nash entered the room. After making his way past the casket, he came to where Rebekah’s father stood. The bitter rivals shook hands, exchanged words, then stood shoulder to shoulder so the rest of the room could witness their unity.
Sickened by what she considered a display of political grandstanding, Rebekah chanced a glance at the man beside her. Their eyes met only briefly, but he looked exactly as she felt.
He, too, knows what it is like to be the child of an ambitious man, she thought.
The councilman turned his attention back to the queue of mourners. So did she. The heartbroken public was now filing past the slain leader.
The hour passed in strained silence. Then the president’s body was prepared for the northbound train. Citizens who had not made it inside in time for the viewing, or those who simply wished to continue the pilgrimage, would follow the horse-drawn hearse to Northern Central Station. Lincoln would lie in state in Harrisburg, Philadelphia, and a host of other stops before reaching his final resting place in Springfield, Illinois.
“Are you going to the train station?” her fiancé asked her.
She’d been told by her father that she was to go only if Councilman Nash did so. “Are you?” she asked.
“No.”
“I see,” she said. “Neither am I.”
Both her father and his were remaining, as well, evidently to make certain the lingering citizens had opportunity to speak with their state representatives if they so chose. To Rebekah’s surprise, many did. They came expressing their appreciation that in a time of national tragedy, the two rivals could put aside their differences for the good of the nation.
When the news began to circulate of their engagement, the councilman suddenly looked very uncomfortable. The news held no joy for her, but he had instigated this event. Why, then, was his jaw so tight? Why was he tugging at his tie?
“Are you unwell?” she asked.
“This day should be about President Lincoln,” he muttered.
“Indeed.”
He looked as if he were about to offer something more but hadn’t the opportunity. Rebekah’s friend Elizabeth Wainwright and her husband, David, came then to greet them.
Apparently the councilman was well acquainted with the couple, who both worked at a local newspaper—Elizabeth as a sketch artist and David as a journalist. He asked them about their recent time spent in Washington.
“We were there to cover General Grant’s return from the war and Lincoln’s celebratory speeches,” David said. “We had no idea we’d be witnesses to his assassination.”
Rebekah gasped. “You were at Ford’s Theatre?”
Elizabeth nodded grimly. “We were seated in the second row. John Wilkes Booth landed on the stage right in front of us.”
Rebekah felt her fiancé’s arm tense. She wondered if he was imagining the horrific scene just as she was. “To come that close to such an evil man...” she said to her friends. “What did you do?”
Elizabeth exchanged a sad glance with her husband. “At first I thought it was part of the play,” she said. “I had never seen Our American Cousin performed before.”
“But I had,” David said, “and I couldn’t figure out why they had added gunfire and an additional character to the scene. I recognized Booth right away. I had seen him act.”
“I could tell he had injured himself leaping from the presidential box,” Elizabeth said. “He limped as he ran from the stage, but I still didn’t recognize what had actually happened until someone shouted that the president had been shot.”
“We realized then,” David said, “that we were no longer witnessing a theatrical production, but an act of murder.”
Rebekah drew in a shallow breath. She thought of her time spent serving as an army nurse. She’d seen the cruel damage a bullet could do to many
