Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker Read Online Free PDF

work promised now than I can do,” she replied evenly. “It is impossible for me to make a dress for you to wear on Sunday next.”
    “Pshaw! Nothing is impossible.” Mrs. McLean swept the room with her gaze as if to confirm that no other lady stood waiting to assert her claim upon Elizabeth’s time. “I must have the dress made by Sunday.”
    “I am sorry—”
    “Now, don’t say no again. I tell you that you must make the dress.” Mrs. McLean raised a hand to forestall Elizabeth’s objections. “I have often heard you say that you would like to work for the ladies of the White House. Well, I have it in my power to obtain you this privilege. I know Mrs. Lincoln well, and you shall make a dress for her provided you finish mine in time to wear at dinner on Sunday.”
    For a moment, Elizabeth wondered how a Massachusetts-born wife of a Southern-sympathizing Marylander could have any acquaintance at all with the new First Lady, late of Illinois and not yet arrived in Washington. Then she remembered that Mrs. McLean’s father was one of the cavalry officers who had volunteered to accompany the Lincolns from Springfield to the capital city. Perhaps the families were old friends from Mr. Lincoln’s term in Congress years before. Perhaps Mrs. McLean could indeed bring about what she promised.
    Elizabeth needed no further inducement. “Very well,” she said, setting aside the dress she had been embroidering for another client, a kind, sweet-faced, grandmotherly woman who would never dream of complaining if Elizabeth finished her gown a day or two later than expected. Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt over the injustice, but she could not let such a rare and promising opportunity slip from her grasp. She resolved to make it up to her other patron somehow—but not before next Sunday.
    Elizabeth persuaded Mrs. McLean to let her begin fitting the lining that very moment by assuring her that it was the only way she had anychance at all of finishing the dress in time. They met the next day at Mrs. McLean’s residence across the street from Willard’s Hotel, and the next, and then Elizabeth had enough completed so that she could work on her own. But she was not entirely on her own; in order to meet the deadline, she hired two young ladies to assist her, skilled if inexperienced seamstresses she had hired for small tasks before. Even with their help, Elizabeth was obliged to work all day long and late into the night, barely pausing to eat and sleep and work the knots out of her neck, back, and fingers.
    It took a small miracle, but somehow, after much worry and trouble, Elizabeth completed the dress by midmorning on the day of the dinner. She hurried to the McLean residence as soon as the last stitch was put into the hem; had her patron try it on; made a few last-minute, minuscule adjustments that likely no one else but another skilled mantua maker would notice; and then—at last and just in time—the dress was finished.
    “Elizabeth, you are a marvel,” Mrs. McLean declared, admiring herself in the full-length mirror. She had a lovely figure and the bodice fit as tightly as wallpaper, and the ashes of rose silk lent a warm elegance to her alabaster skin. “One glimpse of this dress is all the recommendation to Mrs. Lincoln you will need.”
    “All the same,” said Elizabeth, “I would be grateful if you would put in a good word for me too.”
    Mrs. McLean turned and peered over her shoulder at her own reflection, smiling with satisfaction at the snug lines of the bodice and the graceful drape of the flounce. “I’m tempted to keep you my little secret.” She glimpsed Elizabeth’s expression in the mirror and quickly added, “I’m only teasing. Of course I’ll mention your name to the First Lady. You kept your part of our bargain and I’ll keep mine.”
    Elizabeth murmured her thanks and hid her disappointment. Apparently she and Mrs. McLean remembered their arrangement quite differently. She had not toiled so