Mrs. Lincoln's Dressmaker Read Online Free PDF Page B

long and so hard and with so little sleep for the mere mention of her name to the First Lady. “You shall make a dress for her” had been her patron’s exact words. She had madeit sound so certain. Now Elizabeth wondered if it had ever been within Mrs. McLean’s power to grant her fondest wish.

    Elizabeth cherished each precious letter George sent from Wilberforce University. She savored every word of his descriptions of his studies, his new friends, their merry antics, and his long hours bent over books in the library. He asked her as many questions about Washington as he answered about himself, eager for news of the election, the transition of power, and the famous personages she encountered. “Your observations make me the envy of my classmates,” he told her. “They have to learn what little they can from the papers, while I receive your firsthand, eloquent dispatches at regular and frequent intervals. The fellows come to me with their questions about what is really going on in the capital (don’t worry, Mother, I never pass on gossip about your patron ladies) and I am happy to oblige. I will never share the fine shirts you sew for me, Mother, but I am less selfish when it comes to the news.”
    George’s gentle teasing made her smile, as did his generous praise. Her lack of formal schooling had always troubled her, although she knew she was fortunate to be literate at all. It was illegal for slaves to read and write, but none of Elizabeth’s former owners had forbidden their slaves to learn if they were bright enough to pick it up on their own or if another slave taught them on their own time. Elizabeth did not think she was a very good writer, so she could not help but be flattered and charmed when her darling son called her eloquent.
    She was laughing over George’s comic description of a recent snowball fight on the college’s main quadrangle when a knock sounded on her door. It was an unexpectedly mild Sunday, a welcome glimpse of spring in early March, and she and Virginia had made plans to go walking later to watch the preparations for the next day’s inauguration. Elizabeth hastened to the door, expecting her friend, but instead a young messenger stood outside in the hallway, a colored boy of about fourteen years, breathless from haste and clutching a letter. “I’m supposed to wait for a reply, ma’am,” he said, panting.
    Curious, Elizabeth unfolded the letter, skimmed the first line—and uttered a sound that fell somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “My dear Elizabeth,” Mrs. McLean had written. “Do be so kind as to call on me at my home today at four o’clock P.M . With my best regards, etc., Mrs. Eugene McLean.”
    Shaking her head, Elizabeth read the brief letter again, as if she could make more words appear by sheer force of will. “Did she say anything else?” she asked the young messenger. “
Why
she wants me to come, perhaps?” And on such short notice, she almost added, but thought better of it.
    “No, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head. “Just that I should bring this to Mrs. Elizabeth Keckley at the Lewis boardinghouse on Twelfth Street.”
    “Well, you’ve done as you were told.” She folded the letter, slipped it into her pocket, and offered the messenger a coin. “Please return to Mrs. McLean and tell her that I thank her for her note, and I will call on her tomorrow morning at my earliest convenience.”
    He nodded and hurried off, and Elizabeth closed the door behind him. Sunday was supposed to be her day off, as her patrons ought to have known. She was a free woman, free to ignore unreasonable demands. Monday morning would be soon enough for whatever Mrs. McLean wanted, and if not, she could hire another modiste—although Elizabeth did not think it vain to doubt that her patron would find anyone as skilled and accommodating as herself.

    The morning of Abraham Lincoln’s inauguration dawned raw and overcast, the busy streets clouded with dust stirred up