Mary's hand. "As soon as my second term is up, we're going to make that trip to Europe you always wanted," he whispered. "Then we'll go back to Illinois and I'll reopen my law office. And we'll live happily ever after. Maybe Robert will come with us and practice law with me. And you can be the Queen of Springfield or Chicago or wherever we go."
She gazed up at him adoringly. "Oh, Abraham." She hugged his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. "I've never been so happy."
M ARY DIDNT KNOW which sound she heard first, the scream of a woman or the loud bang, which was like a firecracker. It was well into the third act, and she thought,
Firecrackers aren't part of the play.
Then she saw her husband's head slump forward, felt someone brush past her, and suddenly the form of a man holding a derringer stood poised before her on the railing of the box, half hidden by the Nottingham lace curtains.
"Stop that man! Stop him!" It was Major Rathbone's voice, shouting, as he threw himself at the dark form.
"Abraham! Abraham!" Mary shouted. "Oh, and they have shot my husband!"
She saw blood dripping from the back of Abraham's head, through the dark hair. His eyes were open but glassy. He could not see or hear her.
"Someone help us!" she pleaded. "Someone!"
Major Rathbone and the dark stranger were wrestling now, right in front of her. She saw a knife flash then heard a low moan from Rathbone. Then the stranger jumped from the box onto the stage below, dragging some lace curtain and red, white, and blue bunting with him.
The audience below was in a panic. The presidential box was full of people. Someone ushered Mary out. Doctors were there now, laying her husband down on the carpet. Laura Keene, the lead actress, was there. Clara Harris was sobbing and begging a doctor to see to her fiancé's arm, which was bleeding profusely.
Then they carried Abraham out. Strangers were helping, Mary noted. They carried him downstairs, outside, and across the street to the Petersen house. There they set him down on a too-small bed in a too-small bedroom.
Mary stood dumbly, looking around while people pushed past her. Important people like members of the cabinet. How had they gotten here so suddenly? Wasn't that Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton? She blinked. Gaslight flickered. Long shadows were cast on the wall. People spoke in low tones. Yet she could hear Abraham's labored breathing.
Able to abide it no more she wedged herself between all the important men and threw herself on Abraham. "Oh husband, husband, don't leave me like this!"
But Abraham was not responding. Of a sudden his cheeks looked sunken in. His eyes were unseeing, there and not there. Blood stained the pillowcase under his head. "Do something," she scolded the doctors. "Can't you do something?"
"Someone get that woman out of here!" It was Secretary Stanton's voice. Oh well, she had never liked the man anyway, nor had he liked her. But always he had treated her with the deference of her position.
Now she had no more position. If Abraham died, no one would treat her with deference; she would be a nobody. The thought seized her, and she felt that fear piled onto the other.
"Mother, come. Come into the other room with me."
It was Robert. She turned and he stood there, tall and a boy no longer; he was a man now. If the war hadn't done it to him, this would. She took his hand, and he led her across the hall to a small gaslit parlor. People left them alone there. Robert sat next to her on the sofa. She suddenly saw tears brimming in his eyes and held him close. He needed her as much as she needed him.
"Who did this thing to your father?" she asked him. "Did they find out?"
"A man named John Wilkes Booth. The actor."
She shook her head. "No, no, it couldn't be. We saw him once in a play. Why would he? Why? Is he a Southern sympathizer?"
"No one knows the why of it yet, Mother."
"Did they catch him?"
"Not yet. No. But they will. They're all looking for him."
"The dream,"
She gazed up at him adoringly. "Oh, Abraham." She hugged his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. "I've never been so happy."
M ARY DIDNT KNOW which sound she heard first, the scream of a woman or the loud bang, which was like a firecracker. It was well into the third act, and she thought,
Firecrackers aren't part of the play.
Then she saw her husband's head slump forward, felt someone brush past her, and suddenly the form of a man holding a derringer stood poised before her on the railing of the box, half hidden by the Nottingham lace curtains.
"Stop that man! Stop him!" It was Major Rathbone's voice, shouting, as he threw himself at the dark form.
"Abraham! Abraham!" Mary shouted. "Oh, and they have shot my husband!"
She saw blood dripping from the back of Abraham's head, through the dark hair. His eyes were open but glassy. He could not see or hear her.
"Someone help us!" she pleaded. "Someone!"
Major Rathbone and the dark stranger were wrestling now, right in front of her. She saw a knife flash then heard a low moan from Rathbone. Then the stranger jumped from the box onto the stage below, dragging some lace curtain and red, white, and blue bunting with him.
The audience below was in a panic. The presidential box was full of people. Someone ushered Mary out. Doctors were there now, laying her husband down on the carpet. Laura Keene, the lead actress, was there. Clara Harris was sobbing and begging a doctor to see to her fiancé's arm, which was bleeding profusely.
Then they carried Abraham out. Strangers were helping, Mary noted. They carried him downstairs, outside, and across the street to the Petersen house. There they set him down on a too-small bed in a too-small bedroom.
Mary stood dumbly, looking around while people pushed past her. Important people like members of the cabinet. How had they gotten here so suddenly? Wasn't that Secretary of War Edwin M. Stanton? She blinked. Gaslight flickered. Long shadows were cast on the wall. People spoke in low tones. Yet she could hear Abraham's labored breathing.
Able to abide it no more she wedged herself between all the important men and threw herself on Abraham. "Oh husband, husband, don't leave me like this!"
But Abraham was not responding. Of a sudden his cheeks looked sunken in. His eyes were unseeing, there and not there. Blood stained the pillowcase under his head. "Do something," she scolded the doctors. "Can't you do something?"
"Someone get that woman out of here!" It was Secretary Stanton's voice. Oh well, she had never liked the man anyway, nor had he liked her. But always he had treated her with the deference of her position.
Now she had no more position. If Abraham died, no one would treat her with deference; she would be a nobody. The thought seized her, and she felt that fear piled onto the other.
"Mother, come. Come into the other room with me."
It was Robert. She turned and he stood there, tall and a boy no longer; he was a man now. If the war hadn't done it to him, this would. She took his hand, and he led her across the hall to a small gaslit parlor. People left them alone there. Robert sat next to her on the sofa. She suddenly saw tears brimming in his eyes and held him close. He needed her as much as she needed him.
"Who did this thing to your father?" she asked him. "Did they find out?"
"A man named John Wilkes Booth. The actor."
She shook her head. "No, no, it couldn't be. We saw him once in a play. Why would he? Why? Is he a Southern sympathizer?"
"No one knows the why of it yet, Mother."
"Did they catch him?"
"Not yet. No. But they will. They're all looking for him."
"The dream,"
Similar Books
A Heart's Masquerade
Deborah Simmons
Biker Taken (The Lost Souls MC Series Book 6)
Ellie R Hunter
Hope Takes Flight
Gilbert Morris
Naamah's Curse
Jacqueline Carey
Engaged to Die
Carolyn Hart
Not Pretty Enough
Jaimie Admans
You Slay Me
Katie MacAlister
The Whip
Karen Kondazian
Sheikh's Possession
Sophia Lynn
Thief of Baghdad
Richard Wormser