Assassin (10 page)

I do not know what made me answer him as I did, but I looked up at him and said, “My full name is Arabella.” It was a fact I had never mentioned to anyone else in Washington City.

He cocked his head, and his dark eyes studied me a moment. “Arabella,” he repeated my name slowly. “It suits you better than Bella. Arabella is a beautiful name for a beautiful young lady. I am Wilkes Booth.” He held out his hand, and I placed my fingers across his palm. He bowed and kissed my hand. “You did not answer my question. Are you afraid of me, Arabella?”

I had to look slightly away from those eyes before I could speak. “No, sir,” I said, “I am not afraid of you.” It was a lie. I did fear him, feared the weak feeling I had when his eyes looked deep into mine.

“How do you come to be here in the costume shop?” he asked. “A girl with your beauty is more often found on the stage.”

“I sew for tickets.” I hesitated, looking down again at my sewing, then went on, “I love the theater.”

“Do you, Arabella?”

“Yes, my mother used to take me to the theater in Richmond. In fact, I saw you once there. You held the door for us, and then I saw you on the stage.”

“Richmond!” His face lit up as if a spotlight had been turned on it. “Are you from Richmond?” I looked about suddenly and realized that Mistress Lillie and the other woman had left the room. I was alone with this man!

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I lived there with my mother and father until my mother died. Now I live with my grandmother here in Washington City.”

“So you are a Virginia girl. I can’t believe I could have forgotten meeting you, but then, you must have been a child at the time.” He nodded his head, “A Virginia girl,” he said again. “Little wonder then that I find myself so drawn to you. I spent many good days in Richmond. Why do you not live with your father in Richmond now?”

I could not say to him, could I, that my father did not want me, had not wanted me for these past six years. Instead I said, “My father is a prisoner of war.”

“Ah.” His face grew sad. “I am sorry if my inquiry caused you pain.” He lowered his voice. “It must be hard for you, a daughter of the South, in this city.”

I wanted to tell him that I didn’t actually consider myself a daughter of the South anymore, that I loved Mr.
Lincoln and believed in the Union, but I didn’t. The light that came to his eyes left me with no doubt that he was a Copperhead, a Southern sympathizer in the North, and so great was his charm, so handsome was his face, that I felt unable to disagree with him.

I ignored his comment about the South and said, “I’ve always dreamed of being on the stage.”

“Have you now?” He smiled at me, reached into his pocket, and took out a folded piece of paper. “Would you like to learn some lines of poetry?” he asked. “You could say them for me as a sort of audition.”

The wave of excitement that passed through me threatened to take my breath away, but I managed to say, “Yes! Oh, yes, sir. I would love to do that.” I held out my shaking hand for the paper.

“It’s by Edgar Allan Poe,” he said, and he began to recite the poem, “It was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know, By the name of Annabel Lee.” He stopped. “Well, enough of me. You learn it and say it for me.” He cocked his head, studying me. “Yes, I should enjoy hearing you, I’m sure.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.”

He turned and walked toward the door. Just before he went out, he looked back at me. “There is one more thing I must ask of you, Arabella.”

“Yes, sir.” I waited.

He laughed. “Will you please stop calling me sir?
You make me feel old, practically ancient, instead of twenty-six.”

I put down my sewing and read the poem over and over. By the time I walked home that evening, I had memorized most of the lines.

That night I wrote a long letter to Steven. “Things are beginning to happen, just as you said they might. I’ve had a chance to talk to the actor I told you about, Wilkes Booth,” I told him. “He gave me a piece to memorize, said he wants to hear me recite. Could this be the beginning of my life on the stage? Thank you, dear Steven, for encouraging me to go to Ford’s for work. I would never have done it without your urging.”

For the first time, I held back a true emotion, did not tell Steven how Wilkes Booth made me feel. Nor did I tell Steven that I had let the man believe I was a Copperhead. Steven, I knew, would tell me to steer clear of Wilkes. Steven would see that I might be headed for danger. I did not want to hear such words because I knew I would not heed them.

I spent days practicing the short piece. I wished I could do it before the small mirror above our wash-stand, but Grandmother was always in the house, and she would have questioned me about the activity. I had upset Grandmother enough by insisting that I sew for theater tickets.

“No good will come of this hanging around show
people.” She made a small clucking sound with her tongue. “But now that you’re the one who supports me instead of the other way around, I suppose there is little hope that you will listen to me.” She peered up at from where she sat, and I softened at the true concern I saw there on her old face.

“I do listen to you, Grandmother.” I bent to her rocker before the fire, and I kissed her cheek. “I do listen to you, dear one, but I also listen to my heart. My heart tells me to work in the theater, but I will be careful.”

I was not careful about Wilkes Booth. Our second meeting was on the streets of Washington City. It was early on a cold day in February. I had pulled my shawl up over my head as I hurried toward my job at the White House.

A hansom cab passed me and stopped. From the carriage Wilkes Booth called, “Arabella, is that you?”

Dumbfounded that he should recognize me, I stood for a second unable to speak. Then I found my voice. “Yes,” I cried into the wind.

He motioned with his arm that I should come to him. “I’ll give you a ride in my cab,” he said. “You must be half frozen.”

I ran toward him. Wilkes Booth had recognized me on the street and offered me a ride. This was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. Mistress Lillie’s words to him about dallying with me flashed through my
mind, but I did not slow my step. He would never make improper gestures toward me. Of that fact I felt certain, and I must say that he never did. He never made unseemly remarks or tried to touch me in an indecent way.

As graceful as a cat, he jumped from the carriage to take my arm and help me climb inside. “Where are you going so early?” he asked when he was settled in beside me.

“To the White House,” I said. “I am assistant to Mrs. Lincoln’s dressmaker.”

I thought he might ask me to get out, might not want to carry an employee of the White House in his cab, but he did not. “Pennsylvania Avenue, Zeke,” he called to the driver who sat above the carriage. “We’ve an employee of the president here.”

We had traveled just half a block when the carriage slowed at the corner. Wilkes took off his large top hat and tipped it to a lady standing on the steps of her boardinghouse. He leaned out and called, “Good morning, Mrs. Surratt.”

I knew the woman because my grandmother had done some sewing for her and her daughter Anna, who was a pretty young woman. I wondered if Wilkes knew Mrs. Surratt because he had stepped out with Anna.

He was dressed as for evening in a dark suit with tails, a sparkling white shirt, and a tall silk hat. He had been, I supposed, at a party all night, and was only now going home.

Someone had doubtless danced with him. An image flashed through my mind. I saw myself, dressed in a delightful green dress. I was moving about the floor in the arms of Wilkes Booth. I shook my head ever so slightly to clear my mind.

“Tell me,” he said, “how do you like working for the mighty Lincolns?” A sneer moved across his lips as he said the words.

I looked down at the hands I twisted in my lap. “Don’t mind me,” he said, his voice and expression kind again. “I hate the tyrant, but I will not blame you if you don’t.”

“They have been naught but kind to me,” I said, my eyes still down.

“And does this kind Lincoln know your father fought for the South?”

“He does,” I said. I remembered the day I told Mr. Lincoln about my father. It was soon after the letter from my aunt arrived. “What’s wrong with our Bella?” the president asked me one day. He had come upon me crying as I sewed. My sad tale came tumbling out.

“I am sorry to hear of your troubles, Miss Bella, most sorely sorry.” He had bent to pat my hand. “The sorrow over this war mounts higher than all the mountains of this nation, north and south.”

Now I cleared my throat, and looking away from Wilkes to gaze out the window of the carriage, I found courage to say, “Mr. Lincoln offered his sympathy to me, said he was sorry for my troubles.”

“And well he should be sorry, sorry indeed. Did you know that he has stopped the prisoner exchange?”

“I am not sure what the prisoner exchange is,” I said. I gave a little shrug of my shoulders. “I am afraid I am not always clear about what’s happening with the war. My friend Steven is better at it all.”

“Lincoln has stopped exchanging Union prisoners for Confederate prisoners.” The snarl returned to his face. “You see, that was the practice for some time, but Lincoln decided it would hurt the Southern war effort if the exchange stopped. There are more soldiers in the North, especially now that he uses the colored men. They do not need returned soldiers to go back to battle nearly as badly as the South needs her men.”

“Oh,” I said softly.

“Yes, your father and thirty-five thousand other Southern men will now sit in prison for the duration of this war. You can thank your Mr. Lincoln for that!” He turned away from me for a moment toward the window. When he looked at me again, he smiled. “But let us not talk of dreary things. Tell me, have you learned the lines I gave you?”

“I have,” I said.

He leaned back on the seat and folded his arms across his chest. “Well, Miss Arabella, will you do me the honor of reciting for me?”

My heart pounded, but I drew a deep breath. “‘Annabel Lee’ by Edgar Allan Poe,” I said.

“Look at me as you speak,” said Wilkes.

I did and felt a great surge of energy. I recited clearly and in a good strong voice, putting in every drop of emotion inside me.

“Bravo,” Wilkes said when I finished, and he clapped his hands. “Next time we shall take you up to the stage and let the company manager hear you too. I’ll find you in the costume shop when there is a good chance.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” I said, and a great wave of happiness rushed through my body.

“Now,” he said, “tell me about this Steven. Is he your beau?”

“Until recently I had never thought of Steven in that way, but now I think perhaps he is.” I laughed. “I only know I cannot imagine life without him. He is my best and dearest friend.” I paused. “And yes, perhaps, my beau.”

Wilkes looked at me, his eyes boring into my very being. “He is a lucky young man, to be the dearest friend of the beautiful Arabella who is, I am certain, as beautiful as the beautiful Annabel Lee.”

The cab came to a stop then in front of the White House. Wilkes jumped out to help me alight. “Thank you, sir,” I said again. “Thank you for the ride and for all your kind help.”

He bowed to me. “Good-bye, Miss Arabella.” He was about to climb back into the cab when he looked back at
me. “Arabella,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve asked you before not to call me sir.”

“I won’t, s—” I almost said
sir
, and we both laughed.

“Can’t you say Wilkes?” he called from the cab.

“Good-bye, Wilkes,” I shouted. I watched the hansom cab disappear, and I felt good, wonderfully good.

HIS STORY

Mad! The word makes me laugh. Yes, there are those who think me unbalanced because I get excited in defense of the South, but my mind is sharp! Sharper than the minds of the fools who follow blindly after Lincoln. I will tell you how keen is my thinking!

I watched the girl go into the White House, and the idea came to me. One moment I was staring at her back, wondering how sweet, charming Arabella could bear to work in the house of the devil himself, and the next moment the idea had sprung full-blown from my brain, as Athena sprang full-blown from the head of Zeus. So filled with excitement was I that I pounded my walking stick against the top of the carriage and shouted, “I am a genius!”

The driver drew the horses to a stop. He leaned down toward my window and shouted, “Is something wanted, sir?”

“Oh, no,” I called. “Sorry to have interrupted, Zeke.”

“At your service, sir,” he said.

I decided to give Zeke an even larger tip than usual, and I will remember that his cab was the lucky one where the wonderful idea came to me. I leaned back against the seat and thought about being a genius.

My father was a genius. Everyone said so. He was the finest actor ever to appear on the American stage. So great was he that when he died one theater critic wrote, “There are no more actors.”

Of course, they said he was mad too. “Mad Tragedian Returns to Boston Stage.” So read the headlines in a Boston newspaper. Edwin showed the paper to Asia and me after he returned from a tour with Father. Edwin waited until Joseph, two years younger than I, was not about, then he called Asia and me into his room.

Edwin traveled with Father as had our brother June before him. They were there to help with his costume changes, to keep track of stage props, and to do such jobs as dab him, between scenes, with the red makeup that looked like blood. They were also supposed to keep him from drinking and, I learned that day, to follow after him in an effort to protect him when madness settled over him.

“It’s true,” Edwin said after Asia and I had read the headlines. “Our father is mad, and you may as well know
it now.” He took the newspaper from my hands, folded it, and put it in his bureau drawer.

“Why would you want to keep such a thing?” I asked. “I do not believe those words, and neither should you.”

Edwin whirled back to me, agitated. “You do not have to see him when the madness comes. You are safe at home while I have to run after him. Last week in Boston, he gave them a show.” Edwin waved his arms. “No, not on the stage, and don’t say alcohol caused it. He was stone sober. Yet he bought a delivery wagon full of flour, paid the driver twice its worth, then hacked open the kegs and drove down the streets with a white cloud drifting after him.”