Free The Spymistress by Jennifer Chiaverini Page B

crowd, glad to leave the jubilation behind.
    Lizzie did not turn out to observe the president’s wife when she arrived three days later, but Mary, by virtue of her exemplary and prolific service to the cause, had been invited along with several other prominent Church Hill ladies to a special reception welcoming Varina Davis to Richmond. It was truly the most exciting spectacle she had ever witnessed, Mary enthused that evening at supper, fairly glowing as she recounted all she had witnessed. “Mrs. Davis arrived by train with her three children and servants,” she told them as the soup was served. “A host of other dignitaries accompanied them, as well as the president’s favorite horse. Do you know Mr. Davis has a special military saddle with a compass set in its pommel?”
    “I didn’t know that,” said Lizzie shortly. “Nor, I think, should that come as any surprise.”
    Mary’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Why, Lizzie, on the contrary, your ignorance on any subject always comes as a great surprise.” Her rapturous smile returned as she resumed her tale. “They say that Mr. Davis’s saddle signifies that whenever he rides to battle, he will always point north toward the enemy.”
    “I don’t expect he will ride to battle very often,” John remarked.
    Mary frowned thoughtfully. “No, perhaps not. Even so, the thought of it alone rallies the spirits.”
    Lizzie blew on her soup to cool it, but the delectable aromas of cream and celery offered no balm to her annoyance. “Perhaps the compass is meant to help him find his way from the Spotswood to the Capitol.”
    “Oh, the Davis family will not remain at the Spotswood for long,” Mary said. “That lovely gray stucco residence at Twelfth and Clay is being prepared for them. And Mr. Davis’s office is to be in the Custom House, not the Capitol. But you make me leap ahead. Let me tell it from the beginning.”
    Lizzie supposed there would be no dissuading her, so she remained silent.
    “Mr. Davis had gone to the train station to welcome his family and escort them the rest of the way,” Mary continued. “Crowds lined the streets, and they cheered and threw flowers in their path. One sweet young girl threw a bouquet that fell short, so the president ordered the carriage to halt, sent a servant for the bouquet, and presented it to his lady. Oh, it was so gallant! The crowd was absolutely enchanted, the ladies especially.”
    “What were your impressions of Mrs. Davis?” Mother inquired. “Were you introduced?”
    “Oh, yes, of course. The reception was held in the Spotswood’s finest parlor, gloriously decorated in Confederate colors.” Mary paused, thoughtful. “Mrs. Davis is quite a bit younger than her husband, but the difference cannot be any greater than that which separates John and me. She looked to be no more than thirty-five, and I would say in all kindness that she is handsome rather than beautiful. Her eyes are dark and intelligent, her complexion olive, her lips full and curving. She is as soft and round as her husband is thin and angular, but although she has lost her girlish slimness, I think it gives her a more regal bearing.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “It is rumored that she is in a delicate condition, but I detected no such sign.”
    “It could be very early yet,” said Mother.
    “I suppose. She wore the most beautiful gown of blue silk, with a lovely neckline, a flattering bodice, and an elegant train that draped into a perfect cascade. When I complimented her, Mrs. Davis’s expression grew wistful, and she told me that the gown had been made for her by an extraordinarily gifted dressmaker in Washington City.” Mary put her head to one side, considering. “I do believe she misses her former home very much, for all that it is now overrun with Yankees.”
    “Perhaps it’s her dressmaker she misses,” Lizzie remarked.
    Mary dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “She’ll have her choice of excellent