June volunteers to go and talk to him, play the big brother. Obviously this task can’t fall to Edwin. John is currently in the capital so June meets him there at the Surratt boardinghouse. They sit together in the overstuffed parlor, full of geegaws, vases and candlesticks and figurines. June feels oddly spied on by Mrs. Surratt and her daughter, oddly unsettled by the ticking of multiple clocks. He suggests going out.

Twilight is just falling and they walk together along the darkening streets. They follow the lamplighter for a block or so, seeing the lamps flare, yellow and haloed in the misty evening. June’s trying to find a place to begin when John suddenly provides it. “Virginia! My Virginia!” he cries out tragically. He turns south, his face wet with tears.

Obviously, sober sense is in short supply here. “John,” June says. He grabs John’s shoulders, looks him in the eyes. “The North will win and there’s nothing to be done about it. You would do best to concentrate on your profession.”

He can see the condemnation in John’s face. “I’m not so bloodless as you,” John says.

June’s second attempt goes better. They find a bar and over whiskies, June learns two things he didn’t know. One: John’s been boasting for months of big profits from his oil wells. The truth is that he’s lost nearly everything. June scolds him affectionately for pretending otherwise. Time for him to recommit to the stage.

Two: John, like Edwin, is in love. He’s secretly pledged to a senator’s daughter, the beautiful Lucy Hale. Senator Hale is a committed abolitionist, recently appointed ambassador to Spain. He’ll be taking Lucy with him when he goes. Rough waters ahead—Romeo and Juliet to be sure—but June is reassured. He encourages John to wax on about Lucy’s many perfections, until he can see the old John coming clear again.

He returns to New York with a favorable report. John is making plans for the future. He’s determined to deserve Lucy and he understands, he agrees with June, that to do so requires steadiness and industry. John doesn’t come right out and say that he loves Lucy more than his dear old Virginia, but surely he must. They are so eager to be reassured, they ignore the revelation that John has been lying to them for months.

—

Mother writes John a letter, complaining that he’s not been to visit, telling him that she’s miserable and lonely in Edwin’s house without him. “I always gave you praise,” she writes, “for being the fondest of all my boys, but since you leave me to grief I must doubt it. I am no Roman mother. I love my dear ones before country or anything else.”

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