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Despite the downpour outside, which turned Washington streets into rushing streams, the interior of the Secretary of State's house was pleasantly warm, and the heavy raindrops pounding against the windows were drowned out by the hum of conversation.
The President was seated on a sofa in the corner of the large living room, the main reception area. The room was packed with people, mostly politicians and their wives, all more or less friendly to Lincoln. They were quite an interesting bunch, and anyone else would likely have listened with interest to the conversations, which covered a wide range of topics, from the ongoing war to the latest social gossip. None of this, however, could have attracted Lincoln's attention more than William Henry Seward. He watched as he briskly paced through the house, deftly dodging furniture and the ladies' flowing, rustling dresses, approaching each guest to exchanged pleasantries. He wore a gray suit with yellow accents, and a smile never left his face throughout the evening as he talked with almost everyone present at the party. He was also practically constantly on the move, stopping only to smoke, sip brandy, or play a game of whist. Lincoln couldn't take his eyes off him all evening.
Around ten o'clock, the number of guests present began to dwindle at an accelerating pace. Bidden as politely as they had been welcomed, they reluctantly emerged into the cool autumn air. After closing the door behind the last one, Seward, clearly pleased with himself, approached the President and sat down beside him. His eyes were sparkling, his face flushed, and his hair even more disheveled than usual. They sat side by side in silence for a moment; finally, their eyes met, and Lincoln, who had been sitting with his legs crossed, uncrossed them and nodded with an encouraging smile. Seward, beaming, immediately settled comfortably on the sofa, resting his head on the president's lap.
“I talked to Grimes, and I think at least he's willing to back you up," he said, yawning quietly in between.
"We can talk about it tomorrow," Lincoln smiled, gently stroking his hair. "I know you're tired."
Seward looked like he wanted to protest, but after a moment he sighed and nodded.
"Maybe you're right. But I have to admit, I managed to get a lot done that evening," he chuckled softly. "It was a successful party."
"What could it be, since it was you who organized it?"
Seward blushed even deeper and said nothing. Once, Lincoln would have been surprised that even at such moments, the Secretary couldn't forget politics. He would have wondered about this, perhaps dismissing his sociability as something false, intended solely to gain useful contacts. But now he understood that politics was as natural to Seward as breathing, that it had been with him from the very beginning of his life, and that he needed it as much as he needed going to parties, eating good food, and receiving compliments. Lincoln didn't mind; in fact, he quickly came to appreciate it when, after each reception, Seward came to him with information he'd gathered. They would sit together late into the night, discussing future strategy and sharing jokes and anecdotes about politicians they disliked.
But there was no need for conversation now. A calm, steady flame burned in the fireplace, the air filled with the scent of Seward cigars, which Lincoln secretly adored, and the downpour outside had subsided to a soft, pattering rain. It was perfect.
"I think I should go," the president said quietly, though he still didn't move.
"No, you shouldn't," Seward muttered, his eyes half-closed, and he gently grabbed his hand.
Lincoln thought for a moment and decided his wife probably wouldn't even notice if he didn't return.
"Alright, but you have to let go of me and make some space," he smiled.
Seward rose, allowing the President to lie down across the length of the sofa, which was the perfect size for him to stretch his long legs, and then settled down beside him. The warmth radiating from his body inexplicably surprised Lincoln, who moved a little closer. Listening to the patter of the rain, the crackle of the fire, and the Secretary's slow breathing, he felt a peace he hadn't experienced in days. He slowly closed his eyes and soon fell into a dreamless sleep.
…
Seward awoke as the morning sun hit his face. The first thing he felt was a slight, but noticeable, throbbing headache.
"I've barely had a drink," he groaned silently.
The second was the fact that Lincoln was still lying next to him. Seward opened his eyes and slowly rose, gazing sleepily at the president; after a moment, he realized he was sound asleep. This surprised and pleased him, because he partly knew and partly guessed about his recent sleep problems. Seward often arrived at the Executive Mansion at various unconventional hours, late at night or early in the morning, and each time he found the president talking to someone, going through papers, or wandering aimlessly around the house. He usually wanted to say something at that moment, to ask him not to overexert himself, but firstly, that would make him sound like a hypocrite, and secondly, realizing he would never fully understand the president's responsibility, he preferred not to comment.
Now, however, Lincoln slept as peacefully as if he weren't the president of a war-torn country. Seward looked around and saw that the fire in the fireplace had died down, the rain had stopped, and the entire house was completely silent. Not wanting to ruin the moment by accidentally waking the president, he rose from the sofa as quietly as he could. Spotting a blanket lying on a nearby armchair, he picked it up and carefully covered Lincoln with it.
"And to think I once treated him as my political opponent," he thought in disbelief. He realized it had only been a few years earlier, yet it felt like decades had passed since he'd wanted to become president himself. Now, as he leaned over to kiss the sleeping Lincoln on the cheek, all he wanted was for everything to stay as it was, for Lincoln to remain president and him his favorite secretary, forever.