The children’s laughter intensified, followed by clattering and a strange squeal. Could that possibly be the nickering of a horse?
Dropping a stack of letters, Caroline ran into the hall, gasping at the sight of a pony prancing nervously in the marble corridor just inside the north entrance.
“Get that animal out of here!” she shrieked.
A young boy giggled and reached for the pony’s bridle as a mortified White House usher rushed inside.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the usher gasped. “One of the older boys distracted me while this one snuck it in.”
Behind him, a cluster of boys looked delighted as the usher led the pony outside. Caroline followed to be certain the pony was well away from the house, then glared at the boys, uncertain if she had the authority to reprimand the Roosevelt children. The only adult was a languid young lady watching the entire incident from the far side of the portico as she smoked a cigarette.
“Oops,” the young lady said with deliberate indifference.
This was surely Alice Roosevelt, the oldest of the Roosevelt children, who was already in the process of scandalizing Washington society. As much as Caroline wanted to smack her, she recognized a bit of herself in Alice’s wildcatting ways. Still, she wouldn’t let Alice disrespect the White House.
She strode forward, plucked the cigarette from Alice’s hands, and ground it out on the pavers. “If you must smoke, I’ll show you a spot on the roof where you can get away with it. Don’t embarrass your father by doing it where reporters can see you.”She paused to scan Alice from head to toe. “Stop slouching, because even now people are watching you. You’re going to have a lot of eyes on you in the years ahead, so start off on the right foot.”
She got no reaction from Alice, but she didn’t expect one, nor did she care. At least the pony had been led safely away from the White House, but the children shrieked as they began batting a cricket ball across the lawn.
She needed to go back inside and check on Nathaniel. The job of overseeing White House security had been transferred to Sullivan, but Wilkie gave Nathaniel another assignment inside the house. If Nathaniel ended his days in the White House with the horrific catastrophe of the assassination, he might never recover.
She headed downstairs to the communications room, where Nathaniel had been assigned to scan telegrams and monitor telephone calls. Amidst the flood of condolence messages, there were matters of business that needed to be flagged. It wasn’t difficult, but it served as a way to salvage Nathaniel’s pride.
It was crowded in the communications room, and activity was in full swing as the telegraph machine clicked and messages were decoded. Nathaniel sat in a rolling chair that could slide from station to station.
She smiled as she approached him. “I came to coax you to lunch. The cook made corned beef on rye.” It was Nathaniel’s favorite sandwich, but he didn’t show much interest.
“I’ve been skipping lunch these days,” he said.
She knew, which was why she’d asked the cook to make corned beef sandwiches.
“You might be able to go without lunch, but I can’t. And I hate eating alone. Join me?” Anything to get him moving and interacting with people.
To her relief, he stood and followed her to the kitchen, where all the cooks were busy. The new president would be hosting afarewell dinner tonight for the two dozen state governors who’d come to Washington for the funeral. Pots of water boiled, loaves of bread cooled, and pans clattered. Caroline grabbed two plates, plopped a sandwich onto each, and carried them to the staff tables, where Nathaniel sat with a listless stare.
“Go ahead and eat,” she prodded. “Don’t worry. The telegrams will wait until you get back.”
He pulled the plate toward himself but didn’t touch the sandwich. “I know. It’s a pointless job.” He traced the edge of the plate with his finger. “Thank you for suggesting it to Wilkie, though. It’s obvious I shouldn’t be in charge upstairs.”
She stilled, watching him carefully. “You aren’t offended?”
“I don’t have the energy to be offended.”
With a slow push of a finger, he rotated the sandwich plate, staring at it with no interest. The spark of professional absorption she’d always found so attractive was gone. It was as if a candle had been snuffed out, leaving him a lethargic shell of a man. She scrambled to think of something that might spark his curiosity back to life.
“I wonder if Wilkie might put you on the track of that fake Vermeer in the Corcoran,” she said impulsively. “The charming one of the girl holding the rabbit.”
He lifted his eyes to look at her. “Why would he do that?”
“Because it’s a form of counterfeit, and if the Secret Service won’t do anything about it, who will?”
He shrugged and continued rotating the plate with a single finger. His numbness frightened her, and she scrambled for a way to cut through his despondency.
She grabbed his hand and squeezed. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said quietly.
He pulled his hand away. “I was two yards away when Czolgosz fired that gun. Of course it’s my fault.”
There was no heat in his words, only blankness. Everyone in this city was grieving, but only Nathaniel blamed himself.It was as if the weight of the nation sat on his chest, making it impossible to breathe.
