“Dickie Shuster ofThe Washington Post,” the man introduced himself, and Vera’s reaction immediately morphed into delighted enthusiasm.
“Why, of course! We met last year at my husband’s swearing-in ceremony. Won’t you join us?”
“Delighted.”
Vera performed the introductions, and Marianne gathered that Dickie had published several favorable stories about her father in the past. While Marianne was proud of her father, she rarely paid much attention to what was written about him in the press.
Not so her mother. The first thing Vera did every morning was scan both of Washington’s daily newspapers in search of any mention of herself or Clyde. No doubt she was hoping her amazing hat might garner some commentary in the social pages. Perhaps she was hoping Dickie Shuster might mention it, because in addition to politics, he wrote a weekly column covering Washington gossip and scandal.
Dickie proceeded to compliment Vera on her hat, and she regaled him with the trauma of spending an entire morning searching for an appropriate costume for the Stepanovic gala.
“The theme is seventeenth-century masterpieces.” Vera pouted. “That leaves me only two choices. I can look like a sober Dutch puritan with an itchy ruff around my neck, or go as a half-naked strumpet.”
Dickie’s laugh sounded like a purr. “My dear, count yourself fortunate you weren’t here for the costume party Senator Redford threw to celebrate American agriculture. It looked like a barnyard. Women actually pinned feathers and shafts of wheat to their gowns. It was the talk of the town for ages, and not in a good way.”
The reporter continued regaling them with stories of Mrs. Redford’s catastrophic costume party. Marianne laughed so much that she dared not risk tasting her soup, lest she embarrass herself.
“And what costume will Congressman Magruder wear?” Dickie asked.
Vera’s lips thinned. “I’m afraid my husband will be unable to attend. He supposedly has committee obligations that evening.”
“Supposedly?” Dickie’s eyes gleamed, and he leaned forward like a bloodhound sensing fresh meat. Airing family squabbles in public was never a good idea, but it was especially dangerous in front of a reporter.
Vera breezily explained herself with a wave of her silk handkerchief. “Some sort of dinner meeting with military officers to discuss munitions, whatever that is. It sounds terribly dull to me, especially since he won’t be able to escort me to the gala. Luckily, I have my lovely daughter, who will attend in his place.”
Dickie’s smile remained plastered in place. “Yes, how lucky you are to have such a charming ... daughter.”
Marianne stiffened. That note of hesitation in his voice awakened all her deepest insecurities about her birth. Could this journalist know something about her awkward arrival in the Magruder household twenty-six years ago?
Then Dickie cracked a joke about the vice-president’s impersonation of Lady Macbeth, and she nearly split her sides in laughter. She was being ridiculous. It was only her own insecurity that made her imagine such a threat, for Dickie Shuster seemed completely harmless.
Fourteen
Marianne cinched Vera’s waist down to nineteen inches to fit into her Nell Gwynn costume gown of shimmering gold silk. The shoulder and underarm seams were so closely sewn that Vera couldn’t lift her arms more than a few inches. Although Marianne would never be able to compete with her mother’s hourglass waist, her milkmaid outfit was still surprisingly attractive, with a full skirt of French blue, an ivory blouse, and a lace-up vest. The flouncy sleeves and loose skirt allowed far more freedom than Vera’s gown.
Which was a good thing when Bandit came bounding into the room, entranced by the swaths of iridescent fabric on Vera’s gown. Vera squealed in dismay as the dog drew near, but Marianne sprang forward to grab his collar.
“Down, boy,” she urged, even though Bandit didn’t mean any harm. He had been sent to live with them as a punishment for Sam. According to Andrew, her nephew was starting to indulge in “disrespectful back talk” to his parents. Separating the boy from his dog was the greatest punishment Andrew could imagine, so Marianne had agreed to look after Bandit for a month.
Vera clasped her hands over her heart. “Thank heavens that creature didn’t ruin my gown!”
“Mama, it’s all right. You’re going to be the most beautiful congressman’s wife in attendance tonight.” Vera always looked spectacular but still wasn’t comfortable in Washington society and needed constant reassurance.
“Please leave your camera at home,” Vera said. “It’s not ladylike to carry it about, and this isn’t the sort of gathering where people will expect to be photographed, hmm, darling?”
“Of course, Mama.” Although Marianne secretly disagreed. When people were enjoying themselves was precisely when they most welcomed a photograph, but this was Vera’s evening. Her mother lived for these glamorous events, and Marianne would do her best to make it perfect for her.
Twilight had just begun to darken the sky as their carriage arrived at the riverside park. Torches lined a garden path leading to the gala, and Marianne craned her neck to admire the lavish display. A vine-covered trellis lined both sides of the pathway, but every few yards there was an alcove nestled amidst the plants where actors had been hired to pose in tableaux of famous paintings. There wasThe Return of the Prodigal Sonby Rembrandt,Girl with a Pearl Earringby Vermeer, and theArnolfini Portraitdepicting a wealthy merchant and his wife by Jan van Eyck. The actors were exquisitely dressed down to the last detail and valiantly held their poses despite the high-society guests gaping at the display. She wished she had her camera, because everywhere she looked was a feast for the eyes.
At the end of the avenue of tableaux was a flower-draped awning where guests were greeted by the two women hosting the charity gala. The older woman wore a silk turban with a stone as large as a robin’s egg in the center. The younger blond woman was even more shocking, for she was dressed like a man in the exquisitely tailored uniform of a seventeenth-century musketeer. The outfit was complete with trousers, flaring white sleeves, a scarlet cape flung over one shoulder, and a hat tiltedat a jaunty angle. She even wore knee-high leather boots. Both women laughed as they greeted each guest.
“Isn’t this fun?” Vera asked as they funneled closer to their hostesses, and Marianne had to agree. This was going to be an evening to cherish.
“Welcome, Mr. Trent,” the hostess wearing the musketeer outfit said to the couple in front of her. “We are so grateful that you, your wife, and your wallet could attend our little soiree. Have you met Mrs. Stepanovic?” she asked as she introduced the turban-wearing woman.
“Indeed,” Mr. Trent boomed. “And this is my wife, Martha Trent. Martha, this is Caroline Delacroix, hostess extraordinaire.”
Marianne sucked in a breath. She hadn’t realized this charity gala was being hosted by Luke’s twin sister. She’d heard of Caroline Delacroix, of course. Who hadn’t? But Marianne had never seen the daring socialite, and it appeared all the rumors were true. She was beautiful, bold, and confident.
