Congressman Dern shifted in discomfort. He looked annoyed, embarrassed, and hot in the pounding sun. He met Vera’s eyes. “The matter concerns both of you as well,” he said. “Is there somewhere we can go to speak privately?”
A terrible sense of foreboding descended as Marianne and Vera accompanied Congressman Dern down the path toward the duck pond. The crowds were thinner here, as most people were admiring the bald eagles.
“What’s going on?” Marianne asked. “Is my father all right?”
“That remains to be seen,” Congressman Dern replied. “I was given advance warning of an item that will be printed in theWashington Evening Star.” He met Vera’s eyes, the first hint of sympathy breaking through his annoyance. “I am sorry to report the item is about your husband and an opera singer.”
Marianne gasped, her eyes darting to Vera, but her mother absorbed the dreadful words with admirable sangfroid. “What opera singer?” she said with a lifted chin.
“An opera singer your husband was acquainted with twenty-six years ago.”
It became difficult to breathe. Oh, good heavens, she mustn’t faint. Mama needed her now more than ever.
Marianne swallowed hard and took a fortifying breath. “Twenty-six years ago?” she said stiffly, anger beginning to replace fear. “That makes it old news.”
Congressman Dern tilted his head to look at her. “It sounds as if you are familiar with the substance of this story.”
Vera cut her off before she could reply. “That story is nonsense. Do you hear me? Nonsense!”
A few bystanders turned to look at them curiously, and Colonel Phelps must have heard Vera’s outburst. He crossed the park toward them with concern on his face. “What’s going on here?”
Vera was shaking now, her face white and tears beginningto threaten. “This man is circulating torrid gossip, and I won’t stand here and listen to it.”
“Madam, it was not I who spread the gossip,” the congressman said. “I merely thought it fair to warn you and your husband.”
“Warn them about what?” Colonel Phelps asked as he drew alongside them.
Vera’s bottom lip began to wobble as she realized Colonel Phelps was on the verge of learning this horrible story. Marianne’s only duty right now was to protect Vera. She was prepared to unleash a storm if either of these men uttered another word to upset her mother.
She put a protective arm around Vera’s trembling shoulders. “Gentlemen, I am escorting my mother home now. She’s not well.”
“Allow me to assist,” Colonel Phelps said. “I shall summon—”
“Please don’t bother. I shall see Mother home.” She sent him a warning glare for good measure. Colonel Phelps looked taken aback at her blunt demeanor, but she didn’t care. Vera’s reputation was about to become target practice for the vicious gossips of Washington society.
Guilt ate at Marianne like acid. It was because of her that this was happening. Vera never wanted to raise an illegitimate baby, but she did it to please Clyde. Now this ugly story had been dredged up from the past, and it was Vera who would suffer the most. Marianne and Clyde had the resilience to deal with it, but Vera didn’t.
With most people still at the bald eagle exhibit, it was easy to summon a cabbie to drive them home. A few journalists loitered at the edge of the park, writing up their observations of the ribbon-cutting. She scanned their faces quickly, grateful that Dickie Shuster was not among them. If she’d seen that backstabbing man, it would be hard to restrain herself from physically assaulting him.
Once in the carriage, Vera sat stiffy on the bench opposite her, staring bleakly into space. It was a six-mile ride home, and Marianne prayed they could get there before Vera became physically ill.
“Mama, I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Don’t speak.”
The two words cut, but Marianne obeyed without question. This was her mother’s worst nightmare. Vera didn’t deserve this.
The moment the carriage drew alongside their town house, Marianne raced for the front door, not even waiting to help Vera alight. She ran to the back of the house and found the downstairs maid.
“Go get my father,” she urged. “Tell him it’s an emergency. He’s needed home at once.”
Marianne wrung out another cold compress to lay across Vera’s forehead. The curtains had been drawn, and Vera lay like a wounded dove atop her bed. Marianne smoothed the edges of the compress, then dabbed a tissue to catch a droplet of water that threatened to roll into Vera’s hair.
“Shall I rub your feet?” Marianne asked. When Vera was distraught, these little gestures meant so much to them both.
The barest movement of Vera’s chin indicated a yes. Marianne slipped the stockings from Vera’s feet, then began the slow, methodical rubbing of first one foot, then the other.
All the while she planned to burn Dickie Shuster in effigy. Luke had warned her about the shifty reporter, but she couldn’t imagine anyone would be so vicious as to resurrect a decades-old rumor merely to gin up a little unseemly publicity.
