Papa placed his hand over mine and gave it a light squeeze. “I can see the news distresses you. Put it from your mind, Margaret. It is not your burden to carry.”
“It is no more distressing than the other news we’ve had this week.” Just beyond the windows of the carriage, the White House came into view, shining like a beacon of hope amid the storm clouds. If I was going to learn anything more from Papa, I needed to hurry. “Do we know where the spies are getting their information? Are they in the White House? Congress? Could one of them be at the gathering tonight?”
“I’m afraid it is entirely possible, but I don’t want you to worry.”
“How could I not worry? What if I inadvertently give information to the wrong person?”
“You don’t know anything you shouldn’t. Besides, as I’ve said, this is my problem, not yours.” He stared at me for several moments, dropping his chin to really look at me. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
I leaned forward, a smile tilting my lips. I knew my dimples undid his resolve. “I can help. I have connections, Pa—”
“No.”
“If the spies move within our social circles, I can find them.”
“It is far too dangerous. These spies are risking their lives, and they would not hesitate to take yours. You know nothing about espionage.”
“Most of the people spying for the war effort know nothing about espionage.” I leaned a little closer, my corset tightening. “Where do you suspect the Southern spies are getting their information?”
He sighed. He’d battled my strong will before and knew I wouldn’t give up. “We don’t know if they are getting information through their work or if it’s coming through social connections. What we do know is that they are passing along vital information that only the people closest to the president know—so they are working at the very top.”
The carriage rolled to a stop at the front door of the White House and jolted as the driver climbed down. My mind spunwith the possibilities of who might be spying on the president and his cabinet. Did I know them? Was it someone I was close to? Would they be sitting next to me at dinner tonight?
The driver opened the door, and Papa stepped out, looking relieved to end the conversation. He extended his hand to me, and I allowed him to help me alight from the carriage under the large portico of the White House.
When my skirts were settled about me, Papa tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow. “Forget I mentioned any of it, Margaret.”
I could not forget what he’d said. If spies were working in the social circles I moved in, I needed to be careful.
“Don’t look so serious.” Papa lifted my chin with his gloved hand. “If we’re fortunate and God Almighty shines His favor upon our cause, the war will be over before it starts. Everyone knows the South is bluffing, and when the fighting gets underway, they’ll soon realize we are serious. They’ll come to their senses, and we’ll have a resolution we can all live with.”
Even as he said the words, a cold wind sliced through the White House portico, portending a future I knew to be far different.
A doorman opened the front door and allowed Papa and me to enter without asking for our names or invitations or searching us to see if we had weapons. Papa had told me the doormen kept concealed pistols on their person, but they allowed anyone and everyone to enter the White House. At any given moment, there could be a hundred or more strangers waiting in the halls for an audience with Mr. Lincoln, sometimes for days on end. It was also common to see Tad and Willie Lincoln, the president’s young sons, running wild and unchaperoned through the large house, upon the roof, or in the yard and nearby neighborhood.
How different the security of the White House was in 1861, as opposed to 1941 or 2001.
We were directed through the entrance hall to the Red Room at the back of the house, but before we reached it, a set of doors opened down the hallway, and the Lincolns appeared. A gentleman was at the president’s side, speaking quickly. Abraham Lincoln bent to hear, his face solemn and serious as he nodded.
President Lincoln was not a handsome man, but he was kind and wise. I’d known him most of my life, since he and Papa had been close friends from their days serving in the Illinois House of Representatives. But no matter how many times I was in his company, I never tired of the awe I felt, though it was always followed by dread. To know he would die in less than four years—and I could do nothing to stop it—tore my heart in two. It was one of the things my time-crossing parents in 1941 had taught me from an early age. I could not knowingly change history. If I did, I would forfeit my life in that path.
The president noticed us standing there and lifted his head, causing the man beside him to stop talking and look our way. My gaze caught with the stranger’s. I had never seen him before. He was new to the White House—or at least, he was new to me.
The Lincolns greeted my father, and then the president turned his tired smile upon me. “It’s nice to see you again, Miss Wakefield,” he said, taking my gloved hand in his.
I curtsied with deference. “And you, Mr. President.” Then I turned to Mrs. Lincoln and offered her a curtsy as well.
“May I present Mr. Graydon Cooper?” the president asked.
I was deeply conscious of Mr. Cooper, though I’d focused on the Lincolns. When our gazes collided again, this time much closer, I couldn’t help but admire him. He was dressed in a fine black tailcoat with a white vest and black trousers. In his late twenties, he already possessed an air of sophistication and charm many of the stodgy politicians in Washington lacked. His dark brown hair was thick and wavy, short on the sides anda bit longer on the top. But it was his eyes, which were a deep, velvet brown, that arrested my attention.
“Mr. Graydon Cooper,” President Lincoln continued, “may I present to you Senator Edward Wakefield and his daughter, Miss Margaret Wakefield?”
“How do you do?” Mr. Cooper shook Papa’s hand and then bowed over mine. Though he had recently been in a deep and serious conversation with the president of the United States, his eyes were smiling now, as if he knew something I didn’t. His voice held a cultured British accent, and his grip was surprisingly strong.
“How do you do?” I responded as I curtsied, mindful of his warm touch through the layers of our gloves. He was a splendidly handsome man, though from the confidence he exuded, I suspected he knew it.
“Mr. Cooper was just appointed to a position within the War Department,” the president explained, obviously happy at the announcement. “He’ll be one of Mr. Cameron’s aides.”
