The telephone operator was asleep, her mouth slack as she leaned against the pillar beside the switchboard. No matter. Caroline was perfectly capable of placing a telephone call.
She lifted the receiver and mouthpiece. “White House calling for Dr. Tisdale, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The operator on the other end was instantly alert and didn’t need to ask for the extension, for Dr. Tisdale was regularly called to the White House. He lived only a block away, which was a blessing on nights like this.
The extension was patched through, and the doctor’s bleary voice answered the call a few moments later. “Tisdale here.”
“It’s Mrs. McKinley,” Caroline said. “She’s having a seizure. A bad one.” The word epilepsy was never uttered. The president protected his wife’s privacy with unfailing devotion, even from most of the staff, to whom her vague illnesses remained a mystery.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” the doctor said and hung up.
Caroline replaced the receiver without waking the telephone operator, then hurried back to the main floor to find the usher who patrolled the hallways overnight. He perked up the moment he saw her hurrying toward him.
“Dr. Tisdale is expected at the north entrance. Please have someone ready to lead him up to the president’s bedroom.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She nodded in gratitude, then raced up the staircase to the presidential bedroom. Unlike most of the previous occupants of the White House, the president and his wife shared a bedroom. Caroline knocked on the door, pressing her ear against the cool paneling to hear the answer.
“Come in,” the president said softly.
The first lady lay curled on the bed, moaning gently as the president sat on the mattress near her head, rubbing her temples. These overnight episodes were an almost weekly event, and being on hand was part of Caroline’s duties.
“Dr. Tisdale will be here in a few minutes. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Perhaps you could fetch your mandolin,” the president said. “Ida so enjoys hearing you play.”
She nodded. “Of course. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She scurried up to the dormitory to fetch the small stringed instrument stored beneath her bed. No matter how quietly she crept, the floorboards creaked, and one of the maids awakened, lifting her head.
Caroline put her fingers to her lips but made no sound. The maid nodded and laid her head back on the pillow. These dead-of-night forays were familiar events to the women in this dormitory.
By the time Caroline arrived back in the bedroom, Dr. Tisdale was in attendance, holding Mrs. McKinley’s hand and speaking in soothing tones while he took her pulse, his calming voice as good as any tonic. Caroline took a seat on the far side of the bedroom and looked to Mr. McKinley for instruction.
“Mrs. McKinley enjoys Paganini,” he said, and Caroline began playing the most mellow tune she knew by the famous composer. Her gaze strayed to a spot in the corner, anywhere but the invalid on the bed being tended by her husband. It seemed such a shocking invasion of their privacy to be in this room, but Ida desperately needed attention when these spells overtook her. First the seizures, then the savage headaches that made her weep for hours on end. It was going to be a long night.
She didn’t mind. She wanted to become indispensable to the McKinleys, for a presidential pardon might save her brother from a hangman’s noose. The more the president depended on her, the more likely that pardon might someday be granted.
Whatever it took, Caroline would serve both McKinleys with unfailing care until it was time to ask for the ultimate favor.
Nathaniel needed to read Caroline Delacroix the riot act. He had been explicit in his requirement to see a list of names of all visitors to the first lady. It had been a week, and she had ignored both his verbal and written requests.
Each time he reminded her to submit the lists, she sent him one of those half-teasing, half-dazzling smiles. Women that beautiful were probably accustomed to being able to wrap men around their finger, but he was immune. A dozen visitors were expected this afternoon to chat with Mrs. McKinley in the family’s private living room on the second floor. They would be within yards of the president, and he had no idea who they were, all because Caroline Delacroix didn’t think the rules should apply to her.
The problem was he couldn’t find her. Mrs. McKinley was playing a hand of solitaire in her private study, and George said Caroline hadn’t been in the office all morning.
But Caroline had to eat, so he headed to the kitchen to see if the staff knew her whereabouts. White enamel tile lined the floors and walls, and a cook kneaded dough on an oversized marble-topped table while others chopped mounds of brightly colored vegetables. Pots and pans dangled from overhead hooks, and heat poured from ovens lining the walls. The aroma was mouth-watering. Was there a more tempting scent on earth than warm cinnamon rolls? He’d only had two cups of black coffee for breakfast, and his stomach growled.
“You can help yourself,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said with a nod toward a towel-covered bread basket. “I always make enough for the staff.”
“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m looking for Miss Delacroix. Do you know where she is?”
The housekeeper shook her head, but the woman kneading dough looked up. “She’s in the women’s dormitory on the third floor. She’s sleeping.”
At eleven o’clock in the morning? It was appalling, but he blocked his displeasure before it could show on his face. He’d mastered the impassive expression decades ago.
“Thank you,” he said simply, then turned and headed toward the staff staircase. It didn’t take long to vault up the two flights to the women’s dormitory. The door was closed, and he knocked but heard no answer.
“Man on the floor,” he announced, then knocked again and waited for a sign of life on the other side of the door. He didn’t want to frighten someone who might be in a state of undress, so he knocked louder, repeated his warning, and waited. When he got no response, he cracked the door open and stepped inside the dim room.
Caroline Delacroix was tucked beneath the covers, so deeply asleep that she didn’t even stir as he stepped farther inside. He pulled the switch to turn on the overhead light, then banged open the shutters to let the sunlight inside. She remained sound asleep, even when he plunked a straight-backed chair down at the foot of her bed and took a seat.
When she still didn’t stir, he kicked the foot of the bed. “Wake up.”
She scrambled upright, tugging the sheet up to her chin. “What’s going on? Am I needed?”
The panic in her eyes awakened a hint of sympathy. “No emergency, but I need the names of the people visiting the first lady this afternoon. You’re late. You should have turned it in days ago.”
The tension drained from her as she scrubbed a hand across her tired eyes. Although why a woman who slept in until eleven o’clock in the morning should look sleep-deprived was a mystery.
“The women are from the Iowa Baptist Relief Society,” she said. “They’re here to knit baby booties with the first lady. They’re harmless.”
“You don’t know that.”
A hint of amusement lightened her features. “Do you think they might be anarchists in disguise?”