She says, “I’m sorry, Clementine. I know better than almost anyone else how hard it is to be married to the leader of one’s country upon whom the additional enormous burden of saving the free world now rests. I understand how much they need from us, at least at certain times, and yet how we’re sometimes shut out or relegated to the back seat, to use an American phrase. In the early years of our marriage—when Franklin was just starting out his political career and our marriage was admittedly quite different—”
She pauses, and I see that she is weighing whether she should elaborate, whether she can confide in me what everyone already knows—that her husband keeps a veritable harem of adoring women at his beck and call and that his marriage is primarily a political alliance.
She decides against the intimate disclosure and continues more generally. “We shared political views, particularly on the domestic front, and I felt very much in partnership with him in our work. But as he became president and his power has expanded onto the international stage, my place has diminished. Once his focus changed from welfare to weapons, I decided I would operate independently of him.”
Her path sounds so like my own. Without even consciously planning it, I add, “Shoring up the breech in the areas they’ve forgotten, as it were.”
She meets my gaze. “Exactly, Clementine. We have our own sacred role, don’t we? Separate from theirs.”
Is my role truly separate from Winston’s? While I certainly undertake my own projects, I’d always thought of the work as intertwined. Regardless, I feel compelled to disabuse Eleanor of the notion Winston planted. I enumerate my various and sundry ventures, including the daily role I play with Winston himself. Her eyes brighten at the description of my air-raid shelter work and my advocacy for women, but that light extinguishes when I detail my full immersion in Winston’s war work. Suddenly, I regret my words, for I see precisely how much she misses being part of the inner sanctum of power.
Desperate to change the tenor of our conversation, I ask about her children. She describes her five children, focusing most on her eldest, Anna, perhaps because she’d recently moved into the White House to serve as de facto hostess whenever Eleanor is busy with her own causes. But she is unusually hesitant in her speech, and she quickly turns the question back onto me. I realize that I’ll have to report on the status of my own children, including Randolph, who is furious with me and Winston for permitting—if not exactly condoning—Pamela’s affair with Averell. Even though he himself has had several mistresses, he felt entitled to indulge in a fit of righteous anger against us, and he stormed off in the spring to take a military position in Cairo, where he was injured returning from a long-term raid on Benghazi and returned back to England as an invalid. I’d known that my chickens would eventually come home to roost, but I hadn’t thought it would happen quite so soon.
Quite uncharacteristically for me, I begin with my private truth. “It can be difficult to serve as both a wife to a husband such as Winston and also as a mother to the children of that marriage.”
How could I have said aloud the words that I can barely acknowledge in the privacy of my own thoughts? That I only discussed openly with Dr. Lief while in treatment at Champneys? And to Eleanor Roosevelt, of all people? What on earth did I do?
Eleanor stares at me in astonishment, and my hand instinctively raises to my mouth, as if I could cram the words back inside. But from the gleam in her eye, I realize that she is not appalled but relieved. “I thought I was the only one. It is a gift to know I’m not alone.”
* * *
“Why on earth would you tell Eleanor that I did nothing but tend to the home and hearth?” I had waited six long hours, through an interminable formal dinner at Chequers, to get Winston alone and say this.
He chuckles, “She said that, did she?”
How dare he laugh! “So you admit that you described me that way.”
“Ah, that was back last Christmas when Roosevelt and I were just getting to know one another. You know how bossy and free-thinking Eleanor can be, unconcerned with how she appears in dress or speech and the impact it has on her husband, not to mention her willingness to spout off her own opinions in utter disregard for Roosevelt’s beliefs. Well, I didn’t want to give her any ideas about similarities between you two.”
“Do you think so little of me?”
“Now, Cat.” He softens his tone, misguidedly believing that it will soften me.
“Don’t Cat me.” I am as furious as I’ve ever been. I’m tempted to pick up the little figurine on the side table and hurl it at him—I’ve thrown things in the past—but nothing at Chequers really belongs to us. It is on loan to us while Winston is prime minister. So I refrain from indulging in my impulse.
His voice assumes a groveling tone. “You know I rely on you for absolutely everything. You know I couldn’t do this job without you at my side. But I can’t have her thinking that, can I?”
Another terrible question rises up within me, and although I believe that I already know his response, I must ask it. I must hear him speak the answer aloud.
“Who do you think I am?”
He appears perplexed by my question. “Why, you’re my wife, of course.” Then, as if he is a student trying to please a particularly mercurial headmaster, he adds, “You are the prime minister’s wife, in fact.”
If he had slapped me, I could not have been more wounded. He only thinks about my identity and my worth in terms of the possessive, in terms of what I mean and what I do for him. I realize for the first time how dependent I’ve been on Winston for his admiration and how reliant I am for his permission to assume my own power, even if it is power derived from his own. No longer.
Winston is oblivious to the transformation taking place within me. He continues in this same vein, “And anyway, Eleanor serves perfectly detestable food, probably some sort of long-term punishment for Roosevelt’s affair with that Lucy Mercer, which admittedly is detestable itself. But to instruct their cook to serve me creamy soup when my loathing of it is famous, well, Clemmie, you would never make such an error. You keep actual files on our guests’ food preferences, by God. Your hospitality is legendary.”
Unbeknownst to Winston—contrary to his intention, in fact—his words only confirm my discontent and my determination to change. Without speaking, I leave the room. So engrossed is Winston in his own verbiage that he does not even notice my departure. His voice continues to drone on in conversation with me even as I walk away and down the hall.
* * *
Ten days later, after Eleanor and I undertake an extensive tour of the English countryside bomb sites, I arrange a farewell dinner for her at Downing Street. Winston’s guest list consists primarily of men—Brendan Bracken, now the minister of information; Field Marshal Sir Alan Brooke, chief of the Imperial General Staff; and Henry Morgenthau Jr., secretary of the U.S. Treasury—but I add a few women whose work deserves merit and further discussion with Eleanor, namely Lady Denman, head of the Women’s Land Army, and Lady Limerick of the British Red Cross. The dinner conversation is lively, but as the discussion settles on the concept of peace, all the politeness and restraint Winston has exercised in his dealings with Eleanor reach their limit.
With a puff of his cigar, Winston pronounces, “The best way of achieving peace, a durable peace that is, is an agreement between England and the United States to prevent international war by combining our forces.” He glances at Eleanor to gauge her reaction, which, knowing her social views, I can already predict will be negative. Why is he stirring up discord?
“The only way to achieve and maintain peace is to improve the living conditions of the people in all countries,” she replies, meeting Winston’s stare.
Neither will back down; I see that clearly. The rest of our dinner guests are visibly uncomfortable, quaffing drinks, squirming in their seats, and staring off into odd corners of the room. Why doesn’t Winston u
nderstand that a complete accord with the United States—as represented by Eleanor right here and now—is necessary for peace today and that stirring up animosity with her will not bring us any closer to that desirable goal?
Mercifully, the staff enters with coffee and desserts, and I use this as an opportunity to end the standoff. “I think the time has come for us to leave you.” I rise, and the women follow in the tradition of the men and women separating after dinner, an antiquated ritual with which I feel somewhat uncomfortable in Eleanor’s presence.
We retire to the salon, where we feast on Battenberg cake and small talk. When a silence settles among the women, Eleanor rises and takes her leave.
I walk her to the front door, where her car awaits. “Let me get Winston for you. He will want to say his farewells,” I offer.
“Let him enjoy his after-dinner talk with the gentlemen. I would like a moment alone with you, in any event.”
“It would be my pleasure.” What would Eleanor like to speak with me about privately? I wonder.
“I cannot thank you enough for all the time you’ve dedicated to showing me wartime Britain. Experiencing the courage of the British people firsthand has left an indelible impression upon me. The city of Canterbury, in particular.”
My eyes well up with tears, thinking about our visit to Canterbury, where we were greeted by crowds of women and children, only to learn that they were bombed the next day and that many of the people who cheered for us had likely died. “It was my honor.”
She reaches for my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “I also want you to know how grateful I am for the insightful look you’ve given me into the British women and their war work. I plan on adopting some of your programs in America.”
“It was my pleasure, Eleanor. We women are worth more than anyone knows.”
“I wholeheartedly agree. In fact, it is about women’s worth I’d like to speak. In the days to come, the alliance between our two countries will become ever more critical.”
“Indeed.” Eleanor is stating the obvious, and I wonder where she is leading.
“And I don’t need to tell you that, with diplomacy being such a personal undertaking, the relationship between our husbands will be a key aspect in the success of that diplomacy.”
I begin to understand her endgame, but I will not rush her. I will wait until she asks. “Of course.”
“You and I are uniquely situated to play a role in that alliance, and I know what strides you’ve made in uniting our countries in your relationships with Misters Hopkins, Winant, and Harriman. So please forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but I like to think we might be able to call upon one another when that alliance seems”—she fumbles for the correct word, a rarity for the typically articulate Eleanor—“less than peaceful.”
“You can count upon me, Eleanor. I think you know by now that you are not alone.”
Chapter Forty-Two
August 1943
Quebec, Canada, and Washington, DC
I take a seat by Winston’s side at the conference table. Several of the men do not bother to mask their irritation at having me in attendance. I can nearly hear them think aloud, Why in the devil did that blasted Churchill bring along his wife? As if we don’t have enough impediments to peace. Certainly none of the other world leaders brought their spouses, but then, I am accustomed to being the only woman at important political meetings and occasions. In the ten months since Eleanor’s visit to England, I’ve sought out those situations more and more, in part because of her words and her husband’s actions.
Since my time with Eleanor, shifts have abounded in the world and in my life. Many have been public and dearly welcomed. Although the war marches forward on all fronts, the newspaper headlines contain victories among the more troubling reports: while Russia begins to retake its lands, for example, the Germans are driven from North Africa, and the Allies invade Italy, but the Americans struggle against the Japanese in the Pacific. Some successes have been privately enjoyed, such as evenings playing bezique with my husband and attending the occasional play due to the slight relief the military successes bring. Other shifts have been less welcome, such as the toll on Winston’s health from family tension over Pamela and Randolph’s separation and from the travel required by far-flung conferences, arranged to bring world leaders in the same room to solve the jigsaw puzzle of the new military landscape.
Yet for me, the most potent shift has been quietly building within. My hypervigilance has become fine-tuned on the heels of my transformative conversation with Eleanor, and while I continue my work with the YWCA, the Russia fund, and British women, I seek out more opportunities to become involved in the war’s bigger picture, beyond the usual vetting I do with Winston. I seek those areas where he’s shown himself to be historically blind, even when my involvement requires me to challenge myself.
By midsummer, from discussions with Winston, I sensed a certain coolness from Roosevelt, paired with a heightened admiration of the American president from my husband. I hinted at this, but my husband clung to his faith in the singular association between our English-speaking countries and to his confidence that Roosevelt shares this vision. When we learned that Roosevelt requested a secret meeting with the Russian leader Joseph Stalin that specifically excludes Winston, even my husband, who favors the American president beyond realistic measure, began to recognize that Roosevelt’s convivial surface might not be without latent complexities. On the heels of this discovery, I suggested that I attend the upcoming conference in Quebec with him, and while I did not explain that I could help monitor the personal dynamics between Winston and Roosevelt, the rapidity with which he accepted my proposal told me that he understood on some level.
“Brilliant. I shall have the chance to cement my relationship with Eleanor,” I offered as an explanation instead of the truth, although I was indeed looking forward to seeing Eleanor again. I was concerned about the dynamics of the highly secret military Quebec Conference, which was code-named Quadrant, and not only because of Roosevelt’s recent outreach to Stalin. The chief participants in the conference were supposed to be Winston, Roosevelt, and the host, the Liberal prime minister of Canada, W. L. Mackenzie King, but when Winston suggested that King participate in all the meetings, Roosevelt strangely vetoed the idea, forcing King into a ceremonial role. Why would Roosevelt not want King present, an excellent man I’d come to know personally?
“Yes, yes,” Winston concurred without a hint of his usual grumbling. “You’ll be a boon to Anglo-American relationships.”
Smiling at his compliment, I dared to go one step further. “What would you think if I brought Mary? She could even serve in an official capacity as your aide-de-camp.”
He clapped his hands in delight at the thought of our favorite child—in the privacy of our chambers, we cannot deny to each other that she shares a special place in our hearts—joining us on this excursion. Mary and I have enjoyed many evenings alone together during her military leave, and I often stare in wonder at the steady, moral, and kind young woman she’s become. What did I ever do as a mother to deserve a child as marvelous as Mary? I think. Every time the question enters my mind, the answer appears also: I turned over her parenting to the steady, moral, and kind Moppet, who remains a fixture in all our lives. Regularly, I thank God for Moppet and for Mary and ask forgiveness for the raggedy, inconsistent parenting I bestowed upon my other children, including poor little Marigold.
“I’ll cable Roosevelt that you and Mary will be joining us in Quebec,” Winston said.
I reached even further. I wanted to meet this president in person and assess the situation for myself. “Maybe he will even invite us to the White House afterward?”
“Ah, that would be grand, wouldn’t it? Another chance to woo Roosevelt back into the golden vision of our alliance. Just think of the success you had with Harry, Gil, and Averell. I sometimes think that lend-lease
—which set the stage for our current partnership, of course—was your doing.”
* * *
After an arduous journey on the Queen Mary that left me anxious and physically drained, we finally reached Quebec. When the conference commenced, Eleanor was not present, as I’d hoped. I learned that once Roosevelt received our cable that Mary and I would come to Quebec, he sent Eleanor to visit U.S. troops in the Pacific. I guessed that he did so to ensure that there was no possibility she’d attend the conference. Rather than being delighted that Mary and I would be in attendance, as he’d suggested to Winston, it seems that he was ill-pleased and wanted to ensure that Eleanor would not follow suit.
I finally met the famous Roosevelt at the dinner before the first day of meetings. Mary was seated to Roosevelt’s left, and I was assigned the chair to the president’s right. He was already seated when we entered the room, but even immobile, even physically compromised, he exudes self-confidence and power. Beneath his glasses and the veneer of age, I could see the shadow of his younger, handsome self. This is a man well accustomed to his way, I thought. I would certainly recognize the quality, having lived with it for over thirty years.
He immediately engaged me in conversation about our voyage and the city of Quebec. His social skills were highly polished, but his manner contained a false, overconfident note, and he discussed nothing of substance. He’s clearly used to creating an instant intimacy with others, because within the hour, without even asking for permission, he referred to me as “Clemmie,” a nickname I reserve for family and close friends. Against my nature, I did not object, but this overfamiliarity makes me wary. I know my job is to charm Roosevelt, but I bristle against his presumptuousness. And while I admire his track record of social justice and reform, I perceive a certain vanity and speciousness in him that I do not like.
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