by Lyn Cote
It was almost as if Chloe had cursed her baby by giving the child both her grandmothers’ names. Elizabeth was Theran’s mother’s name and Leigh was her mother’s middle name. She’d given her daughter the name Leigh to placate her mother’s ego. She really would have liked to name her daughter Lorraine after Granny Raney, who had loved her so. But she had chosen Elizabeth with the faint hope Theran’s mother would soften toward Theran’s only child. It had so far been in vain. Lorna, though, continued to write. Even Mr. Black had written her a note congratulating her on Bette’s birth, but Mrs. Black had not even signed the note.
Chloe walked to the window and stared out at the black night. Her days were long and empty when she’d anticipated being busy with her baby. But my daughter doesn’t want me or need me. Chloe walked out of the room, unable to bear listening to her mother cooing over her grandchild. She paused on the landing. Haines was looking up the staircase. “Miss Chloe, I was just comin’ to get you. Telephone for you.”
Chloe hurried down the steps and picked up the black receiver, resting on the hall table. “Chloe!” Kitty’s voice burst in Chloe’s ear. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Tears bubbled in Chloe’s throat. She choked them down, not wanting to worry her friend.
“Roarke’s finally been discharged from the army hospital near New York and I’m driving him home in my new car.”
Chloe drew in a shaking breath. “I’m so glad. How is he?”
“I’ll let you talk to him.” Muffled voices.
Kitty came back on the line. “He says he’s too tired to talk. I’ll call you as soon as we get home.”
Chloe hung up and stood waiting for her nerves to calm. Roarke was coming home. She hadn’t lost him, too. A long-denied hope unfurled its soft petals within her heart. Come soon, Roarke, please. I need to see you, to touch you and be comforted.
“Why did you call Chloe?” Roarke growled.
Kitty stared at him. “Because she’s one of your oldest friends and she’s been concerned about you.”
“You’re matchmaking again and I won’t have it.” Roarke hunched up one shoulder. When Kitty had looked at his scarred face, her horrified expression had decided him. He knew what he had to do.
“I’m not matchmaking.” Kitty flushed red. “I’m just trying to make you happy.”
Make me happy? Roarke looked at his sister with disbelief. Words failed him. He closed his eyes.
“What is it, Roarke? I want to help.” His sister led him to her jaunty roadster parked on the busy street.
You can’t help me. No one can. He got in, refusing to look at Kitty. “Where are you driving me?”
“I thought we’d head home.”
“No, take me to a hotel.” He stared at the car’s floor.
“Mother and Father wanted to come and pick you up, but you said you only wanted me. They’re waiting for you at home.” Kitty touched his frozen arm gingerly, as though it might be rigged to detonate. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you want them to come with me? We’ve missed you terribly.”
“They can come to New York to see me. Start the car. Let’s get . . . somewhere.” Pedestrians kept looking at them as they passed by the car. He propped his elbow on the car and pressed his hand to his scarred cheek.
“Roarke, you’re not making sense.”
He refused to look at her, ignored the plea in her tone. “I’m not going home . . . yet.” He sensed Kitty struggling with herself, holding back questions. He didn’t help her. Couldn’t help her.
“If that’s what you want, fine.” She started the car and off they went, merging recklessly into traffic. “The Waldorf isn’t far.”
“No, take me somewhere we’ve never stayed or had lunch.” He knew he was being obtuse, confusing to his sister. But how could he help her when he felt all mixed up and turned on end himself? They soon arrived at an unfamiliar hotel near Central Park. Roarke averted his eyes as Kitty checked them in to two adjoining rooms. But from the corner of his eye, Roarke caught the shocked stares of people walking through the elegant green-marble and polished cherry-wood lobby, and those of the desk clerk and the bellhop. His neck warmed with embarrassment.
At Kitty’s side, he entered the elevator. The operator stared at Roarke’s scarred face and his arm in a sling. Roarke resisted the urge to pull up his collar or lower his hat. He’d have to face this for the rest of his life, so he might as well get used to it. If only this was just about his stiff arm and the scars on his face . . . He shut his mind down, forcing himself to concentrate on the brass half circle that displayed the ascending numbers.
Chloe waited three days after Kitty’s phone call, letting the McCaslins have Roarke all to themselves. When she couldn’t wait any longer, she asked to be driven over to see him.
As the car pulled up to the front door of the McCaslin home, Chloe chewed her lower lip. What would it be like to see Roarke again? Should she have called ahead? She would have if she could have made herself complete the call. But she’d found herself suddenly reluctant to make contact. What had kept her lifting and then putting down the phone?
She was still in deep mourning; a knee-length black veil trimmed in black silk crepe hung in front of her. It made her world appear darker as the driver opened her door and she approached the silent house. She’d expected to see the cars of friends who’d be inside welcoming Roarke home. But the draperies were all drawn and no cars were parked in front. Something’s wrong. She didn’t even have a chance to touch the door bell before the McCaslin housekeeper flung open the door. “Honey, we don’t know what to do.”
“What’s wrong, Maisie?”
“It’s Mr. Roarke, Miss Chloe. He won’t come home.”
“He won’t come home?” Chloe echoed, dumbfounded.
“The mister and missus gone up to New York City. He stayin’ at a hotel there. He tell his mamma and daddy he won’t come home.”
Chloe couldn’t move, reeled with shock. “Why?”
“We don’t know.” The housekeeper was wringing her plump hands. “His parents are tryin’ to get him to come home.”
“Does he need extra care for his injuries? Maybe he needs to stay near the army doctors for extra treatment.”
“I don’t know ’bout that. But we’re worried, Miss Chloe.”
The breeze fluttered her black veil. She felt numb, empty. Then she realized—she’d been looking to Roarke to help her unearth the courage that had failed her, to help her start again. But he wasn’t coming back to her. Just like Theran.
Gray, rainy late September was closing in on Chloe. Outside the window, the weathered black-eyed Susans were sodden and bent over. Turning away, she tried to think of something to do with the evening yawning before her. Upstairs, her mother was giving Bette, now over six months old, a bottle. Chloe trailed aimlessly from room to room, staring out windows at the dreary weather, straightening antimacassars and picking up lint. Over a year ago, she’d met Theran and run away and married him. All in vain. She was home now, but somehow her mother had usurped her role.
That thought gave her pause. Why did I let this happen? Bette is my daughter and she should be my responsibility.
Suddenly angry at her mother, Chloe stalked up the stairs to the nursery. When she got there, she took a breath and forced herself to walk calmly into the room. She was ready to confront her mother, but she was going to do it on her own terms. She opened her mouth to speak.
Her mother held a finger up to her lips. Chloe halted as Jerusha lifted the sleeping baby from her grandmother’s arms and carried the child toward the antique crib that had been “updated” with an abundance of lace and pink satin. Chloe stepped in front of Jerusha. “Let me,” she murmured. With painstaking care, Jerusha settled the baby into Chloe’s arms.
“Now what are you doing that for?” her mother chided sharply. “I just got her asleep.”
As though carrying delicate eggs on top of a feather, Chloe cradled the baby close. But as gentle as she was, Bette�
�s little face screwed up and she began to wail. Deflated, Chloe held back her own tears. Why does my own daughter cry whenever I take her?
Her mother made a sound of irritation. Without a word, Chloe handed Jerusha the baby and escaped from the room.
At the foot of the staircase, her father was waiting. “Sugar, I want a word with you.”
Chloe paused across from him. He looked unnaturally serious. “What is it?”
“I need you, honey.” He took her hand.
Tears nearly burst from Chloe’s eyes. Someone needs me. But does it have to be Daddy?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Her father led her into his small den, a domain she’d previously only peered into but always avoided. She looked around at comfortable leather chairs, a mahogany desk, and a brick fireplace. Two lamps illumined the room done in navy and white. The effect was altogether welcoming, but the walls seemed to close in around her. Already occupying one of the commodious chairs facing the desk, was Jackson. He rose. “Miss Chloe.”
Chloe’s nerves tingled to life, warning her. Jackson wouldn’t be here unless this was about politics.
“Have a seat, sugar.” Her father waved her to the chair beside Jackson as he sat down behind his desk.
Chloe lowered herself onto its pillowy softness, her caution increasing.
“Chloe, you’re a woman now.” Her father leaned forward and folded his pudgy hands on his desktop blotter.
Chloe held her peace. What did her father want from her?
“It’s time I treated you like an adult, not a little girl.” Looking down, he appeared to be straightening the creases in his trousers.
She folded her hands primly, resisting her father’s flattery. “What do you want, Daddy?”
He chuckled. “My girl’s got all her wits about her. I told you that, Jackson.”
Jackson nodded, his sallow face serious.
Chloe didn’t respond. She focused on her hands in her lap. Be on guard.
“I have a job for you if you’ll take it,” her father said without preamble.
“A job?” Chloe ransacked her mind as to her father’s motive. “What kind of job could I do?”
“You know I didn’t win the election last November.” He looked down again as though avoiding her eyes.
She nodded, analyzing her father’s tone. He didn’t sound angry or put upon, just matter of fact.
“Now another opportunity to serve my country has presented itself.” His voice was low and neutral.
Jackson cleared his throat. “The Democratic Party is at low ebb, Chloe. President Wilson is fighting a strong Republican Congress and he needs help. This war has brought needs—expensive ones—to the fore, and Republicans hold the purse strings. And they don’t want to loosen those strings. Our troops require things and the Republicans won’t appropriate the money to get what’s needed.”
“I see.” Chloe didn’t completely, but she did grasp the bare meaning of what Jackson had said. “What is the party doing about that?”
“Our party needs someone to move things along.” Her father made a motion with both hands as if pushing something forward. “I’ve been offered the chance to be a lobbyist in the US Congress.”
“What’s a lobbyist?” Chloe watched her father’s eyes, looking for a hint of what he was pulling.
“A lobbyist talks to people, lays the groundwork for cooperation.” He folded his hands in front of his lowest vest button, which strained against his paunch.
“A lot of politics happens behind the scene,” Jackson explained. “Congressmen often have to deliver to their constituents projects that will bring jobs and money into their districts. But congressmen also have to keep the larger needs in mind. A lobbyist brings these sometimes opposing sides together so they can negotiate in private.”
“Like what’s happenin’ here, Chloe, in our own county.” Her father slid forward on his chair, making the leather creak. “You know times are hard. Farm prices are fallin’ and at the same time the cost of things is risin’. Our croppers are going to have a hard time next spring what with the high price of seed and everythin’ else. Francy has been glad to wet nurse your little girl ’cause her family needs the money.”
“What do you want, Daddy?” Chloe resisted. It can’t be this simple.
“I’m rentin’ an apartment in D.C. at a good address. I’m goin’ to start entertainin’ people—influential people—there and try to lay the groundwork to do what I can to get what the troops need, what our people need.”
“What do you want with me, Daddy?” she repeated, her distrust waning dangerously. This was her father. She couldn’t trust him, could she?
“I need a hostess.” He stood and walked to the mantel. “A lady. A woman with style who knows how to decorate the apartment and entertain the influential people who will be comin’. I need you, honey.”
Chloe knew he was referring to the social elite, the ones called “cave dwellers” in Georgetown, the cream of Washington, D.C. society. And of course, she’d be acceptable to them with her mother’s family background. But she shook her head and sat up straighter. Rain shushed against the windows. “But Mother—”
“Your mother has refused,” Jackson put in.
“She’s never been interested in helpin’ me.” Her father looked at her. “You know how she is. Only thinks about her own comfort. She’s the grand lady. No one else counts.”
Chloe looked at this man who was her father. His intent gaze was unusual. For once, he looked like . . . Like what? The usual glow of self-aggrandizement didn’t light his eyes. But could she believe what she saw? She studied him and then turned to view Jackson. Both men appeared serious. “You say the Republicans aren’t supporting our troops?”
“That’s the Democratic Party’s most pressing concern.” Jackson leaned toward her on his elbow. “We can’t send our men over there to risk their lives but refuse to give them the food, medical care, and weapons they need.”
“I didn’t know . . .” This was all so new, unexpected.
“Well, sugar, why should you?” her father asked, lifting one palm. “You’ve lost your husband. You got a baby who’s sick and needs constant care. You been thinkin’ about her. And I been watchin’ you, not knowin’ how to help you through this, how to give you somethin’ else to think about. This would give you a chance to do somethin’ good.”
“But there are larger issues.” Jackson rubbed his chin. “You could be serving your country as much as your husband did.”
“I didn’t know,” she repeated, still distrustful. And who was she anyway? Since Theran’s death, she’d failed at everything she’d tried. “I . . . what can I do?”
“Come to D.C. with me, sugar.” Her father came to her and took her hand. “Take your place in Washington society. Help me smooth the way for the political deals that must be made to take care of our boys overseas and our people here at home. I need you. I really need you.”
Chloe sat very still. Her father’s voice was completely devoid of his usual coaxing, politician quality. For once in his life, he sounded sincere. His hand held hers, gentle yet firm. She frowned. Had her father changed? Could she trust him?
“I need to know your answer,” he said.
“I need time to think,” she stalled.
“Of course you do,” Jackson replied quickly. “But we need to know soon.”
Rising, Chloe nodded. Her father hurried ahead and opened the door for her. She walked into the hall, her mind reeling with new ideas. Maybe her father had been truly touched by her losing Theran. Maybe losing an election for the first time had made him reconsider what was really important.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard Bette starting to yowl. Chloe closed her eyes and clung to the railing. She knew she should hurry upstairs and take care of her child. But she also knew that her touch would only rouse her to greater fury. Somehow she hadn’t been able to overcome her child’s preference for her grandmother’s touch. Bette hates me. It
can’t be her fault. She’s just a baby. It must be me.
Somehow everything was Chloe’s fault. She’d married Theran and he’d died. She’d had Theran’s child and the child hated her. Roarke had gone to battle, been wounded. Though he’d not said anything to her before he’d left for war, she’d known he wasn’t the kind of man whose feelings changed easily. Did he still love her? If so, why did he refuse to come home and tell her? Or was it that he had changed his mind and didn’t want to hurt her? Chloe bent her forehead to the cool, carved railing and wept hot, painful tears. It’s all wrong. Everything’s wrong and it’s all my fault. It has to be.
Washington, D.C., late 1918
Though Theran had been gone for nearly a year, Chloe could not bring herself to put off mourning. After the first six months of her time of loss, she should have moved to white mourning; still she’d clung to her black veil. But now in D.C. she moved to white mourning. She wore a knee-length white chiffon veil with white silk crepe trim attached to her stylish new navy hat, which matched her suit. Today she had ventured out alone for the first time since she’d come to Washington to help her father. He was in a meeting at a restaurant near the Capitol, lobbying for better food for the troops. He’d told her that after what had happened to Theran he was making this his main effort.
Chloe emerged from her father’s Cadillac and asked the chauffeur to wait for her. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said. The uniformed and gloved black man stood stiffly by the car. Disconcertingly, he reminded her of Frank Lawson. Minnie had written she was still dating Frank in New York City. Would this man even believe her if she told him she’d lived in Harlem? That she’d marched with the NAACP? Would he care? The life she’d lived those months in New York City felt long ago and far away.