by Radha Vatsal
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Oscar,” Kitty said.
“You know our maître d’ personally, madam?”
“Not personally, but I have an urgent message to convey. I’m sure he’s busy, but it won’t take more than a moment.”
“Madam, could you leave him a note—”
“I’d really rather not,” Kitty said. Five couples stood in line behind her, and more disembarked from their cars. She lowered her voice before adding, “I have concerns about the president’s safety.”
The porter looked flustered. “I will ask him to find you, madam. Table sixty-seven. He will come as soon as he can.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Weeks led Kitty away. “Keep calm, Capability. Remember, the president has constant protection, and, whether or not you are able to warn his agents, it’s their duty to keep watch. If you start rushing around in this mayhem, it’s you who will be arrested. Oscar has over a thousand guests to attend to. Let’s go find our seats and wait for him to come to us.”
They wove their way to their numbered table for eight, where the other six guests had already taken places. A huge American flag covered the ceiling of the ballroom. Thousands of smaller flags hung from the balconies and around every pillar. Chandeliers glittered, pearls glowed, and diamonds and conversation sparkled. Below, on a raised stage in the ballroom, sat the head of the Railwaymen’s Association, behind a placard bearing his name, Mr. Post. There were dignitaries to the left and right of him, and an empty chair for the president between him and Mayor Mitchel. A row of Secret Service men stood guard at the back.
Kitty picked up her opera glasses for a closer look. Soames was there. If only she could write a note, fold it up into a paper airplane, and shoot it to him. She breathed in deeply and told herself not to worry; she must trust that he was able to do his job. He couldn’t see her since his eyes were trained on the crowd on the main floor. No doubt Secret Service men and policemen had been assigned to survey every level of the ballroom.
Everyone stood when the president entered. He took his seat between Mr. Post and the mayor. Mrs. Wilson arrived shortly thereafter. She took a seat on the second balcony tier, above and to the right of her husband. The crowd rose and cheered. The president stood and bowed to his bride, his stern face breaking into a happy smile. Later, the papers would report that “scores of women who had brought opera glasses turned them on the Wilson box and frankly stared.” Kitty was one of them. She took a long, hard look at the new Mrs. Wilson for her own and Miss Busby’s sake. There she was, the former Mrs. Norman Galt. Dark-haired, attractive, with strong gnashers that seemed to catch the light when she smiled.
“She’s handsome,” one of the ladies at Kitty’s table remarked. “I have to hand it to Mr. Wilson—he chooses well.”
The room went quiet as introductions began. Kitty fidgeted with the folds of her dress. Where was Oscar Tschirky? She hoped he would come to see her as promised.
The president rose. “Mr. Toastmaster and ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “the exactions of my official duties have recently been so great that it has been very seldom indeed that I could give myself so great a pleasure as that which I am enjoying tonight. It is a great pleasure to come and be greeted in such generous fashion by men so thoughtful as yourselves and so deeply engaged in some of the most important undertakings of the nation.”
Kitty closed her eyes for a moment. She saw a dead girl in the snow and another lying in the street, hit by a car. A submarine exploding, a body flying through the hatch—the president calling a nation to prepare for war…
“We live in a world which we did not make, which we cannot alter, which we cannot think into a different condition from that which actually exists,” Mr. Wilson said. “It would be a hopeless piece of provincialism to suppose that because we think differently from the rest of the world, we are at liberty to assume that the rest of the world will permit us to enjoy that thought without disturbance.”
Some in the audience stamped their feet to show their appreciation. The elegant lady beside Kitty who had been twirling her pearls now dropped them and brought her hands together in approval.
“America is young still,” the president called, his words thundering through the hall like the preacher’s son that he was. “She is not yet even in the heyday of her development and power.”
Kitty observed the rapt faces around the room, the fluttering stars and stripes. The patriotic feeling was palpable, and the president was capable of drawing it out.
“America has been reluctant to match her wits with the rest of the world. When I face a body of men like this, it is almost incredible to remember that only yesterday, they were afraid to put their wits into free competition with the world.” Mr. Wilson looked up at the balcony where his wife sat and smiled. She smiled back. They seemed very much in love.
“We have preferred to be provincial,” he continued. “We have preferred to stand behind protecting devices. And now, whether we will or no, we are thrust out to do, on a scale never dreamed of in recent generations in America, the business of the world.
“We can no longer be a provincial nation!”
The applause that followed sounded as though it would never stop.
Kitty took a sip of water, dabbed her lips with her napkin, and resumed scanning the crowd with her opera glasses. So far, she saw no sign of Emerson or his friends, although whole sections of the room were hidden from her field of vision—so that didn’t count for much.
“But, gentlemen, there is something that the American people love better than they love peace,” the president declaimed as Kitty’s gaze roved through the balconies. “They love the principles upon which their political life is founded. They are ready at any time to fight for the vindication of their character and of their honor.
“We cannot surrender our convictions,” Mr. Wilson continued as his wife turned to make a remark to one of her companions. “I would rather surrender territory than surrender those ideals which are the staff of life of the soul itself.”
The door to Mrs. Wilson’s box opened a crack. Kitty froze. Then she trained her glasses on the stage—the Secret Service men stared straight ahead. They had no idea what was happening above.
“And because we hold certain ideals,” the president said, “we have thought it was right that we should hold them for others as well as for ourselves.”
A figure had entered the First Lady’s box.
“What’s wrong, Capability?” Mr. Weeks whispered. Without realizing it, she had clutched his arm.
“In Mrs. Wilson’s box,” Kitty croaked, not daring to lower her glasses.
“Shh,” said the gentleman beside her.
“Should I go?” Mr. Weeks asked.
“Here.” She handed him the glasses. “I’ll be back.”
Kitty darted between the tables and ran out to the hallway. “Mr. Oscar,” she called to the dignified, portly man heading up the stairs.
She could hear the president thundering on. “Nobody seriously supposes, gentlemen, that the United States needs to fear an invasion of its own territory. What America has to fear, if she has anything to fear, are indirect, roundabout, flank movements—”
“Mr. Oscar,” Kitty said, at the end of her wits, “there’s a stranger in Mrs. Wilson’s box. I wanted to alert you. I wanted to alert the Secret Service. He may have a gun.”
“You are sure he’s not with Mrs. Wilson’s party?” The maître d’ straightened up, trying to hide his alarm.
“I know him,” Kitty said. “Please hurry.”
“Return to your seat, madam. I will take care of it at once.” Oscar turned on his heel while Kitty made her way to her table, trembling.
“He’s still there.” Mr. Weeks handed Kitty her glasses.
Mr. Emerson sat in the row behind Mrs. Wilson. Why hadn’t the president’s wife noticed him? And what was he waiting for?<
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“America will never be the aggressor,” President Wilson declared.
Above him, Phillip Emerson reached into his jacket.
Kitty stood, ready to scream.
The door to Mrs. Wilson’s box opened again.
“America will always seek to the last point at which her honor is involved to avoid the things which disturb the peace of the world,” the president said.
Dr. Bright’s assistant leaned toward the First Lady.
“Excuse me,” an annoyed guest at the table behind Kitty hissed. “Would you please sit down?”
Two Secret Service agents entered and clapped their hands on Emerson’s shoulders, but not before he dropped a white envelope into Mrs. Wilson’s lap.
Kitty fell back into her chair, her forehead damp with perspiration.
The agents led the interloper away. Mrs. Wilson sighed, patted her hair, and continued listening to her husband as though nothing had happened.
For the next several minutes, all Kitty could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. At one point, Julian Weeks squeezed her hand.
Every now and then, raucous applause broke out, and Mr. Wilson concluded on a rousing note. “Then there will come that day when the world will say, ‘This America that we thought was full of a multitude of contrary counsels now speaks with the great volume of the heart’s accord, and that great heart of America has behind it the supreme moral force of righteousness and hope and the liberty of mankind!’”
Chapter Thirty-Three
From the Railwaymen’s dinner at the Waldorf, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson proceeded to the first annual dinner of the Motion Picture Board of Trade of America at the Biltmore Hotel. They arrived there at 10:50 p.m., and the president finished speaking to an audience of a thousand at 11:25 at night.
Five hundred members of the Ninth Coast Artillery escorted the couple to the Biltmore from the Waldorf, and Mrs. Wilson preceded her husband into the dining hall where a band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.”
The Wilsons then drove in their automobile to Pennsylvania Station and took the post-midnight train back to Washington. Mr. Wilson would leave the following evening to begin his preparedness tour of the Middle West.
“Better him than me,” Mr. Weeks said as he and Kitty read about it the following morning. “I don’t know how he does it. I’d be reduced to a heap, while he appears fit enough to keep up this pace day in and day out.”
“That’s why he’s the president and you aren’t,” Kitty replied and helped herself to marmalade. Her own brush with the Wilsons had been fleeting. As soon as the president had finished speaking at the Waldorf and everyone was on their feet, giving him a standing ovation, a waiter had come over to Kitty. She nodded at her father and followed the man out to the entrance of one of the balcony boxes, where a door opened, and Edith Wilson stepped through.
An aide whispered to the president’s wife. Her white teeth flashed a smile, and she extended a small hand. “Thank you for informing the agents about that strange young man.” Mrs. Wilson spoke crisply. “I’m new to public life and had no idea he had been sitting behind me for so long.”
Before Kitty could even curtsy properly, the president’s wife had already walked down the hall, ready to join her husband as they made their way to his next engagement.
The doorbell to the Weekses’ apartment rang.
Mr. Weeks checked the time. “Who can it be at this hour?”
Grace came in a few minutes later, bearing an elaborate bouquet. “It’s for you, Miss Kitty. It came with a note.” She handed Kitty a thick card.
It was a brief thank-you letter, signed by Mrs. Wilson on Waldorf stationery, and tucked into the envelope was a chit from Soames: “I hear it was you who alerted us to the danger. I’ll be traveling with the president and First Lady and now know to keep watch on all sides.”
Kitty asked Grace to arrange the flowers in a vase and finished breakfast. Yesterday had been a dream. A world of flags, speeches, and larger-than-life personalities. A world in which, for a moment, she had played a brief part. Now, work beckoned. She had a story to write for Miss Busby.
With the sense of letdown that came after intense effort and excitement, Kitty climbed into the Packard and sat back as Rao drove her to the Sentinel.
Kitty wondered what had happened to Mr. Emerson. She had clearly misjudged him. He may have crossed the line, entering Mrs. Wilson’s box, but he hadn’t harmed anyone.
She came in to work, composed her story, and typed it up. It met with Miss Busby’s approval.
“Well done, Miss Weeks. Well done.”
At half past noon, Kitty left the building.
“Back home, Miss Weeks?” Rao said.
“Let’s go to the Bowery.” Kitty gave her chauffeur the address. She would put this matter to rest, once and for all.
• • •
“Are you sure this is where you want to go, Miss Weeks?” Rao asked as he pulled up at the curb.
“Unfortunately, it’s where I have to go.” Kitty opened the door and climbed out.
A bum huddled under cardboard put out his hand as Kitty passed. “A penny, miss?” He had an alcoholic’s bright-red nose. Kitty dropped a couple into his outstretched hand, its skin cracked, the long nails embedded with dirt.
She pounded on the shutter to the storefront where she had last met Dr. Bright’s former assistant. Emerson’s friend emerged, dressed and with spectacles on this time. He rubbed a finger into his eye behind his glasses. “You again?” He didn’t seem pleased to see her.
“Is Mr. Emerson in?”
“He’s sleeping. He had a late night. What do you want?”
“I was at the Waldorf. I saw him there, and I’ve come to finish what I’ve begun.”
Emerson’s friend raised a fist. “Did you unleash the Service on him?”
Kitty stood her ground. “May I speak to him?”
“‘May I speak to him?’” the friend mimicked. “Fine. Come in. But this is the last time.”
Kitty entered the storefront alone, hoping Rao would have the sense to come look for her if she stayed too long.
“Emerson,” his comrade shouted. “Emerson. Visitor—Miss Weeks from the Sentinel.”
A few minutes later, still in his evening clothes, Mr. Emerson limped out from the back. Kitty’s hand flew to her mouth. The handsome young man had a black eye, fat lip, and dried blood caked around the edges of his nostrils.
“Go away,” he snarled as soon as he saw Kitty.
“I came to apologize, Mr. Emerson.”
“I don’t give a damn.” He turned and began to hobble away.
“Do you give a damn that Mrs. Bright almost killed herself yesterday? And that I know you were blackmailing her?”
Emerson stopped moving but didn’t look back.
“What did you give Mrs. Wilson?” Kitty said.
“A petition to share with her husband,” Emerson’s friend replied with grim satisfaction. “They say the president only listens to his wife’s advice, and since Emerson has such a way with the ladies, we thought he’d be perfect to plead our case.”
Emerson slowly made his way to a cabinet and tossed a packet to Kitty. “Here, you can return these to Mrs. Bright or burn them, whatever you want.”
She stared at the envelopes tied with string and addressed in a feminine hand. “Elspeth died for these letters.”
“It didn’t have to happen.” He sounded resigned. “I don’t know why she postponed our meeting when I told her it wouldn’t take me long to fetch them and come back.”
Kitty had slipped the letters into her pocket and had one hand on the door. Something still nagged at her. A tiny detail. “Was it Elspeth who told you that she wanted to meet later?”
His mouth opened slightly. “Now that you mention it, no. Her baby-faced friend from school passed a
long the message.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Framed against a wintry, purple sky, Westfield Hall resembled a fortress. The gothic main building housing the dormitories and classrooms had a forbidding air; behind it stood the science laboratory and gymnasium and, in the distance, playing fields and wooded grounds.
Kitty entered the school shortly after three o’clock. A German lesson was in progress: “Bitte, translate for me, girls: ‘His poor mother never drinks tea out of a little cup; she drinks it out of a big glass.’”
Girls studying French chorused with one voice: “J’attends le train. I am waiting for the train. Cela dépend de vous. That depends on you.”
A geography lesson proceeded apace: “The southern slopes of the Himalayas are under divided control. Kashmir in the northwest, between Afghanistan and Tibet, stretching north to the Karakorams…”
The strains of “Blue Danube” on the piano and the patter of dancing feet followed.
Kitty hadn’t yet decided how to begin. She had no doubt that the headmistress wouldn’t be pleased to see her again. So, how to find the student she was looking for? How to speak with her one-on-one? The corridors were empty, the classrooms were full, and there was no one on the grounds to ask.
Portraits of Elspeth Bright and Georgina Howell hung in a display case. Handwritten tributes, mementos, ribbons, and memories had been tacked around them.
A small figure appeared at the end of the hallway, dragging a canvas sack behind her.
Virginia.
Kitty followed her into the mail room. “Hello, Virginia. Thank you for the book.”
“It’s nothing.” Virginia didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to see her and began sorting letters as though she weren’t there.
“That’s a pretty extended punishment.”
“I got in trouble again.” She wiped her sleeve across her nose. “This time, for talking back.”