Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (4 page)

Maggie took a small sip of her drink, which had two Spanish olives speared to a toothpick with tiny U.S. and U.K. flags. She peered at the fine print:
MADE IN JAPAN.
Oh, dear.
“Odd-job man? What sorts of jobs?”

David shrugged. “How should I know?”

“But what about Mr. Hoover?” Maggie pressed as the First Lady pulled out a record and placed it on the phonograph.

“No, Cole has nothing to do with Hoover. He answers directly to the President.”

As the record crackled and then began, Marian Anderson's rich contralto voice filled the room, singing Handel's “And He Shall Feed His Flock.” More guests arrived—including General Sir Alan Brooke, Chief of the Imperial General Staff—and the President exclaimed, “Oh, how perfectly grand!” As Fala shook hands with all of them on command, a waiter wheeled in a silver trolley, piled high with caviar and toast points, a carved roasted turkey, smoked clams, sliced green apples, and cheeses.

Mr. Roosevelt looked around the room and, spying empty glasses, called out, “How about a little dividend? Another sippy?” He began to make more cocktails, this time something called a Haitian Libation, made with rum, orange juice, egg whites, and brown sugar. “Ah, the sweet music of the shaker!” he called. “Who'd like to try one?”

Despite the President's questionable cocktails, Maggie did find herself liking him. It was impossible not to admire his unflagging energy, his irrepressible confidence, his effervescent charm. As more drinks were poured and plates were passed, she seized the chance to look around his private office. The room was large, but still warm and homey, stuffed full of clutter. A black-and-white Ansel Adams photograph of the Rocky Mountains hung in a place of prominence.

David and John perched next to Maggie with their cocktail glasses. David bent over to whisper, “Do you think they're going to serve us hot dogs for dinner? I hear that's what they offered the King and Queen when they visited.”

“Hot dogs are a picnic food,” Maggie replied sotto voce. “
Not
likely to be served at the White House in December. Although we can try to get you one from a street vendor.”

“I'd like that,” David returned courageously. “I've never had one, you know.”

As Roosevelt and Churchill chatted and laughed, John murmured, “What kind of accent does the President have?”

“Hudson Valley Lockjaw—Dutchess County via Amsterdam,” Maggie whispered back. “With just a faint tinge of Old Money.”

“Old…by American standards.” John took a sip of his Martini and nearly choked.

“There, there.” Maggie patted his back. “I know it's a lot to get used to—landing in a foreign country.” John was silent.

“Rather heavy on the vermouth” was all he would say.

“So, Mr. Cole,” said the Prime Minister, standing nearby. “What is it exactly that you do?”

“This and that,” Cole replied. “I'm a newspaper columnist by trade, but I do enjoy being Man Friday to the President.”

Churchill studied him. Then he raised his glass. “If that's your story, Mr. Cole, then stick to it.”

When Children's Hour was over, Mrs. Roosevelt showed Lord Beaverbrook to one bedroom, the P.M.'s detective to another. David was led to the small Blue Bedroom. The detective and Churchill's valet shared a dressing room adjoining the P.M.'s quarters.

“And this is the Monroe Room,” the First Lady explained to Churchill, never breaking stride. “In preparation for your arrival, we've had it emptied of furniture to serve as your map room.”

The P.M. nodded. “Excellent, excellent.”

“And this is my favorite—the Rose Bedroom, where King George and Queen Elizabeth stayed when they were our guests a few years ago. I do hope you like it, Mr. Churchill.”

“It's perfect, my lady.” The Prime Minister beamed at her.

“And Mr. Hopkins's room is there.” She gestured to a door across a hallway lined with great piles of Christmas presents. “Mr. Sterling,” the First Lady said to John, “you'll be staying at the Mayflower Hotel. And you, as well, Miss Hope.”

When John reddened, Mrs. Roosevelt was quick to add, “In separate rooms, of course.”

“Yes, ma'am,” John said. Maggie was amused to see him, for once, embarrassed.

“Please take time to relax and freshen up. We will be having tea in the Green Drawing Room at eight-thirty. Miss Hope and Mr. Sterling, please come with me. I'll have a car take you to the Mayflower. It's quite close by.”

As the elevator chimed and the white-gloved elevator man held the door, Maggie heard the Prime Minister mutter to John, “I do hope she'll serve something stronger than tea. And there will be something besides American Martinis.”

Maggie smiled.

Though the neoclassical Mayflower Hotel was considered the grand dame of Connecticut Avenue, her rooftop now bristled with lookouts against aerial attack. The doors and windows, and even the massive skylights, were fitted with blackout shades. Still, inside, it was elegant and opulent—the lobby's gilt mirrors shone, marble gleamed, and chandeliers shimmered. At the front desk, amid the towering potted palms and monumental Sèvres vases, Maggie and John were each given a heavy iron key engraved with the Mayflower insignia. The concierge added with a wink to John, “They're adjoining.”

Leaving the luggage for the bellhop, John and Maggie took the elevator up to their rooms. “Well, that was a bit awkward,” she remarked into the silence.

John took her hand. “He's an idiot.”

“I know. It's just that it's been so difficult the last few weeks. Not having any time…Of course, we've had a few other things on our minds…”

“Such as the attack on Pearl Harbor. And getting the Boss across the ocean in one piece.”

Maggie grimaced. “Goodness gracious, if I had to watch
Blood and Sand
one more time—I can tell you every line from that film…”

The bell chimed and the doors opened. “It's been a strange few weeks,” John agreed as they walked down the empty hallway, enjoying the temporary solitude.

“Oh, please,” Maggie protested, smiling. “It's been a strange few
years
.” At their respective doors, she stopped and looked up at him. “I don't want to rush.”

“I understand.”

“But, you know, I don't want to wait too long, either…”

“I—”

They were interrupted by the bellhop, a rake-thin man in a gold braid-trimmed uniform. “Your luggage!”

“Fantastic,” John muttered as they both turned to unlock their doors.

Maggie's room was bright and cheerful, with dark Federalist-style furniture, chintz curtains, and a view of Connecticut Avenue. After tipping the bellhop, she unpacked her suitcase, putting her things in drawers or hanging them on padded satin hangers in the closet. Then she made her way to the bathroom, where she drew a full tub of steaming water, throwing in the complimentary bath salts. Hot water wasn't rationed in the United States, and Maggie intended to take advantage while she could. After she'd taken her bath, and dressed in a pale blue evening gown and satin pumps, she heard a knock at the interior door. She opened it. “This is most improper, Mr. Sterling.”

“There are no kettles in the room,” John announced, making his way in. “Positively barbaric.”

“No, kettles in hotel rooms are not de rigueur here. I'm sure you can ring for tea, if you really want it.”

“Forget the tea,” he replied, taking in her gown. “Why, Miss Hope, you're looking quite beautiful. And I do believe that's a saucy expression on your face.” He raised his hand and traced the line of her jaw with a fingertip.

“You're looking quite handsome in your dress uniform, Mr. Sterling,” she managed, her heart thudding. They lunged at each other. Eventually, they broke apart, each breathing with difficulty. “We should go,” John said, looking at his watch.

“I'll get my gloves and wrap.” They smiled at each other, silly smiles. “You should go back to your room,” she added, straightening his tie. “It wouldn't look right for us to exit together.”

“The things I'm thinking of, Miss Hope, have nothing to do with looking right.”

“Go,” she urged, pushing him through the door. “We'll continue this later.”

“Promise?” he asked, looking more like a little boy than a brooding Brit.

“I promise,” she breathed, raising herself up on tiptoes to kiss him. His cheek smelled of shaving soap. “Now,
go
!”

After tea and Bourbon Orange-Blossom Specials in the Green Drawing Room, dinner was served. The neoclassical State Dining Room, with its elaborate cornices, was lit by grand silver-plated chandeliers and tall beeswax candles in ormolu candelabras. The long table was covered in spotless linen and set with the President Franklin Roosevelt blue-banded service and Grover Cleveland's gold cutlery, and decorated with golden fruit bowls and vases brimming with white roses and holly berries. Lord Beaverbrook and Ambassador Lord Halifax were in attendance, as well as Secretary of State Cordell Hull and Mrs. Hull, Undersecretary of State Sumner Welles and Mrs. Welles, Harry Hopkins, General Dwight Eisenhower, General George Marshall, and Admiral Ernest King. From a large golden frame, an oil-painted Abraham Lincoln stared moodily into the middle distance.

Colored waiters in black jackets and bow ties, and maids in black taffeta dresses with white organdy embroidered collars and cuffs carried in silver platters of broiled chicken and root vegetables for the guests. As they waited to be served, candlelight glinting off the silver and crystal glasses, David asked, “Mrs. Roosevelt, I'm curious—why is your staff made up entirely of darkies?” Maggie kicked his shin under the table. “Ow!”

But the First Lady was unperturbed. “We had to let some staff go, during the Depression.” She looked to her husband. “Franklin and I thought there were better chances for the white servants to find jobs. And so we kept the colored servants. ‘Colored,' by the way, is the preferred expression.”

David nodded, chastened. “I'm terribly sorry.”

“Oh, you're not from here, I can understand. Why, I myself used the term ‘darky' until just a few years ago. A lovely young colored woman by the name of Miss Andrea Martin let me know in no uncertain terms that ‘darky' is a hated and humiliating word.”

Maggie looked up at the servers, their brown faces unmoving, dark eyes impassive. What were they really thinking? And what did they think about what was being said about them?

The First Lady continued. “I listened to Miss Martin, of course, and even though my great-aunt used it as a term of affection, I learned that not everyone heard it that way.” She smiled, exposing large teeth. “I'm afraid I'm very much a nineteenth-century woman in the twentieth, but doing my best to come up to speed.”

Maggie noticed a chip in her water glass and didn't drink from it. Mrs. Roosevelt noticed Maggie not drinking and called for another goblet—then told the assembled guests, with a perfectly straight face, “It seems that the President has taken a nibble from the glass.”

“Of
course
I eat glass every evening,” Roosevelt retorted. “Keeps me ‘sharp.' ” He roared with laughter.

“But you went all the way to the airport—you must be pretty tired?” Frank Cole asked the President. Maggie flinched; surely that was an inappropriate question. But as Mr. Roosevelt grinned, Maggie could feel the strength of the bond between the two men and decided it was not impertinence that made Cole ask but a true concern for both the President and the man.

“I'm quite well, Cole,” FDR assured him. “Winston in person is quite different from Winston on the page and on the telephone, you must realize,” he joked, winking at the P.M.

“Hear, hear,” the Prime Minister said, raising a goblet.

After dessert of apple cake and vanilla ice cream, the President raised a coupe of champagne. “I have a toast to offer,” he told them. “It has been in my head and on my heart for a long time…and now it is on the tip of my tongue—
‘To the common cause.' 
”

Everyone lifted his or her glass. Maggie blinked back a sudden prickle of tears, knowing how long and desperately the P.M.—all of them—had waited for this moment.

“To the common cause!” the guests echoed, their faces bright in the candlelight.

It was past ten o'clock. It had been a long day. As the waiters began collecting plates, silver, and glasses, and Cole said his good nights, the President turned and nimbly wheeled his chair toward the green-carpeted Oval Office, with Churchill, Beaverbrook, Halifax, Hopkins, Welles, and Hull trailing like ducklings in his wake, and Maggie bringing up the rear.

In the Oval Office, as George Washington's blue eyes kept watch from the Gilbert Stuart painting, the men took seats on leather chairs salvaged from Theodore Roosevelt's yacht
Mayflower
. A general discussion began, as prologue to meetings scheduled for the next morning and continuing throughout the week: strategic debate about defeating the Axis powers and creating a successor to the League of Nations, decisions about the borders of the Soviet Union, where to place emphasis on rolling back Axis fronts, and decisions about production and financing of weapons.

Maggie joined them to take notes in shorthand, while John and David went to set up the P.M.'s maps in the Monroe Room. She was too busy to look around at the Oval Office for long, but she did register the President's massive carved
Resolute
desk, the blue-green rug, and the bottle-green velvet drapes.

The Prime Minister's first question was direct: “Will the President concede to public desire to go directly after Japan? Or focus first on Nazi Germany?” Churchill pronounced “Nazi” in his idiosyncratic way,
Nazzi
. Maggie knew that while the Prime Minister realized that distances and resources made going after the Japanese first impractical, despite the crushing blow to Pearl Harbor, he wanted to make absolutely certain he and FDR were on the same page: beating Nazi Germany. And, knowing the President's wily ways, the P.M. wanted to make certain Mr. Roosevelt gave his word—in public.

“My dear Winston,” the President replied, “the priority is Europe, of course.” For the first time since they began their journey, Maggie saw the P.M. relax just the slightest bit. “Hitler's losses in Russia are the crucial fact of the war at this time. He now faces a winter of death from the elements, if not also the enemy—not to mention an enormous forfeiture of equipment.”

“They're freezing on the Eastern Front,” Hopkins said, fetching something from the President's desk. “I hear they're having a coat drive in Germany for the soldiers—not even trying to hide it.”

The President nodded. “Hitler hasn't reached Moscow yet, and, quite frankly, I don't think he's going to.”

Hopkins walked back slowly, as if in great pain. He spread a map of the world with its vast turquoise-blue oceans across the table. Maggie viewed this from her chair against the wall, pad on her lap, realizing she was witnessing history as it was being made.

“Germany is the prime enemy,” Roosevelt said, pointing. “Once she's defeated, the collapse of Italy and defeat of Japan will follow, as night the day.”

“Germany first!” Churchill agreed. “Our main objective for 'forty-two should be the occupation of the entire coastline of Africa. Taking back the coast will reopen the Mediterranean route for shipping to the Middle East and the Far East, and start to tighten a ring around everything the Germans now control there. We'll put three divisions in North Africa—more if necessary. And, of course, I want American forces involved as quickly as possible.”

“Perfecto!” the President exclaimed. “And then on to Germany and blockade them.” A finger traced the path on the map.

The Prime Minister nodded. “By 'forty-three, the path will be cleared for us to make our way back to the continent, where we will attack the Nazis and liberate Europe!”

“To nineteen forty-two!” the President cried, raising a tumbler. “A year of toil, a year of struggle, a year of peril—and a step closer to victory.”

The Oval Office emptied, Churchill wheeling the President to the elevator as a mark of respect. His chivalry made Maggie think of Sir Walter Raleigh, spreading his cloak before the Queen.

When the President was finally dressed in his monogrammed silk pajamas and in bed with Fala at his side, he looked through his messages. Grace Tully—one of Mr. Roosevelt's secretaries, who'd taken on even more duties recently when her superior, Missy LeHand, had suffered a heart attack—handed him memos. When he saw one in particular, the President frowned.

Miss Tully, attuned to his moods, asked, “What is it? What do you need?”

“Get me Frank Cole,” Roosevelt snapped. He yanked a cambric handkerchief out and blew his nose with a loud honk.

She did, picking up the receiver and dialing a string of numbers. Fala sprang up at the President's tone and watched the dial rotate. “Hold for the President, Mr. Cole,” Miss Tully said; then she passed the receiver to FDR.

There was a hiss and a crackle on the telephone line. “Cole here.”

“Thank you,” the President said to Grace Tully, who knew that was her cue to leave.

He waited until she closed the door behind her. “What the hell's going on, Cole?” Fala, sensing his master's displeasure, looked on with anxious black eyes.

“Sir, the situation with Blanche Balfour—it's resolved.”

The President whistled through his teeth, his hand dropping to pet Fala absently. “She's not going to go to the press with her crazy story?”

There was a long silence. “I assure you, Mr. President, Miss Balfour will
not
be going to the press.” Cole's tones were clipped.

The President sighed and stroked Fala, who snuggled in, relaxed now. “At least it's not about Lorena Hickok.”

“The ‘She-man'? No, sir. There's been nothing on her. Nothing on Joseph Lash, either, thank God. Mr. President, if you'd like to know the details about Miss Balfour—”

“Cole,” the President interrupted, “you're on my payroll to get things done. Things I don't need to be bothered with. As far as you're concerned, in situations like these, I don't need to know the details. That's why I call you the Cleaner.”

There was a pause. “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

The Prime Minister's upstairs quarters had already been turned into a war room, with the walls covered in huge maps with colored pushpins indicating the positions of British ships and troops, and a shelf of scrambler telephones. Maggie asked, “Do you have everything you need, Mr. Churchill?”