Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (6 page)

“Please,” Maggie insisted, taking the notepad from the First Lady's white-knuckled hands, then ripping off the offending sheet. “Allow me.” She crumpled the note into a ball and threw it into the flaming coals, where it burned, then turned to lacy ash. Then she asked, “I wonder if someone else could have seen the note and taken it to protect you?”

“No,” said the First Lady decisively. “No. Where
is
the original copy of the letter? The person who has it could easily blackmail me….” She put her head in her hands.

“Someone may have taken the note,” Maggie suggested. “But whether it was to protect you or not—is…inconclusive. Only time will tell. May I see everything Blanche was working on for you here?”

Mrs. Roosevelt nodded to a small desk in one of the corners. “Everything's there, just as she left it.”

Maggie went to the desk and turned on the light, which cast a small golden glow, then went through the files. There were drafts of Mrs. Roosevelt's “My Day” newspaper columns, both in shorthand and in type. There were many letters. There was a flyer for a rally protesting Wendell Cotton's execution. On the back was what looked to be Blanche's handwriting:
If an offender has committed murder, he MUST die. In this case, no possible substitute can satisfy justice. For there is no parallel between death and even the most miserable life, so that there is no equality of crime and retribution unless the perpetrator is judicially put to death.—Immanuel Kant

Mrs. Roosevelt finally raised her head. “You're not just a typist, are you?”

Maggie put down the flyer and walked back to the older woman, remembering the frustration of, once upon a time, being “just a typist.” Still, those days had been much simpler. She almost missed them now. “No. No, ma'am, I'm not.”

Mrs. Roosevelt's blue eyes lifted to hers. “Who
are
you, then, Miss Hope?”

“I'm…”
Well, that's the question, isn't it?
“…someone who…helps. And, ma'am, may I suggest a cup of tea? It's something I've learned during my time in Britain—just how restorative tea can be. I suggest peppermint. Or perhaps chamomile, at this late hour. Despite the events of the day, ma'am, you must try to get some sleep.”

“Before a blackout, all lights in this hotel will blink three times at intervals of five seconds, and then again after five minutes. All hotel guests must stay away from the doors and windows. There will be no transportation during actual raids.”

The manager of the Mayflower Hotel was a small man with a bullish face, dressed in a pin-striped suit. He strained to make himself heard over the chatter of guests, the click of high heels, and the silvery sound of ice in the barman's cocktail shaker. No one in the magnificent marble and mirror lobby of the Mayflower Hotel paid the slightest bit of attention to him.

Certainly not John Sterling, who was still waiting for Maggie on a love seat in the hotel's promenade. He was scribbling away in a leather-bound notebook, beneath an Aubusson tapestry and to the left of a large potted fern. In his Royal Air Force uniform, he drew admiring gazes from the ladies, and respect and envy from the men leaving one of the ballrooms. His long legs were stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles.

While convalescing from his injuries, John had prayed to recover and rejoin the RAF as a pilot. He loved flying—the freedom, the excitement, the sense of being a knight-errant of the skies. But by crashing over Germany on his first long-distance mission, he felt he had failed his country, his King, the Prime Minister, his family and friends. And worst of all, he felt he had failed himself. It was fine to go back to work as a private secretary for the Prime Minister while he was recovering, but he was determined to redeem himself and return to the sky. The doctors had told him that in time his vision would improve and the headaches would become less frequent, but they were dubious about his return to the air. He couldn't pass the physical. For the time being, at least.

Having a father who was an MP and a mother who wrote and illustrated children's books, and having survived the barbaric traditions of Eton and then Magdalen College at Oxford, John was a part of the old-boy network. He knew its rules and rituals intimately and could partake in the camaraderie. But he hated it. Despite being a scholar and a star athlete—he had excelled at squash and tennis—he'd never quite felt at home among his peers. He wasn't an upper-class toff and had no wish to be. He wanted more.

The closest he'd felt to belonging was when he'd joined a writing group at Oxford, the Inklings, an ad hoc literary discussion group, specializing in the fantastic. The Inklings met weekly at a pub, the Eagle and Child. The company was mostly Oxford dons—J. R. R. Tolkien, C. S. Lewis, and Charles Williams—but also a few students, including Tolkien's son Christopher. John was one of the regulars and had developed a number of illustrated stories. He'd put writing fiction behind him when he started working for Winston Churchill in the mid-thirties. But the boredom of convalescence had helped him remember some of his old imaginary friends. He wasn't keen to show anyone yet, but he was working on a new idea, a story, this one featuring characters RAF pilots were all too familiar with—Gremlins.

He checked his watch; Maggie was officially late. He went back to his notebook—inside was a story he'd been working on, about Gremlins in airplanes. Gremlins were often joked about in the RAF: Anytime anything went wrong with a plane, “the Gremlins” were blamed. These mischievous creatures were believed to sabotage planes out of spite.

The idea for a story about Gremlins helping an injured pilot overcome his weaknesses and fly again had come to John during a fever dream in the hospital. Gremlins and their mythology had become an obsession. He'd filled notebooks with drawings of the creatures. It was a deliberate distraction. From Maggie. After they'd reunited, he'd learned that she had fallen in love with someone else. That she'd slept with someone else. The woman he'd proposed to marry had so quickly found the strength to carry on. And yes, while he logically realized it made sense under the circumstances, he still felt abandoned by the one person he'd believed would never give up on him.

He didn't look up as the woman approached, although all other heads turned. Nearly six feet tall, she was slim, graceful, and stunningly beautiful, with delicate features, wide-set eyes, and glossy, raven-black hair cut in a severe pageboy. She wore a red crepe evening gown, draped and pleated like a Roman goddess's chemise, accented with exotic gold jewelry.

The hush the manager hadn't been able to command with his air-raid announcement fell over the lobby, and the woman smiled, cool and gracious, as a society photographer took her picture with his bulky camera. Her glorious face glowed in the incandescent flash as she found the light and posed with ease.

Head held high, she made her way down the promenade, her friends trailing in her wake, stopping at John's crossed legs, which blocked her path. A look of annoyance flitted across her face, but when she saw the uniform and the man wearing it, it vanished. “Why, aren't you tall, dark, and most likely incorrigible?”

John looked up. He blinked, concentration broken by her scent of Shalimar. Hastily, he moved his legs. “Sorry, ma'am.”

“Ma'am,” the woman said, “but I'm a widow.” She motioned to the rest of her party. “Look, he's in uniform—how dashing.” One of the accompanying women was shorter, dressed in a too-tight yellow satin gown, topped off by oversize round glasses, which gave her an owlish appearance.

“Do we think he looks like Henry Fonda?” the first woman mused.

The shorter woman pursed her lips and observed John through her spectacles. “Mmm—perhaps more of a Gary Cooper.”

Ignoring John's discomfort, the taller woman eased herself down next to him, one gloved hand playing with her golden necklace. “And all alone.”

He closed his notebook. Writing time was obviously over. “I'm waiting for someone,” he explained.

“It speaks!” the woman in red exclaimed, and the rest of her party chuckled in amusement. “And with such a lovely British accent. We American girls adore that accent, you know. Did one of ours stand you up?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean—”

“I can't believe someone would leave a man as handsome as you alone in a hotel lobby, can you?” she said, looking into John's eyes.

The woman in yellow peered from over the top of her glasses. “Shocking. Absolutely shocking.”

“What's your name, sir?” the first woman purred.

“Flight—” He cleared his throat. “Flight Lieutenant John Sterling.”

“Oooh, a lieutenant!” The men in the party began to look uncomfortable, their dinner jackets paling in comparison to John's uniform, regardless of bespoke Jermyn Street origins and tailoring. “We honor you.” The woman in red made a mock hand salute. “Did you see battle, Lieutenant?”

John didn't like her manner, and he didn't like her tone. He was brusque. “Yes.”

The woman in red snapped her fingers, and a concierge appeared. “Drinks all around,” she commanded. “Brandy for this young war hero and for the rest of us to toast his good health.” More chairs were procured, and the rest of the party took seats. They realized when their leading lady's attention was captured.

“You must forgive me, Lieutenant,” she said, her husky voice soft in his ear, “but I insist. You see, we've only heard about the war in Europe There's no—ah, what's the word?—‘rationing' here. So to see an actual war hero in our midst—”

John felt his ears burn. “Ma'am, I'm not—”

“My name is Mrs. Regina Winthrop Wolffe,” she interrupted, still playing with her jewelry. “And this lovely creature is Mrs. Evelyn Astor Thorne.” Then the brandy appeared, in heavy cut-glass snifters, and they all drank, raising their glasses in John's direction.

He couldn't help but stare at the gigantic diamond dangling from a gleaming chain around Evelyn's sagging neck. She caught him looking. “Don't touch it—bad luck, you know.”

John tried not to laugh at her brashness. “I wouldn't dream of it, ma'am.”

“Oh you're adorable.” Evelyn turned to Regina. “He's absolutely adorable! I'd like to put him in my pocketbook and take him home with me.”

“I saw him first,” Regina said, pouting her crimson-painted lips. “A toast to our new friend, Flight Lieutenant John Sterling,” she declared.

They all raised their glasses again. One man, pasty and thick through the middle, with thinning hair, began in a querulous voice, “Although I've said and said again I was always against this war—”

They'd obviously heard this line before. “We know, but since Pearl Harbor, all bets are off,” another man said.

The first man persisted. “Churchill's in town now, you know—glad-handing with Roosevelt. The British scare me.”

“I work for Prime Minister Churchill,” John said, emphasizing the title. “That's why I'm here.”

“How perfectly splendid,” crowed Regina, smoothing over the edges. “Even Lindbergh's come around since Pearl Harbor, you know.”

“Well, good for Lindy,” came the man's sarcastic reply, “but
I
haven't. I'm against the British now, yesterday, and tomorrow. And I'm for America first, last, and all the time.” The brandy gave his voice strength and too much volume. Other guests in the hotel's lobby turned to stare. “And I resent that Roosevelt is using Pearl Harbor as an excuse to drag us into this damn war! Sorry for swearing, ladies.”

John had endured enough. “So says Goebbels,” he retorted.

“Ooooh, he got you,” Regina cooed. “Nicely done, Lieutenant Sterling.”

But the man wasn't finished. “The British are too clever for their own damn good—and I don't want any more of this ‘Winnie and Franklin' nonsense I've been reading about in the papers.”

John's eyes glinted. “So says Hitler.”

The silence was deafening, even as around them the lobby continued to buzz with energy.

A shy, short, slight man in his forties with steel-rimmed glasses changed the subject. “Please let me introduce myself, Lieutenant.” He extended his hand. “My pen name is C. S. Forester, but do call me Cecil. Since we're all pulling at the same oar now, I'd like to interview you about your experience in the RAF. Do you have any good stories, perchance?”

John glowered. “I crashed just outside of Berlin, lived, hid, and managed to escape and get back to London. End of story.”

Forester sat down on John's other side and clapped a well-manicured hand over his heart. “How thrilling!” he cried, as the ladies murmured their approval. “I think it might make for an exciting piece in
The Saturday Evening Post,
if you're so inclined. Since the United States has only just entered the war, bona fide heroes are in short supply. You're that rare bird on this side of the Atlantic, Lieutenant, someone who's actually seen combat—and I'm sure your story will stir the hearts of patriotic Americans.”

The isolationists snorted at this, but Forester and John both ignored them. John recalled that the newly created British Information Services was recruiting famous British authors, from H. G. Wells to Somerset Maugham, to do propaganda work and write stories to rally support for England in the American press.

He had acted as a liaison between the Prime Minister's office and BIS, which was trying to develop more tear-jerkers along the lines of
Mrs. Miniver,
a bestselling novel based on a
London Times
column that told of the hardships suffered by an Englishwoman and her family during the Blitz. And then there was Helen MacInnes's thriller
Above Suspicion,
a chilling story of Gestapo agents who hunted a courageous British academic and his wife across Europe.

Ego aside, John realized that a human-interest story like his might appeal to the American public and make them sympathize with the British struggle.

“You know who he is, don't you?” Regina murmured to John.

“Er, afraid not, ma'am.”

“Call me Regina, I insist. And he's the same C. S. Forester who wrote the Captain Horatio Hornblower novels—you know, about navy life in Admiral Nelson's day.”

John straightened. Like most of his countrymen, he'd devoured the Horatio Hornblower novels when he was younger. Forester's novel
Payment Deferred
had been turned into a hit play in the West End, had run on Broadway, and was being made into a film.
That
C. S. Forester.

John turned back to Forester. “I—I can jot down something by tomorrow, sir, if you'd like. Of course I'll have to ask permission—”

“Fantastic!” exclaimed the author. “Just notes are fine, you know. But specific details are crucial.”

“I have the perfect idea,” Regina cooed. “Come to dinner at my place tomorrow, Lieutenant Sterling! It will be loads of fun, and you can give Cecil your notes then.”

“I—I'll have to ask—”

“We won't take no for an answer,” Regina interrupted, rising in a swirl of perfume.

“We won't!” echoed Evelyn, who struggled a bit in her chair to stand.

“We'll see you tomorrow then, for cocktails and dinner. I'll have my butler send around a formal invitation to you in the morning at the White House. It will be fabulous.” Regina extended her hand, and John took it. Then she bent down and said in a throaty whisper, “Ta till then.”

And in a cloud of brandy fumes, they were gone.

John checked his watch. It was beyond late. He'd been up since he couldn't remember when. He'd have one more drink and give Maggie until then—and then he was going to bed.

Even if it meant going to bed alone.