Luke listened in amazement as Gray recounted what had been going on in the outside world over the past week. Gray and Mr. Alphonse told him the good news as they sat in the tiny meeting room.
“The Poison Squad are the most popular men in town,” Gray said. “They’re giving daily interviews to the newspapers, and Dr. Wiley isn’t reining them in anymore. There’s an annoying Italian who is always touting the extent of his suffering and hamming it up for the press. He announced he would be signing autographs at the base of the Washington Monument tonight.”
Luke grinned. “Nicolo will do anything for attention, especially if it involves attention from the ladies. Keep talking.”
This was too good to be true. The Poison Squad was trying to gin up as much attention for his case as possible, and they were doing a bang-up job of it. The Associated Press and Reuters had picked up the stories and wired them to newspapers all over the nation. Even some of the foreign newspapers were carrying the story of the brave young men putting their lives on the line for science, but Luke didn’t care about the foreign press. All he cared about was putting enough pressure on Congress to get him released from jail.
“All the stories are being spun in your favor,” his lawyer said. “Journalists don’t like people being thrown in jail for reporting the truth, and the pressure is on Congress to explain why they have been suppressing those studies.”
“What are they saying?” Luke asked.
“Congressman Dern is doing all the talking,” Gray said. “He’s claiming the studies weren’t suppressed, they were merely being withheld pending a complete analysis of all the data, and frankly, he’s got a valid point. He’s incensed about the article you wrote and isn’t backing down.”
“Then we dial up pressure in the press,” Luke said, but Mr. Alphonse shook his head.
“The only fight that matters is the one in court, not the press. Congressman Dern has a better hand of cards than we do if this case goes to court, and he’s bracing for a long battle.”
The familiar prickling sensation forced Luke to stand and start pacing in the tight confines of the meeting room. There was barely any space to move, but the thought of remaining locked up indefinitely made it impossible to sit still.
“Can I get out on bail until the trial?”
“We’ve already tried and failed,” Gray said. “Your only shot of getting out of here is revealing how you got your hands on those studies. If you give us the name—”
“That’s never going to happen,” he interrupted.
“I repeat: If you give us the name, we can have you out of here within twenty-four hours.”
“And you’ll have my soul in tatters.” Luke dropped back into the chair. For the past few minutes his spirit had been soaring, and he’d stupidly begun to hope that the power of the pen might break open his prison door, but it wouldn’t happen. He braced his forehead in his hands, staring at the cracked paint of the table.
He didn’t want to be here. He was dying in here, his soul shriveling up, but the thought of doing anything that would hurt Marianne had the power to stop his breath. He sagged as the words came pouring out.
“I won’t ever turn my back on her. She is my brightest star, my inspiration for wanting to be a better man. I’ll stay loyal to her no matter what the cost.”
Gray turned to Mr. Alphonse, his voice heavy with reluctant admiration. “I’m afraid he’s not going to budge. It’s time to prepare for trial.”
Marianne’s banishment to her bedroom was lifted when Colonel Phelps asked to escort her to a ribbon-cutting ceremony at the Smithsonian’s National Zoological Park. It was a daytime event, and it would have been perfectly acceptable for Colonel Phelps to escort Marianne on his own, but he worried about public perception and asked Vera to accompany them.
“Are you feeling all right, Mama?” Marianne asked as she walked beside Vera toward the zoo. It was a warm summer’s day, and Vera had insisted on wearing her tightest corset because Mrs. Roosevelt would be cutting the ribbon for a new exhibit and Vera wanted to look her best.
“I’m fine,” Vera said in a shallow breath. She could be on the verge of fainting, but she’d never admit it in front of Colonel Phelps, who was walking on her other side. Vera still wasn’t quite at ease with Marianne’s exalted suitor.
Several hundred people had arrived to see the dedication of the new bird enclosure featuring a pair of bald eagles. The newly arrived eagles promised to be the most popular animals at the zoo, and Mrs. Roosevelt wanted to do the honors.
“Let’s find a spot in the shade,” Marianne said, nudging Vera toward the cluster of people already gathered in a tree-shaded spot beside the bird house.
“There’s plenty of room next to the podium,” Vera insisted. There was no dissuading her. Marianne reluctantly found a spot near the podium where Vera could show off her wasp-waisted gown and impressive summer bonnet.
Mrs. Roosevelt soon arrived, smiling and nodding to the assembled guests. High-society socialites eager to rub shoulders with the first lady stood alongside sweaty tourists and sticky-fingered children. Journalists began scribbling in their pads, and a few newspaper photographers took pictures as the director of the zoo introduced the first lady.
“Thank you for that generous welcome,” the first lady said after stepping up to the podium. Edith Roosevelt was an effortlessly graceful woman. Despite her gaunt face and plain features, there was something immensely kind in her intelligent face. Marianne and Colonel Phelps eagerly clapped along with the rest of the tourists, while Vera gently patted the palm of her gloved hands. Vera always thought showing too much enthusiasm was tacky.
Eventually two zookeepers emerged from behind a screen, each carrying a bald eagle perched on their arm. Both eagles immediately lifted off to settle on high branches near the top of the caged-in area.
“Absolutely magnificent,” Colonel Phelps said. “Let me see if I can persuade the gamekeeper to give us a private showing.”
“Oh, yes, please!” Marianne enthused.
Colonel Phelps set off, but Vera preferred to mingle with the crowd around Mrs. Roosevelt. Before they could get any closer to the first lady, Marianne spotted a grim-faced man heading straight toward them. She would recognize that bushy red mustache anywhere. It was Congressman Dern, the chairman of her father’s committee. He gave her a brusque nod.
Vera smiled politely. “Roland, how delightful to see you.”
“I’m afraid my visit is no cause for delight,” the congressman replied. “I’m looking for your husband. It’s a matter of some urgency. The maid at your house said he could be found here.”
Vera shook her head. “We dropped him off at his accountant’s office on our way.”
Congressman Dern shifted in discomfort. He looked annoyed, embarrassed, and hot in the pounding sun. He met Vera’s eyes. “The matter concerns both of you as well,” he said. “Is there somewhere we can go to speak privately?”
A terrible sense of foreboding descended as Marianne and Vera accompanied Congressman Dern down the path toward the duck pond. The crowds were thinner here, as most people were admiring the bald eagles.
“What’s going on?” Marianne asked. “Is my father all right?”
“That remains to be seen,” Congressman Dern replied. “I was given advance warning of an item that will be printed in the Washington Evening Star.” He met Vera’s eyes, the first hint of sympathy breaking through his annoyance. “I am sorry to report the item is about your husband and an opera singer.”
Marianne gasped, her eyes darting to Vera, but her mother absorbed the dreadful words with admirable sangfroid. “What opera singer?” she said with a lifted chin.
“An opera singer your husband was acquainted with twenty-six years ago.”
It became difficult to breathe. Oh, good heavens, she mustn’t faint. Mama needed her now more than ever.
Marianne swallowed hard and took a fortifying breath. “Twenty-six years ago?” she said stiffly, anger beginning to replace fear. “That makes it old news.”
Congressman Dern tilted his head to look at her. “It sounds as if you are familiar with the substance of this story.”
Vera cut her off before she could reply. “That story is nonsense. Do you hear me? Nonsense!”
A few bystanders turned to look at them curiously, and Colonel Phelps must have heard Vera’s outburst. He crossed the park toward them with concern on his face. “What’s going on here?”
Vera was shaking now, her face white and tears beginning to threaten. “This man is circulating torrid gossip, and I won’t stand here and listen to it.”
“Madam, it was not I who spread the gossip,” the congressman said. “I merely thought it fair to warn you and your husband.”
“Warn them about what?” Colonel Phelps asked as he drew alongside them.
Vera’s bottom lip began to wobble as she realized Colonel Phelps was on the verge of learning this horrible story. Marianne’s only duty right now was to protect Vera. She was prepared to unleash a storm if either of these men uttered another word to upset her mother.
She put a protective arm around Vera’s trembling shoulders. “Gentlemen, I am escorting my mother home now. She’s not well.”
“Allow me to assist,” Colonel Phelps said. “I shall summon—”
“Please don’t bother. I shall see Mother home.” She sent him a warning glare for good measure. Colonel Phelps looked taken aback at her blunt demeanor, but she didn’t care. Vera’s reputation was about to become target practice for the vicious gossips of Washington society.
Guilt ate at Marianne like acid. It was because of her that this was happening. Vera never wanted to raise an illegitimate baby, but she did it to please Clyde. Now this ugly story had been dredged up from the past, and it was Vera who would suffer the most. Marianne and Clyde had the resilience to deal with it, but Vera didn’t.
With most people still at the bald eagle exhibit, it was easy to summon a cabbie to drive them home. A few journalists loitered at the edge of the park, writing up their observations of the ribbon-cutting. She scanned their faces quickly, grateful that Dickie Shuster was not among them. If she’d seen that backstabbing man, it would be hard to restrain herself from physically assaulting him.
Once in the carriage, Vera sat stiffy on the bench opposite her, staring bleakly into space. It was a six-mile ride home, and Marianne prayed they could get there before Vera became physically ill.
“Mama, I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Don’t speak.”
The two words cut, but Marianne obeyed without question. This was her mother’s worst nightmare. Vera didn’t deserve this.
The moment the carriage drew alongside their town house, Marianne raced for the front door, not even waiting to help Vera alight. She ran to the back of the house and found the downstairs maid.
“Go get my father,” she urged. “Tell him it’s an emergency. He’s needed home at once.”
Marianne wrung out another cold compress to lay across Vera’s forehead. The curtains had been drawn, and Vera lay like a wounded dove atop her bed. Marianne smoothed the edges of the compress, then dabbed a tissue to catch a droplet of water that threatened to roll into Vera’s hair.
“Shall I rub your feet?” Marianne asked. When Vera was distraught, these little gestures meant so much to them both.
The barest movement of Vera’s chin indicated a yes. Marianne slipped the stockings from Vera’s feet, then began the slow, methodical rubbing of first one foot, then the other.
All the while she planned to burn Dickie Shuster in effigy. Luke had warned her about the shifty reporter, but she couldn’t imagine anyone would be so vicious as to resurrect a decades-old rumor merely to gin up a little unseemly publicity.
The slamming of the front door and heavy footsteps on the staircase indicated Clyde was home. Instead of being relieved, Vera’s face crumpled, and tears threatened once again.
Clyde flung open the bedroom door and stepped inside. He must have been informed about the nature of the brewing scandal, for he sank to his knees beside Vera and grabbed her hand.
“Darling, I’m sorry,” he said. His necktie was askew and his hair disheveled. Marianne couldn’t recall ever seeing Clyde quite so distraught as he poured his heart out to Vera. “This is all my fault, but I’ll figure out a way to protect you. I swear it.”
Tears leaked from Vera’s eyes, but she didn’t pull away. “It’s all going to come out,” she wailed. “An opera singer. An opera singer! The humiliation is too great. I can’t bear it.”
“Shh, darling,” Clyde soothed, looking on the verge of tears himself. “The blame is all mine. I will shoulder it and protect you. We all will.”
Vera drew a ragged breath. “Marianne said that horrible little man from the newspaper is responsible. We must do something. A lawsuit. Demand a retraction. Something!”
Clyde whipped around to stare at Marianne. His expression was a curious mix of surprise and calculation. Then it cleared. “Go to your room,” he said. “I’ll join you when I can.”
She was relieved to go. Watching this painful exchange between her parents was uniquely horrible, and she was glad to flee from it.
She hid the copy of Don Quixote under her bed. The only thing that could make this day any worse was if her father learned of Luke’s role in the book and spotted the dedication.
From across the hall, the sound of Vera’s wailing made her flinch. Then came the crash of glass shattering against the bedroom wall. It was probably part of the tea set, because two or three additional smashes followed in short order. Throughout it all, Clyde’s low voice could be heard consoling, pleading, and apologizing. It took around twenty minutes for the firestorm to pass, and all the while Marianne tried to predict what this would mean for her family.
People would stare at her when she left the house. They would whisper and speculate. She had nothing to be ashamed of, but knowing she was at the root of her mother’s public humiliation still hurt. This was also going to damage Clyde’s chances for reelection, but the very worst thing would be if reporters started scrounging around Clyde’s private life and learned of Tommy. It was one thing to have cheated on a spouse twenty-six years ago, but Tommy was only two years old, and exposing that affair would ruin Clyde’s political career forever.
A quiet tap on her door sounded, and she let Clyde in. He closed the door but didn’t turn to face her. He just leaned his forehead against the door, his shoulders sagging and exhausted.
“It wasn’t Dickie Shuster,” he said quietly.
“What? How do you know that?”
He still didn’t turn to face her. An uncomfortable silence lengthened in the room as Clyde clenched and unclenched his fists. She’d never seen him this devastated. He slowly rotated, then made his way to her bed, moving like a sleepwalker. He sat but hung his head low, staring at the floor. He looked ready to weep.
“It was Andrew,” he said.
Her own brother? Strength drained out of her knees, and she dropped to the floor where she stood, unable even to make it to the chair.
“I don’t believe it,” she finally said. “I can’t.” While she could easily imagine Andrew doing something to hurt her, he wouldn’t do this to Vera. Never.
“Believe it,” Clyde said. “Think! Dickie Shuster works for The Washington Post, not the Evening Star. He doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Then what makes you think it was Andrew?” she whispered.
“I paid the clerk at the front desk of the Evening Star a hundred dollars to tell me the source. Andrew did it last week. The same day you confessed to turning those stories over to Luke. He did it to hurt you, not Vera.”
Another wave of grief settled on her, weighing her down. She doubted she could get up off this floor if her life depended on it. The betrayal was so absolute, so cutting and deep. Did Andrew hate her this much?
“Does Mama know?”
Clyde’s head shot up. “No! And you’re not to tell her. It would kill her. Andrew has always been her favorite.”
That wasn’t a surprise, but it hurt that Clyde didn’t even realize what he’d just said.
“What should we do?”
His eyes narrowed. “This is my mess. I’ll clean it up. Just do whatever Vera asks of you. All right?”
“I promise.”
“I need you to swear to it, Marianne.” For once her father looked completely shattered and dependent on her. “Knowing it was Andrew could push her over the edge. She can’t handle this right now.”
It didn’t seem right to withhold information to protect Andrew, but everything Clyde said was true. “I swear it.”
Clyde nodded. “Thank you. It’s almost five o’clock, and the Evening Star will be released by six. I’ll find a copy, and the two of us can review it together. Dealing with Roland Dern will be a nightmare, but I’ll handle that tomorrow.”
Marianne nodded. She suspected that after tomorrow they would all carry a scar that would never fully heal.