Harrison was concerned. Twice in the last fortnight Claire had casually wandered into his dreams in the short sleeps he allowed himself. That graceful form so familiar to him had stood on a hill behind Charlotte Hall waving a soft, billowy scarf. And he had been glad to see her there.
This troubled him. And so he did what any high-principled man schooled in serving God and Country would do.
He fled.
“Tom, can you pack up for me? London again, I'm afraid.” On the other hand, Harrison reasoned, once his flying boat was safely halfway across the Atlantic, it seemed totally logical that Claire should be part of his fitful slumber during these days when his mind was doubled over with the numbers of supplies that hadn't been delivered in time. And Claire was just part of his overcircuited workday. Hadn't he dreamed about Eleanor Roosevelt a few nights before? And he hadn't given that nocturnal visit a moment's pause. He was sure he was uncharacteristically overdramatizing. That was all. The Stateside version of battle fatigue must be what he was suffering from. Like the flu. There was nothing even remotely pertinent about an overworked middle-aged man's dreams. He dismissed the whole business as he and Harriman smoked their Cuban cigars and read the latest telexes in the thin, pointed light of the airplane. A few more hours, God willing, and they'd be in London.
England was a distraction. Harrison had friends here and the highest regard for even the ordinary Londoners who had stoically suffered years of blackouts, the terrible drone of the buzz bombs, and the more horrible silences that came just before a hit. There was a bravado bred into the Brits that Harrison admired. One night after a particularly wearying working dinner at Churchill's country house, Chequers, with Harriman and an assortment of Allied generals and military strategists, Churchill's wife, Clementine, and their daughter-in-law Pamela joined them. It was eight-thirty and Churchill looked exhausted, but the perky Pamela announced that they had a feature film for the evening's entertainment and everyone should grab their overcoats, because it was cold in the cinema room.
Harrison sat down with a whiskey and soda and a small bowl of popcorn. The movie was a British film, long, dull, and very badly acted. So Harrison watched Churchill's daughter-in-law instead as she played hostess in the darkened room—shy Clementine having chosen to turn in early—lighting cigars, making everyone feel comfortable, and lifting the mood.
Watching Pamela hover over her father-in-law as she pulled a blanket over his shoulders with such daughterly concern made Harrison forget his own overblown worries. Sometimes it took putting an ocean between you and a problem to see it clearly, he assured himself, and filed it along with the other solved problems in his briefcase.
Claire arrived early. She took the six A.M. train from Washington to Grand Central and then the commuter to Tuxedo. The spring weather was fine, and she longed to hold her child in her arms. A walk around the grounds, the dogs on either side of Sara's high-wheeled Silver Cross carriage, and a picnic for all of them were uppermost in her mind. She paid the taxi driver who had brought her up from the station to the front of Charlotte Hall's iron gates and generously over-tipped him. Unannounced, in her eagerness, she had taken the quickest way instead of calling the house for a lift.
She carried no luggage, just a huggable teddy bear under her arm, and as the morning was so peaceful, she thought she'd walk the three-quarter-mile driveway to the house. The front gates were locked, she discovered as she jostled them. Standing on her tiptoes, Claire tried to peer into the gatehouse, but the heavy drapes were drawn. It was a little after eleven and she had told Ophelia she'd arrive around suppertime. Obviously the Harrison security force was in operation.
Claire turned and walked back down Winding Way Road a bit until she got to the place where the sculpted boxwood substituted for the property fence, and slipped in through a break in the corduroy-thick hedges, careful not to snag Teddy on the poker-sharp branches. She wished she hadn't. A demon dog, all black sleekness and a gnash of white teeth, flew barreling down the road, stirring up gravel dust as she stood there in the open like a carnival-duck target. She let out a scream and, covering her face with the bear, tried to roll herself back into the bushes.
Something sharp bit into Claire's leg and she cried out in pain before a series of men's names were shouted and then the dog called off her with a hysterical “Down, Hecker.”
When she regained consciousness, she was lying in her room, Ophelia coolly appraising her condition.
“It's for Sara's protection. And security for the rest of us,” she explained, less than sympathetically. “There have been incidents. Harrison is in the paper so much and everyone knows he has top-secret access and of course there was the Lindbergh kidnapping way back and one of the …” Ophelia blathered on.
“I'm the mother. Not a kidnapper.”
“You arrived on your own schedule without any regard for how it might upset ours and we cannot run a smooth household with people popping in under the bushes. With your name splashed all over the society pages it's a wonder we haven't been burglarized.” Ophelia sneered. “And with Churchill due on Monday with half the Cabinet, we had to put in security measures.”
“Please bring Sara in.” Claire was feeling groggy. The shots the doctor had given her were making it difficult to stay awake.
Nanny Bridget brought a skittish Sara to the door, but the two-year-old clung stubbornly to the doorjamb, shaking her red curls and refusing to go in; the smell of alcohol swabs and her mother's leg sewn up frightening her. Claire fell off to sleep and when she awakened, it was already dark outside. She thought she was alone until Nanny Bridget rose from the shadows.
“Mr. Harrison called from overseas.” She switched on the lamp.
“Harry?”
“Mr. Harrison. He's had the dog removed because of you. You have a visitor.”
As Tom entered the room he was wearing a comforting grin. “These are from the boss.” He laid the long bouquet of cut flowers across her bed.
“Oh, they're lovely.” Claire reached down to pick them up.
“Well, I know Pam Churchill keeps her son, young Winston, out in the country while she works in London, but I don't think they turn the dogs on her when she drives out to visit.”
“Hush, Tom. It was an accident, not an incident. I just want to forget about it, okay? And not a word to the papers. It would embarrass Harrison.”
“Oh, right. Sure. Why didn't I think of that? So, which foot did they amputate, the left or the right?”
“You goof. It's just a scratch. Fourteen stitches isn't much. Could you ask the nurse to come in? I want to get up and see Sara. Go have your tea with Ophelia.”
Claire maneuvered herself clumsily onto her crutches and into the nursery. The pain she felt when she saw the room was sharper than the one the damned dog had inflicted on her. Her expression was one of disbelief. All of her pretty handiwork, balloons, planes, and drawings had been wiped out and painted over since last week's visit. She felt as though she had been erased.
Instead the nursery had become a pastel carousel of pink and green unicorns and horses framed by scalloped borders like an outdoor awning at the Tuxedo country club.
“Lovely, isn't it, Miss Claire?” Nanny number two appeared in the doorway with an armful of freshly laundered diapers. “Sara loves her horsies, and now everything's spruced up for the big company coming.”
Claire burst into tears. But that was to be expected, Ophelia told the staff. The Doberman had frightened her out of her wits, but she'd be just fine after a few days’ rest.
After ten days in Tuxedo with Sara, Ophelia, the nurses, and picnic parties that included the visiting dignitaries, Claire's leg was as good as new. She practically ran back to Washington.
The learning curve in wartime Washington was by necessity driven by speed. Over the next turbulent year, Claire learned by running alongside Harrison's heels. And one of the things she learned was that underneath his proper, tweed facade, Harrison had the guts of a truck driver.
&
nbsp; Throughout the past several months he had been called upon to make countless important war decisions and now, in January 1945, he was needed more than ever. With supplies running low, FDR had made it Harrison's job to oversee and coordinate what the military needed with what private industry could manufacture. The pressure upon Harrison was enormous, and he was being badgered from every direction. To Claire, it seemed like the whole future of the free world rested solely on her father-in-law's already burdened shoulders. As Harrison sped up his work and his metabolism, Claire made herself even more available to him; she was more devoted to him than if she'd been his own flesh and blood. Shared secrets and mutual respect bonded them. The war was depending on Harrison, and Claire protected him like a doting hawk. Some days they would be at the office until well past midnight, and when his schedule couldn't be stretched an iota more, she would step in after conveying Harrison's apologies, pass out his agenda for the meeting, and just usher him in for the closing. She protected him and his time and, as she grew to understand him better, revered him all the more.
Sometimes the things she did were of a more personal nature. She would happily make sure his cigar pouch was replenished, pushing the Havanas into place one by one, or simply add lighter fluid to the silver ribbed lighter that carried his monogram, a gift from Ophelia.
Today, sitting rod-straight on the edge of her chair, wearing one of her custom signature suits, Claire had only to wave a folder and lift an eyebrow to get his attention. They had their own silent language by now. Once she knew she had his attention, a fact no one else could detect, she slowly raised a manila folder with a blue sticker to her shoulder, indicating that the text of his prepared remarks was now obsolete.
A flurry of new telexes had turned their latest figures upside down, and if Harrison was to keep the public confidence alive on the president's behalf, he couldn't be a day late in the updates delivered at this news briefing.
Harrison understood her movements immediately. What others saw was the aristocratic war materials czar, one of the president's chief advisers, quietly acknowledging the elegant young woman in a superbly cut suit and a string of pearls worn short. What they didn't see was him ad-lib his speech until the folder would be handed to him by Tom or a page, as she never stepped on the podium herself; until he had the proper corrections about the latest supplies and delivered the war news in his serious, undramatic way. She would stay in her seat and listen, feeling his sincerity and solemnity quiet the room as he spoke. He would single out a particular face in the audience, and by explaining his case to that single individual, hold the rest of the room.
She marveled at how in his quiet way he was imposing and commanded not only silence among the unruly press corps, but also respect. Sitting straight-backed on the edge of her chair, her legs crossed at the ankles, her hair softly arranged around her heart-shaped face, Claire was as in awe of Harrison's talents as if he had been Frank Sinatra crooning at the mike to the bobby soxer she could have been. As Tom hurriedly entered the room, head down, with mimeographed sheets of the immediate changes to hand out to the newspaperpeople, he looked from his boss to Claire and stifled a frown. Was he the only one of them who could see what was happening?
“You did wonderfully well. I expect we'll have national coverage of the war materials czar's encouraging remarks.” Claire spoke with quiet adulation. “And then the war materials czar can push Ford and Chrysler to full capacity.”
Harrison leaned his head in her direction as she whispered the names of the three newly appointed heads of the latest alphabet agencies, who were walking directly toward them in the congressional hallway. Then Harrison held out his hand in greeting, calling each new face by name as they approached him.
Claire spoke softly into his ear, a private reminder even Tom couldn't hear as he closely flanked Harrison's other side, but Harrison was nodding and almost cracked a smile. In a normal voice Claire continued, “The president's secretary called and asked if you might join him for a quiet supper tonight. E.R.’s away. The Red Cross trip. She's in uniform this time and the soldiers are loving it. Shall I see if Ophelia wants to join you?” Her eyes were pooled in sincerity.
“Ophelia's with Eleanor. Boarded the train at the last minute. She's in a Red Cross uniform too.” It was impossible to detect either sarcasm or disappointment in his flat tone. “But tell them yes and that I'm bringing the other Mrs. Harrison.”
“Oh, how very nice of you to include me. Thank you. Perhaps Anna can come as well.”
Claire had cultivated her new voice to perfection, a soft voice that reeked of culture, refinement, and while not exactly Vassar or Franklin's Hyde Park, it was a lovely patois of all the best places but did not tether her to any particular geography. Her newsy chatter that she stored up to amuse Harrison was now delivered in a musical medley of twangy midwestern clarity with certain phrases elongated in Tuxedo's high-tea tony vowels. She had observed that in Washington a quality voice could cover a mountain of misinformation.
Claire and Tom had to hurry to keep up with the agile Harrison as they climbed a steep well of white marble stairs and followed after his trim figure until he darted into the offices of the senator from Michigan. They walked on, just the two of them, to the parking area, Claire turning a head or two as they hurried down the Capitol steps. One step from the bottom she turned to Tom and asked, “Who's Lucy Mercer?”
“Why?”
“She's lunching with the president today.”
Tom looked around the white-stuccoed driveway and the park beyond to see if any temporary recruiting booths hadn't sprung up nearby. He suddenly felt an urge to join the army, just to be somewhere safe. He could see clearly now. He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets as he walked in long strides with his head down, just like he was looking for land mines ahead. And then he told a startled Claire the story of President Roosevelt and his great love affair with Lucy Mercer.
It was an oysters-and-bourbon kind of evening. There were candles on the table, which was set with the floral presidential china, and a second course of roasted beef and wine. But it wasn't the food or the flowers that mattered. It was the gay, romantic mood that pervaded the room.
“Watch me. It's better to use your fingers and let the little suckers just slide down your throat.” The president demonstrated his oyster technique with flair.
“Franklin, show us again.” Lucy Mercer spoke in a soft, husky voice underscored with mirth. “It takes a former secretary of the navy to know the best way to swallow a fish.”
“Yes, that's me. Poseidon of the sea!” FDR flashed his famous grin.
The president seemed to have lost twenty years in as many hours. Where two nights before Claire and Harrison had sat up with Eleanor and the president as he fought a fever, tonight FDR had the look of a young man refreshed. Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd was seated to his right. Eleanor's chair was left empty, but it was obvious to everyone there that the president's old flame was the reason for the color in his cheeks. Lucy's grace and beauty belied her years, and her easy laugh and comfortable silences made the room feel like all the windows had been thrown open to let the springtime tumble in. She was the perfume that was scenting the room.
The president himself had picked Lucy up at the station. Anna had made the arrangements, betraying her mother unthinkably, and Claire, observing the look of puppy love on the president's face, wondered at it all. So the man who was the moral beacon for a nation, Eleanor's husband and the father of five, whose fireside wisdom inspired millions and who just days before had begun his unprecedented fourth term in office, was a man just like any other, with the same back-street desires of a Cyrus Pettibone.
“If Franklin hadn't been so politically ambitious, he probably would have divorced Eleanor for Lucy.” Tom's gossipy words rang in Claire's ears. “His mother threatened to disinherit him if he did. That would have cost him not only all the money, but his beloved Hyde Park and his career as well. It cost him plenty anyhow. Even though he promised Eleanor he
would never see Lucy again, they say the marriage has never been the same.”
Claire looked over at the elegant, well-bred Mrs. Rutherfurd, with her exquisite manners and skin the color of freshly fallen snow. Her fair complexion was accentuated by the black lace cowl circling her long neck, a subtle reminder of her recent widowhood. Speculation aside, Anna assured her that Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd had genuinely grieved for the much older, wealthy man she had married on the rebound.
“Lucy, do you mind if I tell that story about the time we motored up to Allegheny?”
She shook her head, never taking her eyes off him.
Reserved in a soft, feminine way and wearing a lovely smile, Lucy seemed to relax the president with her very presence. Claire hadn't heard that jovial bellow in a long time. Lucy Mercer was tonic. Above all, she was a good listener, even when it was apparent that she was hearing a story for the umpteenth time. It almost made it easier for her to laugh in just the right places. Claire noticed how opposite she was from the vital Eleanor. Lucy Mercer sat listening raptly to FDR, never once interrupting him whether he was talking about vermouth or Vermont, on which both subjects Eleanor held dissenting opinions. And when the man who had lost his waning appetite called out for seconds, Claire was sold. She realized that in her gentle way, Lucy was more alluring than any woman she had ever encountered. For some men, a great listener was as enticing as a great pair of legs.
The Chameleon Page 20
