Chloe (18 page)

That thought gave her pause.
Why did I let this happen? Bette is my daughter and she should be my responsibility.

Suddenly angry at her mother, Chloe stalked up the stairs to the nursery. When she got there, she took a breath and forced herself to walk calmly into the room. She was ready to confront her mother, but she was going to do it on her own terms. She opened her mouth to speak.

Her mother held a finger up to her lips. Chloe halted as Jerusha lifted the sleeping baby from her grandmother’s arms and carried the child toward the antique crib that had been “updated” with an abundance of lace and pink satin. Chloe stepped in front of Jerusha. “Let me,” she murmured. With painstaking care, Jerusha settled the baby into Chloe’s arms.

“Now what are you doing that for?” her mother chided sharply. “I just got her asleep.”

As though carrying delicate eggs on top of a feather, Chloe cradled the baby close. But as gentle as she was, Bette’s little face screwed up and she began to wail. Deflated, Chloe held back her own tears.
Why does my own daughter cry whenever I take her?

Her mother made a sound of irritation. Without a word, Chloe handed Jerusha the baby and escaped from the room.

At the foot of the staircase, her father was waiting. “Sugar, I want a word with you.”

Chloe paused across from him. He looked unnaturally serious. “What is it?”

“I need you, honey.” He took her hand.

Tears nearly burst from Chloe’s eyes.
Someone needs me. But does it have to be Daddy?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

H
er father led her into his small den, a domain she’d previously only peered into but always avoided. She looked around at comfortable leather chairs, a mahogany desk, and a brick fireplace. Two lamps illumined the room done in navy and white. The effect was altogether welcoming, but the walls seemed to close in around her. Already occupying one of the commodious chairs facing the desk, was Jackson. He rose. “Miss Chloe.”

Chloe’s nerves tingled to life, warning her. Jackson wouldn’t be here unless this was about politics.

“Have a seat, sugar.” Her father waved her to the chair beside Jackson as he sat down behind his desk.

Chloe lowered herself onto its pillowy softness, her caution increasing.

“Chloe, you’re a woman now.” Her father leaned forward and folded his pudgy hands on his desktop blotter.

Chloe held her peace. What did her father want from her?

“It’s time I treated you like an adult, not a little girl.” Looking down, he appeared to be straightening the creases in his trousers.

She folded her hands primly, resisting her father’s flattery. “What do you want, Daddy?”

He chuckled. “My girl’s got all her wits about her. I told you that, Jackson.”

Jackson nodded, his sallow face serious.

Chloe didn’t respond. She focused on her hands in her lap.
Be on guard.

“I have a job for you if you’ll take it,” her father said without preamble.

“A job?” Chloe ransacked her mind as to her father’s motive. “What kind of job could I do?”

“You know I didn’t win the election last November.” He looked down again as though avoiding her eyes.

She nodded, analyzing her father’s tone. He didn’t sound angry or put upon, just matter of fact.

“Now another opportunity to serve my country has presented itself.” His voice was low and neutral.

Jackson cleared his throat. “The Democratic Party is at low ebb, Chloe. President Wilson is fighting a strong Republican Congress and he needs help. This war has brought needs—expensive ones—to the fore, and Republicans hold the purse strings. And they don’t want to loosen those strings. Our troops require things and the Republicans won’t appropriate the money to get what’s needed.”

“I see.” Chloe didn’t completely, but she did grasp the bare meaning of what Jackson had said. “What is the party doing about that?”

“Our party needs someone to move things along.” Her father made a motion with both hands as if pushing something forward. “I’ve been offered the chance to be a lobbyist in the US Congress.”

“What’s a lobbyist?” Chloe watched her father’s eyes, looking for a hint of what he was pulling.

“A lobbyist talks to people, lays the groundwork for cooperation.” He folded his hands in front of his lowest vest button, which strained against his paunch.

“A lot of politics happens behind the scene,” Jackson explained. “Congressmen often have to deliver to their constituents projects that will bring jobs and money into their districts. But congressmen also have to keep the larger needs in mind. A lobbyist brings these sometimes opposing sides together so they can negotiate in private.”

“Like what’s happenin’ here, Chloe, in our own county.” Her father slid forward on his chair, making the leather creak. “You know times are hard. Farm prices are fallin’ and at the same time the cost of things is risin’. Our croppers are going to have a hard time next spring what with the high price of seed and everythin’ else. Francy has been glad to wet nurse your little girl ’cause her family needs the money.”

“What do you want, Daddy?” Chloe resisted.
It can’t be this simple.

“I’m rentin’ an apartment in D.C. at a good address. I’m goin’ to start entertainin’ people—influential people—there and try to lay the groundwork to do what I can to get what the troops need, what our people need.”

“What do you want with me, Daddy?” she repeated, her distrust waning dangerously. This was her father. She couldn’t trust him, could she?

“I need a hostess.” He stood and walked to the mantel. “A lady. A woman with style who knows how to decorate the apartment and entertain the influential people who will be comin’. I need you, honey.”

Chloe knew he was referring to the social elite, the ones called “cave dwellers” in Georgetown, the cream of Washington, D.C. society. And of course, she’d be acceptable to them with her mother’s family background. But she shook her head and sat up straighter. Rain shushed against the windows. “But Mother—”

“Your mother has refused,” Jackson put in.

“She’s never been interested in helpin’ me.” Her father looked at her. “You know how she is. Only thinks about her own comfort. She’s the grand lady. No one else counts.”

Chloe looked at this man who was her father. His intent gaze was unusual. For once, he looked like . . . Like what? The usual glow of self-aggrandizement didn’t light his eyes. But could she believe what she saw? She studied him and then turned to view Jackson. Both men appeared serious. “You say the Republicans aren’t supporting our troops?”

“That’s the Democratic Party’s most pressing concern.” Jackson leaned toward her on his elbow. “We can’t send our men over there to risk their lives but refuse to give them the food, medical care, and weapons they need.”

“I didn’t know . . .” This was all so new, unexpected.

“Well, sugar, why should you?” her father asked, lifting one palm. “You’ve lost your husband. You got a baby who’s sick and needs constant care. You been thinkin’ about her. And I been watchin’ you, not knowin’ how to help you through this, how to give you somethin’ else to think about. This would give you a chance to do somethin’ good.”

“But there are larger issues.” Jackson rubbed his chin. “You could be serving your country as much as your husband did.”

“I didn’t know,” she repeated, still distrustful. And who was she anyway? Since Theran’s death, she’d failed at everything she’d tried. “I . . . what can I do?”

“Come to D.C. with me, sugar.” Her father came to her and took her hand. “Take your place in Washington society. Help me smooth the way for the political deals that must be made to take care of our boys overseas and our people here at home. I need you. I really need you.”

Chloe sat very still. Her father’s voice was completely devoid of his usual coaxing, politician quality. For once in his life, he sounded sincere. His hand held hers, gentle yet firm. She frowned. Had her father changed? Could she trust him?

“I need to know your answer,” he said.

“I need time to think,” she stalled.

“Of course you do,” Jackson replied quickly. “But we need to know soon.”

Rising, Chloe nodded. Her father hurried ahead and opened the door for her. She walked into the hall, her mind reeling with new ideas. Maybe her father had been truly touched by her losing Theran. Maybe losing an election for the first time had made him reconsider what was really important.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she heard Bette starting to yowl. Chloe closed her eyes and clung to the railing. She knew she should hurry upstairs and take care of her child. But she also knew that her touch would only rouse her to greater fury. Somehow she hadn’t been able to overcome her child’s preference for her grandmother’s touch.
Bette hates me. It can’t be her fault. She’s just a baby. It must be me.

Somehow everything was Chloe’s fault. She’d married Theran and he’d died. She’d had Theran’s child and the child hated her. Roarke had gone to battle, been wounded. Though he’d not said anything to her before he’d left for war, she’d known he wasn’t the kind of man whose feelings changed easily. Did he still love her? If so, why did he refuse to come home and tell her? Or was it that he had changed his mind and didn’t want to hurt her? Chloe bent her forehead to the cool, carved railing and wept hot, painful tears.
It’s all wrong. Everything’s wrong and it’s all my fault. It has to be.

Washington, D.C., late 1918

T
hough Theran had been gone for nearly a year, Chloe could not bring herself to put off mourning. After the first six months of her time of loss, she should have moved to white mourning; still she’d clung to her black veil. But now in D.C. she moved to white mourning. She wore a knee-length white chiffon veil with white silk crepe trim attached to her stylish new navy hat, which matched her suit. Today she had ventured out alone for the first time since she’d come to Washington to help her father. He was in a meeting at a restaurant near the Capitol, lobbying for better food for the troops. He’d told her that after what had happened to Theran he was making this his main effort.

Chloe emerged from her father’s Cadillac and asked the chauffeur to wait for her. “I don’t know how long I’ll be,” she said. The uniformed and gloved black man stood stiffly by the car. Disconcertingly, he reminded her of Frank Lawson. Minnie had written she was still dating Frank in New York City. Would this man even believe her if she told him she’d lived in Harlem? That she’d marched with the NAACP? Would he care? The life she’d lived those months in New York City felt long ago and far away.

She mounted the flight of steps of the immense stone house on Sixteenth Street called “Henderson’s Castle” and then rang its bell. She smiled at the liveried Negro butler who opened wide the door.

“I’m here for the dancing,” she murmured and handed him her ivory calling card.

He glanced at it. “Thank you, Mrs. Black. Mrs. Henderson hoped you would attend today.”

A uniformed footman came forward and bowed for her to precede him. The house looked as if it had been decorated to imitate a nobleman’s home, with oak-paneled walls, plush maroon carpet, and a crystal chandelier sparkling overhead. Chloe walked the long, carpeted hall, going over in her mind what she’d heard about these informal dances held every Monday afternoon by the widow of a famous Missouri senator. Mrs. Henderson was a powerful, influential force in D.C. society and politics. A lot of deals were struck in this house during parties and dinners.

Her father had arranged for Chloe to be invited today. She hoped she would make a good impression. He needed this contact and it was up to her to make good on it. It was a new feeling, a good feeling, to know her father needed her. And she was doing something for her country.

She stepped into the large, second-floor ballroom. A knot of men and women in afternoon dress milled around one end. In front of them a dainty white-haired woman sat on an imposing chair with her little feet on a step stool. She wore powder-blue bedroom slippers with pom-poms instead of shoes. The blue slippers went with the room’s floor-to-ceiling royal blue draperies, which were partially opened, revealing a wall of French doors and a balcony beyond them.

Chloe walked across the expanse of polished maple to the lady. “Mrs. Henderson, ma’am.” Chloe suppressed the sudden urge to curtsey to the queenlike woman.

“You’re that young war widow from Maryland, aren’t you?” the lady said, holding out her hand.

“Yes, ma’am.” Chloe shook the small, wrinkled hand and stared into the petite woman’s sparkling blue eyes. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Her nerves hopped and skipped.

“I’m so glad you’ve come.” The lady smiled, unabashedly assessing Chloe.

This didn’t upset Chloe. After all, she was used to being on display and she’d survived her own debut under the eyes of dragons just like Mrs. Henderson, hadn’t she? She lifted her chin a bit.
Maybe I can do this.

“I know you’re still in mourning, Mrs. Black, but I think these informal dances make the formal occasions so much more enjoyable.” The older woman gave an impish grin. “A lady learns from which partners she should accept an invitation to dance and which ones she should refuse—to save her toes.”

Chloe still found she couldn’t speak, but she smiled.

“And which category do I fall in, Mrs. Henderson?” A tall blond man stood opposite Chloe. He inclined his well-shaped head toward the older lady.

Mrs. Henderson patted the man’s arm in a playful gesture. “Drake, you are most definitely a desirable partner.”

He bowed in mock gratitude to the grande dame in bedroom slippers. “Would you introduce me to this lovely lady then?” He turned his eyes on Chloe. They were intense in spite of his lazy voice. She hoped her veil hid the faint blush he caused her.

“Of course. Mrs. Chloe Black, may I make you known to Mr. Drake Lovelady?”

Chloe looked startled at the man’s name.

He grinned and took the gloved hand she’d offered him. “I know. My
interesting
name got me into a lot of trouble at school. But now I just enjoy the look ladies give me when we’re introduced.”