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.
Thirty
Vera canceled her round of afternoon calls the following day, but there was no hiding from the scandal. Marianne was in the kitchen with Vera to review the grocery list when the downstairs maid brought a tray carrying three calling cards. Two were from senators’ wives and one was from the wife of the postmaster general.
“I must play this like the role of a lifetime,” Vera said grimly, then snapped her fingers. “Quick! Help me tighten this corset a few more inches. These women may outrank me, but my figure shall put them all in the shade.”
The flash of fighting spirit was a relief to see. Marianne quickly adjusted Vera’s corset and ran upstairs to fetch powder for her mother’s nose.
“You look lovely,” she whispered as Vera set off to face the women.
“Polish the tea set while the water boils,” Marianne instructed Bridget, the downstairs maid. “I’ll run to the bakery and buy whatever I can find to serve.” They hadn’t been expecting this and had no gourmet delicacies that would show Vera in a positive light.
Marianne had a stitch in her side from running as she arrived at the bakery. “Please box up every tea cake you have, and two loaves of white bread.” There was enough cucumber and watercress at home to make tea sandwiches, and it would have to do.
By the time Marianne returned home, two more congressmen’s wives had arrived to call. “How is it going?” she asked Bridget as she set the box of pastries on the kitchen counter.
“Your mum is holding her own,” Bridget whispered. They quickly cut the crusts from the bread to make triangular tea sandwiches while the maid talked. “People are polite, but they keep asking after your pa. We all know what they’re dying to know, but your mum is handling it like a queen.”
The front bell rang again, but the smock of Bridget’s uniform was drenched in spilled tea. Marianne’s poplin gown was still presentable. The bell was pulled again.
“I’ll get it.” Maybe it wasn’t quite the thing for the daughter of the household to answer the front door, but there was nobody else.
Unfortunately, it was Congressman Dern’s wife waiting impatiently on their doorstep. Marianne showed her into the parlor and brought another chair for Mrs. Dern. All conversation stopped while Marianne was in the room, but it resumed the moment she left. Marianne pressed her ear to the door to eavesdrop.
The postmaster general’s wife spoke with an oily voice. “What a lovely young woman your . . . ahem, what a lovely young woman your daughter is.”
Vera’s voice was tight. “Indeed she is.”
The postmaster’s wife continued in her delightedly somber tone. “My dear, we are all thinking of you in this challenging time.”
Marianne didn’t care what people thought of her. She just wished this day could be over for Vera.
The doorbell rang again. Instead of another caller, it was only a message boy holding a small card addressed to Vera.
“Thank you,” she said, tucking it into her pocket to deliver later.
It was a trying afternoon, but by three o’clock it was over. Vera was shaking after the women left. Marianne sat with her in the parlor, the remnants of the hastily assembled tea strewn around the room like battlefield casualties.
“Dreadful women,” Vera said. “After they saw you, all they could do was ask questions. ‘How old is your daughter? Twenty-six? How interesting! What lovely coloring she has.’ That horrible Mrs. Sharpe wanted to know if you can sing. We all knew what she was driving at, but I had to sit here and smile and offer her more tea cakes. The witch. I would have liked to rub that tea cake in her fussy, overly tight pin curls. Everyone knows pin curls went out of style last decade.”
Marianne said nothing, just let Vera unfurl the list of petty insults she’d been dealt. While some of the women were there to gawk, Congressman Dern’s wife seemed kind and only wanted to support Vera, but nothing was sitting well with her mother today.
“This came for you while the ladies were visiting.” Marianne set the thick envelope on the table.
Vera perked up and opened the note, the corners of her mouth turning down as she read. “It’s from Colonel Phelps,” she said stiffly. “He sends his regrets that he won’t be able to join us for dinner on Sunday.”
Marianne remained frozen, her chin high. “Did he say why?”
“He didn’t. But I think we all know.”
It was another kick in the teeth. Colonel Phelps was an ambitious man on the rise and couldn’t accept the illegitimate daughter of an opera singer as his spouse.