The President's Daughter Read online

  “Regular people?” retorted Gertrude, the tall girl to Harriet's left. “Don't the Roosevelts consider themselves regular people?”

  A smaller girl named Emily who sat across the table said, in a voice that was practically a wail, “They wouldn't let me spend weekends at home!”

  “Well,” Harriet said with a malicious grin, “you must be one of the regular people, that's why.”

  “Girls!” said Miss Mallett.

  “I—I didn't mean it that way,” I said. “I meant people who don't get to travel and see animals living in the wild. I never have.” Mother and Sister and Ted had been to Father's land out west, but I hadn't. “I don't know why I'm allowed to go home on Fridays,” I said. “I just am.” Thank goodness.

  Across the table, Emily wiped her eyes on her napkin. She looked about my age. I wanted to tell her that I understood how she felt, that I was homesick too, but I'd already talked myself into enough trouble. I bowed my head and kept quiet.

  All the next morning we took test after test, so that the teachers could see where we belonged in our classes. Butterflies floated in my stomach. Miss Young had never tested Sister and me. She said she knew what we were learning without exams. But what if I was stupider than all the other girls?

  We sat at individual desks, with ink and pens, while the teachers put papers in front of us and told us how long we had to complete them. The clock ticked anxiously. When the time was up, one teacher collected papers while another handed out more. History, science, grammar, mathematics. Foreign languages I didn't know a word of. My head ached. My legs didn't quite reach the floor, and they ached too.

  Around ten-thirty we were given a glass of milk and allowed to move about for ten minutes. I stood and stretched. There were ten girls in the classroom with me, including Emily. I tried to catch her eye, but she looked away.

  Soon a teacher came in and told us to sit down again. I wiped my sweaty hands on my skirt. We were given compositions to write. I loved writing. In my family, we wrote letters all the time, and Miss Young often assigned me compositions. I settled into my seat, feeling more comfortable. Surely I couldn't fail everything.

  At lunch I was too hungry to talk. Miss Mallett carried on conversations with some of the girls who hadn't spoken much the night before. I saw that we were all expected to contribute.

  Emily said her father was a minister. She had two younger sisters. This was her first time away from home. Her lip trembled a bit as she said it.

  “What sort of activities do you enjoy?” Miss Mallett asked. “What opportunities do you hope to take advantage of here this year?”

  That was just the sort of question a teacher would ask. Not are you homesick, do you miss your mother or your dogs or your pesky brothers. Opportunities and advantages, as though being at school were a gift.

  But Emily's face lighted into a smile. “I'm going to learn to play the piano,” she said. “Mother said I might. And Father said we'd be able to explore all over the city.”

  Miss Mallett smiled approvingly. We were all supposed to say we were glad to be there.

  In the afternoon we had free time, but it was raining and we couldn't play outdoors. The dormitory floor was filled with the noise of girls visiting and laughing and slamming doors. I was used to commotion—I had to be, with Quentin and Archie around—but I wasn't used to so many strangers. I shut myself inside my room. First I wrote a long letter to Sister. Then I wrote a letter to Kermit, and one to Ted. Then I read Nicholas Nickleby until suppertime.

  The class assignments were posted in the hall outside the dining room. I searched nervously down the lists for my name. I hadn't failed the exams. I'd even passed into the third class of English. I already knew the work of the first two years, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Irving, Lowell. Those were authors Father and Mother liked to read to us. I had received high marks for my composition.

  In the rest of my classes I stayed with the first year, which I guessed was all right, since it was where most of the ten-year-olds were assigned. Ted was a year behind his age group at Groton, because of being sick when he was small, and Father didn't like that. I hoped he'd be satisfied with my position.

  I would learn Latin. Greek. French. German. The history and geography of the United States. That seemed easy; Father was always telling us stories about the past. Botany. Zoology. Old Testament history. Christian ethics. Grammar school arithmetic and concrete geometry. It seemed like a lot of work. Then I had two pleasant surprises. Mother had signed me up for singing classes twice a week, and I was to learn to play the piano, like Emily.

  I wondered if the White House had a piano. I'd have to look when I got home.

  The school offered riding lessons too, but Mother hadn't signed me up for them, I supposed since I already knew how to ride. It would have been lovely, though, to spend a few extra hours each week on the back of a horse. I was always happy when I was riding.

  When classes started Wednesday they weren't as awful as I'd feared. I could understand the work and keep up, and some of the girls in the first prep year seemed nice. But none of them, not even Emily, approached me or acted as if she wanted to be my friend. The little primary students giggled when they saw me, and the older girls pretended I didn't exist. On Thursday at supper Miss Mallett said, “Your young brothers were in the newspaper this morning, Ethel. Seems they were flooding the backyard of the mansion with a garden hose in an attempt to stage a naval battle.” I grinned. “They were probably acting out the attack on the Maine from the War of 1812,” I said. “That's their favorite.” Father was always telling us naval stories about the War of 1812; he'd even written a book about it. Uncle Will said the book was so good, the naval academy used it as a textbook. Harriet sniffed. “I would think that someone would prevent them from such destructiveness. That lawn is government property.” “I'm sure Archie and Quentin didn't destroy anything,” I said. “Naval battles never hurt the lawn at Sagamore.” That was a lie. The last time Archie had engineered a flood it had taken the gardeners weeks to repair the grass. But I wasn't going to admit that to Harriet, who seemed to want to dislike me. “We have to have somewhere to play,” I said.

  “I hear you use the East Room,” said Gertrude. “That was in the newspapers too.”

  I hated newspapers. How did they hear about me and the East Room? “I said I'd stay in the basement from now on.”

  “The story wasn't about you,” Miss Mallett said smoothly, over giggles from the other girls. “I believe there were some potted palms in some seats there? Apparently they've been removed, and your brothers are using the spaces for hiding places.”

  I was glad Mother had removed those dreadful palms, but I hated the idea of Archie and Quentin having fun without me. When I got home, we'd have to have a long game of hide-and-seek.

  “The East Room isn't in very good shape,” I said carefully. “I don't think Archie and Quentin could hurt it. We're going to redo it as soon as Congress approves.”

  Harriet sniffed. “It was good enough for President McKinley,” she said.

  I bit my lip. I hated to even think of poor President McKinley. What if Father's plans were cut short the same way?

  “Can't the children be confined to a playroom?” Miss Mallett asked me.

  How should I know? I thought. I'm not their governess. And it wasn't as though we had any extra rooms upstairs. But I could just see where that conversation would go. If I said the White House wasn't big enough, they'd all think I was a spoiled brat. Never mind that we had eight people and only five bedrooms.

  “Please pass the potatoes,” I said.

  Friday came and my week was over at last. Just as Mother had promised, the White House carriage was waiting when I flew out the door. The horses were unfamiliar, but I knew the coachman. His name was Arthur; he often drove Father. “Can I ride up with you?” I asked him.

  “Sure, Miss Ethel.” He gave me a hand. I looked over my shoulder. Wouldn't Miss Whiton have a fit if she saw me! I doubted Cathedral School g
irls were supposed to sit on the carriage box.

  “No luggage?” he asked.

  “Just my book bag.” I had it over my shoulder. “The school does our laundry. I'm bringing my bicycle on Monday, and my tennis racquet.” And I had a list for Miss Young: gym uniforms, to be bought at a particular store in Washington; special pencils for drawing class; a pair of shoes suitable for indoor exercise.

  He started the horses. The harness jangled as we drove away. I breathed deeply. “I'm so glad to be going home, Arthur.”

  “You don't care for that school?” He glanced back. “Looks like a pretty fancy place to me. And kind of nice the way it's set back in the woods.”

  “It looks all right, I guess,” I said, “but I hate it. I'm not going to talk about it. I'm not going to talk about anything unpleasant all weekend. What are the boys up to? And whose horses are these?”

  Arthur chuckled. “Those rascal brothers of yours are up to every bit of no-good in this world. Last I saw them, they were watering the sandbox, having been expressly forbidden to continue watering the lawn. The horses are a new pair the president bought on Tuesday. Easy steppers. Like them?”

  I did. I watched their glossy hindquarters sway as they trotted down the road. “Can't they go faster?” I asked.

  “Not on these cobblestones. Can't wreck the carriage, Miss Ethel.”

  I sighed. “Has Sister written this week? Is she still at Aunt Bamie's house? How's Ted? Does Kermit like his school?” I felt as if everything could have changed in the five days I'd been gone.

  “I don't know any of that, Miss Ethel. Don't fret. You'll be home in ten minutes.”

  I watched the horses longingly. “Can I drive them?” I loved to drive. I had learned at Sagamore with Pony Grant and our pony trap. Mame had always let me. But I had never driven such beautiful horses.

  Arthur grinned and passed me the reins. “So long as you promise not to go too fast,” he said, “and let me have them back before anyone from home can see.”

  Arthur watched me carefully, but only once, when we were passed by a four-in-hand, did he have to put his hands over mine.

  “Well done, Miss Ethel,” he said, taking over again as the White House came into view. “You drive a treat.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Already I felt so much better. And now I was home!

  Arthur pulled the carriage around to the stables, not the White House door. “Something in here the president wants you to see.”

  “Oh, what is it?” I hopped down from the box unassisted and ran into the stables. “Father? It's me!”

  “Ethel!” He picked me up and swung me around. “I'm so glad to see you! How are you?”

  “Miserable,” I said promptly. “I don't like—”

  He grinned. “You look splendid!”

  “That's only because—”

  He cut my words off. “Look here!” He caught my hand, led me to one of the box stalls, and lifted me up so that I could see through the grate. Inside, a tall, handsome bay horse stood ankle deep in bright new straw. He looked at us warily. “What do you think?”

  “He's beautiful! Is he ours?”

  “You bet he's ours!” Father grinned so hard he looked ready to burst. “Just arrived today. He's a present from Mr. George Bleistein—a jumping horse from the Geneseo Valley. By Jiminy! It's worth being president, most of the time. I can't wait to try him!”

  I laughed. “What's his name, Father?”

  “I don't suppose he has one yet.” Father looked at me.

  “We'll call him Bleistein, won't we, after Mr. Bleistein. Bleistein! Here, boy!” Father fed the horse some sugar he took from the pocket of his frock coat. He poured some into my hands so that I could feed Bleistein too. The horse's muzzle was warm and slobbery.

  Father and I skipped arm in arm back to the main house. “Your mother's receiving callers in the Blue Room,” he said. He checked his watch as we went through the main door. “Should be done any minute. You'll want to meet this new secretary she's—”

  “Boo!” Quentin jumped up from one of the potted-palm seats. They really were great hiding places; we were caught completely by surprise. I screeched, and Father jumped.

  “Quentin!” Father yelled. “How many times have I told you—”

  “You're a bear!” Quentin shouted. “Ahhh!” He leapt onto Father's shoulders.

  “Grrr!” Father said. “A big bear, a great big grizzly bear, going to eat you up!” He pretended to gobble Quentin's leg.

  “Help!” yelled Quentin.

  “I'll save you!” I launched myself onto Father's back.

  “No, I'll save him!” Archie came running from a corner somewhere, wearing his Rough Riders costume and carrying a bow and arrow. He dropped his weapons and tackled Father's legs.

  “Grrwl! Grr! The bear refuses to yield! The bear will not go down!” Father shook his head and shoulders. He lumbered down the hall like a great grizzly. “The bear is a mighty hunter!” He shook Quentin upside down. Quentin howled with laughter. Archie and I hung on to his arms. Father dragged me along.

  “The bear begins to weaken,” Father said. He sank to his knees. “The mighty beast cannot be vanquished, but the determined hunters bring him”—Archie broke free, took a flying leap, and tackled Father's head—“down,” said Father. “Archiekins, I hope you haven't broken my spectacles again.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. President.” A calm voice interrupted us. I looked up. A sad-looking old man in mourning clothes stood before us with his hat in his hand.

  Father shook Archie off and shifted Quentin to the carpet. He sat up. His frock coat was rumpled, his shirt untucked below his vest, his hair and spectacles askew. Father smiled. “Good afternoon, John,” he said quietly. “Good to see you. Ethel, dear, shake hands. I don't believe you've ever met Mr. Hay. He was President McKinley's secretary of state, and he has agreed to continue as mine.”

  I stood up, smoothed my skirt, and shook Mr. Hay's offered hand. Even when Father had been governor I had heard him speak admiringly of Mr. Hay. “Are you the man who worked for President Lincoln, sir?”

  He made a slight bow. “Yes, Miss Ethel. I had the honor of being his personal secretary. Mr. President, I will wait in your office.” I watched him as he headed toward the stairs.

  “He's so sad,” I said. “Did he love President McKinley?”

  Father got to his feet. He put his hand on my shoulder. “He did, but it's worse than that. His own son died recently.”

  He patted me. “Go find your mother now. Take these mighty hunters with you.”

  I grabbed Quentin's hand. “I'm home!” I said. Archie war-whooped, and the three of us ran toward the stairs. “I'm home!”

  Saturday morning Quentin ran down the wide main-floor hallway. “Tom Pen, Tom Pen!” he yelled. “One of the guinea pigs had babies, and I didn't even know he was a girl!” He came back down the hallway tugging on the arm of a tall, bearded old man, the doorkeeper I'd seen on our first night. “Come look!” he said.

  The old man grinned and lifted Quentin to his shoulders. “Guinea pig babies!” he said. “Well, which one was it?”

  “Bishop Doane! My favorite!” Quentin giggled.

  I went upstairs with them and looked at the guinea pigs in their box in the boys’ bedroom. Bishop Doane was surrounded by a litter of tiny mewling piglets. “You'll want a separate box for her now,” I said.

  “That you will,” agreed the doorman.

  “Ethel, do you know Tom Pen?” Quentin demanded. “He's my best friend after Mr. Craig.” Mr. Craig was one of the White House policemen. Quentin adored him.

  “No, sir.” I shook the man's hand. “Ethel Roosevelt.”

  “Thomas Pendel,” he said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Pendel.”

  He shook his head. “Call me Tom Pen,” he said. “Children always call me Tom Pen.”

  Quentin hung on the man's trousers. “Tad Lincoln called him that,” he said. “Tom Pen was doorman for his father too. Tell
her, Tom Pen.”

  Tom Pen's face brightened. “It's true. I've been here ever since Lincoln took office, forty years ago. I loved that little Tad. All these years since, there's never been the same kind of liveliness in this house—until now.” He ruffled Quentin's hair and smiled.

  “Did everybody here work for President Lincoln first?” I asked Father when he came in before lunch.

  “No, of course not,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

  I told him about Tom Pen. “And Mr. Hay,” I said. “They're old men, both of them,” Father said. “I didn't know Tom Pendel had been here that long.” He paused thoughtfully. “I'm surprised, really, that there's anyone left here who remembers Lincoln. I saw his funeral procession in New York, you know, when I was just a little boy. It's very nearly the first thing I can remember.” Mother came into the room, and Father looked up at her and smiled. “And your mother was there too. We were looking out the second-story windows of my grandfather's old house. But she started to cry, and her nurse had to take her away.”

  “Pshaw,” Mother said.

  I knew President Lincoln was Father's hero, the greatest president, Father once said, who had ever lived. “Lincoln was assassinated,” I said, then covered my mouth with my hands. I hadn't meant to blurt that out.

  A flicker of worry passed over Mother's face, but Father only laughed. “A man can't spend his life looking over his shoulder!” he said. “I'm sure Lincoln would have said the same thing.”

  Lincoln might have, I thought. But not Lincoln's family.

  Father and Mother tried to go for a ride every afternoon. Saturday we all went, except Quentin, of course: Mother on her mare, Yagenka; me on Wyoming, the only horse we had besides Yagenka and old Diamond that could carry a sidesaddle; Kermit on Renown; Archie on Algonquin; and Father on the new horse, Bleistein. Kermit sat very tall. I could tell he was proud of being put up on Renown, who had been Father's best hunter before Bleistein arrived. The stirrup leathers on Renown's saddle were too long, so Father had Kermit put his feet through them, resting on top of the stirrups instead of inside them.