“Really,” Mother said, “someone could punch holes in those leathers.”
“I'm fine like this,” Kermit said. “I am.” He turned Renown in a careful circle. His eyes shone.
“If you get along with him,” Father said, “we'll get a saddle for him that fits you.”
Mr. Gilbert, one of the policemen, led two saddled horses out of the stable. Mr. Craig came up and took one of them. The crease in Mother's forehead smoothed. “How lovely that you could join us,” she said.
Father scowled. “A simple ride with my family—”
“These horses need exercise something desperate, sir,” said Mr. Gilbert.
“We were hoping to watch how that new one goes,” said Mr. Craig.
“Oh, very well.” Father fussed with his crop and gloves. “All this following about is simply ridiculous. Still”— he looked down at Bleistein fondly—“can't blame you. Let's go!”
I had learned to ride astride on Algonquin when I was very small, but Mother had made me switch to sidesaddle after a year. She thought it was immodest for girls to ride astride. Father disagreed. “All the young ladies out west ride astride,” he often said. “A split skirt is no more revealing than a riding habit. Furthermore, it's a darned sight safer to have one leg on each side of the horse, with no great big sidesaddle horn to get caught on when you fall. I do wish you'd reconsider, Edie.”
Mother never reconsidered. So I sat high up on Wyoming, my left foot in a stirrup, my right knee crossed in front of me over the saddle horn, my skirt flapping in the wind. Wyoming didn't mind. Neither did I. I was used to sidesaddle, and anyway, that was how Mother rode.
Bleistein surged to the front of our group. I put Wyoming into a canter and sailed after him. Soon we were all galloping, Kermit looking pale but resolute, keeping a firm hand on Renown, Mother laughing and urging Yagenka onward. “Whoopee!” yelled Archie, far in the rear. Algonquin did his best, but his pony legs were so much shorter than the horses’ that he could never keep up. Mr. Gilbert hung back with him. Mr. Craig rode up front.
Bleistein got his head down and let off a series of terrific bucks, wham! wham!, his heels flying as high as Father's hat. Father laughed and spurred him forward. Bleistein shot ahead, then tried to buck again, but this time Father held him.
“He's a good one!” Father yelled. “He's a keeper!”
I grinned. Father really was a cowboy. He could ride anything.
We rode all through Rock Creek Park. I thought about the girls’ going on a field trip to the zoo there. As we trotted closer to the school, I told Kermit about it. “They all look at me funny, because I'm the president's daughter,” I said. “It's like they expect something from me. I think they're waiting for reasons to hate me. You should hear the questions they ask me. Why is Father keeping President McKinley's Cabinet? Why is Quentin allowed to parade with the policemen? Why hasn't Sister come home?
“Even if I knew the answers,” I said, smacking Wyoming with my crop so that he'd keep up with Renown, “I'm learning I shouldn't tell them. Whatever I say upsets somebody.”
“You've only been there a week,” Kermit said. “Give them a chance to get used to you. You don't even know yourself what it's like yet to be the president's daughter.”
I wanted to say that I was not any different. I was the same daughter and Father was the same father as we were before President McKinley died. “People didn't act like this in Albany,” I said, “and I was the governor's daughter there.”
Kermit sighed in exasperation. “First of all, there are forty-five governors in the United States. There's only one president. Second, you didn't go to school in Albany. School's always different.”
“What's your school like, then?”
“It's all right,” he said. “The teachers are good. I like my classes. The dormitory's awful crowded, and they keep us so busy we never have a spare moment to think.”
I nodded.
“Once I pretended to take longer over my homework than I needed to, just so I could be quiet for a few minutes more,” he continued. “And I wrote to Ted twice. They like it when we write letters. They give us time to do that.”
“I wrote Sister,” I said. “I told her the Cathedral School was the most fun place I had ever been, and that I was sorry she was missing out on such a good time.”
Kermit snorted. “Did you really?”
I grinned. “Yes. But she won't believe me.”
“If she went to that school,” Kermit said, “from all the things you've told me, she'd last about a week.”
I thought of Miss Bangs and the way she held her mouth when something displeased her. “I don't think she'd last even that long.”
On Monday Arthur drove the carriage much too fast. I wanted to ask him to slow down, please, but Miss Young had put me into the carriage with my bicycle and racquet and parcels, and I couldn't climb out while we were moving. In no time at all we were there. Arthur helped me unload.
“Hurry, Ethel,” Miss Bangs called. “Classes begin in fifteen minutes.”
I hurried. I wheeled my bicycle to the shed and ran to put my book bag and parcels in my room. I had to make three trips, because one of the parcels was a rug wrapped around my tennis racquet, and another was a bedspread and pillow. I didn't unpack at all, just threw everything onto my bed and ran back downstairs.
I was late anyway. The last girl into the classroom. It was English, the class I had with the twelve-year-olds. As they looked at me I felt my face turn red. Miss Whiton looked grim. “If you continue to go home on weekends, Ethel, you must endeavor to return on time.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Coming in late disrupts the others.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I hope you've finished your assigned reading.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Sit down.”
I sat.
Right at that moment Father and Mother would be taking their walk through the rose gardens before Father started work. Quentin and Miss Young would be watching the White House policemen on their morning drill. Archie would be riding Algonquin down the street to school. Kermit and Ted would be hunched over desks like mine, only Kermit would be happier, because he didn't mind school, much, and Ted would be more miserable, because he did. At Aunt Bamie's house Sister would still be asleep, I was sure, and when she did wake up her maid would bring breakfast to her room on a tray. Aunt Bamie was a great believer in breakfast on trays.
“Ethel, are you paying attention?”
I jumped. More giggles.
I had forgotten to do my Latin homework. I hadn't practiced my piano exercises either, because the piano at the White House hadn't been used for so long that it was completely out of tune. “That shouldn't have kept you from practicing,” the piano teacher said severely.
“Mother and Father were hosting a dinner,” I said, looking at the floor. “The piano's on the main floor. The noise was disruptive, so Mother asked me to stop.”
The teacher rapped her pencil on the music rack of the school piano. “And this dinner, it lasted the entire weekend? There wasn't a free half hour?”
I'd had to hug Quentin, and listen to Mother's stories, and cuddle both the new guinea pigs and the old ones. I'd had to play tennis with Kermit and ride Wyoming through the park. I'd had to go to church with Mother and Kermit. I'd had to do all the things I couldn't do while I was at school, but I didn't think the teacher would understand that. The only time I could have spared for piano was when Father and Mother were at dinner and Miss Young was putting the little boys to bed.
“I'm sorry,” I said.
“I expect you to do better next weekend. It's no use taking lessons if you don't practice.”
By lunchtime I was more homesick than ever. We were served great hot slices of roast beef—the food at school was always good—but I couldn't figure out how to swallow it past the lump in my throat. I sipped my milk and rearranged my peas. I wasn't hungry.
Emily looked at me shyly.
“Did you have a nice weekend?” she asked.
Tears welled up in my eyes and for one horrid moment I thought I was really going to cry. Once I started, I wouldn't be able to stop. I thought how Harriet would laugh to see me blubbering. I thought how ashamed Father would be. I swallowed hard. “I don't want to talk about it,” I said.
Emily looked bewildered, as though I'd meant the words to hurt her. I hadn't, of course.
“I guess your family isn't as cozy as they say in the papers,” Harriet observed.
“You can't believe everything you read in the papers,” I said, because it was true.
I felt as if I'd been split into two people, Home Ethel, who was cheerful and happy and could do many things well, and School Ethel, who never stood a chance. Whatever I said came out wrong. Whatever I did wasn't quite right. That night I shut the door of my room hard and wrote a long letter to Sister. I told her everything. First I wrote about school and Emily and the other girls and how lonely I was and how hard it was to fit in. Then I told her about living in the White House. I told her about Bleistein, and Kermit riding Renown. I told her how all the dogs were doing. I told her about Lincoln and Tom Pen.
Sister didn't like to be serious, so I expected her to ignore the first part of the letter and only answer the part about the dogs and horses. I was wrong. I got a letter from her at lunchtime on Friday, the only bright spot in a horrible week.
She didn't have any advice for me, she said. But she wrote that she knew exactly how I felt. She said sometimes she was lonely too.
Sister had never said she was lonely before. I was certain it was true.
She'd signed the letter, Love, Sister. I tucked it into my dress pocket and took it upstairs. I brought all my other letters home on Fridays, but this one I would keep at school. I would use it to remind myself that I was not entirely alone.
I had met Mother's new secretary, Belle Hagner, the weekend before. She was young and pretty and I liked her very much. On Friday when I got home from school, Mother and Belle were sitting together in Mother's library, frowning over a piece of paper. Mother kissed me when I rushed in.
“What's wrong?” I asked. I hugged her and kissed her again. Belle looked worried. Mother cuddled me and smiled. “Newspapers,” Mother said.
“Clothes,” said Belle. “Your mother's clothes are important news now. The reporters all want descriptions of everything she wears. Tonight is another state dinner—”
“Not a formal one yet, of course,” Mother said. We were all still in official mourning for President McKinley and would be until the New Year's reception. “But a state dinner nonetheless. I'm wearing my blue gown.”
I snuggled next to her. “I like your blue gown.”
“I do too,” said Mother. “But I wore it to a dinner last week, and the week before that. And I'll have to wear it again next week.” She sighed. “I only have four evening gowns. Can't we label them A, B, C, and D? We can send out sketches to the press, with color descriptions, and afterward just tell them, ‘Tonight Mrs. Roosevelt will be wearing gown C.’ ”
I could tell that Mother thought the whole thing was funny. Miss Hagner seemed amused but anxious. “We have to tell them something,” she said.
“I will order a few more gowns soon,” Mother said. “But I'll never have enough clothes to avoid this kind of problem. I simply won't. Even now that we can afford it.”
Evening gowns, fancy ones such as Mother had to wear, could cost hundreds of dollars—more than tuition at my school. More than one of our housemaids earned in a year. Even Sister, with all the money her grandparents sent her, didn't have many gowns, and most of hers she had worn as a bridesmaid for one of our cousins’ weddings.
“You'd rather spend the money on something else,” I said.
“I would,” Mother replied. “I'd rather buy a horse. Or take a trip somewhere. Really, my wardrobe is perfectly adequate.”
“Well,” said Miss Hagner, twisting a stray wisp of hair and tucking it behind her ear, “let's see. Last time I wrote that you would be wearing pale blue silk with a gored skirt and scoop neckline accented with ribbon and a row of Vichy lace. What's another word for that blue? Sky blue?”
“No,” Mother said. “ ‘Sky blue’ does not sound dignified.”
“Palest cornflower,” I said. I loved Mother's blue dress.
“Cornflower! Very good!” said Miss Hagner. She wrote it down.
“And don't mention the lace,” Mother said. “Say something about the train instead, or the trim on the skirt.”
Miss Hagner scribbled. “Here we go. ‘Tonight Mrs. Roosevelt will wear a formal gown of palest cornflower, with a medium-length train trimmed in rosettes of light blue ribbon. The bodice features matching rosettes. To offset the whole she will carry white starburst chrysanthemums.’ There. That should hold them.” Mother nodded. Miss Hagner turned to her typewriter and made an official copy.
Mother stood. “Come, dear. Let's see if Kermit's home and your father is ready for our ride.”
As we went down the hall I asked her, “Do you mind being the wife of the president?”
“Mind? No, of course not. It's exciting. We get to give lovely dinners, and now we can afford to buy all the books we want.” She tweaked my hair. “What do you think? How do you like it so far?”
I skipped a few steps. “I like it here all right,” I began.
“Don't talk to me about your school yet,” Mother said. “You need to give it time.”
I stopped and looked at her. “I suppose I'm not used to any of it yet,” I said. “I didn't expect Father to be president.”
Mother smiled. “Do you know what?” she said. “I did.
Not the way it happened, of course. But I always thought he was destined for something like this. Even when I was a girl I thought he was different from every other boy I knew.” She took my hand. “Come. Kermit must be home by now. We need to wish him happy birthday.”
Thursday had been Kermit's twelfth birthday. We sang to him before dinner Friday night, but we saved our main celebration for a gala lunch on Saturday. Our cook made a tall cake frosted with white sugar icing, and I decorated it all over with tiny yellow chrysanthemums from the garden. Two of Kermit's new schoolmates came to lunch.
Kermit already had two friends. They were nice boys, too. They had good table manners, they spoke politely to Mother and Father, and they wrestled with Archie and Quentin in the hall. One was named Alan and one was named Rob. I envied Kermit.
“Well!” Father said, wiping his mustache with his napkin when we were done with the cake. “What have you fellows got planned for the afternoon?”
“We don't know yet, sir,” replied Alan.
“What would you say to a nice walk around Rock Creek Park with me, then? A sort of a scramble?”
“Oh, yes, sir!” said Alan.
“Thank you, sir!” said Rob.
“He doesn't mean a walk,” I said. “A scramble means going through creeks and up cliffs and things. You might not like it. You'll ruin your clothes.” Our scrambles were always on foot, through the wildest terrain Father could find. Alan and Rob were all dressed up.
“We don't mind, sir,” said Alan, still talking to Father. Looking at his and Rob's faces, I realized that they weren't really talking to my father at all. They were talking to Theodore Roosevelt, president of the United States. I looked at Kermit to see if he cared. He was smiling, and his eyes sparkled. I would probably be happy too, if I had two friends already. “We love to go on walks. Or scrambles,” Alan added, grinning at me. “We don't mind a little dirt.”
I hated to be grinned at. I picked at the pattern on the plates with my fork.
“Bully!” Father said. He stood up from the table. The boys stood too.
“I'll loan them some of my old clothes,” Kermit suggested. “Come on!” He dashed away, with Alan and Rob close behind.
I sat. “Ethel?” Kermit's voice floated down the stairs. “Aren't you coming? Hurry up!”
I got up and ran after them, almost dizzy from the relief of not being left behind. I always went on scrambles at home, but I'd been afraid Kermit wouldn't want me now that he had friends.
Behind me Archie began to wail. “I want to come! Let me come too!”
“Oh, all right,” Father said. “You're a fine sturdy boy. I suppose you can keep up.”
“Hooray!” Archie leapt up, and Quentin began to wail.
“No,” Mother told him.
“Come, Quentin,” Miss Young said. “We'll go out and see the guinea pigs, and then we'll have a story.”
In my bedroom I changed quickly. Mother didn't fuss much over clothes, but I knew better than to go on one of Father's scrambles in anything but an old dress and strong wool stockings.
On our way out we ran into two men in suits, and our uncle Will. They were all coming to see Father. “Children, meet the junior senator from Illinois and the ambassador from France,” Father said. He told us their names, but I forgot them immediately. It didn't matter; I could call them Mr. Senator and Mr. Ambassador and no one would mind. Mother taught me that; she said it made things easier. “We're just going for a little walk,” Father told them. “Come along!” Uncle Will shook his head, laughing, but the others looked pleased and came with us.
We took the big carriage to Rock Creek Park. Father started the scramble gently, through a field and then a stretch of woods with hardly any brambles, though he was walking as fast as he could. The boys and I trotted to keep up. The French ambassador looked pained.
Archie jogged beside me. “Over, under, or through,” he panted, “but never around.” That was Father's motto; we'd learned it well on our scrambles near Sagamore, where Father liked to take us over Cooper's Bluff, especially when the tide was high.
“Here we go,” Father said cheerily, and I knew the real fun was starting. Father cut straight into the deep woods and headed down a rock-strewn ravine. Not for nothing was it named Rock Creek Park. We clambered over rocks taller than me. We wriggled between boulders. Archie tumbled headlong into the underbrush and came up covered in brambles. The French ambassador lost a shoe. I helped him find it. “Merci,” he said politely. “Your walks, are they always so strenuous?”