The incredible story of the First Lady who clandestinely assumed the presidency, from the USA Today bestselling author of The Engineer’s Wife and The War Nurse.
Intriged? Well read on to discover the synopsis and the first two chapters of Tracey Enerson Wood’s The President’s Wife, which is out August 15th!
Socialite Edith Bolling has been in no hurry to find a new husband since she was widowed, preferring to fill her days with good friends and travel. But the enchanting courting of President Woodrow Wilson wins Edith over and she becomes the First Lady of the United States. The position is uncomfortable for the fiercely independent Edith, but she’s determined to rise to the challenges of her new marriage—from the bloodthirsty press to the shadows of the first World War.
Warming to her new role, Edith is soon indispensable to her husband’s presidency. She replaces the staff that Woodrow finds distracting, and discusses policy with him daily. Throughout the war, she encrypts top- secret messages and despite lacking formal education becomes an important adviser. When peace talks begin in Europe, she attends at Woodrow’s side. But just as the critical fight to ratify the treaty to end the war and create a League of Nations in order to prevent another, Woodrow’s always-delicate health takes a dramatic turn for the worse. In her determination to preserve both his progress and his reputation, Edith all but assumes the presidency herself.
Now, Edith must contend with the demands of a tumultuous country, the secrets of Woodrow’s true condition, and the potentially devastating consequences of her failure. At once sweeping and intimate, The President’s Wife is an astonishing portrait of a courageous First Lady and the sacrifices she made to protect her husband and her country at all costs.
CHAPTER ONE
Hot Springs, Virginia
December 1946
Waiting in line at the reception desk of perhaps the grandest and most elegant hotel in Virginia, Edith grew impatient as the young couple in front of her quizzed the clerk about teatime and tee times and proper dress for each, as if they were important matters of state.
The carved walnut reception desk stood at one end of the long Grand Hall of the hotel, which was lined with comfortable chairs arranged in intimate conversation groups. Sunshine poured in from the Palladian windows that fronted the building, giving her the feeling of standing in a Renaissance master’s painting.
The sights and sounds of tea being served, newspapers turning, brass luggage carts rolling, the exchange of greetings echoing against the cool white marble floors and columns were real and tangible, yet Edith felt estranged from it all. She stood amongst it, flesh and blood, but it seemed her true self was present only in the reverie of decades past.
The man and woman holding up the line were fresh-faced, brimming with the same innocence and exuberance that Edith once had, thirty-one years ago, when she stood in that very spot next to her new husband. Her nose detected the floral and spice scent of Shalimar, the modern version of Jicky, an old French perfume and yet another reminder of her past life. She wondered if the pair appreciated how glorious each day together was, how special each and every moment was.
Eventually the young couple trotted off, with their pearls and feathers and heavy leather trunks carried by four bellboys in red uniforms. Edith stepped up to the desk and gave the clerk a sympathetic smile. “You must tire of answering the same questions over and over.” She set the huge brass room key on the desktop with a thunk, so as not to carry its weight on her morning walk.
“Good morning, Mrs. Wil…er, Ignatz. The Homestead welcomes all questions.” He turned to hang the key on a hook behind him. “Is everything to your satisfaction in the Presidential Suite?”
Was it? Perhaps it had been exactly what she needed, but the trip had left her feeling empty, the warm welcome of the familiar hotel now faded into eeriness. “Yes, of course. It just makes me think of the president, and I miss him so. What I wouldn’t give to have that time back.”
“I imagine so.” He leaned close, as if to share a secret, but then asked a most difficult question. “If I may ask, Mrs. Ignatz, why the assumed name? Do people bother you for autographs and such, because we can…”
To others it would seem an innocent question, asked by a young clerk who couldn’t have known the depth of the crevices that held the truth. Flustered, she didn’t have a ready answer. How could she explain the cataclysm and consequences of a love story that had changed history?
Edith realized with a start that the young man was probably still in his twenties, too young to grow a decent beard and not even born when she and Woodrow spent their honeymoon at this very hotel. He wouldn’t know of Ignatz, the cartoon character from back in the silent-movie days. Her husband had dubbed her with the pet name, as he fancied himself to be the top-hatted Krazy Kat, always trying to win over Ignatz the mouse.
She adjusted her hat, with its netting that she hoped made her face less recognizable, and leaned in. “Dear boy, it’s not that.” She took a breath. How could she put it in a few words? “You see, we all seek to understand the horrific war we’ve been through and try to find the root causes. It’s not enough to blame Hirohito, Hitler, and Mussolini. Who and what set the stage for this evil to grow and nearly take over the world?” She waited to hear if he had any answer, but he just scratched his ear and took on the pained look of avoidance she had witnessed on so many faces.
She continued anyway. Both world wars needed to be thoroughly examined, and she needed to come to terms with her part. “Some say that if you boil it all down, trace back in history to decisions made in the decades previous, all signs point to one person. One person who could have intervened, who had the opportunity, the moment, the power to change the course of events so a different path could have been taken. And that person is little ol’ me.”
The clerk dismissed her notion with a small laugh, his eyes already falling on the people behind her in line. “Oh, Mrs. Ignatz, you’re such a jokester.”
She raised an eyebrow and nodded, a pleasant smile fixed to her face, even though the unfathomable burden of responsibility she had borne was hardly anything to joke about. Admitting her culpability to the young man felt as if the hard shell she had built around herself had been torn off, exposing her like an opened oyster.
As she exited the Grand Hall through the yellow pools of sunlight, her heels clicking against the hard floor, she felt the slight hush that fell over each conversation as she passed. The guests were older and wiser than the clerk. They had lived through the horror of both world wars. She studied their faces, trying to discern their thoughts. What did they think of her? For Edith—in her lowest moments—would forever believe she was at least partly to blame.
CHAPTER TWO
Washington, DC
March 1915
She should have suspected the setup the moment Altrude lost interest in the tour books and maps spread across the dining room table. They were in Edith’s comfortable rowhouse in the heart of the District. Three stories high, but so narrow that a sofa and two side tables barely fit across the parlor’s width, it suited Edith’s sense of order and usefulness.
She and Altrude sat in the comfortable wooden chairs Edith favored for the simple lines of their Eastlake design, so calm in comparison to the carved cherubs and curlicues of her childhood home. Twenty-three-year-old Altrude Gordon was a frequent visitor, but Edith lived happily alone. Her dearly departed—well departed anyway—husband had left her enough financial stability to travel in style, and her home was her nest to return to between adventures.
“It doesn’t matter; just pick someplace. But let’s not be gone for more than a week or so,” Altrude said. She was as close to a daughter as Edith could hope for. The girl’s father, a dear friend of Edith’s, had raised her alone, and just before he passed away a few years ago had asked Edith to watch over her. Since then, they had tried to squeeze a decade of adventures into every year and spent the past few summers traveling Europe and New England.
Before Edith could object to Altrude’s suggestion, the jangle of the telephone interrupted them and Altrude sprang into action, disappearing for a chat with the Grayson boy, who was occupying more and more of her time. Eventually she floated back into the room like one of the dreamy ballerinas in Swan Lake, pausing now and then to peek between the curtains at the front window.
Even though Edith had introduced the couple, she couldn’t help feeling adrift. Of course, adult children must flee the nest, but Edith had not yet had enough time. She glanced at a blurry photograph of a tiny infant in a silver frame perched on her desk. That and a blue knitted layette set he had never gotten to wear were the only evidence her son had existed, other than the permanent hole in Edith’s heart. Was Altrude about to be taken from her as well?
“That Grayson fellow has reduced your mind to a bowl of Jell-O,” Edith said. “Am I to trek the Alps on my lonesome?”
Altrude stopped flitting long enough to stab a finger on one of the maps. “There’s a war going on, for heaven’s sake. And so much still to see in the States.”
“Exactly. We must get over there to see what’s left before it’s all destroyed. But if you’re truly worried about it, I’ve always wanted to go to the Orient.”
Altrude was back at the window. “He’s coming! Come on out with me?”
“No thank you. I’ll leave you two lovers to it.” Edith shoved the travel brochures back into their folder. “You may have your head in the clouds, but I’m not giving up on my dream to see the world.”
“He doesn’t have time to stop. He’s just motoring by.” Altrude was beaming and already halfway out the door.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Edith followed her out the door, just in time to see a huge black Pierce-Arrow limousine turn the corner toward them, its top folded open and the gold presidential seal adorning the rear door. Small American flags attached to the front bumper flapped in the wind. She recognized Altrude’s beau, Dr. Cary Grayson, in the back seat, looking sharp in his navy uniform. Dark blue with a stand-up collar and a matching brimmed hat, it befitted the distinguished wearer and the fine motorcar. Seated next to him and smiling and waving like a movie star was his only patient, President Woodrow Wilson.
Having lived in the District since her marriage to Norman Galt in 1886, Edith had glimpsed several presidents and many congressmen. She never felt that was anything special and failed to understand the fawning attention political leaders garnered wherever they went. Nevertheless, her heart lifted as the magnificent motorcar and its smiling, waving passengers floated by, bookended by the nondescript Secret Service automobiles, as if in their own tiny parade.
Altrude was grinning from ear to ear, and Edith couldn’t resist ribbing her.
“He’s handsome all right. And a doctor to boot. But isn’t it pretentious to ride around with his manservant like that?”
“What? That’s the pres…” Altrude took in Edith’s smirk. “Oh, you’re impossible.”
Several days later, it became apparent that the tiny parade had a purpose. Altrude came bouncing into the bedroom while Edith was still in her dressing gown, her dark, wavy hair not yet put up.
“Oh, I’ve seen you worse.” Altrude waved off Edith’s shriek as she bent to the mirror to smooth her own light-brown waves. “Listen. Cary is concerned about the president’s cousin, Helen Bones. She’s been lonesome for female company since the First Lady died—she’s been rattling around the White House like Marley’s ghost. They’ve invited you to tea.”
Edith sorted through her dresses, looking for something comfortable to wear for a walk in the park. “Tea at the White House? That doesn’t sound like me at all. What have you told him?” She had known the doctor as an acquaintance for several years, but they weren’t close.
Altrude planted her hands on her hips. “Just that you’re a pleasant conversationalist and a wonderful hostess. She’s had to do that too, you know, at the White House, and maybe you can help. She doesn’t know a soul in town besides her cousin Woodrow, and society dictates you can’t refuse an invitation there, so…”
“You fail to recognize my distinct lack of interest, dear girl. I’m sure there are dozens, if not hundreds, of women who would claw out their own right eye to do it. People who haven’t slithered out of the backwoods of southern Virginia.” She went extra heavy on her usual drawl. “So don’t be using that social etiquette on me.”
Edith opened a drawer of her jewelry dresser and poked through several diamond chokers and necklaces to find her favorite string of pearls. Pride washed over her, not because the jewels represented wealth but because her own hard work had saved her late husband’s jewelry store during hard times. She slipped on her Cartier watch. Polished to a high sheen and sporting large Roman numerals, it had been a gift from the late Mr. Galt.
“Oh yes, you simple backwoods girl.” Altrude cast a disparaging look at the watch and necklaces.
“You know what I mean.” Edith slid the drawer shut. “The other day—when the men drove by—was that some sort of test…or inspection? Because I don’t care for it.”
Altrude shrugged. “Who knows? And who cares?”
Edith turned for Altrude to fasten her necklace. “You know how I feel about the role of government in private lives.”
Altrude sighed. “I know. The big bad government took away everything your family had worked for, leaving them penniless. The War between the States has been over for what, fifty years? And you weren’t even alive during it.”
“I was alive to see them struggle. And I grew up with a healthy sense of distrust for politicians.”
“What are you really afraid of? That you won’t fit in? That they’ll see you as something less? Because Cary’s not like that, and this cousin and the president himself are Southerners.”
“Nothing of the sort.” Edith smoothed the lamb’s wool collar of her chosen smart, fitted suit. “I’m no less than anybody, even if my schooling was at my grandmother’s knee.”
“So that’s it.” Altrude’s voice softened. “They are a well-read bunch. I’ve heard Ellen Wilson, God rest her soul, could quote any author, any poet at just the right moment. But listen.” She gently laid her fingers on Edith’s arm. “It’s just tea with a lonely woman. Please don’t embarrass me by refusing.”
The plea in Altrude’s eyes caused Edith a pang of guilt. She realized for the first time the awkward position in which she was placing her darling companion. And if Altrude was forced to choose between loyalty to Edith and her budding relationship with the doctor, Edith would surely lose. No, she couldn’t bear that.
Where was the harm in having tea? Especially if she could manage a compromise. Edith felt the muscles ease in her shoulders. “Perhaps I doth protest too much. You can tell Miss Bones I would love for her to join me for tea. Right here in my home. Do you think that will suffice?”
Altrude’s face brightened, which warmed Edith’s heart. “I’ll tell Cary straight away.”
Helen Bones turned out to be a slight woman with a quick wit, and a delightful companion. Tea turned into lunch, which led to many more visits to Edith’s home. Edith would drive them in her electric car to nearby Rock Creek Park and park in the shade of a tree. They took long walks, full of conversation about books and travel and their mutual love of food and music. Edith felt her long-held prejudices against anyone and anything related to political power begin to melt around the edges like cold butter on a warm day.
One morning, Helen showed up with a surprise, a young woman in unfashionable but sturdy walking shoes. The woman took Edith’s hand and fairly pulled her out the door, eager to get the walk underway. “Good morning. I’m Eleanor McAdoo, but everyone calls me Nell.” The tall, dark-haired and rather sternly featured woman, perhaps just a bit older than Altrude, became so engaged in conversation with Helen that they were halfway down the block before Edith managed to inquire as to their relationship.
“Why, first cousins once removed, isn’t it?” Helen answered, with a wink toward Nell.
They seemed to be enjoying Edith’s bewilderment. Refusing to succumb to their teasing, Edith waited until she was home alone to plow through old newspapers to find Nell’s name. Finally, she found a year-old wedding announcement. Nell was the youngest of the president’s three daughters and had married the secretary of the treasury in a ceremony at the White House.
Thereafter, the twosome often became a threesome for walks in the park. Nell seemed to enjoy gossip and always knew the latest exploits of people like Alice Roosevelt. “She set a new record, over a thousand society events in a year. Oh, and Father has banned her from the White House,” she reported with glee. “Again. This time for telling raunchy jokes about him.”
Although Edith loved a joke as much as anyone, and could tell a few herself, Nell’s rumormongering only served as a warning not to tell Nell anything she didn’t want circulated at the next party.
Fashion was one of Helen and Edith’s common interests. On a raw March day, they walked on paths muddied from recent rains, which soiled their boots and hems. Afterward, they stood in Edith’s drawing room, warming their hands at the fireplace. “Who’s your favorite designer?” Helen asked as she admired Edith’s simple yet elegant morning dress.
“Jean-Philippe Worth,” Edith replied, with all the modesty she could manage.
“You mean the Worth, in Paris?” Helen ran her finger along the lacy deep-blue fabric of Edith’s dress. The skirt draped in three tiers, which Edith felt balanced her rather buxom top. “Is this one of his?”
“No, but I have several evening gowns, which I have little use for.” She felt guilty of the sin of pride. Her mother had taught her to always look and act her best yet professed it unladylike to enjoy any attention good style brought.
“You must show me right now. I have nothing of the sort. I’m afraid a Parisian fashion house like that wouldn’t know what to do with bony little me.”
“Au contraire. You’re built like a French woman. With my build, I always felt like an American amazon in Paris.”
The rumble of a motorcar engine and the thump of its door diverted their attention.
“Sadly, it sounds as if my ride is here,” Helen said. “But we haven’t had time for our tea. Why don’t you come back with me? It’s about time I played hostess.”
“Oh no, my clothes and boots are a disaster, and it wouldn’t be kind to ask your driver to wait while I cleaned up.”
“Then don’t change. No one will be there. Dr. Grayson is out golfing with Cousin Woodrow, and we’ll just sneak in the service entrance.”
Edith peered at her dirt-spattered dress. “You must be joking. My first visit to the White House, looking like this?”
Helen waved at her own equally soiled self. “I insist. It will be our little secret adventure.”
“Oh, you evil woman. You know I can’t resist an adventure.”
“Not to mention a secret. Let this be the first of many.”
They climbed into the motorcar, which swiftly whisked them down Pennsylvania Avenue. It was challenging to hold a conversation on the stretch from the West End all the way to the Capitol building, with the rattling street cars and tires rumbling over the patchy asphalt that failed to cover the sett stones beneath. The sweet earth smell of horse dung was still there, but Edith had to seek it out amidst the more powerful fumes of the trucks and automobiles.
“Fewer horses every year,” Edith said.
Helen nodded, likely not even hearing her.
Finally, they passed through the wrought-iron gates, and the road became as smooth and quiet as if they sailed on a windless lake.
“I wonder if the grass will be ready. Easter is early this year,” Helen said.
Edith glanced at the expansive lawn, just beginning to green up. It took her a moment to realize Helen was referring to the annual Easter egg roll for the children.
But Helen was already onto something new, telling the driver to stop at her preferred entrance in the East Wing.
“I feel like a burglar, about to climb in a back window,” Edith said.
Helen laughed. “Well, not through a window, but we will sneak in the back way to the elevator.”
As they strolled down the ground-floor colonnade, lined with windows looking out to the garden on one side and huge framed portraits in between closed doorways on the other, Edith began to relax and even enjoy the adventure. As much as she told herself that politicians weren’t nearly as important as they thought they were, a thrill ran through her like an electric current. She was inside the White House!
It seemed the building itself had not yet been fully electrified. Gas lamps flickered in wall sconces on dark wallpapered walls, giving a rather eerie feel, like a haunted house. This was a pleasant surprise, as Edith had envisioned stiff formality and gold-encrusted everything, like the palaces she had seen in Europe.
She forgot all about her muddy shoes and mussed hair as she waved to friendly staff with their bemused smiles. Helen and Edith giggled about the wide-eyed stare of a housekeeper carrying a stack of linens as they exited from the tiny service elevator. Thankfully, Helen knew how to operate it, as there was no space for an attendant. They had only taken a step or two when they were confronted by two men coming around a corner.
Helen, just ahead of Edith, gasped. “Oh, we didn’t expect…”
“Ladies.” Dr. Grayson, dressed in a baggy white golf sweater and plaid trousers, tipped his head in greeting.
As Helen moved aside, Edith saw the man next to him was the unmistakably tall and stern-looking President Wilson, also wearing a sweater and rather bright and ill-fitting knickers. Edith repressed a chuckle.
“So sorry.” Edith tried backing into the elevator, but Helen quickly gripped her arm.
“Dr. Grayson, I believe you know Mrs. Edith Galt. Mr. President, please excuse us. I implored Mrs. Galt to join me here for tea.” She then nodded for Edith to politely retreat.
“Are you in a hurry?” asked the president. “Would you be terribly bothered if we joined you?”
Edith had heard him speak once before, when he was campaigning in Philadelphia. He had struck her as eloquent and measured, but somehow that didn’t prepare her for the warm and personable aura he presented. His warm gray eyes gazed at her as if she were a long-lost friend. Edith rarely lacked for words, but at that moment she was spellbound.
Helen quickly agreed, and before Edith could object, they were offered slippers by house staff and went to Helen’s room to tidy up. Dramatic blue velvet curtains adorned the window, which offered a view of the North Lawn. A tall double bed dominated the room. Edith couldn’t help wondering if that was where a president’s child had been born, or died. What was it like to sleep with the ghosts of history?
As Edith did her best to look presentable, she tried to think of a way to politely excuse herself from the tea. She preferred to prepare herself for the big events in her life, but the sudden invitation hadn’t given her time to look up things any well-informed citizen should know. She knew the president was born in Virginia, not far from her own birthplace, but not where he grew up or attended college. What was his position on important issues like the economy and women’s suffrage? “It is so kind of the president, but I feel like an interloper. Surely he has better things to do…”
“Nonsense. You can’t back out now. Off we go.” With that, Helen led Edith down the hall of the residential floor.
Countless elaborately framed portraits featured former presidents and their families, and quite a few horses and dogs. Furniture that may have been set in place nearly a hundred years before seemed less than welcoming. Edith wouldn’t dare have settled her ample frame into any of the delicate chairs.
“Dolley Madison was surely more petite than me.” Using humor helped settle her nerves, and poking fun at themselves was common between herself and Helen.
“Oh, I don’t think those furnishings survived the fire set by the British,” Helen said, not unkindly.
But Edith got the message along with a twinge of embarrassment. She needed to brush up on her American history.
The president and Dr. Grayson were waiting for them in the oval sitting room. The arc of windows showcased the budding trees of the South Lawn, but a foggy haze prevented a view past the stone-and-iron fence. A lovely china tea service had been set out, and the soft aromas of Darjeeling and lemon greeted them. The president waved away the white-coated help after they had set out some tiny triangle sandwiches, and the four of them proceeded to have a lively discussion about Southern accents, of all things.
“I love your lilting drawl,” Helen said. “I’m glad living in the cosmopolitan District hasn’t forced it out of you.”
“And I admire yours as well,” Edith responded. “But I can get at least two more syllables into a word like ‘y’all.’” For emphasis, she overpronounced it “yoo-all-le.”
The president laughed. “Ah, I do miss the music of the Southern vernacular.”
“Yes, what happened to yours, Mr. President?” Edith nodded toward him. “Weren’t you born a Southern gentleman?”
Helen chuckled. “He had to dispose of his accent when he moved to New Jersey. That’s the law there, you know.”
“Too much time with the upper crust of Princeton.” Dr. Grayson sniffed the air like a disdainful king. He also spoke with a Virginia accent, but of a more refined, northern Virginia sort.
Dr. Grayson’s and Helen’s gentle teasing helped Edith feel less awkward. She eased the choke hold of one hand over the other and felt her heart calm its rhythm.
The president asked Edith if she enjoyed poetry, and when she said she did, he selected a well-worn book from the shelf and settled back into his chair. He removed his pince-nez eyeglasses and replaced them with a pair that made his large gray eyes seem even bigger, then proceeded to read out loud. He had the perfect voice for it, clear and strong when needed, while softening at the right moments. Edith thought she could listen to him for hours.
A knock on the door disrupted their pleasant gathering, and soon the president rose to get back to work. “I’m so enjoying our chat, but I must go.” He took Edith’s hand in his. “Won’t you please join us for dinner?”
With her hand firmly in that of the president of the United States, she was so flustered that nothing would come out of her mouth. Instead, she tried to remember if a lady stood or remained seated in this situation. Helen remained in her chair, so Edith followed suit. Fearful of overstaying her welcome, not to mention the discomfort of her inappropriate attire, she sought a graceful way out. After the awkward pause, she blurted out, “You’ve been so gracious, and I’ve had a most lovely time. But I’m afraid I must decline.”
Undeterred, the president invited Edith to dine with Helen and him the next week. “No big state dinner, just a small family gathering of twenty or so.”
A part of Edith wanted to say no, thank you, even though a week would give her time to prepare for the visit. But this was not her world. Surely the president was just being polite. Yet there was something about him, a certain charm, a graciousness that drew her to him. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Was it because of who he was? She thought not. She had met plenty of well-known and important people. Or was her body responding to an innate attraction to a sympathetic soul?
Maybe they were just kindred spirits and could be friends. After all, they had both been widowed (although he much more recently than she), so there was a certain level of loneliness that only people who shared that experience could understand. If that was the reason, she could hardly say no. “I’d be delighted.” She stood, thinking she must consult Emily Holt’s book of etiquette for such things.
To her great surprise, the president kissed her hand and said softly, “Until next week, then.”
