Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (31 page)

Franklin Roosevelt did mix drinks at Children's Hour and reportedly enjoyed making Martinis. As far as I can tell there's no exact recipe, but we know from his personal secretary Grace Tully's memoirs that they were heavy on the vermouth (which was considered old-fashioned). He was also known to add a few drops of Pernod, orange blossom water, or olive brine for flavor.

Here's my best approximation of his Martini. Enjoy!

Shake gin, vermouth, and olive brine in a container half-filled with chipped ice.

Strain into chilled cocktail glasses.

Add garnish.

Winston Churchill's enjoyment of spirits was legendary, but, by all accounts, he preferred his drinks unmixed. According to various sources he was appalled at the copious amount of vermouth in President Roosevelt's Martinis, but drank them, in the name of diplomacy.

Shake gin in a container half-filled with chipped ice.

Bow respectfully toward France (where dry vermouth is produced).

Strain into a chilled cocktail glass or coupe. Garnish with lemon peel if desired.

In loving memory of Edna “Miss Edna” Wilkerson MacNeal

June 20, 1931–October 21, 2014

I'd like to thank posthumously my mother-in-law, Edna “Miss Edna” MacNeal. Miss Edna grew up in Harlem during the World War II years, and we had a great time talking about the blackouts in New York City, trying to find Pearl Harbor on a map of the world, and her neighborhood regulars, like the ice-delivery man, the milk-delivery man, and the knife-sharpening man. I'll miss our discussions of the adventures of Maggie Hope and I'm grateful that she was able to read so much of the manuscript of this book.

She had funny comments, too, such as “I personally don't like this ‘African American' nonsense. ‘Black' is fine—but to tell the truth I was fine back in the day with ‘colored.' ” She was also a huge fan of the Roosevelts and loved reading all the research books with me, and discussing the President and First Lady (as well as Lucy Mercer).

An enormous thank-you to Kate Miciak, my fearless editor and Maggie Hope's fairy godmother at Penguin Random House. I'm grateful for her support and guidance and good humor. Also to the Penguin Random House family, especially Lindsey Kennedy, Maggie Oberrender, Victoria Allen, Robbin Schiff, Julia Maguire, Kim Hovey, and Vincent La Scala, and, as always, the intrepid sales force. Hats off.

Thank you to Maggie Hope's other fairy godmother, Victoria Skurnick, aka Agent V, and the team at the wonderful Levine Greenburg, especially Lindsey Edgecomb.

I'd like to thank Noel MacNeal for his love and support; he took care of so many things so I could write—and also drew John Sterling's Gremlin. And thanks also to Matthew MacNeal, who was always supportive of my writing schedule and trips.

Kudos and huzzahs to reader and all-around goddess Idria Barone Knecht.

Special thanks and gratitude to reader and editor, the lovely Phyllis Brooks Schafer, Londoner and Blitz survivor.

Gratias tibi ago
to historian Ronald J. Granieri for guidance and edits—and answering many, many odd-sounding questions without blinking.

Hugs to Blake Leyers, for reading, as well as to Lauren Barone, and fellow scribe Scott Cameron. Thanks to electrician Neil Poulter, police officer Rick Peach, and lawyer Michael T. Feeley, as well as to medical doctors Mary Linton Peters and Meredith Norris.

I'm grateful to Frank and Geri Serchia; John, Melissa, Jeremy, Cassidy, Jack, and Riley Kreuzer; Mary Linton; and Stephen Peters for their gracious hospitality and the space and time to write.

Special gratitude to my Jungle Red Writers sisters: Rhys Bowen, Lucy Burdette, Deborah Crombie, Hallie Ephron, Julia Spencer-Fleming, and Hank Phillippi Ryan.

And high-fives to “wicked smaaat” MIT alumni, code-breaking experts Wes Carroll, Doug Stetson, Erik Schwartz, Steve Peters, Emily Prenner, M. L. Peters, and Monica Byrne.

Finally, a mention of Thomas Bluemle and David O'Brian, both men from Buffalo, New York, whom I had the privilege to know, and who both died much too young. The character of Tom O'Brian was named in their memory. I know if they'd lived during World War II, they'd have been among the men storming the beaches (or breaking the codes).

Tom and Dave, I think of you often and thank you for the example you set.

by Susan Elia MacNeal

Coming soon from Bantam Books

London's wartime blackout created the perfect cover for people to disappear. In a night unpunctuated by electricity or neon, it was easy to go anonymous, unseen, unnoticed amid the smoke and destruction of the bombings.

Thousands upon thousands of young women had descended on London when war had broken out to volunteer for the WAAFs, the FANYs, or ATS—any of the women's auxiliary groups that supported the war effort. And as the fight went on, thousands more poured into the city daily.

This great exodus to London was the beginning of a sea change in the way women were allowed to exist. Never before in the history of Britain had so many of them been released from the protection of their homes and permitted—encouraged even—to work in the public sphere and to live under strange roofs. Women who once would have gone straight from their father's home to their husband's were living on their own or with roommates. Between the destruction caused by the Blitz and the influx of newcomers, lodgings were at a premium in London, and anyone with a clean room to spare could pick up a few extra coins by renting out a bed.

During the blackout, anonymous deaths were not infrequent. For the first part of the war, Nazi bombs dropped by the Luftwaffe could take out anyone, at any time. After the bombs fell each night, fires raged, claiming even more victims. And there were accidents—despite the white-painted curbs, people could easily take a wrong step and be killed by a passing car or truck, its headlights shrouded in regulatory covers.

And there was also a sharp upsurge in people disappearing. Were they killed by the Blitz, did they run away to start a new life, or were they murdered? It was impossible to know, and London was flooded with signs of the missing. “Have you seen Polly Swinton?” one near Regent's Park read. “Reward if found.”

While able-bodied men were off fighting—those age forty to forty-five had just been called to serve—the police force was left without its former manpower. Scotland Yard was doing the best it could to find the missing but could only do so much under the circumstances. But the police had help, in the form of Air Raid Precaution: ordinary Londoners who volunteered to be wardens, who patrolled the night in their tin helmets and dark double-breasted coats, hooded flashlights searching for anyone who might need them.

As an ARP warden for her block in Marylebone, Vera Baines knew the intricacies of light and shadow intimately. Sunset in London in March 1942 arrived after six, but the violet shadows began to lengthen at least an hour earlier. This evening's sunset was extraordinary—red as blood, crepuscular rays piercing menacing gray clouds. From the balcony of her bone-colored Georgian terraced house at the edge of Regent's Park, Vera surveyed the empty lake and Victory gardens through the branches of leafless trees. Despite her barely clearing the five-foot mark and her slight figure, at eighty Vera was a redoubtable woman, more wiry than frail, giving the impression she was much taller than she actually was. She had impeccable posture and moved with a force and confidence her friends and family hadn't seen in her since her husband had died ten years ago. And her face, with its high cheekbones and clear blue eyes that missed nothing, radiated strength.

Vera hated the war, hated the loss of innocent lives—but she couldn't deny it had brought a certain clarity to her life. As an ARP warden, she now felt she had a purpose: She would protect her own. As she surveyed the park's lengthening shadows, she felt a sense of responsibility plus a fierce sense of love and pride. This was her London. These were her people to care for. Nothing would happen to them on her watch.

It was time to begin her shift. Vera took one last look at the fading light, listening to the forlorn cries of the birds, then made her way downstairs. At her door, she put on her ARP tin hat, dark blue wool overcoat, and her gloves, then stepped down the stairs and onto the flagstone sidewalk. She paced the street with her usual vigor, the pale Nash buildings reflecting the light of the dying orange sunset. The air was chill and damp.

A passing white-haired man tipped his black bowler hat and she returned the gesture. “Oh, Mr. Saunders—” she called after him.

The man stopped and turned. “Yes, Mrs. Baines?”

“I noticed a chink in your blackout curtain on the second floor last night. Please see to it that no light is visible.”

He took a few steps forward and frowned down at her. “We haven't had an air raid in months, my dear.”

Vera was not deterred by his bulk, his height, or his condescending tone. “And the Luftwaffe might be choosing tonight for a return visit, Mr. Saunders. Let's not give them any light to guide them to us, shall we?”

She strode on, chin high, taking her usual route past the charred remains of a part of the brick wall. The last of the sun's light melted away, leaving the city in an ever-growing darkness. But Vera didn't mind the dark; she liked being out alone at night. In the blackout, the night took on a new beauty, cold in the moonlight, the strips of white paint on the curbs and her shuttered flashlight giving off a ghostly glow.

The park's high brick wall covered in dead ivy shadowed the sidewalk. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of the city: the distant rumble of traffic, the clip-clop of horses' hooves on cobblestones, the screeches and flaps of bats off to their night's hunt. The wind picked up and the breezes blowing from the park smelled of pine needles.

Without artificial light, the night could have been any time in London, especially looking over the park—from the time when Britons painted themselves blue, to the era of Queen Elizabeth I, to the reign of Queen Victoria. Even the clocks of London obliged her: When bombs had exploded, all nearby timepieces ceased to function, paralyzed wherever they were at the time of the detonation. These comatose clocks were another reason Vera could imagine time telescoping—the extraordinary suspended present creating a climate where time travel was possible—for her, back to the Victorian age. Really, anything seemed possible, especially in the shadows of night.

In the darkness, Vera suddenly tripped and nearly fell. “What the devil?” she muttered, righting herself, glad that Mr. Saunders hadn't been there to see.

She looked down at a long blanket-wrapped bundle. Leaning over, with her flashlight in one hand, she pulled off the wool covering with the other.

Vera inhaled sharply, but didn't cry out when she saw the butchered body of a young woman. She looked as though she had been in her early twenties—tall and athletic, hair carefully curled under her ATS cap. Her throat had been slashed so savagely that her head was nearly severed from her body. Her belly had been slit through her uniform, and blood pooled between her legs, black on the flagstones in the dim light.

Vera felt as if she'd been struck dumb. She swallowed, gathering her strength. “Murder!” she managed to croak. “Murder!” she cried, a bit louder. “Someone—someone fetch the police!”

A young boy walking past stopped. “Are you all right, ma'am?”

Vera pulled herself together, lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and deployed the stiff upper lip she'd perfected over a lifetime of practice. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. “But I'm afraid she isn't,” she added, pointing to the mutilated body with the flashlight.

The boy squinted in the darkness, eyes following the weak beam of light. When he realized what he was seeing, he took off his hat and crossed himself, whispering, “Bloody hell.” He looked from the body and then back to Vera. “She's been ripped, ma'am.” He shook his head and his hands worried his cap. “Looks like she's been done in by Jack the Bloody Ripper.”

With a shaking hand, Vera raised her flashlight to the words scrawled across the park's brick wall, painted in the same ghostly glowing white as the curbs.

It read, “JACK IS BACK.”

Mr. Churchill's Secretary

Princess Elizabeth's Spy

His Majesty's Hope

The Prime Minister's Secret Agent

Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante

PHOTO:
©
LESLEY SEMMELHACK

S
USAN
E
LIA
M
AC
N
EAL
is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of the Maggie Hope mystery series, including
Mr. Churchill's Secretary, Princess Elizabeth's Spy,
His Majesty's Hope,
and
The Prime Minister's Secret Agent.
She is the winner of the Barry Award and was shortlisted for the Edgar, Macavity, Dilys, Bruce Alexander Memorial Historical Mystery, and Sue Feder Memorial Historical Fiction awards. She lives in Park Slope, Brooklyn, with her husband and son.

www.susaneliamacneal.com

Facebook.com/Susan Elia MacNeal, Author

@SusanMacNeal