Betty Beale lingered as the rest of my well-dressed guests offered their thanks and farewells. Charlotte had gone upstairs to rest, and so eventually it was just the two of us who stood in my bright front hall, the smell of the fresh flowers perfuming the air around us. Betty smiled, arching an eyebrow. “What a lovely luncheon, Mrs. Davies.”
I waved my hands. “You can call me Marjorie,” I offered. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing plenty of each other, whether I wish for it or not.
“Too kind,” Betty said, her eyes eager and attentive as she glanced around the interior of my home, scouring the space for any detail she might have missed. “Thank you again for an exquisite afternoon. Quite impressive that you now number not only American presidents but also European royals among some of your close friends.”
“Charlotte…the grand duchess…is wonderful,” I said. And then, leaning forward, I added, “We’ve been through so much together. The stories I could tell you.”
Betty took my bait, her features going positively alight. But then a moment later she remembered herself, primly folding her hands before her waist as she straightened, saying only: “One can imagine.” A momentary pause, Betty’s eyes roving once more over my front hallway. And then she turned back to me and added, “The grand duchess told me today that the leaders in Luxembourg have honored you with the Order of the House of Savoy.”
I nodded. Indeed they had. And then, leaning toward the columnist again, I smiled demurely as I said: “It’s funny: She’s the royal, but Charlotte has remarked how my lifestyle intimidates her. How my land and property and wealth make her feel modest in comparison.”
For once, Betty Beale looked as though she had nothing to say.
* * *
I was delighted to be back in America, especially in the summer when I had my girls with me. Deenie, now sixteen, was home from Mount Vernon for the break, and my older girls, Adelaide and Eleanor, had cleared their calendars to spend several weeks with me. And so, for the first time in years, we enjoyed a delightful summer as a family at Topridge.
After years in Europe, watching as the thickening clouds of war took shape on the horizon, I was determined to relish a season of peace with the people I loved most, and the Adirondacks were just the place to do it. We filled those long days with canoe excursions up and down the St. Regis or waterskiing off our dock. We hiked the pine-hemmed trails, enjoying picnic lunches before sprawling views of the lake and the wooded peaks. Evenings were relaxed, with games of charades or cards, dinners of sliced ham or roast beef on the deck, dessert of roasted marshmallows or our favorite treat, Adirondack pie—flapjacks cooked on the grill and doused in maple syrup. After dinner we would gather in folding chairs around the campfire, and Joe and I would tell the girls our stories of Russia and Belgium and the London coronation.
Fall found me back in the capital with Joe and busier than I’d ever been. Now that I was back in easy contact, I resumed my responsibilities on the board of directors for General Foods, and that meant monthly meetings in New York City. In between my trips back and forth, I took up my volunteer work for the Red Cross once more, encouraging my friends to support them as well, knowing what a prolonged war in Europe would mean for so many.
But the biggest job came when Roosevelt won reelection to an unprecedented third term that autumn and the president asked Joe to oversee his inauguration. It was an honor to be asked, and I was proud of my husband, so I vowed to help however I could.
I loved to host, and I was good at it, but this job would present a new challenge, even for me. Roosevelt was making history, and as Joe’s wife, I would be expected to kick things off with the largest gala in Washington history, one to which all of our nation’s governors and their wives would be invited, along with congressmen, senators, political donors, cabinet members, diplomats, and other dignitaries. My home was a hive of activity for months as I finalized the guest list and readied our rooms to host more than a thousand of the world’s most distinguished guests.
“You nervous, Mumsie?” Joe asked, standing beside me in our doorway as the first of our invitees began to file in. It was Secretary of State Cordell Hull, I noted, suppressing my grimace—the man had been outspoken in his criticism of Joe’s appointments as ambassador. Now he was coming into our home, accompanied by the popular senator from Missouri, Harry Truman. And there, behind him, walked Eleanor and Franklin, laughing about something as they made their way slowly up our front walk, the president leaning heavily on his wife’s arm for support. I straightened to my full height, assuming a bright smile beside my husband as I offered Cordell Hull my hand and a warm nod of welcome.