I noted, as I watched her bob her head in conversation, that although Alice had been gifted with her mother’s beauty, she had also inherited her father’s force of personality—an irresistible combination it would seem, based on the number of admirers surrounding her. I patted down the skirt of my own dress, feeling dim and ungraceful compared to the bright, beguiling wattage being radiated by the self-confident First Daughter. “You look lovely, Budge.” Papa leaned close beside me, speaking as if he’d read my thoughts. “But don’t think for a minute that I’m going to allow any of these flip young congressmen to ask you for a dance.”
This put a smile on my face, and I felt my nerves slacken the slightest bit. At fourteen, I was still a bit young for gentlemen suitors, even if I did sense a newfound power in my figure and appearance. I had noted recently how the young men who came to my school to court the older girls would stop and take note when they saw me passing, their eyes roving curiously over my new curves. I was already taller than Mother, standing well over five feet. I’d sprouted overnight, it seemed, and Papa liked to note, “You’re not dainty like your mother. You’re hearty, like your Post kin.”
And, in truth, I was relishing my youthful allure and newfound beauty. I did my best to dress like the Gibson Girls, the elegant women drawn by the artist Charles Gibson, whose flawless faces and figures graced every article that wasn’t already filled with images of Alice Roosevelt. My closest friend at school, Helen Hibbs, and I would clip images of the Gibson Girls and hang them beside our beds at Mount Vernon. I piled my thick, honey-colored hair high on top of my head, just as they did. I tinted my cheeks with rouge and splashed my neck with rose water. And thanks to Papa’s generosity, I was well dressed, too. Before sending me off to Mount Vernon, he’d outfitted me with an entirely new wardrobe, with dresses custom ordered from New York City and London. With Grape-Nuts and Postum continuing to fly off the grocers’ shelves all across America, long gone were the days of the Osgood Jewelry store in Battle Creek—now when Papa gave me jewelry, which was somewhat often, it came from Tiffany in New York or Cartier in Paris.
And that night, I was dressed in my best to meet our young new president. A necklace of large sapphires lined my neck, matching the new sapphire earrings that Papa had just given me for Christmas. My gown, a rich shade of violet, cinched my waist while showcasing my new curves. Elbow-length white gloves and kidskin heels embroidered with silver thread made me feel as if I were playing dress-up. A bit of rouge brightened my cheeks, but so did a natural flush brought on by the warmth and excitement in the room.
Finally it was our turn to pay our respects, and I followed Papa and Mother as I offered a deep curtsy. Up close the president was a broad bear of a man, with a thick mustache and a wide, bespectacled grin. The attendant announced our names, but it did not seem that Mr. Roosevelt needed any prompting. “Ah, there he is! Mr. C. W. Post, the man who turned breakfast into America’s favorite meal!” President Roosevelt’s thick paw pulled Papa in for a vigorous handshake, accompanied by a jovial slapping of the back. “Did I tell you that I asked our kitchen staff here to stock the cupboards with your newfangled invention…cereal? The children love it. Now, if Edith and I could only get them to sit still long enough to eat a meal.”
Teddy Roosevelt was thicker than my father by almost double, but he had the same quality—something I’d never before seen so clearly in anyone other than Papa—the impression that the sheer size and force of his spirit overspilled the borders of his physical frame. He, like Papa, was a great man. I could understand how the two had become quick friends in recent years, largely via letters. As Papa leaned closer to the president now to make a point on a new labor bill being debated in the House of Representatives, I heard another voice at my side. “So you must be Marjorie Post?” I turned and looked into the cool blue of Alice Roosevelt’s eyes. I felt my back stiffen, and my posture pulled a bit more upright as the First Daughter gazed at me with interest. Then she cracked half a smile and added, “You’ve just started at Mount Vernon up the street, isn’t that right?”
“It is.” I nodded, feeling sheepish that Alice Roosevelt knew this detail about me. She smelled fresh, a swirling blend of jasmine and orange blossom.
“I’ve got a few friends there,” she said, her voice deep and self-assured. “And I know a few of the fellows who call there on weekends, working on getting themselves wives.” I nodded again at this; gentlemen callers were a regular part of the rhythm of Mount Vernon for the older girls. Alice sniggered, tossing her head back ever so slightly, setting her dark waves aflutter. She had her father’s commanding manner, a posture that told the entire room that she was in charge. She leaned toward me and whispered: “A few of the fellows have been asking about you.”