I shifted from one foot to the other, caught unaware by this. Or perhaps more so by the fact that it was Alice Roosevelt who was telling me. “Oh?” was all I offered in quiet reply.
“Course,” she said, with a shrug of her pale shoulders. And then Alice slid a hand into the pocket of her gown, and I couldn’t help but wonder if her snake was in there, slithering around her fingers. She went on: “You’re the girl whose daddy reinvented breakfast, right?”
“My father is C. W. Post.” Beside me, Papa was gesturing animatedly at the president as he set forth his own thoughts on labor unions and how he was aiming to keep his workers satisfied through fair wages and quality housing on the Post properties back in Battle Creek.
Alice cocked her head, tilting her narrow face. “Why, you’re not only awfully pretty, but you’re rich to boot.”
I flushed at this, aware even as I did so how girlish I must have looked, but I could not help it; Alice Roosevelt had called me pretty. I could tell as we spoke that I was being watched by countless pairs of curious eyes from around the packed room—my proximity to Alice guaranteed that. She offered half a grin, saying, “Better take care, honey. They’re going to want to gobble you up faster than a bowl of Grape-Nuts.”
“No one’s doing anything of the sort while I’m around,” Papa interrupted with a gentle nudge to my shoulder. I cringed, mortified that my father had overheard this exchange. But he was all good-natured joviality as he continued: “Miss Roosevelt, good to see you, my dear. I’d say you’ve got a few petitioners yourself. Looks like that young Longworth fellow aims to toss his hat into the ring.”
Alice bobbed her brunette head with practiced insouciance, but I noticed the sudden tinge of color that rushed to her cheeks. Papa smiled, looking from Alice back toward me. “Now, if I may be so bold, I’d like to impose on Miss Marjorie Merriweather Post for her first dance.” He extended a hand toward me, and I accepted with a nod.
“See you around, Marjorie,” Alice said, turning with a wink and making her way back into the scrum of reporters and eager young men, leaving a scent of orange blossoms in her wake.
“Where’s Mother?” I asked, as Papa guided me into the East Room, where the dancing was taking place. “Would you like to dance the first with her?”
“Your mother’s head is troubling her,” Papa said, his voice momentarily toneless. I followed his stare and noticed that Mother, her face bone-white and unsmiling, had taken a seat in a far corner of the room.
“What do you think, Budgie?” My father pulled my attention back to our dancing. “Nice party, isn’t it?”
“Very,” I said.
He swung me around as if we were back in Mr. Hinman’s Dance Studio, but Papa’s long coat and tails were far too splendid for any Battle Creek gathering. “It’s a new century,” he said, his voice rippling with a lively ebullience, “and the East Coast is where the power is.”
I looked up into the bright, light eyes of my father—the eyes he had bequeathed to me. He was the man who had remade America’s eating habits according to his ideas and his will. Our family would want for nothing; his bankroll far surpassed anything we would ever need. But it seemed that Papa was setting his sights on an ever-larger landscape, because he was never satisfied unless he was working zealously toward his next conquest. Seeing him there that night, I realized that he wanted national influence. With thousands of employees working for him, Papa wanted to weigh in as a leader on labor and business policies. And why shouldn’t he? Not only did the Post Cereal workers love and admire my papa, but he was friendly with scores of senators and congressmen and reporters and even the president as well, all of whom sought his opinions on how to help the workingman.
“Washington City is important. But so is New York,” he declared now, as we continued to glide together across the dance floor. I looked up at him, surprised by this turn in the conversation. He went on: “What do you say to this, Budgie? Let’s build a home together near New York City.”
I stared at him in confused silence; I had always thought we’d return home—to Battle Creek—after I finished school at Mount Vernon. “What about the farm?” I asked.
Papa’s gaze was animated as he explained: “There’s a fine community outside of New York called Greenwich. The Rockefellers have settled there, and the Setons, the Carnegies. A lot of the wealth and power is consolidating right there. The way I see it, why can’t we Posts make a home there as well?”