My Red Cross hospital was quickly recognized as a hugely necessary and well-run venture, and I made the staff know through my regular letters and telegrams that I intended to support them until the war was over. We steadily expanded to meet the growing need for care throughout France, and my contacts who worked at the Red Cross in Manhattan informed me that it was soon their biggest medical base in Europe.
* * *
“Now, girls, listen to me. A tablespoon of this cod liver oil for each of you, and then I promise you can get back to your playing.”
“Mother, not that horrible stuff again!” Eleanor wrung her hands, the bow in her golden curls askew, her cheeks flushed from her constant running and leaping.
“Yes, this horrible stuff again,” I said, attempting a stern tone as I poured the thick golden liquid onto a spoon and stared down at my two girls before me. “As if the Great War isn’t terrible enough for this world, now we have the Spanish flu killing millions. And thousands right here in New York City. The doctors all tell me it’s absolutely critical that you take your cod liver oil. We all must.”
Adelaide, my older girl, dutifully accepted a spoonful, grimacing but swallowing nonetheless. “There’s a good girl,” I said, nodding approvingly. Adelaide, at nearly ten, was tall like her father and willowy in her build, with thoughtful blue eyes and dark blond hair. She was a lovely girl but quiet and mature beyond her years, and I found it hard to pull a smile to her lips or any lighthearted banter from her.
Eleanor was the opposite. I often wondered if perhaps my second daughter was a throwback to my father in her cheerful self-confidence and her ability to make friends in any room. “But this stuff makes me burp. And the burps taste like fish. Fish breath, fish breath! Step right up for your fish breath!” Eleanor hollered.
“Eleanor Close, you mind your manners!” I chided, biting my cheeks to prevent my smile. Eleanor pushed her lower lip out in a pout, looking to Adelaide, who, with a tilt of her chin, urged her younger sister to submit, and eventually, she did. “Good. Now run along. And mind you don’t track mud through the entire house,” I said. And with that, my girls were off, Eleanor darting ahead as Adelaide skipped behind.
With my role for the Post Cereal Company expanded and my efforts for both the New York Red Cross and my base hospital in France keeping me busy, I had more than enough to fill my hours, but my priority remained my girls, who were budding into young ladies seemingly before my eyes. The girls had a huge home, a nanny who had adored them from birth, and a big oaf of a dog in Woofie, and Eleanor was the self-appointed President of the Mischief Club, always getting in trouble, while Adelaide functioned as her personal attorney, always coming to her defense.
While I had never had a sibling’s friendship to enjoy, my daughters were fiercely devoted to each other, and I wanted to ensure that their childhoods were filled with happiness. They had a stable full of ponies and horses, and I indulged them in their desire to take riding lessons in Central Park. Once I saw how their affection for animals extended beyond horses and dogs, I let them establish a miniature menagerie in our large urban backyard; we had ducks, rabbits, kittens, and a koi pond stocked with swirling fish that provided no end of confusion to poor Woofie. There was also a feisty family of pygmy goats, and on cold nights I allowed the girls to bring the babies into bed with them and feed the goat kids from bottles of warm milk.
But it wasn’t all laughter and play: the girls had personal tutors to teach them history, math, French, art, literature, dance, and piano. Now that they were old enough, I loved taking them on outings to study the scientific exhibits in the Museum of Natural History or to enjoy musical shows on Broadway or concerts in the splendid Carnegie Hall. Often, after the girls joined me for a musical, they would come home determined to reenact the performances themselves, and so our drawing room would be converted to a makeshift theater, with Woofie, Pearcie, and me playing the part of rapt audience members.
* * *
—
Because the girls were so lively and boisterous, filling the home with the sounds of music and giggly mischief from the moment they sat down to breakfast each morning, it struck me as odd when I returned home to a quiet house one day the following autumn. I’d been out at the Red Cross station all morning, unloading crates of cod liver oil that I’d donated for the nurses to take over to the tenement houses along the East Side of Manhattan. Those neighborhoods, overfilled with immigrants from Italy, Ireland, Hungary, and elsewhere, were facing the contagion of the Spanish flu like a wildfire, and it shattered my heart to hear the stories. Back home, the house was quiet and cool, a sanctuary. I paused as I entered the foyer, handing my shawl to the butler and taking a moment to collect myself, to calm my addled nerves. “Eleanor? Adelaide?” No answer from within. The butler shrugged as if to tell me he was unsure of their whereabouts. “Girls?” My voice echoed throughout the large front hall. “Pearcie?” No reply.