Taking in the hotel’s ambience, she gestured toward the frieze. “Is it true you sculpted that?”
“Ah, yes.” Playfully, I added, “After years as an actress being blinded by the footlights, I thought I might also ruin my posture with sculpture.”
It had been backbreaking work, but I was quite proud of it, so it deflated me a little when Miss Miller laughed and said, “The things society wives do to keep from dying of boredom!”
Hoping she didn’t think of me as a mere society wife, I invited her to sit for tea. Francophile though I might be, only the British did tea properly, so a silver tray of scones and sweets awaited us in the English style, but like an ascetic monk, Miss Miller declined both milk and sugar, which put me on my guard. What honest woman doesn’t like sugar?
Leather-bound notebook in hand, she said, “Now, tell me all about your little patriotic play.”
I reviewed the program, which was to include a reenactment of Washington’s inaugural ball. I explained the children would march under a genuine Revolutionary-era flag that I’d procured on loan. I’d also invited children from a nearby Indian reservation to participate, and the play itself would be written by my brother-in-law, John Jay Chapman—a celebrated writer, if a bit mad at times. Do it for Victor, I’d said, because my nephew was never far from my mind. Even if America hasn’t chosen a side, your son has, and he deserves our support.
But the loyalty of a loving father wasn’t what impressed Mitzi Miller—it was that Jack Chapman was a direct descendant of Founding Father John Jay. I watched her survey the blue-blooded cast list of nearly two hundred children, and then she declared, “Well, doesn’t this promise to be the season’s spectacle of high society! The stage mothers will have a veritable reunion of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Speaking of, why aren’t you a member? Surely you’re eligible . . .”
Had she been digging into my past? I gave a carefully noncommittal shrug. “I understand there’s quite a bit of paperwork involved to join the DAR.”
“Well, that’s true. To qualify, you’d have to submit birth, marriage, and death records for your ancestry, as well as proof of your patriot ancestor’s Revolutionary War service.” All things I did not have. “I’d be happy to help you get the paperwork together. Where do your people come from again?”
So Mitzi Miller had been digging. Fortunately, she wasn’t likely to find anything—my husband had seen to that—but I realized my mistake in choosing a female reporter, because I couldn’t simply distract her with flirtation. “I’m from Charlottesville.”
A lie I’d been telling for quite some time.
“Ah,” she said. “Hometown of Thomas Jefferson and some of America’s finest families. No wonder you’re so knowledgeable about Lafayette.”
As if any ordinary person couldn’t simply read a book about the French hero! I’m certain that public libraries saved my life when I was a child, but now I changed the subject. “Did I mention we’ve sold out of our first performance?”
Miss Miller took a long sip from her teacup. “How wonderful. What does Mr. Chanler think about all this?”
Willie had not replied to my letters since we parted in autumn. The harsh reality was that my marriage was still in pieces—half of them on the other side of the ocean—and I didn’t know when or how to put them together again. Maybe that was the point of a marriage contract. Like a signed-and-sealed alliance of nations, only a contract held things together when all that remained was financial entanglements and mutual interest.
But of course, one must keep up appearances, so I said, “My husband very much approves of the Lafayette Fund. In fact, he’s on the committee.”
Or at least he would be on the committee once I wrote his name down, which would serve him right. If he’d wished to be consulted, then he should have answered my letters.
Miss Miller closed her notebook. “Mrs. Chanler, may I be frank?” She didn’t wait for my answer before adding, “You’re ever so good at these little fundraising things. Truly, you have a talent for it!”
The word little was starting to grate. “You’re so kind to say so.”
“I just hate to see a woman with your potential fritter away her time.”
What a vulnerable place she stabbed! “Oh, but the children’s play is a means to an important end. We’ve just sent seven thousand Lafayette kits to French soldiers, and with ticket proceeds, we’ll bring the total number up to an even twenty thousand next shipment.”