The Wilson Deception (11 page)

 

T
he syncopated stylings of the band at William Nelson Cromwell's mansion weren't pure jazz, but they carried a definite New World bounce. Fraser thought Eliza and Violet would enjoy the Cromwell soiree, though it had been odd to receive the invitation from Allen Dulles, not from the powerful New York lawyer who staged these extravaganzas to extend his influence throughout the peace conference. Fraser didn't know Cromwell, but that didn't restrain the lawyer's enthusiastic greeting, nor his proclamation that Fraser was the savior of the French premier. Fraser couldn't help but preen a bit under Cromwell's stroking, watching for its effect on Eliza.

It was Fraser's first time inside Cromwell's preposterously large pile of rococo excess. During wartime the mansion had been a prized destination for the socially ambitious. Cromwell's serving tables groaned with scarce caviar and champagne at events honoring those caring for war orphans or raising funds to rebuild a giant Braille printing press. Cromwell—with formal manners, ruddy complexion, and anachronistically flowing white hair—carried the romance of daring and not entirely ethical exploits in South America. It was Cromwell, the whispers had it, who engineered the revolution in Panama that cleared the way for the great canal.

Fraser and Eliza sat at a side table, their chairs turned to face the dance floor, their shoulders nearly touching. The evening had been neither as easy as Fraser had hoped nor as difficult as he had feared. Attentive waiters ensured that their champagne glasses never dropped below half-full. Violet's seat had been empty for nearly an hour as a succession of officers and gentlemen insisted on dancing with the golden-haired American with the dimpled smile.

Fifteen months had not dimmed Eliza's looks. Still no gray in her dark hair. Still a fetching smile and figure. The shifting shades of her hazel eyes still could transfix and confuse. Still with the focus and intelligence that allowed her to manage theatrical companies lopsided with exotic personalities. She was easy to fall in love with all over again, but something held him back, anxious about leaving safe ground.

“She's quite the belle,” he said, nodding toward Violet. Where had that young girl acquired such self-possession? She plainly knew now how her teal dress flattered her, how her grace drew the eye, how her hair reflected the light. Those were no surprise. She had those gifts in girlhood. But now there was a compelling poise.

“She has her father's looks.” Eliza smiled at him.

He thought it not a bad smile. “Better than his brains.”

“Jamie.” Her voice was soft. “How are you? Your letters seemed so, so . . . empty, almost sterile.”

He swallowed some champagne, then spoke without thinking. “Like most of the men here, I don't have much idea how I am. I feel like I may never know. The things you see and do, and then see and do again, and over and over. I . . . well, it's been nothing like the lab back at Rockefeller or my practice in Manhattan. I've been useful here. I'm glad I came. I was proud to be here. But. . . .” He looked over at those ambiguous eyes. What was in there, behind them? He had once lost himself in them. “But I shouldn't simper and whimper. I barely left the hospital, safe and sound here in Paris. I was living very well compared to the men in the trenches.”

“Father.” When he looked up, Violet's glow was undeniable.

Fraser stood for his introduction to a lieutenant of fusiliers.

Violet sat as the lieutenant withdrew.

“He looks far too young to go to war,” Eliza said.

“Most of them do,” Fraser said. “Especially the lieutenants. He was either very lucky or late to the front. Lieutenants didn't last very long.”

“Oh, Father, isn't this just heavenly? The music, the chandeliers, the champagne, the beautiful furniture—”

“The young men?”

“Really, Father.” She smiled. “Though they are nice. I can't begin to think what they've been through.”

“Actually, it was a very different Paris during the war. It could alternate between a somber fear and an almost frenzied merrymaking. The war was so close. The main trenches were barely fifty miles away. Panhandlers and deserters on every corner. Everything felt, I don't know, desperate.”

“Father, there's something I want to say. While you've been away, I made a resolve that I will no longer be the giddy, thoughtless creature you have found so tiresome.”

“Violet, I never said—”

“No, Father, you didn't have to say it. I knew what you were thinking. Please give me credit for that much intelligence. I'll admit there was a period when I didn't care so much what you thought, but I was young.”

Fraser resolved to hold his tongue.

“But do allow me a night in Paris to be totally, blissfully, entirely giddy and thoughtless. It's Paris, with music and champagne, and so many, many officers.”

Eliza raised her glass. “Shall we drink to the officers, those here and those no longer here, and especially to our own officer, Major Fraser?”

“Yes, Mother. That's perfect.” After the requisite sip, she resumed. “After tonight, I'll want to know all about how you cured Premier Clemenceau and all the poor soldiers, and about the desperate business of making peace. I've been reading the newspaper accounts very faithfully, haven't I, Mother?”

Eliza nodded agreement.

A figure loomed next to their table. Fraser, feeling an agreeable champagne fuzziness, couldn't be sure how long the figure had been there. When he turned, it proved to be, perhaps inevitably, Allen Dulles. After Fraser made the introductions, Dulles and Violet wafted off to the dance floor.

“He seems an impressive young man,” Eliza said.

“Rather a dangerous one, to be truthful. He turns up next to very powerful people at the most uncomfortable times. I wouldn't like Violet to find him too interesting.”

“Dear, you make him sound positively fascinating. Perhaps I should get to know him.” After a moment, she reached over to press his forearm. “That was a joke, Jamie.”

“Of course.”

“Perhaps not at the best moment.”

He gripped her gloved hand and placed his other on top of it. He hated all these feelings inside him, suddenly longed for the emotional anesthesia of the last year.

“They're staying on the floor for the next song,” she said, nodding to the dancers.

“Is this one slow enough to shield you from some of my clumsiness?”

She squeezed his hand. “Finally. You do take some warming up, Major Fraser. That much hasn't changed.”

As they stood, a young black man arrived. He was dressed in formal clothes.

Startled, Fraser said, “Joshua?”

“John Barnes, sir, from the president's residence. You're Dr. James Fraser?”

Fraser nodded, the champagne fuzz in his head resolving with surprising speed.

“Admiral Grayson, physician to President Wilson, asks that you come with me to the residence as soon as possible.”

“Now?”

“There's a car outside, sir.”

“I hate to do this,” Fraser said to Eliza.

“Don't be silly. The president calls. Violet and I will manage perfectly.”

“What will we manage, Mother?” Violet asked as she walked up with Dulles.

“I'll explain, dear. Jamie, go! History beckons.”

He didn't think she was mocking him. Maybe she was.

 

In the foyer of the president's residence, Joshua delivered Fraser to a Secret Service agent. After two flights of stairs, the agent knocked on a bedroom door and retreated. Admiral Grayson, looking harried, welcomed Fraser in a low voice. The president's bed was against the far wall, next to an open bathroom with the light on.

Grayson drew Fraser aside. “Sorry to disrupt your evening, Major, but I would value your opinion. The situation is pressing.”

“Of course, Admiral.”

“Late this afternoon, after a difficult conference session, the president was struck by a shocking fever. It spiked to one hundred three. He experienced a blinding headache, joint pain, stomach distress, weakness, and fatigue. The fever's dropped a bit, but the other symptoms remain. I believe it to be the influenza, but would like you to take a look. I should add”—he looked over his shoulder to ensure no one had approached them—“in recent days the president has been subject to rages that are quite unlike him. It seems that Clemenceau, that filthy Frenchman, goads him mercilessly. That man sounds like an imp from hell.”

Mrs. Wilson's solid figure sat next to the president. Her brown curly hair, cut short, reminded Fraser of a protective helmet. Her broad face was severe, thin-lipped. When Fraser approached from the other side of the president's bed, she stood and stepped back.

Wilson wore the vague look of a nearsighted person without his spectacles. Not a strand of his slate-gray hair was out of place. He tried to raise himself to receive Fraser. His breath came hard. Using Grayson's instruments, Fraser took vital signs, listened to the heart and lungs while automatically interviewing the president. Wilson said he felt weak, couldn't concentrate, was uncomfortable in his “equatorial regions.”

With that, the president nodded to the nearby washroom. He pulled the covers aside. Grayson stepped forward and walked Wilson to the toilet. In his blue striped pajamas, very much like the ones Fraser favored, Wilson looked reduced, slender. Then again, no man cuts a noble figure in blue striped pajamas.

Fraser, who stood when the president rose, turned to Mrs. Wilson and asked about the president's appetite.

“A little broth. A nibble or two of bread. He's had very little.”

Back in bed, Wilson pulled the covers to his shoulders with both hands and wriggled slightly, then closed his eyes. Mrs. Wilson resumed her seat. She reached into a nearby basin, wrung the water from a terry cloth towel and pressed it to his forehead.

“Shall we confer?” Fraser asked Grayson.

“The president and I would like to hear your views, Doctor,” Mrs. Wilson said. “We have a lively interest.”

“Of course,” Fraser said. “I concur with Admiral Grayson's diagnosis. The president has a rugged case of influenza. I've seen too many cases not to recognize it. Some, uh, recent flashes in temperament is another symptom. In his condition, he can't manage any sort of stress right now. Actually, not for some time to come.” Fraser folded his arms. “Mr. Wilson, you may have weathered the worst of it, but it's important not to be deceived into thinking you're well. The influenza is tenacious. It will fool you. You can think you're recovered long before you are. The most important things are rest and drinking a great deal of fluids.”

Wilson spoke weakly to his wife. “It seems fitting, doesn't it, dear? That I should have the influenza, since so many of our people have suffered with it. The president should have whatever disease every American has.” A shallow cough began, but quickly grew into a fit. Wilson turned red from the effort. When it subsided, he sank back into the pillows with a wheeze.

“Everyone here should be wearing cotton masks,” Fraser said, “and no one should care for the president who hasn't had the flu.”

“Really now, Doctor,” Wilson said, recovering from the coughing spell. “That seems foolish. I don't require a mask.”

“Sir, you already have the flu. It's the health of the others that concerns me. Many doctors and nurses have died after contracting the disease from their patients.” Looking at Mrs. Wilson, Fraser added, “You must keep him quiet and resting for as long as possible.”

Wilson smiled slightly. “Who will argue with Clemenceau while I lie here?”

Mrs. Wilson and Grayson walked Fraser to the door, where he wheeled on them. “Now, please remember. Complete rest is essential, no matter the demands of public business. I understand him to be a very hardworking man, but hard work is a luxury he can't afford. You must enforce that limitation. As well as the requirement of masks except for those who have had the flu.”

“I'll do my best,” Mrs. Wilson said.

Fraser nodded. “Good. By the way, on the way over, I learned that the young man who fetched me has had the influenza, so he also could provide care for the president.”

“Surely,” Mrs. Wilson replied, “we are not reduced to having pickaninnies care for the president.”

Fraser inclined his head toward her slightly. “I mentioned it only because he already is in your house.”

 

“T
his flu can work for us.” Foster Dulles was pacing before Lansing's desk at the Hotel Crillon. He stopped, one hand balled into a fist that he held to his mouth. “With Colonel House taking over the negotiations, we'll finally have someone rational to deal with, someone who understands that the United States has actual interests in the world that deserve to be protected. Not someone who has to stop and think whether America should accept a protectorate over goddamn Armenia!”

“Foster, my boy, you're kidding yourself,” Lansing said, puffing on a very large cigar and rocking back in his desk chair. “Here in Paris, the president's kept Colonel House on a very short leash. Not as short as my leash, to be sure, but very short. House won't be able to do what his own good sense tells him to do, and he'll know it. And then,” Lansing held his cigar to the side and studied the ash, “the president will be back in the saddle. More's the pity.”

“Maybe not. You must listen to what Allie has to say.”

The younger brother was leaning against the fireplace mantel. He held his pipe in a tobacco pouch and absentmindedly packed the bowl.

“Well?” Lansing asked.

“We now have an unofficial source in the president's residence,” Allen said. “It's sort of off the books.” Lansing raised an eyebrow but Allen ignored the implied question. “It seems the flu has pushed the president just the tiniest bit off his rocker.”

“How can one tell?” Foster asked.

“He's been rampaging through the residence, terrifying the staff. He's accused all the French employees of spying for France.”

Lansing smiled. “That's hardly a delusion.”

“Yes, yes, but we know about the two who actually are. He's accused all thirty of them, no matter how high, low, or illiterate.” Allen pulled his pipe out of the pouch and placed the stem in his mouth, then patted his pockets in search of a match. He took the pipe out. “And there's more. Wilson declared all government cars off-limits to employees, reversing his policy from only a few days before, and for no apparent reason. And, this next one's my favorite.”

Allen found matches in a cup on the mantelpiece. He struck one and began to light the tobacco. “He became distraught”—he inhaled sharply to draw the flame into the bowl—“over having furniture of different colors mixed together in his library”—another sharp inhale—“so he had them all sorted by color, every last one of them.” He waved out the match and tossed it in the fireplace. “The result of this brilliant bit of leadership is that the red chairs and settees have been dragged into one corner, the gold into another, and so on. Then he went on an absolute tear because one piece was missing, though it turned out it had only been moved.”

Lansing studied his cigar ash again and smiled slightly. “Yes, that may be more than his usual. Even that toady Grayson would have to recognize that the president is not fit. Does Colonel House know of the president's . . . troubles?”

Foster broke in. “Of course he does. He's negotiating with Lloyd George and Clemenceau in the room next to Wilson's bedroom.”

“Oh, dear. That means Clemenceau knows, too?”

“Of course he does,” Foster said. “His spies are still on staff.”

Lansing sighed. “He doubtless can barely contain his glee. He's dealing with an American negotiator who has no idea how much authority he has, whose principal is at least slightly delusional. On top of which, Lloyd George also is sick now. For a man who was recently shot, matters are going extremely well for Monsieur Clemenceau.”

A secretary knocked and entered, excusing himself for the intrusion. “The message seemed important,” he said as he handed it to Lansing and left.

Reading the paper, Lansing scowled. He balled up the paper and threw it at the wastebasket. He missed. “The good doctor Grayson,” he said in a low growl, “announces that the president has cabled his ship, the
George Washington
, to be ready to sail to America on extremely short notice.”

Silence fell in the room. Foster sat down heavily and began to stroke his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “So, Wilson's going to take his bat and ball and go home? The man is out of control. What will everyone think?”

Lansing stood abruptly. He placed his cigar in a large ashtray and turned to gaze out the window at the Place de la Concorde. “It's one thing,” he said over his shoulder, “to have the president on the sidelines with the flu. It's something else entirely to have a deranged man steering the nation.”

“Maybe it's a bluff, this threatening to go home,” Allen said. “A negotiating ploy.”

“A bluff!” Lansing exploded. “For what possible purpose? This is the most misbegotten negotiation I've ever been a part of. We've never even prepared a list of goals that the United States government wishes to achieve in the peace. Wilson's already got his League of Nations. Now what's he bluffing for, Armenia?” Lansing shook his head. “Our poor country.”

“Our poor world,” Foster put in.

 

 

 

Her voice startled Fraser, calling his name from far down the long hospital corridor. He never expected to hear that voice here. Equally jarring was Eliza's pale green dress, loosely draped. It probably came from a recent excursion to a fashionable Paris couturier, along with the striking pink and green scarf. She looked wonderful.

“I thought we were all to meet at the restaurant,” he said as she neared.

“I wanted to see your hospital, perhaps even steal a few moments with just the two of us. Since you've assumed responsibility for the health of the great men of the world, you're not easy to see. Are your rounds done? This is all right?”

“I've just finished.” He took her elbow and steered her into his office. There was no denying how sweet her smile was. Why, he wondered, would he think of denying it?

He sat in the patient's chair next to hers. “So, you've planned another afternoon of instruction at the Louvre for our little girl?”

“Thank the Lord, no. First, we will stand in the endless line to see the gigantic
Pantheon de la Guerre
, so we can find out what all the fuss is about.”

“That's the painting?”

“It fills an entire building, they say. The concierge insists that ‘eet ees naught to be meesed!'” She smiled. “Then we shall roam Paris while Violet takes artistic photos with that new camera of hers.”

“I'd like to try that camera some time. What did it cost? I understand they're pretty steep.”

Eliza rolled her eyes. “A gift from her Uncle Wilfred, who insists on spoiling her.”

Fraser grimaced to hear the name of Wilfred Clarke. “Does Violet know yet who Wilfred is? His connection to you and . . . ?”

“She knows he's a fine actor I work with and that he's our dear family friend. That's all she needs to know.”

“Eliza.” Fraser looked away, acutely aware of the dangers in the topic. “She's going to have to know sometime.”

“Jamie, it's my family, my story. I'll tell Violet when the time is right and not before. She doesn't need to be weighed down with the sins of the past. I know what that weight feels like.”

“She's grown up a lot. I think she's ready, and you don't want her finding out from someone else.” Fraser knew plenty about the weight of that secret from living with Eliza. But he didn't expect to persuade her on this subject. He never had. It was her family secret, though maybe not so secret as she might wish.

Eliza smiled and waved the subject away. “Enough of this.” She ducked her head conspiratorially and dropped her voice. “I've been dying to hear how the poor president is. I hope it's nothing serious.”

He decided to follow her change of subject and mimicked her tone. “You mustn't say a word of this.”

Eliza put on a solemn face, then traced a cross on her bodice and lifted her right hand. Theater people knew the right gestures.

“I fear he's really not so well as he thinks. If the newspapers are to be believed, he's returned to work long before he should have.”

“Against doctor's orders?”

“Against this doctor's orders, but it turns out that world leaders pick and choose which doctor's orders they follow. Even if I say something quite direct, perhaps bordering on rudeness, Wilson proceeds as though I haven't spoken at all. At least Clemenceau pays me the courtesy of rejecting my advice. The president just ignores it. And I never know what Grayson has been telling him. They seem more like father and son than patient and physician.”

“It must be difficult to tell the president he's wrong about anything.”

“It is for Grayson. And now”—Fraser pointed to a paper on his desk—“Premier Clemenceau wishes me to consult with him tomorrow morning.”

Eliza placed her hand against her cheek and opened her mouth in mock alarm. “I trust you'll bring your pistol.”

He smiled. “It's an odd summons, since he seems to have recovered amazingly well. I hope he hasn't had a setback. When the great ones call, we little people answer.” Fraser shook his head. “My current patient roster is surprising for a country sawbones from Cadiz, Ohio.”

“I fell in love with that country sawbones. He was impressive in a slightly unfinished way.”

Fraser sagged back in his chair. “That fellow's long since buried, I fear, by this avalanche of death.” He waved at the office door.

Eliza sat back as well and waited a beat. “You haven't spoken much of it, the soldiers.”

“So many suffered, and died. The suffering, it's still going on. And the dying.” He fought off the burning in his eyes and tried to command himself. Then he found his voice. “The thing was, they mostly did it quietly, bravely, as though it was all right, as though it wasn't some hideous crime.” He swallowed. “They didn't curse me or curse God.”

“Did you?”

Fraser looked at her, but he wasn't really seeing her. “No. No, I didn't. What's the use?” He licked his lips. “It was terrible at first. Every patient, every soldier. And then remarkably fast, I just couldn't feel it any more.” Fraser waved again toward the corridor. “I saw the same thing in the other doctors, the numbness. It's our brand of shell shock. It was a whole lot safer here than in the trenches, but we're all damaged. Somehow.” He tried for a smile that came out twisted. “My mother always said that self-pity was my least attractive quality.”

“You've been brave, Jamie.”

“No, not like them.” Now he really did look at her. “And I ran away from you.”

She looked frozen, even afraid. He never thought of her as afraid. This was the moment, but not in the hospital, his hospital.

“Is the restaurant close enough to walk?” she asked.

 

The city was creeping out from under the long, cold winter. Though it had snowed a week before, buds were showing on trees. Horses' breaths no longer formed fog. Motorists opened their windows. Strollers allowed their coats to fall open. Cafés placed tables and chairs on the sidewalks where hardy souls, warmly bundled, stirred their coffees, shook out their newspapers, and gazed over the streets.

“We've been here five days,” Eliza said, “and you haven't asked why we came.”

“My first thought was that it was for Violet. And I will say,” Fraser ducked his head in tribute, “that you were right about her. I scarcely recognize her, at least when no band is playing nearby.”

“I wasn't right about everything. I wasn't right about us.”

Fraser looked over. She stared straight ahead.

“It was a relief when you left. I admit it. I thought I would clear my head and would, well, you know, conclude things with Howard. I think you expected me to. Howard certainly did. I think it was when he became a Four-Minute Man, fairly strutted about it, started rehearsing before the mirror.”

“What's a Four-Minute Man?”

“They were trained to give four-minute pep talks to the public to make them want to make more bombs and buy more bonds.” She looked at Fraser. “It was just too disgusting to compare what you were doing with his empty little cheerleading, with his cutesy jokes and calls to arms—other people's arms. I started being rather short with him, then really quite unpleasant. Then it was such a relief when he went off on tour. My God, what was I thinking? Me, of all people? An actor.” She shook her head. “Violet and I started quarreling, every day it seemed. It was months before I realized, before I was willing to admit, that perhaps I missed you.”

Fraser locked his face against showing emotion. “There was none of this in your letters.”

She took his hand and dropped her gaze. They resumed walking. “No. I couldn't write my feelings any more than you could. The paper always looked so empty, just scratches of ink that couldn't tell you what was inside me, not really. But it was more than that. You had been so angry, so cold. And then your letters were . . . mechanical, dutiful. It felt like a long time since we were happy. I didn't want to take the chance of writing it wrong. So Violet and I came here.”

She stopped to look into his face. Her eyes seemed darker than usual. She spoke quickly. “I realized I didn't know if you preferred to be alone, or at least without me. That there might be someone else. Some French woman.” She sighed. “It's a nation of widows, the newspapers say. The morality of wartime, I could quite understand. Who am I to judge? Or maybe I preferred to be alone and I was making up some wonderful vision of the way we used to be that never was and never could be. I couldn't find the words to write all that so I came to Paris to see you and hear you, to find out for myself.” She smiled and blinked a couple of times. “Oh, dear. I'm rattling on.”