She lifted the receiver and mouthpiece. “White House calling for Dr. Tisdale, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The operator on the other end was instantly alert and didn’t need to ask for the extension, for Dr. Tisdale was regularly called to the White House. He lived only a block away, which was a blessing on nights like this.

The extension was patched through, and the doctor’s bleary voice answered the call a few moments later. “Tisdale here.”

“It’s Mrs. McKinley,” Caroline said. “She’s having a seizure. A bad one.” The word epilepsy was never uttered. The president protected his wife’s privacy with unfailing devotion, even from most of the staff, to whom her vague illnesses remained a mystery.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” the doctor said and hung up.

Caroline replaced the receiver without waking the telephone operator, then hurried back to the main floor to find the usher who patrolled the hallways overnight. He perked up the moment he saw her hurrying toward him.

“Dr. Tisdale is expected at the north entrance. Please have someone ready to lead him up to the president’s bedroom.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

She nodded in gratitude, then raced up the staircase to the presidential bedroom. Unlike most of the previous occupants of the White House, the president and his wife shared a bedroom. Caroline knocked on the door, pressing her ear against the cool paneling to hear the answer.

“Come in,” the president said softly.

The first lady lay curled on the bed, moaning gently as the president sat on the mattress near her head, rubbing her temples. These overnight episodes were an almost weekly event, and being on hand was part of Caroline’s duties.

“Dr. Tisdale will be here in a few minutes. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Perhaps you could fetch your mandolin,” the president said. “Ida so enjoys hearing you play.”

She nodded. “Of course. I’ll be back in a moment.”

She scurried up to the dormitory to fetch the small stringed instrument stored beneath her bed. No matter how quietly she crept, the floorboards creaked, and one of the maids awakened, lifting her head.

Caroline put her fingers to her lips but made no sound. The maid nodded and laid her head back on the pillow. These dead-of-night forays were familiar events to the women in this dormitory.

By the time Caroline arrived back in the bedroom, Dr. Tisdale was in attendance, holding Mrs. McKinley’s hand and speaking in soothing tones while he took her pulse, his calming voice as good as any tonic. Caroline took a seat on the far side of the bedroom and looked to Mr. McKinley for instruction.