She got no reaction from Alice, but she didn’t expect one, nor did she care. At least the pony had been led safely away from the White House, but the children shrieked as they began batting a cricket ball across the lawn.

She needed to go back inside and check on Nathaniel. The job of overseeing White House security had been transferred to Sullivan, but Wilkie gave Nathaniel another assignment inside the house. If Nathaniel ended his days in the White House with the horrific catastrophe of the assassination, he might never recover.

She headed downstairs to the communications room, where Nathaniel had been assigned to scan telegrams and monitor telephone calls. Amidst the flood of condolence messages, there were matters of business that needed to be flagged. It wasn’t difficult, but it served as a way to salvage Nathaniel’s pride.

It was crowded in the communications room, and activity was in full swing as the telegraph machine clicked and messages were decoded. Nathaniel sat in a rolling chair that could slide from station to station.

She smiled as she approached him. “I came to coax you to lunch. The cook made corned beef on rye.” It was Nathaniel’s favorite sandwich, but he didn’t show much interest.

“I’ve been skipping lunch these days,” he said.

She knew, which was why she’d asked the cook to make corned beef sandwiches.

“You might be able to go without lunch, but I can’t. And I hate eating alone. Join me?” Anything to get him moving and interacting with people.

To her relief, he stood and followed her to the kitchen, where all the cooks were busy. The new president would be hosting a farewell dinner tonight for the two dozen state governors who’d come to Washington for the funeral. Pots of water boiled, loaves of bread cooled, and pans clattered. Caroline grabbed two plates, plopped a sandwich onto each, and carried them to the staff tables, where Nathaniel sat with a listless stare.

“Go ahead and eat,” she prodded. “Don’t worry. The telegrams will wait until you get back.”

He pulled the plate toward himself but didn’t touch the sandwich. “I know. It’s a pointless job.” He traced the edge of the plate with his finger. “Thank you for suggesting it to Wilkie, though. It’s obvious I shouldn’t be in charge upstairs.”

She stilled, watching him carefully. “You aren’t offended?”

“I don’t have the energy to be offended.”

With a slow push of a finger, he rotated the sandwich plate, staring at it with no interest. The spark of professional absorption she’d always found so attractive was gone. It was as if a candle had been snuffed out, leaving him a lethargic shell of a man. She scrambled to think of something that might spark his curiosity back to life.