She ignored Sven’s sullen frown as she glided into the chair next to George for the weekly update on the campaign, prepared to coordinate the first lady’s schedule for campaign appearances. The only topic on which she and Sven agreed was that President McKinley needed to get out of the White House and begin actively campaigning or he was in danger of losing.

“The people don’t like thinking you take their loyalty for granted,” Sven said to the president. “Everyone understands you can’t spend months on the trail the way Bryan can, but even a few public speeches will send a signal to the people that you appreciate their support.”

Caroline held her breath, hoping Sven could sway his opinion, but the president impatiently gestured to a stack of postcards. “I thought that’s why you spent thousands of dollars printing up campaign literature. That will get my message out.”

The postcards would be inserted into newspapers across the land, but who read campaign literature? Caroline skimmed the postcard. It dutifully recounted the president’s accomplishments but didn’t warm up his image. President McKinley was a solidly built man with a barrel chest and deep-set eyes, and his face was naturally inclined to a scowl. While he had once been a handsome man, the stress of the presidency and care for an ailing wife had prematurely aged him. He looked like a tough, scowling bulldog.

It was an illusion. Caroline saw the president’s compassionate side almost every day, but the voters didn’t. William Jennings Bryan was young and spoke with a fervent idealism they couldn’t afford to ignore.

“Perhaps we could stage a photograph of you taking tea with Mrs. McKinley, or a casual stroll with her on the lawn,” she said impulsively. “People love candid photographs like that.”

Sven rolled his eyes. “Women love photographs like that, but women don’t have the vote. The vote is reserved for men whose labor and property gives them a legitimate stake in who runs the government.”

Caroline bristled. “I own one-third of a global spice company that employs hundreds of people. Why shouldn’t I be entitled to vote?”

“Read the Constitution, Miss Delacroix,” Sven said, and it was like a bur wriggling beneath her skin.

She fought to speak cordially. “I know your Viking ancestors might be appalled at the notion of women having their own opinions, but the typical American woman is actually a major contributor to her household’s labor. Why shouldn’t we be allowed to vote?”

“Miss Delacroix makes a good point,” President McKinley said. “My wife certainly thinks women ought to have the vote. Perhaps we should work on changing things.”

Sven vaulted off his chair. “Don’t say that! At least not in public. You’re not so popular that you can go out on a limb on a position like that.”