Caroline spent the day answering mail with Mrs. McKinley. Then came a dinner with two dozen Wall Street industrialists, the kind of brash, aggressive men who annoyed Mrs. McKinley, so Caroline attended the dinner to carry on conversation with the men’s wives. Waiters circulated around the table, setting bowls of leek soup and pear salad before the guests.

One of the footmen leaned in while filling her water goblet. “No sign of anything yet,” he whispered.

She nodded silently, but all night long it felt like she was waiting for Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. It was after midnight when she retired to the dormitory. Some of the women slept, but Betsy was awake and helped Caroline out of her gown, bustle, and corset.

“Mr. Trask has been pacing the ground floor all night,” Betsy whispered. “Looking behind draperies and inside the potted plants. He’s ordered a guard to sit in the kitchen all night long. Two more are circling the grounds. I’ve been watching them through the window.”

Caroline tugged a nightgown over her head. “Show me.”

The slope of the top-floor roof meant they only had a low window close to the floor, and she squatted beside Betsy to look through it. Thanks to Nathaniel’s new lampposts, the grounds were well-lit, making the uniformed police officers easy to see. One was at the southern post, while the other paced along the perimeter of the fence.

Two more women slipped out of bed to join them at the window. “That one at the fence is from Richmond,” Ludmila said. “I’ve never seen a man fill out a uniform so well.”

The four of them watched the guards, speculating on their marital status and wondering what Caroline might expect for a late birthday present. She sincerely hoped it would not involve a navy serenade, for she didn’t want anyone getting into trouble over this, and Nathaniel wasn’t in a joking mood.

“Maybe whoever’s sending the presents already works in the White House,” one of the maids suggested. “It could be a secret admirer. Who could it be?”

“Mr. Cortelyou?” Betsy asked.

“Yuck,” Ludmila whispered. “Can you imagine kissing a man with a mustache like that?”

“Stop.” Caroline giggled. “I have to work with him every day. Please don’t plant such images in my mind.”

“I wouldn’t mind working with Mr. Cortelyou,” Betsy said. “I like a man with a fine mustache.”

That triggered a discussion of whether George was kissable or not. Caroline definitely thought not, but Betsy began pointing out each guard as they crossed the lawn during their rounds, speculating on their eligibility.

“What about the head guard? Mr. Trask?” Ludmila asked. “Would he be good for kissing?”

It was a good thing it was dark so they couldn’t see Caroline flush. No one asked her opinion, but all three women agreed Mr. Trask was too straitlaced to kiss.