“Add some age spots,” Nathaniel said, trying to block the laughter from his voice. The pained resignation on Sullivan’s face had them all in stiches. Rembrandt outdid himself, tracing tiny age lines at the corners of Sullivan’s eyes and adding a hint of fake jowls.

The morning began well. The prayer service ended ahead of schedule, and the weather for the swearing-in ceremony outside the Capitol was cold but clear. At the White House, Caroline had the salad course already set out on the tables to accommodate the luncheon’s compressed timeframe. Nathaniel stood guard outside the dining room but caught glimpses of Caroline as she flitted about directing the waiters, pouring tea, and helping deliver plates during the main course. Rembrandt moved his tripod and camera throughout the room to memorialize the luncheon.

They were two minutes ahead of schedule, but Caroline had one more surprise before the guests left for the parade. She took her position beside the first lady, who nodded permission. The president tapped a fork against a wine glass to get the crowd’s attention. Caroline looked like the personification of elegance as she addressed the crowd.

“The first lady has arranged a small gift to thank you for helping make this a special day for her and the president. As you leave, I’ll be handing out boxes with two commemorative presidential spoons, each engraved with today’s date. She hopes they will help you remember this day for years to come.”

Gentle applause met the announcement, and Caroline smiled warmly as she gave each departing guest a small gift-wrapped box.

The parade went off without a hitch. The crowd roared as President McKinley strode down Pennsylvania Avenue, surrounded by soldiers from his old Ohio regiment. Nathaniel watched through binoculars on the White House patio. Even from here, he could see Sullivan marching alongside the president, one hand on the butt of a pistol, but the other waving to the crowd as though he were being celebrated, not the president.

By dinner, it was all over. The crowds dispersed, and cleanup crews moved in to dismantle the viewing stands. Sullivan returned to the White House like a conquering hero, the artfully applied makeup still in place.

“I’m not washing my face for a week,” he exclaimed. “I’ve just had the most memorable hour of my life. I felt like General Grant walking in triumph, waving to the adoring public.”

“Wash up, general,” Nathaniel said wryly. “The inaugural ball starts at nine o’clock, and the uniform is black tie. No cosmetics necessary.”

All the president’s guards needed to be as formally attired as the invited guests. Nathaniel had never worn black tie in his life and had to borrow a tailcoat from Wilkie. He wore a starched collar, a scarlet silk vest, and a slim-fitting cutaway jacket. When he examined himself in the mirror, it was impossible to see his shoulder holster and side arm beneath all the finery.