Victoria poured herself a drink from a crystal decanter; she quickly drank it down and waited for the burning liquid to steady her nerves. John knew everything now—her less-than-noble ancestry, her illegitimate beginning, even her humiliating birth name. To his credit he had said very little as she showed him the pages of the scrapbook, confessing each humbling detail of her true past. John seemed understanding enough, even sympathetic—though she wondered if it was the kind of polite and practiced sympathy he might show at a homeless shelter or a school for the “alternatively gifted.”

She kept a light, matter-of-fact tone as she spoke to him, as if she were doing nothing more than briefing him on a policy issue or some detail of the campaign. It was a lesson she had learned from Eleanor Roosevelt, a particularly homely woman who lived by the motto “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” And why should Victoria feel inferior? She had only learned these revelations herself a few days ago, and she took no responsibility for them. It wasn’t about her, after all; it was about her mother and her father, whoever the irresponsible jerk was—about things done to her and not about things she had done herself. None of it changed any essential fact about her— about the woman she was or the things she had managed to accomplish all on her own. So she told John all about it in a simple, forthright manner, as if she were talking about someone else, because to be fair, she was—and she hoped that her husband would hear it that way.

She wondered if he did.

She poured another drink. For some reason she still felt that something precious had been taken from her, and the feeling made her angry and afraid. She hated that feeling—the feeling of being alone, of being the only one who was different. And she wasn’t the only one, because John Henry Braden had a secret too—a secret he didn’t even know about—the secret contained in the second scrapbook. Maybe he deserved to know; maybe she should tell him—at least that way she wouldn’t feel like the only one standing with her dress up over her head. But Johnny was a vain and fragile man, and she wasn’t sure how he would handle it. Maybe it was better if she handled it alone. It was okay; she could do it; she had enough strength for both of them.