A Roosevelt Smile

By Alexandra Kulick

After the gunshots that roused the Great War, eighteen-year-old Franceska must leave her home in Benešov, Bohemia. America promises the hope of rising above her quaint beginnings, yet the jagged realities of daily domestic service work quickly deflate her picturesque vision. As Franceska strives to rise above, she finds solace in the presence of Benjamin, a friend from her homeland who immigrated aboard the same ship.

 

When fate intertwines their paths with Sara Delano Roosevelt, everything changes. Selected for temporary work, Frances feels the first flickers of hope dancing within her soul. Yet in the shadows of her ordinary existence as a domestic servant, Millie, the parlor maid, threatens to shatter everything Frances holds dear.

When Franklin Roosevelt and his family arrive for Christmas, Frances is drawn to his magnetizing presence and finds solace in his boundless generosity, lifting her spirits during her darkest hours. A world of opulence and belonging beckons her, promising the fulfillment of her wildest dreams.

 

Amidst the glittering allure of this newfound life, the lines between discretion and recklessness blurs, and Frances must navigate treacherous waters. Will her indiscretions jeopardize everything she has worked for? Or will they propel her even further into the tantalizing embrace of the life she has always yearned for?

 

Penned by Frances's own great-granddaughter, this historical fiction novel weaves together threads of a century-old family mystery. If you crave the allure of a bygone era and the excitement of a riveting historical mystery, immerse yourself in this remarkable tale and unearth the secrets of a servant and her son.

 

The perfect novel for fans of Downton Abbey and The Gilded Age ready to unwind the intricate web of secrets in A Roosevelt Smile.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Esther's House Publishing
• Release date: Jul 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223916178

Alexandra Kulick

Alexandra Kulick is an author and mother to five young children. Always a fan of history, she decided to dive into her own family mystery and write A Roosevelt Smile. Prior to that, her work consisted of K-5 material while she worked with The Old Schoolhouse Magazine.

Book preview

1

Saturday, July 25, 1914

Frances leaned against the fieldstone wall of her family’s one-room cottage, running her hand over the worn rock, as she had done countless times in her eighteen years. The reeds of the thatched roof above her rustled in anticipation of what would come.

The fire crackled in the open hearth, sending sparks dancing above the blackened log. While the scent of the fire was a nightly ode, it did little to calm the anxiety tightening in Frances’s chest.

Their home now stood barren, a mere shadow of its former quaintness. All of their belongings fit neatly into three trunks, but Mama said the memories never would. Memories couldn’t be packed; they would fade with every mile they traveled. After Mama had taken Frances to say farewell to her grandparents’ grave, her tears never ceased fueling an incessant cough. But Frances felt no reason to weep.

Papa always knew what was best; he had worked tirelessly for his family despite his lame shoulder, barely recovered from a bullet’s graze decades before. When Papa said they needed to leave, Frances trusted his words implicitly. Still, seeing Mama’s heartbreak tinged Frances’s excitement with a layer of guilt.

Frances understood the scarcity of opportunities in her village. Nestled in the shadow of Konopiště Castle, lifetime appointments filled the few jobs. Mama joked that the butler couldn’t hear, the cook couldn’t see, and the valet couldn’t walk. It took death or thievery for a position to open. Mama had been fortunate that her mother gained favor with Archduke Ferdinand half a century before, when the castle was hardly a castle. He had approved her as the laundress, a role she performed with vigor until her hair turned white and her fingers became riddled with arthritis. As her sight dimmed, she passed the role on to Mama. Frances had once thought she might accept the position, but what young girl dreams of becoming a laundress?

Papa and most villagers farmed to sustain their families and sold their surplus to the Castle’s cook, earning enough money for necessities. When other farmers complained about weevils destroying their crops, apprehension about the future arose. Nestled amidst sweeping green hills, no one anticipated anything worse.

Frances could still see the lines of distress on Papa’s face, the same ones that had appeared two weeks ago when Mama returned from work in tears.

Sophie... Ferdinand, they were killed....

Papa inhaled slowly and nodded. We can’t stay here, Marie.

But surely, we must. This is our home, Marie said indignantly. America will not solve anything. Trouble will follow us.

Raphael’s voice rose in a way Frances had seldom heard. America is our only hope. He stood from the table and raised his calloused hand to the wall. "Mene, Mene, Tekel, Parsin—it’s written for everyone to see!"

How could you say such a thing! Marie howled as tears stained her cheeks.

Frances scarcely understood what Papa meant, but his foreign words echoed in her mind as she counted the reeds on the roof above, listening to his soft snore from the other corner of the room. Without the Archduke, the castle would close, the jobs would disappear, and there would be no place to sell their extra crops—if the weevils hadn’t destroyed them first.

The violent rustle of papers drew Frances’s gaze back to the stone hearth. Papa dumped page after page into the flames, disregarding where the sparks flew. As the crackling sound heated into a roar, Frances sensed the urgency to leave; to step away from her only refuge, surrendering her childhood behind her. Yet, her heart ached for a final moment to memorize each inch of her cottage.

Frances scanned the room, silently saying her goodbyes, but her eyes stopped on the last bit of color above the wooden mantel.

Baba’s vase! Frances pointed to the blue and white glazed ceramic pot. Weeks ago, Mama had reminded her how Baba sculpted it with clay from the hills of Konopiště and would have wanted it to return to them rather than becoming chipped and broken in some new land.

It won’t make the journey, Franceska, her father began, but Frances had already drawn closer to the flames, determined to reach it. Papa lunged before her, shielding her from the growing fire, and handed her the fragile vase. He peered down at his daughter, his hazy blue eyes filled with sorrow. A mixture of tears and sweat dripped down his bushy beard. "I’ll see you in the wagon, Myška."

She clutched the vase like a baby and rushed towards the door, glancing over her shoulder to see Papa push their wooden table and chairs near the blazing hearth.

The cold night air slapped against Frances’s face, already thick with smoke. She climbed into the wagon, passing her mother, who gripped the reins between juddering shoulders. Frances triumphantly cradled the vase, but Mama’s grief blinded her from the sight.

Through the lone window, Frances watched the soft glow explode into orange flames. She knew it would only be a matter of moments before the fire engulfed the roof. She closed her eyes and held her breath, waiting for the crunch of Papa’s boots.

Frances finally exhaled when Papa emerged from the shadows behind their house; his long beard remained unsinged, and the last bag slung across his back. He climbed into the wagon and took the reins from Mama, who still trembled like a leaf in the wind.

I won’t be a part of a war I didn’t create, he bellowed into the night. America is that way.

Frances wrapped a quilt around her as the carriage shuffled back and forth, calming her like an infant in a cradle. She laid back, gazing at the clear night sky. The constellations glowed with their familiar brilliance as they had many nights before. When she spotted the Big Dipper, with its handle arching down towards her like a smile, she returned the grin, thankful that the stars would hang above her no matter where she went.

Friday, August 7, 1914

It had been a week since Frances felt the uneasy sway of the gangplank beneath her feet. The odd sensation of solid ground becoming dangerously pliable stuck in her nerves. As the ship pitched and bucked, Frances longed for the earth beneath her feet and the normalcy of life that accompanied it.

Since embarking, the frigid ocean water had dashed Frances’s rosy ideals of traveling to America. The beautiful schooner she’d envisioned skirting across the sea turned out to be a hunk of steel, and their third-class stateroom snowed paint chips.

The ship’s white hallways felt like a sterile institution, but sterile was good, according to Mama. With so many people speaking various languages, there were bound to be many diseases spread across the common areas. Mama insisted that Frances limit her time on deck to early morning walks before the common areas flooded with passengers desperate for relief from their cage-sized rooms.

When Frances stepped on deck to see the sun inching above the horizon, the wind revived her weariness. She paced the deck until the sun’s rays warmed her, paying keen attention to the younger girls accompanied by chaperones. Though she walked proudly alone, one thought made her cheeks turn the color of her plain mauve dress. Her hair matched each little girl’s. Her brown braids dangled against the breeze, just as theirs did.

This will never do in America. She needed a sophisticated hairstyle to extenuate the beauty of her sun-kissed cheekbones and saxe blue eyes she’d inherited from Papa.

From the ship’s bow, she craned her neck upwards to see the second-class passengers on the deck above, occasionally glimpsing those in first class. Many clutched hats with dainty veils draping before them, but she noticed the most elegant women wore their hair up with swirls and braids. That will be me one day. With New York’s golden streets, it would be easy to reach far beyond her humble class into a world dipped in elegance.

Frances unleashed her hair from her braids, allowing the salty air to whirl it about before attempting to sweep it into an elegant updo. She moved from the bow to check her reflection in a window, a confident grin smiling back at her.

She hurried back towards the stairs that descended to her room, eager to show Mama and Papa her updo, but froze when she spotted a familiar sight from her village. His knuckles gripped the metal railings as he leaned away from the ship and towards the crashing ocean. She squinted to be sure her mind wasn’t playing a trick on her, but she’d recognize him anywhere; the deep brown Melton of his coat was the distinct handiwork of the village tailor who only used the wool of the Zwartbles sheep. Frances offered a friendly wave and came short of calling out his name.

He noticed her and straightened abruptly, not releasing the ship’s rail. His head cocked as he stared at her peculiarly, the usual vibrancy all but drained from his cheeks.

Frances blushed and skirted away from the man, flustered by his lack of response. Could it be her hair? She tried to brush off his silence, but it echoed through her mind. Since the day of Benjamin and Katrina’s wedding announcement, Frances had tripped over the roots of jealousy in her heart.

She turned to look back, tenting her hand over her face to scan the crowd around the man for the fair-haired belle of the village, who’d sprung up like a wildflower and captured his adoration. Yet, Frances didn’t see a soul who resembled her.

Perhaps he was a mirage, Frances tried to convince herself as her feet clanked down the metal stairs. She’d heard stories of explorers seeing visions on their journey; some would help them reach their destination, while others would foil their plans. Maybe it was my heart’s way of wrestling with not saying goodbye.

She rounded the corner into the lengthy hall. The fluorescent overhead lights swayed with the ship, casting nauseating shadows that would irk even the most seasoned sailor’s steel stomach. Her mind shifted with the lights to the evening Mama had told her of Benjamin and Katrina’s engagement.

How could I not be jealous? she had howled as Mama braided her hair. Even though Benjamin and Katrina were perfect for each other, their marriage meant the village’s only young eligible man was no longer available. When Papa decided Frances was ready, she would wed one of the widowed men, becoming a stepmother to children nearly her own age.

They’re more stable, established in life, Mama had consoled.

Papa noticed the dread in Frances’s eyes. When they were alone, he had whispered, A fresh wind will come. Mama is stuck in the old, but we will find a new way.

Frances gripped the cold knob on their stateroom door and pushed it open with her hip. Papa sat alone on his mattress with a book in his lap. He greeted her with a warm smile.

"You look beautiful, Myška, a young woman before my very eyes."

Frances blushed, Thank you, Papa. She hesitated before slipping off her shoes, unsure if it was better to keep them on amidst the accumulating paint flakes on the floor. Papa, do you remember Benjamin and Katrina?

Vaguely, he said, studying her closely through his round spectacles. I recall their parents more.

Well, I thought I saw Benjamin on deck, but not Katrina. Remember when they wed last November? she asked, the sound of the church bells still taunting her.

He let out a consoling chuckle. Don’t let your emotions play tricks on you, Franceska. This is a new world. Let go of the old.

Frances sighed, realizing any more talk would be fruitless. She climbed on her cot and made herself as comfortable as she could. She rolled to her side to glimpse the front page of Papa’s newspaper, scanning for pictures and ignoring the letters.

When she noticed the black-and-white picture occupying the bottom quadrant, she asked, Have they caught the man who shot Ferdinand and Sophie?

Not yet, Papa replied, still engrossed in his reading.

Frances’s gaze fell solemnly to her striped sheets on her cot. She could still see the Archduke trotting through the trails on his mare. He’d had everything at his fingertips while awaiting his turn to be king, yet he tossed it all away when he fell in love with Sophie. That was true love. It didn’t deserve such a tragic end; fairy tales were meant to be happy. She breathed a heavy sigh in remembrance.

A knock on the metal door interrupted Frances’s thoughts, and she climbed down from her bed to open it. Frances presumed it was Mama returning late from her walk, signaling she hadn’t followed her rules about going out first thing. But Frances didn’t resent it. She understood how the cramped space could play tricks on one’s mind.

She opened the door, expecting Mama, but froze when she saw the mirage from the ship’s deck standing at Mama’s side.

Raphael, don’t you remember Benjamin, Matej’s boy?

She told Papa, hoping her husband would have more hospitable words than hers.

I’m sorry to intrude, Benjamin began. I was so shocked to see a familiar face on board. I heard about the fire at your house, and when I saw your daughter, I thought I saw a ghost. He looked at Frances. A terrible omen at sea!

Papa forced a welcoming laugh, "Dobrý den!"

An awkward silence fell over them as each searched for the right words to say next. Mama’s stern gaze lingered on Benjamin, wondering if he’d depart now and return to his room. But Frances’s smile glistened with delight at how right she’d been.

How about joining us for lunch? Papa finally said.

The look of displeasure wrinkled Mama’s lips, but Papa smiled warmly to overcompensate for his wife’s prickly demeanor.

Of course, Benjamin replied.

Frances stood eagerly. Anything to get her out of the small stateroom. She walked next to Benjamin in the hallway, her stomach filling with flimsy butterflies. Mama had always laughed when she mentioned butterflies and boys.

You should only chase butterflies in a field, she warned. Otherwise, butterflies are an omen of despair.

Frances attempted to keep her gaze on the hall, inconspicuously sneaking glimpses at Benjamin. His thick brown curls reminded her of the Bohemian soil, and his piercing emerald eyes were more vibrant than any she’d seen. Yet, she could feel sorrow radiating from him, weighing down his every step.

They shared a lunch table in the large cafeteria, where they strained to hear each other as conversations reverberated through the metal dining hall like a tin can. Frances ate her crusty sandwich without speaking, allowing her parents to talk with Benjamin. She was still unsure what she was supposed to say about their departure from Bohemia. Her parents didn’t bring it up, and judging by their stuffiness at the table, they didn’t intend to speak of it.

Papa took the lead, asking when Katrina would join them. Benjamin froze, his expression swallowed with grief. I didn’t mean to pry, Papa began, fumbling for words to patch up the dam he’d just pierced.

Tears filled Benjamin’s eyes, and he clenched his jaw to hold them back.

Frances watched as the pain of lost love broke from Benjamin’s grip. It had been the best eight months of his life, filled with her laughter and smile. But the baby came too early, and the bleeding was too much. By the time the midwife arrived, nothing more could be done.

The food in Frances’s mouth suddenly became like sawdust. Katrina had been so vibrant, and all Frances had felt was jealousy towards her. She hadn’t cared about her plight, only thinking of her own. She forcefully swallowed the conviction with her bread.

Benjamin continued to bare his shattered soul. He couldn’t stay and live out the life they’d dreamed of. His only option was to start again and search for a new life. Even Mama’s face softened as he spoke.

When it was her parents’ turn to explain their decision to leave, Papa spoke of the fire, how he’d tried to fight it before surrendering their belongings to the flames and escaping with all they could collect in the few moments before the roof succumbed.

Frances studied her mother, whose eyes had wandered to another table to conceal her discomfort. Then she looked to Benjamin, entranced by Papa’s words, his brows quizzical, and his eyes freshly glistening with relief from his tears.

But why didn’t you come to the village to say goodbye? You know collections would have been gathered for you, and accommodations made at the church.

I know, my friend, and that is just why we left. Times have been hard and growing worse with the castle closing. I couldn’t let our burden fall on others. Not when America beckoned through the night.

Benjamin nodded and shifted his gaze towards Frances, producing a weak smile. I’m glad everyone is all right.

The ship’s horn bellowed, and the cafeteria reverberated. In unison, every head lifted and looked about in nervous anticipation.

What does this mean? Benjamin asked.

Land ho, Papa said, his mustache and beard parting in a triumphant grin.

They cleared out of the cafeteria in a single file line; the crowds pouring out to the deck to see Lady Liberty emerging as little more than a speck in the distance.

We should start our new lives by the weekend! Benjamin exclaimed.

Once we clear Ellis Island, Papa echoed.

The deafening sound of footsteps echoed off the stairwell as the masses descended back to their staterooms, eager to disembark. Frances and her family broke through the crowded stairs into their hall. They stopped when they noticed a strange rope with a sign blocking the starboard hallway. Papa, Mama, and Benjamin studied the rows of letters in different languages intently. Frances merely watched their efforts. Trying to read had left such discouraging marks upon her childhood that she’d shunned the idea altogether.

Finally, Benjamin uncracked the code. Quarantine, he announced.

Mama shot a terrified glance at Papa, and they shielded Frances back to the room as though the sign itself was contagious.

Frances had heard of how quickly a cholera outbreak could destroy a village and the terrors that accompanied the fevers of the flu. Nerves squeezed her stomach. What had befallen their ship?

Monday, August 10, 1914

By morning, the smell of dysentery and vomit filled the hallway from the quarantine sections, or so Frances thought until she sat up from her flimsy mattress and saw the clammy white color of Mama’s hands. Papa lay in the corner, curled up, facing the wall, but Frances couldn’t tell whether he was sick or in despair.

America was so close; she could see its land. But everyone knew of the lines of doctors who’d inspect immigrants upon arrival. The sick ones would be the last ferried to