Daughters of the Chief Justice: Chosen or Cast Out

Daughters of the Chief Justice: Chosen or Cast Out

Author: Mary Schmidt


Chapter 4: Kneeling for Glory

By fall, Rachel was finally brought home. The former beauty of Hamilton, once envied by all, was now just skin and bones. Her simple dress hung off her frame, like a breeze could blow her away. She dropped to her knees, forehead pressed to the cold marble, letting the grit and dust grind into her skin.

Dad sat high in his leather chair, the hand that once patted her shoulder now just circling the rim of his coffee mug. At the eighth bow, Caroline stepped forward. "Dad, it was all the gardener’s fault; Rachel already knows she messed up. Please forgive her."

She gently wiped the dust from Rachel’s forehead. "Rachel’s always been honest; if that leaves a scar, not only will her looks be ruined, but people will say we mistreat our daughters."

At this, both Dad and Mom’s faces darkened. Rachel seized the moment to grab Caroline’s hand, tears welling up. "From now on, I’ll be a good daughter and stick by my sisters."

After that, though Rachel returned to the house, she never regained Dad’s favor. The less he liked her, the harder she worked—practicing penmanship at dawn, dancing at midnight, keeping the household books at noon. Whenever she went out, the young men of Hamilton would toss flowers into her car, all hoping for a glimpse of her. Whenever Mom went to a party, she always brought two beauties—Rachel, dazzling and poised; Caroline, clever and charming. One could recite poetry with a look, the other could smooth over any awkward moment at the table.

I could sense that when the two walked together, their dresses brushing, there was always an undercurrent of rivalry. The tension sometimes felt like the low hum of a powerline: you can’t see it, but you feel it in the air, an invisible crackle.

In December, the White House hosted a winter gala. The garden was strung with fairy lights, and waiters circled with trays of mini cheesecakes and sweet tea. Both sisters went with our parents. As the band played the waltz, Rachel spun in her wide skirt, graceful as a swan, gliding like she was dancing on air. When her dance ended, the room fell silent—even the President, sitting at the head table, forgot to sip his wine.

The President toyed with his signet ring, and after a long pause, said, "Judge Connelly, you’ve raised fine daughters—mine seem plain beside them."

Dad immediately stood up and bowed. "I’m honored, sir. The First Family’s daughters are the gold standard; mine are just a pale reflection."

The President smiled, raising his glass and asking Rachel, "What’s your name?"

"Rachel, sir."

"‘Rachel’ is a bit too sharp a name; after watching you dance, ‘Grace’ seems to fit you better. Do you like it?"

Three days after the President gave her a new name, a formal invitation arrived, appointing Rachel as a White House aide. She knelt to accept, her thanks as sweet as a songbird, her manner shy and reserved.

I stood behind her, watching the Secret Service agent’s earpiece disappear down the hall, suddenly remembering that day in the northwest gazebo, when Rachel also knelt, her back straight. But that time, her kneeling shattered a girl’s dream. This time, it opened a door to glory.

Caroline stepped forward, taking her hand and bowing gracefully. "Congrats, Rachel, on earning the President’s favor. This is the pride of the Connelly family."

Rachel smiled at the corners of her mouth, but her eyes were cold. "Caroline, you’ve been extra attentive lately—be careful not to overplay your hand."

Caroline wasn’t fazed, tucking a stray lock behind Rachel’s ear. "You’re kidding. In the future, I’ll count on your help."

She smiled with a hint of pride, like she’d already won. Of the two eldest Connelly girls, one had to go to the White House. A smart move from the start. Caroline was sure Dad’s plan was to keep a balance—one daughter as aide in D.C., a hidden asset by the President’s side; one to marry the Governor’s son, paving the way for the future. That way, whatever happened, the Connellys would stay strong.

The President, though still in his prime, was pushing forty; going to D.C. meant being just another staffer. What Caroline really wanted was to be the Governor’s wife.

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