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Evangeline was married at St. Bartholomew’s Church in Manhattan. As the wedding was an unexpected interlude during a convention of Episcopal bishops in the city, Whipple’s fellow bishops were surprised to say the least. He was seventy-four and Evangeline just thirty-six, although as The New York Times charitably pointed out “the Bishop is in vigorous health, and looks much younger than he really is.” In terms of age, it certainly echoed Evangeline’s first marriage to the aged Boston textile manufacturer Michael Simpson. Whipple and his bride checked into the Buckingham Hotel for their honeymoon.

To try to forget Eve, Rose traveled to Europe and the Middle East, but wherever she was, she kept in contact with Evangeline, marking time until the day came when they would be together again.

On May 5, 1893, Cleveland was in the ninth week of his second term in office when he became aware of a “rough spot” on the roof of his mouth. It was in the precise place where he liked to chew his daily cigar. It did not go away, and his discomfort increased until finally, on June 18, he called for the White House physician. Dr. Robert O’Reilly examined Cleveland’s mouth and found an inflamed ulcer about the size of a quarter. The doctor also saw evidence of diseased bone. Cleveland winced as O’Reilly scraped a section and sent it to the Army Medical Museum for a biopsy. He did not identify the patient as the president of the United States. The report came back “strongly indicative of malignancy.”

Dr. Joseph Bryant, Cleveland’s personal physician from New York, was summoned to Washington. First he read the medical reports, then he conducted his own examination. “What do you think it is, Doctor?” the president casually asked. He had the utmost confidence in Bryant’s medical judgment.

Bryant looked at his friend. “Were it in my mouth, I would have it removed at once.” He explained that it was a fast-growing malignancy for which the need for an operation was urgent. Bryant refused to take responsibility if Cleveland delayed the procedure by even a month.

The diagnosis could not have come at a more unfortunate time. The Philadelphia and Reading Railroad had recently filed for bankruptcy, a step that had precipitated a run on the banks and a credit crunch that was rippling through the economy. Panic was in the air. Businesses were paralyzed, and the stock market had crashed. Stabilizing the country’s currency was the Cleveland administration’s uppermost priority. An announcement that the president had cancer of the mouth could trigger a fullscale economic depression, and the 1885 death from throat cancer of Ulysses S. Grant—another habitual cigar smoker—was still fresh in the American people’s collective memory. Hence the president consented to the operation, but only under the strictest confidentiality. No one outside his inner circle must know, not even his cabinet, with the exception of Dan Lamont, who was now serving as secretary of war. The White House issued a low-key statement that President Cleveland was leaving Washington for a few days to join his wife at their summer house in Buzzards Bay in Cape Cod.

Dr. Bryant coordinated the medical team that would treat the president. He wrote to Dr. William Williams Keen, a surgeon from Philadelphia, to tell him that he was seeking a consultation on a “very important matter.” Keen was renowned in medical circles for his skill with the surgeon’s scalpel. He was also credited with introducing the concept of antiseptic surgery to America at a time when operations were performed without gloves or sterilization of instruments. Bryant and Keen met on a deserted dock in New York City. Only then did Bryant inform Keen, who was sworn to secrecy, that the patient in question was Grover Cleveland. To ensure privacy, Keen agreed to perform the operation on Commodore Elias Benedict’s yacht Oneida, which was moored in New York harbor. The stateroom of the Oneida was disinfected, and an operating table and all necessary instruments and dressings were brought on