Veiled in Smoke

by Jocelyn Green

  Sylvie smiled. Helene Dressler was a formidable force as the head housekeeper, but her heart was as stout as her waist. “I can only imagine the preparations for Hiram’s nephew’s visit.”

  “Well now, that would have been a sight, had they known he was fixing to come. Mr. Sloane must have arranged it and plumb forgot to let the staff know. Honest to goodness, I think he forgot about it himself until Mr. Jasper turned up on the doorstep a month ago. But we manage fine, just like always. Mr. Jasper spends most of his time at the university or studying.”

  Once inside, the Townsends were ushered past potted palm trees in the front hall and into the reception room to await their host. Stephen paced between the wainscoted walls. Meg pulled her gloves off by the fingertips and snapped them into her reticule before studying the Italianate mosaic above the fireplace, and Sylvie lowered herself to a leather chair, her fingertips grazing the brass rivets bordering the edge of the seat.

  The walnut pocket doors slid open, and Hiram arrived on the arm of a man with sharp, appraising green eyes and curly hair the shades of pine and oak.

  “Fine time to come calling!” Hiram said, smiling. “I haven’t seen you dear people in weeks!”

  Sylvie’s stomach sank as she rose, but she wouldn’t correct him.

  “This is my sister’s grandson, God rest her, and my only living relation. My grandnephew.” Hiram looked up at the young man, a struggle evident in his features.

  “Jasper Davenport,” the nephew supplied. Sharp cheekbones rode just beneath his skin, but a polite smile brought a dimple to his left cheek, warming his countenance.

  “Jasper, I present to you . . .” Hiram cleared his throat and bravely tried again. “This remarkable family, all of whom I consider kin. I’ve known them since this fine man first opened his bookshop, when these young ladies were no more than yea high.”

  Stephen introduced himself. “And these are my daughters, Margaret and Sylvia.”

  “Yes.” A mixture of disgust and relief passed over Hiram’s face at hearing their names. It was the first time he was unable to bring them to mind, and it obviously rattled him. Valiantly, he lifted his chin. “Your dear wife could not join us today? Pity, that.”

  Sylvie feared to look at her father.

  Meg blanched but quickly recovered. “Not today, Hiram.”

  “Ah. Do give her my best.” Turning to Mr. Davenport, Hiram went on. “Stephen is a man of learning and a war hero. Meg is a promising artist, and Sylvie—” Just as he seemed to be gathering his recollections, he paused to look at her.

  Sylvie shifted beside her golden-haired sister, feeling dull and mute and brown all over, from her hair and eyes to her skirt and boots. She tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves, wondering if it was evident she had turned them for more use. What could be said of her? That she was well-read? That aside from Rosemary and Beth, her best friends were fictional characters? That she was more comfortable in their world than in her own?

  Hiram took her hand between his dry, papery palms. “Make no mistake. Sylvie Townsend can run her family bookstore with her eyes closed. She is the engine that keeps it all moving. And important work it is too.” His eyebrows arched as he released her. “Chicago has money and moneygrubbers aplenty, but if we were not also rich in culture, I would call it a very poor place to live indeed. The Townsends bring literature and art to a city that sorely needs both.”

  A flush warmed Sylvie’s cheeks at his praise. Chicago had theaters, opera houses, art galleries, and cultural societies far grander than what the Townsends offered on the corner across from Court House Square. She smiled her thanks while Meg responded with actual words, a talent that had deserted Sylvie at the moment.

  But when Mr. Davenport bowed and said, “Much obliged,” with a curious lilt to his voice, it was Sylvie he held in his gaze. “Uncle has told me so much about your family already.” A shaft of sunlight pierced between velvet draperies, shattered on the crystal chandelier, and landed in rainbows at his feet.

  Stephen squinted at him. “Where did you say you’re from again?”

  “The accent throws you,” Hiram guessed. “I understand. He comes from southern Indiana, close to the border of . . .” He dropped his gaze. Frustration screwed tight on his brow.

  “Kentucky?” Sylvie offered, unable to bear his fruitless search for the word.

  “Of course. I was about to say that. I did tell you he had come for a visit, didn’t I? I thought I had. . . .”

  “You did indeed,” Meg assured him. “We’re so pleased you have family in town. Will you be staying with Hiram for the duration of your courses?” she asked Mr. Davenport.

  Hiram tapped his walking stick on the inlaid hardwood floor. “If I have any influence, he’ll stay indefinitely.”

  It was the second time Hiram had answered for his nephew, Sylvie noticed, and she felt a kinship with him over that, for she had said but one word so far, herself. She wasn’t miserably shy, as the Brontë sisters were said to have been. Sylvie was simply reserved until a topic was introduced to which she could contribute. Perhaps Mr. Davenport was the same.

  “The house can surely accommodate,” Hiram was saying. “But I won’t pressure him. Not all young men want to lodge with an old man like me.”

  “I do hope you stay awhile,” Sylvie blurted, surprising herself. “What I mean is, it is so nice to see Hiram so happy.” Hiram had longed for family of his own ever since they’d known him. Now that his memory was so unreliable, his nephew’s presence could help immeasurably.

  Mr. Davenport’s thin lips curved into agreement. “We get along fine, that’s for sure.”

  “There’s nothing more important than family,” Hiram added. “Speaking of which, your dear wife could not join us today?”

  Sylvie glanced at Stephen, whose face had the look of granite. His hand shook as he pulled at his beard. “Not today,” he muttered.

  “Pity, that. Do give her my best.”

  Sylvie stirred her steaming oyster stew, dreading the first bite. She could barely abide the smell. Her gaze drifted from the rams’ heads carved into the floor-to-ceiling fireplace to the tiles covering the top half of the wall above walnut panels. A repeating pattern of passion flowers on the tiles brought a semblance of life to an otherwise dark room.

  “Mr. Townsend, if you don’t mind my asking, where was it you fought?” Mr. Davenport asked. “In the war?”

  Stephen replied with the names of battles she’d heard a thousand times before saying he wound up in Andersonville.

  Mr. Davenport caught a drip on his chin with a snow-white napkin. “You have a fascinating history.”

  “Fascinating is not the word that comes to mind when I think on those days.” Stephen slurped another spoonful.

  “A crime against humanity, that’s what Andersonville was,” Hiram muttered into his stew. “I know Camp . . . Camp David. No. Camp Douglas, that’s what I meant to say. Camp Douglas here in Chicago was no Sunday picnic for the inmates either, but at least . . .”

  Mr. Davenport looked at him intently. “So they had food enough here, Uncle? I suppose so, given the wealth of Chicago, especially when compared to the poverty of the entire Confederacy. The men here had enough clothing, I trust, to help them through the winters?”

  There was something about the way he asked these questions, like they’d never discussed it in all the years that followed the war. Sylvie wondered how estranged they had been, and why, and what had brought Mr. Davenport back now. But it would be the height of rudeness to ask. She sipped at her stew, avoiding any rubbery bits of oyster.

  The corners of Hiram’s mouth plunged down. “Oh, no. I’d be lying if I agreed with that description. And I didn’t run the camp, I just served as a guard with a regiment of other older men not fit for combat.”

  At the opposite end of the table, Stephen pulled a second roll from the basket and slathered it with butter. “Tell us, Mr. Davenport, how did you spend the war?”

  “Fighting. From the start.�
�

  “The very beginning?” Sylvie calculated in her mind. “Were you old enough to fight ten years ago?”

  “Fifteen was old enough for me and many others.”

  Sylvie smoothed her napkin in her lap. “I mean, did you need your parents’ permission to enlist before you reached the minimum age?”

  A chuckle sounded in Mr. Davenport’s throat. “Permission? Where I come from, every man signed up to defend his country, whether he needed a razor in the morning yet or not. It was an honor to do it. It would have been shameful not to.”

  Stephen nodded, but Sylvie could tell it was reluctant.

  “My nephew knew his duty,” Hiram said. “Before he was old enough to vote, he fought. That’s more than can be said for many here in Chicago, isn’t that right, Stephen? You recall the weaselly fellow, Otto Schneider? Why, he was in his prime during the war and didn’t volunteer.”

  “Who was Schneider?” Mr. Davenport asked, his tone more courteous than curious.

  Hiram wiped his hands on a napkin and leaned forward. “I purchased stocks from him at a low price. He was only too grateful to have the cash, sure we were on the brink of another financial panic like that of ’57. But we weren’t.” He shrugged. “I bought up everything Schneider offered, invested wisely, and enjoyed a healthy return. Would you believe he sued me for it? Claimed I swindled him and that the fortune really ought to be his. All through the war, when he could have been fighting for his country, he was fighting to get at my money instead. The waste of it all.” Hiram shook his head.

  Mr. Davenport’s politeness had turned to true interest. “So what happened to him?”

  “Oh, he’s still around, but just scraping by. The legal fees bankrupted him. He blames me for that too, as he’s told me in more than one angry letter. I pity his wife and children, with such a desperate man at the helm of their family.”

  Sylvie caught Meg’s gaze across the table and shared a look that expressed their weariness with the familiar story. Surely they could talk about something else.

  Apparently Stephen agreed. “You got through all four years unscathed?” he asked Mr. Davenport, effectively putting the subject of Schneider behind them.

  The young man took a long drink of coffee and set it down before responding. “I wouldn’t put it that way, quite.”

  “Wounded, then? Captured?” Stephen asked. “Or disease?”

  A tight smile flicked over Mr. Davenport’s countenance. “I wager there are more suitable topics for mixed company.” He turned to Sylvie. “Have you read any good new books lately?”

  Whether or not he held a genuine interest in reading, he must have known she’d have an answer to this, and she appreciated that he included her in this way. “As a matter of fact, I have. Louisa May Alcott published a brand new novel this year called Little Men. You’ve heard of Little Women, of course? In the new book, Jo and her professor husband open a home for little boys. It lacks the gravity of Dickens’s work, but it’s a delightful read, sure to appeal to—” She paused, noting the small smile on Mr. Davenport’s face. “Perhaps I’ve said too much.”

  “Never heard of it,” Hiram inserted. “But what about Uncle Tom’s Cabin? Now, that’s a book everyone’s talking about.”

  “Well, they were,” Meg said. “I believe the furor has died down quite a bit by now.” Stowe’s novel had released nineteen years ago.

  “What do you mean?” Hiram leaned back as the footman removed his bowl. “It can’t be more than a few months old. Our president himself gives it high praise.” A plate of cucumber salad was set before him.

  “That’s not surprising for a man like Grant,” Mr. Davenport said as his bowl was replaced with the next course.

  “Ulysses Grant?” Hiram stared at his nephew. “The general? No, my dear boy, you’re mistaken. Abraham Lincoln is our president.”

  It would do no good and cause much distress to tell Hiram Sloane that Abraham Lincoln was dead and that two more presidents had been sworn in since then.

  Deftly, Meg changed the subject once again. While they spoke of the weather, Sylvie wondered how much Mr. Davenport knew about his uncle’s condition and if the staff had divulged anything to help orient him. A headache swelled between her temples. Navigating conversation was proving to be more like winding through a field of hidden explosives, careful not to trigger anything that may upset the three men present. She glanced out the window at the garden, where rose vines withered on a trellis, crisp brown petals spinning off in the wind.

  Hans, the footman, bent to remove her barely touched bowl. “Finished, miss?”

  “I am, yes, thank you,” she whispered.

  “Very good.” He nodded his white-blond head and took it away.

  But not before Stephen noticed she hadn’t eaten her stew. “Sylvia, that was wasteful of you.” His voice held the low rumble of a coming storm. “Young man,” he called to Hans, gesturing for him to return.

  “Is there a problem?” Hiram asked.

  Bread crumbs salting his beard, Stephen pointed at the bowl. “You didn’t eat your food.”

  “I’m not hungry for it, nor overly fond,” Sylvie whispered, before adding, “There will be more than enough food in the following courses. I’ll have my fill and then some, I’m sure.”

  “How could you be so wasteful, when so many go hungry every day?” Stephen repeated as if he hadn’t heard her. “Do you know how we survived down there? This stew you turn your nose up at could have saved a man’s life. Three men. More.”

  “Sir?” Hans stood still, bowl on the platter he held.

  “What will you do with that now, young man? Will you eat it?”

  “Oh no, sir.”

  “Will you put it back in the pot and save it for Hiram to eat later?”

  “That is not our custom, sir. To give Mr. Sloane food off other people’s plates.” The poor man seemed perplexed.

  “It is perfectly good food!” Stephen exploded. “Barely touched!”

  At his outburst, Hiram lifted a hand. “You’re at odds with yourself, friend. Let me send for a doctor.”

  “No, thank you, Hiram,” Meg was quick to say.

  Stephen shook his head. “No, no doctors. But you must explain to me what you plan to do with that food. If you think it unfit for people now, at least put it outside for an animal to find.”

  When Mr. Davenport sent Sylvie a questioning look, she told him, “Our father is very concerned for the welfare of any living on the street.”

  “Is that right? Stray animals?” His voice betrayed his surprise.

  “Animals, children, immigrants, the general poor,” Stephen clarified. “The city is full of those in need. No living creature should go hungry. If you’d been hungry before, truly hungry, you would know what I mean. You’d agree.”

  Something shifted in the younger man’s expression. “I do.” Straightening his spine, he turned to Hans. “You’ll do as Mr. Townsend requests?”

  Hans looked to Hiram for confirmation.

  The old man nodded. “Do as my nephew bids.”

  “As you wish.”

  But just as Hans turned to leave the room, another footman came in, carrying a platter of dome-covered plates. The two footmen collided, and Hans stumbled backward. The platter tipped, the bowl upended, and Sylvie’s stew spilled all over the floor.

  Crying out, Stephen took his spoon and flew toward the mess, trying in vain to scoop the stew back into the bowl. “What a waste!” With his bare fingers, he fished out the bits of oyster. Tears ran down his cheeks. “It could have helped a hungry creature!”

  While Hans stuttered a stunned apology, Meg—predictably—pushed back from the table, ready to launch herself toward Stephen, but Sylvie stayed her with a look. This was Sylvie’s doing, at least in part. It ought to be Sylvie at his side.

  She joined her father on the floor, the fabric of her skirt drawing in the warm broth. Dismay spread from the center of her chest, edged with a searing shame. This was her fault. This w
ouldn’t have happened if she had only eaten her food. But as quickly as the thought formed, another chased it: The problem is not with me. With her father, she felt forced to play child and parent both, when in truth she was neither.

  Hiram stood. “It is nothing,” he soothed. “We can still put out a bowl for the strays.”

  “But not this one.” Stephen sat back on his heels, shoulders slumped. He buried his face in his hands. “Just that little bit could have helped them. It might have saved Pritchard and Jenkins and Smith. I see them still,” he whispered. “Every time I eat, I see them.”

  Mr. Davenport rose into a beam of sunshine that cut across the room and flared on his curls. Both footmen looked to him, and he dismissed them from the room, a gesture of respect for Stephen’s privacy.

  Not that Stephen noticed. How utterly alone he must feel. I’m right here, she wanted to say. Look! You are here with us, we are here with you! Whatever burden you bear, let us share it! Wherever you go, take us along! But words webbed in her throat. He had already traveled away from them in his mind.

  Gently, she touched his back.

  He flinched as though struck, then knocked her back with a force he could not have meant for his daughter.

  “Oh! Sylvie, Sylvie, what are you doing there?” he asked. Had he really not noticed her until now?

  “I say!” Hiram’s voice sounded from somewhere above them. “You’re at odds with yourself, friend. Let me send for a doctor.”

  Stephen thrust his fingers through his hair. “I . . . said . . . no!” He shuddered with silent tears.

  Sylvie’s eyes remained dry. The soiled patch of her dress, once warm with stew, was now cold and clinging through her petticoat to her skin, a thin layer of glue holding her to the mess.

  It was Hiram’s nephew who helped her up, a kind of knowing banked in his expression. Meg rushed to support Stephen as he pushed himself off the floor. But when he had gained his feet beneath him, he fled through the door and left them all behind.

  Dust coated Stephen’s skin as he dragged a stick across the ground, redrawing the Dead Line on his backyard map of Andersonville. Sweat itched across his scalp and trickled down the side of his face. That didn’t trouble him.