It stung that right now she could neither paint nor care for her father.
The fire cracked as it toasted the damp air. The rain grew from a purr to a roar outside, soaking the soldiers marching past the windows. Their fixed bayonets reminded Meg that while she was ensconced in comfort and waxing philosophical, Chicago still floundered for order, let alone reconstruction. Homeless still huddled in churches and schools. She’d lost so much, and still she was rich compared to them, thanks to the generosity bestowed upon her here.
Mr. Davenport entered the room and, with a nod to Meg, sat across the table from her before opening his law book. The warm glow of candles and fire highlighted his cheekbones and a white scar on his brow, while the dark corners of the library behind him provided contrast worthy of a Caravaggio painting. His face seemed to hold the same gravity.
It was this aspect of heaviness that had stopped her from sharing that Hiram had been shot in the back. It would do him no good to hear it.
Unable to bear his silence for long, she closed her book. “I was under the impression you preferred to study with classmates, Mr. Davenport.”
Without hurry, he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. The black armband of mourning about his sleeve melted into the shadows behind him. “Call me Jasper, since we are to be in such close company.”
Thunder rolled outside. “Jasper, then.”
“I studied with others, yes. But I’ve lost my taste for it, given that the last time I did so, my uncle was murdered.”
Her mouth dried. The chair creaked beneath her shifting weight. “I read in the paper that students from the university enlisted in a regiment to help guard the city. You’re not among them?”
“Ah, yes. Company L, First Regiment of Chicago Volunteers, raised by a private citizen to guard the city and shoot anyone they see outside after curfew. Upon whose authority? The mayor’s? Sheridan’s? I’m not convinced it’s constitutional, and I have no inclination to cast my lot in with those young fellows. They’re armed, scared, eager, and untested. A terrible combination. So no, I’m not part of Company L.”
It was perhaps the longest speech she’d heard him give. Briefly, she wondered about his experience, and compassion stirred for the boy soldier he had been. Her gaze drifted from his angular face to the portrait of Hiram above the fireplace. It was a fair likeness of the beloved old man. He looked so proud and stately in his uniform, even though his service was only in the Invalid Corps here at home.
And here sat Jasper, between the image of the uncle he’d lost and the daughter of the man who allegedly killed him.
A discomforting mix of emotion cycled through her. “Be honest. On a scale of one to ten, how painful is our presence here for you? If we upset you by being here, you must tell me.”
Appraising her, a smile slowly curled his lips. “And if I were to tell you that your presence is an aching reminder of tragedy, an absolute ten on your scale, would you go?”
“My sister and I both would. At least to the other side of the house whenever you’re not in class.”
To her great surprise, he laughed. And not a chuckle or affected snivel, but a great merry laugh that brought the dimple to his left cheek. “I appreciate a girl without guile. If you said you’d leave altogether, I wouldn’t have believed you.” He brought his arms to rest on the table, long fingers laced together.
“Oh, but we will leave,” Meg asserted. “As soon as we have a place to go.”
He cocked his head to the side, unruly curls falling over his brow. “And how soon will that be?”
She felt the color rise in her cheeks, for it might not be soon at all. “We’ll rebuild, even without help from insurance,” she said, and briefly explained her plan. “We have an application under review for one of the ready-to-build houses they’re offering to those who were homeowners before the fire.”
“I read something about that. But I heard they would only be shanties.”
Meg swallowed her distaste for the term. “Each house is two rooms and measures sixteen by twenty-five feet total.” It was small, but how else could the aid society hope to house the thousands of people applying for lodging? Besides, it would only be temporary. “It will have planed floors, good windows, and will be outfitted with a stove, mattresses, and some cookery. It’s small enough that we can place it in the rear of our lot and live there while the store is being rebuilt on its existing foundation.”
With the pad of his thumb, he spun a ring around his fourth finger. “So your application has been approved?”
“Not yet.” Neither did she know when she’d hear the verdict. “But in any case, as soon as my bandages come off, I’ll be more helpful to you here while we wait for the house to be built.” She was certain her left hand would be better than the right. “I’ll help you find your uncle’s will. We could look for it methodically, attic to cellar. Sylvie could join us too.”
He blinked languidly. “I wouldn’t trouble my guests with that.”
“What if we want to help?”
Wind moaned through trees outside. Small yellow flames on the tips of creamy tapers leaned away from the draft.
“I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure he’d want anyone else besides family to comb through his every personal belonging.”
Meg felt like she and Sylvie had been family to Hiram, more so than Jasper had been. She dropped her hands beneath the table and onto her lap where they lay dormant, as ever. Idleness did not suit her.
“Beg pardon.” Helene entered the room with a bob, her complexion pale above her solid black mourning garb. “There’s a caller waiting for you in the reception room.”
Jasper stood, smoothing down the front of his shirt.
The housekeeper cleared her throat. “The caller is for Miss Margaret.”
“By all means.” Jasper gestured toward the door, his shoulders relaxing.
Grateful for a fresh distraction, Meg swept from the room and down the corridor. Helene opened the pocket doors to the reception room and took her leave.
“Nate!” she breathed as he turned to face her.
Rain puddled at his feet where he stood dripping before the fireplace, wiping droplets from his spectacle lenses. He slipped his glasses back on. “There you are.” He smiled. The sleeves of his jacket were a shade too long for his arms, evidently a donation from another man’s closet.
“You found us.” She beamed, unaccountably relieved to see him and not quite sure what the proper greeting should be. It seemed an age since the calamity that had brought them together, though it had scarcely been more than a week. And it had been only two days since Sylvie had written to the Tribune, adding their whereabouts to the long columns that still bordered the front page.
“I believe you have something that belongs to me.” With a little bow, he placed his hand over his heart, his finger stained blue with ink. “Or have you discarded it as worthless?”
“I have it. Wait here.” Moments later, she returned with his jacket over her arm. “We laundered it, but I’m not sure you’ll want to wear it again.” She extended the garment, and he took it, unfolding it to reveal evidence of the fire that ravaged Chicago.
Nate poked his fingers through two holes. “It certainly wouldn’t keep me dry today. And yet I’ll keep it as a fire relic. Do I dare ask how the book fared? And your hands?”
She wiggled four fingers in answer. “Marginally better in the left hand,” she said in a dismissive tone. “But that’s not why I called you here.”
He narrowed one blue eye, angling his head. “You called me?”
“I knew you’d come for your jacket as soon as you knew where to find us. That is, I hoped you would.” Unwilling to abandon the privacy of this small room, she gestured to a leather chair. “Will you sit?”
Water dripped from the bowler he held. “It’s enough that I’m creating a puddle on the floor without soaking the furniture too.”
“Oh. Quite.” She swallowed, her nerves flagging.
/>
Moments stretched between them, filling the space with things unsaid. Nate had already done so much for her, and she hesitated to ask more of him. For all she knew, he might believe her father was a murderer, and she hadn’t the courage to ask him.
“Meg, I had nothing to do with that article about your father’s arrest in the Tribune,” he said at last. “It’s important to me that you know that.”
“I need help.” She blurted out the foreign words. “I don’t know who else to ask.”
“What is it?”
She firmed her resolve. “I want to go to the asylum. Sylvie doesn’t think we should, and I know they won’t let me see my father, but surely they’d let me see a doctor.”
“You can’t go to a place like that alone. It’s out of the question.”
She was hoping he’d feel that way. “I agree.”
It wasn’t just that she didn’t want to face that horrid institution on her own. To do so would be improper to the highest degree, not to mention ineffective. In addition, Nate’s job was getting information out of people. He would be a good man to have at her side on such a quest.
“I realize this is terribly presumptuous, especially after all you’ve done for my family. But you’ve earned my trust, Nate Pierce, and I don’t know who else to ask. To come with me.”
Don’t get involved, Nate had told himself. Don’t call on those sisters, forget the jacket. Focus on work—there’s plenty of it—and prove yourself to Medill. But had he listened to his own reason? No.
He’d followed something else instead. Call it a nudge of conscience. Call it curiosity or a reporter’s instinct to pry. Call it anything but a magnetic pull to see Meg again. He wished she’d really answered his question about her hands. Another day, perhaps.
Rain drummed on the hood of the small coupe carriage that bore Nate and Meg away from town, sharpening the scents of leather and axle grease. She seemed pensive on the seat beside him. She’d told Helene Dressler she was going with him on an outing, but as Helene helped her into a cloak and secured her hat to her hair, Meg hadn’t specified the location. He had a feeling she didn’t want to risk being talked out of it.
Nate could relate. If his editor learned of this errand, he stood to lose his job. But as long as Nate kept up with his other stories for the paper, what he did with his personal time should be his own affair.
Absently, he fingered the too-long cuffs of his jacket, willing them not to cover half of his thumbs. Of all the jackets he’d found in the relief piles for the fire victims, none were a true fit. Whether too short or too long, the resulting impression was that he was a boy still growing into manhood. Not exactly the image he wanted to project.
Not that Meg was looking.
He followed her gaze out the window. A sky of hammered pewter released its cargo into an atmosphere that smelled of wet metal. Nate was grateful Eli Washington had been available to hire for the trip. Meg had assured Nate that Eli wouldn’t leak any gossip afterward. If Jasper were to learn of their visit to the asylum, it ought to come from Meg.
Bridles jangling, the two horses labored to pull the carriage over softened ground until, ten miles northwest of Chicago’s business district, gravel roads offered relief. The Cook County Insane Asylum rose up like a fortress, bristling with towers and chimneys. A chill raced over Nate’s damp skin as he regarded its immensity. He knew the complex occupied more than three hundred acres but hadn’t recalled how dwarfed it made him feel.
Color drained from Meg’s face, making her freckles stand out more. To gain a better view, she perched on the edge of the seat, and the soft folds of her skirts brushed his knees. She smelled faintly of rose oil. “What a perfect setting for an Edgar Allan Poe story. Especially with the dismal weather.”
Nate couldn’t deny it.
In the circular drive before the main entrance, Eli drew rein on the horses, then climbed down from his bench to see Meg out of the coupe.
Nate put his hat on his head and stepped out behind her. “Do you want to come in and get warm while you wait, Eli?”
The driver leaned back to take in the imposing structure, rain wetting his broad face. Bare vines kept a tenacious grip on the outside of the building. “No, sir. We just fine out here.” He closed the carriage door and patted a horse’s rump.
Thanking him, Nate offered Meg his arm, then climbed the stone stairs with her. She seemed smaller than usual beside him, though she straightened her spine in obvious determination. He sent her a small smile he hoped was reassuring.
Once past the first set of heavy wooden doors, Nate wiped his spectacle lenses dry, then pushed through one more pair of doors until they’d passed through the vestibule and into the hall. Thirty feet ahead of them was an arch, on the other side of which ran a corridor leading to wards on either side of the central building where they stood. To Nate’s left were two offices with closed doors. To his right, a reception room connected to a doctor’s office. It was into this reception room that he steered Meg.
Gaslight flickered in wall sconces above a row of straight-backed chairs. An elderly couple occupied two of them, the woman quietly knitting. From behind a counter, a receptionist looked up and smiled as Nate and Meg approached.
“How may I help you?” She peered at them over the rims of her reading glasses. Brown hair neatly secured in an ivory snood, she could not have been younger than forty-five. A cameo pin covered the top button of her dark blue dress.
Nate tipped his bowler, and water streamed onto the floor. “Nathaniel Pierce, Chicago Tribune. This is Margaret Townsend.”
“And my name is Miss Dean.” She laced her fingers together.
“How do you do.” Meg was awkward with formality. “My father is a patient here. Stephen Townsend. I’d like to see his doctor.”
“I see. Do you know the doctor’s name?”
Nate glanced at Meg, who gave a slight shake of her head. “I’m sure your records indicate who Stephen Townsend’s doctor is,” he said. “And I’m sure you’ll do your best to help us. If the doctor isn’t in, I could look for him myself on a tour of your facility.”
Miss Dean twisted the small gold ring on her pinky finger. “I wasn’t aware of any scheduled tours.” Yet it was an odd truth that while patients were not allowed personal visitors, asylum tourism was popular with people who had a taste for the macabre.
But Nate had come as neither. “I’m a reporter, Miss Dean. Unscheduled tours are more my style.”
From somewhere unseen, a man’s shrieking filtered through the walls. The steady clicking of the knitting needles stopped as the grey-haired woman closed her eyes, ridges grooving her brow. The man beside her patted her knee, his white mustache drooping. Meg squeezed Nate’s arm. Another voice, more authoritative, responded to the shrieking patient, followed by an abrupt silence that only amplified a steady, rhythmic banging from some other unseen place.
“Please find the doctor, Miss Dean.” Nate’s tone bordered on congenial.
Miss Dean removed her glasses and let them hang on a beaded chain about her neck. “Wait here.” She swished from the room with the sound of overstarched skirts.
Meg’s tension radiated into Nate from her vice-like squeeze on his arm. She looked through the doorway that led into the hall. “Is there anything else we can see? Any windows that might lend a glimpse of . . . anything?”
A cold draft of air brushed the back of his neck and stirred the feather in Meg’s hat. He shook his head. “The first floor is entirely offices and a storeroom. After patients enter the building, they don’t spend time on this level because it would be too easy for them to escape. The stairwells are all locked, so unless we’re escorted by staff, we can’t go upstairs.”
And he wasn’t convinced she ought to see more, even if they could. She was under enough strain as it was.
Her hold on his arm loosened as she angled to look him square in the face. “You’ve been here before. Have you been upstairs to see where the residents live?”
/> He had. He’d covered the opening of this building last year and combined it with a story about methods for treating the mentally ill. Moral therapy was a regimen of rest and light labor on the asylum grounds, combined with opiates, stimulants, and “tonics” made of milk, sugar, eggs, and whiskey. But for patients who didn’t respond appropriately, there were other methods. Containment in wooden cages called cribs. Straitjackets. Solitary confinement. For these cases, the only goal was to keep them separate from the rest of society until their lives ended.
“I have been upstairs,” he admitted. “Each ward has its own dining room. A dumbwaiter brings up food from the kitchen in the basement. Patients share three water closets and two bathtubs on each floor.”
She wrinkled her nose. “What else?”
Miss Dean returned to the reception room with a man who did not look well-pleased. Fading black hair lay in rows over the top of his balding head.
“This is most irregular,” he said when he reached them. “You are aware you cannot see the patient, yes?”
The lack of common courtesy grated on Nate. If this was how the doctor treated them, how did he treat his patients? “Let’s try this again, shall we?” He thrust out his hand, heedless of the cuff sagging past his wrist. “Nathaniel Pierce, Chicago Tribune, and this is Margaret Townsend. You are?”
Miss Dean excused herself and returned to the counter, head bowed.
Begrudgingly, it seemed, the man shook Nate’s hand and cast a cursory glance at Meg. “I am Dr. Edmund Franklin. The patient in question is under my care.”
“His name is Captain Stephen Townsend,” Meg said quietly. “The ‘patient in question’ has a name, and he is my father.”
Creases fanned from the psychiatrist’s eyes as he regarded her. “To me, he is a patient. Emotional detachment from my patients is the way I can serve them best.”
“Explain that to me, doctor,” she said. “Explain to me how you are serving my father right now.” Her voice trembled. Nate surmised it was not from fear but from the depth of the responsibility she felt.
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